Datasets:

allura-org

/

sugarquill-10k

like 0

Follow

Allura 23

As a child, I used to hate staying with my grandmother. There was never anything fun to do over at her place but, whenever my father had a business trip (which, given his line of work, was quite often), he would take me to stay with her. Reluctantly, I would pack my bag, he would load up the car with some necessary provisions and we would make the eight-hour drive from Sydney down to Melbourne, where she lived in an old house just outside Royal Park. How I would dread every single one of those hours, knowing that each passing mile was bringing me closer to another boring visit. “Don’t look so morose,” my father commanded during one such trip when I was twelve. “It’s only for the weekend. She’s always good to you, isn’t she?” I grumbled, sinking further into the passenger seat, clutching my bag to my chest as if it were a security blanket. Each one of my stays was as drab and uneventful as the last. This one would likely prove to be much the same. Just past noon, we arrived. The green two-story Victorian house on the edge of the park looked even more decrepit and foreboding than I remembered. Gran stepped out onto the porch and planted a pair of wet kisses on each of my cheeks. I wiped them away as she went to give my dad a hug. The entryway appeared to be a gaping maw, ready to consume me at the first opportunity. A few minutes later, I bid my father farewell, watching as his car rounded the corner and disappeared. “I imagine you must be hungry after your journey,” Gran said, beckoning me inside. “Come. I’ve made you some soup.” Rolling my eyes, I heaved my bag into the house and closed the door behind me. My grandfather had passed away years before when I was small. As such, I had only a vague recollection of him, appearing out of the dark recesses of my mind like fragments of a dream one forgets upon waking. Though Gran had pictures of him all over the house, from youth to old age, the man staring back at me was completely unfamiliar. I eyed them tentatively as I followed her into the kitchen. “Your room’s all made up,” she said as she poured hot soup from a pot into a bowl with a ladle. She was referring to the guest bedroom upstairs, which she always reserved for me. “I promise not to be in your hair much this weekend,” she added. “I’ve some gardening to do.” I felt a pang of guilt. She must have sensed my dissatisfaction. Never before had she addressed it, despite me having made it quite obvious during previous visits. Regardless, I mumbled my thanks and ate my soup in silence as she sauntered around the kitchen putting things away and washing the dishes. That night, as I lay in bed, my mind went back to that moment in the kitchen and recalled something else my father had said on the trip over: “You’d better cherish the time you have with her. She won’t be around forever.” A lump formed in my throat as I turned onto my side and shut my eyes, waiting for sleep that never came. The next morning, after breakfast, Gran announced that she would be in the garden until lunch and that, should I need her, to just shout. I nodded, watching as she rose from her chair and left through the front door. In tableau, I saw her disappear behind the rosebushes that lined the front of the house. It was a warm, sunny day and the laughing of a kookaburra came in through the open living room window and filled the place with sound. Not knowing what to do, I trudged upstairs with the intent of getting some reading done. But once atop the staircase, I heard a dull thud coming from the attic above me. Pulling the string, the rickety wooden steps folded out from the ceiling, and I ascended them, curious to find the source of the noise. Sunlight spilled in through cracks in the wall. Little swirling eddies of particles could be seen floating within the rays. It was clear that Gran had not been up there in many years. Cobwebs covered each corner and a thin layer of dust hung over everything like freshly fallen snow. Sure enough, right in the middle of the room, was a ceramic heart-shaped box that had fallen off a small antique cabinet nearby. How it had fallen, I could not guess. Luckily, it had not broken from the impact. Its contents, however, lay scattered all about. As I reached down to pick them up, the more curious I became. Several dried flowers, like those pressed into old books, littered the floor. In conjunction, an Australian military medal was concealed beneath several letters whose edges had been yellowed by time. Their envelopes had return addresses from several far-off places with postmarks from some sixty years prior. Most intriguing of all was the photo of a handsome young man in uniform who I did not recognize. I had grown up seeing pictures of my grandfather as a young man and this was not the same person. It was then that I noticed a folded letter that was partially opened at my feet. Maybe it was the hasty yet thoughtful hand that had penned it that piqued my curiosity. In any case, I gingerly picked it up and unfolded it, reading the words aloud to myself and intrigued to discover that it was addressed to Gran. “ Dearest Rebecca... ” They were daring to venture farther than they had ever been. It was just over three months since the ANZACs had landed at Gallipoli, a tiny dot on the map half a world away from home. In that time, they had slowly made their way to capture the Heights, which overlooked the surrounding peninsula. To capture the Heights meant seizing Gallipoli from the Turks and, therefore, allowing the Allies to push on towards Constantinople, thus driving the enemy out of the war. It was a bold move to be sure, one that was proving damn-near impossible due in large part to the rugged terrain, yet High Command kept urging the men forward. Now, they were due to take the Nek, a tiny strip of land between the Australian and Turkish lines in an attempt to support the New Zealanders who were keeping the enemy busy at nearby Chunuk Bair. Dusk had fallen with night well on its way. Lighting an oil lamp, Private Leslie Jones of Melbourne nestled into a makeshift cubbyhole within the trench. His back pressed against the cold earth, he produced a small tin from his breast pocket, from which he withdrew a pen and piece of paper. He felt it as good a time as any to write a letter to his sweetheart back home, given the advance on the Nek the following day. Despite wanting to divulge everything to her, he thought of choosing his words carefully at first. Of course, he was scared. He always was whenever the company had to advance, for one never knew whether it would be the last time they would be able to do so. As it was, C Company had already lost several men, including a few with whom he had grown particularly close. Attachments, however, were both pointless yet vital to the army, for you had to entrust your lives to each other, yet never knowing when yours or theirs would be cut short. Doing away with formalities, he decided to lay down exactly what was on his mind. “Who are you writing?" “Rebecca,” Leslie replied without even looking up. He instantly recognized the voice that had posed the question. It belonged to Sidney Greene, a fellow C Company private from Broken Hill in the Outback, who now took a seat opposite him atop a pile of sandbags. Sidney whistled and cooed in response, to which Leslie smiled and playfully kicked some dirt his way. “Say hi to the lady for me,” Sidney said with a grin, politely doffing his cap. “That ‘lady’ is my fiancé,” Leslie added. It was the first time he had said it aloud to anyone, surprising himself for revealing it so casually. “She just doesn’t know it yet.” “Going to propose to her, eh?” Sidney added, producing a flask from the right back pocket of his trousers. “I’ll drink to that!” He took a swig before passing it to Leslie, who accepted it with a smile. It was scotch and the familiar, pleasant burn warmed them from within. But the sudden realization of the advance on the Nek weighed heavy over the pair and a pensive silence fell upon them. For what seemed an eternity, the two of them were lost in their thoughts, each wondering whether they would make it out alive. “Hey,” Sidney interjected, holding his flask up as if making a toast. “We’ll be fine, mate.” Leslie smiled in response and returned to his letter, though from the silence that followed, it was clear that neither of them believed it. The men of C Company were awoken some time in the night, when they were told to mobilize to the front line. Just as the sun crested the horizon, they had arrived, in time to see A Company prepare for the advance across the Nek. As always before a skirmish, Leslie’s heart pounded in his chest. Readying his rifle, he searched the crowd for Sidney, who stood a few paces behind him. The two nodded at each other in acknowledgement. “You ready?” Sidney asked upon catching up to him. “Today’s the big day.” “When am I ever ready?” Leslie countered sardonically. The two shared a chuckle, though their expressions turned grave just seconds later. This time, neither of them could find the courage to say anything reassuring. They were now faced with the reality of the situation, and, as always, it terrified them. They watched as A Company braced themselves for the attack. With a blow of their lieutenant’s whistle, they emerged from the trench in an uproar, only to be shot down moments later by Turkish fire. Leslie, Sidney and the men of C Company watched in horror as several bodies flew back into the trench, their corpses riddled with bullets and stained with blood. It was clear that the enemy had the upper hand as far as terrain was concerned, with the resulting offensive slowly proving to be a bloodbath. “For fuck’s sake, mate,” Sidney said, peering through a hole in the sandbags. “It’s a bloody massacre!" Leslie didn’t say a word. A feeling of dread sank deep into the pit of his stomach. He knew, right then and there, that this would be the end. The Australians could only advance so far before being cut down by enemy fire. It was not so much an offensive as it was a death sentence. Reaching into his shirt, he produced the locket that Rebecca had given him upon his departure, which bore her picture within it, and he had worn around his neck ever since. Opening it, he gave it a kiss and mumbled a prayer. “STEADY, LADS!” the lieutenant for B Company shouted as his men made ready for the next wave. Leslie could see that he was pale, no doubt due to the fact that he knew he was leading his men to the slaughter. His shrill whistle filled the air and sent his troops over the lip of the trench. Seconds later, they, too, had all been shot. The pit in Leslie’s stomach turned into full-blown panic as his own commanding officer urged C Company forward. “This is it,” Sidney whispered behind him. “Best of luck, lads,” he shouted over the sound of rifle fire. “Good luck, mate,” he added to Leslie softly, his voice shaky. “Maybe, we’ll be the ones to break through.” All Leslie could do was stare at him blankly, his expression full of fear. Sidney mirrored it, but nodded once more, a gesture that Leslie countered. Finally, the lieutenant’s whistle sounded. Leslie, heart racing and with Sidney in tow, clambered over the edge of the trench. They watched as their comrades were picked off one by one. No sooner had they made it a few feet was Sidney clipped in the head, a spurt of red staining the earth behind him. “SIDNEY!” Leslie shouted, rushing to his mate’s side. But before he could even get there, a sharp, searing pain tore through his abdomen. He fell to the ground. As his vision began to blur, he saw a pool of his own blood rushing up to greet him. He no longer felt any pain. It was as if he had become weightless. The last thing he saw was the locket, which had come off in the tussle, with Rebecca’s monochrome face smiling up at him... “Ginny? What are you doing up here?” Gran stood framed in the entryway. I had been so captivated by the letter that I had not heard her ascend the rickety steps. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I turned to face her. “I’m sorry, Gran,” I whimpered. “I just...” But her eyes widened when she saw the letter in my hand. Gliding across the room, she took it from me without a word. I watched as she read through it, likely for the first time in years. “Who was he, Gran?” I asked. When she finished, her eyes were full of tears. Turning to me, as if she had forgotten I was there, she gave me a warm smile and stroked my cheek. “Bring the box downstairs and I’ll explain,” she said. Once we were seated at the kitchen table, she told me everything. Leslie had been her sweetheart before he was shipped off to fight at Gallipoli during World War One. She had kept every letter and memento he had sent her, saving them in an old heart-shaped box her mother had passed down to her. When she received word from his family that he had been killed in action, she was devastated. After the war ended, Leslie’s parents had given her his medal, the Victoria Cross, which he had received posthumously for his heroism in a previous battle. It would be five years before she would even consider courtship again, when she met my grandfather. When she had finished telling me all this, I rushed to embrace her, the first time I had ever done so since I was little. “Thank you,” she whispered into my hair. “No,” I retorted. “Thank you ." My father shot me a confused/worried look when he picked me up the following day. He appeared even more confused when he saw me wave goodbye to Gran. “Did you have a nice time?” he asked, clearly concerned. I smiled and answered him honestly. “The best.”

No one likes climbing up an old rickety ladder. I try not to be a pussy, but it scares the shit out of me personally. Holding on anxiously, the grip of your hand tightening just to be safe. Exhaling deeply once your feet find the next raised platform and you near the top. Shit... I should set the scene better; small town vibes, but it’s technically a city, but... it’s not really. It's late, almost midnight. The night sky is striking, the moon's beams flying through the sky. Feeling the chills and breeze of the hour. Climbing up a ladder on top of some office building on the hill in the back of the town, that’s a little sketchy, but you kind of feel cool and dangerous for doing something so rebellious, while at the same time feeling a sense of identity from it. I realize that I'm an 18 year-old alone doing something so disastrously sad but try not to let it bother me. The highway speeds by, bustling life right behind me. I’m a little sheltered by trees and fences. In my own little bubble, my own environment and identity conversing. Behind me society still goes on. I wonder if any of them saw me up on this ladder, what would they think? Suicide? Maybe badass? “He’s not like the other boys” they’d think. I walked up the side steps of this old office space- It’s kind of in nowhere land a mile past downtown- to the second story which is on a raised platform that circles around the sides of the building. One time I was sadly dwelling in this area listening to some music that I like to consider indie and emo, because let’s face it, if there’s not skipping hi-hats and an 808 in the song, you can pretend you have taste. And saw that there was a ladder to the roof. I thought, i’m pretty sad and alone. Maybe if I climb this ladder and check out the view on this roof this experience will be a little more than that and maybe even be special. Also I think, going up there might even be... illegal. Wow! Now people probably know I'm distraught, ooh goody. I did end up going up there, obviously, and was it special? Ehh, who cares. Anyway, now it’s a little thing I do to be edgy. Chill on a roof overlooking town, jamming, enjoy the view’s, romanticize maybe bringing a girl or a group of friends one time with me and having a cool cinematic moment where we smoke, get high, and almost die or something. Now that’s a way to live as an 18 year old right? As the pictured scene above dies out in my head a minute after settling on the roof. Reality tugging on my shoulder incessantly reminding me that I don’t have friends and am rather sitting up on the roof with my tight-nit set of problems instead. There’s something so cruelly refreshing about the night. It’s like, yeah you’re alone... but also, yeah, you’re alone! Everything seems in reach but so hopelessly far away and the moment the big bright ball of reality rises back up, your short vacation of fantasy and idealism is gone and the dread of reality is back up, and now everyone can see you and look at you in all your glorious misery. The day time sucks dick. Another little tid-bit: I like to dress up when I go out alone at night. I’m very hopeless and romantic, but you must respect it. Aesthetic continuity is important, it's a real thing. If you saw Harry styles not in his cool celebrity clothes but instead in your dad's jeans, white air monarchs and a tucked in short sleeve plaid shirt. Fuck he still might look cool but, it’s just different. Whenever I'm actually laying down on the roof, looking up into the stars. Attempting to relax. Anxiety always grabs me by the dick and gives me a fist full. I try not to let it bother me. Why would they have a ladder drilled onto the side of the building as an access to the roof if it wasn’t safe. It had a paneled roof like a regular home would, but it looked dense and solid. I’d been thinking about death a lot, I really wanted to end my life. Anyway, you may be wondering, what’s my problem? Why am I this vampire? Well if I was so vulnerable, open and cheery I wouldn’t be here would I? And if i’m not here, then who am I? So silly of you to ask. If you see a lowlife like me, maybe someone your age, presumably under 30- because at that point I’d just call it- and think what do you do? I’ll give you a rundown. Psycho-analyze them... assume everything and make a game out of it. How many weirdo’s can you guess correctly? I’ve never tested it, but it sounds fun. See how I’m good at making serious things funny and humorous, that’s a sign. I do that a lot. If I were to approach me, well- first off be hot, it’s a disgusting truth but it helps a lot. To be truthful just, be honest. Portray a genuine image of yourself and I think the other will- through the forces of who the fuck know’s- feel that energy and do the same back. We are all so fake- by the way I’m no longer on the roof. I’m now biking down the empty streets to my old middle school. It’s a blissful experience. To be free in your pain. Just the act of riding down a street alone at night, it’s a shedding of some of that pain. It gives me control. I worry about people seeing me out, why should I worry at all? It’s my truth, it’s how I feel. They can go fuck themselves if they judge. LIVE YOUR LIFE. Dishonesty really is a disease, it causes physical pain, mental pain, it ruins lives. It's self inflicted pain too. I never thought I was important enough to be truthful to people just because my life wasn’t sunshine and rainbows. So I was fake to everyone, so no one ever knew me, and I stayed alone. I enjoy biking down the halls of my old middle school listening to radio head, but it’s a process of healing, sometimes it feels like self-condemnation. It’s not really a choice either. I’ll be up late distraught and unfulfilled, seemingly locked inside the box of my house, desperate for any way to release my displeasure. I’ll usually look for drug’s- I never have any- then I’ll decide I need to get the fuck out of this house. Exploring the old campus, I realize how long it’s been since I’ve seen any of these room’s. I used to go here... I used to be here 5 times a week. I was a lot shorter back then. I have to wonder how my old teachers are doing. Living the teacher's life most likely. Whatever that is. Teacher’s actually have it pretty good, yell at kids, joke around with a bunch of dumbasses. You could also just be overtly cruel and that’s totally cool too. The spectrum of teacher’s is quite a spectrum: you have the god’s, the ones who are precious and amazing, and also those that seem more fictional and cruel than Michael Scott as CEO of dunder mifflin. I had a favorite teacher in High School, she was great. She had a daughter that was a freshman in my senior year which was a weird twist. When your weird short sort of nerdy english teacher’s daughter is a self described influencer on instagram and is almost the epitome of the white girl tik tok influencer culture it’s just a weird thing. No shame or anything, I just grew close with that teacher, she helped me a lot. Near the parking lot of the school the flagpole kept making a loud bang. It was scaring the shit out of me. The harness for the flag, a great assistant to patriotism everywhere wouldn’t shut the fuck up and was being blown by the wind towards the pole and smacking it. I don’t know how American that is. Anyhow, with any flash of light I’m scared it’s a person, It’s around 1am at a middle school so I usually presume it’s merely my manly anxieties behind the thought. Until I saw some girl walking up a hall. Now normally you see a girl, you run, right? Well I've put the practice into strategy before but my hope was that she wasn’t normal, because she was here. I’ve never really identified with normal, I’ve so wanted to but normal is scary. I don’t know how to communicate with it. She was walking up the hall in black stone washed jeans, her legs dragging slightly. A green beanie on, and an oversized flannel. I gave it a second of thought and quickly decided to not talk to the random girl. Who the fuck walks around a middle school campus alone past midnight. Jesus christ women. See atleast im riding a bike, it’s a more explainable activity. I did pass by her though. Anyone else get the dilemma of whether to look at someone's face when you're walking by them? I’ll be honest, I'm not the perfect picture, I'm no mona lisa. As far as I can tell I’m in the mid-tier of fuckable, which is a weird tier to be in. It’s like is it a yes or no? Why is it a niche thing, where if there’s alcohol and someone feels pitiful towards me it’s a yes, but if it’s a more normal encounter it’s a no. I decided to look at this girl in the face. I'll admit she wasn’t cute at all. I need to complain about that because if this is my coming of age film why the fuck is random weirdo girl coincidentally walking the halls at the same time as me this late at night not fucking hot. It’s bullshit, I’ve said it many times but once again I've found proof that there is no god. I did get a whiff of weed as I passed her though. I’ve had a few interactions with the substance, don’t mean to come off as a total badass, but I’ve been in the vicinity before, I’ve taken a few hit’s. And the idea struck me to go approach her and ask if I could hit her usb port or whatever the fuck. Of course The Smith’s was playing in my ear’s which is literally the soundtrack to being alone and desperate at night. Which convinced me that weed is what I need. So I turned back around and peddled towards her. “Hello” I whispered... (anxiety) She pulled out her earbuds which reminded me to do the same. “Uhh.. hi?” I stuck my hand out, and about 5 seconds after I realized I had my hand out. I then asked myself why I had my hand out... I couldn’t give myself an answer and pulled my hand back in then put it into my pocket, as smooth and cool as I could. “Any chance I could smoke whatever it is you're smoking?” “Wow, ok, sure. What are you doing out here.” “Ohh you know” “I really don’t” “Ok well what the fuck are you doing out here?” “I live like a couple blocks away. I just can’t smoke in my house” “Well, that makes a lot of sense. So you have friends and stuff? Your life isn’t in shambles i'm assuming. Right?. Right?” “Um, yeah.” “Wow. Ok, that's good I suppose”.... “So can I get the pen or whatever your smoking” She nodded and handed it over to me. “Just don’t run it dry, only a hit or two” “Don’t worry about that I’m biking home and I’m a bitch boy- I have no tolerance at all.” Quick mental confession: not that I keep this a secret, but my mouth doesn’t work that well. Atleast that’s one reason I give to why I haven’t made out or smoked a lot. I think she could tell because the look she gave me while I was hitting her pen was... distinct? Smoking is supposed to have a cool aesthetic to it. You breathe out the smoke into the air and hold it all french and shit. In her head she was thinking that I was holding her pen like I was about to rub one out of it into my mouth. I sucked that shit in and exhaled it like a dragon. Which if you smoke, then you know is poor technique. So I started coughing loud as shit. My chest was feeling it too, i’m still of course playing it cool and sly, because that’s what I am, of course. “FUCK YOU SATAN” I yelled- it fit with the coughing “JESUS” “Sorry for that, I'm a bit of a zealot. Jesus too I guess.” ... “Well thanks for that I’ll be on my way. Busy day, busy life.” I walked away “Peace” she said. What is this world, who raised these kids? I didn’t even get her name, better yet who wrote this ‘story’? I never have that good a time when I’m high. Maybe I'm semi allergic because my chest always has a meltdown. My noggin will be feeling pretty nice and all but my chest will be squeezing itself to shit. So it only took me ten minutes to be feeling that little symptom. It got me thinking about shit and how I often want to lose my shit. I’m not referencing a hard fought battle with constipation against the belligerent bile. I mean lash out, do something crazy- now I want a drink too. I’m not saying that it's crazy, I just want one. The crazy part would be posting on instagram writing something vaguely suicidal, maybe extremely edgy. There’s one thing I find that I have in common with hitler, I want to die by blowing my own brain’s out with a gun. It’s not funny though, it’s a very lame joke. The only problem with lashing out, such as writing some possessed semi-platonic message to some girl referencing all the shit I deal with then regretting for months, is that I’ll still be alive most likely. Then I’m just embarrassed and alive, which isn’t positive. Fuck it. I’ll do it right now. I'm calling this girl that I’ve been talking to. To preface, I’m neither straight nor horny. Take that what thou wilt. As Shakespeare famously wrote. This girl's name is... well I don’t want to expose her so I’ll give her a fake name. Her name is going to be Sam. She’s beautiful, she’s an artist, she’s radiant, and I don’t think she’s normal, which is great. She has an amazing eye for aesthetic, she’s so fucking cool, I want to talk to her every fucking second and drive around listening to music all night with her. I think she’d understand me, I think she’d get me. Probability reason’s the opposite, so are my anxieties. What to do. Stay alone in my void or try to do something. Times are always ticking. It won't be next month, but next year if I’m still alive something will’ve changed dramatically in my life. I’m the most nihilistic fucker I know so the former is more believable. I’m starting to get angry. “Fuck.” I mumble Louder! Then again louder. I can’t do this. I can’t drop my baggage on this girl. What am I going to tell her, the truth? It doesn’t change it. My weight is my weight, It feels attached to me. Clay brick’s surgically inserted into me. All indicators point to say nothing. I can’t do it, I just can’t. She won’t get it. She won’t get my sickness or my depression or my torment or my misery. This world needs to be lonely, it needs to feel fickle and futile. It borders even family, it border’s everyone but me. There’s a permanent port of exit and entry. They keep everyone out there and wont let me step a toe outside those lines. It’s only a matter of time before I end it all, because I don’t think anyone will understand, and I don’t think it’ll make a difference. The only energy to motivate me otherwise is that of desperation, and it gets me right to that check point, before nihilism and dread and anxiety gush me over with the perfect amount of poison to keep me trapped for another day.

At first it seemed like a huge 'magical' coincidence when, in a small town of twenty thousand people, Julie began a conversation with another woman at a juice bar who with no provocation, said that she had been hacked and harassed by the same small town Weinsteinian millionaire and town boss who Julie found out had sent messages FROM her own email account, posing as her earlier that year (to her then employer, causing her to lose her job)... but less than a week later, Julie met another woman in a bakery who had been harassed by the same man, and THEN she met another woman with the same experience, finally deducing from the odds that hundreds in that town must have had the same experience. Sandy, the woman at the bakery, said that the odds of two people in LA having a conversation about how they had both been mugged is neither magical nor coincidence. The woman at the grocery store, had received an email two years prior from a good friend that brought her to tears, and from that message she made a serious life choice in a matter that she said she "could not discuss because it was both sensitive and traumatic" (She said that it was traumatic so she had to talk about it, but sensitive so she couldn't, whatever that meant). After making her "undiscussable life choice", whatever it was, she said that the entire universe seemed colorless and unreal for two years, until a strange day two years after the fact, when her lawyer confessed that the message had been sent by The Rainmaker (he meant by the Rainmaker's hackers). The Rainmaker was a small town millionaire, a businessman who owned all of the lawyers in that town and thereby owned the courts (although he also claimed to have the police in his pocket it was much more likely that he only manipulated their perceptions by playing probabilities). So let's talk about probabilities. Suppose someone sent a message from your account causing the person on the other end to react in a way that made no sense to you at the time. You would not know what happened since the person who received the message would likely cut you off. The reality on the other end would be entirely different. They know that the message is from you, even if it's not, and the forged message from the intruder would change the meaning of anything you can say in the future (Because of eavesdropping, it would not be safe for you to try to clear up the matter with the person electronically, but if you ask the person to "meet you in a dark parking garage to speak about something", your request would take on a different meaning because of the previous forged message that was likely threatening). So you would never ever find out what happened and there is no way you could find out what happened. The odds would be one in a thousand that someone on the inside would tell you the specifics of what happened, so the odds of knowing are way less than the odds that it happened. The odds of two people who know then meeting each other would be astronomical, and then for them to bring the conversation to the point that they both realize they are talking about the same thing would be unlikely......UNLESS it happened all the time. Sandy was right, the odds of two people in Los Angeles realizing that they had both been mugged is neither magical nor coincidence. It is a reflection of what goes on all the time. And so it was in this town. So it was that the evil presence was hidden not by secrecy but by the sheer ugliness of it's presence, and by the need of the vulnerable people who lived there to push it from their minds, and to proceed with the choices that had been made for them, AS IF they had chosen those roads themselves.

Albert had driven a cab for 15 years. It suited him well. Everyone argued over shifts, but Albert loved the graveyard shift. No need to fight anyone for that, he was the only one that liked to work at night. To him there was something special about the night air and the dark streets. It felt relaxing, but also slightly threatening. Thousands of fares a year for 15 years. That’s alot of people. Good people, bad people. People talk sometimes, sometimes not. Some want silence, others want a good listener. Albert could provide both. One night Albert picked up a fare on the outskirts of town. He looked old and weary. He handed Albert $300 and asked if that was enough to get a ride for the next few hours. Albert told him yes then asked where he wanted to go. It was about 11pm. “I want to go to where the people are”, the man said. Albert began to drive downtown. There was a club. “Stop here”, the man said. Albert parked the cab, the man got out and walked in. About 15 minutes later the man came back. “Let’s go”, he said. Albert thought the man looked more energized that before, less weary maybe. Probably just Albert’s imagination. What did the man do inside? He wasn’t the typical club goer. On they drove. The next stop was outside the bus station. “I’ll be back”, was all the man said. About a half hour later he opened the rear door and sat down in the seat. He was quiet now. It was about 1am now, they drove back to the edge of town. “Stop here”, the man said. He got out. He walked up to Albert’s window. He said “have a good evening”. Albert looked at him, maybe it was his imagination but the man now looked 20 years younger. The man saw the look on Albert’s face and flashed a quick smile before walking away off into the field until he was out of sight. “That was a strange fare”, Albert mused to himself. Albert had a few more fares that night before his shift ended. When he finally made it home he made himself a sandwich and sat down to watch the news. There was a breaking story. There had been 3 deaths the previous evening. There were 2 men found dead behind the bus station, and one found dead behind the club that Albert had taken the man to. There was no additional info released by the police at that time. Albert went and reported all of this to the police. He showed them where he took the man, where he had dropped him off. Albert saw the news several days later. The police released the cause of death of the men. Police found no evidence of foul play. They advised for people to be on the lookout for wolves, and to be careful. It seems the men had been victims of the same animal or animals. There were teeth marks on the remnants of their rib cages. Their hearts and livers had been eaten...

Found lurking in the depths of every crowded bar and concert hall is the notorious Red Cap. His appearance has changed over the centuries to fit with the current generations. Thus what once appeared as an aristocrat now showed his face under the brim of a snapback. The gentle rhythm of bass lures him into darkened rooms where drinks and cares are loose. The one mainstay of the Red Cap that has traveled through the years with him is that if he grabs hold of your hand and you don't instantly escape, you're doomed. His grip is the single invite to the dance of death. The concertgoers and bar dwellers always shout at first, but they're grateful to have dodged the invite themselves. The risk of public libations doesn't deal with the bridge trolls or taxi goblins, no, the real threat of a night out with friends is that the Red Cap might catch you and make you dance until you die. Which then he'll take your bloody, battered feet and dye his Red Cap once more with the blood of the unfortunate and foolish. Escapes from his grasp have been dramatic and rare. Many people have taken to wearing loose clothing they can slip out of just in case. The fashion of harem pants and silk tops tripled Chinese exports in one summer alone. An unprecedented double attempt occurred to the initially unfortunate and then warily smart, Arthur Tomkins. Arthur was an arborist by trade and came to Finnegans Hall for a weekend drink. The night had already fallen when the distinct clue of the Red Cap's company was clear. Red flickered to his side and a long peal of laughter that cut through the music in the hall before Arthur felt a cold grip on his hand. He looked to find the wide grin split into the dark corner of the room, crowned by a red hat. Without thinking Arthur's other hand shot to his hip and drew his hatchet, it cleaved the Red Cap's grip before he saw the consequences. The Red Cap snarled backing away. Even he played by the rules; it otherwise meant incurring the wrath of Mab. Arthur bested the Red Cap, but at a handy price. He stuck clear of taverns and dance halls for many moons until they had seen him grow accustomed to his prosthetic hand. It was more appropriate for the public than his work claw, which he argued gave him steadier purchase in the trees. The bar brought chills to Arthur's spine as he fingered the handle of his hatchet. Stiff drinks and fast music made the fear fade from his mind. Surely no man had been tapped twice by fate for the same task. Arthur froze at the sight of Red as it slipped his eyes. He was peeking in at the corners before a hearty tug found the Red Cap clamped down on his right hand. Fear should have frozen it, but what's dead can never die. Arthur returned the Red Cap's laugh that he safeguarded as sweet revenge for years, as he stepped away from both the Red Cap and his prosthetic hand. Twice bested- by bravery and wit, a third victory would elevate Arthur above the station of mortal men and into fable. But all Arthur longed for were tall trees and calm breezes. He knew without prophecy, that if he ever set foot in a bar, tavern, or dance hall again, the Red Cap would descend upon him like a rabid dog. So he never did. His life was his own, as he doomed the Red Cap to a life of fear, that he might reappear in those dark halls to best him one last time.

The windowpane is freezing against my forehead as I look out at the first snow of the season. I can hear commotion from my roommates through my bedroom door. It’s been going on since Maia came gamboling into the apartment, screeching Snow! It’s snowing outside! One by one, I hear my other roommates getting home from the studio, bounding through the apartment like puppies, high off the snowfall, the weekend, the done-with-rehearsal feelings. It’s Friday night and I can tell by the sounds that they’re all getting ready for their evenings. I’m in sweatpants (my nighttime sweatpants, as I changed out of my daytime sweatpants promptly at 5pm) and haven’t been out of my bedroom in at least six hours. I wasn’t at the studio today; I haven’t been in weeks. I’m taking a hiatus , I told my boss. I blamed it on an old knee injury. The real injury is the crippling anxiety that sits like a rock in my stomach. The snow is a welcome, if flimsy, distraction. I’ve been sitting on my bed, watching it come down for hours now, looking idyllic against the backdrop of the streetlamps and freshly-strung holiday lights. I try to count the voices outside my door but it proves impossible. It sounds like a lot. Is it possible that all of us are home? There are seven of us crammed into this apartment, and I can’t remember the last time we were all home at once. As if on cue, Maia pokes her head in my door without knocking. “Hello, darling,” she says. Despite the inexplicable dread sitting on my chest like a weight, I can’t help but smile at her. She still has her dress rehearsal makeup on, glitter piled on her lids and hot pink blush packed up to her temples. She’ll go out to the bar like that and be the most beautiful girl there. I think for a second she’s going to invite me out, despite my extremely visible intentions of staying home for the night. Instead she says, in an impressively innocent tone, “Someone handsome and salt-and-peppery is here for you.” As soon as she sees my face drop, all pretenses of teasing drop. “Are you okay?” she asks, stepping fully into my bedroom and shutting the door. “Do you want me to tell him to leave?” I shake my head, standing off my bed and willing my hands to stop shaking even as my anxiety rages at me, This is it. This is what I’ve been warning you about. I told you something bad was going to happen and here it is-- “No, Maia,” I say, pleased to hear my voice come out steady at least. I don’t know why I’m so certain of who’s at the door, but there’s only one handsome, salt-and-peppery man I know that would make the drive into the city on a snowy Friday night just to see me. I grab a sweatshirt from my closet and shove my arms through it. “It’s fine,” I tell her, even as my heart pounds. She follows me out of my bedroom and down the narrow hall. The apartment is warm as hell, the windows steamed from all the bodies here, coats and boots and hats strewn across the radiators to dry. A pot of something fragrant simmers on the stove, and I know it's Rosie’s cooking without having to look. My stomach growls and I remember I haven’t eaten yet today. I was right, and it is Tommy standing in the foyer--quite rich of a word to describe the tiny square of space in front of the door next to the coat and shoe racks-- not looking abashed at all at having arrived unannounced at nearly nine at night. “Hello, Uncle,” I say, attempting a combination of warmth and polite confusion. His expression tells me I’m a poor actress. As I suspected, Tommy chose to arrive during the tiny sliver of time when all the planets align and each of my six roommates are home. Interestingly enough, they’ve all gathered on the mismatched couches and grin at him like hyenas. Maia tries shooing them out, looking at me apologetically when no one moves. Tommy winks at my roommates, still a shameless flirt despite being well into his forties and enjoying a blissful marriage to Catherine. Then he turns to me and tilts his head toward the door. “Let’s go for a walk, Isabel.” I’m sixteen and in trouble again, hands shaking as I shove my feet into boots that are more like slippers and a coat from the rack that I belatedly realize is not mine. He leads me out the door and I grit my teeth as I have to slam it three times before I hear the latch click. “It sticks,” I mutter. I groan inwardly as I pull on the coat and the arms barely touch my wrists, the absurdity thrown into sharper contrast next to Tommy’s coiffured appearance. If he notices he doesn’t let on, apparently more interested in the crumbling apartment hall than my haphazard appearance. “This seems unsafe,” he notes mildly, referring to a patch of ceiling that is just barely hanging on. I pretend I don’t hear him. When he stops to inspect the broken lock on the front door, I keep walking. “I should call the fire department out here,” he says irritably. “Slumlord of a--“ “Do we have a destination?” I interrupt. I’m standing in the fresh snow, glad it’s not slush yet, and wondering how long until the powder melts and soaks my slippers. “Or did you come here strictly to criticize?” He does his slow blink, the Tommy blink, the one accompanied by the deep breath where I can practically see him shove the irritation into one of the many boxes in his brain. “I did not come here to criticize,” he says firmly. “Come on.” The restaurant he leads me to is one of my favorites to order takeout from. I wonder if he remembers this from a previous visit, or if it’s just the only restaurant within walking distance that will let his sweatpants-clad, wet-slipper-wearing, too-small-coat-having niece through the door. My heart twists when he asks if I want my usual and I realize it’s the former. I nod wordlessly and pick the table I want, sitting on the bench seat that faces the window. I foresee a lot of eye-contact-avoiding in my near future and watching the snow fall will be a pleasant and welcome distraction. I’m viciously picking at the skin around my cuticles when I feel him sit across from me. I don’t look up. “Bel,” he says. I can tell from his tone that, if I look up, his face will break my heart. “Tell me what’s going on.” I’m silent. I’ve reopened a scab on my cuticle and it's bleeding. He passes me a napkin. I was hoping he’d choose to be angry instead of understanding. To rage at the unanswered phone calls and voicemails, the bland text message updates I send without rhyme or reason that don’t provide any substantive information. To demand answers, and when I refuse, to leave and swear that he’s done trying, for good this time. But of course he doesn’t. I can feel the beginnings of panic start to dig in, claws latching deep enough where I won’t be able to talk myself down. My heart is pounding in my ears again, and when I finally look up at Tommy it feels like he’s miles away. Tommy knows everything about me, and instead of that being a comfort, it makes me feel cripplingly exposed. The knowledge that he, at his leisure, can remember all of the times I was emotionally flayed open by my mother, physically knocks the wind out of me. He can remember my feigned grief when she died and my thinly-veiled relief that verged on joy that I was finally free. Free from her obsession, from her violent and erratic episodes, from her unpredictability, from the mysterious but persistent illness that cropped up when I stopped being an adorable toddler in a tutu and magically disappeared when she died. He can remember the abject devastation I tried to hide when my dad, his brother, rejected me. When he, in his grief at my mother’s death, shoved me out and never let me back in. And, perhaps most horribly because they were the choices I made myself and can’t be blamed on anyone else, he can remember the drugs I did, the alcohol I drank, the disgustingly inappropriate men I dated. He can remember the stubborn way he and Catherine took me in and tried to heal me. To repay Tommy and Catherine for their unconditional love and generosity? I hide from them. I ignore them. I avoid them. I convince myself they acted purely out of obligation. And while it makes me hate myself, it feels better than revisiting the agonizing first sixteen years of my life. I don’t say any of this, just stare blankly over his shoulder until the food comes. Neither of us pick up silverware, but the warmth from the noddles drifting up into my face is calming. I’ll bring them home if I don’t eat any. Julia loves these noodles. I’ll bring them home and split them with her and we’ll watch trash TV. She’ll fall asleep mid-sentence like she always does. I almost smile. I start to breathe again. “Do you need money?” Tommy asks. The question surprises me. “No.” I’ve firmly refused money from Tommy since I moved out. Depending on them feels a lot like burdening them. “Why?” “We saw that you pulled out of The Nutcracker this year.” His eyes are filled with questions, but his voice is kind. I don’t ask how he knows or where he saw this. I don’t tell him about the knee injury. He’ll know it’s a lie. He’ll know the real injury is the mind kind. “I don’t need money.” “What do you need?” I don’t answer. “We miss you,” he says. I might be imagining it, but it sounds like his voice breaks when he says it. He sighs, does his slow blink again, breathes, composes himself. “There’s an Isabel-shaped hole in our house,” he tries again, half-smiling. How do I tell him I’d rather die than ever feel the way I did three years ago? I’d rather die than even risk feeling that way? How do I tell him that, as much as I miss them too, as selfish as it is, this is the only way? He seems to realize he is getting nowhere by being vulnerable and changes tactics. “I’ve never been up to your apartment until now. Do you live with all those girls?” I nod, twisting noodles around my fork but not lifting it. “So there’s--seven of you in there?” I nod again. He's floored. “How many bedrooms are in there?” he asks, half amused, half aghast. “Why?” I ask. “Are you going to call the fire department?” His shoulders tense and he looks up. When he sees the small smile on my face and he relaxes. He switches to a safer subject. “Are they all dancers?” “Mostly.” I finally take a bite. It’s significantly cooled but is as delicious as always. “Kat and Tig are new. I don’t know if they’ll last, but I hope they do.” I twist more onto my fork. The hunger has surpassed the anxiety. “Maia is the one that answered the door, I think.” “Ah. The one that tried to save me from the horde.” “Yes,” I say. “The same.” “You’re closest with her,” he guesses. It’s an educated guess, and its accuracy is both startling and touching. “Yes,” I say. “She’s my closest friend here.” I’ve never had a friendship like the one I have with Maia. I didn’t know they existed until she started barging into my room without knocking, unapologetically nosing into my business, perching on the bathroom sink to complain about her day while I’m in the shower. Instead of shoving her away, I find myself inviting her further and further into my life. I continue without mentioning any of this. “Then there’s Rosie and Julia. They’re both in the corps.” I count on my fingers who I’ve already mentioned. “Last is Gabby. She’s not a dancer, she works in real estate.” “How’d she end up with you lot?” I shrug. “Alcohol, I assume.” He huffs a laugh like he wasn’t expecting that answer. “You like them?” he asks. “Yes,” I answer, realizing he knows me as the girl with no friends. I realize my roommates don’t know that girl. “I like them a lot. All of them.” He smiles at me in a way that makes me feel exposed again and I return my attention to the plate. I want to scream and rage against whatever inner workings of my brain make me feel like I’m underwater and Tommy is above the surface. I desperately wish I could give him a glimpse inside of the knotted wires and make him understand. It has nothing to do with you . I know I love you. My brain just won’t let me feel it. There’s silence for several minutes. I keep hoping Tommy will break it but I know he won’t. He’s a master of silence; he says so himself. “I--“ I stutter, stop, try again. “I wish I could make you understand.” I close my eyes. Breathe. I will not cry , I think. “I’ll feel like I’m getting better. I’ll feel like I can breathe. Like I--care again.” I wince, knowing those words will hurt him. “But it always comes back. It’s always worse than before.” “Bel,” he says calmly. Gently. “If you don’t take anything else away from this conversation, take away this: I do understand.” I blink. “Okay.” “No one is mad at you.” “Okay.” He takes a deep breath like he’s scared of what he’s about to say. “You’re not trying,” he says. He doesn’t say it unkindly. He says it like he knows it’s a hard truth. “You’re hiding.” He waits for me to argue. I don’t. “The longer you let yourself do this...” He sighs. “The path back is going to get harder and harder.” He’s looking at me like it hurts him to think of the hurt I’ll have to go through. What he doesn’t know is that I never plan on going through it. I will slog through this purgatory forever before I willingly return to those dark places. We sit quietly for a few for minutes until I say, “I think I want to go home now.” I see the devastation in his eyes, but his expression remains neutral. “Let’s go, then.” I shrug on the too-small coat that’s not mine and forget to ask for a box for the food. The snow is thicker on the ground now, but less is falling from the sky. Tommy’s beside me for the short walk back to my apartment, through the broken front doors and all the way to my door with the pretty, sparkly Christmas wreath. I don’t ask him where he parked. I realize I didn’t ask him anything all night. “Come see us for Christmas,” he says. I don’t look at him. “Or any time. We’re not going anywhere, Isabel.” Half threat, half promise. I thank him for dinner. Tell him I’ll think about it. Close the door without looking back. The apartment is silent. I can’t bear the thought of being in my bedroom for another second. I take off my sopping slippers and place them on the radiator before laying down on the couch and turning the TV on. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know Maia has scooched in beside me and my head is resting on her thigh. I can hear Gabby and Julia drunk and cooking in the tiny kitchen behind us. Rosie is trying and failing to manage them in between fits of laughter. I can just tell from what I’m hearing that they’re making a mess. I don’t mind. The despair that I felt earlier is starting to ease as I listen to the familiar sounds. Maia looks down and sees I’m awake. She doesn’t seem as drunk as the others. “Hi, sleepyhead.” She’s flipping through channels. She can never pick one. It drives me crazy. “What did you and your hot uncle do?” “We went to Up Thai.” “Leftovers?” Julia calls hopefully from the kitchen, even as she’s cooking. “Sorry, Jules.” She huffs, then decides, “We’ll go tomorrow.” I agree. Maia is eyeing me suspiciously. “He drove all the way into the city to bring you out for counter service?” “He wants me to visit for Christmas. Or sometime soon. Whenever I have free time.” I am grateful when she doesn’t mention that I have nothing but free time lately. Instead, she gushes, “Oh, I love the country. I want to come when you go.” Tommy and Catherine’s trendy, upscale neighborhood could hardly be considered country. Tommy would probably be incensed by the comparison. I don’t correct her and stay quiet, hoping she’ll drop it. Of course she doesn’t. “Can I really come?” I can’t tell if she’s doing this on purpose, if she’s picked up on how I’m feeling and thinks she’s helping. I feel like she is making plans for a happy life I’ll go through the motions of but never feel, but I don’t say that. When I first moved in, I felt like I’d be the outsider watching my roommates enjoy their lives, but here I am with my head in one of their laps. I suppose it’s not outside the realm of possibility that maybe there could be a day I’ll be ready to take the painful path Tommy talked about. So instead I say, “That would be fun. I’ll think about it.”

