It was a bright humid day in July, and the clocks were striking eighteen. A secluded writer yawned and commenced preparation for her fate. She began:

Ha! Thou ov'r yonder! Didst thou know, thy tongue steals words from mine own lips? Thou art not quite as voice-taking as the proverbial cat, but must so! Thy words enchant this simpleton's skull - and there is no finer lodging for thy words beside, is a fool's logic -

This spectacled writer here;
enchanté she does she proclaim!
Whisper assurances in your ear, doth she:
Clémentine Bleu shall be her name.

This writer would like to inform you that:

1) She feels her attempts to write fake-edgy Elizabethan poetry has turned into a more sea-shanty-esque, uneducated pirate's ship log type of rambling, and for this, she extends her condolences.

2) She regrets nothing.

‘Avast to all the deck boys, first mates, and captains alike! We are all level in the eyes of Severus the Sea Squid… distinctions serve no use other than dividing us from our shipmates. Remember this, young scholars.’

‘I graduated first of my class in the Somalian Future Pirate's Academy - we pronounce it SFFF-PA. You are welcome to say S-F-P-A, but I am afraid it might isolate you from your peers, distinguishing you as an outsider. Any ways, Thar Writer wishes to introduce herself to you. She is the Highest Power - the only entity that Severus the Sea Squid will take orders from. Don't screw this up, young matey!’

(You receive a correspondence from The Writer.)

Open it
Leave it unanswered

3 AM Mind Ramblings - Otherwise Known As Deranged “Thoughts”

sophistication- or lack thereof-
this writer’s hamartia,
narration’s blind eye, believed
to be omnipresent, but rather:
shut in her room, contemplating
the mechanics of life.

infinity cowers in front of me.
i munch on derivatives for breakfast.
(i pour the calculus first, and then the
milk. what do you think i am, psychotic?)

i wish i could be swept off my feet
hazel grace to a man vaguely augustinian;
rather, augustus waters to sluttish Time.

to wish is to want, and to want is a sin.
i Want only for what i Have.
lucky for me, this writer does not believe
in eternal damnation. a church’s platitudes:
repent!!! repent, god-denouncing citizens!!!

(As a Somali pirate in training, you barely understand this letter from the one who calls herself Writer.)

SUDDEN EARTHQUAKE!!!

Browse the Wikipedia page ‘List of common misconceptions’ & enlighten yourself
Hide under the table and pretend the earthquake doesn't exist. If you avoid your problems they will disappear

A voice sighs in your ear. ‘Sadly, young people never choose enlightenment. I simply do not understand what's so unappealing about it.’

(You are worried about the voice in your ear.)

‘Honey, don't be worried! It's me. Clem.’

(You shake your head. Who?)

‘The Writer???’

(Oh, alright.)

‘Allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Clem. I love ghazals, iambic pentameter, codebreaking, mysteries. If I could be any person in the world I'd be Peggy Carter. I have a love-hate relationship with green. We date on and off; if green attempts defamation against me please don't stand for it! I love British English, I am currently writing a novel about an Egyptian girl working at a networking startup, I love the show Shameless and the SCP Wiki, I am skilled at public speaking and debate, open-minded to aliens and ghosts but not so much to trying new things… yeah I'm kind of an absolute terror if you're picking up what I'm putting down

I love mythology and learning about different languages and cultures. I'm only completely fluent in one language but learning Spanish in school & Mandarin and Japanese on Duolingo… if I could automatically know any language in the world it would probably be Arabic. I've stated before that I love ghazals so that would be a big help reading them… & also I really like the way it's written.

I am currently taking two courses at my local university, full disclosure they are for summer camp but it feels so adult to go to college classes, wander around campus during breaks, etc. One is Robotics and the other is Calculus. We are programming French robots to have spacial awareness in Robotics & doing the entire curriculum of Calc 3 in one month in Calculus… now that I transcribe what I am doing this summer it sounds… nightmarish but I swear it's actually very interesting.

My favorite ice cream is mint chocolate chip, I love Greek, Chinese & Indian food,,, don't own wireless earbuds, unironically like the Divergent trilogy, favorite genre to read is poetry, although I also really like romance, & I like to write those same genres (with varying degrees of success, of course.

I am almost remarkably self-contained, I might only talk to people if it is absolutely necessary. I have mentioned, yes, that this writer lives her life pretty much entirely from the seclusion of her room. It is not so terrible. I have my books, my markers, my computer, everything a hobbit could want. I am not quite a hobbit as I do not think I fit the height requirement, but rather: a practitioner of the hobbit lifestyle. A future one, perhaps. Except one of my closest friends aspires to be a hobbit in old age. I would rather not be one to steal her thunder, due to the fact that I would, most certainly, out-hobbit any hobbit ever to exist.

