The Snap of a Dry Twig Went Unheard Beneath Ivan’s Foot: As the World Suddenly Shattered and Swirled Into Stars, Pain Shot Up His Arm, and Little Sasha Rushed to His Side with the Same Words She’d Whisper Across a Lifetime—From Playground Mishaps to Boardroom Threats and in the Final Quiet Between Two Loving Souls, “Everything Will Be Alright, Vanya. Everything Will Be Alright.”

Author Emily TaylorReading 8 minViews 1

Sam didnt even hear the snap of the dry twig beneath his foot. Suddenly, the entire world turned upside down and spun before his eyes, swirling into a riotous kaleidoscope of colours, before shattering into a million dazzling stars that instantly gathered themselves up in his left arm just above the elbow.

Ow… Sam grabbed at his injured arm and howled, raw and helpless.

Sam! His friend Emily rushed over, dropping to her knees in the moss as if gravity itself had tripped her, Are you alright? Does it hurt?

No, of course it doesnt, he groaned, wincing through clenched teeth. Feels lovely!

Emily reached out, palm trembling, and touched his shoulder as if she might mend it by magic.

Leave off! Sam barked suddenly, his eyes flaring, It hurts! Dont touch me!

The pain gnawed at Sam in more ways than one. First, he was almost certain hed broken his arm, which meant at least a month wasted getting teased by his mates for having to parade around in plaster. Secondand this stung even worsehed climbed that ancient oak of his own foolish accord, desperate to impress Emily with some cocky show of strength and daring. It was mortifying enough to fail, but to hear her pity now was too much by half. He sprang to his feet, cradling his limp arm, and strode for the street, determined and stubborn.

Sam, dont worry, really! Emily scurried after him, her anxious voice trying to patch him back together. Itll all be alright, I promise, Sam, I promise!

Oh, just leave me alone, he spat mid-stride, fixing her with a furious glare and spitting onto the pavement, Hows it going to be alright? My arms broken, cant you see that? Are you daft? Go home, youre doing my head in!

He marched away down the high street, not turning back, leaving Emily behind with her wide slate-grey eyes fluttering and her lips repeating the same tiny phrase:

Itll all be alright, Sam… itll all be alright…

***

Mr Samuel Walton, if we dont see the transfer within the next twenty-four hours, we shall be most unhappy. Oh, and by the waytheres an ice warning for the roads tomorrow, mindso take care while youre driving. Accidents do happen, you knownasty business, really; never can be too certain in this day and age. Good day to you.

The voice on the other end of the line evaporated into silence. Sam hurled the phone aside, digging his fingers into his scalp, sinking back in his battered old office chair.

Where am I supposed to find it? he muttered, half to himselfthe payment scheduled for the equipment wasnt due until next month…

Exhaling, Sam picked up the phone again, dialled a number and pressed it to his ear.

Mrs Margaret, is there any way we could transfer the payment to our partners in holding today?

But, Mr Walton…

Can we, or cant we?

Well, yes, but the schedule for routine payments

To hell with the schedule! Well sort it! Get it doneit needs to be in their account today.

Yes, alright, but then well have

Sam hung up before she could finish and slammed his fist into the arm of the chair.

Bloody leeches

Something soft brushed unexpectedly across his shoulder, making him jerk and nearly leap up in fright.

Emily, havent I told you not to come near me when Im working? Havent I?

His wife, Emily, pressed her lips softly against his ear and ran a gentle hand through his thinning hair.

Sam, love, please dont fret, she whispered. Everythings going to be alright.

Oh, for heavens sake with your alright, alright! Enough already, do you grasp? If I get done in tomorrow, will it still be alright, eh?

He shot to his feet, seized Emily by the wrists, and gently pushed her back.

What were you doing, making cottage pie? Go on, get back to it! Let me stew in peace for once!

Emily let out a sigh and moved towards the door. At the threshold, she glanced back over her shoulder and whispered it again, as if laying a small spell in the air.