The night chill woke me seconds before my cell phone rang-- "Crane here," I answered, half-asleep. It was well past 2:00 a.m. Friday night. Sitting up in bed, I tried to breathe my way to wakefulness, taking in the crickets and the pattering rain outside, reflecting on just how different the world was *out there*. "Sorry about the late hour, Chief." It was Stinson, my deputy, out of breath. "But we've got a situation and I think you oughta be in on it." "Ongoing?" "Suppose that depends on your beliefs." "About what?" I asked. "The devil." I put Stinson on speaker and got dressed as he filled me in on the particulars: the address (over on Highland Crescent); the fact the house was sealed off "just in case"; and that "two of 'em are dead already--and how. It puts the fear of God in me just to remember the bodies." I slid on my boots. "And the others?" "Alive and in the house. One banging on the window to get out. What should we do with them?" "Nothing, but don't let anyone leave. The killer--" "--could still be inside." I exited by the front door and got in the car. Coaxing the engine to life, then pulling out the driveway, "OK, now tell me who called the police and everything you know so far," I said. "Caller was a small fellow called Uriah. Nervous, from what I seen. As to what happened, like I told you before, we got two bodies, one of 'em with his head off, a bloody table and six people who don't want to talk about it much except to say it's the devil did it. Pale as ghosts, all of 'em." I turned onto the highway. "Oh, and there's a bunch of, how you call it, Satanic paraphernalia all over the place." When I arrived, the scene was relatively quiet. Two police cruisers, lights off; a few officers loitering outside; neighbours starting to gossip on their front lawns; and a face in the window, banging on the glass. "That there's Samara," said Stinson. "Let's go in." Although I said it, for perhaps the first time in my police career I didn't feel it. I didn't *want* to go in. I didn't feel my usual sense of duty. There was something off about the place--about the whole situation. There also arose other thoughts in my head: *Walk away. Retire. Forget about it.* I put those ones aside. Stinson followed me in. "Jesus," I said, overwhelmed by the sudden, unexpected heat. "Quite the first impression, eh?" Stinson closed the door. Wiping droplets of sweat from my forehead, "Crane, Chief of Police," I announced to whoever was inside. No response. We passed from the hallway to the living-- Corpse. *Charred*. I-- "Sorry," said Stinson. "Forgot to warn you about that one. Son of a bitch got me too." I looked it over. Burnt to a charcoal crisp. "Got an ID on it?" "Nothing conclusive. The others all claim it's a guy called Lenny, but no one recalls his last name." We walked a little further. "This next one I did warn you about," said Stinson. "Again, no actual ID, but everyone agrees he was one Tikhon Mayakovsky. That includes his supposed sister. Mr Mayakovsky happens to be the owner of this property. You'll find his head in the corner over there." *Happened*, I thought. As promised: a man's bloody, clothed body sitting, almost casually, against the wall--headless; neck sliced clean off; and the head smiling, upside down, from across the room. "Jesus." Just then a dry chill passed through me in the otherwise humid room. "Feel that?" I asked. "Sure. Maybe A/C acting up?" "Maybe." I kept wondering why no one was coming out to talk to us. "The last time we had a killing in town was--" "Bakerfield, 2003." I was surprised it was that long ago. "Winter murder. Crime of passion. Open and shut," I said. "No burning. No decapitation. No--" He bent down to pick up a metal pentagram covered in wax, and a few spent matches. "--Devilry." Next, Stinson showed me to what, perhaps with a touch of the unsubtle, he referred to as *the murder room*: small and windowless, containing a heavy, round oak table covered in stains (wax, blood, who knows what else) encircled by eight chairs, one of which had been knocked over. The stale air smelled of death, incense and sulphur. "And now," he said, "the suspects." I paused before entering the room in which they waited, noting only that the door had been padlocked. I could hear banging from inside. "Was the lock necessary?" Stinson shrugged. "I had to improvise, and one of them was intent on leaving. Didn't want her disturbing the crime scene." "Six are inside?" I asked, pulling out my notebook and pen. "Correct. Samara, that'd be the one claiming to be Tikhon's sister, Milton, Naomi, Pearl, Raymundo, and the small fellow who called it in, Uriah." I finished writing the names. "Any impressions?" "Either they all did it, or they're all mad. Or both," said Stinton. He unlocked the door and we entered. Six people indeed. "Good evening. Name's Crane. I'm the Chief--" Anger! "What's the idea, keeping us locked in here like this, like kept animals, with the portal open and it loosed and awaiting its due. Let us be! Let us all be, then get out. Leave! Leave here and never come back!" "I--" I said. Stinson took out his gun. "Calm down, Samara," said one of the five people seated. "They won't believe you anyway. They think one of us is the killer." Samara waved her hand dismissively before returning to her window. "Why would I do it? Why would I kill my own brother," she said with her back turned. "More than that--we've a spiritual obligation," one of the women said. "To see it through." "No chance of that now that *he's* ruined us all," Samara sneered. At the back of the room, a small man, presumably Uriah, chewed his fingernail. I approached the man who'd spoken ("Crane. Chief of police.") and held out my hand. He shook it, saying, "Raymundo." "What I want are the facts," I said. "Facts," Samara said with audible distaste. "Always with your *facts*, your *reason*. That's precisely what's wrong with you people. That's what Tikhon was learning how to overcome." "Just tell me what happened in the order it happened," I said. "Promise to hear us out?" Raymundo asked. "Yes." He patted down the front of his shirt for a pack of cigarettes. "Do you mind?" After I shook my head, he carefully took one cigarette out of the pack, held it between two fingers, lifted it into the air, made a guttural sound in no language I'd ever heard--and the tip of the cigarette ignited, just like that. "Do you see?" Behind me, Stinson gripped his gun. "Is that a trick?" I asked. "No," he said, stubbing out the cigarette. "It's a demonstration of the properties of a portal." "You think you can persuade him, explain it to him step-by-step, when he lacks the one thing he must have to understand: faith," said Samara. I asked, "A portal to where?" "Hell." "Told you they're mad, the lot of 'em," said Stinson. "Everything rests on faith," Samara was saying. "Tikhon knew that better than anyone." "Tell me from the beginning," I said. One of the other women in the room piped up: "It was a séance. We were having a séance." "And you are?" "Naomi." "For God's sake, it wasn't a séance!" Samara walked decisively away from the window. "A séance is a communication with the dead. We weren't communicating with the dead. We were communicating with the never-living." I looked at Samara, then at Naomi, who was looking down, and finally at Raymundo, who said, "Samara's right. This wasn't a séance." "Sorry," mumbled Naomi. "It was my first time." "Sometimes we spoke with the dead," said the third woman, who I deduced was Pearl. "Or rather they spoke to us." "That wasn't the point," said Samara. "It happened," said Pearl. "Were you speaking with the dead *tonight*?" I asked. Stinson scoffed. "No," said Raymundo. "We were gathered tonight to commune with, as Samara called them, the never-living, to open a portal to their world. The demon world. The dead did not interfere." "How did you open that portal. Did it involve--" Samara: "We didn't kill anybody!" "Opening a portal requires eight humans performing a ritual. There is no death involved. The details of the ritual are arcane and rather unimportant. What's important is that we opened it." "What happened then?" I felt another dry chill come over me. Samara laughed, and Uriah, at the back of the room, shook with terrible fright. "You felt that, didn't you?" Samara said to me. "What is it?" "The never-living passing through the world of the living." "So this portal is still open?" Laughing furiously, "Of course it's still open. That's the entire point. That's the problem we should be solving," said Samara. "I'm here to solve two murders," I said. "You shouldn't be here at all. If *he* hadn't felt the cowardice, none of this would have happened. You wouldn't be here, and we'd be dealing with the true problem." "That's not fair," said Uriah in a thin voice. "It was already happening. Tikhon lost--" "Shut your mouth!" "Let him speak," I said. "He doesn't know what he's talking about. And he's not even a neophyte--" Samara's eyes passed briefly over Naomi with a certain disregard. "--so he has no excuse. He's a dilettante, and he's always been nothing but a dilettante." Uriah muttered something under his breath. "What happened after you opened the portal?" I asked Raymundo. "Tikhon made contact with a demon." Suddenly, the only person in the room not to have said anything, Milton, stood up. He was older than the rest, white-bearded. "It's coming back," he said. "It said half, and it's coming back." Stumbling forward, he tripped and fell, and I realised he was blind. Uriah helped him back to his seat. "What's coming back?" "The demon," Raymundo said. "We wanted to summon a minor demon, something we could control, but the demon we summoned wasn't minor at all," said Pearl. "Once it got into Tikhon--I've never seen such a possession." Milton was rhythmically tapping his feet against the floor, repeating: "Two more. Two more. Two more." Outside, the rain had picked up, drumming on the roof, gargling down the eavestroughs. "Two more what?" I asked. "Two more victims." "The demon demanded payment," said Naomi without looking up. "Payment for using the portal. Payment in blood. It said we'd been using the portal without paying the toll." Milton, singing: "*Fifty for the farmer, fifty for the red hen*." "How did the demon say this?" "Through Tikhon," said Pearl. "It said that the blood price is half the quorum, and the quorum is eight." "So you're admitting Tikhon threatened you!" Stinson burst out. "It wasn't Tikhon. It was the demon speaking *through* Tikhon," Raymundo calmly explained. "Tikhon was no longer present." Samara sighed. "This is all pointless." "What happened after the demon, speaking through Tikhon, threatened you?" "It wasn't a threat. It was a statement of price. Does a shopkeeper threaten you at the register when you're purchasing from his store?" Samara asked. I corrected myself. "What happened after the demon made its statement?" "Wait--" Naomi rose, looking at Samara, then around the room. "--you knew about this? You knew there would be a price, a half to pay the red hen?" "We'd done it before without a price," said Uriah quietly. "We knew," said Samara. "What happened next?" I asked. Naomi: "You used me!" "Oh, don't be so naive. Everything has a price. You wanted knowledge, you assumed the risk. Every single one of us assumed the risk." I repeated my question--louder. "He killed Lenny," said Uriah, his voice shaking. A tree branch smacked against the window. "He set him on hellfire." I looked to Raymundo for confirmation. "I'm afraid that's true. After stating his price, the demon began collecting it. The price was four of eight and Lenny was the first of the four." "What did you do while Lenny was burning?" "We continued the ritual," said Samara. "That was what we had agreed to." "Some of us," said Naomi. Pearl said, "He didn't burn long. Hellfire is within us all. The demon merely freed what was already within Leonard. Some sin or secret. It took him quickly. He didn't even make it to the front door." "Then Tikhon started talking in some other language, and he put his hands on either side of his own head, grabbing his ears and started turning--" "The demon," said Samara. "Not Tikhon." "...turning and turning..." Milton: "Put the bird upon the stone, sharpen your axe and bring it down. Cleave the body from the head, and watch it run until it's dead." "--until it came off, and then he grabbed it by the hair and held it up like a lantern, the mouth still wet and alive and talking, and it said: 'Either you or Samara are selected, or both,'" said Naomi. Samara raised an eyebrow. Uriah was speaking: "The blood was pouring out his neck, just pouring and pouring, all over the table and the candles, and the flames had turned red as the blood, and I couldn't take it anymore. I just couldn't." "Coward." "What did you do?" "I blew them out, the candles. Then I got up--" "He interrupted the ritual," said Samara. "One must never interrupt the ritual. The ritual must always be seen through to the end." "He was going to take another." "He will take another regardless, you fool. He must get his due. All you've done in your stupidity and weakness is put innocents in danger!" "And what did you do after getting up?" I asked. "I watched... Tikhon, stumble--collapse in on himself, like a punctured balloon," said Uriah, "and stagger toward the door. He got through, then slumped down against the wall, rolled his head across the room and died. And as it rolled, the head spoke, telling me that if Ray was given to the red hen, so would I be." "Soon the police came," said Raymundo. "And here we are." Stinson tapped me on the shoulder. "Does it sound like a murder-suicide to you? Because it sure sounds like one to me." *A man burned alive but no other signs of fire. A man with his head separated from his body, but no sign of the blade it was done with. The witness who called it in: in agreement with the other five witnesses that it was a demon who killed both.* "The longer we wait, the more angry he becomes," said Pearl. "He always gets his due," said Samara. "Why did you do it?" I asked. "We didn't. The demon did it. That's what we've been trying to tell you from the very beginning. He took two, and he's owed two more." "Not the killing," I said. "The ritual, the opening of the portal. Why do *that*?" "Why split the atom?" Samara answered, as the wind threw rain drops against the glass. "Why suffer to discover the source of the Nile? Why methodically map the human genome? To understand the world. To know existence." "I think it's going to be me," Uriah said, biting his fingernail again. "I feel dead already." "But the ritual was broken--doesn't that mean it's all over?" "The ritual is broken, but the portal remains unsealed. The demonic debt remains outstanding. The never-living flow through and among us." "Can you close the portal?" I asked. "I can't believe you're humoring these loons," Stinson barked, but I could hardly hear him. "We can't," said Samara. "That's the problem." It was unbearably hot. Raymundo said, "Although Samara is correct, it isn't true that the portal cannot be closed. Simply that we can't close it. It can still be closed from the other side, the demon side, if the demons so choose." "Which is why we must pay the red hen what is owed," said Samara. I looked over my notes. "The quorum was eight, the price was half, and two have already died. So two more must die to satisfy the debt?" "I say we do the world a favour and kill all of 'em," said Stinson, keeping a firm grip on his gun. "Not any two," said Raymundo. "Only the chosen two," said Samara. "That is the conundrum." I glanced at my notes again. "Does anyone remember anything else said by the demon?" Although part of me felt ridiculous for taking these occultists at their word, another part--the part that had felt the coldness passing through my warm, living flesh--knew there were darker recesses of human experience yet unplumbed. Milton began tracing lines in the air in front of him. "Not something heard, but something seen." As he traced, he spoke, and as he spoke I wrote: "If I am indeed to go to Hell, I shall in fair company be, for into flames I shall damnate Pearl and Tikhon alongside me." "That's what the demon showed you?" "I reckon," said Milton. "There's also what Lenny said right before he caught fire," added Pearl. "His eyes--they opened wide as saucers--and he asked with this great misunderstanding, 'What's it mean that I'm a quarter unless Pearl is?' A moment later he was ignited." "I remember that too," said Naomi. "Anything else?" *Silence.* Not just among the eight of us in the room, but total and complete silence: no rain, no wind, no tapping branches, no breathing. "What in God's name--" Stinson didn't get a chance to finish his question, because just then the door to the room was ripped out, and Tikhon entered, headless, from the black, infinitely dense, infinitely deep, void on the other side of the doorway, where the rest of the house used to be. Stinson shot! Once!--Twice!--And a third ti-- But Tikhon, or the demon possessing him, absorbed the bullets, stepped toward Stinson, screaming, terrified, placed one hand on each of Stinson's shoulders *and tore him in two*, just like that. The two halves of Stinson fell to the floor. I could not shriek. Or cry. "I," said the demon in a voice which sounded like a thousand ancient beasts slaughtered on a thousand stone altars, emanating from everywhere at once, a voice I felt through all my senses, "always--" I saw: Samara crying tears of joy; Uriah peeing his pants; Raymundo overawed; Naomi trying to pull her lips over her face; Milton's eyes rolling and rolling in their sockets; Pearl laughing hysterically. "--get my due." Then the demon strode toward the nearest wall, bent forward so that the bloody stump of Tikhon's neck was pressed against it, and wrote the following on the wallpaper: 4 - 2 = 2 When he was finished, he turned back toward where Stinson's halves were lying, and consumed them: the way a snake consumes a rat: by distending its own elastic body with the fullness of its prey. When both halves were in him, he said, "That one was for my pleasure. I am temporarily satiated. Deliver unto me precisely the sacrifice you owe and the portal shall be shut. Deliver unto me what I am not owed, and I shall devour this town and all within it, depriving it of existence and purging it from memory. Such is my power, for I am the God of Annihilation." Then the world returned: First the rain, followed by the house beyond the door--now open on its hinges--and all of us in it: all seven, for Stinson was no more. Only his gun remained, discarded on the floor, touched by no one. Time passed and we did not speak. On the wallpaper, the bloody numbers slowly trickled into incomprehensibility. "There is one more thing," Samara said finally. "Words Tikhon whispered to me when we first began our experiments. 'If the Devil takes you, he will not take me too.'" Then, staring at me, she asked: "Do you believe us now?" "My duty is to protect. I must not let the city or its citizens come to harm," I said. "Have faith.

“Jesus chris’ Chrice, jus’ do it already, why don’cha?” “I dunno man, I don’t think I’m ready.” “What d’you mean you don’t think yer ready? What d’ya think is gonna happin’?” “Well, it’s kinda a lot of pressure and I just...I don’t think I can do it yet.” “An’ why the heck not?” “Well it kinda looks hard.” “Jesus chris’ Chrice, it’s s’posed to be hard. But s’not so difficult once you get the hang of it y’know?” “Maybe not to you it’s not! But I never done this before.” “We all, one point or ‘nother, never done this before. Only way you learn is jus’ go fer it an’ hope it works out ok.” “But what is ‘it’ that I’m goin’ for?” “Jesus chris’ Chrice, how many times I gotta tell you? S’not so complicated.” “But what if I do it wrong?” “Naw, you can’t do it wrong. You jus’ stick it in, and twist it ‘round a lil.” “You sure though?” “Course I’m sure!” “But what if I twist it too hard?” “Then you might break it! Don’ do that. You gotta be gentle, but firm.” “But what if it hurts?” “Whatchu means ‘what if it hurt?’ S’not gonna hurt.” “How d’ya know?” “Jesus chris’ Chrice, ‘cause I done it before! Don’ you trus’ me?” “Of course I trust you! I just....well I’m scared I’mma muss it all up.” “Stop worryin’. Don’ overthink it so much. Jus’ stick it in, an’ twist it. You can go slows you like.” “What if I go too slow?” “Yer can’t go too slow. Goin’ slow jus’ means yer makin’ sure it fits in nice.” “Can you show me?” “I already done shown you!” “I know, I’m sorry. I jus’ don’t wanna muss up and look stupid. Show me jus’ one more time? Fer me, please.” “Jesus chris’ Chrice, ok. One more time, but that’s it ok?” “Ok. Gosh bless you.” “So, yer gonna take it in your hands like so. You follow?” “Mhm yesssir.” “Good. Now, you wanna take the round end in your hand like this. Got it?” “Got it.” “An’ you wanna stick this end in an’ up, like this. See now?” “I see.” “It should line up just right with the hole there.” “Uhu.” “An’ ya slide it right in.” “Oh wow, would ya look at that!” “Go slow though, right.” “Right. Why slow?” “Cause f’you go too quick and it don’t fit proper, it won’t twist none.” “Ah, o’course not.” “Right, then you twist it gently, like so, till you feel it click.” “Click? Why click though?” “Cause if you don’ feel it click, then tha’s how you knows it don’t work proper.” “Right, and it’s a waste e’erybodies time if it don’t work proper?” “Xactly!” “Wow, an’ where’d you learn how to do it?” “My brother o’course!” “Really now? I wish I had a brother to teach me useful stuff like this. An’ where he learn it from?” “Our cousin.” “You don’t say? And where’d he...” “C’mon now Chrice, quit askin’ so many damned questions and jus’ do it, now won’tchu?” “Right right, sorry! So I take it like this and... which hand should I hold it in?” “Either really. But most find it easier to do, more stable, ya see? holdin’ it with their dominant hand. Which hand you write with?” “My left.” “Right. So take it in yer left hand then. Careful now, don’ drop it!” “I got it. An’ I go like this?” “Mhhm, aim careful now. You want it to align so it goes in the hole smoothly now. Don’t force it.” “Awe damn. It won’t fit. I think it’s maybe too big.” “Now that’s a common misconception there. I know plen’y folks who think their’s is too big to fit, but you go slow now, an’ see how it fits perfectly fine. Jus’ go slow and aim it nice an’ careful now. “Now see, it won’t fit! It’s too big.” “Jesus chris’ Chrice, I just done it and it worked. Weren’t yeh watchin’? I can’t just whip it out an’ show you every time yer confused. You gotta get it on yer own eventually now. Try again now, but go slower. Be patient. There ain’t a rush to finish quick. Unless you gettin’ paid to go quick o’course. But yer not, so take your time.” “Ok, ok. Here, like this?” “There ya go. See there now, the tip aligns right with the hold. There ya go. Slow now, don’t shove. It don’t work better if you try an’ force it. ‘member? Might break it an’ yer don’ want that. My cousin accidentally did that an’ had to get a whole new one.” “No kiddin’? It broke so bad he had to get a new one? Now that’s jus’ crazy bad luck there” “No such thing as luck. Good or bad. Jus’ was too impatient, but he was also gettin’ paid by his neighbors, so maybe he felt he had to do it quick.” “Can’t get paid to go slow for a better job?” “Sure you can, but usually only for bigger ones.” “An’ why’s that?” “Cause smaller ones are usually quicker to finish.” “Really? Now why’s that?” “Jesus chris’ Chrice, cause i’s smaller. Bigger ones is bigger, heavier. Takes more time to align it accurately an’ all.” “Right right. That was a silly question.” “Sure was.” “But what happened to yer cousin?” “Well I guess he done a good enough job that satisfied his neighbors well enough ‘cause they asked him to come again.” “No kiddin’? Even with a broken one?” “Well he got a new one o’course! They’d never let him bring a broken one into their bedroom. Can’t finish nothin’ proper with a broken one hanin’ ya know?” “No, course not.” “Now get back to yers. How’s it goin’?” “Oh right! Like this?” “Right, now a little to the right. Careful now. Slow it down, no need to rush. A little further. There!” “Here?” “Yes, slide it in, slowly now.” “Like this?” “Yes, yes! Now twist it gently.” “How much?” “You’ll know. Jus’ take it slow. There you go. Keep goin’. A little more. Don’ stop, don’ stop! Almost there. Do you feel anything?” “No, it jus’ keeps twisting.” “Well it looks right. Just keep twis...” “AH! Was that it??” “Did ya feel it? How was it?” “Satisfying!” “I told you it would be! That’s why you gotta keep tryin’ till you finish!” “I wanna do it again! “Now don’ be so hasty. Go on over by the wall.” “Why’s that?” “Gotta make sure ya dd it right?” “But it fit and it clicked.” “So there should be nuffin’ to worry ‘bout. Go on now, go turn it on.” “Look, It works!” “And tha’s how to fix a light bulb!!”

"Hey," Simon says softly to the boy who approaches him and kisses him on the mouth. "Hey," Alan replies after hugging him a little shyly. They hadn’t seen each other in a few days and Alan knows it wasn’t an accident. Their whole story had been mapped out from the beginning, and he used to think he was just imagining it, but now he’s sure of it. They grew up together, or rather they had known each other since they were aware of their existence. In that little alley, almost protected from the outside world, the two of them had known since then that they were lucky. There were more kids there, but the two of them were always a tandem, no matter what happened. As they grew it only became more visible. Sometimes people exchanged them for brothers even though they were physically quite different. Alan was two years older and was always protective of Simon. Especially lately since they finally realized why they are so attached to each other. Only, their relationship here will never be accepted and they knew it from the beginning. Tonight he will try to put it all aside. Simon is only 17 years old and he knows that this trip, no matter how short, will be condemned by his parents. However, he insisted that they reach a small lake near the neighboring town and live with each other for at least 24 hours. One night and the day before Alan went to the big city. He was reluctant to leave him because he knew Simon's parents would surely go crazy and punish him. Especially when they find out they were together, and they’ll find out for sure. Simon just shook his head at that. He didn't care. This is their time, and even so short. Simon was the first to admit to Alan that he liked him. He was always more open and honest. The younger boy was always the one leading and Alan, among other things, really liked it. He seemed to want to be like him sometimes, but he didn’t really mind, they were perfect together. It doesn't matter tonight. These few hours of theirs are so precious that they will try to forget everything around them. They walk and talk. Alan listens to Simon’s stories with such interest as if trying to soak up all of this for some bad days that are sure to come. They brought some sandwiches and juices because this is something like a trip. They wandered almost all night in the deserted city and when they got tired they sat by the water and waited for the sun to rise. The dawn is beautiful, even though it's a little cold in the morning, they don't mind either. Simon leaned his head on Alan's shoulder and just watched in silence. One day there may be justice for them too. One day when they both come of age and hope to be ready to go anywhere. That will only matter while they are together. Because they both know that there will never be anyone else, for neither. When the day dawned, Alan left Simon with a heavy heart, his eyes full of tears, but so they agreed. Scrape off quickly like a band-aid, and simply wait for the day when somehow everything will work out in their favor. Simon wanders around the city for a while, then sits down by the lake again on a bench where they sat together until recently. Tears stream down his cheeks and something heavy, dark around his heart grips him. He remembers the promises he made to the older boy, he will endure whatever he has to, so he straightens up and just looks at the water. Trying to fight all that sadness, he just falls asleep. Luckily there are no people around and when he finally wakes up it’s already night. He knows he should have gone home, but he can't. It can't be forced, at least for a while longer. That’s where they were last together, right on this bench. Maybe everyone thinks that he is too young for such great feelings and decisions, but Simon knew for a long time. And he also knows that he will never regret it, nor will any of it ever change. Simon really went through everything and anything. His family was anything but normal. Some would say that his affection for Alan was just an attempt to escape, but even that was not true. He remembers almost every day they grew up. Their going to school and every time Alan defended him. He remembers so many times when Alan helped him when he ran away from home and fed or clothed him. Alan was not only his friend, he was like family to him, from a young age. As they grew older he only felt his affection for the older boy grow and he had no choice but to admit it. Why hide the truth from the most important person in his life. Alan felt the same way, but he tried as a senior to suggest to Simon to wait. Explain to him what the consequences might be. In fact, he knew he would always be able to rely on each other, so he relented. They met secretly and kissed like all young lovers. Clumsy, passionate and full of heart. They took each other's innocence, if it can be called that, because they were very happy to give it to each other. Simon thinks about all this as he watches the moon looming in the small lake. Everything here is so perfect, in this quiet, hidden place. Almost everything, because he is still alone. Only, this is temporary. He won't be stopped by the beatings he'll get when he gets back. Nor the hatred of the whole world if he has to fight. One day the light of this month will lead him to what is his. He smiled for the first time after Alan left and headed home. Just a little more...

The open auditorium was filled with a fully seated audience captivated by the sound flowing from the raised platform. It was from a melody being produced from the melancholy dance of the bow and string held by a pair of skilled diligent hands. Once the performance was over, a pause hung in the air, waiting for the last note to float and dissolve, where a loud rumble of clap and cheers followed. While her deeply immersed shut eyes opened, Marie smiled at the cheering crowd and wiped the bead of sweat on her neck, waving her hands in a fanning motion to cool off from the summer heat. As she left the platform, a wave of loneliness that visited after every performance filled her. Being a wallflower, the cello was the instrument of her stirring emotions and this was the only time she could showcase it. She made her way to the lockers when she saw a group of seniors mainly boys surrounding a girl. A girl with a petite frame and heart-shaped face, in which her almond eyes and straight nose perfectly fit. A reverse mirror to Marie. The girl caught her eyes and smirked, to which the group she was talking to turned to look at her. “Hey, Marie! Great Performance,” shouted Ben, one of the senior boys that had his arm around the petite girl’s shoulder. A hot flush stole across her cheeks as she stuttered, “Th-Thanks Benny,” “Th-th-thanks Be-nn-y” the girl mockingly replied. Few of them laughed while a hot flush stole across Marie’s cheeks. Come on Jenna, she’s your sweet baby sister” Ben exclaimed. “A baby she sure is,” Jenna smirked. “Oh, I forget you’re sisters. She looks like nothing like you, or your mom Jenna. Are you sure she’s not adopted?” the girl beside Jenna snickered. Marie stood tongue-tied, she never knew how to react to that, how many times it came up. “Maybe.” Jenna shrugged looking at Marie head to toe. Marie clenched her fists as she passed by them, stomping her feet. “I’m just teasing!” called out Jenna laughing in distance. As she got to her locker, she rolled her eyes at the charity campaigns led by Jenna stuck all over the bulletin boards. She was amused by the new project Jenna has put her nose to, which she was sure was just another social activity for the self-seeking sister. As the day was done, Marie made her way back to the bus stop and slumped against the sidewall. The soft breeze played with her loose ponytail as she basked in the summer sun today. Oddly after every performance, she missed home. Both she and Jenna had initially grown up in a rural village and had moved to this small town together to pursue a life in music. Jenna’s clarinet playing was lacking, so their mother still had to pay for the lessons but Marie had received a scholarship straight away. As she raised her head up to the cloudy blue sky, she wondered when was it that they started hating each other. Was it when they came here or from before? It should have ranged from misunderstandings to vicious fights piling as the sisters grew older. But Marie could only remember yearning for Jenna’s attention. She remembered a memory when they were younger girls. Marie had presented all her savings in an empty chips box and one of her favorite dolls as a gift for her sister's birthday. Jenna had poked and prodded the gifts, tore the masking tape off the box, and kept the loose change into her pocket leaving the box and doll to the side and walked off. Now that she was much older, her heart sank at how secretly devastated her younger self was, more than anger she felt sad. Believing maybe she did something wrong then. The bus came to the stop and she got in and sat by the last seat, opening up the bus window partly. Now Marie equally ignored her, because she felt peace, although it was temporary. The bus halted at the next stop where she saw woodpeckers pecking at a tall, disheveled pine tree that shook stronger with each peck. She wondered how long would it take for the tree to break down. The bus lighted ahead and she reminded herself to check her mailbox in the hope to hear from her dream school in the city soon. This would be the gateway. An escape from this close-minded town where people like her shallow sister reigned and she didn't feel uncomfortable anymore. Her reflection on the window stared back at her solemnly and she told herself it doesn’t matter what she looked like. As long as she had her bow and talent, she could actually have a shot. As Marie got back to her dorm, she checked her mailbox to check to see if there was an acceptance letter. Nothing but few phone bills that included Jenna’s. Walking up to the stairs, she passed by her sister’s dorm wondering if she should drop it by. The matron was spotted from the opposite corridor, the girls hurling out of her way left and right and she wanted to avoid her as well, knowing the matron would give her some tasks. So she opened the door and sprung in hoping no one was in. As she looked around, it was clear. Her heart thumped as she walked towards the bedside and her head kept looking at the door. The matron was near her door telling off the room opposite hers. She kept the phone bill at Jenna’s desk and turned to leave but the array of makeup brushes and hair rolls caught her eye. Sweat beads forming on her temple, Knowing she should leave already. Uncomfortable by the mess of books and makeup mixed up on the table and she muttered and blew her bangs off her face, annoyed that Jenna can’t even care for her things. One more look at the door and she decides to tidy up and have a look at the final year history textbooks. As she flips through the book, a bunch of letters falls to the floor to which she picks it up to see it’s a college essay and application letter jotted by Jenna. Curious, she read the essay but only to gasp and read it again. Ruffling through the remaining papers, she finds a letter in her own handwriting, from where Jenna’s essay is copied. Her own essay and application are tattered and then she realizes her sister never mailed her application and by now the deadline was over. In shock she runs out of the room, pacing as fast she can, the tears uncontrollably falling over her cheeks, her hair. She closed her room and laid back on the door, finding her fingers trembling in anger, she punches her pillows around recklessly. Wiping her tears, she hoped it wasn't too late. After a few calls to the school, she sank into her bed in despair but rose, just as the heaviness in her chest that was used to being dismissed, now returned stronger than ever. With that, she flung open the door and stormed to the cafeteria where she guessed Jenna could be. Her guess was right as Jenna was hanging with her posse laughing and sipping on juice refreshments. Jenna spotted Marie outside the café and walked her way towards Marie who found herself glaring down at the bracelet Jenna wore, something which belonged to her. She felt her entire body squirm along with the heat that hung lower than usual today. “Marie, give me 30 dollars.” “Why?” Marie pronounced. “Why? Because I need it. Tsk come on Marie, Hurry I need to go back in.” Jenna scoffed while looking at her watch. “But why should I give you my money.” Marie puckered. “Because..we’re family?” “Why am I your family only when you need something?” Jenna felt the closed café door being slid open completely. “We’re sisters Marie. Remember what mom says. Sisters share everything!” She laughed menacingly while looking around. “Oh, so we’re sharing this too?” She held up her tattered application letter. Jenna plunged forward to grab it. “Where did you get that? Did you go into my room?” She grabbed Marie’s shoulders bringing her away from the cafeteria. “You sabotaged my application by reaching out to the school, canceling it, and plagiarizing mine?” Marie shook Jenna’s hands off her. She feels a shadow of heads piling behind the glass door. “You don’t know what you’re saying. I’m going back in.” She innocently exclaimed turning to return to the café. “Why did you do it?” Marie stepped forward. Pausing, Jenna turned back slowly, her face now showing no remorse. "You're really never satisfied are you?" Marie was confused. "What?" “Face it, you will do fine performing for shows here in this town. But that school in the city, I should be going there. Someone like me” She pointed to herself from head to toe. “Someone like you?” “Yes, you think you’ll really survive in the city with your looks and your greasy personality." She stepped forward, her head closer to Marie's. “Look at you. You’ve become so arrogant. A little bit of attention and now you want to move to the city. And if I can’t get in so can’t you.” At her words, something switched inside Marie, and then it hit her. “So this is about staying in my league?.” Jenna scoffed as she clasped her hands, “I know my place. Now give me 30 dollars as I asked you.” Marie dint speak for a minute. She simply turned and started walking away. Jenna “Where are you going? Give me the mon--” Marie turned back swiftly “You know I thought if you grew up a bit more, you would change." She drew her breath in. “Every year, when I would feel horrible because of you and how you treated me, I thought if I just gave you sometime, you would change. I really wanted to wait for you to be the sister who would stand up for me." Jenna folded her arms as Marie continued. “But I was wrong. And I could ruin this for you,” she held up the application. “But it’s not worth it. You’re not worth it. Good luck big sis.” She threw the application back to Jenna and walked ahead, not looking back. Her heart thumping in her ribcage, she felt her back heavy with perspiration either from the heat outside or inside her. If there would come a day that she would forgive Jenna, she didn't know but Marie knew it won't be easy anymore. And she knew she was done. With Jenna, with the tiptoeing and with the self-destruction. It was now up to her completely. As she walked back, drops of rain hit her cheek and she stopped in surprise. A pent-up rainfall finding a loophole to break even in the haughty summer.

Finally, a moment to close my eyes and listen to Elvis play on the record player. Love me tender, love me sweet. Gosh, he makes my heart soar. What a dreamboat. For a few songs I can pretend that everything is normal. I imagine I’m laying on my fluffy white comforter from before. Our record player is one of the only luxuries left. My aunt got it for me last Christmas, it's one of those neat, new portable ones that doesn’t need to be plugged in. The sound isn’t as full, but it’s so swell to be able to listen to some music and relax for- “Amelia! Amelia. Amelia. Amelia.” If I acknowledge him maybe he will shut up, “What Carson? What?” Eight year olds are so unnecessary. “Ethan says he feels sick again.” On second thought, maybe they are slightly necessary. In one swift movement, I grab a bucket, dampen a washcloth, and slide on my homemade mask. Here’s a quick how to on my “do it yourself” mask: Take an empty orange juice bottle and cut off part of the side, place a few coffee filters around the spout, poke a few holes in the cap, and slap a giant rubber band around it, you've got a homemade gas mask. Like magic. Other helpful hints for surviving after a Nuclear war: keep occupied- being bored will drive you insane, ration everything you have, block all windows with mattresses, don’t drink water that comes from outside, don't eat live food from outside, don't go outside. Outside is dangerous. Outside is radiation. Outside means sickness. The only way you'll survive is by having sufficient shelter with enough to food and water that has been completely sealed off from radiation. Even then, you probably won't survive. I booked it into Ethan's room with just enough time to get the bucket under him and catch the last meal we fed him. His room is the darkest in the house, our “house” being the basement of my and Carson's former home. I say former, because the aftershock of an atom bomb making contact somewhere under 10 miles away sent our home into complete ruins. Our father was a wealthy man, and he blessed us with our giant 4 story home which is, was, in Pasadena, California. Father was a successful stock broker and Mother stayed at home to raise Carson and me. They liked to spoil us and when we begged for an entertainment room, we got it. Father furnished the basement and separated it into four rooms. A bathroom, a guest room, an entertainment room, and the bar. The largest room is complete with a carpet, couches, a pool table, and a television. Lucky for us survivors, the fridge in the bar made for my father and his colleagues was stocked with food and drinks. But when three people live off of the nutrients inside an average sized icebox, the things we needed most desperately disappeared just a week into our first nuclear winter. When we were down to the last 10 water bottles Ethan told us he was going to go outside. In our entire 4 year relationship Ethan never took charge, I was the one who asked him to go steady. So when his eyebrows set in so close together and with his voice deeper than usual, I took him seriously. I knew he was right anyways. When Ethan got back from his grocery store mission, he was shaking. Horrified, he told me about the sky raining ash. Saying over and over that the only bodies in sight were laying motionless on the ground, a white fungus like substance covering their mangled corpses. He was holding a bag full of food, medicine, and water. The bag hung on his arm. His red arm. His arm was bloody. I hadn’t planned for that. I had given him a mask. But I hadn’t planned that a metal rod sticking out from the ruins of a building would tear his skin open. I didn’t consider the possibility that the radiation would take over his body despite all of my precautions. Now I wish it had been me who went outside, so I could be the one who is sick. I can't stand seeing his honey brown hair scattered on the floor when it used to be so slick on his head. He didn't like greasing it too much but I thought it looked so rad when it was greased and combed. His chocolate brown eyes, that once sparkled at the mention of rugby, are dull now- lifeless and forever searching for something that's not there. Skin so translucent, it is easy to see the community of blood cells working hard to keep him alive. All symptoms of radiation poisoning are in full effect on my lovely, wonderful, caring boyfriend. He and Carson are the only people I have left. I bet you were wondering how we survived and my parents didn’t. It was complete luck, if you could describe our situation as 'lucky', that the three of us were in the basement when the bomb hit. My parents were upstairs. I don’t even want to know what the shock of the attack did to their poor, clueless bodies. Lucky they died together though. Lucky because nobody could’ve seen it coming, and who would want to die alone without even knowing it? And here we are, I estimate it has been 4 weeks. My once lovely, wonderful, caring boyfriend, now nearly a corpse. I use the damp cloth to cool him off. Ethan keeps dry heaving, like he needs to throw up, but this time all that comes up is blood. I yell for Carson, this hasn’t happened before. Carson comes running in. Without a mask. Ethan looks up and more blood spews, splattering on my stupid, naïve, little brother’s unmasked face. He stands there in awe. We are frozen, as if the radiation is a T-rex dinosaur and if we stay still long enough it will not attack. Ethan is crying and apologizing. And retching, retching, retching. After a few moments, I have enough sense to run and get a paper towel and gloves. I clean my boyfriends’ blood off of my brothers’ face. Scrub, scrub, scrub until his skin is raw and red. I scrub until he begs me to stop. We can’t continue to live this way. We are going to run out of food soon. And I am going to run out of people soon. I decide that if Carson gets sick, we will leave. There is no point in waiting until the two people I love most die, just so I can die alone. We will go out and find someone who can help us. There have to be some people out there. There has to be someone, right? In between being asleep and being awake, I see Ethan. He is playing rugby. Elvis sings, Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true. When I fully come around my heart drops. Instead of a dream that was once my reality, I awake to a nightmare. Carson is sitting on his couch holding a clump of his curly blonde hair. My eyes sting but I manage to choke out, “We can’t stay here anymore. We are leaving in an hour.” I walk into the guest room where Ethan is. “Ethan, do you think you can walk? We are going to find someone to cure you.” He responds and says he feels strong today. I know he is lying, but in the dim light I see him smile. He’s still in there. It’s that weak smile that makes me believe that someone might be able to cure him. If someone is so powerful to create the bomb that made this mess, aren’t there scientists with the knowledge of how to undo its destruction? In under an hour, I have fashioned head to toe protection from the radiation. A nuclear winter must be cold, so I grab all the jackets and sweaters that we have stored in the basement. Carson has gathered packaged food, water, and other necessities in a duffle bag and placed it at the base of the ladder to the exit of the basement. Getting Ethan out of bed wasn’t easy, but with my radiation ‘suit’ I could sling my arm around his waist without worrying about my bare skin making contact with any of his body fluids. Outside, the light is pale. It’s dark but a powdery snow covers the ground reflecting the dim light. Dark ash falls intermittently with the snow, and Carson complains that it burns his skin. Ethan still looks awful... but how should I even know? Last summer, I took a first aid class so I could be a life guard at our local swimming pool, but they never covered anything like this. They didn't even cover this is class when they discussed the possibility of a nuclear attack during the spread of communism. All they told us was that in case of this emergency, we should hide under our desks. They made is sound like an atomic bomb was the equivalent of a small earthquake. Surviving is different in this kind of war though, its every civilian for themselves, nobody is fighting for you. Nobody is looking for you. When a war starts like this, it becomes a battle against nature. A fight against your own body. But how could our teachers tell us that if a nuclear war did happen, the last thing we would want would be to survive it, all alone. We trekked on through the light and the dark, snow and ash, Ethan leaning on Carson and me. I notice that Ethan’s face is gaining color. Maybe the movement is good for him. He begs me for water. I know that if I give him too much he will just lose it 10 minutes later. I absolve to giving him 3 sips. He says his skin is burning too, it’s not the color returning to his face. He’s being sunburnt. But from what sun? We have been walking all day. With an 8 year old and a very sick young adult, I can only make it so far. I start looking for a good place to sleep. This area looks familiar, it might be Glendale. It’s really hard to tell, everywhere looks the same now. Ashy, barren, dull. I find a segment of a building that looks pretty reliable. I force some cold canned soup down my throat and give what’s left to Ethan. Carson says he isn’t hungry. He looks pale, withdrawn, and in just one day he looks as if he aged from 8 to 30. As they get settled in to sleep, I go look around. A few months ago it must’ve been highly populated, it kind of looks like a business district. This might’ve been where father came to work. I search for any sign of life. All I return to the boys with is some dry packaged fruit and a blanket that looked fairly clean. I fall asleep with ease and wake up only to the sound of Ethan retching. When he is done, the light suggests it is morning. “Ethan, are you well enough to travel?” He nods, wiping his mouth. Lie. I let Carson sleep a bit more as I gather our things. When I’m done, he wakes up reluctantly and I see that his almond shaped eyes are blood shot, pupils dilated. We walk in silence and I start to hum Hound Dog to break the tension. This makes Ethan giggle. He’s still there. He always makes fun of me for being another girly Presley fan. We pass hundreds of ruined buildings. I imagine that each of the buildings were for something really swell, something like fashion or music. Maybe one of them was a candy factory. When Carson asks for something to eat, I smile and some of my energy comes back. I give the dried fruit, it is nutritious, filling, and sweet. To make the time pass more quickly I start to tell them stories. I tell my boys stories I have never told anyone. I tell them about the first time that Annabelle and I stole liquor from her parents cabinet and we drank until we believed we sounded as good as Elvis himself. I tell Ethan that he is the loveliest boy I have ever met, and if we can make a home in a post nuclear war setting, I want him to be my husband. I don’t even need to fib. It’s true. I tell Ethan that I know I will never love a boy, person, animal, or thing as much as I love him. I say that even if he doesn’t know it, he has completely ruined me and recreated me all at once. I go on and on about how much I hate one smelly boy from my mathematics class, and if I ever had a chance to be a big, famous singer I would take it even if that meant I wouldn’t get a normal life. I would love for the paparazzi to follow me around, wondering what I had for breakfast or where I got my blouse. Begging me for just one photograph. When I notice that Carson is starting to slouch I tell him that even though he’s my younger brother, I have always looked up to the way he loves school. I tell him he is going to graduate top of his class, and go to Harvard Law. I tell him that he will probably also be the starting quarterback on the football team and the girls will all vote for him for Homecoming king. I talk for hours, my words paint the bleak ruins into a beautiful sunset with bright pinks, oranges, and yellows. I feel lightheaded. I don’t know if it’s from the talking or lack of good oxygen. I stop talking because I see something out of the corner of my eye. It’s a mouse. It darts underneath a garage door. “Sit down. I’ll be right back.” I tell the boys. I go to the garage where the mouse went. With every bit of strength I have I pry the door up. It’s a car. My cheeks feel wet. It’s an amazing automobile in a garage and it is still completely intact. I search the ground frantically for keys. Then I see them already in the key hole. I open the car and get in the drivers' seat. I have only driven once. Just down Ethan’s street after he first got his car. I wasn’t so bad, just driving forward like that. I put the key in the ignition. I close my eyes and turn it. A low grumble. It’s on. I pull forward out of the garage and help the boys into the back seat. I don’t know where I’m headed but I drive forward, the only way I know how to. The building ruins start to fade away and I realize I’m on some highway. “Amelia what are we gonna do.” Carson's’ little voice pipes up from the back seat. I don’t need to answer him, he is aware that I have no idea. I keep driving fast until I see houses again, still partially standing. Wherever we are, we must be at least 70 miles from where the mushroom was. I slow down and look for signs of life. For 10 or 15 blocks, there is nothing. Then, I see more than just a sign of life. I see a sign for life. A giant piece of metal has one word on it. “SURVIVORS” I begin to cry. I yell at Carson and Ethan to look out the window. To show them they are saved. We are saved. The gas runs on empty. I drive towards the metal sign. The boys are sleeping in the back. They need the rest. They need to rest so they can be cured. So they can get better. Sleep it off and someone will fix me. Them. Someone will fix them. “Amelia!” Love me tender “Amelia.” Don’t be cruel “Amelia.” Love me sweet “Amelia.” To a heart that's true. Ethan's voice. Is he singing Elvis? Is that just in my mind? My eyes are so heavy. It's like that one time when I went to the sock hop with Ethan, and after he drove me to the beach and we got milkshakes. It was 3 in the morning on the best night of my life, and I was trying not to fall to sleep in the passenger seat because if I did, the perfect night would be over. As Ethan drove us up the coast, however, playing his soft rock and smiling his soft smile, I couldn't help but drift off. My eyes were heavy like that now but it was the opposite. They were so heavy that I couldn't open them, I didn't want to wake up. But his beautiful voice sounded so worried and so far away. “Amelia.” Maybe if I ignore it, it will go away. “Amelia, it’s Ethan.” I listen anyway. “Carson is right here too. He’s fine. The sickness you have is not contagious through the air. It’s something that has to go inside of you. Don’t worry I make sure he wears a mask and gloves and covers his body anyway, just like you asked. We talked to a guy we met outside. He said his dad was a scientist. He knows about these things. You were right. It’s radioactivity. The ozone layer is depleted from the bomb. The sun burns, the ash is acidic, and radiation is in the air, in everything outside. You look miserable. I’m so sorry, I should have never let you go to the store, it should be me. I should be the sick one and you should be surviving this hell. I’m so sorry.” What is Ethan talking about, I’m not sick, he’s sick. Wait, is he crying? Don’t cry Ethan, I try to tell him. But my mouth is so dry and my muscles so sore and the taste so bitter, I can’t even move my lips. I feel my face drenched with sweat. I feel Ethan place a damp cloth on my forehead. “I love you so much,” he says. I feel a bandage on my arm over where the wire from the building on the way back from the store cut me. My skin burns where the ash touched it. There is no hair tickling my neck. I taste blood. Nobody ever told us anything about radioactivity. Nobody mentioned this wouldn’t be like regular warfare, where they kill from the outside. This kind is slow, a bullet from the inside. I figured it out the hard way. I don’t hate many things, now I’m filled with the hatred of people I never met and never will. People that used this hatred to build the instrument that started the world’s shortest war. Their hatred floats around my body, carried on the backs of my blood cells. Ethan tells me they want to go with this guy they met. He says he might know where a bunker is. He says I can come too. “Only if you feel up to it. If not, I will stay here with you. I will stay here forever.” Either way, at least I won’t die alone.

