Mika woke up to her cat, Moos, pawing at her face to shut off the alarm that had been screaming at her for an hour. It was 10 o’clock, three hours past the end of her ritual. Embers were still lit in the backyard, thin smoke traveling with the wind outside her window. This time of the month is the busiest for Mika, preparing for the Moon Dance and having to gather fresh spring water. She had a long journey ahead of her to the mountains, usually lasting her an entire day.

Mika’s house remained dim, the only light emitting from the grow lamps in her apothecary across from her bedroom and the various oil lamps around the house. She noticed her plants and herbs seemed exceptionally droopy today, walking to meet the foliage.

“I know, I know,” Mika reassured the room motherly, “I’ll get you some fresh water today, I promise.”

Mika headed downstairs to open her back drapes, Moos eagerly following her. As she opened the curtains, nothing but nature and a cobblestone smokepit wrapped in a tall wooden fence was captured through the window. The grey sky made the whole house look like a black-and-white movie. She walked to the front of the house, glancing at the oil lamp illuminating her opened scrapbook of newspaper scattered on the dining table. She swiped the drapes on the front picture window enough to check for pedestrians. When a car drove by, Mika quickly pranced outside to grab the newspaper when her neighbor spotted her.

“Oh, Mika!” Her neighbor exclaimed hushedly, starting to jog discreetly toward Mika like she was an amateur spy.

“Hey, Cornelia,” Mika breathed. She thought there was no one out there, bracing herself anyway for a 30-minute gossip session.

“You wouldn’t believe who I saw Brandy with yesterday,” Cornelia leaned in so close Mika could feel the heat from her huffing as if she had run a marathon.

“Who?” Mika stepped back, Cornelia following as she sniffed the air around her.

“That’s a nice scent you’re wearing! When I was your age, I wore something similar. I think it was called a Sh-”

“Shasta Daisy,” Slightly squinting, Mika’s brows pinched. Is she-

“Yes, that’s it!” Cornelia gestured at Mika, waving her hand like she was swatting nats away, “I tried the weirdest things to get rid of men,” she chuckled, blabbing about the reminisce of her young adulthood when she broke men’s hearts and spent time French kissing girls at the bar. It was odd to Mika. She likes the smell? No one likes the smell–that’s the point. However, Cornelia seemed just to get closer despite Mika inching backward.

“Are you a witch?” There was a pause. Then, Cornelia started to laugh–no–cackle.

“A witch? A ‘Salem Witch Trial’ witch? Those don’t exist anymore,” Cornelia scoffed.

Mika stared dead into her eyes as if possessing her soul, “No one has ever liked the smell of a Shasta Daisy, yet you, a woman who can’t seem to stop talking for one second, used it to repel men in her youth? You must be a witch.”

“Mika?” Mika blinked, snapping herself out of her internal argument. “Meisje, are you listening?” When her vision refocused, she noticed Cornelia waving her hand in her face.

“Not really,” She responded, turning her head slightly to hint Cornelia to stop.

Cornelia sighed, shaking her head, “You young people space out so much,” Mika’s face turned sour as if saying, ‘I’m older than you.’ Cornelia continued, “I said, ‘You should come to the American party tomorrow night at the Claasen’s.’”

“American party? With the Protestants?” Mika instinctively said, uncaring that Cornelia might’ve heard her and put two and two together. She seemed to ignore this, though.

“Nora’s nephew, Pieter, is visiting from Amsterdam. He’s around your age, you know.” This wasn’t the first time Cornelia had tried to set Mika up on dates. Though, she didn’t care. Dating gets in her way. However, it could be a chance for her to find a suiter for her ritual. The magic is more potent, then. “Will you come?”

Mika grew irritated with every minute of the seemingly endless conversation, anticipating hiking up the mountain. “It’s a full moon tomorrow. As a witch, you should know that,” Mika wanted to say. But she couldn’t. Exhaustion weighed down on her heavy eyes and meeting brows. She contemplated whether her suspicions were significant enough to skip preparations for the full moon. She was running out of Moon Water, the only thing keeping her complexion youthful enough to roam about the decades. But she had to know. She had to know why Cornelia was different than everyone else. She was a middle-aged gossip, living off her husband. But it was strange. Why wouldn’t she use the Moon Water to her advantage? Why did she choose to look like that–a wrinkle-infested mortal? She stood so close to the smell of a gross, pungent flower, too–a flower I used an enhancement charm on, she thought. Cornelia inched away from Mika, probably from the intense glare she gave. Mika preferred this.