***

You know, the old man murmured, Ive been lying here, thinking of our whole lives

He cracked his eyes open, peering up at his wife with a gaze clouded by years. She looked different nowher lovely face marked by silvery wrinkles, her back bent, her proud posture faded. Still, she held his hand, smoothing the drip line on the top of his fragile arm, offering a silent smile.

Any time I landed in a picklenarrow escapes, brushes with deathwhenever the very worst things happened…youd always turn up and say the same thing. You dont know how much it wound me up. Honestly, some days I wanted to strangle you for your silly hopefulness and those endless repetitions! The old man tried to smile, but a fierce cough wracked his body instead. When it had passed, he carried on, softly, I broke bones, got threatened more times than I can count, lost everything, plummeted into holes most never climb out of…and all my life, you said only one thing: Itll all be alright. And you know whats odd? You never lied. How did you always know?

I never knew, Sam, the old woman sighed, You think it was for you? I said it to calm myself. Ive loved you like mad my whole life, you silly thing. You *are* my life. When you hurt, when you were in trouble, it broke my soul in two. I shed more tears than I could count, lost so many nights of sleep…just repeating the same old thing: Even if the sky rains stones, as long as youre alive, everything will be alright.

The old man squeezed her hand, his voice a quiver in the dim.

So thats it…and there I was, cross at you all this time. Forgive me, Em. I never thoughtI went right through life without ever really thinking of you. Absolute fool, wasnt I?

Emily brushed away a tear from her wrinkled cheek, leaning down towards his weary face.

Sam, dont you fret now… she breathed. She paused, searching his eyes, and slowly rested her head upon his unmoving chest, her palm still gently rubbing his hand as it cooled.

It *was* alright, Sammy, it *was* alright…Outside, the dusk deepened. The world hushed, as if holding its breath for them. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor faded into the softness of the room, and with it, the years of bitterness, pride, and stubbornness melted into something gentle, bright as the first morning they met beneath spring branches.

Emily stayed there, eyes closed, feeling the echo of a pulse beneath her hand and in her memorya heartbeat strong enough to last a lifetime. For the first time, she let herself believe it, really believe it, in that secret part of her that had always worried, always hoped. All along, no matter the hurt or hardship, somehow theyd tangled through the storms together, and each day had made the one before it worth living.

The window cracked open. A spring wind swept in, rattling a few dried leaves across the floor. Emily straightened and looked to the sky, to the faint blush on the horizon, and she smiled. Even now, the world kept turning, beautiful and unknown, and she carried his words inside herhis laughter, his love, his final understandinglike a lantern held high against the evening.

Reaching across, she took his hand one last time, twining those weathered fingers in hers, and whisperedsoft as new leavesYes, Sam. It was more than alright. It was everything.