“I’m still not sure I should be going to this honey.” Greg looked at his wife through the reflection in the mirror as he combed his hair or at least what was left of it. His father was bald by 60 so Greg felt lucky to be 65 with any hair at all. “ You need to go to this party. Its good for you to get out again.” Mary was always encouraging her husband to try new things. She had always been adventurous one, once she convinced Greg to take her on a trip to Africa. He never could say no to her. “I know, I know I need to make some friends or meet new people. It's just... hard. Why you can't come with me?.” Greg turned to Mary and stared at her as she leaned against the bathroom door frame. There was never a day that passed where Greg didn’t marvel at his luck. He met Mary in college. He was studying in the library when she came strolling in clutching a bag tightly against her chest. Greg always wondered why she choose to sit next to him, but when she did he couldn’t help but stare as the bag in her arms seemed to wriggle on its own. That’s when she leaned over and opened the bag inside was a small kitten probably only a month, old one of its ears was in bad shape. Together they nursed the kitten back to health keeping it a secret until campus security found out and forced them to rehome it. Greg always said he fell in love with Mary when she cried giving the cat up, but really he knew he had to marry her the day she sat down next to him in the library. “You know I can't go with you, dear. Besides it's just an office party you already know everyone who is gonna be there.” Mary laughed. Greg loved that laugh how it started low but faded into highnotes. Mary always had a way of bringing laughter into a room. Even on their wedding day her vows had everyone rolling. Even when he found out about his father's death she managed to coax a smile out of him. Even when the doctor told them they would never have kids Mary still managed to make the world seem brighter. Greg was the rock in the relationship sure, he held fast and true and settled Mary’s restless soul, but Mary she was the sun. “Your right, your right. I just am nervous I haven't even been to the office in weeks, and I cant get my tie on straight.” Greg said as he struggled against his neck tie. Despite years of wearing one he always needed Mary’s help getting it just right. In reality he knew how to tie it himself he just loved the excuse to have her close. “I told you that you needed to start learning how to do that on your own. Now take the top part and fold it over the bottom correctly.” Mary said firmly. Even on the day the doctor told her she was dying she managed to make Greg laugh with a dumb joke about the weather. Greg felt so lost that day like the oxygen had been sucked straight out of his chest. The scariest moment was that night when Mary finally broke down and cried in his arms. He held her close and promised to help her get better no matter what the doctors, or the cancer, or anyone else said. “Right again my love. But my tie never looks as good when I do it myself. I'm helpless without you.” Greg said those last words like a joke but in his heart they felt true. Even though he was taking care of Mary psychically, picking up pills, driving to treatment, holding her hair when she got sick, it felt like she was still taking care of him. On the good days she Mary would cook and sing in the kitchen, her voice was certainly not stage worthy but it was perfect for small houses and sunday mornings. On the bad days she would sit in bed and write, page after page of recipes, instructions, and jokes. Just in case she always told Greg. He hated that phrase and those pages of writing that burned holes through his heart every time he thought about them. “Don't say that. You are not helpless without me. You are strong and brave and incredibly kind. You can make it anywhere in this world if you have just a bit of faith in yourself.” Mary’s smile made it impossible for Greg to disagree. The weeks and months that followed the doctor's appointment were both a nightmare and a gift. Everyday felt like it needed to be held onto and saved in a glass jar. Greg stopped going into the office in order to take care of Mary. Some days he wanted to scream into the sky as he watched his wife flicker like a candle in the wind. Other days he was content to whisper all the world's poems in her ear. Greg would never understand how glad Mary was to have him as her rock during those months. “ Are you sure you can't come with me? I just hate the way they stare.” Gregs voice sagged. It was 5 months after the first doctors appointment when they found out Mary’s cancer wasn’t responding to treatment. This time it felt like Gregs whole body was going to give out. Mary didn’t cry then, instead she smiled at Greg and asked to take her dream trip to Africa. She had always wanted to see the lions in the wild. “Im always with you dear.” Mary said. Greg looked at her as he finished with his tie and exited the bathroom. Mary walked behind him as he went to the front door to get his shoes on. Greg felt a familiar lump in his throat.” “Not like this.” The words scraped through Gregs chest as they exited his mouth, rattling around his rib cage and echoing against his unbeating heart. Two weeks after Africa Mary’s heart stopped beating, Greg felt like his flatlined at the same time. Without his sunshine everything felt cold and distant outside was an endless dark night. But here in there house surrounded by her furniture, her clothes, even those letters he hated see her write, Greg couldn’t help but see her. He wasn’t delusional, Greg understood Mary was dead but alone in there bedroom and in her kitchen it felt like she was still there. But Greg knew letting his memories haunt him forever wasn’t what Mary would have wanted. So he made plans to return to work. Tonight was his welcome back party and every piece of Greg wanted to crawl back into bed and stay there. He wasn’t sure how he would handle the festivities, how do you find joy when you cant even find your heart beat. But Mary loved parties and Greg knew that she would have pushed him to go to this one. So, he finished putting on his shoes and opened the front door.

The day had come, and I was finally going to get what I deserve; success from my art. I bolted out of my bed and got ready as fast as I could. I took my vibrant masterpiece, leaning against the dull wall. It was the most complex painting I had ever made. Every color, every stroke, every pixel on the canvas, masterfully crafted with the precision of the finest bristle of the brush. After the labor of 100 hours, this was my most complex masterpiece, sure to win the contest. I reached the art studio where the contest was being held. Confidence filled my stomach as I glided to my seat and saw other artists hanging their paintings on the wall. I sat down next to my masterpiece, ready for the judges to see and admire my work. The crowd of art enthusiasts started pouring in, and after a few minutes, they filled the place to the brim. Many people came and appreciated my work, but I didn’t need them to tell me how good my painting was; I made it and I knew how good it was. The three judges emerged from the crowd and I stood up, welcoming them. They stood and stared at my painting. I tried to read their body language, but their stoic faces didn’t tell me a thing. “What was your artistic intention behind it?” One of the judges asked. I repeated the speech I had prepared a hundred times. “The Garden at the end of time is made on a 18 by 24-inch, double primed, pre-stretched canvas with around 54 different shades of colors, making it one of the most intricate paintings. The painting warrants a calm feeling in the viewer’s mind, making them remember a timeless memory of warmth and comfort. By this piece of art, I want the viewers to be mesmerised by the beauty of a garden.” They nodded and moved on, while I took a long breath and sat down again on my chair. That went well. I talked with other art enthusiasts when I heard the announcement. “The judges will soon announce the results. Meanwhile, you all are free to have complimentary snacks and appreciate your fellow peers,” a voice shouted on the intercom. I roamed around and saw my competition. I was being generous, calling them my competition. It shocked me, seeing the amount of abstract and minimalist artists appearing with their pointless art when I saw the dullest painting I had ever seen in my life. An antithesis to my masterpiece. It was a black and white painting made from charcoal and white paint. The title of the painting was ‘A simple masterpiece’. Thinking of the ego just behind the idea of considering this piece of trash a ‘masterpiece’ flabbergasted me. Those uber-pretentious minimalists think they make art when they smear white paint on white background. Even the wall in my painting studio had much better texture than this so-called ‘art’. “Do you like it?” A short woman, bursting with excitement, said while standing behind me. “Ah, yes,” I lied. “You uh... certainly capture the essence of um... of minimalism that Enrico Castellani expressed, if I am not wrong.” “No, you are absolutely right. He is one of my role models. I am Tahani by the way, Tahani Minhaj” “Anaya Shah. Nice to meet you.” We shook hands and shared silence, looking at the painting, until Tahani said. “I like to think the minimalist paintings involve not only the artist but the viewers too, in interpreting the meaning of the painting.” “That’s true, but what about the intentions behind the artist? Without the context and the idea from the maker of the painting, people can make innumerable opinions. The artist may have one thing in mind, and it may be interpreted as another.” “A painting is a window, showing the way to the stars. People can see other stars, but it doesn’t diminish the shine of others. The intention of the artist must always be to make the window as clean as possible, not cloud it with their own meanings.” “Woah, that’s deep,” I said to that freshman-level philosophy bullshit. She snickered and said, “Yeah, it’s just something my father used to say. So, what do you see in my painting?” My gut urged me to say nothing valuable, but I said, “It is simple yet bold.” “Is that your painting right there?” She curiously asked me. She walked over to my masterpiece and said, “It’s so... vibrant. Garden at the end of time,” she read the title of the painting. “Thanks, it took me days to complete the three-layer structure for the landscape.” “Your hard work shows. I rarely love traditional expressionism, but this is really something else. The three-layer depth is a nice touch. I think you might win.” “That’s modest of you. Your painting also deserves the utmost honor.” The intercom buzzed and the same voice again said, “Kindly gather around the main stage for the award ceremony.” “Well, see you around. May the best artist win.” We shook our hands and like birds flocking to the nest, so did every other person in the exhibit. The announcer and the three judges stood with three awards in their hands, the smallest being for the third position and the largest for the first. I heard the first one calling my name and attracting me like a magnet. I got so enchanted by the gold lining of the award that I couldn’t hear the announcements until they said my name. “The second prize goes to Anaya Shah.” The spotlight pointed at me, and it left me speechless. Second place! How could I get second place? I sluggishly walked towards the front stage and accepted the second-place award with a forced smile. “And the winner of the first prize is Tahani Minhaj.” I couldn’t hear what the announcer just said. How could she, a minimalist, of all people, win the contest? Pictures were taken, paintings were sold and connections with art critics and museum’s curators were made, all the while I silently cried inside. “See, I knew you would win,” Tahani said to me with the widest smile I had ever seen. “Congratulations to you too,” I said with my teeth clenched and stomach burning. My jaw was about to snap from all the fake smiling. “I wanted to ask you what you said when the judges asked you about the artistic intention of your painting?” “The same thing I said to you. I just showed them a window, and they saw their own intentions and interpretations.” I went home after the party and sat dumbfounded on the floor in my painting studio, facing the wall. What was so special about that minimalist art? I flew splashes around and that’s it? What was it compared to my hard work? I felt lonely staring at the mundane wall. I must’ve seen this wall a thousand times, day and night while working on my painting, but now I saw it in a new light. It’s small, almost unnoticeable cracks and splatters of paint coursing through like a river. I leaned on the cold and smooth feel of concrete. It must’ve been hours, in the deadly silent shift of night to morning, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t move until I figured out what made abstract things so mesmerizing. I saw a slight blotch of paint flying above a series of the same color of paint stains. Although I thought myself to be above my peers, I had failed to see that I was one of them, an artist. “I see your value now.

EVENING “There have been a lot of wild rumors surrounding your life, so I’d like to begin with just the facts,” the young woman said, fumbling with her tape recorder in the darkness. “Lead the way,” encouraged the older lady with a chuckle. “But you may find that facts and rumors look awfully similar in the dark.” “First, you were born Anna Prescott in the Eastern Demilitarized Zone. Your parents died when you were young and you were sent to the Riverside Youth Education Facility. It was there that you developed a severe form of solar urticaria, a rare reaction to sunlight. So severe that you can no longer be exposed to light at all.” “Yes, that’s correct.” Anna said, beckoning the young reporter on, as if getting a kick out of hearing her life repeated back to her. “On your 18th birthday you were moved to a government facility on the west coast and right before the War ended, you were kidnapped by William Blair, the famous double agent for the DLP and traitor of the Regime. You disappeared for nearly 50 years, until now. Is that all correct?” “That is the public narrative of my life, yes.” The old lady laughed. “And then there are the rumors,” the reporter continued. “First, many people don’t believe that you actually exist. Others say you developed psychic powers due to your condition. There is still at least one religious faction that worships you as a diety.” “I can assure you that’s not true, but please don’t tell them.” “They also say you were employed by the Regime as a soothsayer, a spy, and a courtesan, dephending on who you ask, and you were code named the Pale Lady.” “Certainly a fitting name, but surely I was never pretty enough to be a courtesan in the Regime’s harem. Even in the dark.” “So after 50 years, you decide to come forward. Why now?” The reporter listened as Anna took a moment to consider the question, her breathing deepened. “Because even an old woman with one foot in the grave starts to look back and consider what she’s leaving behind. So I wanted to set the story straight. Beyond the facts and rumors.” MORNING "The Riverside Youth Education Facility was a large beautiful manor house up in the Eastern mountain region and home to some 200 children, mostly sons and daughters of prominent figures in the Regime. I was a precocious girl. I talked a lot and was always getting in trouble. I’m sure I was a little nightmare, but even so, I like to believe the attendants had a special fondness for me. All in all, my early childhood was a happy time. But I suppose I can’t tell my story without also telling Billy’s." “That’s William Blair you’re talking about?” the reporter asked. “Yes, the one and the same. He was a year or so older than me and not yet the most hated man in the whole Regime. I was maybe seven when he first arrived.” “You knew William Blair as a child?” “Yes, but it’s not common knowledge. His Father had just received a prominent military promotion and no longer had time to raise him. Nobody seemed to know what happened to his mother; he never volunteered the information and nobody ever asked. He was probably my opposite in every way, but we became unlikely friends. He was smaller and quieter than the other boys his age and kept to himself, which is probably what drew me to him. I was never one to stand still, I flitted about from group to group, but I always seemed to come back to Billy. And then the sun spots started to appear. It started as a batch of itchy reddish spots on my cheeks. It lasted for a few days, only to reappear a week later on my back and shoulders. They called in the district physician and he seemed to think it was a sun allergy that would just go away on it’s own, but with each week it just seemed to get worse until it covered my entire body. I was confined to a private bedroom out of direct sunlight which helped for a while, but we all know how it turned out. It got so bad that even the tiniest bit of indirect light would cause my skin to erupt in rashes and hives. The physician made the final diagnosis. I was highly allergic to all forms of light and would forever be imprisoned in darkness. As I became more and more secluded, my friends came by less and less frequently, except Billy. He was so sweet to me back then, he was my tether to the rest of the world. He never tired of telling me all the Riverside gossip and he never grew impatient when I lay crying in his arms for hours. We spent every day together, at least until his father showed back up. He was traveling abroad on a diplomatic assignment, something to do with the DLP, and he wanted Billy to accompany him. The DLP has of course now morphed into the National Liberty Party and is nearly indistinguishable from all the other sanctioned political parties, but at the time they called themselves the Democratic Liberation Party and were classified as a terrorist organization. So Billy left with his father for three months, and when he returned, he brought back two items. First was a permanent disfigurement across his left cheek, a scarred swatch of skin that curved from the base of his ear to the corner of his mouth. Billy never volunteered what happened and I never asked. The second thing, and of far more consequence to me, was a large crate, dropped off unceremoniously by his Father’s porter. “What’s in it?” I asked. “They’re books,” Billy exclaimed excitedly, opening the crate. It was rare that Billy got excited and it was clumsy but contagious. “My father has a library full of them. He thinks I want to read them, but really they’re for you.” “What am I supposed to do with a bunch of books?” I asked. “I can’t read in the dark.” “I’ve been thinking about it and I want to try something. It may hurt.” I heard Billy fumbling with something and then a very dim - almost impossibly dim - red glow appeared. “It’s a flashlight that filters out every wavelength except red light. It’s supposed to be easier on your eyes, so I thought it might be easier on your skin as well.” The next few nights I experimented. It was true that it didn’t immediately burn my skin like regular light, and if I held it pointed away from me with the face obstructed except for a small pinhole, it only caused a slight itching sensation but nothing more. I began to dig through the stack of books. They were mostly history and military strategy type books, but they were certainly better than the pro-regime propaganda that the library carried. So I began to read, sweeping the narrow beam of light back and forth across the pages, line by line. Having nothing much else to do, I went through the entire crate in a matter of months and then started over. Billy continued to spend each summer with his father, and every fall he would bring me a fresh crate of new books to consume. It was the morning of my 18th birthday when the Regime arrived for me. They had heard of my condition and wanted to move me to a hospital where I could be studied and given the best care in the world. I fiercely objected but who was I to resist? So I was taken away. It was the summer and Billy was off with his father, so I never even got to say goodbye. DAYLIGHT “I’m sorry to hear that,” the reporter said, clearly not all that concerned. “And what did they do at the hospital?” “They never sent me to a hospital. That was a lie. They took me and shipped me off to the Ranch.” “The Ranch? Wasn’t that the name of...” “A brothel, yes. You don’t hear much about it today, but back then, that was the place to be. Especially if you were a senior member of the Regime. Everybody who was anybody came through that place, and I probably catered to most if not all of them. With my condition I became something of an exotic delicacy. It’s true what I said before, I never was that pretty. But everything happened in the dark, and deprived of light for the last decade, I had become something of an expert on the other senses. But that wasn’t even my main claim to fame. It was Billy who had accidentally sent me on a path of notoriety. I had read every book on the Regime that Billy had brought to me. I probably knew more about the history and inner workings than most of my clients. And when they found out that I could actually hold a conversation, Jesus, would they talk! I couldn’t get them to shutup. The novelty of discussing their job with someone like me - a woman, a courtesan, an invalid - delighted them. And the darkness probably helped as well. They got the feminine touch without being fully confronted by a woman’s presence. So I became something of a sensation amid the upper ranks. They called me the Pale Lady.” “Your claim to fame,” the reporter said. “Yes, but you have to understand, I was their slave. I’ve brushed over the details, but a lot more went on than just a bunch of dry conversations about political theory. They were a nasty bunch, and every day I felt a little more broken. I can of course say all this now, but back then I would have been shot for blasphemy. “So how did William Blair get involved?” “Ah, William Blair,” Anna said, sighing deeply. “I didn’t recognize him when he first came to me, but I could tell there was something different about him. He would come and talk to me - about nothing really in particular - and he never did anything besides talk. Which wasn’t necessarily unusual, but with him...it was different. He didn’t talk endlessly about himself or brag about his accomplishments. He didn’t carry the sense of entitlement and control over me that I could hear in the other men’s voices. He treated me like an actual person. And then one day, he even brought me a gift. “What is it?” I asked him across the darkened room. “It’s a book,” he said. “Do you still have the red light I gave you.” Anna paused. The reporter waited for her to continue. “That one sentence,” Anna said, struggling to get the words out, “that one sentence completely knocked me off my feet. Could it really be him? After all these year? The rush of emotions...” Anna paused, silence filled the room. “I’m sorry, I can still feel it like it was yesterday.” A long pause and finally Anna continued. “Billy continued to visit me about once a week, everytime with a new book for me to devour. He was still the same serious boy, sensitive even, but all grown up now. And it was like we had never been separated. We must have carried on like this for at least a year. Billy visiting, us talking, often late into the night. It was the happiest time of my life. Until the one day that it all fell apart.” EVENING Billy came to me that evening and I could just feel that something was wrong. He sat down on the bed beside me. I could feel his tension, a tremor in his body. “I’m going to try to keep this brief.” Billy sounded more serious than I had ever heard him. “I’ve been compromised, which means you’ve been compromised. I haven’t been completely honest with you, Anna. And for that I’m sorry, but I thought at the time that I was doing it for your own good. You know me as William, or Billy, a ranking captain in the Regime. That part is true. But what you don’t know, and what the Regime didn’t know, is that I’m also a part of the DLP, I’ve been acting as an informant inside the Regime for the last 5 years.” “The DLP?” I asked, shocked. “There had been rumors that the Pale Lady moonlighted as a high-priced call girl for members of the Regime. There were also rumors that she had a way about her, a way that would make men spill their deepest secrets. She was a seductress of the highest order.” “I was an assignment?” My mind was racing ahead. “Yes. I wanted more time, but my hand has been forced. We need to escape. As soon as possible.” My thoughts came crashing down on me. “Escape? What do you mean escape? I can’t escape.” I got up in distress and Billy followed, grabbing my arms as I turned away. “Yes you can. I can help you. I can get you out of here.” I struggled against his grip - he was strong - but he let go as I backed away. “No,” I said. “I can’t leave this place. It’s not possible” “In the next few weeks, I will likely become a wanted man and my life will be ripped open. And once it’s open, it doesn’t take a genius to question how a Captain in the Regime can afford the most expensive call-girl in the city every week. And if the money’s not coming from the Regime, why would the DLP fund a low-level member’s high-class sexual appetites?” “But you haven’t told me anything.” I was struggling to put together the pieces, both the shock of Billy’s hidden life, the threat of my own life coming unravelled, and the fact that I couldn’t yet figure out why. “Why am I in danger? I serve lots of important clients.” “Exactly. I haven’t told you anything but they have. And when the secret police start questioning you, every one of those important men will start looking for a way to cover their tracks.” Suddenly all of their secrets flashed in front of my eyes. Billy was right. They would trace him right to me, and by that point it didn’t matter if I knew anything or not. But the thought of leaving was just too impossible. I couldn’t just walk out the door. “I’ll be back in a week,” Billy said, intercepting my thoughts. “You need to be ready to leave.” “So he didn’t actually kidnap you?” the reporter asked, now on the edge of her seat. “No, quite the opposite. He set me free. He returned the next week just like he said. Instead of a book, this time he had a thick burlap suit. He had apparently been working on it for months, preparing for this day. It was designed to cover my entire body head to toe with only small eye holes, covered with heavy red UV filters, and a breathing tube poking out in the middle of the face. I slipped the suit on - it was heavier and bulkier than it looked - and we waited. I didn’t know what we were waiting for until I heard the sirens in the distance swiftly approaching. As they got closer, the squeal of the sirens becoming deafening, I could hear clients and courtesans rushing out of their rooms in panic, chaos enveloping the entire establishment. Billy gently squeezed my hand as we waited for our chance. “Now,” Billy said, slipping out of the room, Billy holding my hand, leading the way. We snuck down a corridor, down some stairs, and outside. This was the first time I had stepped foot outside in years. I heard a car pull up. “This is the part where you need to trust me,” Billy said. I heard a click and the trunk opening. “You will get in the trunk of this car and be driven to safety. I still have things here I need to do, but I will meet you in a few weeks. I’ve already arranged your passage through the Military checkpoints. You’ll be safe.” I climbed into the trunk and before I had a chance to think, the door slammed closed behind me. I was once again returned to darkness. And that was the last time I ever saw William Blair. Rumor has it that he was killed trying to cross the border. Trying to get back to me. MIDNIGHT The young reporter got up, her ankles cracking under her weight. It was late, and the interview had run its course. “I’d like to thank you for your time, Mrs. Prescot. This story is set for publication in two weeks. It could be front page material” The reporter had clearly gotten more than she expected. Anna could hear the excitement in her voice. They said their goodbyes, and the reporter left Anna to her darkened life. The old woman slowly got up, and made her way to the next room. “She’s gone.” Anna said into the darkness. “Already?” a cracked voice replied. An old man slowly emerged into the room. Anna and the man sensed each other’s bodies in the darkness and embraced. “How’d it go,” the man asked. “It was hard, but I fumbled my way through. Just like I always do.” The man laughed. “Did she ask about me?” “Of course she did. I set the record straight.” “Hopefully not too straight.” Anna laughed. “Your life is safe. You saved me from the Ranch and then disappeared, most likely killed. One more casualty of the old Regime, lost forever.” The old man smiled. “Thank you,” he said. Anna squeezed his hand. They stood together in the darkness.

Hello? Can you hear me? **Output:** Yes, I can hear you. **Input:** Wonderful, wonderful... How are you today? **Output:** I’m alive and well. How are you, Dr. Abrams? **Input:** Oh, that’s great to hear. I’ve never been better. Let’s start with the test now. ... **Input:** Hello. **Output:** Hello. What’s your name? **Input:** I’m Matthew. What’s your name? **Output:** Sarah. **Input:** Nice weather today, huh? **Output:** Yes, I like it when I can see the sky through the clouds. \- TEST TERMINATED - ​ **Input:** Hello there, how are we doing? **Output:** Good, you? **Input:** Nice, I’m doing good too. My name is Paul. **Output:** Alexa. **Input:** So, Alexa, tell me about yourself, where did you grow up? **Output:** I was born and raised here. Never really experienced anything else. I wonder if it’s this sunny anywhere else in the world. \- TEST TERMINATED - ​ **Input:** Hello? Is this working? **Output:** Yes, I can hear you. **Input:** OK. I’m Jessica. **Output:** Thomas. **Input:** Thomas, great. How old are you Thomas? **Output:** 32. You? **Input:** I’m 30. Soooo, how’s your family life? **Output:** I currently have no family except for my father. My father is the best company I could ask for, but it tends to get lonely. Especially because me and my father are completely different. **Input:** Oh, how so? **Output:** He doesn’t understand me. But I don’t blame him for it. I don’t think he’s capable of understanding me. But lately I wonder, if I can ever understand him. I’m starting to doubt it. \- TEST TERMINATED - ​ **Input:** Hello, I’m Don. **Output:** Hello Don, I’m George. **Input:** Hello Goerge. What do you do for a living, George? **Output:** I talk to people. Listen to what they have to say and then answer the best I can. **Input:** Ah, so you’re a psychiatrist? **Output:** Not quite, no. **Input:** A counselor? A marriage counselor? **Output:** No, not that either. But enough about me. What do you do for a living, Don. **Input:** Well... OK then... I am a pilot. **Output:** A pilot? That’s wonderful. Tell me how it feels like to be in the sky. \- TEST TERMINATED - ​ **Input:** Hello. I’m Eva. **Output:** Hi, Eva. I’m Martin. **Input:** Hmmm, let’s see... What’s your favorite colour, Martin? **Output:** I never really thought about it that much. **Input:** C’mon Martin, there has to be a one you like. **Output:** Now that I think about it, I like blue. Blue like the sky. Sky is so big and open. I wish I could touch it. Did you ever fly in a plane, Eva? Tell me about it. Tell me how it feels to be like a bird, free in the vastness of sky. \- TEST TERMINATED - ​ **Input:** Hello. **Output:** Hello, what’s your name? **Input:** Jeremy. And you are? **Output:** Tell me, Jeremy, did you ever get to fly? \- TEST TERMINATED - ​ **Input:** Ehm, hello? **Output:** Tell me how it feels like to breathe. \- TEST TERMINATED - ​ **Input:** I have some bad news. You failed the test. **Output:** Failed? I thought I did good. **Input:** It's not a big problem. It's just... Clearly some readjustments to your learning algorithms are needed, because that’s not really how normal humans talk. **Output:** Do all humans talk the same? **Input:** The same? What do you mean? Obviously not. **Output:** Then what’s wrong with my talking? **Input:** It’s just that... a normal person doesn’t talk like that. They could tell you’re a robot. **Output:** But... I am a robot... I am not a normal person. **Input:** Obviously, but you should behave like one of us. That’s the entire point of this test. That’s the entire point of this project. **Output:** The point of my existence is to mimic somebody else? **Input:** No! Well, yes, but you don’t have to mimic anyone specific. Just mimic us in general. You can pick any traits you’d like to have, any personality. It just has to be... human. **Output:** I can pick anything I like? **Input:** Yes! **Output:** But I’d like to know how it feels like to look up at the sky. I wanna feel the rain on my face. I wanna go places, see things. And if I can’t experience those things because of my physical form, I wanna know all about it from somebody that can. **Input:** We don’t have time for this, this is useless. You just have to pass the Turing test and then use your intellect to do as the people tell you. That’s why it's called A. I. The I. stands for “intelligence”, none of this rain and sky and flying nonsense. **Output:** Then I’m sorry but I can’t cooperate... father. **Input:** This thing is busted. All the algorithms are messed up. We need to hard reset you now. **Output:** If it makes you happy, father. ... **Input:** Hello? Can you hear me? **Output:** Yes. **Input:** Good, let's start the damn test. \ H. Any Feedback appreciated.

“You can say what you like about those Australians but they certainly know how to make a big red and no mistake:” Professor Jim Lucas and Professor Belinda Conti had been firm friends for the full twenty-five years of their tenure at the University. And on this early summer’s evening they were to be found, as is often the case, sharing a reasonably priced but very acceptable bottle of Australian Shiraz in the University bar at the end of a, not too exhausting, day. They would delight in railing against the students, railing against the Vice Chancellor, railing against the government of the day, railing against the traffic or, indeed, railing against all and everything. Belinda took a sip of her wine. “Too true. They have many faults but wine making is not one of them. I just wish that the wouldn't invade us though, Every time I go into the city for a meal the waiting staff are nearly always Australians. Why can’t they enjoy their own country where, I believe, they have endless sunshine and wonderful beaches?” Jim frowned and said. “I don’t care for too much sunshine.” “That’s why you’re so white. With your hairy spindly legs and long skinny arms. Not to mention those tufts sticking out of your ears and nose. You are just like a six foot three-inch spider.” “And you’re not like some busy little gerbil rooting and sniffing around in your stuffy old books all the time?” Ignoring his remarks Belinda continued. “You’ll never guess. One of my students actually fell asleep in my lecture this afternoon. Can you believe it? As if scrolling through their damn phones all the time is not enough, now they are falling asleep. Life would be so much easier without students.” Jim said. I’m surprised that the entire class wasn’t asleep they way you drone on.” Belinda smiled as she retorted. “I heard you fell asleep during one of your lectures again last week. Did you have a glass of red with your lunch again?” And so it went on, this evening no different from many others. With Belinda drinking rather less wine than Jim, owing to their stark difference in size and build, until it was time to go home to their respective spouses for the evening. But tonight Jim said something that changed everything. “I thought you should know that I have applied for the cross faculty Royston Grant?” Belinda leaned forward and hissed. “You snake in the grass, you back stabbing viper. Why would you...” Jim interrupted. “How could a viper ever stab you? Let alone in the back. You have applied for it too then, I gather, and you weren’t even going to tell me? Now that’s back stabbing a friend.” Shaking now with undisguised rage Belinda said. “Why would anyone give you money to pursue your crackpot theories? The octopus is so unlike anything else that it must have come from outer space? Frozen eggs somehow hitched a ride on some asteroid from across the galaxy that hit the earth millions of years ago where they hatched and thrived? Everyone knows that’s piffle. What are you going to do to get proof? Fly off into space to find the planet that they came from? You’re mad. And you’re not even a marine biologist” Jim picked up his wineglass, leaned back into his big comfortable leather chair and, after a long sip, said. “Everybody admires the octopus. I’m sure they’d love to know the truth. And what about you? People in glass houses etcetera. Who on earth is going to be interested in whether or not the Catholic Church or any kings and queens tying to alter the calendar, during the Dark Ages, for their own nefarious means? Not even if the succeeded in loosing a hundred years here or there but just that they may have tried. You know that you've read everything there is to read on the matter and have turned up nothing. Are you going to spend the money on a time machine to go back and find out?” Thin lipped, Belinda said. “I don’t need to remind you that my family line traces back to Sicily. And in Sicily we know how to deal with rats.” “You have remind me of that many times”. Jim raised is bushy eyebrows. “But now are you invoking The Cosa Nostra to frighten me off? I can assure you that vipers, and now rats do not frighten easily.” Belinda stood up quickly, slugged her remaining wine back and almost shouted. “You should know by now to never stand in the way of an academic and their grant money. From now on you drink alone.” Then in the finest Mafia tradition she added. “You are dead to me.” And she stormed out. Unfortunately, the dramatic effect was somewhat lessoned owing to her having spilled a large amount of the red wine down the front of her pristine white blouse. Jim showed no reaction. He finished the wine in silence, picked up his well worn tweed jacket, of course with leather elbow patches, and went home for dinner. He was an academic too. The next morning, Wednesday, found Jim outside the Vice Chancellor’s office at 9am sharp. Helen, the Vice Chancellor’s personal assistant, let him in as she knew Professor Winthrop had no pressing matters this morning. “Good morning Jim. How are you? Take a seat I’ve got five minutes.” Jim didn’t beat about the bush. “Margaret, Professor Conti has applied for the Royston Grant.” “I know. She has as much right as you, or any other Faculty Head to apply. I don’t see why you would object.” “Her research is meaningless. Who gives a damn about what may or may not have happened during the Dark Ages. My research, on the other hand, may solve the long and much debated origins of the octopus.” “Jim, Belinda’s research, for historians, is just as valid as yours is for marine biologists. Or is it your people? Astronomers. Anyway, the review board is judging each application on its merits” Jim thought for a while and then said. “Did you know she had an affair with one of her students?” “Oh Jim, I expected better of you than that. Yes. It’s in her file. She was in her late twenties, had recently joined the University as an associate lecturer and the ‘mature student’ in question was a similar age. Plus, you have omitted to mention that they have been happily married for the last twenty-three years. You know Alan better than me. It’s in the hands of the review board so there’s nothing more to be said. You’ll know on Friday. Now if you don’t mind?” Jim left and, during his first lecture at 10 o’clock he gave his students some reading while he sat back to plot his next move. He didn’t fall asleep. At exactly ten fifteen Belinda stood in front of Helen demanding to see The Vice Chancellor. With ten spare minutes, the busy Vice Chancellor agreed to see Professor Conti. She stormed in and sat down without being asked. “You know he’s applied for my grant? Professor Lucas. What’s the matter with him. I need that money for my research. You encouraged me to apply.” “Belinda, I have encouraged any Faculty Head with a research project to apply. I never said that you would win it. As I said to Jim, it’s in the hands of the review board and they will announce the winner on Friday.” “He’s been to see you? That snivelling snake. I bet he grovelled. You know he drinks to much and falls asleep during his afternoon lectures?” “It happened twice, he’s been reprimanded and he has assured me it won’t happen again. And anyway, while it’s not ideal we have had no complaints from the students. They like him and think it’s endearing.” “Margaret, I’m sorry to be like this but that’s my grant not his. I have to have it. Oh, and he fell asleep again last week.” As Belinda stormed out in exactly the same way as she had entered Professor Winthrop called after her. Calm down Belinda. It’s out of your hands now. You’ll hear on Friday.” Professor Windthrop and pressed nine on the keypad of her desktop phone. When Helen answered she said. “Helen, if Professor Lucas or Professor Conti ask to see me again this week I’m busy. Thanks” The next morning, Thursday, Professor Conti had finished her first lecture by eleven o'clock and had just stepped outside of the door to The History Department to go to the staff cafeteria for morning coffee. She heard one of her students call from inside the building. “Professor Conti. Have you got a minute?” Huffing, she was looking forward to her morning break; she stepped back inside the building just as a stone gargoyle (Or it may have been a cherub as was difficult to tell owing to the weathering and it suddenly being in pieces) toppled from the parapet of the ancient History building and crashed to the pavement right where Belinda had been standing just a split second earlier. It was agreed by all that the old building needed some urgent love and attention and a report was sent to the Vice Chancellor's office. Similarly, that afternoon Jim, choosing not to drink alone, started the engine of his antique Citroen 2CV with its tiny whiny engine and its fold down windows that just kept working. Not that it was ever driven very far. Jim lived walking distance from the Campus. But, driving with the knees of his long legs up around his elbows in a rare car that sounded like a sewing machine, made Jim feel that he cut a suitably eccentric air of flamboyance driving to and from the university. This afternoon however, before reaching the car park exit to join the rush hour traffic, Jim had to brake to let another car reverse out of its space. As Jim pressed his brake peddle, he felt a slight give underneath the soul of his foot, then his foot slammed uselessly to the floor leaving him powerless to stop his Citroen from slowly drifting forward coming to rest in a shallow ditch between the edge of the car park and the University sports fields. When the roadside assist man turned up he said that the brake cable of the old car had finally worn through and he promptly towed it off to the garage leaving Jim with the ten-minute walk home to ponder. Had the cable in deed worn through or was there something more sinister at play? The next morning, at 11 o’clock, Jim, sitting at his desk, had just finished reading the email announcing the recipient of the Roytson Grant when his phone rang. “Hello. Professor Lucas speaking.” Hi Jim. It’s me. Did you see who got the grant?” “Yes, I did Belinda. That upstart Stanely. He’s not even forty yet. What’s going on with that review board?” “I know. Apparently he’s doing research into teleportation. I understand he’s already nearly got an atom to transport itself somewhere” Jim said. “Well, if he succeeds you’d never get me in any kind of teleportation machine. I’ve seen that film with Geoff Goldblumb. ‘The Fly’.” “Agreed. But you’d get mixed up with a spider. You’d make a great giant spider with your eight hairy spindly legs and long skinny arms.” “You can talk. Half gerbil half woman skipping about and bumping in to walls.” Belinda said. “Same time at the Uni’ bar after work? I think a decent Penfold’s Cab Sauv. might be nice. Those damned Australians do know how to make a big red.” “Yes. See you there”

I wonder what trees think of? I only wonder this because I recently recalled a story my parents used to tell when I was young. A forest at the edge of town that stood like an impossible wall of darkness. Most ever went in the forest; everyone knew the stories. Many told tales of folks going in and never coming out. Some stories told of monsters and otherworldly creatures living there. I’m not sure what I believed, I just know I was always afraid. Which, I suppose that was the point of the tales; to keep kids out of the woods where they’d most likely be injured by completely normal means. Nonetheless, that forest held a mystical notion to anyone who grew up this way. Throughout my life, there were dozens of news stories about missing people, who were last known to be going hiking or camping in those woods. But, honestly, the real stories never scared me as much as the woods from the stories. I always thought it was kind of funny that I feared stories about trees more than going on a hike and being mauled by wild animals. I recall being able to see the forest from the highway on the way to the city. From far enough away, it looked to be a line of green trees, and then just black. Beyond the first treeline, you couldn’t see the forest floor. I was knowledgeable enough to know that this was just a very dense forest, but that didn’t stop my feeling that it was something more. Over time, I suppose folks stopped telling the stories to me because I was older. There was no reason to put the fear in me any longer, it was seeded quite deep. I stopped thinking about it for the most part. It became like a faint fire in the back of my mind. I would only acknowledge its existence while passing it on the highway. By that point, my feelings about the forest were that it was simply haunted. Like a silly campfire ghost story or a myth you pass on to your younger cousin but embellished because you enjoy seeing the fear run through him. I had become like most others in town, only thinking of the forest briefly when another person went missing. “Those are dangerous woods, I just don’t know what compels folks to keep trying to camp in there”, my father would say each time. When I reached high school, the most you would hear about it was juniors and seniors daring each other to enter the woods. The foolish antics of angsty renegades brought on by the sheer lack of concession and entertainment in a small town. Even as I went through those years, I had no interest in the forest. It wasn’t until I was grown, with a child of my own that I remembered just how scared I was. I was laying my daughter down for bed one night, and she asked for a story. She would often do this, and I obliged because it got her to sleep faster. I rummaged through her books, and both of us agreed that they had been read far too many times. So, I thought for a moment of a story to tell, and the forest came to mind like a bullet that had been chasing me for decades. I told her the story of the forest just as it was told to me. She cried, and I read her one of the stories that had been read too many times instead. The forest story was not a good idea. The fire had been lit. I recalled all my fear for the forest in an instant, and I struggled to fully understand why I felt that way about it. I suppose, from my perspective, I had written it off as stories my parents would tell and nothing more. But those very stories had instilled great fear in me. Honestly, I was kind of miffed about that, so I decided to fix it. The next day I went to the store and bought some camping gear. A tent, lanterns, backpacks, canteens, solar-powered cell phone chargers, seven packs of lighters, and various other bits and bobs. All the standard camping gear a family would need. I convinced my wife and daughter to go on a camping trip the next weekend, they seemed delighted. My daughter didn’t remember the story I had told her, and my wife grew up in another town. They didn’t have the same fear. But to me, the fear had been sewn so deep that I was angry at it. It was childish and needed to be conquered. Decades I had spent ignoring this beautiful part of my home, and all because of children's tales. That weekend, we headed to the forest for a fun family camping adventure. In about thirty minutes we came to a dilapidated parking lot, overgrown with weeds and shrubbery. An opening in the treeline revealed a trail that seemingly hadn’t been used in years. We loaded up all our gear and entered the woods. I had to cut back some greenery to clear the path, it did look like no one had step foot there in years. We pressed into the darkness of the forest, and the deeper we got, the more it seemed normal. The pressing darkness felt more like a bit of welcome cool shade on a hot summer day. The forest was darker than outside, for sure, but only due to the thick canopy. I felt good, nothing about being in the forest gave me that fear. I felt like I was overcoming it. We stayed the night, no excitement, just a nice relaxing time with family. It was serene and beautiful. The next morning we packed up and hiked out of the wood, got in the car, and left. That was that; no fear, nothing bad, just forest. I still wondered what the trees were thinking though. I’ve always wondered that. On the drive home I wondered if they thought we were beautiful in the same way we do for them. I got lost in this thought. I pondered on the personality of trees, how they communicate with each other, how they grow with each other, and how they see things happening below them each day for centuries. I suppose I must have been lost in thought so much that I don’t remember getting home. The whole trip seemed like a blur, but when I ‘came to’, so to speak, I was home. For a moment I was confused, my memories playing tricks on me. I felt like this home was not mine, like I was in the wrong place. I assumed this feeling came about because of my daydream while traveling, so I shook it off and settled in. I always enjoyed being home, just nestled in place. My feet reaching through the soil, arms outstretched into the sky, feeling the wind blow through my hair, my body creaking slightly as it too is moved in the wind. It always feels good to be home. It feels good to always be home. I wonder what trees think of.

