Once upon a time, there were two men who were seriously ill who occupied the same room in a hospital. One man was allowed to sit up against his bed for a few hours every day to help drain fluid from his lungs while the other was forced to lie flat on his back all day. The two men quickly became acquainted to each other and soon became good friends.

They spent most of their waking hours talking to each other. They spoke of their wives and about how they loved them, of their children and how it felt when they first said, “papa”, of their hometowns, of food, of their vacations, of their jobs, and of their likes and dislikes. And every day, the man who could sit beside the window would describe the happenings of the outside world to his friend. The other man soon began to live for these periods of time when his world wasn’t just limited to his room, but to the outside as well, and his life would be broadened and enlivened as he imagined everything his friend said in his mind’s eye. His friend said that the window overlooked a beautiful sparkling lake surrounded by lush greenery, and every day he could see majestic white swans and lovely yellow ducks frolicking on the water’s surface. He also talked about the little children playing in the water and sailing their splendid toy boats. There were families walking together on a bright orange stone path around the lake amidst flowers of every colour of the rainbow. Grand old trees decorated the landscape further, and a fine view of the city skyline could be seen in the horizon.

One day, the man by the window described a parade passing by in the distance. There were magnificent floats accompanied by exotic dancers from other countries. Big balloons, yellow and red, covered the sky. People lined the streets to watch the parade as the police formed a perimeter to ensure the event went smoothly. Although the other man couldn’t hear all the commotion, he could feel himself watching the parade as his friend cleverly used descriptive words to portray the outside.

Suddenly, and briefly, a foreign idea appeared in his mind: “Why should he get to enjoy everything while I never get to see anything at all? It’s not fair.”

He fearfully pushed it aside as quickly as it was conceived. He felt ashamed of himself for having such thoughts about his good friend. However, the feeling of jealousy ate at the back of his mind as his friend continued to describe the world outside to him and eventually he began to resent not being able to see the outside for himself. He became sour and grumpy, and he began to brood about it, and he couldn’t sleep. “I should be the one at the window”. He kept thinking about it and eventually the thought took control of his life.

Late one night while he was staring at the ceiling, the man by the window started to cough and sputter. He was choking on the liquid in his lungs. The other man watched silently as his friend struggled to press the button to call the nurses in the dimly lit room. He could have easily pressed his own button to call for help, but he didn’t. The choking sounds continued for a few more minutes before it stopped altogether. He could see his friend slumped down sideways towards the button, head hanging low, motionless; lifeless. The atmosphere was deathly silent and tense.

The next morning, the nurses arrived on schedule to carry out their routine check-ups when they found the man by the window dead in his bed with liquid dripping out of his mouth. They were deeply saddened by his death because he was a good story teller and shared with them many stories before. They bustled in and out of the room for a while before the man by the window was taken out of the room.

As soon as he felt like enough time had passed and seemed appropriate, the other man requested to be shifted next to the window, the same spot where his friend once was. The nurses were happy to comply and after making sure he was comfortable enough in his bed, they left him alone.

Slowly and painfully, he propped himself up on his elbows. His heart started beating faster as he became excited to finally be able to look outside with his own eyes. His arm shivered as it supported his body weight. He turned his head to look out of the window.

The window faced a blank wall of another building. There were no lakes, no swans, no ducks, no children, no families, no trees, and no parades. It was just a blank, grey, dull wall. At that moment, his arms gave way and he fell down on his bed again. He started sobbing. Some nurses were alerted by the noise and entered the room, only to find him covering his face with his hands and whimpering. They were puzzled. They could only hear him say, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” repeatedly.

He passed away that night.

Written by,

Terence

Julia was sitting down beside a window which overlooked the entrance of her house. She was worried because her elder brother was sick and her parents took him to the hospital. Earlier in the morning she was playing with her brother when he suddenly collapse and fainted. She didn’t know what to do, so as most six-year-olds do, she started to cry. Her parents rushed into the room and made a few phone calls before driving out to the hospital. Just as she was about to doze off in the morning sunlight, she saw her parents’ car pulling up in the driveway, and her parents got out of the car and made their way into the house. Julia hopped downstairs to greet them but didn’t know what to say when she saw her mother in tears. Finally, she managed to squeak a question. “Why are you crying, Mommy?”

Her mother wiped her tears on her sleeves before attempting to answer. “Sweetheart, your brother has something bad inside him,” she stuttered. “He will have to leave us for a very long time.” At this point, she started crying again. “If only I noticed earlier,” she mumbled, trailing off.

