Tag Archives: madd fictional

Too Long For Instagram: From The Murky Depths

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The creature emerged from the depths of the murky lake, its movements slow and languid, like a grotesque dance of death. Its pale, lifeless eyes locked onto its prey, as it dragged itself closer, leaving a trail of slime and terror in its wake.

The too large for Instagram remix:

In the dying light of dusk, whispers rippled through the crowd as the small lakeside community of Gowansville gathered at the water’s edge. Wannipur Lake had always been a source of life, but now it emanated a dark foreboding. Townsfolk disappeared without a trace, pets had gone missing, and local legends of Purrie, the lake-dwelling monster, had resurfaced.

Betty Bowen, an introverted librarian who’d always found solace in books, stood among them. She clutched a worn leather-bound tome, its pages yellowed with age but brimming with arcane knowledge.

Just as the sun disappeared below the horizon, the surface of the lake broke. A creature, its form an unholy amalgamation of scales, slime, and gnarled limbs, emerged. The crowd’s murmurs turned into palpable panic; their paralysis was the creature’s feast.

Betty’s hands trembled, but she opened her book. Her voice cracked as she began reciting an incantation her grandfather had once taught her, passed down through generations but never used. The air tensed, electric. The creature roared, its dread-filled aura clashing with the energy now emanating from Betty’s words.

Nothing happened. The crowd’s hope wilted; their impending doom was palpable.

Betty’s eyes filled with tears. She thought of her late grandfather, of his unshakable faith in her, and the unspoken guilt that she’d never fully believed in the family lore. She turned the page, and her eyes caught a phrase she had never noticed before. Taking a shaky breath, she recited the new incantation.

The creature writhed, releasing a guttural cry that echoed across the lake. Then, with a final roar of defeat, it retreated, sinking back into the murky depths.

As the crowd erupted into cheers, Betty felt a weight lift off her, replaced by a newfound understanding. She looked down at her book, its ancient words now a proven arsenal against the unknown.

“People!” Betty raised her voice, holding her book high. “Never underestimate the power of these pages, for they are not just words but shields against the darkness. We must continue to read, to write, and to share stories that give us—”

Before Betty could finish, the placid surface of the lake erupted. Monstrous tentacles shot out of the water, heading straight for the librarian. Before anyone could react, the tentacles wrapped around her, pulling her off her feet and into the dark abyss of the lake. Her piercing scream was the last sound heard before she vanished.

The ancient tome had fallen from her grasp during her struggle, landing on the muddy shoreline with a soft thud. The crowd was paralyzed, their faces a mix of shock and horror.

The lake returned to its eerie calm as if nothing had happened. Town car mechanic Fred Baker looked at Betty Bowen’s book. Other people were looking at it too, but no one made a move, so he stepped forward.

Just as his fingers grazed the leather cover, another set of tentacles shot up from the lake, snatching the book and pulling it beneath the surface, leaving nothing but ripples in its wake, and Fred Baker shaken to his core.

The crowd stood there, their silence heavy with the reality of their powerlessness. Their last beacon of hope had been extinguished, swallowed by the same darkness they had sought to overcome. And so, they dispersed, each left to ponder the fragility of their existence and the impenetrable mysteries that lurked just below the surface.

As they walked away, a hushed conversation began to ripple through the crowd. “Maybe we should consider offering a sacrifice to Purrie,” someone suggested. “Once a month, to keep it at bay.”

Heads turned, eyes met, and for the first time that day, a sense of unity formed, born not out of hope but out of a shared grim understanding. It was a pact forged in fear, but it was a pact nonetheless—one that signaled their willingness to coexist with the darkness, even if it meant appeasing its appetite.

Tiny Stories: You Will Know When You Receive A Sign (Revised)

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Popular belief has it that the universe is comprised of atoms. In reality, the universe is actually made up of…

As a child, I found solace in skepticism, surrounded as I was by a cacophony of fervent prayers and whispered ‘Amens’ that filled the hollow chambers of my family’s home. To me, religion was a relic, a museum piece best observed from a distance. I prided myself on my detachment, content to witness the ritualistic gestures and solemn hymns without ever feeling their tug on my soul.

