On a quiet, dirt road sits a solitary home. The winter snow blankets the roof and window panes. Along the gutters, colored lights are strung and a festive wreath is hung on the front door. It is that magical time of year again. Inside, a young boy lies in bed on Christmas Eve morning. The sounds and smells of the holiday surrounding him. Before he even opens his eyes he can smell chocolate chip cookies and his mom’s famous potato soup cooking on the stove. “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” can softly be heard playing on the radio downstairs. A big smile crosses his face. He is as happy as a child can be. Tomorrow is the big day. Tomorrow is when dreams come true.

He hops out of bed in his Batman pajamas and runs downstairs to see the warm, crackling fire in the living room fireplace. He can smell the cedar logs burning. The christmas tree is decorated with all the ornaments he had intricately placed a few days ago. All the presents can be seen under the tree. The bright red and green wrapping paper almost sparkles from the light of the fire. He cannot wait to tear into them tomorrow. Sitting high atop the tree, the star brightly twinkles. Everything is in perfect order.

The young boy follows the smell of the carrots and potatoes cooking into the kitchen. The sound from the radio growing as he approached the counter. Feeling the warmth of the oven he had to take a peek at the cookies baking inside. He wasn't supposed to open the oven on his own but figured he could get away with it today. The heat flew out of the oven onto his face, he had to back away briefly. The entire kitchen now smelled like brown sugar and vanilla. He could almost taste the cookies now.

After closing the oven and telling the baked sweets that he'd be back for them later, the boy starts to wonder where his parents are. It’s not like his mom to leave the stove unattended like that. He looks at the vintage kitty clock his mom had had since she was a little girl, its eyes and tail swinging back and forth. He had always found the clock to be a little creepy but never payed it much attention. “It’s close to 10 am. where could they be?” He thought before grabbing his coat to check outside.

He thought his dad must be out gathering wood for the fireplace and mom decided to help him. He felt kind of bad for sleeping in and not being there to help out. He got his coat and boots on and headed outside. The snow was almost up to his knees. He could feel his pajama pants starting to get wet. The cold wind blowing on them felt as if his knees were frozen. He circled around the house and didn’t find his dad out back. He didn't even see footprints in the snow. The wind began to blow even harder now, every snowflake hitting his cheek felt like a tiny needle.

He got back inside and threw his coat and boots down at the door. He didn't think to put them away, he just wanted to get next to that fireplace and warm up. His pants dripped across the floor as he headed for the living room. The boy had hoped to find his parents sitting in the living room waiting to warm him up. When he didn't see any sign of them he grew more worried.

The young boy called throughout his house for his parents. He rushed from one room to the next trying to find them. It wasn't until he was back in the kitchen that he noticed a tear in the right knee of his pajama pants. He thought he had snagged it outside on something. He knew his mom could sew it back up for him. He just needed to find her. He ran upstairs towards their bedroom hoping they were there. While searching the room, he could smell something burning downstairs.

He rushed towards the kitchen to find smoke coming from the oven. The cookies were burning. He tore open the oven and black smoke filled the room. The smoke alarm started blaring. He hurriedly put on the oven mitts he found on the table and pulled the baking sheet out. The delicious sweets he had been craving were now dark and burnt. The smell of vanilla was masked by the burnt lumps on the baking sheet.

Just then, the pot on the stove began to boil over. The flames under it burned higher than they had before. He tried to reach for the dial on the stove to turn off the heat. The soup spilled over the sides of the pot and some fell onto his hand. He could feel the searing pain as it burned his flesh. He tried to hold back the tears as he ran some cold water from the sink onto the wound. He cried out again for his parents. There was no answer.

As he was drying his throbbing hand with a dish rag, he noticed his pajamas were darker and faded. Batman’s face looked darker, as if he was just a shadow now. The black smoke must have dirtied his clothes when he tried to save the cookies. The alarm still rang in the air. The boy climbed onto the sink and opened the window, trying to get some of the smoke out. He fanned the dish rag hoping to get the ringing to stop. After a few minutes of fanning the smoke, the alarm was quiet. He climbed down from the counter and rested on the floor.