Her father tried to comfort her mother. “We may not have any money now, but we’ll find a way, okay? We’ll find a way,” he assured her, though his voice was hollow and weak.

“Daddy, why do you need the money for?” Julia piped.

Her father seemed lost for an answer, before he sighed and said, “A miracle. We need to buy a miracle.”

Her parents simply sat down on the sofa in silence, thinking of a way to cure their son. She knew she shouldn’t ask any more questions and she didn’t need to. She walked back to her bedroom and opened her cupboard. She pushed aside a neatly-folded pile of clothes and took out a small jar which was kept hidden at the back. “Julia” was scribbled on a piece of paper which was glued to it. She took off the cover and poured out the contents of the jar: a myriad of coins, some marbles and a few bills. She separated the marbles from the money and started counting. After she finished, she counted again, just to make sure. She had saved a total of seven dollars and twenty-five cents. She smiled to herself; that was a big amount of money. She carefully placed them back into the jar and twisted the cap back on. She picked the jar up and walked downstairs. Her parents were still motionless on the couch. She tip-toed out of the house through the back door and made her way to a clinic nearby. Her father had brought her there once before when she was sick and she was miraculously cured within the next two days. All she had to do was drink a spoonful of some sweet syrup. If anyone could sell her a miracle, it was him.

She struggled to push open the doors with one hand. She entered the clinic and stood in front of the reception counter, her head barely visible. The receptionist was busy talking over the phone and didn’t pay any attention to Julia. Julia waited patiently for her to be noticed but after realizing that the receptionist wouldn’t be done anytime soon, she coughed. There was no response. She cleared her throat in the most disgusting sound she could muster. Still the receptionist paid no heed to her. Finally, she took her jar of money and banged it on the counter. The receptionist, clearly annoyed for having her conversation disrupted, asked, “And what do you want?”

“Well, I want to talk to you about my brother. You see, Mommy says he has something bad inside of him and he will have to leave us for a very long time. I love my brother very much, so I don’t want that. I want to buy a miracle so my brother can continue to stay with us.”

“I beg your pardon?” the receptionist asked in a softer tone and putting down the phone.

“My brother,” Julia started again, tears welling up in her eyes. “He is very sick. I don’t want him to leave us. Daddy says we need a miracle, but he doesn’t have any money. So how much does a miracle cost?”

“We… we don’t sell miracles over here, little girl. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

“But Daddy bought a miracle for me here before. Listen, I have the money to pay for it. If it isn’t enough, I will get the rest. So please, just tell me how much it costs.”

The receptionist was speechless. Julia started to cry. The doctor at the back overheard the noise and came out. His friend followed behind curiously.

“What’s the matter?” asked the doctor.

“This girl says she wants to buy a miracle for her brother,” the receptionist replied, not knowing what to do.

The doctor turned to look at Julia. “What kind of miracle do you need?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, trying her best to stop crying. “I just know that my brother is really sick; he has something bad inside him, and we need a miracle but Daddy doesn’t have the money to buy one, so I’m using mine.”

The doctor was dumbstruck. He could guess that it was most probably a tumour, and an operation to remove it would cost any family a fortune. The doctor was silent, but his friend spoke this time.

“How much do you have?”

“Seven dollars and twenty five cents,” she muttered softly, realizing that it probably wasn’t enough and feeling like a fool. “It’s all the money I have, but I can get some more if I need to,” she added desperately.

“What a coincidence,” the man said as he patted Julia’s head. “That’s the price of a miracle to save a brother.”

He took her money in one hand and took her hand in the other. “Take me to your home,” he said. “I need to see your brother and your parents to be sure that I have the miracle that you need.”

The doctor’s friend was a leading specialist surgeon, well known around the world for performing surgeries that had little chance of success, and succeeding anyway. The operation and follow-ups were completed free of charge and her brother returned home and was able to live a normal life. Julia’s parents liked to talk about the chain of events that saved their son. Her mother would whisper, “That surgery was a real miracle. I wonder how much it would have cost.”

And Julia would always smile to herself when she heard her mother because she knew exactly how much a miracle costs; exactly seven dollars and twenty-five cents.What she didn't know was that it also required faith, sincerity and a little bit of kindness from a stranger.