At this point in time I have told you, a young cadet at the SFPA, almost my entire life's story. So, what is going on with you? Why are you attempting to gain correspondence with me?’

(It's not so you won't get eaten by my baby, Severus, is it?

…

Were you…

using me….

for your own…

SELFISH GAIN…?

…

Severus, Mama's got a snack for you!)

Do svidanya comrades. Goodnight and goodbye.

Professional criminals might remark that vile figures often appear to be venerable men. Perhaps that was the case with Wolfe; or perhaps he simply didn't care enough to mask his disdain for the idiocracy. Which-ever way one was too look at the situation, they'd come to the conclusion that he was a cruel, predatory animal. Which… he had never denied in the first place.

It was quite a plausible conclusion that his image was forsaken the night of Snow's ball. He had donated nothing short of a million dollars to the cause - The Society for Adults with Dwarfism. Although, he had also chased the truffle-pigs, reportedly threatening their homes. They felt unsafe, a detective remarked.

This caused a series of un-lucky drops in the bucket that turned into a bona fide waterfall. First, the pigs were set loose to the crowd - they trampled many a poor dinner guest's glass slippers. Ella got reprimanded by her godmother and was not allowed to marry the love of her life. Snow fainted, apparently, due to the stress of not having the perfect truffles on hand for her ball. If you know Snow, you likely realize what a perfectionist she is. It is really quite a bore.

It was then discovered, that they were both dating the same man. He had been switching outfits all night in an outdated movie trope.

By this point, his reputation was in remnants, had fallen fathomless depths, however he maintained social invitations purely due to his wealth. A costume party was the event to prompt the Council's repudiation of his seat as a member…

He brought his twin to the costume party; which does not sound too harmless on its own. Well, he dressed up as a poor little girl's grandma, then proceeded to try and eat her… while his brother was there, pretending to be shocked. Nobody could tell it wasn't him until the Huntsman came over and attempted to machete ‘grandma’… it didn't end so well, for anybody. The veneration of Wolfe ended there, pretty much. Needless to say he does donate to the Knitting Society and Society for Adults with Dwarfism regularly to prevent Red or Snow from taking legal action.

Part One: Examine a silent comic, write 300 words on your interpretation of it.

“Living fire begets cold, impotent ash.” - Chinua Achebe

Thus, the man expires.

He is almost quite old as shrivelled Tithonos… but perhaps he had once been some-one’s progeny.

Now, each wrinkle on his marred face matches an injustice he has seen, a desert he has traversed,

in pursuit of… what?

Words are not permanent, nor is life.

However… beauty is not permanence. It is fleeting and sudden… similar to his words, and others’, transcribed into his large black book.

But his words have dragged him down. And words are just that. Words can be re-written. Life cannot.

The fire continues. His spirit flies away from the smoke.

Thus, the man retires.

I saw Ileana Surducan’s ‘The Weight of Words’ as a comic about the exchange of knowledge. I interpreted the man’s journeys as a pilgrimage to seek religious enlightenment, due to the man with greying-hair’s halo (representation of Sainthood?), the dark-skinned man’s turban (Sikhism, perhaps) and the woman’s attire indicating she might practise a more spiritual faith.

Also, to note: they all speak different languages! The symbols, when they talk, albeit not words, are different for each person. He gains perspective on the experiences of different cultures, religions, and is lent more than simply a “single story” - to quote Chimamanda Adichie.

Towards the end of the journey, he becomes progressively more tired. His words, his knowledge, his enlightenment, are actively weighing him down - how ironic! En-lighten-ment is supposed to lighten your load, not increase it! Surducan illustrates that some knowledge must be left behind to pave way for the new: words might burn, but they are just words. They hold no significance besides that which we might lend them.

Pages turned to ash symbolise the old being sacrificed for the new. And with the extra weight off his back, an old man gains wings. He is liberated!

Thus, the man retires.

Part Two: Pick a culturally significant dish. Write 400 words about a character giving it to another.

“Christ, I’m so tired,” Cali says, rubbing her temples. “Midterms week is slaying me.”

Julien smirks. “Wait until finals,” he replies. His lips quirk upward.

“Are you not, like, my sister’s age? Have you even finished sixth form? Why are you even here, actually… this is taking up valuable storage in my mind… you need to leave, I think.”