That was until the day the very fabric of the sky seemed to tear open. A sudden roar rattled the air, like the trumpet of an apocalyptic angel, followed by an unnatural silence that seemed to swallow all other sounds. People stopped in their tracks, heads tilted upward in collective anticipation. Then, without warning, a violent column of fire spiraled down from an otherwise pristine, storybook-blue sky.

As it descended, I felt a wave of blistering heat wash over me, searing the air and leaving a sulfurous smell that stung my nostrils. The ground beneath my feet trembled, and for a moment, it felt as if the Earth itself were recoiling in horror. The fire targeted my home with an uncanny, surgical precision, leaving everything else untouched. Within seconds, the life I’d meticulously constructed was reduced to ashes and cinders, a smoldering ruin that sent tendrils of smoke high into the atmosphere.

The aftermath was surreal, like standing in the epicenter of a storm that had passed as quickly as it arrived. All that remained was a blackened scar on the Earth, an indelible mark as though the hand of Divinity had chosen to brand me.

Questions erupted inside me like shards of broken faith. Had I mocked the cosmic order one time too many? Was this devastation a punishment, a warning, or perhaps the ultimate test of spirit?

“Why do you tremble?” my neighbor, Miss Hattie, an old woman known for her devoutness, approached me as I stood by the smoldering ruin that used to be my life.

“Wouldn’t you?” I retorted, my voice laced with newly formed bitterness and awe. “The sky declared war on me.”

“Or maybe,” she glanced upwards, “It invited you to listen.”

Her words were like a seed planted in freshly tilled soil. My skepticism still lingered, haunting the edges of my newfound vulnerability, but the need to explore—to quench this sudden thirst for understanding the divine—became irresistible.

With nothing left but a suitcase of doubts and the fragmented memories of my past life, I began my pilgrimage. Was it a quest to seek forgiveness or perhaps to sate my nascent spiritual curiosity? The answer was a foggy mirage on the horizon, but for the first time, I felt the grip of faith seize my once-wayward soul. And it held on with a voracity that mirrored my own accelerating race against time, each step a stride toward an elusive salvation.

Tiny Stories: Cosmetic Layers (Revised)

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Popular belief has it that the universe is comprised of atoms. In reality, the universe is actually made up of…

As the world teetered on the edge of chaos, Kathryn found she possessed a gift that was not just a personal shield but a societal glue. She had the rare ability to project an aura of calm, sewn from threads of an arcane energy that existed before humankind was a twinkle in evolution’s eye, a veneer that was more than skin-deep. Her placid demeanor was contagious, radiating outward like ripples in a pond, and wherever she went, discord transformed into harmony.

Her soft, doe eyes weren’t merely deceptive; they were enchanting, ensnaring anyone who locked gaze with her into a trance of tranquility. Her rouge-cheeked smile wasn’t counterfeit; it was a magical sigil that disarmed hostility and forged connections.

But this power came at a steep price. Every rough patch she smoothed in the world around her manifested within her, stored in hidden pockets of her psyche. Over time, these collected fragments began to unravel the very fabric of her reality. No one knew the true face that lay behind her silken mask, a disarray of emotions and unresolved conflicts that only she could see.

And so, Kathryn found herself at a crossroads, suspended between the utopia she could create for others and the inner dystopia she had to endure. Could she continue to be the linchpin holding society together, or would she finally allow her inner turmoil to surface, unleashing chaos onto the fragile world?

Before she could contemplate it further, Kathryn found that her soul-searching stroll led her to a particularly volatile protest. And as the riot between protestors and police slowly transformed into a peaceful gathering in her presence, she felt something snap deep within her.

Kathryn had finally reached her limit. The reservoirs of her psyche had finally overflowed. The pain was unbearable, like white-hot needles weaving through her consciousness, tying knots around her sanity. Her eyes, once a beacon of serenity, became stormy whirlpools that sucked in light but emitted none. Her smile, which used to disarm even the harshest critics, twisted into a pained grimace.

As she staggered through the crowd, the world around her began to disintegrate. The serenity she had cast over the people evaporated as if it had never been. Arguments resumed, fights broke out, and the air became charged with the stench of anarchy.

Kathryn fell to her knees, clutching her head in her hands as if trying to hold her unraveling mind together. Her aura of calm shattered, releasing all the stored discord in an explosive burst that radiated outward, a shockwave of raw emotion.