“I’ll go,” Mika concluded, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Wonderful! Remember to bring a dish,” Cornelia said, strolling back to her house. She never did complete her original topic, something she did often.

“I’ll bring a dish, alright,” Mika murmured. She turned her wrist to check the time. Ten minutes–that’s her personal best.

~End of Part 1~

Dementia is such a debilitating thing to watch. The slow decay of the mind. The significant changes in personality traits. The stages of grief a person goes through when they realize they are losing themselves. Sometimes, the shutting down of the body until slowly a person becomes entombed by their own skin and bones. Living fragile for years because their heart and their lungs want to outlast the rest of them.

“White matter.” It’s what it is labeled on a CT scan. “Small vessel ischemic changes.” Scientific words to say that for a number of possible reasons this person no longer gets enough oxygen to the brain. “Cell death.” That’s what it looks like to the radiologist.

However, what you see in person is more of a breakdown of the human condition. Adaptation to the loss of dignity. Until dignity is no longer recognize-able at all. Until the person doesn’t even know they have lost it.

I fluff the hair of my grandfather in the manner I always have.

“How’s it going ya goofball?” I say teasingly.

His eyes stare through me as his lips mouth unreadable things to the air, his voice barely a whisper. He lays bedridden, a pillow between his knees, a chuck beneath him, his body lifted and wedged to the side to help his bones from wearing through his skin. The smell of Bengay wafts towards me. I dab away at a small drop of the chocolate protein shake I’ve been feeding him that has dribbled down his chin.

He looks at me for a moment and I think maybe he might see me.

“Mary?” his voice the softest croak.

My grandmother’s name.

“No grandpa, it’s me, Jessie.” I say softly and kiss him on the forehead.

It’s been a long time since I’ve come to terms with the fact that he is neither here nor there. Trapped somewhere in between the past and the present. Lost but living.

I turn the channel to one of my grandmother’s old favorite sitcoms and settle down, content with holding his hand.

In another place in time She’s lost inside The wheels retract And let out a deafening sigh

She was never meant for this world I can’t say she’s getting old Clearly a dime a dozen Her heart is buzzing

When will she see That she’s not where she’s mean to be It’s here in time Where it all unwinds

Some times she’s in trouble The world had made her out to be a terrible thing But cuz fx doin s she begins to sing Her beauty is like no other We care for one another Sorry I’m late I can’t escape the fate

My gift has given me the opportunity to see so many fantastic periods of time. I’ve stood amidst the great fire of London, I watched Harold take an arrow to his eye, and I’ve walked the cobbled streets of Victorian England. But I never truly appreciated my own time. I’ve lived a good life, there is little I would change, but I never really appreciated the changes that happened.

Until I invited Estel into our home, I never acknowledged the changes that were happening around me. My son is an adult now, his children are adults too. And I’m an OAP! How did this happen? Where did that time go?

I used to sit down and stick the telly on with a cuppa, now I’m laying in bed watching The Real Deal on my tablet. So much has changed since I was a little girl, I think I’m going to make the effort to stay in the present. For too long I’ve been escaping to the past for comfort, I don’t need to anymore. The past is gone, the present is here. It’s about time I live in it.

Sure, automation in machines makes sense. Start it along its predetermined path with a quarter or hitting the start or enter button and it fulfills its duties again and again until it doesn’t. But here we are now, with a small dot of an apparatus attached just behind the ear, completely camouflaged with a skin tone matching technology, providing a direct line to our thoughts. The tricky part - how does it discern between a thought requiring no action and another thought needing action of some sort. Well, it turn out thoughts have a different flavor of sorts, found by a young graduate student at the University of Kansas. The dot directs thought traffic to an astonishingly accurate level.