“No, yes, and I am shadowing you, remember? Gaia said it was okay.”

Cali sucks in a breath. “My sister… has no knowledge pertaining to real life. She is too sheltered. I believe it best for you to leave, Juli.”

He sits on the bed. “I will be completely silent.”

“It’s not that… I can still tell you are there, and that, in itself, distracts me.”

“Calliope! Muse of Poetry, are you implying that my presence is distracting?” He strides over to her and takes her face in his hands.

“King Julien,” she replies, “in my eyes you will always be ten and consuming worms.”

“That was one singular occurrence! I have not done it since, and I have no interest in doing it again!”

“But still, it happened.” She sighs. Evidently resigning to his persistence, she continues, “Make yourself useful and find me supper.”

The second he leaves, she scoffs. He doesn’t have a key… she finally relaxes.

Consider the parametric curve x(t) = −2 + 2 cos t, y(t) = 1 − 2 sin t.

(a) State the Cartesian equation of the curve and sketch the curve. Determine the direction of evolution of the curve for increasing t and indicate it on the graph.

(b) Find the points on the curve for which the tangent line has a slope of 1.

Cali hates maths with the entirety of her being; she despises it. She wishes it would jump into a hole and die…

Julien barges into the room. “I’ve got instant ramen!”

“What- how are you here…” Cali yawns, rubbing her eyes. It occurs to her that she has currently not slept for forty-three hours.

Juli fingers a room key. “You thought,” he grins.

He takes out her rice cooker and dumps the noodles in. “None of this flavour packet nonsense… some spices, an egg, and kimchi, and you will be raring to go.”

He yawns and collapses on the bed. At least you have the luxury of sleeping, Cali thinks.

Let f be a real-valued function defined on [0,∞), with the properties: f is continuous on [0, ∞), f(0) = 0, f’ exists on (0, ∞), and f’ is monotone increasing on (0,∞). Let g be the function given by: g(x) = f(x) x for x ∈ (0, ∞).

a) Prove that g is monotone increasing on (0,∞).

b) Prove that, if f’(e) = 0 for some e > 0, and if f(x) ≥ 0, for all x ≥ 0, then f(x) = 0 on the interval (0, e).

“Your ramen is done,” Julien says, presenting her with a creation of epic proportions.

“It’s so good,” she says. “Thanks.”

“Congratulations, Cali. You are officially a broke uni student.”

“Again, I’m so much older than you. Stop acting like you know everything, Julien.”

Part Three: Continue a scene from the Motif-tionary for 400 words.
I chose Far From the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy.

The noble-woman unwrapped a package; its sole content, her glass, stunned charmingly. It had a silver handle, engraved, of course; not a scratch, which she intended to maintain.

She stared at her likeness in the looking-glass. Two solemn statuettes; her reflection depended on her. What a thought! Without she, her twin could not exist. And without a twin, she had no proof of existence.

How sad it must be, she thought, admiring the tilt of her eyes, to despise the image in the glass! Your face, God-given and humanly-received, is the one you have to live with for as long as you might before succumbing to the earth.

She was plagued by beauty. She admired the point of her nose. She was not vain, no. The woman was self-aware. She enjoyed looking at herself the way an artist might enjoy looking at a finished masterpiece.

She traced the curve of her lips. It really was fantastical, she thought, to be quite a pretty creature.

Most she knew became drunk at the sight of her, intoxicated with her presence. She was the drug of choice for many noble-ladies and their noble-husbands.

When he had first met her, he had insisted she was a breath of clean air… pure, not diluted. Not anything to get high on. Some-thing… reflectable, clean. She pushed her curls back and sighed. They were wispy-chic, long and tight. She had light freckles; green eyes with long eyelashes.

Her father pestered her to become a man’s bride. He was old fashioned in only a few areas, and the sacred union between man and wife was one of them. Although… he might not have minded if she were to be joined with a woman. He simply wanted her to be someone else’s. Not his responsibility any-more, she thought bitterly. But…

She was an adult, and wondered why he would not relinquish care of her to her own skilled hands.

Never mind, was her thought. Idle speculation lends a busy mind no favours. A busy mind is best controlled through busy hands.

She began to sew. Fine for a lady to do, if from the safety of her husband’s estate. But treacherous, disloyal, and most unfaithful if she planned to make a business of it!

She stared into her glass longingly and sighed. The faerie might have bestowed one gift too many upon her; plagued she was, by her stunning twin. That was a fine thought.

Part Four: Revise your Part One for 400 words, focusing on symbolism and motifs.