“We’ll Stay Until Summer!”: How I Kicked Out My Freeloading In-Laws and Changed the Locks The intercom didn’t simply ring—it wailed for attention. I glanced at the clock: seven a.m. on a Saturday. The one day I’d planned to catch up on sleep after closing the quarter’s accounts, not entertain guests. On the screen: my husband’s sister, looking ready to storm the Bastille, three wild-haired kids huddled behind her. “Igor!” I barked without picking up. “Your family. Deal with it.” He shuffled out in inside-out shorts, knowing from my tone that my patience with his clan had reached bedrock. While he mumbled into the intercom, I stood in the hall, arms crossed. My flat, my rules. This three-bed in central London was bought with blood, sweat, and a soul-sucking mortgage, years before I even met Igor—having strangers under my roof was the last thing I wanted. The door burst open, and in waltzed the caravan. Svetlana—sorry, let’s make her Susan—laden with bags, didn’t bother to say hello. She nudged past me like I was a sideboard. “Thank God, we made it!” she panted, dumping her bags onto my Italian tile. “Come on, put the kettle on, the kids are starving.” “Susan,” I said, voice calm; Igor’s shoulders hunched. “Mind telling me what’s going on?” “What, Igor didn’t say?” She blinked all innocence. “We’ve got building works! Replacing pipes, tearing up floors, dust everywhere. Impossible to live there. We’ll just stay here a week. You’ve loads of space, don’t you?” I looked at my husband. He stared at the ceiling, bracing for execution. “A week,” I said coolly. “And I mean seven days. You sort your own food. The kids don’t run riot or touch my office. Silence after ten.” Susan rolled her eyes. “Bit strict, aren’t you, Anna? Warder or what? Fine, deal. Where do we sleep? Hopefully not on the floor?” Hell began. A “week” stretched to two. Then three. My pristine, designer apartment turned into a pigsty: muddy shoes piled in the hall, chaos in the kitchen—greasy stains on the counters, crumbs, sticky puddles. Susan ruled the place like she owned it. “Anna, your fridge is empty!” she declared one evening, eyeing the shelves. “The kids need yoghurts, and how about beef for me and Igor? You earn well, you could treat your in-laws.” “You have a card and shops. Knock yourself out. Deliveries are 24/7,” I replied, unmoved. “Stingy,” she muttered, slamming the fridge. But the final straw came when I got home early and caught the kids in my bedroom: oldest bouncing on my expensive mattress, youngest drawing on the wall. With. My. Limited-edition. Lipstick. “Out!” I roared—kids scattered. Susan barely flinched at the redecorated wall and ruined lipstick. “They’re kids! It’ll wash off. Lipstick’s just coloured fat. You’ll buy another one. Oh, by the way—our builders are dragging it out, so we’ll stay until summer! You two must be bored here alone, anyway!” Igor hovered, silent. Useless. I fled to the bathroom before I committed a crime. That night, Susan left her phone on the kitchen table. A notification flashed up: “Susan, next month’s rent received. Tenants love the place—can they extend until August?” Then, “£800 received.” Click. There was no building work. She’d rented out her own place for profit and moved her circus into mine, getting free food, bills, and a passive income. Genius. On my dime. I snapped a photo of the message. For once, my hands were steady. “Igor, kitchen. Now.” I showed him the photo. He went white. “Maybe it’s a mistake?” “Mistake is that you haven’t kicked them out yet,” I said coldly. “Your move: have them gone by noon tomorrow, or you can all go. You, your mother, Susan, the lot.” “But where will they go?” “Don’t care. Under a bridge or the Ritz, if they can swing it.” The next morning Susan blithely announced she was “popping out for some lovely boots” (presumably with her rental money), leaving the kids with Igor. “Take the kids to the park. For a long time,” I told him. He questioned, I insisted. “I’m getting rid of some parasites.” Once they’d gone, I called a locksmith. And then the local bobby. Game over—clear-out begins. When Igor returned, the locks were changed and their stuff—crammed in five giant bin bags—was on the landing. By the time Susan waltzed back, loaded with shopping, I waited at the door with the constable. She shrieked, raged, tried to get past—“We have nowhere to live! I’ve got children!”—but the officer blocked her. She threatened to call Igor. I told her to ring. No answer. “Where’s your proof of residence?” the copper asked. “You don’t live here. Time to collect your things.” “Oh, and say hi to Marina,” I added. “Hope your tenants extend until August—otherwise, you’ll have to turf them out.” Susan paled. I continued, each word like a whip crack: “Take your bags and go. So help me, if I see you or your kids anywhere near my street again, I’ll call the tax man—undeclared rental income is a crime. And I’ll report a stolen ring. The police might find it in your bags.” The ring was in my safe, but she didn’t know that. She quivered with rage. “You’re vile, Anna. God will judge you.” “God’s busy. And now, so am I—with my flat, finally all to myself.” When the lift doors closed on Susan, her shopping, and her busted little scheme, I felt only relief. Later, Igor came home, childless, guilt-ridden. “She screamed a lot,” he muttered. “I don’t care what rats shriek as they’re thrown off a ship,” I replied, sipping fresh coffee in silence, my kitchen spotless, fridge full of food I’d actually bought. “Did you know about the rental?” I asked. “No! Honestly, I didn’t!” “If you had, would you have told me?” He didn’t answer. “One more stunt from your family, and your suitcase will be next to theirs,” I finished. He nodded, nervously. He knew I wasn’t kidding. I took another sip. The coffee was perfect: hot, strong, and best of all, drunk in the peace and quiet of my own, reclaimed home. Long live the queen—crown fits just fine.