Written by,

Terence

The Last Train Home

“It’s this late already?” I grabbed all my books and papers and stuffed them in my bag and rushed out of my university’s library. I slid my student card over the scanner but I hit my head against the glass door. I did it again, and another time and finally I was allowed to push through the double doors. I hopped over a bench while rubbing my forehead and holding in my tears and spiraled down a flight of stairs as fast as my legs would take me. I ran out to the main entrance only to realize I was a few minutes too late to take the bus home.

I trudged on to a train station wearily. The time was half past twelve, midnight, and I was sure I had already missed the last train home. Even so, I made my way to the station just to see the train schedule and maybe, though highly unlikely, there might still be another train running this late. It was quite unsettling, walking alone on the dimly lit streets while the only sounds I heard were my footsteps, heavy breathing and the occasional squeak of rats or crows cawing. That night was much colder than usual, and I could see my breath well up in a fog in front of me. I zipped up my jacket and put my hands in my pockets.

I arrived at the station and found the place in total darkness, and I really felt like crying. I would have to walk for more than two hours just to reach home. As I was about to turn away, I saw, in the distance, the lights of a train coming. I jumped over the fence and ran to the side of the tracks. The train slowed down and stopped for me. The doors opened and I saw that the interior was dimly lit but, surprisingly, filled with people. As I walked into the train, I was stopped by the conductor, a pale old man with a cap and blue uniform.

“Are you sure you’ve got the right train? He asked me while looking straight into my eyes.”Yes,” I mumbled while averting his gaze; there was just something weird in his eyes, as if he saw straight through me. He shrugged and allowed me on board. I sighed and looked around for a seat. I noticed all the passengers had the same kind of expressions, or rather, they were expressionless. As I walked, some turned to look at me. It was creepy, some of them just sitting there and staring at you with their blank faces. I finally managed to find a seat beside a woman who wore a light pink sweater and had her face covered with a hood. I approached her and asked if it was alright for me to sit there and I was shocked when she turned to look and me and say that it was fine. Her face was pale, maybe even white, but her lips were as red as blood. She shifted inside and made space for me to sit down.

After sitting down in silence for a few minutes, I noticed that she was looking at me. At first I simply ignored her. After all, I was pretty confident in my looks, but after a while it got pretty disturbing. Just as I was about to ask her if there was anything wrong, she whispered, “You are not supposed to be here.” I got a little upset over her statement. I know I didn’t buy a ticket to get on, but what was a desperate teenager to do in the middle of the night with no way back? “You need to get off now,” she added. There was urgency in her voice, and I noticed her eyes darting around. I instinctively looked around and saw a number of other passengers staring at me with their blank faces.

She grabbed my shoulder and forced me to look at her. “This is a train for the dead,” she said gravely. “These “people” will eat your soul if they find out that you’re still alive so that they are able to live again. You’ll be worse than dead; you’ll be an empty shell, unable to go to heaven, or if you believe it, hell.” I froze in my seat as cold sweat drenched my shirt. That was a bad joke; a very bad one. I looked around again and the sight sent shivers down my spine. In the dimly lit carriage, I saw all the passengers turning their heads to stare at me. Old men, women, and children alike had the blank face, expressionless, with their eyes unblinking at me. Some were even standing up already. At the doors that separated this carriage from the other, I could see even more faces looking in my direction. I jerked away from the woman beside me. I heard footsteps; some of the others started to walk towards me. My brain refused to think and I was stuck surrounded by “dead” people.

“Won’t you just eat me as well?” I opened my mouth for the first time since I got on the train. “Look, you need to get off, and I’m the one trying to help you here,” she replied exasperatedly. I nodded stiffly and looked at her for instructions. She grabbed my hand and started walking, slowly, towards one end of the carriage. Her hand was as cold as ice. “Breathe slowly and don’t panic.” All the while, I couldn’t stop myself from looking around. As we passed from car to car, all the passengers seemed to follow us. I noticed some of them had reddish coloured clothing. The atmosphere was unbearable. Suddenly, something grabbed my other hand. I turned around and saw a young man pulling on me and bringing his head closer to me. I struggled, which caused more of them to come towards us. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer and I kicked him hard. He fell down and seemed lifeless for a while before getting up again.