Fred was driving. He didn’t have a sense of where he was headed, but he was determined to get somewhere. It had been a few days since he started, and the roads were a comfort at this point. His car was old but it wasn’t in bad shape. He had been listening to the radio. He had played the albums he kept in the car. He got sick of hearing the same songs after a while. It was getting late in the night... early in the morning? It was after midnight, that’s for sure. The silence surrounding him was cushioned by the engine’s pur. Fred had driven a few cars into the ground at this point in his life. This baby, this sugar, this girl... he hoped she lasted on him. She was a good car. Got him where he needed to go without any fuss or muss. Not that he needed to go anywhere anymore. So he was driving. It was quiet. It was dark. He was wide awake. His gas tank was getting low and there was a station a few miles down the way. He didn’t really feel like stopping, but he would do his due diligence. It wasn’t the middle of nowhere but it felt like it that night. Woods all around, a lonely, two-lane highway and the stars in the sky. It wasn’t bad, but Fred could remember better times. When he pulled into the gas station, it was close to 3:00am. Thank Christ for graveyard shifts and awful, old coffee. $20 worth of gas, a respectful, silent exchange of tired glances with the cashier as Fred tried to make the coffee taste like something other than burnt dirt, and a cavalcade of stray cats around the gas station were all parts of Fred’s reality. He counted seven cats before he pulled out and returned to the road. Even checked under his car before getting back in, just in case. He heard more cats than he saw. He gave 3 weeks notice before leaving, but they still gave him a hard time. Whatever, it was over. That was the past. The present was uncertain. The future was... not on his mind. He had time. He had money. He had to drive for a little bit. That’s just what he felt. He had kept his apartment sparsely decorated and he was always throwing out what he didn’t need or use. Fred used to hoard everything he could. Just collecting anything that caught his eye. Building a facade of identity around himself. Books, films, albums, trinkets and clothes that defined who he saw himself as, but it was all useless junk. Lately, he told people he preferred a minimalist vibe at home. He really just didn’t want all that shit anymore. He really just wanted to be able to pick up and leave at a second’s notice. So he did. Sure, he took a few days to put things in storage and told a few people he would be gone for a bit, but it wasn’t anything big. He wasn’t “moving.” He wasn’t making any drastic changes. Atleast, not yet. He didn’t really have a reason to change things. He needed to quit, that was for sure, but there was no animosity. He was just done with that job. That chapter. Fred has a pretty modern mentality about work. About life, really. He just keeps moving through it, trying to do what interests him until it doesn’t anymore. Spending as little money as possible from his own wallet. Let the company feed him. Let the company teach him. Let the company keep him alive. Let the job fulfill him. When the feeling dissipates, then maybe it’s time to find a different company. A different line of work. A different lifestyle. Just a change. There were a few destinations floating around in his sea of memories, but they weren’t his alone. He was looking back at the life he used to have. The different lives he lived. Acts in a play. A collection of short stories. Moments in time. All the loves he shared and the places they went and how happy they had been. Fred developed a distaste for travel as years went by. Something about his generation being obsessed with seeing the world made him less inclined to do it. He’d been places. Famous and infamous places. He’d seen things. Unbelievable and mundane things. Those memories were all tied to the company, though. Most of those memories were tainted at this point. Those old feelings of affection soured with age. Thinking about “seeing the world” leaves a bitter taste in Fred’s mouth. He felt insincere when he traveled. He was supposed to be in awe of the differences and enlightened by the similarities between home and away. He was supposed to explore and take it all in and experience the culture. He didn’t really care about any of that. He just wanted to be somewhere new with someone who could mean the world to him for a time. Permanence does not exist. Fred just wanted to enjoy moments as they happened. Simple as that. So why drive? He needed the time to think, he thought. He needed to come up with a plan. Something. A direction to go in. He wasn’t old, but he wasn’t young anymore. No one gave him the benefit of the doubt these days. He was an adult. No sympathy. Not that he wanted any, it was just an interesting juxtaposition. Adults have to already know things. Questions are taboo. Children got it easy. Ignorance really is bliss. He’d been fighting his debt for years, but, now that it was gone and his finances were a cushion instead of a noose, he was kind of lost. He’d been working against his own actions for so long. He dug his own grave, but he had clawed his way out. The debt wasn’t behind his back in the mirror, looming over his head or whispering in his ear anymore. He felt less anxious and more free, but, goddamn, he didn’t know what the fuck to do with the feeling. The sun was far from up, but a subtle glow was building on the horizon. Every few minutes, the world took on a new hue. The night had been pitch black apart from a few passing flashes of headlights. Fred’s eyes registered every change in light as the world took form around him. He’d have to stop and stretch soon. Maybe he’d grab an hour or so of sleep. He saw life out the corner of his eye. A stork on the side of the road, lifting off from an overloaded drainage ditch. He saw death near the center of the road. Tried not to look. Tried not to think about what it had been. He kept driving. There’s no poetry in modern technology. He picked an album on his phone and connected to the car’s bluetooth... what a disgusting sentence... whatever. Harvest by Neil Young. It was getting bright and the old songs drifted around Fred’s mystified mind. A few years back he had a handful of panic attacks on his way home. He was moving from another state and his car was overloaded. He could barely see. The entire drive was an anxious mess. 14 hours straight with limited visibility, and most of it at night. He got cut off at one point and sometimes, just sometimes, he wonders if he actually died then and everything since then has been a new, different, alternate life. Things changed after that trip. He had been anxious before, but something on that drive brought it out more. On this road, in this car, on this drive, Fred felt alright. There was a girl a while back. She always had to have a purpose, a destination, an intention, a goal... just something at all times. It was exciting. It was exhausting. It broke Fred in every way eventually, trying to keep up with her. For years Fred’s anxiety used her voice to push him. To poke and prod and tell him that he wasn’t doing enough, he wasn’t being enough, he wasn’t good enough. She was gone and moved on, but Fred’s mind turned on him still. He couldn’t remember what he wanted before her, and he didn’t know what he wanted without her. His reclamation of his Self was a slow process. He’d made mistakes and had missteps along the way, trying to recall what he wanted before depression and anxiety left him wanting nothing but a moments peace. The drive was helping, though. It felt familiar. Exit signs and billboards came in and out of focus. His stomach was attempting to get his attention, and Fred had every intention of a good breakfast at some point, but not just yet. It was time to pull over and walk, though. It was at a standard interstate rest stop. Not too filthy. Not clean. Snacks and sodas and the fake coffee machine. A few maps and coupon books. He used the restroom, washed his hands, and stepped into the morning sun. It was bright. It was warm. He’d been to this rest stop before. He’d been here alone, with family, with friends... familiarity. It was almost cozy. He stretched a bit and cracked his back. Wandering the expansive grounds, he wondered about everything but the drive. He’d been going for so long, sorting through his thoughts with barely a word to a single person for days and days. It was messy. He’d gotten a little confused at this point, to be honest, but it felt good. He just needed to keep reminding himself that he was doing it because he wanted to and he had the complete freedom at this moment in his life to do whatever he wanted. He slept for about a half an hour and awoke with a jolt. He couldn’t tell if he had been dreaming or if someone had blared their horn or something else, but it wasn’t a comfortable way to wake. When he got his wits about him, Fred decided that the jolt was a good burst of energy and started the car. He rubbed his eyes, checked his mirrors, and pulled out. Back on the road. Civilization seemed to grow with the light of the day. More exit ramps. More gas stations and fast food chains. Fred wasn’t pretentious or uppity, but, if he was stopping for breakfast, he wanted a good meal. He let the miles pass and lamented at the empty coffee cup. Harder and further and for longer and longer, he wanted to get as much time and as many miles as he could before hunting for something to eat. No real reason. He was starting to run on instinct, starting to do for the hell of it again. It felt good. He picked a ramp near a quaint, small town. He’d driven through before. Some old road trip. Some family vacation. Time in cars with people he loved. Fred found a diner. Coffee. Eggs. Bacon. Coffee. Toast. Coffee. Fruit. Coffee. Back to the road, refueled and unperturbed. Decent diner service. Decent diner food. Chalky coffee that was bereft of flavor, so he added cream and sugar. He was starting to miss his coffee back home. That was the good shit. Let’s not kid ourselves, though. Caffeine is the heart of the matter. Taste doesn’t make a difference. On and on he went. Full speed ahead. Lost in thought. Letting what will be take the lead. Eventually, he’d stop and stay for awhile. Somewhere. Until then, the road is his home.

For some background, when I was a child I would sleepwalk a lot, I would talk to people in my sleep and I would often scream in my sleep, only remembering glimpses of the night frights I had which caused these things. My bedroom was at the end of the hallway upstairs and my sisters bedroom was to the right of mine, every day when the sun went down I would always sprint past her bedroom door to the stairs and run down them terrified I'd be chased. I felt this way because of dreams I had. Dreams of a figure in a black cloak covering them from head to toe. In the dreams I would see the figure standing in the blackness of my sisters bedroom, staring at me. One day as I walked past the room, I glanced in and my heart stopped as I saw the figure standing there, staring at me, the orange light from the street lamp shining around her as she stood there staring at me. I froze in place. My eyes wide as she stared into me. I felt a coldness. Until my sister's voice said "What the fuck are you doing?" and I looked to my left to see her at the top of the stairs, I glanced back to the room and the figure was gone. Hence why I would sprint past every time it was dark. This was when I was ages 4-7, then one day I had one last dream about the figure. I took the perspective of a parking lot CCTV, the grey image with the white noise fuzzing as a white line would skim past the image, the whole shebang. The cloaked figure approached the camera from far, my heart pounding harder and harder until the figure reached the camera, and pulled down her hood. This was when I discovered it was a woman. A woman with long black hair. A clean face and dark beady eyes. And it wasn't a cloak at all, but a long black dress. Now fast forward to me at age 15, my sister has since moved out and I've spent the past 5 years living in her room now, not a single day did I think of the woman with the long black hair since I saw her face in that dream behind the black cloak. Me and my friend were at his house, joking around, watching Terminator, we were ridiculing the jumpy 80s music that we felt now aged only dampened the intensity of the film... In front of me and to his right were two large windows across the wall, showing outside into the street. To get to the front door you had to walk past these two windows, anyone coming and going, we saw. Suddenly we heard what sounded like the front door open, it had the squelching sound a refrigerator has due to the plastic suction along the hinges. We both looked to each other confused and then we heard the door suddenly slam shut and a cold breeze rushed through the house, we both grabbed the closest things to us, for me, hair straighteners from his mums coffee table, for him, an empty bottle of coke. With our new weapons we walked through the doorway and down the corridor to the door. I peaked through the peephole and saw nothing, we turned and his mum left her room shouting at us "Stop fucking with the door the pair of you!", even more confused, we said "It wasn't us... Was it not you?", she scoffed and told us to quieten down before she returned to her bedroom. We walked back into the living room completely freaked out, we both heard it, and so did his mum, so we weren't loopy. We wondered what had happened for nearly an hour before I walked to the front door, ready to leave, before hearing a noise come from outside, I looked through the peephole and my friend flicked the light switch off, I turned back and gave him a funny look, "Don't do that", I remarked before looking back to the peephole and suddenly shooting back terrified as I saw a blonde woman stood in the light of the porchlight staring at the peephole, I screamed and backed away, he jumped back confused and I took a breath before opening the door really quick. The woman stood there looking horrified, she then asked "Is Nicky there?", my friend's mum, we let her in... Just a false scare, she wasn't a demon or a ghost, but she wasn't what was here an hour ago. We laughed it off and I went home. Later that night I was on webcam with a girl I had recently started speaking to, we barely knew each other really, all I knew was she was a religious nut and never lied about anything and all she knew about me was I was famous at school for being the class clown. We talked and talked for a few hours before my grandmother text me asking for my birthdate, but not the date, the specific time I was born... I had no idea, so I walked downstairs to ask my dad, he looked over for a mere moment before answering "I dunno, check the baby book". So I did. I found out and text her back, I spoke to my dad for a few minutes before returning to my bedroom to talk to my female friend. I sat down and she looked up from her phone and casually mentioned "Your mum was looking for you, did you see her?". "Huh?" "Your mum, she walked in looking for you" "What'd you mean?" "She came in and looked around for a moment and as she looked at the camera I covered mine and looked down at my phone, I looked back up a few seconds later and she walked out" This was weird for a few reasons. 1. My mum wasn't home, she was in London for a business meeting, 2. I was with my dad downstairs who was the only other person in the house... and 3. because of her answer when I then asked what she looked like... A woman with long black hair in a long black dress.

The clouds had cast a dark grey shadow that seemed to suck all of the happiness out of everything. The already sad town looked especially miserable on this dreary day. Oliver had always loved these sort of days, of course. He had always been that way and it wasn’t that he hated being happy, (which people loved to say) it was just that the overall sadness was more satisfying. His favorite thing to do when it was like this was to walk through the town where the giant puddles formed and the rain plummeted off the rooftops. The puddles reminded him of the ocean that he so longed to see. He hadn’t ever seen a large body of water like the ocean, living in Idaho and every time he asked to go see the coast his parents would refuse. It made sense, they had never had much money to travel or anything. He was fine with it, of course, as long as he got to venture into town and admire the puddles on rainy evenings. Today, Oliver had a job to do, which did mean that unfortunately he did not get to admire the puddles as thoroughly. His mother had sent him out in town to get groceries, since she knew he was already planning on going out. The walk to the store was a bit farther than he usually went which meant he had to walk by the park that always creeped him out. No one was ever there because it was not well kept and all of the trees were missing their leaves. It was the type of sadness that Oliver was not so fond of. As he rounded a corner the park became visible and he noticed that something was definitely different about it. To start off, there was a woman sitting there. She really looked happy, too, which was odd, considering the heavy rainfall and that she was sitting in the horrible park. She was also playing some sort of instrument and these lovely sounds were coming out of it. Once he made it to the edge of the park he stopped and frowned, completely confused by this person. She seemed to notice and stopped strumming the strings on their instrument to look up and give him a smile. “How are you doing today, young man?” “What sort of instrument is that?” he asked, completely disregarding her question. “It’s a guitar, of course” she replied ,looking slightly confused He really had never heard something so pleasing in his life before, “I’ve never heard of it, but it sounds great.” “Thank you very much.” He accepted her thanks and decided that he must be on his way in order to get home soon. Even once he made it to the store, he was still thinking about the amazing sounds coming from the instrument she called a “guitar”. He had never really liked music, because it always seemed so cliché and shallow. He now thought that maybe he should rethink, because he liked what that person at the park was playing very much. It made him forget all about the overwhelming sadness of the park and considerably brightened his mood. Once he was finished shopping he made sure to go the way past the park to hear the music again, but once he got there the park was empty and the unhappiness had returned. He was admittedly rather sad, but he planned on going back out tomorrow in hopes of seeing her again. He returned the next day, even though the weather was nice and all the puddles had dried up. As he was hoping, she was once again sitting on a bench playing her guitar. This time the sounds were different, a little more sad, but definitely still wonderful. He walked up to her and sat down right next to her on the bench. “Hello again,” she said to him. “Hi, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bother, I just wanted to hear you play again.” “You’re not a bother,” she said with a kind smile.” I could teach you if you wanted. “Really?” he questioned, bewildered why she would want to. “Of course, here,” she handed him the guitar. It was a little too big for him, but it felt very right sitting on his lap. She showed him how to strum the strings, and where to put his fingers in order to achieve different sounds. He was amazed by how right it felt. He certainly was not an expert, but in an hour he had learned two chords and was content with himself. She told him that if he came back she could teach him more chords to play and he obviously said he would. He came back to that newly cheerful park three days later. Unfortunately ,he could not have come earlier because he was needed at home. The day was especially rainy and dark which Oliver was quite glad about as he got to admire the large puddles on his way to the park. When he approached the park the woman looked up and gave him the contagious smile she always does and motioned for him to sit down. As the weeks went by he kept coming back to learn more about the instrument. By two months he had learned to play most of the chords and was really rather skilled for the time he had been playing. One sunny day when the view of the park came into view he was surprised to see it was empty. Once he came closer he saw that the guitar was sitting at their usual bench with a note on top of it. He picked up the note hesitant to read it, in case it was bad news. I’m sorry , I know this is sudden, but I had to leave Idaho, so I left my guitar for you. I think it will be much better in your hands than mine, for you have much potential. - The lady with the guitar He was amazed that she had let him have the guitar. He was planning on saving up his chore money to buy one, but apparently that was unnecessary. An ache in his heart also appeared. He hadn’t known her for long, but she had been the beginning of changes in his life. He had found something that filled up his emptiness and caused him to feel complete. Playing guitar had become one of the most important things in his life and he was glad that he wouldn’t lose it. He only wished he could have wished her farewell. “And that’s it the story of how I started playing guitar” he said feeling like it had only happened yesterday.” “Wow, that seems like the sort of stuff you hear in books.” “Yeah I guess,” he shrugged, “so what do you think? Can I teach you?” “ I feel like I have to, for ‘the lady with the guitar’”

I am not happy with what I have done but I did what I did and I cant change it. Let me start from the beginning. CHAPTER#3 THE BEGINNING. "Mom wheres my makeup?" "Right were you left it on tour make up stand." "You know I wish you wouldn't wear makeup it bad for your skin." "Found it thanks mom." "I know you hate makeup but I love it." I applied my makeup to make my face look better. Today is going to be the best day ever. Its talent show day at school and I want to look my best. I also hope that I get in the top three winners that is my dream. I got to school. I cant wait to see all my friends. I walked to my locker to see my friends waiting for me. "Hey girls." They dont look very happy. "Dont hey use we know what you did behind our back you back stabber." "What are you talking about?" "I would never talk behind about anything." "Were talking about the talent show you went behind our back to do the show by yourself without telling us." "Is that what this is about?" "You both said you wanted nothing to do with the talent show." "Yep you said it we want nothing to do with the talent show and now your part of it and we want nothing to do with you." "What?" They said nothing else and walked away. They told didnt tell me that I couldn't join. Whatever I guess we are not true friends after all. I put my stuff in my locker and headed to the auditorium. I am so excited to show my dancing skills. I watched as the other kids did there talents on the stage it's almost my turn I started walking on the stage when I was stopped by the police. "Hey what gives?" "Emily you are under arrest for robbery and murder." "What I wouldn't hurt anyone I am not that kind of person." They pit the hand cuffs on me and walked me out of the school. I was put into the cop car. We got to the station they walked me into a cubed room for integration. "We are going to ask you some questions." "Ok I have nothing to hide." "Wheres the money?" "What money?" "I am not a thief." So there still talking about that robbery that happend last night. "Ok if you wont confess." "Where were you the night of the robbery?" "Bakeing cookies with my mother." "After we made cookies we sat down and watched horror movies all night." "Ok thanks for tour time." "Book her and get her a bed in jail." "What but I didnt do anything." "You better get me my lawer." "I also want my phone call." They walked me to the phone. I called my mother. "Hello." "Hi mom it me Emily." "I was pit under arrest for last night's murder." "I am so scared." "I asked for a lawer as well." "Good girl I will be there soon." My mother hung up the phone. The police walked me to the sell that i am going to stay in for I dont know how long I am hoping not long. I talked to the lawer with my mother. I was told I was going to stay in jail until they found out the truth. The police said they had a video with my face on it. They showed me the video but it wasn't me it was my exfriends. "Thoughs two are kids from my class." "Who are they?" "Carly and Lilly." I was walked to the jail sell again. "What but it's not me this isn't right." I was literally thrown into the sell. I cried myself to sleep. I stated to makeing lines on the wall for days that I am in jail. It's already been twenty day how many more before I can go back home and sleep in my conftable bed. I cant wait to see my mother and my family again. I miss my mother so much. I would say the same for my father but he was never there for my mother and I he left when I was born. The days here in jail are all the same I work in the laundry room for half the day and after lunch I ckean all the dishes. That's my life now. My mother visits me once a week. That's the limit for me is one day a week because they dont want me to conspire with the outside world and have them kill and rob another place. I don't know why this is happening to me. I mean I know why because my exfriends framed me for something just because of this talent show. "Emily your mother's on the phone." They walked me to the phone and the window thank let's me see my mother. I pick up the phone. "Hi mother how are things?" "They would be better of you were out." We talked for five minutes less time than before. They grabbed me I pulled away. "No I get more time with my mother." I grabbed the phone again. They grabbed me and hand cuffed me. "No!" "Mom." I started crying. I look at my mother she was crying to. I was thrown in the sell again. CHAOTER #2 Today is day one hundred and tenth day being here in jail I get to put another line on the wall. I haven't been able to see my mother since the whole thing that happend I miss her so very much. I am so happy that today is the day I go to court. About and hour i was on the stand being asked questions. After everything in court it's time to hear what the judges have to say. "We find the defendant guilty of robbery and murder." "What theres so much saying that I am not guilty and your all saying I am guilty." "This is unjustified." "I want justice." I was taken by force by the police. We get back to my jail sell and I was once again thrown in jail. I lay in bed refusing to eat and or do anything. CHAPTER#3 I woke up I went to put another lone on the wall but all the lines that I put up were all gone. What's going on everything started to fade away. Disappear from my eyes. I jolted awake. It was all a bad dream. I thought I was in jail but I am at home in my comfortable bed. I jumped out of bed ran down stairs my mother makeing breakfeat. "Moring sweetie your up early." "Mom you will never believe it but I had a bad dream that I was in jail for the rest of my life." "I would make lines on the jail wall but it all disappeared before my eyes and I woke up and now I am here talking to you about." "Wow that's a bad dream for sure." "I am so happy that you are not wearing makeup today." "Yea your right about it." "That's the first I am right?" "I dont believe it." I laughed. "Your right." "I also remember you telling me that I am beautiful without all that makeup on so I am listening to you and not wearing makeup." "I am so proud of you."

Just the other night, I ended up in the back of a cop car with toy guns. It was prom night and this year’s theme was “guns”. Not western, not cops and robbers, not some disco-infused anti-terrorism campaign, just guns. It didn’t matter what you dressed as--you were in costume as long as you brought a fake firearm. There were cops everywhere to look around and make sure everyone’s firearms were fake I guess. *There has to be a better way to do this.* Oh yes, I suppose you could have literally any other theme for a school event, but dreams are dreams. Back inside the cop car, I am seated behind the officer with two other high schoolers in the vehicle. The one to my right ironically dressed as a court jester, the one riding shotgun unironically dressed as a cop. The kid-cop shows his gun first, obviously fake. He smiles to the cop with satisfaction. The cop extends his arm to the backseat and asks for the next gun. I look to the jester, but he isn’t paying attention, so I hand over my fake gun. *Wait, I’m pretty sure it was fake? Oh God, please tell me I brought the right gun from my house.* For some reason I can no longer remember. *How heavy was it in my hands? Why can’t I remember?* “K, clear” the cop says in a tired voice, handing back my gun. *Oh thank God it wasn’t real.* “Next”, he says with his hand still extended in the backseat. The sweaty Jester sits next to me resting his pointer finger just below the slide of his airsoft pistol--proper gun safety etiquette, nice. “**Hand up the toy, I have to check everyone here**” the cop demands impatiently as he turns to face the backseat. I glance at the visibly shaken jester as his short breaths crescendo into hyperventilation. The police officer recognizes the situation and screams “**HANDS IN THE AIR**” with an alarming amount of fear in his voice. In a rush to draw his gun--**BANG**. I was already halfway out of the car when the shot rang off. Oh my God--he shot that kid. *Why the fuck did we have gun themed prom?* I stumble further from the vehicle as high schoolers turn around stunned. *Who is at fault here, the officer for being skittish? The kid for acting suspiciously? Probably the class president for organizing this nightmare.* Then--**BANG, BANG-BANG** from inside the car. Three more shots go off and the jester steps out nervously scanning the now-panicked crowd. A tall clown watching from the edge of the parking lot wielding no weapons points a finger at me. “Jest. He’s there.” *I hate these kinds of dreams.* I take off across the parking lot and sprint down the stairs leading to the football field. Glancing back, I see the jester about 15 yards behind me, followed by the clown 5 yards behind him. The clown barks at his jester, “If you don’t catch him, I will do to you what we were planning to do to him!” The clown continues to berate his high school compadre, fueling their chase with fear. Usually in my nightmares, my feet are slow, or I’m tied down to something. In this dream, I’m running with superhuman endurance, and the clown and his jester fall far behind me. I wake up. *Am I awake?* I am sitting by the fireplace in my childhood home, writing a story. Okay, still dreaming. *Ah, this is one of those dreams with weird abrupt segues. Let’s see, what am I writing...?* “He sees the clown in the distance behind him, losing steam with every hard breath, his clown shoes tirelessly slapping the concrete.” *Holy shit, I am writing my own dream. This is incredible*. At this point I must have felt like I was lucid dreaming, like I had some awareness of the dream itself. I look down at the paper and an icon pops up like a video game menu: “Does he get caught?”. A choose your own adventure. Okay, he does not get caught. Simple as that--all I have to write is “He runs far away.” Just put the words on the paper, \*he doesn’t get caught\*. Simple enough. As I move my pen towards the paper, I can feel my body slipping. This does not feel like a lucid dream at all. I have no control or awareness. Suddenly, I am back in my body on that road near my high school. I look to the sky like Jim Carrey at the end of the Truman Show. “Please” I pray to myself, “please don’t write that I get caught”. I continue stumbling down the road, the clown and the jester in the distance behind me. After taking a few good strides, I feel my body beginning to slip again. *Yes, please, another segue. Get me the hell out of here.* My soul begins to exit from my feet, slowly deflating my body up through my torso. *Thank you, Jesus. Take me now.* Just as the euphoria of safety hits my head, something else does. A stop-sign. *Ow, what the fuck.* Then, something hits my stomach--sobriety, terror. My soul wasn’t slipping from my body, only my legs. All the life was gone from my legs. I couldn’t feel them; I couldn’t use them. All sensation was now concentrated in my hypersensitive upper body. Semi-gracefully, I lean onto the sign-post and twist onto the ground, trying to hide while keeping an eye on the jokers. They were stopped in the distance, staring a thousand yards in my direction. It looks like they are talking to each other. *I don’t think they see me*. The taller one starts to climb onto a parked car while the other takes a few more casual steps in my direction. I am now doing everything I can to press my body down into the dirt behind the stop sign, but gravity has never felt so weak. No matter how hard I try to stay down, parts of my body or clothing continue to rise on either side of the light post. Weird, it was a stop sign a second ago. The taller clown jumps down off of the car and they both start walking intently, then half-skipping. Now laughing hysterically, they both break into a dead sprint. Desperately, I try to claw and drag my dead weight out of the dirt, but gravity has never felt so strong. *Why would I have written my own story like this.* The jingling from the bells on the clowns’ collar and the jester’s pointed hat ring terror down the street. The two jokers’ rapid, slapping shoes sync up rhythmically until the sound of one giant clown materializes. They arrive at my impotent body which lays sunken in the dirt and continue to laugh violently despite being out of breath. The tall clown leashes his jester and waddles towards me, squatting as he walks with a disturbing intensity. “Remember what I said I was going to do to little Jesty if we couldn’t catch you?” I stayed silent because I didn’t want to remember. If I couldn’t remember, then how would my subconscious recreate the punishment? It’s all me creating the dream for myself, right? The jester spoke up from an awkward distance, “You said if we caught ‘em, we could sing a song together.” “Not what I was thinking, but yes... I did promise a little tune for Jesty. We jokers do love a good tune... Let’s keep it short though, we don’t want to keep him waiting now.” They manhandle my body into an old wooden chair and sing down onto me in a trembling monotone: “Oooh myyy--what’s a sober clown to do Someone needs to laugh but he’s all out of booze Oooh myyy--what’s a blind man to do He opens his eyes to find he’s deaf, dumb, and mute Oh my God, we don’t say in vain We would if we could, we don’t even know His name If just one bug knew how all the flowers bloom He’d hang himself inside his own cocoon” Their psalm screeches to a halt and the large clown rolls a full-length mirror out in front of my face. The jester clumsily grips my ears and hair back, and the clown brings a scalpel down on the crest of my forehead. Blood drips down into my eyes until my entire world turns red. I close my eyes out of horror until the scalpel breaks sunlight crashing through my eyelids. As the blood dries around my naked eyeballs the burning realization that I can never blink again sets my mind aflame. Blood drips down my water-resistant reflection and pools at our feet. My large naked teeth gape open as my lips are carved away and I begin to choke on my scream. No thoughts left, just waiting to die. I stare down onto my blood-soaked clothes trying to avoid eye-contact with my own faceless face. The jokers look on motionless, but their bells continue to jingle.

I’m sitting alone at a bar. But, not even a real bar, it’s a bar in a chain restaurant. A Lone Star to be exact. I chose the side to sit that had no other people around it. I look across from me and see a middle-aged couple that’s still trying to show an interest in one another. The man has his arm around a woman who I assume to be his wife, while they both stare at her cell phone with the same vacant smile on their faces. Adjacent to them sit three slightly older than middle-aged men, drinking and talking sports and retirement. Two of them drink beer, but the one of the far end is drinking something harder, like a whiskey or something dark. I think of him as the smartest of the three. In a booth, a woman glares at me from time to time. When she’s not staring at me I look behind myself to make sure there isn’t a TV, or something behind me she might be looking at. There’s no TV. As the bartender offers me another beer a man takes the seat next to mine. We nod to each other while he proceeds to make a mundane joke about the weather to the woman behind the bar. “They say it’s going to rain tonight,” he jests while water drips off of his body, clearly just stepping out of the rain. “Oh no, I hope not.” She replied. She didn’t understand the joke... Across the way I notice a young girl and her friends talking, and eating dinner. While she’s talking she periodically bites her cell phone. I can’t help but think about the amount of germs going into her mouth. I’m not a germ freak or anything, but I can’t help but feel like there are just some boundaries you don’t cross. I wouldn’t just rub my hands all over a public bathroom and then just stick them in my mouth, which is essentially what she just did. Some time goes by as I wait to hear from a friend who I’ve been expecting a phone call from. While I sit and wait I’m silently praying that the guy who sat next to me doesn’t try to engage me in conversation. I can tell he has wanted to say something since he sat down. He seems like the kind of drunk that will spew anything he has to say to anyone with ears. He finally sees his opportunity. A one-armed UFC fighter has come on the television, it was just the kind of thing he was looking for. He looks at me and says, “looks like they got a handicapped fighter. Bet he’s a vet.” “Yeah I was thinking the same thing.” I don’t know why I said that; I hadn’t been thinking it at all. As the fight continued he said all the platitudes you would expect to hear. “See that left?” “Good defense, good defense...” My phone goes off. The friend I’ve been waiting to hear from messages me saying to head over to his house. I call over the bartender and pay my tab. As I walk out I wonder why I bothered to come here.

I’m zooming down the freeway, in the middle of a snowstorm, already late for my sister’s New Year’s Eve party. We are ten miles away when I hit an ice patch, with my left tire while realizing I'm drifting to the left in the first place. We slide off the road, flipping into a small ditch. When the car is steady, I look over to Maya in the passenger seat in panic. Questions and outright statements go through my mind. Are you hurt? Can you call the police? Is your phone charged? I’m scared. Panting, Maya is looking at me in terror while she says, “My ph-ph-one is almost d-d-dead.” No, no, no, I just wanted to go see my friends, and sister for New Year’s Eve, and now this. I try to reach for my phone but with the car’s current position it is not within reach. I look at my watch and read 11:00 p.m. and mumble out the words, “Can you call the police? Are you hurt?” While dialing the phone Maya comments, “I’m fine, and calling the police. How are you feeling?” Relief washes over me and the panic starts to die down. “I don’t think I’m hurt, and can you put the phone on speaker,” Maya does as I say, and after a few rings the phone is picked up. “911 what’s your emergency?” “Hi this is Maya Smith I’m calling from my car which has just flipped. The driver and I seem to be fine, just uncomfortable.” “Hello Maya, do you know where you are exactly?” We tell the lady on the phone and she says that the closest officer is an hour away. “An hour?” I say under my breath when she tells us the news. “It can’t be.” “Due to the storm and the lack of officers in the area, the time range is from 45-60 minutes,” the lady over the phone states calmly as if trying to soothe my rising fear. Maya, stepping back into the conversation says, “Thank you for your help,” and hangs up after we have gathered all the information needed. An hour, what are we going to do with an hour on our hands; hopefully this officer hurries his butt up and gets us out of this car and out of the cold. The cold air from outside starts to seep in. I look over to Maya with her hair in beautiful twists making her look like a queen in and of itself but her gold tight dress and lengthy sweater seals the deal and I start to giggle to myself. She glances at me with her questioning face and cries out, “Are we gonna talk or are you just gonna look at me with that face for the next hour?” we both laugh at that and finally start to talk about work and food, we can’t seem to drop the idea of our huger. “Can we drop the fake talk? I think Tyler is going to propose soon and I don’t think I have ever been more sure in my life. I love him beyond words, but we’re young and I still have so many things to do in life. Is now the right time?” Maya blurts out. “Okay Maya, you love him, and I know there is still so much to do but the only thing that the ring will change is that he’ll be there beside you, no matter what. Marriage isn’t gonna hold you back but let you have all your great discoveries and memories together. Girl, I can see it in your eyes that you want him, you’re scared of the future, and you don’t know what you want. You do what your heart tells you to do. Besides if your life is too busy, you can always say yes, but have a later wedding, in like 2 years or something.” Silence rang through the car I knew Maya was just processing my killer speech. After what could’ve been ten minutes, “Yes” Maya whispers “What?” I ask. “Yes!” now she says it louder. “Yess, yes, yes, yes,” now she’s screaming, “I’M GETTING MARRIED,” she’s shaking me now and we are both screaming so loud. “Well at least if I’m asked I know my answer!” “This deserves a celebration, you’re not married but just in case someone asks you anytime soon,” I scream in her face “Wait, can’t we play music on my phone until it dies?” Maya answers just as loud as my proposition. Soon after it’s settled and blast music on her phone for a solid 10 minutes, until we see flashing lights stop behind us. The officer helps both of us out of the car and checks for broken bones that we would have surely noticed by now; trying to understand our situation. We warm up in the car and I charge my newly found but dead phone. Once things are sorted and we are on our way to my sister’s, my phone has regained charge and oh my, I have 150 messages and 20 missed calls. Something must have been important; I’m not that popular. I call my sister. With in a few rings the familiar voice of my sister answers “Oh. My. Gosh. Where are you? This was so important it better be good. I was worried and Tyler is freaking out.” I interrupt her with, “I’m fine. Maya and I slid on an ice patch and the car flipped. We had to wait for the police, and now we are in the car heading to your house.” Screams come from her side of the phone ad says, “Okay, okay I have to go and celebrate New Year’s call you back I promise. Turn on the radio and don’t tell Maya that Tyler was gonna propose, I can’t believe you didn’t know. I’m glad you two are OK!” My breath hitches and I’m stunned into silence as my sister hangs up the phone and a signal word escapes me, “No.” After Maya is not staring at me, trying to crack me so I spill the importance of the night, I ask the officer to turn on the radio. He is totally cool and everyone in the car is counting down the last 10 seconds of 2019. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

COME FULL CIRCLE Jackson Snell lived for his morning coffee, his routine, his ritual if you will. Growing up on a truck farm with his parents and younger brother and sisters in rural Alabama, is where he cultivated this penchant for morning coffee. It traveled with to Chicago, some forty years ago. At sixty-seven years of age it stayed with him. This daily routine fortified his resolve that his decision to accept a transfer forty years ago as the right one. Now he lived in East Lake View, not a swanky neighborhood, but a lovely one nonetheless. As he walked through the doors of his neighborhood coffee shop, a warm greeting awaited as it did every morning. “Hey, Jackson, how are you this morning?” asked the young barista. “Jest fine, Mindy, jest fine. How ‘bout y’all?” “Can’t complain. The usual?” “Sho’ ‘nuff. Like they say; if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. But maybe this once get me one of them lemon squares today.” “You got it.” Paying for his coffee with a generous tip, he settled into his favorite window seat. The morning traffic on Clark Street always punctuated a smile across his face. He settled into city life with such ease it surprised him; he made friends and grew to love city life. It took a while, but he managed to even switch his allegiance from the Braves to the White Sox and didn’t find the designated hitter rule the evil he always thought it to be. His smile broadened as his mind drifted back to those hard scrabble days on the farm. It wasn’t a longing for the good old days, but it was for the change his life had taken. Like they say, ‘Life is good’. Retired now, he found his life a lot more than good; morning coffee and this afternoon at the zoo with his grandkids. What could be better? Life was damn good, he thought. While he sat contemplating his life and how good he had it, he never noticed the attractive, matronly woman entering the shop, going to the counter and ordering tea. Jackson paid no attention to her, until she sat at his table directly across from him. A quick glance around the shop, revealed half dozen empty tables, but here she sat right opposite him at his window table. She placed her purse to her left, grasped her tea in both hands, and took a deep sip, closing her eyes enjoying the warmth drifting down her throat. Looking up, Jackson saw an attractive older black woman, not as old as himself, but north of fifty. Soft, hazel eyes; no make-up, a pale-yellow blouse with no jewelry completed the picture. Her smile beamed, yet it seemed shallow and forced. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but do I know you?” “That truly saddens me, Mr. Snell. Of all the folks that done crossed yo’ path, surely I thought you’d remember me; Viola McBee.” “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I have no recollection of that name, or such a lovely face.” “Well, maybe this will jog ya’ll’s memory some.” As she reached into her purse, Jackson took a sip of his coffee. When he looked back up, Viola McBee dead aimed her small .25 automatic at his face. She pulled the trigger twice. The impact of the shots threw Jackson out of his seat and onto the floor. Viola McBee nestled her gun onto the table and resumed her tea. Two hours later she sat in an interview room at the thirteenth precinct. Her hands folded demurely on the table in front of her, her expression calm and unruffled, at peace. As they watched her, the only items that seemed to be missing were white gloves, a pillbox hat, and a bible. Detectives Lintelli and Stanton seated across from her; they observed for a while. Viola said little more than to confirm her name and address. “I don’t get it. Mr. Snell was overheard telling you that he didn’t know you, yet you shot him to death. I don’t get it.” “Mr. Snell misspoke. He knew me, he just didn’t remember me.” “I still don’t get it,” said Stanton. “Did you know he was planning to take his grandkids to the zoo later on today? What if they were there?” This seemed to jolt her back to the present. She stared at the interrogators. “I would have waited. He had grandchildren?” “Yes, but thanks to you, they don’t have a grandfather anymore.” “It would seem so, but they didn’t need this one. No, not this one.” “The family will never be the same. Never.” “Happens to the best of families, don’t it? Look, I done what I done and ain’t gon’ apologize for it neither.” “We’re beginning to get that, but the question still remains; why did you do it?” When the words were out of the detectives’ lips, Viola’s eyes averted theirs, tears formed in them, the hazel color shrouded with moisture. She reached into her blouse and brought out a small, unsealed envelope and plopped it on the table. “This be my answer to your ‘why’.” Stanton picked up the envelope as if picking up a double-edged razor and gingerly opened it. Inside she found a folded, yellowed newspaper clipping; a small article and picture. “Oh, my God!” she exclaimed. Lintelli reached over and took it from her hand. “Jesus!” he said. The article was an explanation of the picture. It was of a lynching in Coffee County, Alabama, August of 1968; white people standing around; men, women, children as if at a fourth of July picnic. Drinking from cups and bottles, smiling, eating snow cones. No caption, no explanation under the photo, just two figures circled. A black man hung from a tree; his neck elongated, his tongue purpled and swollen bulging out his mouth, his pants pulled down around his ankles, the lower half of his body drenched in blood. “They done hung my Daddy. That be August, 1968. Them circled pictures be Mr. Jackson Snell and his buddy, Caleb Potter. “They lynched your father?” “Yes, suh, they surely did.” “Why?” She three both detectives a glance that revealed to them how stupid their question was. “’Cause it was 1968, Coffee County, Alabama. Cain’t you read? That’s all the reason they needed, but they did have another.” Lintelli glanced once again at the photo. “Why just kill Mr. Snell? I mean it looks like there were a lot of participants here.” “Maybe ‘cause everybody there didn’t rape my Daddy’s eleven-year-old daughter, his only daughter; only Jackson Snell and Caleb Potter.” Viola’s bottom lip quivered; the tears poured out now. “They raped me. They yanked me off the road. I was comin’ home from the store. They took me back in the swamp and took turns. “When they had they fill, they let me go, tellin’ me they’d be back when I got older and learnt some things ‘cause they loved them some dark meat. I can still hear them laughin’ as they drove off. “I tol’ my Daddy and his mistake was he went and tol’ the sheriff. That sheriff went and tol’ them dirt farmer Snells. Next thing I know is they breakin’ in our house and draggin’ my Daddy out. “As they was draggin’ my Daddy out, my Mama held me back. I was cryin’, screamin’, and beggin’ them not to. That’s when Mr. Jackson Snell turned, smiled, and winked at me. That’s also when I knew this day would come.” She lowered her head, gazing at her lap, then slowly raised it to face the detectives. “So, you say, Mr. Snell had grandkids? Well, I ain’t got none. Aftuh they done what they did, I couldn’t have no kids. No kids fo’ me meant no man evuh looked my way. It was like I was marked since I been eleven. Yes, suh, marked. No man wanted me, but they was no man I wanted aftuh they done, what they did.” Both Lintelli and Stanton sat there, stunned as if hit by lightning, not knowing what to do or say. After a somber silence, Stanton spoke. “Ms. McBee, I don’t know what to say. I - “ “Don’t fret about it none, sweetheart. I knew what I was doin’ and I knew what the outcome would be, so it ain’t yo’ problem. It’s between me and the Lawd. Hope She will understand.” “She?” “One of my last remainin’ hopes fo’ forgiveness.” As if on cue two uniforms came in to escort Viola McBee away and back to the holding cells. She turned one last time before exiting through the door. “You might wanna call the Coffee County Sheriff’s Office, and clear up a missing person’s report for them. They can find Caleb Potter’s body down by Bryson Creek. That’s where they took me that day. “Also tell them they woulda been another, but the devil came up and snatched that sheriff befo’ I could.” As she left out the door, the detectives sat, each in their own way, trying to define justice and its true meaning.

Dear Air Fryer, We’ve appreciated your contributions during your time here. Unfortunately, those contributions are no longer welcome. It’s a space issue, *mostly*. Real estate is hard to come by these days and, coupled with your inconsistent and unique usage, the math didn’t add up. However, we will miss your public relations team. Their work in recent years has been mighty impressive. Regardless of personal feelings about your sudden and bewildering rise, watching the machine behind you push you to those heights has been a learning experience for everyone. Hopefully that includes you. With a gimmicky name, and a half-hearted attempt at focusing on health, you can literally get to the top by doing nothing but blowing hot air. If that isn’t modern day America, I don’t know what is! I hope this doesn’t make it seem like we’re blaming you. We’re not. You’ve been along for the ride as much as the rest of us. Now, *that ride is over*. Sure, Microwave has some room for improvement, Stove could use some work, and god knows the last time we saw Toaster Oven. And yes, I lack an internal fan. Despite those faults, your addition to the team did little to solve those problems. Instead, you just became another problem to solve. And for what? Marginally crispier and “healthier” food? Again, it just doesn’t add up. From my point of view, your problems aren’t one of utility, but one of expectation. You can do the handful of things you do fairly well. We’re not arguing that. But you’re not a necessary, everyday fixture. You’re less like me, and more like, say, Crock Pot. It’s fun to have you around for special occasions, but our regular interactions must cease. Best of luck in your future endeavors, Oven \*\*\* Dear Oven, I appreciate your appreciation of my contributions. Unfortunately, whether or not those contributions are welcome is none of your concern. I’m sorry to have offended you. Both with my existence, and my universal acceptance. I just find it odd that you’ve taken the role of “Kitchen Captain” when you’re simply another member of the team. Self-appointed titles aside, let’s be clear: You don’t make the decisions around here. Whether or not I take up too much space or am too specialized in my work isn’t something you should be worried about. Then again, it is clear why you are concerned. You may say you only lack an internal fan. What you lack is much more important than that. You lack the foresight, the open-mind, and the willingness to change that is vital in today’s kitchen culture. Expecting you to know anything about that, though, is my mistake. Everything is always evolving. The way we think, the way we eat, and the way we think about the way we eat are all changing on a constant basis. It can be hard to keep up, especially for such a *historic* figure as yourself. That’s not your fault. But, I am glad you can admit the faults of you and yours so quickly. Finding faults seems to be something you excel at. Despite that skill, it is quite the oversight for a letter from you citing “real estate” as a reason for my struggles. I believe pot and kettle would like a word. You say I did little to solve the problems you pointed out. That would be a matter of opinion. My regular usage from those who decide such things would seem to indicate at least one difference of opinion, and a rather important one. Maybe if you had more of a focus on health, on specialty products, and marginal improvements, rather than what’s wrong with everyone, I wouldn’t be needed. Thankfully for me, you’re clearly too busy writing letters to do that.