The crowd recoiled as if struck by an invisible force. Those close to her collapsed, overwhelmed by the unleashed turmoil.

And then, she was gone.

Kathryn disintegrated into a shower of arcane embers that dissipated into the air, leaving behind only an empty space where she once stood. The crowd, now dazed and confused, looked around as if waking from a long, strange dream.

Though no one could explain what had just happened, a sense of loss hung in the air, a collective understanding that something vital had been extinguished. Society had lost its linchpin, but Kathryn had paid the ultimate price for a borrowed harmony, her existence consumed by the very chaos she had tried to contain.

Tiny Stories: Of Prefaces Unread

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Popular belief has it that the universe is comprised of atoms. In reality, the universe is actually made up of…

Technology had finally advanced to the point where dermal holographic emitters showcased prefaces above everyone’s heads—bullet points of the highs, lows, and turning points in a person’s life—and society had become a library of human experience. Couples formed with a glance, prejudices shattered, and crime rates dropped, all because everyone was an open book.

Except Samuel.

An author who had lived a life meticulously crafted for the perfect preface, he found himself a book gathering dust on a neglected shelf. He watched enviously as people engaged in instant connections, their eyes scanning the floating words above heads. His own preface, filled with layers of subtext and metaphors, resonated only with his fellow authors, none of whom took the extra step to genuinely know him.

Frustrated, he thought, “If only I could rewrite my preface to appeal to them, to make them see.” So, he studied, analyzed, and crafted tales aimed at resonating with the hearts of others. But despite his efforts, his works—and his life—remained tragically unread.

In a cruel twist of fate, Samuel was involved in a car accident. As he lay on the asphalt, gasping for air, he noticed something: people gathering around him were reading his preface, now flashing the words “Tragic End” in bold letters. For a brief, heartbreaking moment, Samuel had an audience.

And then, his preface faded away, the last lines unwritten, unshared, and unread.

Tiny Stories: Prelude to a Fight (Revised)

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Popular belief has it that the universe is comprised of atoms. In reality, the universe is actually made up of…

“Let’s just talk about this some other time,” Lexi sighed, exasperatedly flicking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She scanned the almost empty bistro, where a solitary server bustled between tables, clearly not ours. She’d always been keenly aware of her surroundings.

“Why not settle it now?” I pressed, my fingers nervously tapping the edge of the table.

The furrow in Lexi’s brow deepened as she bit back her initial response. She took a deep, measured breath, as if inhaling courage, and said, “Because you’re not here, not really. You’re a million miles away, even when you’re looking right at me.”

“Don’t be absurd. You have my full attention.”

“Quit lying to me. Just this once, can you do that? I see that far-off look in your eyes like you’re solving a puzzle in your head.”

Caught, I wanted to glance away. “That’s just how my face looks, Lexi.”

“Ah, deflecting with humor. Classic you.”

“You love drama, don’t you? Creating mountains out of molehills.”

She clenched her fists, white-knuckled. “If you’d stop treating our relationship like a series of escape rooms, maybe we’d get somewhere!”

I sighed. “Our non-relationship, you mean? We broke up. I don’t owe you any explanations.”

Lexi’s voice lowered to a whisper. “That’s why we’re over, isn’t it? Because you’re an enigma wrapped in a riddle and I’m tired of solving for X.”

The server finally appeared, tray in hand. “Are you two ready to order?”

“No,” Lexi snapped. “We’re not.” She pushed her chair back so forcefully it almost toppled. “Maybe when you’re ready to be real with someone, give me a call. Until then, enjoy solving your puzzles alone.”

As she walked away, leaving me in an emotionally charged silence, it finally hit me. The biggest puzzle I could never solve was sitting across from me this whole time. And now, she was a riddle walking out the door.

Tiny Stories: Lost in Snow (Revised)

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Popular belief has it that the universe is comprised of atoms. In reality, the universe is actually made up of…

Duke had always loved the feeling of snow under his paws, the crisp winter air filling his lungs as he and his human trudged along the mountain trail. They had had their differences before setting out on this trek—maybe about a chewed-up shoe or an untimely bark—but none of that mattered now. They were a team bound by love and a shared sense of adventure.

However, the mountain had its own plans.