For complete transparency, the reason I chose ‘The Weight of Words’ as a comic to analyse was due to its simple, straightforward nature. It is so literal! It follows a man on his quest for knowledge, in which he fills a large book with the insights of people he has met in the desert. Over time, his words start to weigh him down, the information building & building until it is simply… too much for him to lug around. The literality, along with the charming art style and story, made me fall in love with this comic.

That said, symbolism? The book is the most obvious. And j’adore this symbol because its literal and figurative meanings coincide precisely: they are the same!!! His words are weighing him down.

Another possible symbol is the desert. Perhaps choosing this setting illustrates his long, gruelling journey. It is worse to lug a notebook across the desert than it is to carry one across, say, suburbia. Or perhaps that was simply the first setting that came to the author’s mind. Another thing to love about reading: you can never see into the author’s head, unless they are specifically inviting you for a tour!

Additionally, I touched upon the attire of the people he encounters along his journey. I mentioned, before, in Part 1, that one man has a turban, one man has a halo, one woman seems to have a third eye drawn on her forehead, symbolism indicative of a religious pilgrimage on the man’s part? The way that their “speech” - gibberish to us, but significant to the characters in the story - is drawn illustrates proof of different languages. Although this man is travelling in the same desert, he encounters many different cultures, religions, and types of people! Diversity!!! It is important that he writes these experiences down, but… they grow to be too much.

Cut to the scene shown in the beginning of the comic, where he is burning select pages of his large black book, because… it is a weight too large for a single man. The reader sees words going up in smoke: every reader’s nightmare! Except these words do not hold much significance to us, the audience, so we may rest easily. Although it hurt him to burn them (we can see his wrinkled, dejected face) it was necessary for him to be able to fly.

I will leave you with one last analogy, because I must hit four hundred words. I, as a reader, with my mother having a publishing job, grew up with maybe a thousand books in my house. Every time I wanted a new one, the answer was: we have to donate an old one. I hated that. It hurt me to donate books. But perhaps, it is important to trade Clifford for Shakespeare. It is necessary.

It is red, almost mahogany. Smattered at the top, tiny white sprinkles, stars maybe, dancing as your smoothie bubbles. It goes down softly, a blanket enveloping your throat; drinkers have compared the taste to red velvet. Celebrities endorse it.

It is… the comforter smoothie. Delectable and nostalgia-invoking. It smells clean, fresh out of the washer. Optional toppings include small stuffed toys, pillow marshmallows, grey and white sheets. When you drink, do so slowly. Savor it; its warm, soothing taste might recall whimsical childhood memories.

Perhaps you will turn ten years old again by drinking this smoothie. Perhaps you will not; it might still be a good addition to our list of super-powered smoothie potions. Its rich, velvety taste might give you the same power as Theodore Leslie Templeton's magic baby formula.

Drink it with a silly straw, or not at all. We are not adults here and never claimed to be. Get your comforter smoothie today at the closest drugstore to you! Or Target. Or Ikea, strangely enough. The Swedish seem to have everything. Wait, Ikea is actually a Dutch nonprofit? You learn something new every day…

Get your Comforter Smoothie now at the low price of $9.99! Available everywhere except Antarctica.

Her lips felt oddly moist, eyes started to bulge like a dart frog. She slowly felt consciousness drifting away from her, slowly but surely. She bit down on her captors arm, he cursed but did not let go. She felt the silky smooth air on her arms her legs but not her face… she couldn’t feel her face…

“Is the girl up.” A gruff, unpolished voice came from the corner of the room. Sawyer slowly opened her eyes and groaned. She had the worst headache… she had been getting migraines practically since she crawled out of the room.

“Leo,” she said… “Please, stop talking. Pretty please.” But as she slowly came to she saw she was in a dank little room. It was backlit with orange lamps, though, and it felt cosy in the oddest sort of way. It was like when she would crawl into a cubby-hole just to prove she could, the fit was tight

but felt comfortable… in a menacing sort of way.

“Leonardo Janiszewska is not here,” came the same gruff voice. “You, Sawyer… you are the one we crave correspondence with.”

“Oh. I see. You seek information from Costache, do you not?”

“Yes.”

She felt sickly, nauseous. A migraine pounded at her skull. She surveyed the room, a bit of a sensory under-load. It was dark. She could not make out the faces of the men who had kidnapped her. All she could observe was orange lighting from the two lamps, casting a glow on the odd-looking wall. It looked like strange material…

Wait. She saw graffiti on the wall as well. It was in… Czech? Surely they couldn’t have entered another country without her noticing… could they have?