He looked at the kitty clock on the wall to see how much time had gone by and saw that it had stopped moving. The eyes of the cat were staring off to the side. Its tail stayed motionless. The clock face on its stomach was now cracked and the hands stayed in place. The boy followed the kitty’s stare towards the living room. He used his unburnt hand to help himself off the floor. When he got up, he saw that the palm of his hand was covered in a fine layer of black soot. He looked around the kitchen floor and saw that it too was dusty, except for his scrambled footprints mapping his panic to keep the house from catching fire.

As the boy walked towards the living room, the radio’s music crackled and faded. He entered the room to find the roaring fire was now a pile of ash. The windows were dirty and yellow. He looked towards the tree to see it what still bright and green. All of the ornaments looked perfect sitting in their respected places. However, there was one that seemed to hang crooked. This ornament was one he had made just a few years ago. He was in kindergarten at the time and was supposed to use a picture of his family and decorate it. His parents were sitting on the living room couch, he was in-between them. He had crudely pasted paper candy canes and trees around the frame. It wasn't much but he loved it.

The boy reached for the ornament to adjust it. Just as he was about to touch it, the hook it was hanging from gave way. The picture came crashing down. The glass shattering as it hit the floor. He bent over to pull the picture from its frame. He could see how happy his family was. He just wanted to go back to that day. He was startled from his fantasy when another ornament hit the ground.

He looked up to see the tree was dying in front of him. The bright green, pine needles slowly faded to a disgusting brown. The limbs were drooping from the weight of the decorations. The boy watched in horror as the ornaments fell one by one. Each one destroyed as they hit the hardwood floor. He looked to the top of the tree to see the star atop the tree. It still shone bright as it burst into flames. The boy stumbled back and fell to the ground at the sight. The dead tree was next. It caught fire and heat radiated from its branches. The boy closed his eyes in terror. His tears seemed to burn as they streamed down his face.

He opened his eyes to the sound of other children talking around the room. He rolled over in his bed. On the nightstand next to him was a bible with the name St. Francis’ Orphanage taped to it and the picture of his family sitting on the couch together. The pictures edges were burned. 

Think you know about the Tudors? Think you know about Anne Boleyn? You might be surprised...

1. Anne Boleyn gave 14x more money to charity than any English monarch before her. She also personally distributed these alms to the poor, despite their "unclean" and "sickly" nature...even when she was pregnant with a desperately needed heir! 

2. Anne Boleyn had no physical malformations. This means no second thumb, no strange fingernail, no bumps or wens or extra nipples. There is no mention of this in contemporary records (with the exception of a post-humous Catholic mention) and when her body was exhumed during the Victorian period there was no sign of any such malformations. 

3. Queen Anne kept an English bible open in her rooms (a big no-no) and encouraged her ladies to read it. She also encouraged her ladies to pursue decorum and a liberal education...also unheard of in those times. 

4. Anne was skilled in riding, hunting, singing, dancing, sewing, musical composition, the playing of instruments, the reading of music, several languages (including French and Latin), theology, history, politics and arithmetic. (Which was relatively unheard of, even in a queen, until the rise of Mary I and Anne's daughter, Elizabeth I). 

(...No wonder she captivated so many men, eh?)

5. Anne Boleyn was never charged with witchcraft. As a matter of fact, the only contemporary "evidence" with any mention of witchcraft is a SUPPOSEDLY off-cuff comment Henry VIII made about his recently dispatched wife that used a word sometimes used for witchcraft, but which most commonly just meant "bewildered". 

The cracked glass forms veins like roads on a map; years of dusty, sticky air cling to its surface, a nearly-opaque barrier delineating space. Cobwebs in the corners have lost their fine, silky detail, growing thick like blankets. White chips of paint flake off the wooden frame like a shattered egg shell mostly held together by a thin membrane, whereas globs that pooled at the base of the sill permanently glue it shut. 

These details are fixed in my memory, as well they should be. I have looked at, and stared through, this tiny window for an inordinate amount of time. The light has dimmed, dulling the landscape just beyond vision's reach.

Perhaps it is time to seek out a new window.

     The woman with tangled hair sways in front of the reference desk with unblinking eyes. I tuned out and stopped trying to talk to people hours ago, but her sporadic hand motions catch my eye. She huffs under her breath and wanders away. Her shirt is buttoned haphazardly, as if she forgot midway or gave up, exposing a swath of irritated skin and ancient brassiere.