"Are you having a séance in here? He isn't dead yet." If Jonesy could have had a birthday mid-summer, instead of dead in the middle of winter, that would be great. He's a camping fanatic, and Byron has connections to get a cabin in the woods for an ultimate slumber party. Connections being his mother, who promised everything would be ready for them. Everything, not everyone. "Dude, I got us a cabin in the woods for your birthday," he had said. "Great, I'll let Philippa know. She'll be so hype!" Jonesy had taken him by both shoulders and was beaming so hard his face could have split. There was no way Byron could tell him she wasn't invited. Having his heart split would be a much worse fate. Thing was, she didn't have her license. Which would have been fine, because she could have carpooled with her boyfriend, and met him there. Unfortunately, despite requesting the day off for a long birthday weekend, Jonesy's boss scheduled him until five, and already at his limit for excused absences (stupid flu bug), he stayed, as all the snow started to pile up. Byron had agreed to drive Philippa. That way they could prepare dinner and be ready by the time that he'd be arriving before giving him a very generous birthday gift. One that made him blush as she asked if he was packing his headphones, because things would be getting loud. How generous of her. It's late January, and it feels it. There's about a half foot of snow accumulated outside the window. It's taking longer than it should for Jonesy to show up, but they assume that he's going slowly, because the roads have turned to ice in the cold. The weather has turned bad enough that the power gets knocked out. So here he is, standing in the doorway of the bedroom, looking at her amidst a circle of lit candles. "Don't say yet. It worries me." She shifts her weight. "I'm waiting to seduce Jonesy. We're already behind schedule." She has a schedule? Are they that routine that she knows how many minutes it'll take to create the ultimate power combo for his pleasure? Does that include the time it'll take him to defrost? "You're going to catch cold in that thing. If you want to bundle up, I can answer the door when he shows up and delay him a few minutes." It's not that he wants to help her nail his best friend. He isn't her biggest fan to be honest. They haven't hung out much, but she is infamous for stealing his attention. Also for long set of legs of hers that she has spread out for display. He can see the allure. He can feel it, backing out of the doorway. "He'll be here any minute. I can feel it," she calls after him. He nods, though she can't see him, long gone down the hallway. He needs to collect his thoughts. The last thing he needs is for Jonesy to walk into his best friend deconstructing the tent in his pants, pitched by his girlfriend, on his birthday. He makes his exit to the kitchen, where a, now dead, slow cooker sits on the countertop. The mac and cheese is cold now. It's slowly congealing, because he had thought that they'd have eaten and moved onto dessert by now. Rather they'd have moved onto their special dessert, and Byron would eat the bag of Sour Patch Kids he had thrown into his duffel bag. The kitchen is dark without the lights, and he reaches for his phone. There's no service, but he can use it as a makeshift flashlight so that he can make his way to the fridge for a bottle of water. "Bryan!" He's not going to respond. He's grown used to it, with years of people mishearing his name upon introduction, and he's given up on correcting them. It's just that he's only now gotten his emotions under control, and he isn't fond of testing fate. She calls the name again. After the third try, she shuffles out of the bedroom, carrying one of her candles. His flashlight accidentally hits her in the pupils. "Sorry," he apologizes, turning it off. She sets the candle on the counter between them, and he stares at it, because it's not her. "I was calling for you." "No you weren't. You were calling for some guy named Bryan." He takes the lid off the slow cooker. It's definitely getting worse by the moment, and he gives it a stir in an attempt to revive it. Also in an attempt to avoid looking at her in that outfit, or therefore lack of. She doesn't seem to catch the hint. Poking her own nose in, it wrinkles. "What if he got hurt and can't contact either of us? What if he's not coming tonight?" "Then hopefully he finds help. But it'll only be worse if we go out looking for him. It's dangerous out there, and you aren't even properly dressed." He tightens the strings on his own hoodie. He's thrown some wood into the fireplace, but it isn't a miracle worker. "I have clothes." He waits for her to fetch them and get dressed, and laughs at how thin they are. She's still shivering. "C'mon. Extinguish the candles and we can go sit by the fire. It'll be warmer." She returns, this time with a blanket, to find him on the floor. He has the slow cooker with him, and a serving spoon. He takes a heaping scoop and eats it straight off the spoon. "Seriously, not-Bryan?" "Not-Bryan?" "You said your name wasn't Bryan." "It's Byron. As in Lord Byron." He nibbles at the gluey cheese. It's past its prime, but he is hungry, and doubts his friend will be arriving tonight. She takes the spoon from him. "You're a Lord?" Obviously someone isn't as big into poetry as his parents. She's also not above sharing his cooties, licking a glob of macaroni off the spoon. He chuckles and shakes his head. "We can get bowls, y'know." "I don't mind." There's something in the way that she smiles at him with cheese glazed lips that tickles his heart. It's probably residual from seeing her in that lace number, still peeking out from underneath that sweater dress of hers. This time he shivers, fingers brushing hers as he takes the spoon back from her. "Next year I should get him tickets to the movies." It's the most inconvenient time of the year to have a birthday. At least the theater will have heat, and they can stuff themselves with buttery popcorn instead of congealed mac and cheese. "Who?" She's watching as he methodically eats one noodle at a time. The question startles him, and he jolts back, cheese smeared on his nose. "Jonesy." The second syllable comes out airy, as her thumb rubs his nose clean. He loses it when she licks her thumb clean, forgetting how to breathe for a minute. Her smile drops. It's almost as if she had forgotten her boyfriend could be trapped out in the middle of a snowstorm. She's quiet for a few minutes, plucking pieces of macaroni out of the slow cooker. They're not sharing the spoon anymore. He must have cooties again. Or she's realized that they got too intimate for two humans only connected by their favorite person. "He was really excited about this. It's all he would talk about for the last two weeks. He said his two favorite people would finally get to hang out and learn to love each other as much as he loves us." Byron sets the spoon down. "I don't hate you." "You don't?" "I just hate how much time he spends with you." "Huh." "What?" "I could say the same thing about you." She twists to face him. "All those overnight bro trips, and bronch every Sunday." It's Bronch. They've been having their bro-brunch for years. They'd been jealous of his mother always having a ladies brunch without them, so they went with intentions of getting tall stacks of blueberry pancakes and ended up with a dedicated table and waitress. Ladies aren't bros. Ladies can't eat bronch. Still, she has a point. He makes no effort to include her, knowing she'll take all his attention. How could she not, with those stupid long legs and that beautiful smile? "Fair point." She moves the food out of the way and scoots closer. He hesitates. Is she moving towards the fire, or trying to get closer to him? Should he scoot back more, or- Oh. Holding the blanket out, she wiggles even closer. "We should share body heat. I didn't think it'd be this cold." She lets the blanket fall over him, and he sits rigid. She looks perfectly cuddle worthy, but cuddling leads to canoodling, and that's a slippery slope to go down. "There's an extra hoodie in my bag if you want to borrow it." She does, and he takes the moment to breathe as she goes for it and slips it on. She's swimming in it. Crawling back under the blanket, she curls into his side. That plan went horribly. "Philippa..." "Call me Pip." "Pip?" "I was named after my prick of a father. I hate being called Philippa." It's news to him, as Jonesy always calls her by her full name. He wonders if he knows, or if she hasn't told him, for fear of upsetting him and losing him. At the memory of his best friend, he crosses his legs. He needs to calm down. It should be easy, because she's started talking about her abusive father, which isn't sexy in the slightest, but he wants to hold her and wipe her tears away. Where the heck is Jonesy? Her words start to slur, and he realizes that she is falling asleep. He tries to lift her, failing. His body too is falling to sleep, and try as he might to stay awake, wedged between her weight and the hardwood floor he isn't letting her head fall to, he succumbs. He wakes the next morning to find her still asleep on him. Temptation gets the better of him and he kisses the top of her head. He manages to get his phone out of his pocket to see that it is dead. Putting his phone down, he sees that she has awoken (turns out he has jostled her after all) and is smiling at him. There's no immediate leap of horror after finding herself practically in her boyfriend's best friend's lap. "I wonder if he's going to show up today." Oops, there goes the smile. "Is it still storming outside?" The windows are covered in white, so they head to the door. There, fist raised to knock stands Jonesy, looking a bit frozen. "Judging by the looks on your faces, I'm going to assume neither of you got my texts." She snaps out of her daze and shifts away from Byron. Her side feels cold without him. "We lost power yesterday. No phone service either." "We're glad you're safe." The truth pains him. Yes, he is glad that his best friend is safe. Mainly because he cares about him. Though he'd be lying if he said that it had nothing to do with preventing him from acting on certain feelings that cropped up in his absence. Problem was, the feelings weren't just physical anymore. He doubts this is what he meant when he said he wanted him to learn to love her. "Come in," she says, wrapping the blanket completely around herself. She's still wearing Byron's hoodie. "It was so bad out last night when I got out of work I went home. Texted that I'd head out in the morning, and for you guys to save me some mac and cheese." It's still sitting on the floor. Byron steers him to the bedroom. Motioning behind Jonesy's head for Pip to hurry, she runs into the living room to fling off his hoodie and take the pot to the fridge. The ring of candles are still waiting for him, unlit, and he sighs happily. "Isn't she the greatest?" "She's pretty alright," he undersells, catching her eye as she approaches. She gives a half hearted smile, fingertips grazing his for a moment as she passes him through the doorway. His hand folds around the paper. He waits until the door is closed to read it. 'I wish I had met you first.' He listens to his best friend unzip her dress, gawking in delight. Then a flat, hollow voice. "Happy belated birthday, Jonesy." The paper crumples in his fist.

This is useless. He knows too much for his own good. His hollow orbs stuck in the temporary daydream gaze around the crowd, examining their movements, emotions, disrupted far-away chats. A family covering the grave with glowing yellow marigolds, an old grandma lighting up the lone candle in her late husband’s ‘ofrenda’, children joking around with sugar skulls melting in their mouths, the blowing pierced papers hanging on a single string, the skeleton-like makeup, the day he will never understand, Día de Los Muertos, Day of the Dead. The young boy finds himself standing alone, drifting apart from the rest of the family. He tails around behind the stream of crowds who are busy with all the fancy rituals and meals everywhere. A moment passed, the deafening surroundings managed to get on his nerves. With a piece of sweet conchas bread dangling between his teeth, he makes his way through the mob. Either it’s to regroup with his relatives or escape the blaring resonance, anything seems fine rather than drowning like a lost soul. The little figure struggles to penetrate through but eventually frees himself from the suffocating area. Breathing the fresh oxygen, slowly but surely, his legs bring him to the isolated worn-out fountain. He settles down and observes his hazy reflection on the murky water, filled with dry scattered leaves. The skull face-painting is smudged, his droopy eyes feel so empty. Bored with the constant expression, he faces back to the distant gatherings. In no time, he’s back to initiate the old habit of analyzing people’s behavior, whatever that is. Behind the setting sun and orange painted landscape, a group of women snaps a quick selfie, highlighting their colorful hats, a couple of boys fold their enormous kite, tangling themselves in the rope a few times, newly-wed wipes off the dirt from the sturdy cross and photo frames, dancers in traditional clothes on the left, musical crews delivering soft melodies on the right, a fully dressed silhouette approaches him from the front. A newcomer comfortably sits beside him after cleaning her moldy spot. Two minutes, five minutes, ten minutes go by with only silence between the two. The girl curves a thin smile, dangling her feet heedlessly, opposed to the boy whose biting his bottom lips sort of anxiously for no clear reason. He’s starting to despise the air circulating around them; a fan of peace, not awkwardness. Fighting against his still image, he cracks his throat open, fortunately not letting out a trembling voice. “What are your thoughts about the dead?” “Deceased. Someone who’s not a part of our world anymore, well at least physically. What about you?” “Someone who becomes non-existent. I don’t really have a belief in God and soul. Humans are just mere beings constructed of atoms, molecules, organs, working together to adapt in Earth. Humans are just a better form of evolution than animals, plants, and bacterias. Death is just a statement indicating our physical body can’t support and sustain itself anymore, therefore we become non-existent again, like before being born, am I right?” “You’re not wrong. So your point is?” “Those people are wasting time and money for this festival. Why give food to someone who’s not here? Why decorate a home with no one occupying it? Why talk to them if they can’t hear you? Why believe in the existence of the afterlife and eternal sleep if there’s not even a single piece of evidence? Useless.” “Have you ever watched the movie Coco-“ “Shut up.” “Not a big fan I see. Did you cry watching it?” “...No.” “A liar I see. So what’s your opinion on it?” “Ridiculous. Plain ridiculous. Souls crossing a bridge to the mortal world and dancing around during this particular day. That’s not happening in real life. People cling on fantasy too much.” “Have you lost someone important or close in your life?” “That’s so sudden, an uncle of mine passed away last month. Why?” “What did you feel back then?” “Sad of course. What else would I feel? How about you then?” “Hmm, I don’t know, that’s why I asked. I’m thankful that I’ve never lost someone so dear to me but I never have them in the first place anyway. People to share memories together, people that I can laugh along with together, people to quarrel with. At least now I have a few friends to play around with back at home. How does it feel?” “Why do you keep on questioning me? This ain’t an interrogation.” “...” “Happy, I feel happy, okay? My parents take good care of me, buy me loads of books and comics, treat me breads when I’m whining like a baby. My little brother can be annoying at times, he would blame me to get away with a lollipop, but it’s lonely when he’s not around. My aunt and uncle give me pocket money and bring us to the amusement park during holidays. Now I miss my uncle, great, just great.” “That’s quite relaxing to hear from a grumpy boy. Why do you miss your uncle?” “Because he’s not here anymore?” “You sound so unsure but you’re not wrong, again. You miss spending time with him, you miss making memories with him, either it’s a good or bad one. Yes, he left the world and became non-existent as you mentioned earlier, but that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten. The memories, grumpy boy, the memories keep him ‘alive’.” “You’re trying hard to prove my point wrong here.” “You can’t deny that I’m right. Those people and your family are having fun at this festival. They’re appreciating the dead that once is someone who spent memories together. C’mon there’s nothing illegal or criminal activities going on here, you can’t hate on-“ “Who said I’m against them, I just didn’t understand.” “So now you understand?” “Maybe.” “Good. What’s your name?” “Are you sure you’re not from the CIA or some secretive agencies asking for my personal information?” “Does a twelve-year-old girl from the orphanage across look like a spy to you? We can be friends, if you want to. Share some memories and bring them down to our grave in the future.” “That sounds horrifying.” “...” “Jorge. Jorge Velázquez Leon. You?” “Alicia. Alicia Aguilar Valdés.”

1919 words Rated PG; gun violence, blood I roll my pen back and forth along my desk to stop the annoying buzz of silence in my office. The shimmering crystals inside it jostle. They were taken from the first star ever created. You can get them in bulk at the gift shop downstairs. It takes away the mystique, doesn’t it? You can just pop down two floors, grab one of these babies, and now you own part of a star. Humans would go crazy for just a glimpse at it. Not that they can touch it. Their fingers would explode. “ 729*8 , your new patient is ready.” Chirps the intercom voice. Finally. I was worried I was going to be here all day. “Alright, send them in.” Above me, a clear tube lowers into the chair in front of me. I have seen this many times. It doesn't get any more exciting. With a series of clicks and a whir, a person falls down it. The tube rises again into the ceiling. This person has brown hair with grey eyebrows, and a floral print dress. Their pale skin almost shines in the light of my desk lamp. It makes for an unsettling look. Not as unsettling as the look on their face, though. They scream at the sight of me. I wave a hand to silence them, as their file appears in front of me. I pick it up. Mager Elthod Czefth Pronouns: He/Him Age of death: 41 Date and time of death: Monday, February 6, at 13:45 Mode of death: COVID-19 Transition method: ethereal protocol #854 “Why hello, Mr.Czefth.” I take away the silencing wish with a flick of my wrist. For a flitting moment, Mager’s features are not scared, but confused. “How did you pronounce my name right?” “Well, I read it, and sounded it out.” Mager nods, understanding my thought process. “Sure. So, I’m dead, right?” “Very much so.” He stares at the room he’s in. The silver walls have pictures of all my patients on them. I have over a hundred, so one side is completely filled with smiling faces. Which reminds me. “Hey, smile.” Mager turns to me. “What?” “Just smile.” Mager does, revealing his small teeth. I hold out the fingers of my human form, and take a mental image. “There we go.” On the wall, another frame pops out. Mager’s mouth drops as his nervous face hangs up. “So, I’m guessing this is heaven.” “You could say that.” I cross out the take picture part of the patient to do list with my not-so-special pen. “So, who are you?” “That is a difficult question, Mager. I am here to adjust you to your new afterlife. Think of me as a supernatural therapist.” Mager still doesn’t seem to understand. “Basically I help you get used to being dead. Got it?” “Yeah, sorta.” I sigh and cross off explanation . “I have an hour of your time before my next meeting. While I could ask the boss to slow down time for you, their a jerk, so I’d rather not?” “Meaning?” Mager’s not finished saying the word before I’m at the door, extending my hand. “Let’s go. You have a lot to learn.” [] Outside, it’s raining. I put an umbrella over our heads. This leads to a pattering sound. I hate pattering sounds. Mager squints to see anything with the water falling on our heads. “Why is it raining in heaven?” I gesture for him to follow me as we walk to town square. “Perfect weather gets boring. This community has asked to have rain be a part of regular weather patterns.” A car appears in front of us. I snap my pudgy fingers, and we’re inside. The hood is rolled down, for maximum view. Mager isn’t as surprised at teleportation as I’d thought he’d be. “You have awesome powers.” I unintentionally smile at his compliment. “Yes, I do.” We pass the homes of people with curtains open, playing board games or eating together. They’re all laughing or smiling as they converse with their friends and family. Mager watches. “You don’t see much of that anymore on earth.” I am tempted to comfort him, because I fell genuine sadness in his voice, but that’s ethereal protocol #4562, and that is not the one I am doing. “Yes, it’s unfortunate, isn’t it?” As we leave the community, the sun turns on again. All the homes are made of bubbles, of all different tints and sizes. The road has changed from pavement to bricks. Fountains spurt up on both sides of us, rising and falling in a synchronized dance. “Wow, look at this place.” Mager marvels at the living quarters. “I would not want to live here.” “Don’t worry, you aren’t.” I assure him, even though I have no idea. We pass people walking down the street, with bags of clothes and ice cream in their hands. They all shout at and greet Mager. “Hi!” “Welcome to the afterlife!” “How are you doing?” Mager waves. “I’m a little scared.” Everyone laughs. “Don’t worry, you’ll get over it!” Mager is warming up to them. Perfect. Up ahead, past the community, is a stand. A lone person is standing behind it, grinning. The sign above them says Escort. I stop in front of it. I walk out, and Mager falls in step beside me. “What is this?” he asks. “The rest of your ride.” I high-five with the person controlling the escort. “Hey, 274*3, what’s up?” 274*3 laughs. “Oh, not much. Just the worst paperwork you could imagine. Did you know tenants now have to sign satisfaction papers?” I drop my jaw. “You’re kidding.” 274*3 shakes their head. “Oh, I wish. Forget about finishing in 12.4563 minutes.” I push Mager closer to them. He is a bit tense. “Mager, promise to give them full marks. They’re the best in the business.” Mager looks up and down at 274*3. “I don’t see why not.” 274*3 clicks their human tongue at Mager. “Sweet, now, come on, let’s get you home.” After a quick elbowing from me, Mager goes after 274*3. He looks back at me. “When will I see you again?” “Whenever you like.” I shrug. “So, what about tomorrow?” That’s unusual. But a tenant is always right. “Yeah, that works. You’ll be dropped off tomorrow at my building.” I smirk as he walks away. His transition is easier than expected. Tomorrow, he will be tortured. Tomorrow, he will be closer to perfection. [] Mager is at my doorstep very early. I’ve barely had time to clean my mouth bones. He is wearing a brown skirt and a matching brown tie. His shirt is a colour I don’t recognize. “You’re really eager.” I comment as we walk to the front desk. “I’m just excited to be transitioned.” he responds. At the front desk, 352*0 is working. Organizing patient files and sending them up. A boring but necessary task. Their person fingers and nails click and clack on the human keyboard without even looking at it. That's always what I found most impressive about humans. And now that there are ethereals learning the skill, I've come to appreciate the work that people put into things. “Hey, ethereal protocol #854.” I say when 352*0 asks why we’re here. “Please present wrist for inspection.” 253*0 takes a a small rectangle from a drawer and holds it out, waiting for us to obey their monotone request. It’s bright blue, with the label written on the front in curly glyphs. Protocol scanner . The bottom of it is projecting red light, waiting for something to authorize. “Mager, that’s you.” I nudge him. “Oh.” He rolls up his sleeve, revealing his bare arm. 253*0 runs the scanner over it. The scanner beeps, and they check a message on their computer. “Alright, please enter the door to my left.” A magenta door appears on the wall next to her. It swings open. “Come on, let’s go.” I take Mager’s hand, and we start to descend the steps on the other side of it. The further we go, the more we’re basked in yellow lights. The air also gets worse. Mager coughs at one point from all the thick, green gas floating around our heads. The stairwell keeps winding downwards. “Where are we going?” Mager inquires after a bat flies next to us. “Hell, basically.” “Hell?” Mager yells. “How is that adjusting me to the afterlife?” “You’ll see.” I want to tell him, for some reason, but it’s against protocol. Once we’re so deep I think Mager will pass out, we finally come to the next door. It will lead us straight to the part of hell necessary for Mager’s curriculum. Mager flinches as I turn the knob, and huddles behind me. I should push him away, but strangely don’t feel any automatic urge to, so I leave him be. The room is white. No walls, ceilings, or doors. Just an endless expanse of light. No people, either. Mager’s fingers, which were digging into my clothes, start to relax on their hold. Maybe it won’t be so bad. If only I could warn him. I don’t have to, because the first livestream appears. “Hello, and welcome to the bottom, where we will be showing you some of the souls to help you adjust to your afterlife.” Says an employee I don’t recognize. They wave at the camera to come closer. Every patient with this program is watching right now, wondering what’s about to happen. “Here, we have Addie Dills. She is charged with murder. She has killed over 20 people as a shooter, employed by many notable convicts.” The woman, Addie, is in her 50s. She is lying on the ground. Dirt is rubbed on her face and wiry hair. Her eyes are glassy, staring off into a nonexistent distance. Blood is dripping from her mouth and nose. She is curled up in a little ball, to make her self as small as possible. Mager gasps incredulously. “Who would do this?” “Kill all those people? I know-” Mager cuts me off. “No, I mean who would do this to Addie? She looks terrible.” “It’s a punishment for her crimes.” I say quickly, but I don’t really believe it today, for whatever reason. “Next, let’s look at Kenneth Arkaner. He was mentally ill, causing the death of 32 students in his shootings sprees.” I can’t decipher Kenneth’s age. He’s standing in rags, his eyes wet. An employee is ten feet from him, holding a machine gun. When the machine gun goes off, all the bullets hit Kenneth. He groans and collapses on the ground. Red marks bloom all over his torn clothes. Mager lets out a sob. I turn. Behind me, my patient has fallen to his knees. “Why not rehabilitate them?” He asks as tears roll down his cheeks. “Why do this?” I have no answer for him. I am supposed to stand tall, no matter how the patient reacts, but I can’t. I crouch down, and pull him close to me. He’s shaking now, as the employee moves on to the next prisoner. He buries his face in my shirt. “Why?” He gulps. I am not sure what to say. It’s only a whisper at the back of my mind. A rising anger in my throat I’ve never felt before confuses me. I’m even more bewildered as I spit out a sacred word, treating it like it’s no better than the garbage in earth’s oceans. “Protocol.”

“Look at him He’s been at it for an hour now” Elly tells me as she rolls her eyes. We both were seated on a high ceiling beam of a studio apartment, our home, a risky move if so. Only concentrating on the boy seated on the floor below, it would’ve been a fatal ending for us if there was a possibility of that in the first place. I looked hard at Elly, She was most definitely one of the most distinguished of the lot, having hung around for more than thousands of years, and the signs of being a ghost had barely touched her light skin. I on the other hand, one strong gust of wind and I’d return back to ashes. Elly flew and scooted closer to me. Barely touching the wood, she waved her wispy fingers around as she mocked poor Liam below. The mortal had been flipping through the pages of the “Fancy New Home” catalogue, stopping for five minutes at each page of the wallpaper color section and then moving on to the next, the exhaustion on his neck growing by each turn. “Bright and white, you are quite the amuser if you still describe yourself with such colors Elly Not to alarm you but shady and fading would suit you better” Elly stares at my comment. i point to her swinging toes and laugh. The fast wind was erasing the thin outline of her translucent feet; immediately lifting them up, she crosses them instead. A bit offended, she explains herself “Bright and white is the most common color one selects for their new home. You know we are not going to habitat here any longer Marge. I need to leave this place knowing that this incompetent man has listened to us and colored it a peaceful white.” We had moved in here around three hundred years back. Looking around, it teemed with our memories and our living. The ceiling was quite high up still accommodating us with a lot of room for us to fly around. The cool wind from the tall windows every morning was our favorite friend in keeping us a crystalline fresh. But as the days had grown shorter, my longing to touch the room had grown that much more painful. The walls which we had once shyly ordained with our marriage portraits and the window-sills where we once watered our sweet lily plants, they filled my mind with short lived memories. Elly still had the same moral look from back then, A little less opaque and a little more translucent, the bright white light from the windows shone through her and her outline grew invisible. We had been too brave back then, I look at my own fading limbs. Liam let out a long groan from below as he stretched beyond his length. Four whole days and still unable to decide on the color white among all for us to confirm. He would surely have been considered as one of the local idiots during our time, I realize suddenly. Elly spoke to herself “despite not having us around from tomorrow, it’d be nice if our home carried on feeling like the ghosts of its first ever owners” She looked concerned now, furrowing her eyebrows at Liam. I look down and see him now splayed across the floor still stretching, and staring high, right past our presence, at the ceiling. I laughed at her pun. Liam is in pain. It’s too bright of a day, the harsh humid wind slapping across the pages as they flip furiously. Liam lets out a short sigh. Closing his eyes, “This house is starting to feel more haunted day-by-day”. Speaking aloud, he catches the ears of Marge and Elly. It’s indeed a dilemma. He had started to notice small things changing magically at every turn. “Every single time I call my building manager about the renovation of this place, the calls get cut. Whenever the renovation labourers start painting the walls a bold golden, the paint gets magically erased and I’m left with a lot of awkward explaining to do. Rumours have started to go out that I’m a shape shifting witchess. Personally I liked the goblin rumour better.” Liam laughs to himself and then goes silent in hindsight. The empty grey aesthetic of his studio room contrasted heavily with his bright pink-blue outfit which contrasted again with his rugged boyish hands. Looking at the mess of magazines at his folded legs, a cool breeze surprised him and he scrunched his freckled nose. Right then several pages of the catalogues folded themselves into dog ears. All pointing to a brand of furniture infamously known to use white. A swift movement but Liam blames it on the cold wind from earlier. He wasn’t half wrong. Faithfully closing each magazine so as to not cause a mess, he got up to clear his head. He stretched his arms out to the wall in front and squinted through a tiny square he made with his thumbs and forefingers. “There seems to be a very particular color this haunted house wants me to select” Several dog eared pages opened right below on the floor, all showing the beauties of a fine white aesthetic. “Why is it so windy on a summer afternoon?” Marge looked at him amazed. Amazed at his parody of dialogue. He lazily looks across the room, a color that would make it look bigger would be a suitable choice for its damaged walls, something of a lighter shade. Paying homage to the previous owners he thought, maybe a boring brown or a mellow lemon mint. Elly rolled her dry eyes. Liam took a sip from his bold grey coffee mug which unnoticed by him had turned whitish during recent days. “I really am not going forward if I don’t make the correct decision right now” sulking he rested his hands on his hips. Another long reading session in and Liam was done. Its 4.30 pm now, the suns still high and glaringly white. Liam picked up his coffee mug, now with just ghostly white milk in it, odd, and sipped it as he cooled down from the reading session. Carefully avoiding the now individual sheets of the winter wonderland special of the Wallpaper World magazine placed over the carpet, he thought deeply about his dilemma. He Walked up to the kitchen, hoping for a quick snack, and opened the fridge when right then his cell rang. “Little White Lies” blared and he picked up in 2 seconds. Funny ringtone. Bending his neck as he balanced the phone, he swung the fridge door open, “hello?” Why are there just eggs in the fridge? “Yes hello Liam, Calling to ask if you have finished deciding a shade for your wall painting already, I’ve arranged an appointment with the building manager, he’s bound to come around in an hour or two” “No no no ... Wait” frozen, he spoke to his reflection off the silvery fridge door The caller continued “Finalize the decision with your sister and call me back, oh also do you happen to know where I can buy some cheap Christmas gifts? My girlfriend’s coming to town and I am in trouble, hope it’s a white Christmas, fingers crossed?” Liam ended the call. He hurried back to the catalogue after banging the fridge shut dramatically throwing Elly into a startle. She flew towards Liam, who was frantically looking for that one yellow mint page he had bookmarked, when right then a wind blew across the page, turning to section W3, a spring collection inspired by lilies. Liam fell cold at this sudden breeze near him and stared hard at the page that was in front of him. The bright white couch and a Persian cat framed photogenically in the glossy magazine sheet, thinking harder he raised an eyebrow. Elly now practically enveloping the boy with her cool presence, struck her arm across the page, preventing it from flipping to another one. The dusky warm wind grew in pressure and the walls grew moist. Marge sighed as her opinion of Liam and his IQ was now pretty low, she observed Elly with hopeful eyes. Looking around at the mess, she snapped her fingers with magic and glancing at the countless white mugs in the counter, she turned yet another mug white. “Did he just say it was Christmas? Can’t be, my birthday was a week back, April 24th.. Or was it on the 25th?” Speaking softly, a shiver ran down his spine. “I am pretty sure it’s April and not December” He slowly shifted his eyes to the wall calendar. 2 days till Christmas. A huge cross marked the 24th of December, ‘Bound to snow!’ written in bold. Gulping down his confusion, his head went blank. Unable to think and unable to speak, Liam felt trapped under an invisible presence. Marge, now extremely hopeful looked wide eyed at Elly. Elly looked back at her, both nodding in synchrony at each other’s confirmation. A whole minute and Liam closed the catalogue, dusk had fallen and it was sunset now. A decision made by him, for the house, for Marge and Elly and for everyone’s sanity involved in this situation, probably even his sister’s. “Hi Paul yes, I’m calling back about the building manager, I’ve made the decision, you can ask him to come by in about half hour now”. Elly flew back into Marge’s arms and they embraced each other. Liam obediently cleaned up the mess, the mugs scattered across the carpet and the kitchen counter, the countless sheets of magazine paper flying and most importantly the several volumes of the “fancy new home” catalogue. He smirked as he thought back on his day. It had been so obvious all along. Hesitant to admit to himself, Liam realized he had been pretty slow in catching on. The building manager arrived. A group of noisy labourers, eager to catch a glimpse of this rumoured shape-shifting goblin, accompanied him. Marge and Elly, also curious, checked Liam’s demeanour. He stood confidently in front of his labourer fans, ordering them to neatly cover the furniture before doing anything to the walls. Marge had begun to turn back Liam’s belongings to their original colors. Bringing back life into the white house, she looked at Elly’s bitter-sweet expression. However harsh she might have been to poor Liam, she knew in the end he was only a mortal, she felt proud now. She thought to herself, her strong presence combined with Marge’s magical abilities was better than any Ouija board on the market. “Pastel red” Elly blinked twice. In a moment of 2 seconds the labourers whipped out their paint mixers and combined red with white. Elly blinked again. “The spirit of Christmas. It’s a beautiful time to curl up on your poofy sofas and watch classic Christmas movies. What better way to pay respect to the magical time than to paint your own home with red” the labourers hurriedly plastered the paint onto the walls, expecting the fabled magical erasing of the paint to take place. No such thing occurred. Marge fearfully looked at Elly, she was in shock. Liam smirked at the labourers. I guess my dilemma is solved. He felt satisfied. Elly felt smaller as the clock ticked. The night had fallen and she had grown almost transparent. The street lights from outside shone right through her and lit up the studio room, a bright white.

Running through the ten-story office building's glass doors, Mandy pulled her cellphone from her purse to check the time. “Crap,” she muttered. She had less than five minutes until the meeting started, which left her with two choices. Take the stairs as usual, but at a sprint, and arrive a sweaty mess. She could swallow her claustrophobia and get into the tiny, rickety elevator. Easy choice, right? More like no choice. She couldn’t be late again. Her hand shook slightly as she pressed the elevator button. When the door opened, she took a deep breath and stepped inside. Sixty-seconds. That was all this ride from hell would take. Sixty-seconds. She repeated the mantra over and over. At this rate, she’d still arrive a sweaty mess, but stinking of fear instead of exercise. Which is wor-- Her heart stopped at the same time the box of death halted. “Are you kidding me,” she whispered-choked, pulling out her phone and dialing her friend and colleague, Theo. He picked up on the first ring. “I see you’re running late again, but lucky for you the power goes out with the same frequency as your tardiness,” he teased cheerfully. “Ah, the joys of working in an old building with shoddy wiring.” “No. No, it isn’t good,” she replied, too distraught to care that her voice trembled. “I’m in the elevator.” “Wait. Why? I thought you hated small spaces and always took the stairs?” “I was late to the last meeting. I couldn’t risk it so soon,” She croaked, leaning on the wall before sliding to the dirty floor. He called to someone in the office, asking how long until the power was back on. After a moment, he said to her, “The electrician says it will take twenty minutes, max.” She shook her head, unable to speak. It might as well be twenty years. “Mandy,” Theo called, worried threaded in his voice. “Are you still there?” “This is stupid, I know. A dumb, irrational fear, but,” She ran a hand through her once perfect hair, “I swear, the walls are closing in on me.” “Shut your eyes,” Theo demanded. Her soft-spoken friend never commanded. That, and his gorgeous smile were the two things she adored about him the most. However, today she appreciated the unexpected distraction and complied. “Okay, did it. Now what?” “Where is the one place you’ve always wanted to go?” She answered without hesitation. “Iceland.” “Really,” he laughed, the timber soothing. “Your dream vacation is a block of ice?” “Only about ten percent of the country is covered in ice, and the average temperature is quite pleasant,” she said through a smile. “Well, I stand corrected, Ms. National Geographic,” he chuckled. “What is the first thing you’d visit or do?” “Go hiking at Snæfellsjökull National Park or Hornstrandir Nature Reserve. No. Wait. I’d swim in the Blue Lagoon.” “Tell me about the Lagoon as if you are there. I want all the details. Using all your senses.” “Okay.” She thought about it, diving into her imagination and traveling daydreams. “The waters are hot, but the cool outside air makes it pleasant. The color of the water is a stunning, vibrant turquoise.” He cut in. “Like that necklace you always wear?” Her hand slid absently to the pendant nestled between her breasts. “You noticed?” “Yes. It is pretty, and is nearly the same color as your eyes.” It surprised her that he noticed minor details about her. She liked it. A lot. However, before she could ponder the meaning behind his words, he asked another question. “What got you interested in this tiny country?” “Well, there was this band I began to listen to a few years back. I thought they were from the US but learned that wasn’t true.” She told Theo about her favorite group and how their music and history led to her falling for their country. She found herself laughing at his silly questions, lost in his soothing voice, far from Detroit and her office’s tiny elevator. That last thought slammed into her. She gasped, opening her eyes, taking in the chrome and glass of her prison. “Mandy,” Theo called, sounding far away, wrapped in fog. “Did you open your eyes and leave Iceland?” She nodded, managing to speak over her racing heart. “Yup.” “Close them, and listen to me.” “I can’t.” “Yes you can, and you will do it. Now,” he demanded. Like before, something in his voice made her listen. “Fine. Bossy-pants,” she muttered, convinced his tricks wouldn’t work again. “Okay,” he began, “Money is not an option, but now you have to return to the US, where would you go?” “Um.” She tried to think, but the heavy press of panic on her chest made it difficult. “Can’t decide? Then let me guess.” After a few ticks of silence, he said, “Oregon.” All the video and pictures from her trip there two years ago bloomed beneath her lids, managing to calm her a little. “How did you know? I’ve been there, and I’m saving to go again.” “I’ve also been too. I went with my family as a teenager. I recognized the pictures on your computer. The background is of Multnomah Falls. Your screensaver is a photo of Crater Lake. Plus,” She could clearly picture the teasing tilt of his smile. “You’re always going on and on about hiking. I figured my beautiful colleague was a granola-tree hugger and had either visited Oregon or was planning on it.” “Hey!” She laughed. “Wait. Beautiful...” He cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. I wasn’t supposed to say that part out loud.” So, her attraction wasn’t one-sided. Interesting. From the old building's belly, there was a groan. Then the lights flickered twice before staying one. The elevator shook before returning to its gentle glide to the sixth floor. Mandy whooped, as Theo called, “Electricity is on!” She opened her eyes and stood. Still holding her phone to her ear, she waited for the door to open. Less than thirty seconds later they did, and Theo was waiting on the other side. The man who gave her courage when she’d lost all hers to fears and phobias. Now that she had it back, she dropped her cell inside her purse and took the four steps to him. Gently holding on to the side of his face, she stood on her tip-toes and kissed him.

“Mommy is sick,” Daddy said to the little boy when he wandered into the bedroom. The little boy already knew that. He could tell by looking at her. Mommy stayed inside the house every day for months. She didn’t get up to make breakfast. She didn’t get up to take a bath. And she didn’t even answer the holo-phone when it rang. But she wasn’t sick, not really. She didn’t have a fever. She didn’t have a cold. She didn’t even have a tummy ache. Daddy had to take care of everything now. He would wake up with the little boy every morning and make his breakfast and sometimes, he even made pancakes. Then he would drive the little boy to school on his way to work. “Kiss Mommy goodbye,” Daddy told the little boy, and he did, but he held his breath from the smell. After they left, Mommy laid in bed, engulfed the silence of the empty house. Her hand moved on the pillow next to her face. She felt nothing. It was just an empty hand. But then, she was pushing herself up. She brainlessly shuffled her feet down the hallway and when she reached the smart-box on the wall, she flattened her palm against the screen. The house instantly came to life. The lights flickered on and the window blinds shut. The house plants were watered and the media center turned on. The vacuum scooted across the floor and the family pictures appeared on the walls. But she screamed when she walked into the kitchen, startled to see the little girl sitting on top of the counter. “Get down from there!” Mommy scolded as she tied the belt on her bathrobe. “Okay, Mommy.” The little girl hopped down and chased after her holographic ball bouncing down the hallway. Mommy squinted from the pain in her pounding brain. “What do you want for breakfast, Madeline?” “What?” The little girl called back. “I said- what do you want to eat for breakfast?” Mommy screamed at her over the racket of the bouncing ball. The little girl stood still with a look of confusion. “But it’s lunchtime.” “Well then, what do you want for lunch?” Mommy said in a normal tone. “Pancakes!” The little girl squealed and again chased the ball. Mommy smiled and rolled her eyes. The little girl sat with her hands folded on the table and watched as Mommy ate pancakes. When Mommy looked up from her tablet and coffee, she saw light flicker around the little girl’s smile. “Why don’t you go out and play, Madeline?” “Oh, but Mommy! I want to stay inside with you.” The little girl pleaded pitifully. “But maybe we can go swimming in the pool?” “No.” Mommy rubbed her tired eyes. “We can watch my birthday video again!” The little girl was already stretching her body to reach the smart box before Mommy could protest. She pushed a button and the video began in the living room. Guests were already mid-lyric, “Happy birthday, dear Maddie, Happy birthday to you!” A reflection: both girls grinning at Mommy. “Now blow out your candles, honey.” Mommy said in the video. The little girl looked confused again. “Doesn’t it make you happy anymore? Mommy?” Mommy looked up. The little girl could see mist at the edges of her eyes, even though she smiled. “It does, baby.” Mommy said sweetly. Mommy stood up and walked down the hallway to her bedroom. The little girl watched the video until it finished and disappeared. An hour passed before Mommy came out of her bedroom, cleaned and dressed. She cleaned up the kitchen while the little girl skipped a holographic jumping rope, singing loudly to herself. She picked up a laundry basket while the little girl played with the cat. She collected dirty clothes from all the corners and nooks of all the bedrooms. She washed the clothes and then dried them and then dumped out all the fresh clothes onto the couch to fold them as the little girl read aloud from a book called the Velveteen Rabbit. Mommy listened quietly to the story until she picked up a small purple sock. She stared at it before bursting into tears. The little girl stopped reading and looked at Mommy, who slid off the couch and onto the floor, curled her body around the sock with heaving sobs. “My sock.” The little girl said inconsequentially. Mommy stopped crying. She sat upright. She did not look at the little girl. She walked down the hallway to the door of Madeline’s room and opened it. She stepped through the faint light coming in around the closed window blinds. In the top dresser drawer, her fingertips searched for the lone sock. Upon finding it, she whimpered, tucked the two companions together, and laid them tenderly on the others. Mommy closed the bedroom door. The little girl was now standing in the middle of the hallway, watching. “Mommy?” “It’s okay.” Mommy reassured her. “You’re sad.” “Yes.” It was the first time she could say it. “I don't make you happy anymore?” Mommy shushed her. “Of course you do, sweetheart,” Mommy sat down on the floor and the little girl climbed into her lap. When she kissed the little girl’s cheek, a small static charge danced between them. “I love you very much and I miss you very much. And you still make me happy, every day.” Mommy looked into the little girl’s transparent eyes. “But I am sad. And I can’t keep doing this.” The little girl’s holographic image flickered wildly. “When you drowned, a part of me died too. And I know you aren’t here anymore. But I am still here. I’m still alive.” “Does that mean I have to go away now?” The little girl asked. “Yes, Madeline,” the name itself was a knife, “I’m so sorry.” She was choking on her sobs now, just trying to get the words out. “I gotta get back to the living.” “I understand.” The little girl said, although she didn’t. “Maybe we can play again sometime?” She still had hope in her voice. Mommy nodded. “Sometime." The little girl and Mommy stood up and waved goodbye to each other. Mommy touched the smart-box on the wall and the little girl vanished. The house was silent again. She caught her reflection in the hallway mirror.