Suddenly, the woman started to run and pulled me along with her. The train became chaotic; everyone was making weird gurgling sounds and low growls. She cleared the way in front by pushing through the crowd; they were not interested in her, but they tried to latch on to me whenever they got too close. We reached the end of the train; it was a dead end. I looked behind us and I saw a group of them coming towards us. I felt like I was in a high-budget horror movie. It just felt too real to be a dream. She pushed open the door and jumped out, pulling me with her. The following seconds seemed to be in bullet time. I saw of the “people” standing at the edge of the door, but refusing to jump off. I saw the concrete come closer to my face. On impact on the ground, I rolled for a good 10 seconds or so, and remained on the ground for an even longer period. My face was bleeding all over, and my clothes were torn in many places. I lay there panting in pain, but I was alive.

The woman approached me and stared at me on the ground. She was pretty much unscathed. I managed to mumble a “thank you” to her through constricted breaths. I tried to get up, but my arms wouldn’t support my body. She kept staring at me, which was very unnerving. She bent down and brought her face closer to mine. I started to panic again, but my body wouldn’t move. She licked her lips and placed her hand on my face.

“Now, you’re all mine.”

-Terence

I am a pencil, but not just any pencil. I was special. I was longer than the others, sharper than the others, pointier than my peers, stronger, and bolder than anything else used for writing. To further emphasize my superiority over the others, I was placed on a higher shelf, alone on a stand, enclosed within a plastic casing which had a beautiful blue ribbon tied on it. I was THE pencil that children dreamed to have; and one such child had his dream come true when his parents bought me for him. I can still remember the ecstasy in his face when he tore open the wrappers and saw me inside them. Yes, I was a birthday gift for a poor boy barely six years of age who was going to begin his journey through school that week; and I was his sole weapon against the hordes of work that his would-be teachers would force him to do. I felt important, and I was probably right.

The little boy grew up to be a diligent worker, and he worked me hard. I was used to write thousands of words and solve hundreds of sums every day. Sometimes, he would lose hope of ever finishing his homework, but I was his shining star; his ray of hope, and whenever he stopped to look at me, he would feel refreshed, and we would continue the battle again with renewed vigour. The work was endless, but I thought that if we were together, we could overcome any obstacles his teachers might throw at him.

Over the years, I acquired many battle scars; a chipped head, scratches along my sides, and a broken point. Worst of all, I became short. However, I had some new comrades; pens. But I never liked them; they were always so smooth and sharp. They were different from me; they didn’t grow shorter when used, they didn’t need to be sharpened, and whatever they wrote couldn’t be erased. And they were slowly taking over what I used to do. They were relentless in their assault, and the boy relied on them much more than me.

Then, a tragic day came. As the boy was writing as quickly as possible, his hand bumped into me as I lay by his side. I rolled slowly towards the edge of the table. Normally, he would rush to grab me again, and place me securely in his pencil case. I was hoping he would do the same that time. I hoped, and I prayed, but the distance between me and my immediate demise became closer with each passing second. Right at the edge of the table, I hung momentarily, and spun around so that my tip was in the air. And then, I fell.

It was a long fall, and the moment I hit the ground my crooked graphite tip shattered into a million pieces. My fall echoed in his room and he stopped writing in alarm. He picked my broken body up and looked at me sadly. At the corner of my eye, I saw the pens grinning to themselves. I knew it too; I was broken and useless, too short to be sharpened again. The pens would completely erase my existence; all my glories would eventually be thrown away. The boy walked over to a dustbin, and with one last look and a sigh, he dropped me down.

I am a pencil, but not just any pencil. I was special. I was longer than the others, sharper than the others, pointier than my peers, stronger, and bolder than anything else used for writing. But that was a long time ago, when I could still be used. I do not regret my life, for I have been used as I should have. However, I have been thrown out; picked up by a truck, and dropped off into a landfill, away from my home. I lie, together with other betrayed and forgotten things, in the open, in the rain or shine. I lie, waiting to rot and be eaten by termites. I lie, waiting to return to nature, to come from a tree again, to be used as the pencil that I once was, and to be loved by another little boy again.

-Terence

"Hey, it's me. I'm sorry if I can't answer your call right now. But no matter what the reason, I promise I'll call you back as soon as I'm free, okay? Leave a message after the beep!"

I slammed the phone down in its receiver even before the ‘beep’. I’ve heard that message far too often for my own liking. It’s not like he even returned my calls.