     Sunlight filters through the glass windows. There is a hush in the library as patrons wander, slow and sluggish, pausing often to stare around the room or eye each other blankly. Circling around and around, they carve paths through aisles of bookcases and rows of dead computer monitors.

     An old man teeters to my desk. His mouth opens wide and snaps shut, once, twice. He gestures vaguely over my head and I turn around in my swivel chair but there is nothing. I point to his wife, who sits on the floor next to the copy machine. In her lap lies a dead possum with glassy eyes and a rivulet of blood running from jaws to her muddy skirt. Its long rat tail droops from the crook of her elbow and she strokes the fur slowly, her eyes two moons in a slack face. Yesterday, a lifetime ago, I gave them the daily newspaper and watched as they read and laughed softly in twin armchairs by the window. His eyes follow my finger, hovers on his wife, and passes over.

     People thump against the glass windows like moths. They wander in and out of the door in various states of undress. Do they remember who they are? Did they awake as empty husks, instinct propelling them to routines—drive to work, drop off kids, pick up groceries? They move with aimless purpose, without speaking, some sit down abruptly like infants. Outside, a car careens down the street and into a tree, folding into itself like a cardboard box. A man stumbles out, dazed, blood running down his face, and stands there with his neck craned back to look at the cloudless sky. What answers will you find up there, carless man? Everywhere there are abandoned cars: flipped over on the street or parked in incongruous spots, crooked and random, in the library parking lot. 

     A naked man with a pale, hairy belly walks up and down the fiction aisles, raking his nails along the spines. Before I could call out, he sweeps his hand across a shelf in a single furious motion. The books fall like dying birds, pages flapping and torn. A girl sitting near the magazine racks tears out pages by the handful. People watch and I look into the emptiness of their expressions, already unfamiliar and inhuman. All this knowledge, all this useless paper containing stories and memories and information, as irrelevant as firewood to a flintless man. I hear the sound of laughing and guttural weeping, echoing and faint as if from a great distance. Heads turn slowly at the sound of my keening, but no one approaches.

So, we’ve been briefed about it and have read some articles on it and can now say it is Friday. It's not fake news, people. It’s Friday. And we’d be doing Prose a very, very big disservice if we didn’t bring you the very, very good thing that is Friday Feature. People love it. Everybody says so. They like to read about the very, very nice people of Prose...

OK, enough of that crazy talk, let’s dive in to meet the entirely lovely @starryEyes

P: What is your given name and your Proser username?

S: My name is Kim, but you can find me as starryEyes on Prose.

P: Where do you live?

S: I live in the northeast United States, out in the country on top of a hill with a fantastic view. My grandfather built the house in the 1970s and I absolutely love living here with my husband. Watching the birds, animals, wild weather, and changing seasons makes me happy.

We get our Internet by antenna from a local provider who beams it over from a tower that’s 4 miles away (no cable service out here). It’s better than satellite, except when wind, rain, and foliage conspire to eat data packets!

P: What is your occupation?

S: Hmmm… I’m probably most occupied with taking care of myself. So maybe my occupation is being alive? Or surviving. But I’d prefer “thriving.” That can be my occupation: thriving.

I went to school for electrical engineering and worked for five years designing and testing radar electronics. I absolutely loved it. But chronic Lyme disease made that impossible. I’m principally afflicted by profound fatigue and brain fog, but generally have a few good hours a day.

Right now I am content. There is so much more I’d like to do in life, but I’m pleased that I’m not getting any worse right now and have a sort of rhythm of productivity, fulfillment, and rest.

P: What is your relationship with writing and how has it evolved?

S: Growing up, I wrote for school. I enjoyed all my writing assignments but rarely wrote of my own initiative. Late in high school and college, I kept a “prayer” journal that helped me untangle my thoughts and feelings while writing to God.

As I progressed in my engineering studies and career, I wrote a lot of technical documents. It turns out I really enjoy writing lab reports, test procedures, and documenting my designs. And who doesn’t love a good table or expressive graph? *happy sigh*

The first poem I ever wrote of my own free will flowed from my illness. My choppy, foggy, scattered, and desperate thoughts needed adequate expression. I now write poetry like it’s a puzzle to be solved - conveying meaning and depth by sound & structure & few words – an artistic efficiency. It must be the engineer in me.