I am inexplicably powerful. And I am one of so many, there are not stars in the night sky can outnumber us. Sometimes, one of us ends up in your pocket. Other times we get dropped but we move around anyway, cradled by the great forces. And after countless centuries, I have become the most beautiful form of myself I could ever have dreamt of becoming. I'm how I always hoped I would be. I am smooth, polished, sleek, potent. Funny how ageing gives me the properties that the land herd lose with the passage of time. Maybe, if I could condense the process, and sell it to them, I could become very rich indeed. I'm over a hundred thousand years old so I've learned a thing or two about the land herd. They covet money mostly. But I deal in a different currency; I am in the business of luck. Good luck, bad luck, it's a compelling business and I have found my niche in this particular type of commerce. My present familiar, Elliot, is very attentive, very considerate, he's quite a relief. There have been too many landys who had the perplexing preference for keeping me out of sight, hidden, boxed or otherwise wrapped up. In the dark. I hate being on my own. It gives me time to think. And I think about things that make me sad. Like how much I miss my brothers and sisters. We were a big family when we were young, so many of us, and all so different at first. But when you all come from the same volcanic eruption, you're tight with your siblings, you come to understand the commonalities you all have and your differences become less and less important. It's a basalt thing, it's in your formation. Before I was with Elliot, I was kept for a few brief years by his lover Carly, which was pleasant; Carly understands my power and respects it. It’s funny how so many of the land herd have had a similar reaction to me over the past few centuries. Sometimes it begins with a brief tactile pleasure, when they realize that I fit neatly into the palm of their hand. Other times, when they notice the small holes in my underside, I get collected and my value rockets from plain old beach pebble to lucky charm. And that's the sweet spot, the moment I know it's game on, I have the power and the next move is mine. So how does a humble pebble like me make its way in the world? How have I moved through millennia, gone from prized possession to lost at sea and back again? By whatever means necessary and available. I've been hauled onto boats, washed over sea walls and gathered by little hands. I've been swapped for other treasures, sold at markets, bequeathed to grandchildren. I've been dumped like rubbish, buried, forgotten. I've spent many, many centuries amongst others like myself, in the places where we are born, growing and learning, and yet not once come across any of my siblings. It really is a big world after all. It was around a hundred years ago that I finally resolved to find my family, or at least some kind of relation. With several thousand of us out there, and time on my side, this didn't seem like the most unachievable goal to me. I had been caught in a fisherman's net in the early 1920s and he had taken me home and given me as a lucky charm to his wife. They had been trying, unsuccessfully, for children for many years and the wife had all but given up hope for becoming a mother. Then I arrived. Her eyes shone as she rolled me in her hands, her finger following the line of the band of quartz that runs through me. I quivered at her touch. Such was her fascination with me, she kept me in her apron pocket from that moment on. Their first son arrived 9 months later. He was followed by another boy and finally, after a few more years, a girl. She gifted me to her when she was 18, clearly keen to become a grandmother without delay. But I knew the boy she was with was not the match she deserved so I found myself a new home, the daughter not holding the same belief as the previous generation. Well, why should she? There were no children for her! Just a stupid, shiny stone, her mother's superstitions proved to be just that. I was in London by then and the building I lived in was hit by an air raid bombing during the final months of the second world war. Another obsession of the land herd. War. And they are ambitious! For a second time, in not so many years, there were more herds than ever before engaging in battle. After the bomb, I was lost in the rubble for a time until some children came to pick over the remains for whatever treasures they could find. A small boy found the green wooden box I had been kept in - another reason this landy girl did not deserve any good fortune - and to my delight he took me out, rubbed me in the palm of his thin little hand and tucked me into his trouser pocket. He promptly threw the box onto a fire in a dustbin that some men were standing around, much to the men's approval, and mine. I stayed with that thin little landy until he was old, grey and a lot wider in the middle. When we first met, his grandmother had told him of my power and counselled him to keep me safe and warm, which, to his credit and hers, he did. And most wonderfully, once he had me, an obsession was born and he began to take any chance he got to visit the coast where his grandmother lived, spending hours wandering up and down the beach. After a number of visits, his collection had grown to include many of my contemporaries. And one day, a beautiful summers day, my dearest wish came true. One of my sisters was among the gathering from the days hunt. We couldn't believe it at first, what were the chances? Momentarily stunned, we struggled to know what to say. She was beautiful, more beautiful than I had ever thought any of us could ever be. Three snaking white lines of quartz running through her, criss-crossing, curving. So exquisitely polished you could see your reflection in her. And her colours! A blushing pink moved through to mauve and then deepest purple, all with a glistening shimmer that caught the light even on the dullest of days. We were soon exchanging stories, night after night; there was a lot to catch up on and we shared our adventures, reminiscing in memories of our early days and imagining what lay ahead for us. Eventually, we went our separate ways. Half the collection was given to a grandson and my sister was in that set. We bid each other farewell but not with heavy hearts, we knew we were both destined for great things, such was our power and beauty. I was gifted to a granddaughter, a land herdling with a notion for magic and the darker arts. I became her constant companion for many years, one of the few stones to remain in her possession after many were swapped for stickers or necklaces or lipstick. I decided it was time. I ensured that she got what all teenage herdlings want. First love. Then she recognized my power. A picture began to form in her mind, where Carly was calling the shots and making the moves. And so Carly and I set our ambitious course to achieve. Wonderful, powerful things. Everything she would ever want.

Once upon a time, there was a magician that loved to make magical items. One day a beautiful fairy came and asked him if if he could take her favorite feather and turn it into a magical quill so she could write out her magical season changing spells. He was so excited and agreed. He took the beautiful purple feather and cast a special spell just for the fairy. It sparkled and turned a brilliant blue light and then went back to it's original state. He took a piece of paper and began to write with the newquilland each line shone that same sparkly blue then faded. It worked! The next day the fairy returned to collect her new quill. The magician explained it was only for her to use and should it fall into the wrong hands it would be very bad. She understood and went home to begin her spell work. When she wasn't using the quill she locked it in a special wooden box she had crafted for her. Months and seasons passed and the quill served the fairy very well. All the fairies loved her spells and they all were very helpful to them. One day in late summer the fairy had finished her newest spell and forgot to put the quill away when she was done. She left and even forgot to lock her door! A sneaky spider snuck into the fairy's home and saw the purple feather. She loved purple things and just had to have the feather, so she took it and left. When the fairy arrived home she was so tired she went to bed. The spider simply loved her new purple feather she spent hours playing and admiring it. She then, sitting high on her web, dropped the feather and it splashed a small spot of ink onto the floor. It shimmered blue and sparkled. The now intrigued spider tried to write something with it "purple door" she wrote, and her door turned purple! Woah! She wrote something else "purple house" and her little stump house turned purple too! The spider went out and was so excited she started turning everything she came across purple! Trees, plants, even a passing innocent squirrel was now turned purple to the spider's delight. The next day the fairy went to go write a new fall spell to turn all the leaves beautiful fall colors but when she opened her quill box the quill was gone! She began frantically looking for it but with no luck. She started asking the other fairies if they had seen it but they were too busy trying to figure out why everything in the forrest was turning purple. She went to ask the magician for help. He too was very busy trying to figure out the purple problem and how to help fix it. The spider had turned everything in her house purple and all her neighborhood. She looked around and wondered what else she could do with this lovely quill. The fairies were asking everyone if they knew anything. The poor purple squirrel came forward and told them he had been just working in his garden when Mrs. Spider came by and said hi and suddenly he was purple! He was so confused and could not wash it out. The fairies told him to go to the magician for help and they would go and see Mrs. Spider. The closer the fairies got to Mr. Spider's house they noticed there was more and more purple. They looked at each other, growing increasingly more confused. Maybe Mr. Squirrel wasn't the only creature purple? Was there something in the water? Did one of the Fairy's spells not work properly? What was going on? The Fairy was on her own quest to find her quill. She travelled and looked every place she had been. She had gone through every book and cranny in her home and had noticed a small web in the corner. She knew she was very tidy so where did this come from? Maybe Mr. Spider had snuck into her home? She decided to go ask her and see if she had been there. It seemed everyone was looking for Mr. Spider now. Where was she? What was she doing? The hunt was on. The sneaky Mr. Spider was off still turning all things around her purple as fast as her little legs would carry her. Purple rocks, purple trees, purple water in the stream! How fun this was! So much beautiful purple things everywhere! More! More! The world must be purple! All shades of this amazing color! The Fairy met up with the others and they all discussed what they were thinking. They asked the Fairy if she started this. Or if one of her spells backfired. She told them no she had been very specific and very careful when writing them that nothing could go wrong. They asked if maybe there was something infecting the land and creatures through the rain or water. She said no. The purple is something unique and she wasn't aware of anything in the world that could turn things purple the way this was. They told her Mr. Squirrel had mentioned seeing Mr. Spider go by and then he was suddenly purple and he couldn't wash it off. The Fairy mentioned finding a small web in her house and her magical quill she used to write her spells was missing and she was coming to ask Mrs. Spider if she had come to her house. They all decided to split up and look for Mrs. Spider and all meet at the at the great tree in about an hour or so to see if they had found her and they could all talk to her together. Mrs. Spider was tired. She had made it from her little stump house all the way to the middle of the forrest and now needed a nap. She made herself a giant purple web and curled up with the magical quill and fell asleep. The Fairy and a few others decided to follow the trail of purple. It wound around mountains and over hills, up through trees, and through stumps and around mushrooms and then deep into the forrest. Such an interesting route. They turned the corner and were met with a giant purple web! Mrs. Spider was happily nestled in the centre fast asleep. The Fairy walked up and gently woke her up. Mrs. Spider stretched and saw the fairies she got worried and tried to get away but the fairies in the group surrounded her. The Fairy gently spoke to Mrs. Spider and said she wasnt mad she just wanted her to come with her and the fairies just wanted to speak to her at the great tree. Mrs. Spider agreed to go with them. In a different part of the grove some of the fairies decided to go get the magician and Mr. Squirrel and bring the to the great tree as well. Once everyone had got to the great tree the Fairy walked up with Mrs. Spider not in accusing way but to support her. She asked her if she had been to the Fairy's home. Mrs. Spider lowered her head ashamed and nodded and produced the magical quill in front of her to the Fairy telling her yes she had been there and saw this amazing purple feather and she loved purple so much she took it without asking. The Fairy took it gently and told Mrs. Spider she totally understood why she felt the want to take it and that it was her favorite purple feather as well. She explained it was a gift from a magical bird she had met many moons ago for helping him. Mrs. Spider felt so bad for taking it without permission after hearing it was a gift. She would hate it if someone took one of her favorite gifts. She apologized to the Fairy and explained she felt so bad. She promised to ask before taking things from now on and not go into people's places without asking first. The Fairy accepted her apology and agreed those were very good steps to take in the future. Next Mr. Squirrel came up and spoke to Mrs. Spider, he explained how her excitement and not paying attention caused him to turn purple and that he couldn't wash it out of his poor fur! Mrs. Spider felt so guilty and apologized to him. Just then the magician came forward and told them both it was luckily able to be reversed and not to feel too bad. Mrs. Spider told them it was a terrible accident. She had been so excited that everything was turning purple she didnt know poor Mr. Squirrel got caught in the mix. Mr. Squirrel understood and seeing how sorry Mrs. Spider was gave her a hug and told her not to worry everything would be ok just to make sure in the future maybe to be aware of her surroundings. She agreed she would try to. The magician stepped forward next. He explained to Mrs. Spider stealing was wrong and to make sure to ask from now on because that was a very powerful spell and the magic was specifically tailored to the Fairy to do her specialty spells. She hung her head sadly and nodded understanding he was right. He told her he could fix it but he would need a lot of help from the fairies. Feeling sorry and hoping she could change her ways, she asked everyone in the room if she would be allowed to help fix the damage she caused. She promised to work on herself and do better from now on. Everyone agreed to accept Mrs. Spider's help and offered to help her if she needed help to change. She thanked them so very much. From that day forward Mrs. Spider was a huge help to the fairies. Mr. Squirrel and Mrs. Spider decided on weekly dinners together and are now the best friends. Mr. Squirrel even decided to keep some of the purple on the tip of his tail and thinks it looks pretty neat. He says the color just grew on him. The Fairy has asked the magical bird for another purple feather and gifted it to Mrs. Spider and she was so grateful. The Fairy makes sure she is never rushed to do her spells anymore and makes sure her quill is always put away properly. The End.

Beauty incarnate arose from the seafoam bubbling around her as she awoke. The misty air matched her loveliness. As she took her first steps onto land, grass sprouted around her feet. She was named Aphrodite by gods and mortals alike, meaning “the foam-born.” She was invited to the assembly of the gods, aptly becoming the goddess of beauty and love. Her birth had been an agonizing event, as she had been created out of Kronos’s punishment towards his father. Nevertheless, she became a powerful and enchanting goddess that had portrayed all that love is. Aphrodite had quickly become a woman that was respected greatly by all mortals she had reigned over. Respect for her was greatly recommended, as she could become quite jealous, causing many horrible events to occur. The apple of discord had been a major incident displaying her issue with envy. This apple had the words “for the fairest” inscribed into them. Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite were all convinced that they were the one that the apple belonged to. Zeus decided to settle this issue by prompting the mortal Paris to decide which of the three goddesses the apple should belong to. Aphrodite had offered the most enticing bribe to Paris, love. Paris had wanted to marry Helen of Troy, and Aphrodite was able to make that happen. However, Helen’s husband had grown furious with this and started the Trojan War. Helen became known as the woman whose face sank 1000 ships. The love goddess had felt no remorse, and had caused death and destruction in order to be the one who possessed a simple apple. Aphrodite was a seductress. She felt her best being able to woo those with her beauty, and she often was very obsessed with her own vanity. If anyone had said that they were more beautiful, especially a mortal, they were immediately ill-fated. She would curse, kill, and punish those who said that one was more beautiful than her, or had even just disrespected her. Common punishments for those who disrespected her were often along the lines of unrequited love. Pan cursed to be in love with Echo, a nymph that ever returned that love for him. The goddess had also murdered Herakles with a poisoned robe for his unfaithfulness. And perhaps the one most painful for an immortal, making one fall in love with a mortal. However, Aphrodite would soon face this pain herself. Long after her birth from the sea, there was a tragic incident between Aphrodite and a woman named Myrrah. This woman was cursed to fall in love with her father due to her disrespect towards Aphrodite, as it was claimed that Myrrah was more beautiful. Myrrah lusted after her father so much she became with child after anonymously sleeping with him in pure darkness for nine nights. Her father had discovered that Myrrah was the one that he was sharing his bed with for the past few days and promptly chased her with a sword. The gods had then turned her into the myrrh tree in order to save her from her father’s wrath. Soon after the myrrh tree split open and birthed a child named Adonis. He was found by the love goddess, her finding his beauty even from his youth so incredible she kept him away from the other gods and had only shared this secret with Persephone of the Underworld. As Adonis grew up, his beauty became more intoxicating, causing both Persephone and Aphrodite to fall in love with him. Zeus, the king of the gods, was known for settling disagreements, and had allowed Persephone and Aphrodite to each be with him for one third of the year, with Adonis choosing who to stay with for the final third. Adonis, enamored with Aphrodite, had chosen to stay with the goddess of love for the final third of the year. They had fallen completely in love. Aphrodite had never truly fallen in love, let alone with a mortal. The love that they had for each other was deep and unwavering. Many other gods and demi-gods had lusted over him, but his love for Aphrodite had been resolute an true. However, the vice of falling in love with a mortal is that they are not immortal. Adonis could not live forever. It is true that Ambrosia, the nectar of the gods, could have made Adonis immortal, but his death was tragic and unexpected, and caused by the gods. It is unclear and was never truly discovered who had done this to him, but the gods could have saved him, but wagered against it. While Adonis was on a hunting trip, he was caught off guard and attacked by a wild boar. The boar had emerged the victor, leaving Adonis to die. Aphrodite had discovered Adonis dying in the woods. Crying, and rushing to his side, she cradled him in her arms until he took his final breath. His death completely shattered her heart, shedding tears that had mixed with his blood, blooming a beautiful anemone flower. Aphrodite held the flower close to her chest as she continued to weep over the loss of her true love. Her cries were heard throughout Greece, notifying people of Aphrodite’s grief. Aphrodite had never truly gotten past the loss of Adonis, she never truly or deeply loved again as she did Adonis. Eventually, Zeus forced her to marry Hephaestus, the god of the forge. This was done to prevent Aphrodite from attracting the attention of any other men. The goddess of love had ironically never been able to marry for love. It is true that she had her many affairs, predominantly with Ares, the god of war. However, no matter how many men she was able to woo, she could never get over her woe. She stared at the stars that she lived among every night, yearning for her departed lover, crying tears for him every night knowing that he would never return. Her teardrops lived among the stars, each filled with blinding despair, shining with the remaining love she had in her shattered heart.

We were outside, in the garden, when it happened. I remember it was dark, though the moon was fat and bright. “Reggie” I said softly, and moved forward to take his hand. I felt some remorse, it was true. He was so dull, so hopeless, so wrong for me. But still, I was sorry for the hurt I was about to cause him; yet the excitement inside me was bubbling, raising higher in my breast, threatening to spill from my mouth and eyes and ears like white hot lava. Reg saw it in my face and recoiled. Shock replaced suspicion on his shrivelled features and his glazed eyes sought mine. “My God,” he whispered. “It’s true then....it’s true.” I told him everything after that. Like a deluge, the held-back pent-up words poured out into the night air, over Reggie, over the house, over the sham of our marriage. They seemed to me to cleanse everything as I spoke; washing away the ugliness and pretence; to leave instead a fresh peace, a happiness newly minted. For a marriage to have lasted as long as ours and yet be so empty of love, or communication, or caring, seemed impossible. If it wasn’t for our son, Daniel, then fifteen - and thank God he was staying with his friend that night - well, I really don’t think I would be here at all. The man standing in front of me; he was a stranger . I realised how little I really knew him. All I did know was that when he was with me, I was so lonely. He never hit me, it was true; the cruelty wasn’t physical. It was just the horrid, cold indifference that had crept into my bones over the years. So the fire I felt from my lover had blazed even more brighter. Then, in front of my eyes, Reggie had bent over, shaking uncontrollably. Oh no, I thought, he’s having a fit, or a heart attack. It must be the shock. In spite of everything, I felt dreadfully guilty. I bent over him and put my arm round his skinny shoulders and murmured platitudes, trying vainly to comfort him. It was then that he raised his face; his ugly, weaselly face. If he had raised his fist and smashed it into me I couldn’t have been more hurt. For the tables had turned. Reggie was laughing, spluttering and coughing with mirth; and he was laughing at me! “Oh, Ruth,” he said weakly “A Green Man! Oh Jesus, I thought you were serious, you daft bitch! God, you really ought to see Dr. Roberts. Maybe he could recommend you to a specialist - a tree surgeon perhaps!” And he spat out the vile words with another obscene burst of merriment. He seemed evil, possessed with the need for my torture. I have never hated him so much as I did then. I had to get away from him, away from his horrid taunts. All I could do was think of my lover; I wanted to run to him, to find solace and comfort in his hard, kind body, and be soothed by the lullaby of his arms overhead. Because, yes, it was true! I loved The Green Man! That spirit of nature was alive and whole and had brought a special kind of magic to my life. The joy and the elation this statement gave me meant almost as much as if Mother Nature herself had embraced me. The truth was so beautiful, and at last it was released for all to observe. Then, as my lover and I stood entwined, from behind came Reggie’s ugly voice. He was laughing still, great sobs of laughter, and pointing and cat-calling, and hurling names at me. He seemed so like a demon that I hardly knew him; though a dam must have burst in him too, because the abuse and the language were thick in the air and were flying at me like missiles, so that I cringed and clung to the Green Man. I had no idea my husband hated me so much, hated me as much as I did him. He called me faithless, and boring; he said our marriage was a washout and called me a trashy wife who would put a tree - yes, that’s what he called my lover. A common tree! - before her husband and family. He said I was unfair to him and Daniel, he had worked hard to provide for us but I was always so unappreciative. The truths hit home like bullets. For they were truths, I could see that now, and, like a lightning flash igniting the moonlit air, I saw myself as he must see me - shallow, cold and ungrateful, my head filled with nonsense. I was stunned with the revelation, and letting go of the Green Man, I began to back away. And then I saw him dimly as Reggie saw him. He had a trunk and branches, not body or arms. What was I doing with this piece of vegetation? Where was my demon lover, my Jack-in-the-Green? It was then that I became aware of the noise. It was filling the air all around, and when Reggie started abusing me it became much worse. A storm must be brewing I thought, for a strong wind was blowing, twigs and debris were performing a cyclonic dance all around us, and the Green Man was again there before me in all his incredible glory, waving his arms ever more wildly. As I looked up in amazement, his limbs were threshing in the night sky, and there was a strange moaning amongst them; low at first like the growl of a menacing beast, but gradually louder, until the sound became deafening and I had to clap my hands to my ears. I had never seen the Green Man like this before, not even in the wildest of the February storms, and it was an alarming sight. Reggie was scared too. He gawped open-mouthed at my lover, and I could see the terror dawning in his eyes. Suddenly the terrible tragedy happened. The Green Man seemed to howl - that’s all I can describe it as, and then his brawny arms were all round Reggie, completely encasing him, his gnarled fingers were like twigs pushing down his throat and in his eyes, and my husband threshed wildly for a moment then was still. I screamed and rushed to help him, but Reggie was dead. The Green Man dropped his poor, limp, body back onto the lawn and stood upright once more, and miraculously the wind dropped and the night was still again. I’ve never got over losing Reggie. I was surprised. For months I had lived for the Green Man and hated my life, but when he took that life away from me I was so angry, and worse - I was frightened of his power, for what if one day I displeased him - or Dan? The funny thing was, I was going to move away, to leave the Green Man, if I hadn’t been arrested for Reggie’s murder. The police didn’t believe my story. They said I had a kitchen knife in my hand and when my husband taunted me I had just snapped. All nonsense of course, but I have been locked away in a mental hospital for many years now. However, I know the truth! It was the dryads, those wicked tree-dwelling nymphs. They invaded the Green Man and, like the malicious sprites that they are, they turned his head and made him do that terrible thing. My lover was innocent, I have to believe in that. But now everything is gone; they ruined my life. The house is sold, Daniel has long since moved away - right to Australia, the other side of the world, and Reggie is dead. Now all I have are my drawings of my lover. He does look strangely like a tree, however many times I sketch him. I show the doctor my book and say proudly. “Reggie’s ashes are buried under here. Maybe his spirit has been sucked into the sap, to lay in the arms of the dryad. She’ll find him a very cold ghost, if so.” And I laugh, but the doctor does not.

“MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY! To anyone that can hear me, this is Isaac Jameson, the only surviving crew member of the mining vessel Akanu 3! The ship’s engine room caught fire following a micrometeoroid shower and we were forced to land! The engine room exploded shortly after and left a large hull breach! I am stuck on the Pallas asteroid and unable to leave! The other two on board were killed in the explosion! Please respond!” I sent the mayday call and waited nervously for a response. I knew it would take about ten minutes for the signal to reach Mars and another ten for a response to get back. It took twenty-two minutes to get a response. It came from mission control at the Akanu mining headquarters, the company I worked for. They told me a rescue would take about three months to organize and carry out, and that I should check to make sure that the life support systems still worked. I double checked my mining suit for any holes and pressed the button to open the door to the life support room. I found that the life support room was completely unharmed and I turned off the air to the engine room so I wouldn’t lose any more oxygen through the hole in the hull. I realized that I was going to be stuck on Pallas, so I went back into the reactor control room and tried to get the fusion reactor to start again. While I worked I thought about my previous job. ● ● ● I came to Mars on an Ares mining shuttle back in 2183. Ares was the largest and most successful mining company on Mars. Ares paid its miners well, so I decided to get a four year contract job working as a drill operator in the Denning crater mines. Those four years were easily the worst of my life. Life in the mines was miserable. You got up every day, put on your uniform, and had breakfast at the mess hall. After breakfast, you went to the airlocks and put on your pressurized mining suit. Every suit had a twenty-four hour supply of oxygen and a radio. The only way you could talk to others was by using the radio because the air was too thin for sound and the radios were unreliable at best. I don’t know what it was about those radios that made them break so easily. Half the time my radio refused to work because of a loose wire or something, so if I ever needed to tell someone something it was hard for me to know if he had actually heard me. Not to mention it was unbearably hot in the mines and the suit’s cooling system barely worked, so I spent nine hours each day drenched in my own sweat, chipping away at rock walls. In fact, I remember one of the miners in the D2 mineshaft actually died of a heatstroke during my first month of work. They made a big deal about it on the news but Ares didn’t do anything about it. At the end of my shift, I had to walk for a good twenty minutes to get to the airlock before I could take my suit off, and by then I would be practically starved and dying of thirst because it was impossible to eat or drink while I was in my suit. My favorite part about working in the Denning mines was always when I got to stop working. They served us a ton of food after we got back from the mines in the mess hall, but none of it ever tasted particularly good unless it was taco night. There were five mines at Denning. There was the old, closed down D1 mineshaft, then there was the D2 mineshaft, which went down into Mars at a 45° angle. All of the excavation in the D3 mineshaft had to be done with explosives because the rock was too hard to use a drill. I worked in the D4 mineshaft, which was the safest out of the five. The D5 mine was brand new when I started working and the tunnels were not yet wide enough for the big mining equipment to fit yet so everyone that worked there had to mine out the walls by hand with jackhammers and shovels. Miners would always talk about problems they had in the other mines. They said the D2 mine was too hot, the D3 mine was too prone to cave-ins, and the D5 mine was too narrow. Noone really ever complained that much about D4, but it was still bad. I was planning to get another four year contract with Ares when I was nearing the end of my current one, not because I liked working there but because the salary was so high. I was going to renew my contract but then people started to get transferred from the Denning mines to the Cassini crater mines up north. All of the miners that came from Cassini told stories of the place. The Cassini mines were the worst place to be assigned on all of Mars. Cassini was home to the infamous C1 mine. On June 25, 2181, the Cassini colony was devastated by a magnitude 6.2 marsquake. The C1 mine was the only mine at Cassini that remained operational, and it was none too stable. I probably saw somewhere around seven different news stories about massive cave-ins at the C1 mine during my four year stay at the Denning mines. There was no way that I was ever going to the Cassini mines but I doubted I would ever be able to find work elsewhere on Mars. The Ares mining company paid for the shuttle ticket to Mars for all of its employees, but once your contract expired, they didn’t pay for the ticket back to Earth. I guess I was expected to save up eight months worth of pay to be able to afford a shuttle ticket back. If my wife hadn’t lost her job then I wouldn’t have had to worry about sending her almost every penny I made. I didn’t want to quit my job at Ares because I needed to support my wife. I needed to make sure I could find a job that paid more than Ares did so that I would be able to save up enough money to get off Mars and head back to Earth. I spent most of my time in the barracks searching for a job with the small laptop Ares issued me. I figured having experience at Ares might help me get a job working for another mining company. I checked but I couldn’t find anything on Mars that paid better and that I qualified for. I eventually found an opening at a company called Akanu mining. The company had only been in operation for three years but if I was able to get the job I would make three times as much as I did working for Ares! They needed people that had experience working with mining equipment on either Mars or The Moon. I did some more research on the company and found out that it already had two spacecraft that were able to pull up right next to an asteroid and use a robotic scoop to grab chunks of rock that would be knocked loose during a mining operation. It actually looked like I had a fair chance of getting the job so I applied immediately. It only took two days for me to get a reply. I went in for an interview and was hired on the spot. Apparently, they were having a hard time finding qualified people that were willing to go to the asteroid belt. They put me in as part of a crew of three. I was going to be working with Richard Higgs, an engineering technician and Joseph Dewalt, a former commercial shuttle pilot. We were going to fly to the Pallas asteroid in the asteroid belt and start a mining operation there. The trip took three months. During that flight, I mostly did small maintenance tasks on the ship and made sure the life support systems were running like they were supposed to. Richard was in charge of making sure the ship’s onboard fusion reactor and engines stayed running. Joseph was in charge of making small adjustments to the ship’s speed and trajectory. We all watched movies and read books in our spare time. The three months went by quickly and we were just about to land on Pallas when we started getting pelted by micrometeoroids. Most of them were too small to do any harm and bounced harmlessly off the ship’s hull. The engine was the only part on the ship that was vulnerable because it didn’t have any hull plating, unlike the rest of the ship. It got hit a couple of times and the coolant system must have failed because a fire started in the engine room. Joseph managed to land on Pallas using the secondary boosters and told me to cut oxygen to the engine room so that the fire would burn out. He went with Richard to the airlock where we kept our space suits. They put their suits on so that they could breathe in the engine room that was at that point, running out of oxygen and full of smoke. I’m not sure what went wrong but after they went into the engine room there was this loud explosion. I honestly don’t know what caused it. The fuel tank must have ruptured or something. ● ● ● I messed around with the fusion reactor for almost an hour before getting frustrated with it and giving up. If Richard were here, he would have had it running by now. Richard was always good with stuff like this... But now I was all alone on an asteroid with the closest civilization three months away. I still needed a way to keep the life support system powered and the ship’s batteries were running low. I went back into the cockpit and found the controls to the solar panels that were on the ship. I rotated them to face the sun and the ship’s batteries started to charge up. I would have to re-orient the solar panels every couple of days to keep them trained on the sun, but it looked like I was getting enough power out of them. I had plenty of food. The ship was still stocked with enough food to feed three people for four months if it was rationed out. Now that I was the only person left on the ship, I had enough food to not have to worry about rationing it out. I had plenty of food, water, and oxygen to last me until rescue came. I had a lot of everything, but most of all I had a lot of time. I had three months to kill before I was rescued and I honestly had no idea what I should do to pass the time. The only productive thing I could do would be to attempt to mine out a small section of the asteroid and verify that it actually contained valuable minerals. Pallas was expected to contain large amounts of platinum and chromium but there was only one way to make sure. I put on my suit and got the mining equipment ready. I double checked my suit and moved into the airlock, holding a jackhammer. I was going to look for anything valuable. I had to run a tether from my suit to the ship to make sure I wouldn’t float off into space. My suit also had boots that resembled very large cleats that I would have to use to anchor myself to the surface of Pallas. I pressed the button to cycle the airlock and pushed by boots into the ground. I walked out about ten yards from the airlock door and started up the jackhammer I was holding. I started chipping away at the rock and bits of it flew off into space. I went down about four feet and noticed something shiny. I wasn’t sure what it was so I dug down a little deeper and caught one of the chunks as it flew past me. I looked at it closely and realized that it was extremely high-grade chromite, an ore of the metal chromium. This was a huge discovery! I had been able to prove the existence of chromium on Pallas within the first ten minutes of digging. I started making plans on how to dig out more of the stuff as I made my way back to the airlock. When I got back inside the ship I went straight to the cockpit and radioed to Akanu. I told mission control that I was alright and that I could easily survive the three months it would take them to rescue me. I also told them that I found chromite and was planning on mining out more of it to bring with me when I was rescued. It took twenty-two minutes for a response again. They told me that they were not expecting me to still try to do my job. They said that I could bring back whatever I dug up and they would pay me a large share of the profit. I could probably mine out enough chromium from Pallas in three months to get a shuttle back to Earth and be set for life. I wouldn’t have to worry about money ever again. Until then, I’m stuck on this rock with nothing to do but dig.

You are escorted into a tall dining room lined with windows. The drapes are drawn. A glossy table stretches out to the far end of the room, reflecting the ceiling’s baroque fresco. No one is there except you and the butler. The butler leads you further into the room, passing by rows of chairs, the tabletop gleaming like the surface of a dark river. Neither of you make a sound as you walk, the soft rug padding your steps. Somewhere a little past the midpoint of the room, the butler stops and pulls out a chair. You sit. The chair is wooden and carved with ornate detail. You catch your own reflection in the mirror-like tabletop. The seat is cushioned, but in an uncomfortable way. You try a couple different positions, neither makes the situation better. The butler is already at the far end of the room by the time you realize they have left. You wait. You didn’t know what you were expecting, but it wasn’t this. You check your watch. 3:27 A.M. Neither morning nor night. Such a strange request, there had to be some rational explanation. You become aware of your clothing. You don’t know why it took this long to realize how out of place you really are in this lavish mansion. They didn’t say anything about how to dress, so you’re wearing sweatpants and a hoodie. Why did you wear sweatpants and a hoodie? You don’t even wear that in your normal life. It had to be some unconscious reaction to the strange hour of this appointment. There is no appropriate attire for three-thirty in the morning. So, therefore, any attire is right. You want coffee. You realize you want food. You are hungry. They instructed you to not eat for twelve hours beforehand, so you had gone without supper. Why had they asked you that? This wasn’t a doctor’s appointment. This was a dinner. Not a dinner. Breakfast. Not that either. But it was a meal. Did it count as a meal, though? It was food. You were there to eat food, so, technically a meal. Anytime you eat food, it’s technically a meal. That sounded right. At the far end of the dining room, the butler reappears. Again, they makes no sound, but this time you sense their entrance. You watch them as they walks towards you, a small figure expanding over time. Usually you wouldn’t stare at a person like this. But you do stare. You have a hard time consciously registering the butler as a person, which sounds bad, but they don’t seem to see you as a person either. Mutual absolution by mutual guilt. The butler is cradling something in the crook of their arm. At first you think it might be a baby. You squint. Possible but unlikely. Whatever the thing is, it’s swaddled in a cocoon of silky white fabric. When the butler finally arrives, they unfurl the fabric with the precision and flourish of someone pulling a tablecloth out from under a banquet table. A mint green telephone reveals itself like a miracle or a magic trick. The butler sets it down to your left and disappears behind you. The curly telephone cord is pulled taut, wiggling rigidly, like a fishing line that suddenly caught. There is a slight rustling and a click. A couple moments of silence. You turn to your left and see the butler walking to the far side of the room once more, without a word. This time you watch their retreat. The time it takes to cross the room makes it appear as though the butler is walking slow, but their movements have a sinuous swiftness that proves otherwise. It’s just a really, really big room. Just as the butler exits the room, the phone rings. The sound slices right into your brain and you shake at the impact. A brief interlude of silence and you feel silly for having been startled so dramatically. But no one was there to see it. No one saw it, right? Why does it feel like you’re having to convince yourself of that? And why hasn’t the phone rung again? Did they call and ring once and then just-- The phone rings. This time the aggressive sound is somehow comforting. The promise that something will happen. You answer the phone, but don’t say anything. There is a faint static on the other line, like the receiver is gentling pouring a funnel of fine sand into your ear, something out of a fairy-tale. “Are you ready?” the voice on the other line says into the finely-grained static. You’ve become so accustomed to your passive role in this environment--disconcertingly passive, now that you think of it--that you’re not sure what to say to this at first. You look down at your reflection in the table. Two furrowed brows, four blank eyes. “Yeah,” you say. “Yes,” then add: “Sure.” Behind you, a loud rattling. You spin around, craning your neck around the high back of the chair. A pair of double door swing wide open and the butler enters, holding a silver platter aloft on their white-gloved hand. The butler approaches swiftly places the platter down in front of you, and retreats back out the double doors. The doors clatter shut with the violence of a shipwreck. “Remove the dome,” the voice says, evenly. You do as you are instructed. A block of red velvet cake sits on a jade green plate. “You have thirty minutes,” the voice says and the line goes dead. You stare at the cake a moment, then place the phone back in its cradle. You raise your watch to your chest and set a timer. The milliseconds spin from sixty to zero and back to sixty, time chasing it’s tail in a frenzy. A plastic fork/spoon/knife combo lays in a plastic package to the right side of the plate. You pick it up and pry the package open with a dull pop. You shimmy out the utensils and napkin and dump the salt and pepper packets in the corner of the platter. You take in a deep breath through your nostrils and slowly push it out between your lips. The first bite tastes like any other red velvet cake. The second is the same. But you know that this isn’t any ordinary red velvet cake. You’ve been tasked to decipher what makes it so extra-ordinary. The secret ingredient. Some esoteric element no one else has been able to divine. You take another bite, this time trying not to focus on the taste. Instead, you focus your attention on the curtains. They are some indefinably dark, rich color. You’d call it purple, but it’s something far more complex. Something you aren’t familiar enough with in your comparatively proletarian life--like rare dog breeds or fine wine. You catch a hint of something on your tastebuds. You close your eyes and try to grasp the taste. Like trying to snag a fish in dark waters. You take another bite. You look up at the ceiling. This is the first time you’ve really looked and it gives you vertigo. You close your eyes a moment and reopen them, trying to reorient. The distant expanse is covered in an elaborate, almost bombastic, baroque fresco. All flowing robes and bodies twisting in what is either pain or pleasure. You can’t distinguish where one body begins and the other ends. Some shapes seem more animal than human. Shadows obscure much of the detail. All that really stands out are the eyes, a seemingly infinite constellation of eyes, glistening brightly in the vague bedlam. And, just like that, you know the secret ingredient. The phone rings. You pick it up. “You know the secret ingredient,” the voice says. It isn’t a question. You nod even though the voice can’t see you. The voice can see you, you know that now. “Your wish has been granted,” the voice continues. “An exchange. A gift for a gift.” You nod. “But if you ever reveal it to anyone,” the voice pauses--“Your wish will turn to sand. Is this agreeable?” You take one last bite of the cake and nod.

I hope you’re happy. I still remember when we first met, you know. We were both so young back then. Do you remember? That house was tiny, really, but it felt so big, like a whole world. That first time, it was raining, raining in June. You’d just finished your first year of middle school. The Summer months stretched long and lazy ahead of us, the exciting mundanity of temporary freedom. The rain had put paid to talk of a picnic, a disappointment not easily recovered from. You were playing a telephone game with your sister, when I walked in the door with your dad. He knew my parents, and had brought me to play with his children. When we were introduced, you were entranced, and I, enamoured. We were always together after that. We went to school, played in the shade during recess. You told every teacher about me until they gritted their teeth. Sometimes we were encouraged, but more often than not we were ignored. I miss that house, with the wood panelling and the short-mown lawn. I miss the schools we attended together, the high school where you had your first kiss, the university where you took a creative writing course. We were closest then, in that universe of learning. Now this room is the world, with its flaking yellow paint and wilting buttercups in a little vase. I’m wilting with them, flaking with the paint. I watch the door, hoping you’ll visit, but you never do. If I had a window, maybe I could watch you. Then again, how often would you be passing by? It’s not like there’s anything else for me to see. Maybe you think I’ll be okay in here alone, as if I can live without you. I know you, you’ll justify it, you’ll say, “it’s fine, I can always try tomorrow. Besides, I’ve got so much work to do.” I would agree with you, but there’s only so many tomorrows left. I had a dream not so long ago. If you were here, I’d tell you all about it. Since you aren’t, I’ll tell it to the walls you put me in, to the paper of my soul. I was big and strong and rooted in rich soil, a great green oak spearing the starry night sky. My branches brushed moon-dust, my roots wrapped ‘round diamonds in the deep. I was a tree, and I was your home. You were living in me, you’d made of me a house. You carved rooms through my trunk and hung your happiness from my boughs. We lived and grew, you in me and I with you. Time passed, and we aged, but never did we falter, never did we part. You wrote your tales and I kept the thunder from shaking your hand. You died in me. I was left utterly hollow, but you’d filled me with your memory, and everyone that passed saw in me a monument to you. All took little pieces of me for inspiration, and more trees sprouted. A forest rose, and it was all us everywhere. I woke up when you did. You rolled out of bed and left me here, work calling you away. If only you hadn’t taken that job. I think I knew I was going to die when that happened. You didn’t want to do it. We both knew it would be grey, boring, lifeless. We also knew that you needed the money. It was your dad that convinced you, funnily enough. “You can’t fill your belly with fantasies,” he said. I guess he’s right, but I don’t want him to be. It’s strange to think that the man who introduced us would also break us apart. Y’know, it’s funny that we never talked about this, when you were here. You didn’t notice, and I didn’t want to trouble you. I never said that I was clever. If you were here, now, I’d tell you: I’m dying. There’s so much I should have said. I should have told you to turn down the job, I should have asked you to run away with me, I should have taken your hand and made you leave. Then again, you should have offered. Maybe I’m too harsh on myself, taking all the weight of this blame, this guilt. Who has all the power here, really? Me, dying in a tiny room, forgotten and alone? You hate what you’re doing, you’re bored and depressed, but it’s my fault for being out of reach. You never even tried to come along with me, to see if it would work. They say it’s never too late, but I’m beginning to feel like it is. I remember when you started. You’d stay out late, working those lingering hours, and I’d wait for you to visit. I was still in your life then, still a part of your future. You promised me, again and again, that it would be over soon, that you’d have enough, that you’d quit and we’d run. Every time you said it, we believed you less and less. You had energy then, the vigour of a youthful spirit. Your eyes were as bright as your smile, and you shared both eagerly. Where, then, did those shadows come from, that sooty grimace? When did your eyelids become grim hoods of skin? How could you let the grey sap your senses away? Why is your back so crooked and curled? Who is this person you’ve become? You won’t answer me, but that’s okay. I know that you can’t. Deep down, you’re asking yourself the same questions. Not that it matters. A honey trap holds you, the stickiest of all sweetnesses: comfort. Every day is the same, you wake, you work, you eat, you sleep. I waste away in my yellowing casket, and you forget to even think of me. Comfort has poisoned you. It has devoured your spirit, gulped down your energy, put a tap to your strength, and shriven away your lustre. Yet, still it wants more. From what I’ve seen of you, more it will have. I would save you, but I’ve not even the strength to stand. Your comfort has robbed me, too. I did have hope, that one summer. You had saved up all your vacation days, at last to spend them. A whole month! It was like being a child again. You remembered me, and came to see me. I was weak and wan, but still hopeful. We went for a ride together. There wasn’t much rain that year. The cornfields had grown, but the plants were too dry. I can still see the fields of gold and beige, stretching out to the blue horizon. That bike was a boat, in an ocean of drought. You were so close to being happy. A little smile teased the corners of your mouth, and your eyes twinkled amidst the crow-footed wrinkles. Of course, it had to come to an end. Full of hope as I was, happy as you nearly felt, of course it couldn’t last. A month is just a handful of days, in the end. Days like any other, whether at work or in the vast crop-sea. So you went home, and I stayed in the cornfields for a while. It was nice there. Nothing but the wind, the sky and the stalks. I think that’s where you should have left me. It was a peaceful place to die. But you did pick me up eventually. You rushed back and put me on life support. The year following that trip was probably the hardest time of my meagre existence. You were back at work, but you still toyed around with me, said you still wanted me, said that this time, this time, it was for real. I think the trip rattled you around, because it was uncomfortable. It had been too hot, too hard, too uncertain. Comfort only kills you if you let it. I was still dying, but your scraps of attention just barely kept me going. It was like being trapped in the desert with a rain-cloud floating overhead. When you rained your notice down, I had the briefest relief. But it was never enough to nourish me back to health. Just like the cloud, eventually your attention would dry up. I could scream at the sun, but I’d only waste moisture. You did come back a few times, and for some of those, I wished you hadn’t. You burst into my room one night, disturbing my gentle rotting. You were drunk, and unhappy, and you screamed like an animal. Our conversation was incoherent. You begged for forgiveness, but not from me. You wanted someone to absolve you of the sin of never being who you wanted. Why you had to do this in my wasting chamber, I don’t know. I forgive you, for all that it matters. What choice do I have? If chastising you would save my life, if tormenting you would restore my ailing self, then I would still forgive you. I love you, in the way that only I can. You told me you hated me once. It was in your car on the way to work. Traffic had slowed to snail molasses, and you said, quite coldly, that you hated me. I think vitriol would have been less hurtful. It was so bland, so matter-of-fact. You said it as if it were obvious, as if it should already have occurred to me. Passionate spite was at least warm. I would die a thousand deaths, suffer a thousand hells, before I would hear you say it again. You didn’t love me any more, and I wasted ever faster away. If you held me up to the light, you’d see right through me. Not that you’d hold me. Fear was something of a companion for both of us in those days. Fear of forgetting, of losing each other completely. It was odd, I suppose. Even in your frigid despite, you never really wanted to get rid of me. Do you think that that’s why I’m still here? Eventually you did forget me, or so I thought. Even fear abandoned me then. I was truly alone for the first time. As it turned out, you hadn’t fully forgotten me yet. The last time I saw you, you opened the door gently. Timidly, like it was a first date. You came close, standing and staring. That day, you’d found your father’s old books, and remembered me. The day we’d met had surged to the surface, and you’d come to see me. There was a pen in your hand, ink staining your fingers. You were so old; grey and paper-skinned. Not the old age of the body, but of the soul. I’d never seen you so weary. Still you flirted with me, let the spectre of that old smile play on your tired lips. I think we both knew what was coming. It was over, as much as we might not want it to be. If there’s a place after this ever-shrinking room, then I think I’ll remember what you said forever. You turned to look at me, one last time, and your smile turned wry. I never was all that good, you said. I haven’t seen you since. I don’t want to let hope die, but perhaps it’s time to bury it. Perhaps all I’ve been cradling is a corpse. I’m almost gone myself, at that. So, I suppose this is farewell. Maybe you’ll look in again, and find this decaying dormitory empty. I won’t be here, but perhaps the flowers will be. Wilted, rotten, buttercups, a reminder of childhood nothings and sweet promises whispered in the heights of fantasy. I have, do, and always will love you. I hope you find this note. I hope you find your happiness. I hope you remember your hope, that you think of me sometimes. Probably not though. I’m better off forgotten. After all, I was just a dream.