With a deafening roar, the serenity of the alpine setting shattered as an avalanche ripped through the trees and descended upon them. In a panic, Duke latched onto his human’s leg, determined to be the good boy he had always tried to be. Snow, merciless and unforgiving, surged around them like a tidal wave, snuffing out the daylight and encapsulating them in a tomb of ice and cold.

Time seemed to stretch and distort in the dark quietude. Then, with an instinctual burst of adrenaline, Duke managed to push his head through the icy encasement, gulping in air tinged with frost. His throat scorched with each hoarse bark he let out, a desperate call for his lost human. But there was no response, just the unsettling silence that comes when nature asserts its brutal dominion.

Yet Duke would not—could not—give up. He began to dig, his paws flurrying through the snow with a frantic energy. Each scoop was a promise, each layer he penetrated, a prayer. Finally, his paw brushed against fabric, then skin. His human was cold, unresponsive, but alive.

With every ounce of his being, Duke barked until the sound echoed through the mountains, reaching the ears of a rescue team. When they arrived, they found a nearly miraculous scene: a human, unconscious but breathing, and a dog, steadfast and unwavering in his loyalty.

For Duke, being a good boy was not just a matter of following commands or playing fetch; it was a commitment, a pact between two souls who had ventured into the wilderness as partners. And even when faced with the immense power of nature’s fury, it was a pact that neither an avalanche nor the cold hand of fate could ever break.

Tiny Stories: Remember The Grain (Revised)

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Popular belief has it that the universe is comprised of atoms. In reality, the universe is actually made up of…

Valeria sat at the head of an opulent banquet table, her eyes gleaming at the culinary wonders that surrounded her. A dizzying array of meats—venison, beef, lamb—filled the air with their mouthwatering aroma. To any observer, it seemed like the epitome of a feast, a carnivorous heaven—all designed to celebrate Valeria’s notorious predilections.

Her hosts, wearing enigmatic smiles, stepped forward to offer her a dish swathed in gold leaf and encrusted with exotic spices. Yet Valeria hesitated, her eyes narrowing at the proffered plate. In a world where her carnivorous tastes were well-known and celebrated, her refusal shocked the room into a leaden silence.

It wasn’t that Valeria was averse to exotic fare. No, her palate was as adventurous as they came. But there was a very distinct, haunting reason behind her reluctance—a reason so repulsive and gut-wrenching that it defied polite explanation.

The meat on that gilded plate was human flesh.

She recognized its subtle but unmistakable grain, its texture, and smell, a scent forever imprinted on her memory like a brand. Years ago, a dreadful accident had occurred in her family’s home, a mishap that turned a sibling rivalry into a tragic horror. Her younger brother had become dinner, not out of design but due to a grotesque series of events that culminated in his unknowing preparation and serving.

That night had forever changed Valeria, transforming her not only into a carnivore of human flesh but also a prisoner of her own abhorrent knowledge. She had lived with the indelible stain of that memory, an internal scar that defied healing. And as her gaze met the eyes of her hosts, she knew they understood the monstrous dilemma that loomed before her—a silent acknowledgment of the darkest aspects of human desire and taboo.

The One Rule: A Story ReTold in Haiku

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

When I get bored, I experiment (hey, everyone’s gotta have a hobby) so I decided to take one of my Tiny Stories and tell it in a series of haikus. Let me know what you think (the actual story follows the haiku, for comparison).

Jenna's warning sounds,
Bernadette doubts its power,
Seduction awaits.

Eyes locked, Bryce's secret,
Svengali of enticement,
Web of seduction.

Bernadette's challenge,
Promising to stay untouched,
Ignoring warnings.

The office reveals,
A gnome-like man, quite ordinary,
Invisible allure.

Bernadette's gaze breaks,
Green eyes captivate her soul,
Fantasies take hold.

Consumed by desire,
Bryce seeks her essence true,
She willingly falls.

Original version:

“Before you step in there,” Jenna said, making sure to lock eyes with her friend. “I need to warn you about Bryce’s…ability.”

“Ability? C’mon, Jenn.” Bernadette hadn’t meant her tone to sound so dismissive but she had other more important matters on her mind at the moment.

“It’s uncanny, actually.”

“What are you even talking about?”

“Do you believe in the power of seduction?”

“Um, I believe that people who are seduced wanted to be seduced.”

“Well, you might want to rethink that.”

“Why? Because you think I’m going to walk in there and suddenly become enticed into taking a course of action counterproductive to my goals?”