I started writing short stories a year ago for fun. I really haven’t written many because I’m a slow writer and I don’t often feel well. But it makes me feel human and “normal” to compose something that I’m proud of. I attend a writing group at the library and find it immensely helpful and encouraging.

P: What value does reading add to both your personal and professional life?

S: I’ve always been a voracious reader of fiction. It makes me happy, stirs my imagination, fills me with stories, and teaches me about life. I love gleaning bits of wisdom from book characters and pondering their thoughts and actions. It’s an easy, gentle way to learn.

P: Can you describe your current literary ventures and what can we look forward to in future posts?

I don’t have specific posting plans, but I often respond to writing challenges. Apparently I like to write from the perspective of non-humans such as an animal, plant, or park bench, so you may see more of that. I might sometimes write about my illness or my faith in Jesus, because both deeply define who I am. My loftiest dream is to write a historical choose-your-own-adventure book for kids.

P: What do you love about Prose?

S: Challenges, challenges, challenges! I’m way more motivated when someone challenges me than when I make up my own goals. That’s probably a character flaw. But I’m getting lots of practice and inspiration from the Prose community challenges and having fun! I also like the opportunity to share what I write and interact with other writers.

P: Is there one book that you would recommend everybody should read before they die?

S: There are oodles of good books, so how could I choose? But limited to one, I’d have to say the Bible. I believe that how we respond to Jesus is the single most important decision in this life. To make an informed choice, we have to read his words.

P: Do you have an unsung hero who got you into reading and/or writing?

S: If so, they are extremely unsung because I can’t think of who they might be! My parents and teachers were obvious influences, but no one person or event stands out in my mind.

P: Describe yourself in three words!

S: Contemplative. Sincere. Empathetic.

P: Is there one quote, from a writer or otherwise, that sums you up?

S: “In Christ alone my hope is found. He is my light, my strength, my song… And as He stands in victory, sin’s curse has lost its grip on me! For I am His, and He is mine, bought with the precious blood of Christ.”

And the entire rest of the lyrics to “In Christ Alone” written by Stuart Townsend & Keith Getty

P: What is your favourite music, and do you write or read to it?

S: I like pop / rock / metal. My favorite artists are Britt Nicole, Fireflight (similar to Evanescence), and Tourniquet (similar to Metallica). I also really like a cappella and folk music. I can do anything to music except read and write. For those, silence is more conducive to concentration.

P: You climb out of a time machine into a dystopian future with no books. What do you tell them?

S: “You know, books. B-O-O-K-S. Like writing. On paper. That you read. There must be some. This isn’t possible. Where did you go to school? Where’s the library?” After asking the same questions twenty times but getting the same answer, I think I’d become unresponsive and curl up, rocking back and forth.

P: Do you have a favourite place to read and write?

S: Curled up in a recliner with a blanket and a cat. Preferably my own recliner and my own cat. Any blanket will do.

P: Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you/your work/social media accounts?

S: Nothing left to tell!

Thanks so much to Kim, it was marvellous to meet her, I'm sure you'll all agree. You know what to do now. Read her! Interact with her! Follow her! 

And again, we want more Prosers for this feature, so if you like it, then suggest people, even volunteer yourselves. Prose wants you to feature in future Friday Features. Get busy.

Good Afternoon, Prosers,

We hope this challenge announcement finds you well and writing!

It’s week fifty-eight of the Prose Challenge of the Week.

For the last week, you guys have been rewriting the creation story, and you all gave exactly what we wanted. Before we check out who is the deserving winner and the recipient of $100, let’s take a look at this week’s prompt:

Challenge of the Week #58: You are a victim of injustice, write a story about it. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $150. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit

Yes! This one is for a longer duration and for more $, so get yourself writing, now!

Now, back to the winner of week fifty-seven.

We have read all of your entries, and have come to a decision. The winner of the “creation story” challenge is @madbeyond with their piece, Out of the Blue

Congratulations! You have just won $100. We’ll be in touch with you shortly.

In the meantime, you have one week to get your write on!

Until next time, Prosers,

Prose.

   Sights he thought he had forgotten blur by as they wind around the endless mountains. Was it going to be the same when he saw her? Would the two be unable to contain themselves with all that had been left unsaid? James grinned, running over the lines he practiced whenever the thought of her crept in. She never hesitated to paint him as the villain anyway.