It was a day before our fifth anniversary together, and I don’t know how I have been putting up with his false apologies since our marriage. It wasn’t so bad when we first got married; he was a work-centric guy in an office doing who knows what and me, I was an accountant in a business firm who worked regular hours. Even though he was busy, we used to spend most of our evenings together. I don’t know when, but he started coming back later every day until we never met each other anymore. He came back, of course, because he ate the food I prepared for him and left before I woke up to go to work. I even brought the matter up with him once but he only said, “I’m sorry dear, and I promise I will spend more time with you,” before rushing out again after scuffling down his food. When he said it like that, I knew there was no point in pursuing the case. “Promises”, I wonder how many he has broken so far. Every conversation we seemed to have began with him apologizing, and we didn’t have that many conversations together either. Naturally, I was very upset and unhappy. I filed for divorce because I wasn’t the satisfied party in that marriage. I even marvelled at myself for holding on for five years.

It was the morning of our anniversary. I woke up alone in my bed, like every other morning before that. There was a note on the table saying, “Happy anniversary darling! Love you lots. I will come back tonight.” I scoffed at the piece of paper, but I didn’t throw it away. Just under it, in a drawer, were the divorce papers I wanted him to sign that day. Despite all my complaints against him, I still loved him. However, I knew that the marriage wouldn’t work out if it continued to stay this way, and he didn’t seem to be changing at all. I dialled his mobile phone number, only to be greeted by the same voice mail as always. I got changed and left for work thinking about how I should tell him that I wanted a divorce. No matter what I did, it probably didn’t matter to him at any rate.

I got back from work in the evening to be greeted by an empty house as always. What about children? I didn’t have any. I immediately got about to preparing dinner. I was going to make his favourite chicken pie and vegetable stew. They were some of my own recipes.

The food was laid out on the table, all hot and fresh, by 8pm. Of course, I knew he wouldn’t be back anytime soon. I just sat at the table looking at the mountain of food that was impossible for two people to finish and occasionally looking at the time. An hour, and then two hours passed but he was still not back home. When I got restless, I got up and walked around the room. On a shelf, a small metal box caught my eye. It was a music box that he bought for me in place of a wedding ring when he asked for my hand in marriage because he couldn’t afford a proper ring. It held a special place in my heart, and I realized I haven’t listened to it in a long time. I picked it up and turned the winding key a few times. Immediately, beautiful and soothing music started playing and filled the whole house. I stood transfixed to its music, and before I knew it tears were rolling down my eyes.

I heard a car pull up the driveway, and then hurried footsteps towards the door. My husband burst into the house with an ear to ear smile. He ran up to me, hugged me from behind and whispered in my ear, “Oh, how I’ve missed doing this.” I didn’t say anything; I didn’t know how or what to say, and yet the divorce papers were still in my hand. He probably saw them, but he paid them no heed. He hugged me tighter still and whispered again, “I know I’ve disappointed you many times, but I want to let you know that it won’t ever happen again. I really mean it this time.” He turned me around to face him and looked straight into eyes. “I quit my job and got another one with more regular working hours,” he said matter-of-factly. “And...” he said and knelt down before taking a small box out of his pocket. “Will you marry me?” In it was the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen; the same one he said he would have bought for me five years ago. I started to sob as I crumpled up all the papers in my hand and threw them away. I took the ring and slid my ring finger into it. “Yes, I will,” I replied and embraced him and we stayed like that for the rest of the night.

Loneliness is the feeling of being alone, be it physical, emotional, or spiritual. It is a strong feeling, strong enough that it can even drive people into psychotic episodes and suicidal fits of rage. The pain that it can bring drives down right into our souls and throwing us into total darkness.
I would like to quote what Orson Welles once said. He said that we are born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone. The moment that we create illusions for ourselves is called life. Perhaps that is why we feel lonely even in that particular moment that we are supposed to create illusions for ourselves to escape loneliness. Enough of facts, let's go on to personal experience.

In this wonderful journey called life, we are filled with many emotions which are inevitable, and among these emotions, the emotion that stings me the most is loneliness. Nobody can journey their life alone, utterly. When I was a little boy, I would subconsciously put myself into other people's shoes. I used to ask myself, "What would I feel to be rich like Tommy?" Questions like 'What would I feel to be the smartest student in school like Edward?' would automatically pop out in my head. The great thing about this habit of mine is I always feel good, well almost all the time when I pick on a pair of clean shoes to put myself in. The bad thing is if I choose the wrong shoes to put myself in, I feel just as bad as how those shoes that have stepped on poo, and that smell that irritates your nose so much that it stops you from breathing cannot describe nor parallel the pain that stings your mind, your heart, your soul, your spirit known as loneliness. For me to watch a person suffering from loneliness is like watching a patient dying from cancer. After all, some cancer patients are lonely too. For I can feel the stinging pain of loneliness, I always had a soft spot for loners.