These men did not seem capable, intelligent enough to mastermind this whole situation on their own, however… there was likely a professional criminal behind this. And with a professional criminal came a white-collar crime…

“I know exactly where we are,” Sawyer scoffed.

Her captor’s face paled.

But wait, Sawyer thought. There was a mastermind behind this. So was it all engineered to fake her out? She decided to play the game.

“We are in an abandoned building in Bucharest… used to be a site for the testing of government weapons… recently been owned by a Hungarian couple then sold to her Czech son-in-law. He, an artist, used it as an experimental building for his dabbling in street art, did he not?”

The other captor scoffed, his face slowly coming into the light. So there were only two of them, Sawyer mulled. To be expected. The space was not big enough for any more people.

“What is it to you.” His voice, an icy droll. He seemed much more capable of being a criminal mastermind, but not quite. His poker face was not completely opaque. His lips twitched;

So Sawyer was not right. It was a bit obvious when she thought about it, actually. It was a setup. They had picked a building she was familiar with, in hopes that she would not truly identify where she was.

Lucky for her, she was skilled in the art of deduction. The second man’s voice was too practised, calculated. Not the laid-back, Italian-sounding tune of the locals.

He was not from Romania, it seemed. The ringleader had to be a foreigner, Sawyer thought. If I were a mob boss, or scammer, or anything akin to either, I might only hire people familiar to me… only people from at least the same country as me.

“I can tell the gears are whirring up there,” said the man, “However sad I am to see your genius shut down, I am afraid I need your attention here.”

Sawyer did not say anything. Her arms were tied behind her, she was starting to lose feeling in them. Her legs felt as if they were slowly being penetrated by a thousand tiny needles.

The man slapped her across the face. “Eyes on me,” he said sweetly.

She licked her lips and tasted blood.

If Sawyer could just figure out who these two men worked for, she might figure out where she was.

She looked in the man’s eyes with disgust. He did not look to be a Slav, or a Romanian. His skin was too dark, features not sharp enough.

He looked vaguely Latin, but his Romanian was perfect. Likely he was mixed. Sawyer could barely think. Her mind was so addled with whatever sedative she had been given… plus she had the most splitting headache…

“What are your uncle’s plans.” the man drawled, his eyes unblinking. Even his relaxation seemed practised. His back was curved, hand resting on his chin as he stared her in the eye. He sat on a small, wooden crate.

“Uncle… I have no uncle…” Sawyer’s eyes drooped.

Another slap. She spat blood in his direction, but he dodged easily. “Costache. I am losing my patience.”

“Costache… I have not called him Uncle in quite some time.” Sawyer’s head pounded like two small men were doing a dance inside of it. “Quite honestly, I do not know…”

There came a frustrated yell from the man across from her, and she

blacked

out





Sawyer was greeted by a different face, this one less foreign but more recognizable. There was something distinctly wrong with this woman’s face, her features. They seemed to be distorted. She was unmistakably stunning, but her eyes, nose, mouth seemed to be… not screwed on right…

The woman laughed, an unsettling sound. She smelt of lavender and iron, a bit of an off-putting combination;

Sawyer realised with a start that the ‘iron’ she was smelling was most likely blood.

“I am so sorry about my colleagues! They were most unprofessional to you!” the woman said, smiling. “The matter has been taken care of.”

“What?” Sawyer bit her lip and tasted blood again. It hurt really badly. It was nice to know that she could still feel pain, was not completely numb… yet.

“The matter of their behaviour, of course! They have been sent to re-education.”

Sawyer laughed, or at least attempted to. It came out as more of a grimace. “School… for criminals? Do you mean trade school? University? Jail?”

“None of the above; more like intense pain and conditioning.” The woman’s lips curled, and Sawyer was reminded that this was not her friend, sister, or mother. She was a kidnapper and possibly sadistic. Probably sadistic, she amended.

“So.” The woman said. “I knew your uncle, once upon a time.”

Sawyer decided she would play along. This woman did not seem like the type to hit her if she did not provide satisfactory answers. No. She seemed like the type to kill over a stolen glass; cold, calculating, and wholly in control. Unlike men who could not manage their emotions.

“Yes?”

“He was but an acquaintance. I had heard the whispers, of course, but did not care for rumours. I befriended him to see what he was truly capable of.”


Sawyer nodded. Costache was… quite a man. He had made his fortune off of exploitation, smuggling, drugs… he had lost it all in one day. This same event, to any other man, might inspire him to live honestly. Not her uncle. He had ventured right back into the fray of illegal nonsense; never returning.