   Vivid as those moments with here were, her face had long become a blank slate. Phantom pains were all he was reduced to since she had hollowed him out for her delight. He was a different person now, he had to remind himself ever moment he was there. That thought had carried him across the sea further than any thought of lost love.

  His driver said nothing the hour-long drive to the house he was renting for his stay. It was a pleasant change of pace from those who were scared of silence. He should have recognized him after knowing his parents most of their lives but if he had he made no mention of it. They pulled up to a large black gate where the driver lets James out after a small tip.

  James watches the car vanish around the corner. He was considering caution for the night ahead now. Unless he climbed into bed and disappeared for the next couple of days until his flight back there was not much for him to distract himself with. Tonight needed to happen if this trip was going to be purposeful.

  If it was one thing he hated it was wasting time. She had kept him under her thumb for just as long as he had stayed away. All that wasted time gnawed at him unapologetically in his free time. It had driven him to slave for his ravenous craft unlike his dozing peers. Whenever his eyes closed, all James encountered was despair.

  Aimless time and misery accompany him into the late hours. How could he ever forget someone anchored so firmly in his mind was so capable of getting under his skin? Visible scars were all that was truly different between then and now.

Although I don't play ball, I kind of know that writing for me is like playing basketball.

You dribble the words in your mind, figuring the best way to put them; then when the bulbs light up, you go for the shot in hopes that you got the angles right and the force not too weak and not too strong, just enough to make the basket.

But writing is playing with and against only yourself really. You drive past your insecurities, your ignorance, your boastful tendencies, and the evils that writhe just inside you to bring that wonderful shot to reality.

And why do I play? Like most sports, writing is some way to release those boiling emotions and negative energies that if contained will corode us from inside. But it's also a way of radiating optimism and showcasing our peculiar insanities that keep us within the 'human spectrum'.

However, sometimes we fail to earn the world's appreciation that that fragment of our soul materialized in words is left in oblivion. An object of neglect. So only those who deeply love this craft will go on with it.

So my love for writing is something I have to prove until the end of my days.

A plump dark-haired woman busily disarranged a bouquet of white roses, gardenias and violets in a slim blue vase, annoyingly unsatisfied with any way she put them. Each time she slipped the fresh stalks in, she would hastily grab them out.

She wore a faded brown cardigan too spacious for her and a messy ponytail. When I looked down to her toes, I saw flat black sandals taut around two veined feet. I could see why the flowers had suffered such ill attempts to beauty. After a moment of utter frustration, she surrendered and haphazardly stacked the stalks into the narrow hole. At last, they could have some peace.

She turned and saw me awake, immobile in a spotless white hospital gown on a spotless white bed. For a split second, I glimpsed a streak of relief and joy flash in her black eyes. But the spark instantly burst into an ugly rage. Her right hand sliced the air and landed squarely on my unsuspecting cheeks.

Did this woman just slap me? This stranger has just assaulted me!

Strange though, the pain was vaguely familiar like I had known such a cruel injustice for a long time. My mouth gaping, I propped myself up. AWWW!

Fatigue and soreness surged through my body like a tsunami with no warning. My muscles stiffened and limped. I feared my bones had softened. I collapsed helplessly on the mattress. How many years exactly have I lain here?

“Don’t push yourself, you moron! Lie still,” she barked.

A moron? How the hell could she call me that?

I tried to fire back but only a strident snarl came out. She poured me a glass of water from a pitcher next to the vase of besmirched flowers. She shoved the glass against my chest. “Here, drink this.”

If this was poison, I might know later. But I drank it nonetheless.

When I regained my voice, I asked, “Uhm, who are you?” It sounded like a whisper but I figured she heard because her jaw dropped. She was shocked. I was puzzled.

Her brows furrowed, “Don’t you kid me, bastard.”

Now I am a bastard too. “I’m serious.”

A shade of horror fell on her freckled face. “What are you saying Wilson?”

The name lit up clouded memories and pain in my head. “Who’s Wilson?”

“Of course you’re Wilson. Stop this right now!” The tears she’d been holding back gushed free.

That’s ridiculous. Of course I knew my name. “No, I’m Francis.”

The color escaped her skin. The name hit her like a bombshell. “I’ll call the doctor.”