Ephraim gazed out from under the parosale. Paris had changed quite a bit in the past couple hundred years. He swirled his wine, admiring its pale copper hue in the morning light. She should be here soon. The wine was light-bodied and spiced; any other day he would have drank freely. Today, however, he drank very sparingly. He would meet her again today. The first time they met, Ephraim was still young—not just in body, but in age. Rome still ruled, and he was ordered to return to the land of his fathers. He was but 19, but made the arduous journey on behalf of his parents. Ephesus was a long was from Rome, but he had no alternative but to travel to the thriving port metropolis. He was alone. Ephraim found his way to the temple of Artemis. He was, by practice and by blood, a Jew. If his father caught wind of his curious visit, he would be stoned. But the chance to see the architectural wonder excited him, as did his hidden disobedience. He perched on a bench on the grand porch of the pillared temple, overlooking the sea. It may have been the most beautiful scene he’d ever laid eyes on, had it not been for Pali. Her face would shame Aphrodites, her smile outshone the reflection of the sun on the sea. And her stare—no matter how many times Ephraim met her, her stare always renewed his sense of wonder for her. “It’s strange for a Jew to be at the temple.” Her puzzled smile was still friendly and warm. “It’s strange for a Hedonite to speak to a Jew.” They married, but happiness wouldn’t last. Nor would it ever after. Soon after, Pali was killed, crucified, for her affiliations to the followers of the Way. Ephraim met her again some fifty years later, this time an egyptian woman by the name “Nyeta.” She looked different, but her smile verified her. She didn’t remember Ephraim, but he knew her as a dear old friend. Ephraim never married Nyeta, but he did attempt to help her escape a steep debt she incurred in Egypt. She died of dehydration in the desert before they ever left the country. Their lives continued on this way; Ephraim lived forever, stuck in the eternal visage and physique of a young man, Pali being reborn across time. Destiny appointed them to meet and fall in love, yet fate only chose Pali to die a gruesome death exactly one year after their meeting. Ephraim had found and met Pali—intentionally or against his will—to sufficiently drive him mad. Yet finding her always gave him a fleeting hope, that this time Pali may live. Emilia of the roving germanic barbarians, Paz from early Madrid, London’s Victoria, the many lives and numerous faces of his beloved flashed through his mind, and Ephraim relived the elation, passion, ferocity and anguish of the same relationship lived hundreds of times. He wasn’t sure he was ready to meet Pali again. Yet here he sat, enjoying his wine at a small outdoor venue, awaiting the inevitable meeting. Paris should be the place he’d meet her next. She had to be here. Ephraim felt a soft touch on his shoulder, pulling him back to the present. He turned and lifted his gaze into the familiar smile. This woman looked nothing like Pali; her wide blue eyes, short black hair, alabaster skin and slim face, nothing resembled Pali’s appearance. But her smile was all Pali. It was a smile that rebirthed his purpose for living once again. “Pardon me. You seem to be sitting alone. Are you waiting for someone?” Ephraim feigned a smile to mask his pain. “Again.”

Everyone claims being born in the wrong century, the wrong time, not me. I looked 18, but I’m not a blank page like everyone, all this memories of the time were there were no tall buildings, when the air was pure, when the forest were full of trees and the roads were pure dirt, but the greater memory of all, it’s of them, of that voice, of those eyes, or that- -Ma’am- said the lady in front off me, it took me a second to realize it was me who she was talking to. The coffee shop was almost empty and I looked around trying to zoom back in. -sorry, what would u like to order- I said to the woman, she was no older than 35, brown eyes and brown hair, pale skin but I was capable of seen some dark spots in her face. -There you go ma’am, thanks for coming- I said to the lady after making her drink, -my shift it’s over, I’ll take the next one and I’m out- I said to my co-worker, not giving him time to answer as I walked to the counter to take the next client. -hi, what can I get for yo- I couldn’t finish the sentence, I was speechless as I looked at their face, as I looked at those eyes, i knew it was them, after all this time, after all this life’s and people, -It’s you, its finally you.-

“What the- ok, ok…explain that one more time?” Nora said, inspecting the man standing before her.

“Alright, fine. But we’re running low on time here!” He took a deep breath. “I am your father. Your mother is in trouble, and Nora, Nora I need your help.” The man pleaded. If he really was Nora’s father, then his name was Damien and this mother figure was Arantaxa. That was all she knew about them

“But- what? You two end up leaving me at an orphanage! Why would I help you if it has the same outcome!”