“Many times, I witnessed him in action. One night, we got into a bar fight together. We were both drunk. Nobody in that entire restaurant-bar was ever the same; never walked the same; talked the same. It was wonderful.” The woman sighed, a nostalgic, beautiful sigh. Her voice was soothing… so soothing.

“But… he stole from me. He and that little rat Leonardo. Always roping young kids into his schemes. He stole my finest bracelet. Inside that bracelet, I held the key to the Louvre… one of the most secure museums in the world.”

“Sawyer, I want to make your uncle bleed. I want to bring him to his knees. I know, as your abductor, I am supposed to be more transparent, but I think our goals are in alignment.”

Sawyer took a breath. “Yes?”

“What is Costache planning,” she said gently.

“Dead men draw no plans.” Sawyer replied.

“What. Does. That. Mean.”

“Lena, my uncle is dead.”

The woman- Lena- Sawyer recognized her. That was her childhood nurse; her companion until the age of seven. She was blonde back then, and her face not quite so sharp. She was beautiful… always smelling of lavender…

“What happened to you,” Sawyer reached out to touch her, only just registering that her hands were free. She pulled back just in time- Lena was on fire… she was crying… she said a prayer in German.

“I love you-” and then she was gone. She vanished… the walls around Sawyer vanished in a gust of smoke and wind.

Sawyer woke up in a cold sweat. Leo was beside her.

“Oh my god! Luca! Mariana! She is awake!”

The sound of shuffling feet, and then: an explosion of noise.

“My baby girl! You are okay! Thank God you are well!”

“Sawyer, mi hijita! Mi corazon. I am so glad you are fine!”


“Thanks, Mama, Papa.” She sighed. “May I be left alone?”

They looked heartbroken but conceded. The second they were gone she looked at Leo. “How long have I been out?”

“A week, give or take,” he replied. She drank in the details. She was sitting on her bed, a fluffy one. Her stuffed animals from when she was two accompanied her, and Leo. Leo…

His raven-coloured hair hung around his eyes in a sickly sort of way, his eyes: two grey ovals, piercing through her soul. His nose came to a point, lips curved upwards, shirt hung from his shoulders in a muscular sort of way. He was so hot. She kissed him, slowly and then faster;

Until she had a thought.

“I had a dream,” she said, “That you were Polish. I was a Romanian girl, not a Spanish one. My uncle, he was a criminal… I had a nurse, Lena. She was being fed lines from the mob…”

Leo paled. “What was your uncle’s name?”

“Um… Karachi? Constanze? It started with a ‘k’ sound, ended with an ‘i’ sound…”

“Costache, maybe?”

Sawyer considered. “Yes, I think that was it… wait. How do you recognize the name?”

“I had the same dream.” Leo said. “It was just a little bit different. I was Polish. I was an apprentice to a criminal named Costache; together we went to steal the Mona Lisa from the Louvre… however to do so we had to harm this woman named Elena… she attempted to kidnap me once. She tried to kill Costache many times. But he soon died of his own recklessness…

You see this man was not an ordinary man. He was a practitioner of many things, as diverse as law to sleight of hand. One night, he went out gambling with his friend Vincenzo. He dealt the hand, the dealer was noticeably absent from the game… they soon figured that he was manipulating everyone’s hands, calculatedly winning and losing so they would not suspect anything. They demanded he refund their money. He refused… and so they took him, and threatened to take his life instead. He got away, came running to me. Together we liquidated his entire fortune in one night… it was enough for them to never bother him again. And then, about a fortnight later he died of malaria.

In the dream, I remember thinking: what a waste of a genius intellect. But then, I remembered he had told me that a woman had brushed up against him that night at the gambling hall. She had been dressed very heavily (he remembered finding that very strange) and was carrying a huge clutch with many, many pockets. He thought she was trying to steal from him… but he walked away with his wallet intact and not a thing missing. So he began to wonder, did she give him something? Or was he simply misreading the whole situation?

I started to become paranoid. She might have injected him, I began to think. And so I would not go out. Because I had a very good idea of who this woman was, attempting to murder him multiple times, ultimately succeeding once. Because you cannot kill a man more than once, no matter how many attempts you make.