022

Someone Else’s Bride Valery was in high demand. He never advertised in newspapers or on TV, but his name and phone number were passed around by word of mouth—the grapevine did all the work. Need a host for a concert? No problem! Birthday party or wedding? Excellent! He’d even once presided over a kindergarten graduation, winning the hearts of both the children and their mums. It all began simply enough. A close mate got married, but the emcee they’d booked in advance didn’t show up—turns out he’d gone on a bender. With no time to find anyone else, Valery grabbed the microphone. At school he’d taken part in amateur dramatics, joined the school theatre club, and at university he was always a star of Open Mic Night and student comedy contests. Impromptu hosting suited him, and right there, in the function hall, two people asked if he could run their events as well. After graduating, Valery got a job at one of the city’s research institutions earning next to nothing. His first fees as an entertainer inspired him—he took on every event, enjoying not only the financial boost but also a great sense of satisfaction. Soon his earnings from hosting outstripped his research salary by nearly tenfold. After a year, Valery took the plunge: he left the institute, used his savings to buy quality equipment, registered as self-employed, and officially went into show business. He started taking singing lessons, too—he already had a voice and an ear for music. Soon he was a singing host, performing as a lounge singer three nights a week at a posh restaurant. Now, approaching 30, Valery was good-looking, fairly well off, and had built a reputation as a solid singer, DJ, and top-notch host who could save any party. He wasn’t married—why bother? Women flocked to him; any girl he fancied was up for it. But his friends were settling down and having kids, and gradually Valery began to yearn for quiet, family happiness. Problem was, there was nobody he wanted it with! The easy girls were fine for a fling, but he longed for something once and for all, for life. “You need to meet someone young, raise her ‘just right,’ and then marry her when she turns 18. That’s the ideal wife right there!” he half-joked. He started taking on bookings for school proms, hoping to spot his future partner. But modern girls disappointed him—they weren’t what he’d imagined. Still, Valery wasn’t discouraged. He kept an eye on the young ones, as he jokingly put it, “hunting rare game.” That’s when fate decided to have a laugh at my cousin’s expense. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. A woman rang up, said she’d got his details from friends: “We need a host for a wedding. Are you free June 17th? Wonderful! Can we meet?” They met. And right then, according to Valery, he understood the saying “the ground slipped from under my feet.” The woman, who introduced herself as Christina, was dazzling—he’d never seen anyone quite like her up close. She was articulate, intelligent, all business, listed exactly what was needed. Valery found himself unable to look away. Someone was very lucky indeed—not only was she beautiful, she was obviously clever too. A rare combination! At first glance she seemed around 25, maybe a little older. But in conversation she mentioned she’d been in the Young Socialists, so she had to be at least 40! They sorted out all the details, came to an agreement, and drew up a contract, though Christina protested: “No need, I trust you—you come highly recommended!” Valery always worked with contracts, making sure both he and his clients stuck rigidly to the terms. He insisted: “I need to file paperwork for tax—can’t have any problems.” In truth, he just wanted physical proof that Christina really existed, that this wasn’t a dream. Her phone pinged—a message. “Oh, my fiancé’s here to pick me up. Do you need a lift?” Valery said no but followed her out to the car park. He always did this if the couple arrived separately, to size up how they acted around each other. But this time, jealousy rather than curiosity drove him. The groom surprised him—he’d pictured a man of about forty, to match the bride. But out of the car bounced a guy clearly younger than himself. “Christina, everything alright?” She smiled, as if