“I’m not calling into question your intestinal fortitude, Bernie, it’s just that I’ve seen firsthand that man in action and I’m telling you Bryce has this weird Svengali innate ability to ensnare people into his web of seduction, women and men alike.”

“Hashtag challenge accepted. I think I’m going to be just fine.”

“Look, just do me a favor please, and gird your loins.”

“Gird my what? Did we just slip and accidentally fall into the Old Testament?”

“Promise me you’ll avoid eye contact.”

“What?”

“Train your eyes on the point just between his eyes and soften your focus.”

“Soften my—?”

“Promise me!”

“Okay, okay, I promise…gawd. You are so weird.”

“Good luck in there.”

The office was on the smallish side compared to the others Bernadette had seen in the building but the weight of a room had been dispersed equally as to lend an air of spaciousness. Bryce offered a smile as he gestured to the leather chair opposite him across the desk.

Bernadette, armed with her list of questions, took the seat and made the attempt to soften her focus and not make eye contact, but the truth of the matter was she wanted to look, to see what all the fuss was about.

And she wasn’t all that impressed.

Not that she considered herself a statuesque beauty by any stretch of the imagination, nor did she feel in a position to judge anyone’s appearance, but after all the send-up, Bryce MacDowell turned out to be a nebbishy gnome of a man. Frankly, he was quite ordinary enough in appearance to be considered invisible in modern-day society and any charisma granted to him likely wouldn’t have had the power to beguile even the weakest of minds.

The one rule in being granted the interview, not to look the man directly in the eye, Bernadette had broken that in less than a minute. And in even less time than that she found herself gazing into the most exhilarating green eyes in existence, eyes older, wiser, and more powerful than anything she had ever encountered or read about in her entire life. His plain forgettable face became an immaculate work of art that ran through every aspect of her mind. She was instantly and utterly consumed by fantasies of kissing his lips that seemed so tender, pink, and inviting, of running her fingers through the obsidian silk of his hair, of caressing his pearlescent alabaster skin, of letting him inside her, not physically, no, that would surely come later. She knew he truly wanted access to the core of her being. He wanted to absorb her very soul…

…and she was happy to let him.

Tiny Stories: The Hand of Love (Revised)

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Popular belief has it that the universe is comprised of atoms. In reality, the universe is actually made up of…

When I was a young girl, my father vanished from the earthly plane. But he didn’t merely die—he transitioned. I sensed his absence, his “moving on,” as it were, before anyone else could muster the courage to tell me. A space that had been filled with light became dark; a melody turned into silence. It was as if a cosmic switch had been flipped.

When the news eventually reached my ears, I didn’t cry; instead, I turned inward. My family looked at me with concern, as I refused to eat or sleep, ignoring the therapists who tried to guide me back to the realm of the living. Colors ceased to exist; life itself became a blurred painting left out in a cosmic storm.

I was drifting, fading from existence, my spirit stretching thin, until I collapsed. That’s when it happened. I found myself falling through layers of a dimension not governed by our understanding of space-time, traveling backward through the chronicles of my own existence to the point of inception—the first spark of passion my father had ignited in me.

My descent halted abruptly, and I landed on a surreal beach of incandescent white sand and a boundless aquamarine ocean. Standing on the shoreline was my father, his image superimposed against a shimmering canvas of galaxies, nebulas, and interstellar phenomena.

“Is this heaven?” I asked, awestruck by the spectacle.

He laughed, the sound echoing like a harmonious cosmic wave. “No, sweetheart. This is merely a threshold. Paradise exists in dimensions cooler than this.”

“I want to stay,” I pleaded.

“One day you will, when you’ve fulfilled your purpose in the mundane realm.”

“That’s unfair.”

He held up his hand, now glowing with celestial light. “You see this? It might seem insignificant, but it carries the weight of a universal promise. Even if you can’t see me, my protective hand will guide you.”

Before I could protest, he leaned down and kissed my forehead. In that instant, a cascade of light enveloped me, and I found myself back in my bed, surrounded by my earthly family.

They never heard this story from my lips; they’d rationalize it, strip it of its wonder. But make no mistake—I’ve faced insurmountable odds and survived. In those moments, I felt the presence of that cosmic hand, reassuring me that love transcends all dimensions, guiding me safely through the labyrinth of life.