And so, I did not go outside my house for many, many days after the fact. I did not eat. I did not sleep. I began to waste away. Then a man approached me one day. He said his name was Leonardo. He was clean-shaven but looked like hell. He had bags under his eyes, a sallow face, his black hair flopped around without purpose. I said, my name is Leonardo as well. He said, I know. I am you. I am your twin, your mirror, your reflection. So I went to look in the mirror. I did really look quite bad but I was not that far gone. So I said, you are a liar, you are not me. He said, ah, but you will be me. I will not become you. If you keep down the path you are on, you might start to be me. And so he came into my house, uninvited, and dragged me out. The sun felt quite bright on my face which had not felt such a sensation in multiple weeks.

Leonardo and I together went to the playground. We went on the spinny apparatus that goes around and around and you push with the bar. Suddenly we were in Six Flags Great Adventure and we were on a roller coaster named after some obsolete superhero named Mirror Man. I thought this was quite hilarious considering I was enjoying this roller coaster with my mirror. We screamed and laughed and had a jolly good time. Then we went and bought candy floss, and it was so huge, it was bigger than both of us combined. We ate, and ate, and ate, but the mountain of candy floss just got larger and larger. And so we became fat cats (not actual cats but high society sort of fat cats) with top hats and monocles and everything. But then I felt myself sprouting cat ears, and a sort of cat tail, and I got very worried. I looked at Leonardo but none of these symptoms were affecting him. Instead, he appeared to be turning into a dog. And so I wondered, if he was my mirror how could he be the opposite of me? But then I realised that generally, mirrors flip your image. Instead of standing by your perception they oppose it. So it made sense why he became a dog. Then I saw the woman at the ticket booth for our next roller coaster and it turned out to be Elena. I got very worried and dragged Leonardo out of the line (a tough feat, given the hundreds waiting in line, but still doable). We went on the water ride instead but now Elena was the passenger in front of us and I was quite worried she was still carrying her syringe full of malaria along with her. So I dragged him off of that ride, and another ride, and another. Eventually he got so exasperated that he just got into his car and left Six Flags Great Adventure. It was a great adventure, but it wasn’t that great in the end because I ended up having to run after his car until he would finally let me in.

It was good that this twin of mine had dragged me out into town. I felt myself starting to become agoraphobic, but soon culled that feeling. I went to the grocery for the first time in ages. It felt nice. Leonardo and I attracted quite a few looks, me and my slightly (just slightly) worse off twin. No-body in this town had ever seen me, let alone Leonardo. So you can imagine it was quite a shock to see both of us at the same time.

Anyway, none of this is the point of the story, which is that I saw the same woman- Elena- again. She had an entirely new face. I do not mean cosmetically, like she had surgery done. Her face was someone else’s. But somehow I could still tell it was her, by the way she walked, the way she talked. I tried to stay away from her, but she chased me through the grocery- her heels clicked and clacked this way and that. Leonardo followed, he was laughing his heart out. Leo, he kept saying to me, why do you not just avoid her? And I said, yes, I try, but she will not leave me! And he does not like that answer. So he laughs, and laughs, and I am running at Mach 1, Mach 2, but Elena with her new, slim face, blonde hair and purple highlights, keeps chasing me. I keep imagining she has a needle hidden somewhere, ready to inject me with malaria- is it even possible, Sawyer, to inject someone with a disease such as malaria? So finally I shout, at the top of my lungs, WHAT IS IT YOU WANT FROM ME, ELENA? and she says, my money. I say, I don’t have any of your money. And she says yes you do, I want my cut of the money from the Mona Lisa. And I say I don’t have your money, I used it to get Costache out of life-threatening trouble. And she advances with the syringe to give me malaria and finally Leonardo jumps in front of me and disintegrates! He catches malaria and somehow spontaneously combusts and then Elena, beautiful Elena! She turns into a fifty-headed serpent that cannot be contained! She spews malaria from her every orifice and I run out of that grocery as fast as I can, my every sense amplified tenfold. I run, and I run, and I run and I end up at Costache’s grave and realise, he didn’t actually die of malaria he died of natural causes, peacefully, asleep. At least that is what is written on his grave. And then I start to question everything I seem to know, like is the sky even blue? And I look up and I see that the sky isn’t actually blue it’s a sickly grey and I look down and my hand is the same grey and I think I appear to be fading away. I fade, and fade, and fade. But then I decide I will not be complicit in my own destruction so I start to run again. I run home and shut myself inside… I see Leonardo’s slippers, his running shoes, his sandals, because every version of me, no matter how crazy, must have at least five pairs of shoes. And for the first time in a while, I allow myself to cry. I cry for Leonardo, I cry for all the little boys and girls who write but cannot find enough words, I cry for Costache and all the fifty-headed serpents who spew malaria and natural causes, I cry for myself, wait I already said that.