She was my mother. And I had amnesia. At least, that’s what the doctor said. But a person with amnesia only forgets. But I, I remembered things. I knew my name. I knew my school. I knew what my house looked like. My real house, not the messy little bungalow for the demented. I knew I was Francis, not Wilson. But all the pictures and the things about me told me I was the latter. Then who was Francis? They wouldn’t tell me.

Two weeks had passed since my release from the hospital. And in my stay, not one soul except my mother visited me. So I thought I had no friends. So who could these addicts in school uniforms be?

The classroom was huge. Yet enveloped by these nosy assholes, I felt it shrink in my face.

“You don’t remember us?” Said the porcupine. He had blond spikes for hair that stood like he was always horrified. But he was horrifying. He had yellowed teeth and a breath of cigar smoke.

I stiffly answered. “No. I really don’t.”

“We’re your buddies, bro,” croaked the tree frog. He had wide bulging eyes that his sockets barely restrained. Beneath the sleeve of his polo, I could see a skull tattoo. He couldn’t be a buddy of mine.

“Have you got amnesia?” exclaimed the last of them, the tiger. Dark orange hair. Strong jaws. Robust build. Fierce grey eyes. Who the hell are they?

“Yeah. I have amnesia. I’ve forgotten a lot.” That’s all it took to silence the animals. But after a moment, an evil grin drew across their snouts.

The tiger growled, “Well then, we’ll make you remember.”

Throughout the day, I could see this girl weirdly gazing at me. I guessed she could be someone I knew too. But she didn’t accost me until the dismissal of our last class in Mechanical Engineering.

Up-close, I saw she had sincere blue eyes, cascading brown hair, cream skin, and a stunning figure. So, I might had had one decent friend at least.

She spoke in a voice that I ought to have loved before because it made me want to hear it more. “Wil, I heard from your mom you have amnesia.”

She’s close to my mom. I thought that a good thing.

“Yes. And you are?”

She blushed. “It feels awkward to reintroduce myself you know. When you’ve known me for four years. Anyway, I’m Gwen.”

“Gwen.” The name squeezed out a few images. And they became vivid in her presence. The smiles in those memories, the vibrancy were all repainted by her meek grin. And the notes and melodies in them were all plucked into music once again by her voice. It was painful but it was bliss. Yet, something was still amiss. In those moments that searingly flickered to my reminiscence, it was not just the two of us. There was another face.

She said, “Anyway those three assholes this morning, they’re telling the truth. They’re your friends. Don’t worry.”

I was more scared than surprised. “They are?”

She mumbled gently, her cheeks reddened, “You know, you’re more like him now. I can almost see him in you.”

“I’m more like who?”

“Francis.”

Mr. Joeffrey Gil was far left back in the old days. He had this wavy mustache and well-combed goatee. He was a man of terror but those facial hairs made him look like a joke.

Boasting his full six-feet and two-inch height, he loomed over me and groaned, “In your current state, you have to review for two years to take the remedial and special exams. You’ve missed a lot Mr. Hurthon and now you’ve forgotten everything.” He coughed, “Anyway, even without amnesia, you won’t remember a thing.” He snickered.

I loathed him right there and I could bet my life I had wanted to murder him once before.

I’d stab him in a different way. “I’ll take them all tomorrow.”

He snapped to his strict posture. “Tomorrow? You’re committing suicide?”

“Well it seems that I am.”

His lips arched to a silly devilish grin. “Tomorrow it is then.”

Someone was texting me, maybe one of my animal friends. His phonebook name was Fart-thing. “The abandoned house off Green Street. 12 midnight.”

I didn’t know any abandoned house in Green Street and even if I did, I won’t go there. I needed to read eight books this evening for tomorrow so I turned off my phone and started to flip my book open. Then my mom stepped in.

“Wil, I thought you might want to have this. You were holding it after the accident.” She said as she unfolded her palm to reveal a ring, its silver surface glinting. Upon giving me that, she left bearing hope I might remember something. But then she came back, displaying an astonished look in her face. She mused, “You’re studying?”

“Well, I’m hungry and I’m just dining on these books, if that’s what it seems.”

“Studying on your own?”

“Come on, Mom. Is there anybody with me besides you? It’s not like you can do engineering.”

“No, it’s just – Never mind.” She left. It didn’t seem like she knew me after all.