to say, “Why wouldn’t it be?” and got into the car. The groom turned to Valery: “You’re the one hosting our wedding? Great, Slava’s told me you’re the best,” he said, giving Valery a handshake. “Sorry, forgot to introduce myself—Christina will scold me later. I’m Robert, the groom.” More than anything, Valery wanted to punch this “Robert, the groom,” and wipe that smug smile off his face, but instead he just shook his hand. “Valery. Nice to meet you.” From that moment, Valery lost all peace and sleep. He obsessed over any excuse to call Christina, to hear her voice, to meet her again. The wedding day loomed closer and Valery thought he was losing his mind. His one confidant needled him: “Whatever happened to the schoolgirls you were going to raise into ideal wives?” Valery just waved him off: “Forget that. Christina’s perfect—she’s all I want now!” “Then tell her,” his friend shrugged, but got a sharp reply: “Are you mad? She’s getting married, so she must love him. What would she want with me and my daft feelings?” Sometimes Robert would drop by, beaming: “Christina asked me to drop this off for you…” Valery hated him in those moments, barely able to hold back a retort. He even considered backing out of the wedding, reputation be damned—but that would mean never seeing Christina again. He caved in cowardly fear. Two days before the wedding, Christina dropped round to Valery’s flat—she said, “just to polish the script, make sure everything’s perfect.” His office was undergoing renovations, so their meeting moved to his home. They chatted about nothing important, laughed, both on top form. Script done, Valery poured a glass of prosecco for a toast. “To the perfect wedding.” Christina laughed: “Why not!” She was radiant, and Valery, buoyed by bubbles, kissed her. And, to his shock, she kissed him back. The world turned upside down. Valery woke with a start. He looked around—had he imagined the best night of his life? No sight of Christina, but her perfume lingered on a pillow. So it was real… In turmoil, he called her. “Hey…” She answered brightly: “Hi! How are you? Sorry I ducked out early, but you know how it is—the wedding’s tomorrow!” “So…the wedding’s still on?” he croaked. “Of course! Why wouldn’t it be? Everything’s grand!” Was she really so cynical? How could she look her groom in the eye after last night? Valery was torn—should he ruin the wedding? Did he even want such a heartless woman? Answer: Yes. Any form of her. Next day, he arrived at the venue early. The decorators were finishing up, throwing him flirty glances. Then— He couldn’t believe it—Christina came up to him. “Hi. I ran off straight after the ceremony—just wanted to see you,” she flashed a dazzling smile. “You alright, Valery?” “I don’t get it,” he stammered. “So, the ceremony’s over? Then you legged it?” “Yeah, silly. Why ride around with the kids when I could spend time with you? Or aren’t you happy to see me?” “Wait, what kids? Aren’t you the bride?” Christina stared at him for a few seconds, then burst out laughing. It was a pure, joyful sound, and Valery couldn’t help but smile back. “Of course not! My daughter Kiera is the bride—she’s at university in Leeds, just flew in yesterday,” she stopped laughing, “Did you think I was the bride? And that I’d sleep around two nights before my wedding? Charming.” Only then did it dawn on Valery—Christina never once said “I” or “we”—always “the bride and groom.” And Robert never called her “Kiera,” only “Christina” and always formally. How had he not noticed? He felt foolish… and then he finally asked the real question: “And you? Are you… free?” She nodded. He blurted out: “Marry me! Please…” The wedding was stunning, the host outdid himself, the guests were thrilled. The young couple thanked Valery: “Thank you so much! We’ve no idea how to repay you for such an amazing evening.” “I’ll thank him myself,” said Christina, joining them. “You two go on—the limo’s waiting. I’ll keep an eye on things here.” The news—Valery marrying a woman nine years his senior—spread quickly among the family. People were wary at first, but after meeting the bride everyone agreed: “How could you not fall for someone like that?” Kiera and Christina both gave birth within a fortnight of each other.