Among all the feelings I've experienced either putting myself into others' shoes or based on my personal experience, loneliness is the worst feeling I could ever imagine. It is worse than any physical harm can do to me and mind you, I have had teeth knocked out, scars on my back for falling from my motorbike, and even my penis circumcised, and the list goes on. It is also worse than any emotional conflicts I have ever encountered for I have been humiliated, embarrassed, yelled at, ignored, told I was no good, being insulted, given hurtful nicknames and the list goes as long as a receipt you would receive when u empty the goods in a shopping mall. Life on this planet is never easy and that is why we can move on only with the help of others, of those who care. Going through life alone, walking down the paths of darkness in a one-man journey, is not totally impossible, but your mind, your soul, your heart will definitely and repeatedly tell you to leave this world and find friends in another world instead.

From my point of view, a loner is just a nice person lost in the crowd. A shy, quiet person who has not found himself, lack of confidence or was not given any chance to join the crowd, in short, ignored. I strongly advise each and every citizen of planet Earth to reach out for these lonely people who can be nice and talented in several ways yet to be discovered instead of cornering ourselves with our own assembly gossiping about how weird, odd, eccentric, inscrutable and dreadful that loner is, which can be hurtful and demotivating. No matter how busy you are, you can still make time for yourself. So, why not for others who need them? Donating a few minutes of your bathing time or time for meals would not mean that you cannot bathe, eat, breathe or continue what you wanted to do. It only means less of it, and a little for others. If you can not make time for others, one day, nobody is gonna make time for you, and thereafter, you will be thrown in the valleys of darkness, accompanied by the excruciating, crucifying pain called loneliness.

There was once a fox who was walking along a vineyard when he saw the most beautiful and perfect grapes hanging from the highest vine. He stopped and stared at them with longing in his eyes. They were round and plump and had a beautiful sheen as the sun reflected off their skins; just ripe for picking. They were practically begging him to take them down, to fill his empty belly with their juicy goodness. Like an insect drawn to a venus flytrap, the fox walked in a trance and squeezed through the fences barring him and the grapes and stood directly underneath them.

When he got closer, he could see that the grapes were even better and more alluring then before. He thought that they were flawless, but they were even more perfect than that. He jumped, but he didn’t get to bite the grapes. He jumped again, this time with a running start, but still he could not reach it. It was just too high for him.

A robin landed on the fence beside him and looked at his actions amusingly. “Fox,” she said, to get the fox’s attention. “Why is it that you try to get those grapes, even if you know you can’t?”

“Dear Robin, those grapes are what I yearn for; what I want, no, what I need! I feel as if I was born to be with them, and they with me,” the fox replied. He was in a sorry state; his legs were shaking and his heart throbbed in his chest. The robin looked at him with pity in her small round eyes. She shook her head. “You were once a cunning fellow, Fox. But now I see you have gone and become a fool.”

“Say what you will. You do not understand how I feel,” the fox said, and continued jumping. The robin watched him and his antics for the rest of the day. When the Sun went down and day became night, the fox was too tired, torn apart by his plight. He lay down on the ground shivering, barely able to breathe, his legs no longer able to support him.

“Dear Robin,” he wheezed through constricted breaths. “I know you are still there, even if I cannot see you any longer. I beg of you, won’t you please fly over there and pluck the grapes down for me?”

The robin was surprised, for the fox was a proud fellow who wouldn’t bend his head any lower than horizontal. For a moment, she felt compelled to help the fox out of pity. But her instincts took over, and she knew the better choice to take. “I do not trust you. You have already eaten many of my kind before, and I shall take pleasure in watching you fall.”

“No, please…” the fox pleaded, unable to even carry his head up to look at her.

“I shall listen no more,” the robin said flatly, “lest I be swayed by your honey-coated poison.” And she took off that night, crying to herself, for the robin was a kind soul, who dearly wanted to help the fox but there have been many robins who were tricked and eaten by foxes in the past, and so it came as a lesson passed from robin to robin; that foxes should never be trusted. Had she known that that fox was truly sincere, she would have helped him.

And so the fox was left alone to die, with only his beloved grapes hanging right above him. He swore that, if he could jump just one more time, he would have gotten it but alas, he didn’t have the strength for it anymore. He stared and stared, until they were the only things he could see, and then they were no more.

-Terence