I scrutinized the ring. On the inner surface, it was etched in flowing letters: We are One.

I didn’t have much time to waste to give it much thought. I flipped my book open and saw a pitiful sight. What a mess! This isn’t even writing anymore. Mysteriously, as I turn more pages, another handwriting appeared. More legible and not crooked. It was more like mine.

“YOU CHEATED YOU SCUMBAG OF AN IDIOT!” Mr. Gil yelled at me, his voice booming about the faculty office where many professors watched eagerly. He went on, “I’ll see to it you get expelled.”

I couldn’t hold it in anymore. “You were there, Sir.” Guarding like a filthy vulture waiting for meat to scavenge. “If I have cheated, you would have noticed.”

“Your scores in my last exams are mostly zeroes. Your highest score is half the passing. Then you suddenly perfect all your tests with a review of one night!”

“With all due respect Sir, next time find more difficult questions so that I would need what I reviewed on. If I hadn’t read those books, I would still have perfected them.” I went for the door and slammed it in their stunned faces.

Now, I’d stabbed him. Deep.

The miracle spread by word of gaping mouths. I suddenly became the most popular guy in school. Many came to see me, asking what cheating tricks I used to pull it off. If using stock knowledge to perfect exams is cheating, then let it be.

But what terrible scores I had had before. Zeroes? Seriously? Was I that bad at it? Well I think amnesia changes a lot.

Gwen came to see me too. She congratulated me with a kiss on the cheek that my mom kept on hitting. Then she shook my hand and I saw it. The silver ring.

Why did she have the other? And why was the other with me? I couldn’t gain the courage to ask her.

Opportunities came along. I became a quizzer for the college and I always brought them the highest prize. Every club wanted me in. I refused half of them. With my schedules tight and crowded, I still found time to read. Then my fourth-year theoretical explorations was featured in an international journal. It was about a nearly ideal energy-generating device that used magnetic suspension and concepts that not even my professors could understand.

I did not go as far as special relativity, it had suffered enough vandalism. I won’t put my name on such a field that almost every physicist had explored. However my career reached its pinnacle when my face made it to the Times, naming me as The Most Intelligent Man on earth.

Soon enough, Harvard came for me. They offered a course that’d get me into working at the Large Hadron Collider in Geneva, Switzerland in three years. It meant I won’t come to my fifth year with my classmates, with Gwen. I’d have to leave them behind.

It was the night after the graduation day. My three forest friends came up to me and Craig Furtein, the tiger, said, “You still don’t remember us?”

The frog, Henry Harrison, walked up to me, holding a handkerchief. “We told your mom we’re having fun for a while.” He thrust the cloth to my mouth and heavy sleep overwhelmed me.

I felt like I had slept through another coma when I found myself in a dingy dimly lit mansion. My body felt so heavy I could not stand. Squinting through my eyelids that weighed like tons, I could barely make out the shadows that moved around me, their voices fading in the incessant ringing in my ears. I could hear people yelling, an erratic siren of an approaching ambulance and the whispering of my own voice.

“Francis?”

A man lay splayed next to me, bathing in a pool of blood.

Then someone stirred me awake. “Wil.”

It was the porcupine, Dan. “You’re finally awake.”

It was already the break of dawn. I demanded, “Why did you bring me here? I’m off to Cambridge this afternoon. I have to go home.”

“It’s that stupid scholarship!” Craig growled.

“This is kidnapping. It’s a cruel way to treat a friend.”

Craig said, “You almost sound like him.”

“Do you know who I am?”

Henry replied, “You have amnesia, we don’t.”

“I am the most intelligent man on this planet.”

They stared blankly at me. I won’t talk to them ever again.

Dan looked encouraging but with the indelible look of menace in his eyes. “It’ll take only a while. Let’s do it.”

“Do what?”

He passed me an orange shabby basketball. “It’s two on two.”

“Look I don’t play ball.”

Henry chuckled, “It was Francis who didn’t play ball.”

I had to admit the curved edge of the sphere fitted my palms so perfectly as if they were molded to hold it. A tinge of desire welled within me. One heavy sigh and the trembling in my knees yielded to comfort and confidence.

As I played, everything was instinct. The dribble, the pass and the shots. My feet had their own minds. Why have I forgotten so much?