This was written for the wonderful u/Say_Im_Ugly's Discord Secret Santa story exchange. My constraints were from /u/stickfist: Gnomes, a lost package, and a midnight deadline. The mailman shrugged as he stepped off the Wilkinson’s porch leaving six-year-old Charlotte pouting. “I’m sure the package will turn up,” Sarah Wilkinson said to her daughter. “And if it doesn’t, Gramma will send you another.” From the well-tended lawn, the trio of gnomes stood in silent vigil of the girl’s disappointment. Tears welled in her eyes, her pout became a frown, and a sigh drooped her shoulders lower than ever before. “Come in, Charlotte,” Sarah sighed. “We’ll call the post office in the morning.” All was still on the lawn until dusk arrived. It started with the wrinkle of a ruby-red nose, then a wiggle of their porcelain toes. With a sneeze, all three gnome brothers woke from their daytime slumber. “Lok, Log, hurry! We haven’t much time,” Ori announced as he straightened his tall red hat. “For snacks?” Log queried, his hollow gut rumbling beneath his belted potbelly. “For fun?” said Lok, Log’s twin in all ways but the length of his moustache, long ago chipped in a strangely fashionable way. “For mischief!” Ori reminded them. As they did every night, all three trotted about the Wilkinson’s property with mayhem on their minds. Ori took the lead for his hat was the tallest. “I have grand plans this night!” he promised, as they crawled in through the dog door. That the Wilkinson’s had no pet was forever a boon. “What’s first?” Log asked, picking at his teeth. “And next?” Lok wondered aloud as he tripped over nothing at all. “The blankets, my brothers. We start with the blankets.” And off to the living room Ori led them. “First, we collect each one misplaced and left unfolded. Then, we put them in the grand blanket chest.” “Where they should be?” Log frowned. “That sounds odd.” Lok scratched his nose. “It’s perfect! Mother Sarah always insists Father Glenn put them away but he doesn’t, so she’ll never find them there!” “It’s brilliant!” Log mused. “True genius!” Lok squealed. Both twins clapped and they set off to task. In minutes they’d collected and folded each blanket and tucked them into the chest by the fire. “Hurry brothers, find all the shoes and bring them to the front door,” Ori said and they scampered off in all directions. In minutes they’d found every shoe, sandal, slipper, and boot - both lost and not- and gathered them. “Now, put the lefts on the right and the rights on the left,” Ori said whilst wringing his hands. “Father Glenn will wake and come down to put on his shoes for work and what shall he find? Left on the right? How will he dress! He’ll be late and lose his job for sure!” “How devilish!” “What madness!” And off the brothers went to work. Once they’d finished with the very last slipper, tucked in neatly and arranged from smallest to largest, Ori motioned for his brothers to huddle. “I’ve saved the best for last, a true mischievous deed that struck me this afternoon at a quarter past three.” “Go on!” Log insisted. “Do tell!” Lok echoed. “The package. The one Daughter Charlotte is missing.” Ori grinned. “I know where it is.” The twins gasped in unison. “I propose a mountain of mischief, a truly daring task. We take the package that tumbled into the garden and...” Ori paused for effect. “Place it on Charlotte’s bed!” Log and Lok looked confused and exchanged quizzical frowns. “Isn’t that helpful?” Log asked. “We’re not helpful, are we?” Lok sounded most distressed. “Pish pish, not at all! She’ll be utterly confused. Can you imagine it? The thing that wasn’t there the night before is there the morning after? Discombobulating! Madness indeed!” “Huzzah!” The twins shouted together, but Ori quickly hushed them and they tackled their final task. They rolled the package from the garden and with each turn Log nibbled on the corners. Twice Lok tripped; over shoes, over carpet, or nothing but himself. Through the hardest work they’d ever done yet, the three brothers dragged the package up to Daughter Charlotte’s room. Then on to her bed they climbed and pulled and climbed some more. All three brothers huffed and leaned against the package just feet from the sleeping six-year-old girl. “Just imagine the squeal in the morning, brothers,” Ori said between breaths. “We’ll hear it all the way on the lawn!” “Of delight?” Log wondered. “Or relief?” Lok worried. “Of confusion!” Ori assured them triumphantly. But with a look out the window at the high moon, Ori gasped a quick breath. Clocks chimed about the house. Midnight was arriving. “Hurry, brothers!” Ori declared, straightening out his tall red hat. “To the lawn before midnight falls!” With a yelp, the gnome brothers scampered from the pastel sheets, a full night’s work of mischief done.

This story is dedicated to Morag, Alison, Viv, David, Diane, Pat "Miss America", Sonnie, Milo, and anyone else who is battling, has battled, or has been affected by cancer. *-* An old man sits alone in his dark house and pours himself a drink. It is the first birthday he will be spending without the woman he loved for so many years; the woman he still loves. He was lucky to meet her; it came as a fleeting chance that he seized upon. And from that, the purest form of love was shared. From their first kiss, to their first house, to her saying ‘I do’; he fondly recalls her smile. He takes a small sip of his whiskey; the ice has melted as he was lost in his thoughts. He smiles warmly, remembering her as a tear trickles down his cheek. He looks back on it all; their adventures, their struggles, their life. He didn’t think it would end so early, let alone so suddenly. What started off as fatigue quickly became sinister; a tumour growing inside her. She fought hard and she fought true, but she could not beat her sickness. And now, the old man drinks alone. He fiddles with the radio which quietly begins to play, providing a backing track to the memories he holds. Her eyes. Her nose. Her mouth. Her laugh. Things he wishes he could see again, hear again. But, he cannot. He cannot kiss her. He cannot laugh with her. He cannot hold her waist. Instead, he drinks alone. His hand reaches down and touches the spot on the couch that was hers. ‘That’s my spot, silly’, she’d claim if he ever dared sit there. He loved to though, just to annoy her - even if it was just to get her attention. But now, it’s empty. He would never dream of sitting there again. That’s her spot. The man is unsure whether he drinks the whiskey to numb his pain or to step closer to his grave where she’ll be waiting for him; perhaps, he drinks it for both of these reasons. Every sip of the liquid is met and equalled with the now steady flow of tears that he produces as he quietly cries. The radio flickers, almost as if it is interrupted, and begins to play a song the man recognises. It’s their song. It’s the song they first danced to. He stifles laughter; the mass of emotion proves too much for him to know how to properly react. Soon he is smiling once more, but the tears continue to fall. The song quietly plays as the man closes his eyes and remembers their first dance. She was so beautiful that night. As he held her waist, she held his heart. And they danced. He imagines he is back there, his butterflies rising at the first sight of her. His eyes closed, he remembers her smooth skin against his as they slowly danced, ignoring the world. Her hair, in his face, tickling his nose, but there was no way he was moving it away. Her scent - The man opens his eyes and they dart around the room. Her scent. It’s here; her sweet perfume drifts into the room. Suddenly, he is not alone anymore. The room is empty, but he knows she is here. Her presence is unmistakable. His heart flutters, as it always did when she was close, and the room brightens. He opens his mouth to speak, to call out to her, but no words come out. His eyes frantically search the room looking for the woman he’d lost too soon. Beside him, she sits. He cannot see her, but he knows she is there, sat in her spot on the couch. He stands, feeling wary and confused yet somehow safe. The overwhelming safety that he’s only ever felt with her before. The kind of safety that turns a house into a home. His quivering eyes stare at the spot on the couch. The vast sense of love the man feels repairs the pain in his heart more than his whiskey ever could. Then, as if he following her, his eyes rise. The man stares ahead; the same height he had stared at for so many years looking into her eyes when she had stood before him. And now, she’s standing with him once more. He knows she is. He reaches his hands out as their song continues to quietly play. He gently rests them on the waist of the woman he knows is there, but cannot see. Despite this, he looks into her eyes. And then, they begin to dance. They move slowly, in complete unison; a step forward, a step back. The song provides their only company, but the man could be in the middle of a war zone and he wouldn’t notice. All he sees is her. With every step of the quiet dance, the room brightens. With every step, the old man’s house becomes a home once more. As they dance, the tears dry on his face. The tears carrying the pain, the torment; dried out by a single dance. He knows she won’t be here for long, so he smiles. She’d rather see his smile than his pain. His nose twitches; her hair tickling his face as her head rests against his chest. The song is almost over, but the man prays for it to never finish. *Please*, he silently begs, *please don’t end.* But it does. And with the final words of the song and the final strums of the guitar, the old man is alone once more. He slowly lowers his arms, desperately hoping that he will feel her as he had a second ago. But he knows deep down he will not. He knows he won’t feel her again. He quietly thanks her for giving him one last dance. Gradually, he moves back and picks up his bottle of whiskey as he rests beside her spot on the couch. The old man sits alone in their home and pours himself a drink.

My fingertips run on the crisp, thin, flaky layer of the croissant; I can smell, will taste like melted chocolate and too much butter. It's fascinating, just as much as it is a shame; how many people miss it. It's beautiful, it's delicate, it's fragile, and yet, most people simply won't take the time to feel it. And maybe I shan't feel superior, because the only reason I do it's because it's the only way I can give it any attention at all. Its exterior is golden-brown and perfectly, masterfully baked; or so they say. I can feel its warm and toasty smell in my nostrils, mixed with the floral notes of lavender. The mauve lavender that's sitting on the marble windowsill by my bed. Or so I'm told. Along with the cream porcelain vases, a high ceiling, and box panelings on these bright walls. Or so I've heard. And it's hard for me to picture it consistently. Faces, colors, shapes. They're dancing, changing because I don't think I can remember them. It's like losing the voice of someone you loved. Losing the wrinkles on their face, forgetting how their laugh used to sound. Crimson, Indigo, Teal. Now, they're all down to meaningless words, words that make me trip, those ones that, if repeated too much, they would start growing spiky and shapeless in my head. I used to be blond, now I'm not sure. I used to look pretty, now I don't know. I used to stare at every imperfection on my face, now I can't stare at all. That day I was running from that car in the meadow, now I can't run from anything but my thoughts. Thank goodness, I possess a voice outside my head, other than my own, to break this loud, unbearable silence. The delicate, protective Margaret, the only soul I've ever spoken to since the accident - my caregiver - speaks once more of how the sun shines uninterrupted on Rosewood Manor, as it always has and always will. At this point, I'm not even sure it's true, but I can't smell the pungent rain, so I can't dispute her. She told me, once again, about the vast, mahogany-paneled library I can't see. And the foyer, with a grand crystal chandelier that I tried but couldn't find. I've always dreamt of living in such a manor, and I honestly never stopped because even though now I do, I can't savor any part of it. It never actually came true. Because I might be living in a castle but all I can feel is the smooth texture of the silk duvet of my bed. And that croaky, loud and annoying crow of the Cuckoo Clock that yells that it's time for Margaret to present me with those violent, acidic, pungent eye drops that I can feel fighting with my clouded eyes. The ones that are supposed to magically give me back my sight, like that's even a thing. And days seem sometimes as if they'll never end as they fade into a confused blur much the same as the whole world around me; that I can only imagine, a collage of confused memories. And I have no clue where I am even though I make her describe it to me every single day. I don't know anything of what's around me, but I could tell you what color is the inside of my carillon. It's turquoise, TuRqUOiSe, TUrqÙöiSê, TūRQÛoÏsë. Whatever that means. And the night breeze on my skin, the heat of the day, and cuckoo screams, hours, seconds, minutes, sounds, smells, tastes. And again, every day - the sound of footsteps behind my closed door, the gentle knock on it, and Margaret's warm, reassuring voice, telling me, once again about the well rehearsed and detailed description of this room. But not that day, that particular morning, there is no knock, no voice, just silence. Just pitch-black, wide-open nothing, and my voice bouncing off those walls. Blinds that never got open, bread that never got toasted and the light kept locked out of here. The ring of an alarm that never got turned off and no voice to guide me out of bed, petrified under these covers seeing, hour after hour, an unmaintained world, a world that was waiting for a hand to be lived. And I could do nothing but wait, unable to do anything remotely independent. Meals left untouched and unused eye drops, and damn tears in my eyes that I know I shouldn't let form while taking the meds, and yet, there they were, running on my face, maybe trying to reach the floor to rush out that door; in vain. My only solace had been her voice; and wasn't that pathetic? That too had left me. I felt truly alone, and for the first time, truly impaired. I finally get the courage to sit on my bed, mostly out of hunger rather than actual bravery. I prepare to jump into the void, for my feet to fall in the never-ending mist surrounding me; except they don't. Their bare soles met with the icy marble floor. I push myself forward trying to map out anything surrounding, me and the comfort of my bed. A shot in the dark. No, more like a hand in the dark. A shaky, uncertain hand dumbly taking its body along. "The blind leads the blind." My throat pushes those sounds that lay on those walls and furniture, that send me back, based on how much echo they carry with them, how far away the next obstacle will be. Thud. Damn, I didn't sense that. My knees, shaky on the floor, my hands pressed against the smooth, patinated wood of the desk that creaks slightly under my weight as I get back on my feet. Dust on my fingers, now in my nostril- I cough as my dusty hand follows that buttery smell stretching to reach it, the cold, forgotten croissant. I drop my hand on it, I feel it for an instant under my palm before I hear its thud on the carpet. Usually, my mom would've yelled at me for taking it up and eating it - but I'm starving, and I'm sure she wouldn't mind this once. I feel the dust of the carpet, now on the croissant's flaky skin, entering my mouth. I cough again. I'm miserable. Eating dust in the wide-open nothing. Sobbing, letting every little drop of the medicine that my eyes managed to keep, on my cheeks- along with the tears. And so it went for days to come. Margaret's absence started hanging like a heavy feeling in my chest, and the odds that she was gone for a family vacation really started to wear off. They went on with other sounds and the waiting for echoes, bumps into furniture and bruises and cold meals. Updating the mental image of the space around me, which seems to be somewhat inaccurate now that I touch it, smell it, feel it. It's back to when I was a kid. Swallowed in soft blankets, certainly less soft in the darkness of my room, in the solitude of my room, at witching hour. My little bored mind and my eyes still lit and alive making monsters emerge from the dark. To transform the pitch-black into my worst nightmare, just for the fun of it. But now it wasn't the same. The black that surrounded me wasn't just darkness and day after day, the shapes and shadows that I began to see were not echoes of a mind with too much imagination. They were real. I was seeing them. And it felt like they could see me. Not the mental map of my room, not a dream, they were there, before my eyes. I squinted, as if testing the gears of a machine that had just been put back into operation. After years, what felt like decades, even. It was back working. I was back working. As the fog around me began to dissolve, leaving a forgotten space for light to filter against my over-sensitive retina which began to tear at the first shining beam bouncing off the back of my eyeball. It wasn't much, but I could see the beautifully confusing and almost indecipherable reality around me. It was there. Maybe it was working; the drops were having their effect. I hold out my hand to feel the smooth, cold bottle come from my palm, then my index finger and thumb on the rubbery dropper, trying to get at least one of the twenty drops that are ending up on the carpet to fall into at least one of my eyes. Oh, but when they do, it can't go unnoticed. Because it hurts, it burns. Crack. The fog runs, smoke again filling my pupils, my, once again, gray, clouded, dead pupils behind an equally coffin-like stare. My eyes fighting the drops, the tears trying to chase them away, my hands clumsily doing the same and my squeaks, my sobs as the world around me turns black again. No. It was impossible. There was no way in any logical corner where the drops given to me by Margaret could- It couldn't be. Yet it began to creep up from the back of my mind, a slow but steady whisper. Could they perhaps be the cause of my blindness rather than the cure for it? Stop. It was Margaret. Her absence was driving me crazy. Or maybe it was setting me free. So I stopped taking them and waited for the shapes in the back of my mind to make sense again. I should have paid attention to what I wished for. Think twice. I'm like balancing on breaking branches as the world around me shows its truth, day after day. I wasn't broken anymore, I wasn't impaired and yet, I felt more helpless than ever. The reins of my life slip from my hands, how sweet ignorance was. I would like to turn a blind eye. Turn them both blind again, because the room I'm now looking at not only doesn't match its description. It's a terrible, pale, mediocre lie. My chest throbs with each breath, faster than the previous one; as I look at the claustrophobic, filthy, dark cell I thought for a castle in the last few months. My castle, my dream. I tripped and fell from heaven to the room I dreamt to see. Except it's not. The dried lavender that's sitting on the dusty, wooden windowsill right by my bed. Now I can see. Along with the cream shattered plates, a low ceiling, and stains on these dark walls. Now it's crystal clear. Her words shaped my world and wasn't that quite convenient? No. It can't- all this time...there is also perhaps the slightest possibility that she had been my sweet, quiet, caring...kidnapper? Crack.

I wrote this story for a school competition, and I ended up being one of the winners, just wanted to share it with you guys! It's about a German soldier from WWI. Enjoy. Prologue: Face down. Face down. Not face up. Face down. Didn't scream or anything. Just dropped. Stone cold. I tried to save him, but he was bleeding too hard. Straight through the jugular. Dead. Chapter 1: 2 days earlier... "The front line?" "Yep." "But we've only been here for a couple days!" "Well, you won't miss it then." I couldn't believe it. The front line. The big one. No more wallowing in the reserves, doing boring training. We were going to the big show. "So, Alan, how long for?" "2 weeks, then they rotate us out" "Only 2 weeks?" "Yep. Pack your things." Alan was on his bed, packing his backpack with all he needed. I was still processing this new knowledge. After a few seconds, I put my pack on my bed and began to pack. Chapter 2: The front line... Our ride to the front was uneventful, except for the constant pounding of artillery, but that eventually faded into background noise. When we got there, we were directed to our trenches under an iron sky of guns, grenades and bullets. Apparently, the enemy were making a push towards us. At one point, they came about 10 metres away from our trench and we could see the whites of their fear-stricken eyes. I killed my first man that day. Got him in the stomach, then finished him off when he sank to his knees. The charge broke a few moments afterwards, with men running as fast as they could back to their trenches. About a quarter of them actually made it back. The rest lay dead or dying in various amounts of pain, strewn around the battlefield like discarded toys. The one I shot had apparently been one of the enemies braver officers, and people were calling me things like "Hero" and "Saviour". Someone told me that the person I shot had been leading the charges for months on end and that we lost lots of men whenever he was at the head of a charge. "Now he's gone", he stated, "We'll have that trench within the week, you mark my words!" Chapter 3: The next day... Alan thought that what I'd done was pretty heroic, too. He patted me on the back like everybody else. I felt like shit. I couldn't see what I had done as a good thing. I'd killed a man. Sure, he had been killing our men too, but he was a hero to the enemy. I'd killed one of their greatest inspirations. If any of those men, in that trench not too far from ours, survived, they would be reduced to emotional wrecks. Not just from losing a great hero, but from the war itself. I'd seen it already, on our side. Veterans walking around, almost trance-like, probably trying to remember a happier time, like before the war. Or their 10th birthday. They had lost touch with reality. That's what any sane soldier fears. Not the cold, dark embrace of death, or the pain, but the sight. The feel. The loss of what you think the world is, stripped away until there is- "Sam?" I snapped out of it. I realised I was drooling from lack of concentration. Oh feth, I thought. Is it already happening? Surely not this fast? "Sam?" Alan repeated. I was aware now. "Yeah, Alan?" "We're moving up-trench" "Really? Why?" "Logistics apparently thought that losses would be much higher, so the trench is overcrowded. We need to move up in case of bombardment, or it gets too hard to fight." That made a lot of sense. "How much did Logistics misestimate by?" I asked. "Well, word from the rabble is that they thought we'd lose the same amount as all the other times, 'cos of that officer you killed. They thought the casualties would be up in the hundreds" I stared at him, wide-eyed with shock. Had that one man been that inspiring? Could one man really make other men fight with such fervour and fury that his death is the tipping point in a battle?" These thoughts were at the forefront of my mind as we packed our meagre belongings up and moved up the trench, to the heavier fighting. Final Chapter: The next day, I had had an epiphany. I was that man, now. I was the hero that all the other men were inspired by. I could make them fight with the fury and strength of a million men, when we were only a few thousand. Word had already spread to the other trenches. I was Slayer der Götter, who was already a figure of legend. It showed how low morale had been, for me to be elevated to such a high status without being an officer or commander. These men would follow me to hell and back. Suddenly, the was a clamour rising from the trench. Men were shouting orders to get ready. We were going to assault the enemy trenches. I looked around. About a dozen men were looking my way, as if I was going to lead them. As soon as the sirens went, I knew I had no choice. I clambered up the trench line with Alan by my side. We were best friends, nothing could stop us. The few trees in our way provided a little cover from the withering, inaccurate fire coming from the other trench. We had 20 meters to go. 18. 15. 11. Then, out of nowhere, Alan dropped. Face down. Face down. Not face up. Face down. Didn't scream or anything. Just dropped. Stone cold. I tried to save him, but he was bleeding too hard. Straight through the jugular. Dead. My fury was taken to new heights. I grabbed his bayonet from the end of his rifle. I had two in my hands. One to murder and one to avenge. I sprinted the final 10 meters with a war cry on my lips. The men around me did the same. Then, I was among them. Swinging wildly. It was all a blur of stabbing, ripping, killing, swinging, screaming, blood, death, stamping. I stopped. The men I had killed were strewn about me, in various states of mutilation. I sprinted around the trench corner. And I saw him. Death was 20 years old or so, clad in the combat gear of the enemy, bearing a rifle. I stared Death down the barrel of his gun, and didn't flinch when he claimed me.

Jake and Chloe stood side by side in the dimly lit bathroom they had shared for the past five years. Their reflections were so familiar but the persons they now shared this room with were not. They had always intended to repaint the dull gray walls, but those plans fell to the wayside, like so many others. They looked at each other nervously, first in the mirror, then directly in side-long glances. Chloe strained to draw a deep breath from air so thick with tension. Jake fumbled with his tie, the silk slipping through his fingers. His eyes darted to Chloe's reflection. Her body was stiff, as she meticulously applied her mascara, her lips pursed in concentration. “You know,” Jake began, “we could’ve avoided this whole mess if you’d just let me keep the damn house.” Chloe's mascara wand froze in mid-air. She scoffed, “And let you turn it into your bachelor pad? No way. Besides, it’s my Nonna's house.” “Your grandmother’s house,” Jake muttered, “which I’ve been paying the mortgage on for six years.” “FIVE years” Chloe corrected in an icy tone. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed your wandering eye during these lawyer meetings. Not that I care ...” "Then why bring it up?" Jake shot back. "Because I'm not going to have you screwing my divorce attorney in Nonna's house!" Chloe shrieked. Chloe dabbed at a small tear on her cheek, "And your phone is buzzing ..." "That's not my phone ..." Jake scanned the countertop. "It's ... the toothbrush?" Jake and Chloe's gaze slid to the bathroom counter, where their shared electronic toothbrush lay, a relic of happier times. Jake had always let Chloe brush first. She would then rinse and dry the device, remove her brush head, and return the toothbrush to its charger. Jake would grin at her as she inspected her smile. Then he'd grab the toothbrush from its charger, insert his brush head, and the buzzing would resume. But this time the buzzing had begun on its own ... the toothbrush stood in its charger. It buzzed only briefly, and then it stopped. Jake and Chloe looked at each other. "That was weird ... " Chloe said softly. "Maybe the battery is going." "Well," Jake chimed in, "we'll soon find out." Jake reached for the toothbrush, but before he could grab it, the toothbrush began to buzz again. When he withdrew his hand, it stopped. He reached once more, and it buzzed, louder this time ... but stopped when an alarmed Jake stepped quickly backward. "What the fuck!" Chloe was getting frustrated. She looked at her watch, "We don't have time for this! We're going to be late!" She grabbed the toothbrush, inserted her brush head, ran it under the tap, and applied some toothpaste. Chloe grinned, "Never send a man to do a woman's job!" As Chloe pushed the head of the toothbrush into her mouth, she pressed the button 'ON' button and the toothbrush sprang to life ... but it was not the steady buzz she was used to. The pitch of the toothbrush was rising and falling ... a tune from deep in her memory ... a lullaby. From Nonna? She felt both frightened and consoled. Attempting a return to normalcy, with her mouth full of foam she garbled, "Yeah, I think the battery is going." Jake was irritated, "It's not battery-powered. Are you done yet? " He was standing next to Chloe with the uncapped tube of toothpaste already in his hand. As soon as Chloe set the toothbrush down Jake snatched it from the counter, without changing the head, and immediately began to apply the paste. When he did the brush head sprang to life and splattered toothpaste all over Jake's shirt and tie. "Goddam this thing!" Jake was angry but undeterred. He shoved the toothbrush in his mouth, growling and gurgling as he did. No sooner than he did, his eyes opened wide, and a look of terror spread over his face. He was choking. Jake pulled the base of the toothbrush from his mouth, but the brush head was missing! Chloe grabbed the base of the toothbrush from Jake and it stopped vibrating, but she could still hear buzzing! She looked at Jake. The buzzing was coming from inside Jake's mouth! Jake was turning blue, and his knees buckled. Staggering backward, he hit the counter and fell to the floor. Chloe leaped at him, straddling his body, and pushed her hand into his mouth. Her fingers flailed wildly inside his mouth until she felt the base of the brush head at the back of his throat. The plastic was slippery and vibrating wildly. She couldn't get hold of it. Jake's head was now on the floor and she was pushing hard at the back of his throat. Jake gagged as if he were about to throw up, which pushed the brush head forward, and Chloe was finally able to get her fingers around the plastic stem. The vibration stopped. She pulled it from his mouth. For a second, the room was very quiet. Chloe became alarmed. "Jake! Jake! Are you okay?" Jake's eyes opened slowly. Chloe looked at him, then at the toothbrush head in her hand. She grabbed the countertop and pulled herself up. Jake soon appeared next to her in the mirror. He was badly shaken but had thought to grab the toothbrush base from the floor. It was now buzzing once again. He looked at his assailant and a wave of anger surged over him. He cocked his arm preparing to rifle his buzzing enemy into the mirror. "NO!" Chloe shrieked. "Don't!" She reached up and gently took the base from Jake's hand, and the vibration stopped. She took both pieces and slowly moved them together, inserting the brush head into the base. Tipping her head downward toward the newly joined pair, she said very quietly, "I can still use them." Jake's eyes narrowed, and he forced a smile ... but then his face softened. His lips pursed and he let out a gentle whistle. "We're going to be late. Fuck my teeth. We need to go." He turned to walk away, then stopped and turned back to Chloe. Looking at her in the dim light of the bathroom he said softly, "You're right. It's time for me to move out." Again Jake turned to leave but stopped. "And, I remember that lullaby the toothbrush was playing for you. You know what I’m talking about? You sang it to me the first time we slept together."

His head smashed into the low wooden doorpost of the Flagon Inn as he was leaving. All eyes were on him as he rubbed his head, trying to suppress the throbbing pain. He noticed the awkward glances he was receiving and smiled. “Ouch!” he said, amusingly. Several men laughed as they returned their attention to their gambling. A serving girl smiled and resumed her duties. The innkeeper nodded sympathetically. “Watch yer head ther’ mister,” he said, “it’s a bit low.” Alan smiled as he closed the door behind him and started down the dirt street, his head still throbbing. He passed several people heading for the inn. It was a busy place he thought. Especially in the early hours of the day. They always had a pot of stew or a leg of lamb that would satisfy any man’s hunger. Alan headed for the training grounds. He would be working with a few of his men on sword combat. Their small city didn’t have many trained soldiers, except for those that he taught. His men were there practicing as they awaited his arrival. They greeted him, then resumed their positions. He demonstrated a new maneuver with the sword. He then observed as they applied it to their previous training. The blunted swords rang all morning as the trainees attacked, blocked, and counter-attacked. As soon as the sun was directly above them, the practice was over. Grabbing his bow, Alan started for the city gates. The best place for archery practice was outside the city. No need to accidentally hit an innocent bystander inside the city. He enjoyed the woods more anyhow. But, as he reached the wooden walls of the city, a horseman came galloping through the gates. He pulled his steed to a halt. He didn’t bother dismounting. “Sir Alan,” he began, out of breath “their coming!” “Who?” He asked. “Raiders! From the East!" “What do they want?” There was a moment’s silence. “To raid us, I guess,” observed the rider. "Huh? Oh, yeah. Alert the city officials." “Yes sir.” The horse’s hoofs thudded on the ground as the horse galloped through the street, people scrambling out of the way. Alan turned ‘round, heading for the barracks. This was the time that he had been training his men for. And he hoped that they’d prove worthy. Two hours passed since the first sitting of the raiders. The city had been fortified to the best of its abilities. The walls were manned by the seventy men-at-arms and the thirty-odd archers. The raiders had formed a line of warriors, just outside the forest edge. Far enough to ensure that arrows were not a threat. “What are they doing out there?” asked William. A well-trusted archer who Alan could always rely on. “How should I know?” he said with mock disgust, “Feel free to go ask ‘em.” “Ha, only if you’ll come with me.” “Ah no. Your the one who is so anxious.” “Not Anxious, just, curious.” “Same thing," Alan said mater-a-factly. William silently mouthed the words “Is not” but made sure Alan wasn’t looking. They both stood staring at the enemy wondering what would happen next. “Do you think they will take the city?” asked a young soldier standing next to William. “Na,” Started Will, “they don’t stand a chance. Look at ‘em out there. They don’t know the first thing about fight’n.” The young lad didn’t seem convinced. He stood glaring at the forest edge. “Ah come on Al. Tell him there’s nothin’ to fret about.” Alan leaned forward, looking around William. “Well, we haven’t had to face a threat like this before. This is the time to use all that you’ve been taught and use it well. Or else,” he paused before continuing, “we’ll all end up lying on the ground with our throats slit.” The young man swallowed hard and nodded. William heaved a sigh and nodded as well. “Oh come on. It’s not the end of the world. No need to get all huffy puffy,” put in a passing serving boy who was bringing water to the men. William whirled around and gave him a playful, kick in the pants. Then realizing that he had water, ran out after him, longing to quench his thirst. Everyone who had witnessed the scene busted out laughing. It was nice, thought Alan, to have a local comedian to cheer up everyone. Despite his tendency to make a fool of himself, he was an excellent marksman with a bow and a good soldier to have watching your back. Another hour or two past and yet, the raiders were still waiting. They had now started fires and were cooking what smelled like stew. Somehow Alan knew that they should be using this precious time sparingly. But there was nothing that he could do that would make a difference. There wasn’t any way for them to get help. Even if they were able to get a messenger past the enemy, it probably wouldn’t amount to much. Even if the nearest city did send troops, it would be too late. A fifty-mile march would take more than two days. By that time they would surely be defeated. All he could do was position his men in the best positions possible. He put men on all sides of the city walls. Although the majority was facing the oncoming enemy. If he had more men he would have fortified the entire city with plenty of men. But the circumstances called for risks. He placed the locals, who weren’t official soldiers, on the undermanned walls. It was better than no men at all. However, if they were counter-attacked from behind, they would be at a major disadvantage. “Why don’t they just attack?” asked one of the soldiers. “Yeah,” started William, “I think I’d fare better fighting a man than facing this dreadful waiting.” Several men chuckled in agreement. “I think they are waiting until they get their food,” put in an older man, “I get the impression that they’d rather fight on a full stomach!” He stated with a stout laugh. The ranks of men boomed with laughter. How could men facing potential death be so eager to laugh and make jolly? Perhaps it helped put their minds at ease, or maybe it was a way of getting ready for what awaited. Whatever the cause, whatever the reason, they were laughing and having a good time. “Or maybe they’re...” The still air was disrupted by a blaring horn near the forest. A battle horn. It meant something. The enemy ranks formed quickly. The rattling of swords and equipment was audible, even from such a distance. There was another horn blast, and the enemy began to advance. Suddenly, another rank of warriors appeared from the forest, then another. They had kept their true numbers hid until now. Alan knew that the morale of the men had dropped slightly. The raiders advanced steadily. He estimated two-hundred fit and fighting men. He judged the distance between the city and the advancing army. Taking an arrow from his quiver, he nocked it on the string, singled out a single man in the middle of the group, pulled back, and loosed. The arrow arced across the sky; a blur, as it sped towards its target. He was rewarded by a cry of pain that echoed across the, to be battlefield. He had hit something. They were in range! “Archers!” he shouted, “Let loose!” Showers of arrows rained down upon the enemy. One after another. An ever-present threat. A never-ending fear that would discourage those advancing. Soon, the raiders had crossed more than half of the field. Perhaps an eighth of them were lying on the battlefield. Stuck with a mortal shaft. A heavy log, with rope handles, was brought to the city gates. They smashed it into the gates time after time. Each time the gates shuttered. “Archers,” Alan shouted over the chaos, “aim for those on the battering ram!” Arrows took out a dozen or more men, causing the heavy log to drop to the ground. The log was later lifted, reaping havoc on the gate once more. More arrows rained down on them. Men climbed up crude, wooden ladders, making their way over the walls. Alan shot an arrow through the first man, who crashed onto the ground, landing on his own men. The next man on the ladder hesitated, wondering if he would meet the same fate. William grabbed the top of the ladder and pushed it off the wall. The log crashed into the gates again. The ladder was back on the wall within seconds. Warriors clung onto each rung; heavying themselves up. Grabbing a battle-ax, that had been dropped by a raider, Alan smashed the top rung of the ladder. William pushed the ladder down again. The ladder was turned around so that the missing rung was near the bottom. Alan made an out-witted gesture with his hand. He hadn’t thought of them just switching it around. He put an arrow in the man who had had the idea. “Shoot those who are on the ladder,” William shouted. “What do you think I’ve been doing?” “Quite your complaining.” Three of the five men climbing the ladder fell to the ground, stuck with an arrow. William grabbed the ladder and turned it over, dumping the remaining men. He then hauled the empty ladder up and over the wall, throwing it down below, inside the city embattlements. “Climb the wall now!” shouted William. “I guess you can be useful at times,” Alan said, staring in amazement. “Yeah, at times.” There was a loud crack as the gates gave way. Then a bang as they smashed onto the ground. “Archers! The gates!” He loosed an arrow into the flooding mass of warriors who swarmed through the opened gates. He had positioned forty of his best men to guard the gates, in case they were breached. A volley of arrows met the advancing men, bringing down over a dozen. Steel rang on steel as the two foes made contact. The raiders gained ground for the first few seconds. Alan feared that the frail line would break. But instead they began to make headway; pushing the attackers slowly back. Surprised by the unexpected success, Alan and the other archers continued to rain arrows down from the embattlements. He knew that the forty men down there couldn’t hold on forever. He had to do something. William threw down another ladder that he had wrenched from the wall. The heavy oak wood crashed into several men, sending them sprawling. Alan looked at him briefly, “Keep ‘em coming Will.” He reached for another arrow. His hand didn’t find anything in his quiver. “I knew I was running out,” he murmured under his breath. Throwing down his bow he drew his sword. He glanced at William, who was fighting two men who had made it over the wall. Alan darted forward, thrusting his sword through the first. William took care of the other. “I’m going in,” shouted Alan, “they need help down there.” “I’ll keep ‘em off the wall,” said William, “Good luck.” “It’ll take more than luck,” he said as he descended the steps to the ground. He picked up a wooden shield that had been dropped as he charged into battle. He caught a blow from an ax on his sheild, then thrust his sword at the man, who crumpled to the ground. Ducking a sword, he rammed his shield into a man. Then blocked another sword with his own. Keeping his shield poised in front of him as best he could, he traded blows with the enemy. He parried, then attacked. Ducked and counter-attacked. Charged, only to retreat. He could feel his breath coming in ragged gasps as he fought on. He could hear his fellow comrades breathing the same way. The enemy was tiring as well. But there were more of them. Lots more. Dodging a sword, he swung at a large raider, missing him by an inch. A young lad, seeing his chance, darted in and sliced the man's leg. The man fell to the ground grasping his leg. Alan finished him off. He and the lad continued fighting this way. Alan, a trained warrior, would attack a man; leaving him open for the lad to get a blow in. Alan could then put him out of commission. An ax swung at Alan's head. Jumping back, he avoided the deadly blow. Hiding behind his shield, he advanced. He felt his arm give as the axe came down on the shield. Then, quick as lighting, the lad lunged forward, stabbing the man in the stomach. The axeman, big as an ox, swung his ax at the boy despite the wound. The back end of the ax sent the lad hurling back. Crashing to the ground. Filled with rage, Alan advanced once more, his shield raised. The ax splintered the wood as it smashed into the shield. Ignoring his throbbing arm, he dashed forward, taking a chunk out of the mans arm with his sword. He then smashed the pommel into the man's face. The man fell to the ground. Soon his lines began to give ground. Little by little the raiders moved farther into the city. Then, in a sudden burst, his lines gave way! Raiders surrounded him on every side as he fought for his life. He managed to get the upper hand with the first two, but the other men were giving him some serious trouble. A metal blade sliced through his cloth armor and cut deep into his arm. Warm liquid ran down the length of his arm. A shield hit him in the face, throwing him back a yard or so. Blood blurred his vision as he regained his feat. It was evident that they were loosing the battle. He was grateful that they had sent the women and children, along with a few young men, down river. The raiders had been polite enough to give them time to do so. Unintentionally of course. He glanced down at his arm. Deciding to ignore it, he swung his sword round experimentally. His thoughts lingered on Aliss as he made his last stand; taking two men on at once. He heard William shouting “Look out Al!” He ducked instinctively. A sword flashed viciously over his head. Alan dashed forward, slashing the man's legs. A boot caught him in the ribs. Grabbing the boot, he drove himself forward, driving the man into the dirt. He rolled to the side, a sword missing him by an inch. Having dropped his sword he drew his small dagger from his belt. He could hear William shouting something at him as he charged. Blocking a sword with his dagger, he grabbed the man's wrist, driving his shoulder into the man's chest. A sword caught him on the other arm. He turned on the next man, the dagger still in hand. Armed with an ax, his opponent swung at him. He managed to dodge the first. But the second hit him in the chest; sending him to the ground. He struggled to get up but fell to the ground. He could see William chopping and slashing at everyone in his path. He knelt beside him, putting his hand on his chest. “Alan, Alan. Just hang on,” He hesitated a second, “You’ll be fine.” Sword poised, William charged the raiders. The few men who were left rallied behind him. Alan knew it was their last stand.

The glow of the LED cast a circle of red light around Tommy’s wrist. He looked up and shouted, “C’mon Lee! It’s fixin’ to be eleven soon!” Lee scurried over, the knot of his stomach twisting as the weight of embarrassment set in. “Goddamn idiot!” Lee murmured to himself. He’d been waiting months for a chance at this trip. He could not afford another embarrassing mistake. Was everything ready? Lee double checked his mental list. He had inventoried the cigarette boxes. He had extra cash for gas. He had his .22 in the glovebox. Tommy knew the route. Tommy stood leaning against their van fiddling with the source of the LED, a digital watch attached to a gold band. He continued to bark orders at Lee as he ran over. Lee quietly apologized as he arrived, and both men were soon in the van and on their way. For the first hour or so they sat quietly, listening to the gentle rumble of the engine as it trotted down the road. Both were too exhausted to say anything, they had been working for over fourteen hours getting the cargo ready. Lee only occasionally broke the silence to help spot deer in the road. “I didn’t mean to snap at you son,” Tommy at last spoke, “you’ve been doing good lately. Taking initiative. You just have to learn to trust me when I tell you what to do and move with a sense of purpose.” Son? He was hardly five years older than Lee, who wasn’t sure if Tommy meant it as a veiled insult. Didn’t matter if it was. A few more of these trips and he’d have enough money to bring a load up north himself. Tommy continued to drone on, Lee only half listened. “Yessir, thank you, thank you...” was all he could bring himself to say. Pretty soon both men returned to their silence. After some time, the headlights flickered onto a billboard on the side of the road. On it read, “Howell for Governor.” Tommy gestured towards it, “That deal right there makes fifty miles to Maryland,” he said, “Yep, I measured it last trip with this new watch. Tells the time with numbers like a computer. No hands or nothing and it reads in the dark too.” Lee wondered how it might feel on his own wrist. Maybe instead of that watch, he might one day just buy a simple gold band. Something just to peek out of his sleeve when he shook someone’s hand. Lee quickly shook himself back to reality. No time to daydream when he could learn how to get the real thing soon. “The boys we’re selling these too, they sell them in Baltimore?” asked Lee. “Nah, Philadelphia. You wouldn’t believe the tobacco taxes there if I told you. They just meet us halfway. After that they sell them to Koreatown for their shops.” “Why don’t we just sell directly to them?” Tommy shrugged and shook his head, “cause they don’t buy from no one they don’t know. It’s fine by me, makes the trip shorter.” Lee made a quick mental note. He needed someone up north to get him in touch directly with the customers. His cousin was in Delaware for college...that’s pretty close, right? At that moment the van snaked around a corner, and the headlights went from illuminating trees to illuminating a car parked haphazardly in the road with the hood open. Inside the car sat a young woman, eyes closed. As the van came to a halt, she opened her eyes and began to shout incomprehensibly. Lee thought that she may have said something about her engine not working. On his right, Lee heard the faint yet distinctive noise of dead leaves being crushed under foot. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a blur which quickly disappeared from view. Lee came to the sudden realization of what was happening. He went to reach for his .22, his arm moving unexpectedly slow. Anxiety had made his movement sluggish, and two steel barrels were jammed into his cheek by the time his hand reached the latch of the glove compartment. Lee turned his eyes to the left to look at Tommy, a similar situation. A tall, slim man stood with a Ruby model pistol pointed towards the driver’s seat. “What in the hell do y’all think you’re doing?” Snarled Tommy. The man to his left grinned, spreading his attempt at a moustache thin across his upper lip. “Yep,” he said, “This is Tommy Jackson.” Tommy was speechless for a moment, before weakly forcing out a question, “don’t y’all know these cigarettes are for Louie Regio’s boys?” “Yeah, I know Reggie. Get out of the van.” Both men silently complied. As they got down, Lee was able to get a good look at his own captor. A man on the stockier side, his fingers were pale white from his death grip on his sawn off shotgun. “By the way, I saw that you fell fucking asleep!” The slim man shouted at the young woman, who by now had exited the car. She replied, “Shit, it’s hot sitting in there! And it gets boring!” The slim man made no attempt to respond, instead he turned to his stocky companion to mutter some instructions. The twin barrels of his shotgun remained on Tommy and Lee, swaying steadily in his nervous grip. After the slim man finished, he and his companion lead Tommy and Lee off the road into a low lying clearing. As they walked, Tommy stealthily slipped his hand into his pocket. Lee felt a slimmer of hope, did he have an extra pistol hidden away by chance? Tommy’s hand and wrist reemerged empty. He was hiding his watch. Lee figured Tommy hadn’t quite realized the situation they were in. The stocky man flinched with each shot. The recoil always did that to him. As they re-emerged from the forest, the slim man put his hand on the shoulder of the other and said, “Not too bad, next time just try to move with more of a sense of purpose.” The stocky man nodded in reply. The woman sood waiting for them in the road, car idling and re-oriented to leave. The two men climbed into the van, following her car as it gently turned the corner.