Damien stood shocked.

“We do? Jeez…didn’t expect that one. I’m sure we either died, or had a really reeeeeaaaally good reason for that one.” Damien rubbed the back of his neck.

“Please help me save your mother.”

Nora’s face softened. Perhaps if she did help things would be changed in the future. Maybe she would wake up to two loving parents. It was a dumb, childish wish, but what did she have to lose?

“Fine.” Damien gave her a thankful smile and pulled her into a vortex.

“I don’t see it, dude,” John said. “Are you blind it’s right there,” Paully said. “What are we looking at anyway?” Tommy stood nearby scratching his shaved head. “Paully has found Jesus,” John said, “in the MacGarrettys’ kitchen cabinet allegedly.” Tommy scratched his beard. “For real.” “It is right here, ya morons, look right here.” Paully jabbed his finger on the inside bottom of one of the MacGarrettys’ uppers. Tommy scratched his plump stomach. “You don’t sound like you found Jesus, you sound like a regular tosser.” “What are you wankers doing jawing in the middle of the shop floor? John we have to these orders on the truck. Bloody hell!” Andrea waved a clipboard for emphasis. “Paully’s found Jesus allegedly.” “Bloody hell! Paul I thought you were C of E.” All the carpenters gathered around with their comments and their commentaries. Paully talked about applying the first coat of Tung oil and revealing the startling face. Some saw a dog face and most saw nothing. Old Jimbo made a crack about seeing an arsehole and a half done cabinet. Everyone laughed and wandered off. Holding an oily rag, Paully wasn’t sure of what to do next. With long strokes, he rubs in the protective oil. Taking in the beauty of the pale wood growing deeper in color. The last carpenter patted Paully’s shoulder. “Thanks for thinking of me. Maybe that’s miracle enough. Cheers, mate.”

Bob sat at the end of a paper-covered folding table and stared at the wall in front of him. He couldn’t make out the pictures, it was all so blurry lately. His knees hit the underside of the table but Marcy had said it was the only spot for his wheelchair. So he sat back, hands folded, patient.

Screams and a thud erupted from the kitchen behind him followed by giggling and then admonishments from what could only be a mothers voice. He stared at the photos wondering if he was in any of them.

“Hey, Grandpa.”

His granddaughter Kelly climbed up onto the folding chair next to him sitting on her knees. He winced thinking of his own knees being folded up under him.

“Hi dear, how are you?”

“Fine.” She took out a phone too big for her hands and started pushing and sliding on it, her pigtail curls bouncing with the motions. He knew he had lost her.

“How’s school?”

“It’s summer Grandpa, duh.”

“Ah yes, I see.” He stared down at his folded hands. Three times a year he was brought here. One for his daughters birthday, one for Kelly’s birthday and Christmas. Three times a year and each time he felt further from them. It felt functional and performative. No one wanted him here, he had to be brought here because that’s what good, moral people did. How long could this go on?

“I hope I die soon.”

“What?” Kelly looked up from her phone.

“What, dear?”

“You said you hope you die? Why?”

“I did?” He looked at her bright blue eyes staring at him with full attention. “Oh, I guess I may have. It was just an old person talking, don’t mind me.”

She chewed her lip. “Die means you’re gone. Johnny-5 died when he got loose from his cage. I never saw him again.”

“He’s in a better place.” He patted her hand. “Everything dies eventually.”

“Even me?”

“Even you. But not until you’re older than me of course. You’re still young.” He smiled.

“How old are you, Grandpa? Like one million?”

He laughed. A hoarse sound to his ears, he couldn’t remember the last time he laughed. “Close.”

“Well, don’t die yet. We’re having cake. Do you like cake?” The phone in her hands had turned off but she didn’t notice.

“I love cake.”

“I’ll share mine with you.”

“That’d be great. So show me what you do on the little rectangle block.”

“It’s a phone, Grandpa!” She squealed with delight at her smartness and then opened the phone to show him her games.

He couldn’t follow a word she said but he listened to her rambling and it filled his heart. For now, he was still a part of this world.