Toweling ourselves in the basketball court in the yard of the deserted house, Craig looked unlike himself. He sat so pensive, deep in his thoughts.

He spoke, “You’re gonna regret it.”

All three pairs of eyes were suddenly on me. “It’s my future.”

Henry said, “We don’t know how you turned into a freaking genius but you won’t be happy there.”

“I’ll be happy there and I want to go there.” I stressed.

Craig shrugged, “You don’t even know what makes you happy anymore. You’ve forgotten everything.”

“Then tell me, who is Francis? Is he dead?”

Dread surfaced in me. They nodded. Craig explained, “We’re your lifelong buddies. He was your college best friend.”

A throbbing pain shot through my skull. The images that flashed were clear as daylight. I have killed my best friend.

Francis had calm blue eyes, dark silk tufts, and a smile that could put entropy at ease. His voice floated, “Hi, I’ll be your tutor. I’ll help you.”

They were at the library. “This is Gwen, my girlfriend. You must have met in class.”

The motorcycle ride. “The light’s green! WAIT!”

“Wow, that was dangerously awesome.”

He was scanning his books. “What a mess! This isn’t even writing anymore.”

Francis was with Gwen, their hands fastened inseparably. And I was trying to blink away my thoughts but still they materialized. If Francis was not here, will I have a chance with her?

Then the rings. He was saying to me, “What do you think? Are they good enough?”

Then the accident. “Hold it slow. We still have to graduate.”

I shouted, my voice lost in the winds, “IT’S FINE!”

“Wil, we’re going too fast!”

A truck whizzed from a corner. Then it was pitch black.

I woke up dazed, my body sprawled on the pavement. I suffered bruises and a few fractures. A couple of feet away, Francis lay maimed and bloody. A pool of red spread rapidly around him. His breathing was labored. He was still alive, but barely.

I forced a few words out, “You have to live. You cannot die.” My only thoughts were I should be in his place. I ought to have met this fate alone.

When I snapped out of my recollection, I only found more reason to leave.

The baggage was ready. It was time to part with my past and live out an entirely different future. But I went to gaze upon the violated pages of my books for a last time. My handwriting was once a mess. How humiliating. Francis, how did I become you? How did I even surpass you? My will ought to have been so determined.

I reached for another book and toppled a pile. A few books dropped to the floor. Then as if summoned, the silver ring rolled towards me, its sound so eerily familiar. Another fragment of my lost memories seeped into my consciousness.

It was the night of the accident. Francis lay helplessly but he managed to speak against all that pain raking his body, “I know what you feel for her. Promise me you’ll take care of her.” He gruelingly slipped the ring from his finger and rolled it towards me. “Please…” Then his eyes shut with a smooth finality.

I ran as fast as I could. And then she was there, sitting in solitude in the silence of the city library. It was their favorite spot.

She looked up curiously. “You’re off to Harvard. Have you forgotten something?”

I did. A lot. I panted, “No. I remembered something.”

She looked perplexed. I reached into my pocket and showed the ring to her. “I have a promise to fulfill.”

She didn’t speak.

“You see I was the worst idiot. My life is laid in front of me and I was too blind to see it.”

She found her voice, “What do you mean? How about your dreams?”

“I’ve hurt you more than you could feel,” I said, “You see, you are my dream. Although my mind forgot, my heart remembered.”

I slipped the ring into my fingers and held her hand, “Now I’ll take care of you.”

I have a lifelong fascination with the ocean and now live in a small seaside town. My husband and I used to take picnics and spend most of the day at the beach standing in thigh high water, casting surf fishing rods to catch flounder and whiting. It was such a beautiful way to spend the day on our cinnamon colored sands with the cerulean blue of the white capped waves and the salt air on our cheeks.

For bait, we would catch sandfleas, which are not fleas at all but a type of crab that lives in wet sand at the water’s edge of our beach. We would wait for the waves to come in and then use a long handled net to catch the crabs going out with the flow of the water. The sandfleas are about a half inch to an inch long with no claws and they don’t bite. They breathe by gills and can live out of the water for a few hours to a few days. We would put them in a bucket with wet sand and use them to bait our hooks. Many good fish dinners came out of our partnership with sandfleas. I picked the name sandflea because it evokes such warm memories of our days in the sun.