I cry for a while and suddenly realise my dream has changed tenses. Instead of a bad thing, an uncertain one, I take it as a good sign. I am beginning to control my own future. Now, the dream will happen in the future tense. I am grabbing my future by the horns. But then I suddenly have a flashback. I am sitting in a chair and my eyes are slowly turning into puddles of tears. I am being interrogated about my aunt who ran away when I was a small child. I have a sudden vision of her. She says, be strong, Leo. I love you more than anything in the world. And suddenly I broke down. So much for controlling my future! I was grounded in the past.

But… I try not to be. And that is what matters, I think. The thing that matters the most of all is what you try to be. Not what you are. Yoda was completely wrong about that. Do, or do not. But trying is most akin to doing. So if you cannot do, try.

Suddenly I am outside of the chair, out of the interrogation room. I stand in a garden with Costache, with Elena, with Leonardo, with every other person, all of the people from my past who have shaped me to be who I am. Elena turns into oleander, Costache into lemongrass, Leonardo into lavender. I myself ground my feet and become a tree. I plant my roots there, with all of the people who have helped me grow. And grow is what I do. I grow branches, I grow flowers, I grow leaves, I grow apples, which is really quite strange because you would not think all four could happen at once. I grow. I morph, suddenly, into a Jack, below the King and Queen but royalty nonetheless. I carry a sceptre and I hear a voice- God, presumably. He asks, “If there are a billion cards in a non-standard deck, how many of them are Jacks?” and I say, “God, some questions may never be answered. It is good to understand this fact.”

God is not very happy with this response, which strikes me and I think, I have never seen God before. Isn’t God supposed to know how many Jacks there are out of a billion? But since God does not look happy (which is not good it will probably start raining frogs soon), I say, “There are 76923076.9231 Jacks in a deck of a billion cards.” He says, you are wrong, there are 76923077.9231, you forgot to count yourself. Remember, do not forget to count yourself. You are important! You matter!

I tear up, and I say, thank you God, for the reminder and for telling me that I matter. I will start to believe in myself more from now on. God says, no problem. Then he turns into a California surfer dude and rides the next cloud as his surfboard, he glides across the sky and catches some gnarly waves, a bird flies into his face, and I think, how come there are birds in heaven? But then I think, how come there aren’t any other animals in heaven? Do tigers not go to heaven? Which got me thinking about a Calvin and Hobbes panel I read earlier. Do animals not go to heaven? Do they have their own special heaven? But all this thinking was hurting my head a little bit so I got a book (it was a very nice book, it had a turtle-duck on its cover) and I wrote down my whole journey. Everything I had discovered, encountered. I wrote about God, and his Jacks, Leonardo and Elena and Costache. It seemed like, every adventure I went on, I gained another name to add to the list. So I decided, the next adventure I go on, I am not going to remember. I am not going to write anything down and I will just forget it.

So I went to bed and then one day I was walking on the street and I met a beautiful Romanian-Spanish girl named Sawyer. And we went and got ice cream together but then she got kidnapped by two dwarves, as small as the ones in Snow White. But then I remembered I would promise myself to forget whichever adventure came next so I went home and forgot about Sawyer and left her to her fate. Sorry about that, by the way.”

Sawyer nods. “That is all right and totally understandable,” she says very seriously. “Your storytelling was top-notch and definitely not convoluted and confusing. Not at all.”

“Thank you.” Leo said. “I knew you would think so. I was kidding, by the way. You only slept for twelve hours. It was just a shock because you rarely sleep.”

Cali sleeps a minimum of twelve hours each night. She believes is important to have a rested mind as well as a rested body. She will never run MI6 if she does not have both.

Gaia sleeps quite a bit. She sees the importance of rest and her mind cannot function at its full capacity without at least ten hours of sleep per night, however she often does not get ten hours. So her mind never really functions at its full capacity.

Julien sleeps five or six hours per night; sleep is not necessary for him but instead he enjoys it, sleep is his personal reprieve from reality. He acts like a * most of the time but would really rather sleep than interact with people. He is an introvert at heart, although he despises being characterised as such.

Zenia and Anton do not sleep. They simply do not have much time for it. They run a company which is only comprised of the two of them; how are they expected to sleep? Zenia does not require sleep. When she inevitably does crash, she times herself: three hours. Therefore she will not wake up groggy in the middle of a REM cycle. Anton; however, does need sleep. At night, he is up. In class, he dozes. Neither he nor Zenia complete schoolwork. They do, however, ace all their finals and graduate at the tops of their classes. It infuriates all of their professors; but what can be done? Not much.