Beyond Words

Posted by Madd_Fictional on
Shinichi Mochizuki’s solution to the ABC Conjecture

One of the major downsides to tech advancement on Earth, after our biggest brains finally made faster than light interstellar space travel a reality and we opened our planetary borders to all friendly offworld visitors, was that the human dating pool became oh so very shallow.

Bored with the same old same old, curious, and adventurous single and married people began dipping their toes in alien waters, some for the experience, others for committed relationships, and the rest simply for bragging rights. It had gotten so bad that finding a partner interested in a same species relationship became near impossible. And those not willing to get it on with an extraterrestrial chose to marry their farm animals, automobiles, cartoon characters, and even holograms, rather than share intimacy with another human being.

I tried to fight the good fight and preserve the human race, but there’s only so much rejection a man can face before throwing in the towel. I resigned myself to a fate of hermitry and searched for hobbies to occupy my mind until the day my timecard was punched for the final time.

But the universe wasn’t done tormenting me yet. On my birthday, I received an anonymous gift in the mail: an all-expenses-paid trip to an orbital platform that was hosting a speed dating event. My first reaction was to chuck the invite in the trash and return to my 40,000 piece jigsaw puzzle of the notorious math problem, “The ABC Conjecture.” What stopped me was the 7-course meal and open bar, guaranteed, whether you successfully found a match or not.

Shinichi Mochizuki’s mathematical solution could take the back seat for a night, while I stuffed my face in space and got absolutely pie-eyed.

I made a half-hearted attempt at looking decent, no sense in getting turned away at the space jitney depot for improper attire, and got a jumpstart on the festivities by knocking back as many complimentary cocktails on the flight up to the orbital platform as I could manage.

The plan was to make a beeline for the food and bar and, when I had my fill, catch the next available jitney home. The catch was that I had to complete at least one round of speed dating before having access to food and drink. The second disappointment was absolutely my fault for not reading the invite carefully. I was one of ten humans in attendance, all of them male because this was an interspecies speed dating event. How in the world did I overlook that detail?

For four minutes at a pop, I went through the motions of engaging in conversation with an Onzuid, a Thraikket, a Brelgut, a Mellad, a Thaeqen, and a Raphoth, and a majority of those dates were spent struggling to communicate in broken English, which I had to give them credit for. They knew more of my language than I knew of theirs.

My final obstacle was a Neita, who spoke no English at all. She, the assumed pronoun because she wasn’t able to convey one herself, spoke in melodies while her bioluminescent skin shifted through the color spectrum with each note. I had no idea what she was saying, but I had to admit, it was beautiful to watch.

When it was my turn to talk, I decided to sing about my upbringing, not knowing whether she would be impressed by my effort or take offense, thinking she was being mocked, but I was only here for the food and drink, so what the hell.

I sang about being born in The Bronx, in a neighborhood that history marked as one of the most dangerous places to live in New York at the time, but on my block, everyone spoke like they knew you. We played on the concrete year ’round because there was no local park, ate free bologna and butter sandwich lunches at the public school during the summer, and filled our days playing handball, riding bikes, competing in games like Steal The Bacon, Hot Peas And Butter, Ringolivio, Freeze Tag, Skelzies, and when we got a little older, Run-Catch-Kiss. Water fights consisted of anything you could fill from the open fire hydrant (pots, pans, cups, buckets, or whatever). And if you didn’t go home dirty, you weren’t having a good time. We ate whatever we wanted because no one knew a thing about food allergies (and fried chicken and red Kool-Aid were as important as the air we breathed). We fought with our hands and made up the next day like nothing happened. And if you showed disrespect to your elders or looked in their mouth while they were talking to grown folks, you would get put in your place immediately. And the universal rule was, once the street lights came on, that was our curfew. Anything left undone would have to wait until tomorrow.

When I was done, she smiled (at least, I took it to be a smile) and glowed a calming shade of yellow. The bell rang, and I nodded goodbye and made my way to the dinner table. To my surprise, she joined me, and we sang to each other for the rest of the night.

When the event was over (yes, I stayed to the end) and before we went our separate ways, I gave her my phone number. I wasn’t sure if she understood the gesture, if she would call me, or even how we would manage to meet up if she did call. All I knew was that love would find a way.