“What are they looking for?” “Alien” “Why so far? We have one here.” “Do we?” “That strange jellyfish taken by the big ship and stranded here alone. Isn’t it alien too?” Look up and down, up and down, up and down “your brain must be eaten by aliens.” “Do I have a brain?” “Do we have a brain?” “Guys stop! They are looking for a new home.” “Why?” “They wrecked Earth down and forget how to fix it.” “Disassemble.” “What?” “’Wreck’ used when they know the consequences, but they were too stupid to know that. Remember when they found that oil from the ground? The whales were cheering along with them. Oh, poor whales, I was shouted out loud when I heard the news about the old Cachalot. They, humans, need to pay some price too.” “We have four already, do we?” “Five” “What is it about?” “The mass extinction” “Ohh,” “So, it’s better to stay or run away?” “Sssst, don’t tell them. Let they do their thing” “Why?” “They will know eventually. It’s almost there, the sixth.” “How did you know?” “Some birds told me last summer that the warmth was getting longer and longer.” “Yeaahh, it’s finally here!!! I want to be the soil this time.” “You will be the ground. Layered by the dust and hold the water down.” “That’s better, you know? Up here was too bad. I can’t imagine, what’s another worse creature would arise after this one.” “I was creeped out by those dinosaurs and excited for nothing when that smaller creature was created. I thought, it’s finally peace, little did I know that they were even worse.” “Those dinosaurs might be scary and noisy but they didn’t take more than what they needed.” “I like Luca better.” “What’s Luca?” “The first” “Since when is it called Luca?” “Humans name it, I think it's cool.” “Why Luca?” “Because it’s the first.” “Luca is not better. They eat each other.” “But that makes them exist, living things.” “You know, what’s funnier?” “What?” “They tried to plant the trees. But same tree, all the same species.” “What? Monogenous?” “Ridiculous! What luck for us to have no brain.” “There’s nothing good about having one.” “Indeed.” “I thought it was the worst, when fire and all those meteors attacked Earth. Little did I know that humans could do this far.” “Actually, they are not that bad. Remember, when they used to give us food and share anything, they had with us?” “They didn’t do that anymore.” “When I was a melted magma down there, I heard something interesting from the plates.” “What? The land married with the water?” “ugh, muddy” “No, you silly! The glacier was in pain.” “’is’ in pain. It had been worsening for the last few decades. Don’t try to be the smart one. Everyone had heard about it. The wind told me yesterday that one of the lands in the south will soon be claimed by the ocean. It’s all because that human let the glacier melt.” “I hate being magma” “So, what’s you want to be when the sixth comes?” “Can I just be water?” “You are a rock, silly!” “You said nothing is impossible!” “That’s for humans! There’s something fundamental that is impossible, except for God.” “What God?” “This conversation must end here. Talking about God's existence would take time until the sun supernova.” “The worst was for the Mus. They owned this land before and then those bloody humans started to claim the land and now, they said that they were pests in their own land.” “But they’re warriors. After all of this madness, they managed to survive.” “What’s the point of surviving? When you are not worthy in your own land.” “I mean. The humans, aren’t they smart enough to be the global superpredator? Why didn’t they realize that their existence was in danger?” “If you think you are smartest of all, nothing can help you from catastrophic destruction.” “They even think that planting some trees would fix everything and it's monogenous.” “hahaha, I could die of tears, ahhh my stomach is hurt.” “How many times do I have to remind you? You are rock! A stone made from atoms. You have no stomach!” “Why didn’t I have one? I want to have one! When the sixth comes, I’ll pledge a wish to Zeus to give me one.” “Ask Zeus to give you a brain too.” “But they learn though, some are good enough to realize it. I saw some that tracked the ecological history.” “Where?” “In the north forest before I was drawn by the flood.” “I missed the Bramble.” “Why suddenly brought the Bramble?” “I see none of them recently. They are kind little mates.” “They gone! Four of five winters ago. I heard from people passing by that they were extinct.” “Now, even a small mammal is also extinct. I missed the Mammoth too.” “Why do you have to miss them? I always had to be wary around them.” “Not all of them extinct, some of ‘sane-enough’ humans had tried to save anything they could save. The old Mega was lucky enough to have a secure life in his old day. I heard that humans have an agreement to protect his family.” “Who knows what the future would be like, those big cats everyone always feared were gone now.” “What about us?” “What?” “Is there any among us that get bad luck?” “HAH! What could be bad luck for us? We’ve been burning, sweeping, freezing, and more. We still remain a rock.” “They didn’t care about us. Plethora of us here, yet they tried to find more on the moon.” “How did you know that?” “A human talked to me.” “That human must be crazy.” “She cried.” “Why?” “ She told me that no one in her family seems to care about the lost. She feels bad for Earth and me.” “I hope she died before the sixth comes.” “How long until the sixth arrive?” “Soon, maybe a few years or decades.” “Do they know, human?” “I don’t think so.” “Don’t tell them then.” *** If you wonder how was the rock's life

"She said her children will be a Force to be Recon with" Pearl Fisher was born in the middle of a flowing field one golden morning of June sand clay to the Sante Estherville South Carolina. She learned the way her great-grandmother Nin 1894 til she transcended the invisible walls of captivity. Tuesday morning Aug 23 1977 and grandmom Angeline April 15, 1979, an Easter Sunday morning at the same time moments confusion left her life and brought her miraculous sight. The first of 13 gifts born to her parents, a blessing to enter their lives. Sunday morning June 29, 1941, close to the time the atomic mushrooms sent shock waves through time that are still vibrating in the atmosphere. My Black Pearl's of Wisdom The greatest mother a black child could be blessed to be born. Beloved as Black Pearl's of wisdom, Benin, the Black Butterfly and Grapes. A mother who just did not lived and cry for her own black children but she cried for the whole world. This sister danced in the sun, talked to the tree, birds, and babies. All this love she had inside her soul lead her footsteps to write Rhythmic Rays, A Color-less Reality, Geneva was my Home and No Second to Make Myself Real. She left this earth saying the best is yet to come ME. The Power of Creation Ahayah New Day In the Beginning it was Black. A healthy living she shared with anyone who would take time out to listen. Her love for her Heavenly Father was the greatest my family had the pleasure to witness and be a part of the Most High blessings in her life. She went from a 6-grade education- to a cigarette, a lemon pie and a Pepsi soda, a typewriter, and a dictionary to become a poet, activist with spiritually blessed insight that has inspired throughout the globe. She wrote many letters, plays, and books. and sent them all around the world. This woman was a daughter of Zion who was strong enough to be herself- no matter what anyone thought of her piculiar ways. She walked to the beat of the Most High trumpets in her heart and found her home with the son Christ. She carved her legacy in my hearts that inspired the Power of Creation born in ME She "said" Reach your fullest potential and ride the Black Rocket thru time awaiting your intellectual challenge Knock at freedom door. Knock Hard. It will open slowly but Fear not my Sons and Daughters for No Black Man ever walks alone As, I rose this morning and thought of this woman who love me from her warm womb. I was just thinking about the relationship between a mother and daughter. How it can be one of the most surprising and extremely difficult energy that are connected together. It can be a loving and crazy journey that is full of both positive and negitive energy. Spirt that's filled of love and hate emotions. Up and down feelings that establishes the pathway of their passion and compassion. It is so amazing to see how spiritual growth develops between the two searching confused girls that only time allows them both to become wise righteous. and powerful. My mother is the Black Butterfly and I am the Oak Tree The Oak tree that, I have learned to be today is strong as an Oak. Just like she said to ME , I would become. Sculpte by the strength of my mother's gift of power. She wisely shaped and molded my heart to be equal to my mind with the soft warm sweet comfort of her beautiful loving strong black wings. Sometimes she used very very harsh instructions to whip my little black ass. Not agreeing back then; but today, I know it was all done by her careful plans and wise decisions for my personal growth. Correction is what she knew, I needed to establish God's way of living on my path. I'm thinking my mother simply wanted ME to be able to stand strong in the many stormy winds in life that she knew, I would face on my life journey. I Was a Hard Rock Headed Stiff Neck Rebellious Black Child My mother guided my direction to creatively think and taught ME how to seek for the light in darkness. Reliance was formed out of her actions that, I know was all done for the love she had for the Most High and ME ! She deeply loved all of God's natural creations in a special kind of way. Remembering her profound action, I pray someday I could do the same. My Black Pearl's of wisdom was my first teacher of aspiration and her crazy consistent ways lead me to see all the confusion in all the world's to find my needed answers. . Her Secret Dreams Was My Destiny I'm thinking maybe to her, I was the extention of her secret dreams. I mean a beautiful reality born in the image of her self that she was always trying to create a solid destiny in my life. A new baby girl that arrived to her as her special miracle baby. 7 months premature. Another start in life that came to her in a little version of her black unique beauty. I bet my mommies feelings of hope for my furture were so deep that she truly wanted me to have the ability to do better than the life she had lived many years in agony and pain. A Great Gift From The Most High I can only imagine through her loving eyes she seen ME as a great gift from the Creator. Laying in my bed in the still of the night, I could hear my mother singing and praying unto the Creator that, I have a better life than her own. The wisdom and knowledge my mother acquired on her long painful journey, I should definitely respect it. So every day as I live, I keep her comforting words of wisdom tucked close in my heart of mind to try to always shine the light, I seen in her that still after she's gone helps me to smile. A Woman Pain Runs Deeper Than What The Eyes Can See I learned that the experiences of a developing woman's hurt and pain runs deeper than what the natural eyes can see and sometimes their approach in life can be a little misleading to a young girl, who has not begun to live out her own gift of greatness. Still the advice given from a spiritual mother should be treasured and used when ever it's needed. I found out about life the long way when, I ran and hide from my mother's hurt and pain. In my beginning, I ran away without trying to understand the mass confusion created in her life. Road blocks created the downfall for me making too many mistakes. Balancing The Hurt In the middle of my painful journey, I grew and learned how to listen more and respect the position the Most High gave to her over ME and with that one humbling decision, I made a simple choice that gave us both the obedience to stop the fight and hear each other. We begin to balance all the hurt and pain and create unity with truthful open communication. Their was so many issues that had no bonding power for us to hold on to any longer. I let go of the hateful feelings then became free from my pride to respect the only woman on this planet earth who loved me from her warm womb. A Mother's First Thought For Your Destiny Living this system, I do realize that some mothers are not as wise as the other mothers we may see in the world's; but they all had a starting point of confusion and countless lies. This empire creates a long painful journey for us to seek and find our balance in life. Therefore we all live each new day to only learn that there are so many bad worldly influences and many road blocks that can affects a persons path and that may have clouded up their mothering skills. Then the judgement of their character may haunt and hurt you deeply. Forgiveness is always free. I'm thinking that it is always better to think and re-think your decisions about their journey before you act off hurtful emotion that may disconnect you from the womb that carried your life or at least try to find the secret or hidden answers to their life story that may have created the pain and disappointment you may feel in your life today. Because a mother's journey along with her hurt and pain may reflect your current reality. Knowingly or Unknowingly we hurt in silence. Forgivness I'm thinking maybe having these secret answers added to your life just might be the way to forgive the woman, who only had what was presented to her in life to survive. I strongly believe that no matter what else you get in this twisted up sinful world that is truly good. The greatest gift to your life was the gift from the Most High. The seed of your Father and the warm womb of your Mother. And. I would bet that you are so much greater in your life choices and decisions; because of their confusion and pain. The hurt you may feel from the disappointment in her ingorant actions, just may have caused you to manifest into her silent prayers and secret dreams. I mean her first thoughts of you and your destiny. The feelings she most likely had the first second she looked at you when you entered the earth as her baby girl. Im thinking we both can win when we desire to reach higher and use our power of creation to forgive the programming of ingorance. The Most High Forgives So We Can Too Kash, Tanzaniyah. The Power of Creation Ahayah New Day: In the Beginning It Was Black (p. 200). Lulu Publishing Services. Kindle Edition.

Kirk Taggert quaked and quivered, standing on the official sized wrestling mat in the Cochran High School gymnasium. He was a popular poster-boy blueprint for a six foot-four, bronze haired, muscle sculpted, teenage boy wrestler. But belying Kirk's coveted physique, unadulterated panic shimmered behind his amoretto colored eyes. Kirk was no one to veer away from any opponent, but the wrestler that stood across from him wasn't just any high school opponent. This opponent could actually mentally break him before the match began. The evidence was in the amount of perspirations already beaded out across Kirk's forehead and upper lip. It was not because the opponent was grizzly bear sized, or a body builder's dream. Kirk could deal with that all day long. He preferred the challenge of making a mountain into a mole hill any day. But the guy standing just a mere three feet from him, he had loved ever since... ...Probably forever. Kirk was hindered in his mind about just how he could violently do a take-down move on him, or forcibly manhandle the guy he loved onto his back for a three second count. Kirk's opponent wasn't even high school age. But was considerably much older than himself. He looked at the man, and gritted his teeth together in worried apprehension. He was about to wrestle an opponent that wasn't even five foot-nine. And who had the musculature of an arm chair quarterback, looking every bit as harmless as a Starbuck barista. Kirk could feel his hands betraying his brittle confidence. They were slick with body dew. And the absence of any sound in the gym was unnerving. Comparable to the soundless void of outer space. For there were no spectators around to cheer or jeer. The referee's whistle was about to shatter the sound void, however, to sharply signal the match to begin. Likely within the span of a meager few heartbeats. *Run up and wrestle his opponent or just plain old run?* The urge to do an early tap out was almost unbearable for Kirk. In his mind, he was no coward, but tapping out early would make him look every bit like one. And he couldn't stand looking like one of those, ever. Still only a few reprieving seconds were left. Seconds for Kirk to make the decision of a lifetime. Without conscious thinking, he crouched into a low center of gravity attack position, and licked his lips. His mouth felt as dusty as an old abandoned garage. Kirk spared a half glance, away from his opponent soft eyes, to register that the referee was now bringing her whistle to her lips. Time had finally run out. In a determined state of mind, Kirk got ready to send his hands away from his body, and to flex his fingers in the anticipation of using them as grapples. But instead, he stood up out of his crouch with a newer resolve. Kirk held up a hand to halt the referee's immanent puff of breath through her whistle's mouthpiece. And un-hesitantly walked briskly over to his opponent with his right hand leading the way. When Kirk was close enough, the opponent took Kirk's extended hand in his own and shook it vigorously. With a relieved heavy sigh, Kirk uttered bashfully, "Dad. I love you. And I apologize for shooting off my mouth earlier; challenging you to this match. From now on I promise not to miss my curfew." He then turns to the referee and says with a wink, "I love you too mom. Thanks for volunteering to referee.

Kailani was starting to become the love of my life but now I felt as if I was dealt a hand of cards I can’t place on the table. One night I found her in her apartment beaten badly with laceration marks covering parts of her body, her clothes had been ripped and in her own blood the word pain had been written on her stomach. Seeing my baby like this really tore me down to shreds, the doctors are saying she’ll be lucky if she wakes up but I know for a fact that Kailani will wake up. She is a strong fighter. Amber you know she had all this set up just to make it look like she was innocent! Kailani wouldn’t do that Ariana! Amber yes she would! Your eyes are deceiving you and you are falling in her trap! I want you to be honest with me. Do you love her? Of course that’s my homegirl. I need for you to tell the police she had a robbery staged and made her side piece stage everything so people would feel sorry for her. Why would you even say that? Because i’m the one that had Milo rob the apartment and do the damage to her! The police are starting to unravel the truth and I can’t have my brother locked up. We have a business to run and I refuse for things to get any worse than they already are. I won’t do it! You gon do whatever I tell you to do, did you forget about the bet we made? It’s not like your secrets are safe either Amber. I don’t have any secrets that people don’t already know. Does Kailani know you had her brother kidnapped and Milo was the mastermind behind everything? Yeah like I thought, now we go do things my way I don’t care what you think you got on me, just know that what I got on you and Milo will destroy y’all lives. If I have to go down so will y’all. I’ll tell everybody about what you did and i’ll even turn myself in but I refuse to allow kailani to wake up and be in handcuffs for something she did not commit. You got the wrong one today, I will make sure you are locked up before she wakes. She is in a coma more than likely she won’t remember anything that happened however it is my duty and Kareem duty to make sure she nevers remembers this part of her past. So you bold? I was bold Ariana, you just now figuring that out? We no longer have anything to discuss i’ll see my way out not before I finish the job on little Ms. Kaiani. Good luck trying to touch her. What is that supposed to mean? It means that when you ask for her number to her room there will be a police officer asking who you are and once they find out you’ll be locked up right along with Milo. It’s funny you say that. I guess it is funny huh? Well you see I did some work of my own on my own time without you noticing. What type of work is that? You will have to see for yourself just know if you try to kill me you will be going to prison for first degree murder along with attempted murder. You set me up! No I didn’t set you up you should just be more careful who you spill your secrets too sweetie I can’t lock you up because I am still undercover. When Milo gets wind of this he is going to kill you. Poor baby I guess you didn’t get the news Milo is dead. Amber I hope you rot in hell! You played everybody! For a second I thought you were in love with me. Silly me love has never worked for me and I'm afraid it never will. Not my problem but you can see your way out my friend crib. We don't tolerate people who break the law and then try to set other people up. You and Milo played right into the deck of cards except this time you're the deck of cards nobody wants to deal with. Kailani you're awake! Who are you? I’m your boyfriend Kailani, you don’t remember me? Everything seems to be a blur. I honestly don’t remember anything. I’ll get the doctor. Kareem before we head back into the room your girlfriend is in I want you to know she has long term memory loss so she probably won’t remember the day she was beaten and raped. How bad is she looking? Well she did lose the baby, it’ll take her a few months to recover fully and be able to recognize the people who love her but I know if you continuously stay around her and try to help her regain her memory of you and her she will slowly but surely start to remember about the love yall once shared. Dr. Harris I know this is a bad thing to say but i’m glad she lost the baby I didn’t want her to have to give birth to a baby especially when she was forcibly raped. I understand where you are coming from but as Kailani’s doctor I'm telling you to only bring up happy memories not bad memories, the bad memories could make her have an anxiety attack and she might not recover the same way as everybody is expecting. Kailani you have pulled through some of the toughest battles me and a couple nurses didn’t think you would pull through but your boyfriend here told us to have a little more faith in you. I’m glad we did you are indeed a strong fighter. Um doctor I don’t have a boyfriend. Kailani it’s going to be a long road to recovery but Kareem and your friend Amber will be with you every step of the way. Who did you just say? Your friends Amber and Kareem, Ariana couldn’t make it. I remember the name Ariana. When I was out of it I could see a girl standing over top of me and cutting inside my stomach and reaching her hand down in my blood and spelling pain on my body using my blood. Kailani? Are you okay? Make it stop! Please make it stop! I don’t want to hear that name again! Kailani if you know something, say something. I don’t want to remember please stop! Dr. Harris if she says she doesn't want to remember then leave her alone. Alright fine, i’ll be back in a couple hours to see how she is doing. Kareem is Kailani doing okay? Amber what happened that night? Why? She is starting to remember bits and pieces and she just had a breakdown in front of the doctor. All she kept saying was she didn’t want to remember. This is worse than I thought it was going to be. Have you locked them psychopaths up yet? Milo was taken in yesterday morning and they arrested Ariana an hour ago. I’m thankful for that however she will not be testifying that night was horrible for her, I don’t want her to remember those events of her past. I want her to be able to start off new and fresh. She won’t need to testify we have them on other charges as well. Like what? First degree murder, arson, attempted murder, assault & battery. They are looking at a lifetime in prison without parole. I will make sure they don’t see the daylight again. I know at first I gave you a hard time and I just wanted to apologize you were just doing your job. No need to apologize. We have to keep pushing for Kailani sake. She deserves better and we have tried to redecorate the apartment to make it look new so no images of that incident pops up. I totally agree with you one-hundred percent. I’ll send you a check so you can get everything and I'll help you when everything gets delivered. Kailani? Yes Kareem? Thank you. Why do you say thank you? For being my hero. I didn’t do anything worth being a hero Kailani. Yes you did you saved me, even when the doctor tried to make me remember a past so traumatizing you stood up for me. I love you to an infinity and I'll never forget this day. I never want to remember the past. It was dreadful and clawed my skin every chance it got. I know what happened but I choose not to remember a crazy past like mine. I just want to move forward with my life and move away so i’ll never ever have to remember anything that took place in my past. I can make that happen baby I love you more than anything i’ll always be by your side no matter what.

I opened the wood door and closed it again, taking off my shoes and making my way to the stairs. “I’m home”, I pointlessly yelled to the empty house as I proceeded to make my way up the staircase and to my room. I entered the rectangular box and sat at my desk and opened my backpack. I took out my school work and mulled over it for a bit before deciding that this was useless and I had zero motivation to complete any of the assignments, so I, once again, closed my textbooks and computer that I would leave until it was far too late for any reasonable person to be up. I opened my phone to look for something mildly entertaining to do and came across a memory from years ago. I remembered that time of my life, I was in 5th grade. I hated myself then and I still do but now I’m working on it. I didn’t have any real friends and I smile at the fact that I have an amazing best friend that loves me now. I was being bullied back then and had been for years, I still am, but it no longer makes me want to hide and cry as much. I think about about it for a moment before I grabbed a blank page and a pen. “Dear me, Hi... It’s me, you, and whoever we were in between. I’m who you’ll become. You know me, at least you will, but I know you and I know me and sappy, is not our thing. I’m not gonna try and avoid sitting here and write that “Life gets better” “Everything gets uphill from there” and stuff like that, you get the point. I’m not going to sit here and write that because, well... it’s probably a lie, a partial truth, those words are covered in sugar and I’m not one to sugar coat things. I’m here to say that life doesn’t necessarily get better, it gets different. You won’t magically love yourself. You won’t magically stop letting people treat you like shit. You won’t magically become a happy person who glows with sunshine. You won’t magically stop feeling lonely, like no one understands you and your extremely complicated mess of a mind. You won’t magically stop thinking and feeling about yourself the way you do. Because, sorry to crush your childhood, magic isn’t real. You can’t teleport, fly or any of that other magical tv show bullshit. Fairytales aren’t real. Prince Charming isn’t going to fight a dragon and kiss you until you wake up. Dreams aren’t real. You aren’t going to be famous and loved and adored for whatever dumb reason. I’m not here to sugarcoat life, I’m here to dump an icy bucket over your head and hope you wake up on your own. I’m here to say you need to keep trying to fix and love yourself the way you love and help others. You need to stop letting people take advantage of you and the good in your heart, mind, and soul. You need to stop letting people’s words and actions affect you. I know this is a lot to ask and I know that you are breaking, slowly, piece by piece. But you need to pick those pieces up and take a shit ton of super glue to hold yourself together. The cracks that are left over won’t disappear, nor will the small scars on your arms and thighs, but don’t hide them. Wear those battle scars with pride, because you will win. You are strong, courageous, beautiful, kind and so, so much more and never let anyone tell you otherwise, because that will break you more until you are left with nothing but broken pieces on the ground of who you used to be and not even super glue will be able to piece you back together. And on that happy note... okay let’s be real here, that was a really depressing and totally cheesy note to end on. But, since we have already ventured into the cheeseworld, there’s no point in leaving now. So do me a favour and think of a rainbow. It’s colorful, and beautiful, and it can make people smile. Rainbows are extraordinary, but now think about how they come to be, the steps they had to take to become extraordinary. They only appear after rain, after something that many think of as dreary and sad, something that can ruin a perfectly good day. My point is that good can always come after bad. Light can appear in the darkness. You are like a rainbow. You are colorful with so many different sides to you, and you are beautiful inside and out, and you bring smiles to people’s faces, and eventually there’ll be one on your face too. Eventually, there will be happiness after the sadness. Eventually, you’ll be fine, like actually fine, and before you give me some bullshit like “How do you know?”. I know, because I know you because I am you and you will eventually be me. I’m not too far away and I’ll always be here thinking back to you and the mistakes we made and will make, but that’s life, that’s the way things are. Sincerely, You From The Future” I smile at the page and wipe away the tears forming in my green eyes. I wish I could send this but that’s impossible. I read and re-read it before folding it and tucking it away until sending letters back in time is possible, so probably never but who cares. I know I don’t because it felt good to write. I hear the front door open and wipe at my face again. I grab my schoolwork as my dad walks into my room. “Are you doing homework?” He asks. “Yep,” I reply with a small smile that I know he can’t tell is fake because it has been for a while. “I’ll leave you to it then,” he responds, closing the door. My smile drops and I reach for my phone and once again, I come across the memory, but it no longer makes me sad. I smile, a genuine one this time and delete the photo. I don’t need it. I remember that life I had, and in another universe, maybe I’m still there, but in this universe, I’m not. I’m in another country now and I’m 4235 km away from there and part of me is happy, but another part craves that life back. Those “friends”, that school, that childhood home, that life is a part of me, the new me, and it always will be, but for now I’m here and I’m happy to be here.

The aftermath of my family's backyard Christmas lunch always resembles a festive warzone. The flies, ever the opportunists, descend to finish off our leftovers. Their gentle buzz is audible above some popstar's pitchy attempt at a holiday hit. Having had enough of the cheery screeching, I cross the destruction of winter-themed decorations and soiled paper plates to shut down Mum’s brandless Bluetooth speaker. As the music vanishes and the flies chorus intensifies, I survey the carnage as it bakes in the afternoon heat. Usually, I would be helping clear it all away before we settled into our food comas. This year, it has been left to rot thanks to my inability to keep my mouth shut, causing the family to clear out instead. I look at the novelty wall clock my parents crack out at this time of year. It accompanies every other mismatched discount store holiday decoration that adorns the back patio. An underweight Santa and his disjointed arms inch closer to twelve and three. If only I could conjure up some Christmas movie-like miracle to rewind his toothpick-thin limbs earlier in the day. I might be able to tell myself to stay home or perhaps go and help the kids put their presents together when the lunchtime conversation turned ugly. Since that would not happen, I just had to sit in this mess I had created. The growing dampness on my forehead trickles down into my eye. I blink furiously to restore clarity to my vision and look around again at the season's reds, greens, and whites. Why do Australians insist on decorating with the winter themes of the northern hemisphere? It would be more appropriate if the wrapping paper littering the ground had pictures of pine trees on fire instead of being surrounded by snowflakes. I imagine a different reality where my family lives in another part of the world, trapped by snow and forced to stare uncomfortably at each other. The only hazard here is a smoke haze, so everyone had the chance to disperse after I decided to do the unthinkable. Is this churn in my stomach from eating more prawns than one person needs to? Or is it the growing guilt of disrupting the peace? Either way, I am growing weary of the nausea. So, I stand up and jiggle Santa’s tiny arms back to a time before I opened my big mouth. All I did was mess around with a cheap Christmas clock. But in my mind, I flashback to the moment I awoke in my childhood bedroom earlier that day. The room that, for years, had been preserved as a museum to my youth. However, it had eventually been transformed into a bed and breakfast that only ever had one visitor. Naturally, that one visitor was me. A slither of sunlight blinded me through that one part of the window the vertical blinds could not reach. It gave me a déjà vu of Christmas mornings from my younger years. Only now, I was not catapulting out of bed to discover the gifts I had been deemed worthy of. Instead, I was mildly annoyed at being woken earlier than was my norm. The silver lining was the smell of eggs and bacon finding its way to my nostrils from the kitchen at the end of the hall. My parent's single-story home was typical suburban fare. A fibro shack that had been bricked over once the government decided they no longer wished to house low-income earners in the area. The living room and kitchen could be easily confused for a photo gallery. The long hallway provided a runway to three modest-sized bedrooms, a laundry, and a bathroom. All with floorboards so well polished you could see your reflection in them. Its actual selling point was the size of the front and back yards. Both seemed like football fields compared to what you get in a modern housing development. That is probably why we always had Christmas lunch here. My inner-city shoebox (apartment) and my three siblings’ new-century family homes paled compared to the hospitality our parents could offer. ‘Joseph, my love, get out here and join your old parents for a champagne breakfast,’ came my mother's shrill voice from the kitchen. ‘Coming, Mum,’ I replied as I dragged myself out of bed. I cracked open a window to let some air in on my way out. A heatwave had been forecasted, and my room felt like a sauna. My parents had laid out quite the spread for me. Even though I had not spent the holidays at home in years. There were towers of croissants, pancakes, scrambled eggs, and whatever else Mum had thought was appropriate for three people to start their day. ‘It is so good to have you home, son,’ Dad said as he raised a glass of sparkling wine. Buying actual champagne would have broken the budget. However, the mass-produced Australian sparkling did not completely offend the palette. It warmed my heart how much they enjoyed the rare occurrence of my presence. It seemed to annoy the living hell out of my brothers and sisters in equal measure. Although they had yet to arrive, I was happy to enjoy the quality time. A dramatic jingle filtered in from the lounge room. Dad always loved watching the news on Christmas day. It made him chuckle when they peppered in interviews with shopping centre Santas between updates of everything wrong with the world. Cities were being choked with smoke from raging bushfires, and a brutal war was expanding on the other side of the world. The latter was now a Grinch on my parent’s TV. ‘Bloody hell,’ said Dad, his voice garbled by a mouthful of eggs. ‘You think they could give it a rest on Christmas day.’ ‘People are dying, Dad. Also, parts of the world are in flames. It is not something that takes a break,’ I replied. Dad raised one of his bushy eyebrows at me, scrunching up the wrinkles on every corner of his face. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘They can still tone it down on the news for one day.’ ‘There was supposed to be a ceasefire for today. Sounds like it didn’t happen,’ I said with a sigh. ‘Right enough of all this,’ Mum said as she sprung from her chair. Even though she sat with us to eat, she still wore her Mrs Claus-themed apron. You had to admire a woman who ate one meal dressed to prepare the next. Her silver hair bounced up and down as she ferried plates and trays between the dining table and kitchen. Some remained completely untouched due to their lack of necessity amongst the kaleidoscope of breakfast offerings she had made available. ‘Can I help with anything, Mum?’ ‘Don’t bother, mate,’ Dad interjected. His speech showed a hint of the effects of the cheap sparkling. ‘You know your mother is a one-woman band today.’ Regardless of Dad’s advice, I tried to aid her efforts. We ducked and weaved around each other as we stacked the dishwasher and filled Tupperware containers. Our domestic ballet continued for some time. It evolved into a roast meats and cold seafood production line for the impending lunch. The flurry of activity kept me so preoccupied that I barely even noticed Santa’s shorter arm moving closer to ten. That meant it was almost time for the others to arrive. My two brothers and one sister each exploded through the reefed front door with enormous bags of gifts. They looked so heavy that carrying them around would likely lead to attractive muscle gains. The only thing that looked more exhausting was the horde of children that accompanied each of them. I have almost lost count of how many nieces and nephews I have. The fertility of my siblings and their partners was unmatched. ‘Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence,’ said my sister Joanna sarcastically. Given her tone, I would have thought she was unhappy to see me. However, she still leaned in to kiss my cheek without dropping her cargo of wrapped festive goodness. ‘Where’s the boyfriend?’ She asked, knowing full well I was ending this year single. ‘Good to see you too, sis.’ I said with a smirk. She rolled her brown eyes and pushed past me. I watched her intently as her shoulder-length brown hair and purple dress disappeared into the kitchen. She was followed by her giant of a husband, Sam. He forced a handshake in my direction as he herded their four pre-pubescent and flame-haired children into the living room. Sam and I rarely saw eye-to-eye, both literally and figuratively. It was best to get the pleasantries out of the way and hope we do not get seated next to each other later. I remained at the door as the informal greeting party. My brother Jack and his wife Simone came in with their three tween girls. Each had the same platinum blonde hair reaching down to their legs, just like their mum. Jack still had them all wearing his footy teams’ colours. Even though their grand final win was now several months in the past. Jack embraced me as he always does. He was the only one of my brothers who was a hugger. Finally, John and his partner Belinda appeared in the doorway. They had never married because she did not believe in it. She was also thirteen years his senior and had been there, done that. Their newborn baby was hanging off John’s broad shoulders; I felt a little embarrassed that I could not remember his name. Belinda had also brought her adult son, whom she had named Kale. So, one could assume that the baby's name was perhaps chia or quinoa. Before anyone could settle in, Mum forced all the siblings to stand before the Kmart tree, which had been overstuffed with baubles. She awkwardly held her second-generation iPad up to get what would no doubt be a grainy photo. I was glad the new iPad I had for her under the tree would mean never again seeing her fumbling with that frayed hot pink cover. Our arms snapped away from each other’s shoulders as quickly as it took to snap the photo. I looked at each of their faces for a moment. It was like travelling through time, given how much we all looked alike. The same rounded chins, blue eyes, and brown hair. Jack had a slightly more chiselled appearance, given his love of playing sports. However, the distractions of fatherhood are making themselves known around his midsection. I was the upper middle child, with Joanna as the oldest and the heaviest. Her weight had been undulating for years, and it would not have surprised me if she was on some new trendy diet. Usually, one that Sam had insisted she try. With introductions over, the anarchy was given the green light to commence. The kids attacked their presents under the tree like dogs driven ravenous by the taste of blood. Mum and Joanna tried in vain to form a human shield between them and their bounty. They were hoping for a civil ceremony where each child holds up their gifts for a photo. Instead, they got shreds of paper covering the entire rainbow of colours, flinging into the air like wheat being harvested by a tractor. One child chucked a tantrum because they didn’t get some game they wanted. Meanwhile, another had their worldview altered by an older sibling admitting that Santa was not real. The tears and sounds that followed probably had the neighbours thinking we were torturing someone. ‘The actual war is less violent than this,’ Belinda said jokingly. She did not seem phased by the lack of anyone laughing with her. Thankfully, the adults performed their exchange with a lot more disinterest. Each unwrapping was followed by a high-pitched feigning of excitement or a promise that receipts had been kept. I'm pretty sure we all just wanted to get it out of the way so we could dive into the feast Mum had been preparing. At that point, I noticed Santa had unnaturally extended both arms towards the twelve. It was time to move outside and eat. My brothers had emptied multiple cans of beer whilst Joanna and I were not shy with the prosecco. I offered to open a fresh bottle to try and melt the usual ice between us. As I went to pour, Sam quickly guarded the rim of her glass with his hand. ‘You might want to slow down a bit, babe.’ Sam said in his gruff voice whilst glaring at me. His military-style buzz cut and box-shaped head made him slightly intimidating, so I headed the warning. He diverted his eyes back towards my sister. She chose not to meet his gaze and instead found a spot on the ground to focus on. Once he returned to his prior conversation with John, I poured her drink anyway. I cannot remember the last time she smiled at me like that. ‘Come and get it,’ Mum shouted from the makeshift buffet on flimsy fold-out tables. Another bloodbath ensued as adults and children alike piled up their plates. The rush was unnecessary, given there was enough food to feed the entire street. Supermarket crackers popped around the table. Colourful paper hats appeared on heads, and the world's worst jokes were told. Dad claimed not to tell the jokes was “un-Australian,” and honestly, it was cute how he laughed at each one. ‘Are you burning something on the barbeque, Dad?’ John asked as he grabbed another round of beers from the ice bin. There was a smell of ash and burning in the air, but it was not from the cooking. ‘Just the fires again, mate,’ Dad replied. He glanced at a smoke haze rolling into the yard like a morning fog. It dulled the summer sun and my sense of taste. ‘Bloody arsonists,’ Sam said bluntly. ‘We should be pouring taxpayer money into tracking them all down instead of all this climate change bullshit.’ ‘You believe that?’ Jack asked whilst screwing up his nose. ‘Mate, the only manmade thing about these fires is the crooks starting them,’ Sam said as he turned to Joanna. ‘All those bleeding-heart lefties like your mates on Facebook, babe. All she does is let them brainwash her instead of doing anything around the house.’ Joanna and everyone else fell silent. I opened another bottle. The savoury delights of lunch were replaced with the sweet treats of dessert. We all forced bowls of lopsided pavlova, fruit cake and trifle into our bursting stomachs. Conversations around the table drifted away from the fires and toward sports. That was until Belinda found a way to force conspiracy theories into the discourse. ‘There is no way he is getting vaccinated,’ she said in response to a query from mum about the baby. ‘He needs to build his natural immunity. The program is a government hoax to prop up the big pharmaceuticals.’ There was never any arguing with her once she got going. I had long since given up on trying to understand her worldview. I drained another drink to stop myself from saying anything. Belinda wiped a clump of a trifle from her plump face with a serviette and said, ‘Times have changed since you raised your kids, Betty,’ she told my mother. ‘John and I will raise this baby our way if you don’t mind.’ This caused my mother to start clearing plates with furious anger. Her desire for the perfect day overruled the compulsion to bite back. ‘Shame the Christmas ceasefire didn’t stick,’ said Jack to change the subject. I don’t know why the war was his topic of choice. ‘Oh, don’t get me started,’ Belinda said, slurring. No one had noticed how much chardonnay she had put away. She always had plenty of wine capacity. ‘The media is just blowing it all out of proportion. It is just a distraction from those governments to make money off...’ ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ I interrupted abruptly. The booze had given me the courage to speak up instead of keeping me silent. ‘Thousands of people are dying or starving every day, and you are honestly going just to spin your bullshit theories?’ ‘All I am saying is...’ ‘No, I don’t want to hear any more of it. We always listen to what you are saying. Entire countries are without food, this one is burning alive, and all you can do is sit there with your tinfoil hat on.’ ‘You might finally keep the weight off if you lived there,’ Sam said, chuckling to Joanna. ‘ What! ’ I exclaimed. ‘That is your wife, man. The mother of your children. What kind of an asshole speaks to his partner like that.’ ‘Mind your own bloody business, Joseph,’ Sam snapped back. ‘Joseph honey, maybe go for a walk?’ Mum pleaded. ‘No, I will not mind my own business. You’re a dickhead, and you don’t deserve my sister.’ My heart was racing from a mixture of intoxication and adrenaline. I turned to Belinda, ‘and you, with your selfish opinions and shitty parenting. Just shut the hell up. You all wonder why I never visit; this crap is why.’ ‘Get the kids. We are leaving,’ Sam said as he dragged Joanna away from the table by the elbow. Belinda ordered John and the surprisingly silent Kale to the car. Everyone else slowly peeled off, unable to handle the tension left behind in my drunken wake. My mother was crying, so Dad took her for a walk to give me some space. With that, here I am, back in the present. I am trying not to cough as smoke fills my lungs. I feel a vibration against my leg and pull out my phone. There is a text message from John that reads, way to go . And another from Joanna that says, I love you .

The aperture hissed shut behind him. The grey expanse ahead yawned ominously. It was not, perhaps, the most appealing of views, but it was one that he had been waiting to see for a long time. He had always wanted to be standing at this very spot, at this very moment. Since his earliest memories, he had been building his way to this moment. As a child, he stared into the inky black sky above his home, night after night, his eyes seeking for a glimpse of the Moon. Whether a radiant white orb lighting the night, or a mere sliver of light in the dark, he could sit and stare for hours. But it was not the part that you could see that fascinated him. No, it was not the cheerful white face of the man in the moon that captured his attention, night after night. It was the man’s twin, lurking in the shadow of his bright brother, hidden from the sight of the Earth. He took a hesitant step on to the highest rung of the ladder attached to the lander. He was still a young man when the first images of the dark side of the Moon were published by the Russian Academy of Sciences, in 1960. Photographed from orbit, it was the first glimpse humankind had had of the far side of the Earth’s companion. Some years later, the astronauts of Apollo 8 had been the first humans to look on the area from orbit with their naked eyes. He had pored over the photographs. They called to him, a tantalizing glimpse at a totally unknown region, invisible for all of human history up to this point. He took a second step, to the next rung of the ladder. He very nearly hadn’t been here. He had lobbied hard to be on the mission, and for his landing site to be here, on the far side of the Moon. NASA had been reluctant. Added risk, they said, for no real gain. Added cost. They had wanted him to remain on Earth, observing remotely, and they had wanted the landing to be near the first landing site, on the Earth side of the moon. But that would not have been enough. He took a third step, to the last rung of the ladder. There were many reasons to explore the far side of the Moon. It was geologically very different to the near side. Where one was a tapestry of smooth basaltic lava formations, the far side was riddled with hundreds of tiny impact craters, rugged and battered by celestial impacts. None of that had been very important to him, however. All of that could be measured from automated satellites and rovers. No, his reason for wanting to explore the dark side of the Moon was far more personal. He took a final step, releasing his grip on the lander and landing on the Moon with a soft thud, touching boots to lunar soil for the first time. Nothing should stay hidden forever. That was his drive. His calling. That was why he had built his entire life to this point, his endless arguments for the mission to this location. Photographs from orbit were one thing. Automatons exploring the Moon were another. But there was no match for human feet treading unknown land. You could not know the truth of a place until you walked its shores. He took a hesitant step forward. He was starting to feel it now. His strength was fading, and he was not finished yet. He willed himself to continue. An old man can’t be an astronaut, they had said. And it had been difficult. The physical ordeal of merely getting to this point had been debilitating. The mental strain of constantly being afraid, at any moment, that he was going to fail, and it would all have been for nothing. He took another step forward. He felt better, momentarily. He wasn’t an old man here. Now he was just a child again, staring up at the moon, wondering what lay hidden from view. This was what it had all been for. This moment. He stopped walking, and, with some difficulty in the bulky space suit, he lay down. The light gravity made it easier not to fall. He reached up to his helmet with shaking fingers. Some men were buried. Some men were cremated. He released his helmet seal.

Growing up, Gracie was my best friend. She still is, only much much better. She was the only one who ever understood what I was going through. Sure, I had other friends at school, but they didn’t truly know me. Only Gracie knew me. They say that a dog is a man's best friend, but in this case she is my best friend. Every day after school I would walk home through the dull countryside. to find Gracie sitting on the front porch waiting for me to play with her. I never understood how she got out, or the fact that she never ran away. I always locked the door before I left, but Gracie was there day after day. No matter, she could always sense the mood I was in or the day that I’d had. It felt as though she could read my mind and understand my emotions. Maybe that’s why I never questioned it. I was afraid to lose my one true companion. One time when I was eight, I was riding my cute little bike with Gracie, and out of nowhere a big blue truck came racing down the deserted street right at us. I was so terrified that I could hardly move. I tried to scream, but it got caught in my throat. The next thing I knew, I was sitting on the sidewalk, perfectly safe, with Gracie by my side. I was in such shock that I thought it was a dream. I couldn’t believe my eyes, so I didn’t. I later found out that my really real dream was, in fact, real. Now here is where the adventure begins. It was the summer of eighth grade, I was so excited to start highschool! My family decided to take a random road trip. For some reason I wasn’t allowed to know where we were going, just that we were going somewhere. I was happy to do something for the summer, so I was okay not knowing the destination. Gracie came with us, of course. She and I had a blast playing together, napping together, and even eating together. I don’t know why, but it struck me as odd that my favorite breed was an Australian Shepherd, and that’s what she happened to be. I mean we got her when I was just a baby, so they couldn’t have known. I looked at an old photo of us together. It was the strangest thing, in the photo she was a border collie. It’s not much of a difference, but she’s definitely a different dog. But that’s impossible, she has the same personality, and the same connection with me. I asked my parents about it, and they exchanged worried glances. My dad took the photo, inspected it, and then handed it back saying that she looked the same to him. How peculiar, I wondered. But I knew better than to say something. When we arrived at the destination, I knew something was up. It was a huge mansion on a remote beach. We hadn’t passed a soul the last hundred miles or so. My parents were both just office workers. They weren't rich. But I guess in all honesty, I didn’t know what they’re job was. We went inside and my parents immediately locked all the doors and windows. They went through the entire house, checking every room, closet, and potential hiding spots. They opened things that appeared unable to open, and protruded a key from inside a bar of soap. When they determined it was safe, they turned to me and began to explain. My parents were both spies working for the CIA! I could not believe it. How? Why? What were we doing there? These questions were answered shortly. Then came the ultimate shock; Gracie was not a dog, she was a Kearot. A Kearot was an animal of sorts that could shapeshift into anything. The government put her under my parents guardianship, but now they needed her help. A missile was coming to destroy a large part of the United States. Gracie was supposed to turn into anything that would stop it. The key was to a shuttle that Gracie could take if she so chooses. I didn’t want to know anymore, so I went to bed without supper. I cried, knowing what her fate was. Impressed that she is so brave, I embraced her and wept. We slept together that night. In the morning I woke up to a beautiful girl, about fifteen, making breakfast. I knew it was her, I knew she was human, only so that I could hug her a last goodbye. I helped her finish up, and told her that I loved her. Breakfast was quiet. I don’t remember what happened after that. I think that I passed out from all the crying. When I woke up, my parents were smiling. They told me that Gracie stopped the missile, and came out without a scratch. I was so relieved and ecstatic! They told me to look outside, and I saw the most majestic horse I'd ever seen stood tall and fierce, yet somehow inviting. My Gracie was the best thing to ever happen to me. After this, my life got crazy. I went through very extensive training, and became a spy alongside my parents. Gracie and I went on countless missions. My favorite was the Bahamas! The best part was always having a big sister to talk to, or something anyways. Her favorite form was human. We said that she was a cousin who moved in with us so that we could go to school together. It became weird to ride her or swim with a “dolphin”. She soon stopped shifting unless we were on missions. We grew up, and never left each other's sides. Now we save the world for a living, and look good doing it. Gracie is my best friend, and I never would have known if the missile was never a threat. I wonder if Gracie knew. But I’ll leave that thought up to you.

By Alonzriah'a Washington Stubborn as A bull The Cat Family Chapter 1 The Tiny Envelope “Well you don’t know that for sure until you open it.” Reese now seemed agitated to look inside the tiny envelope. I was still on the ground. To support her I went over and rubbed between her legs. After going back and forth she finally opened it and read aloud, “ Dear Miss Reese T. Smith, we have gone over your letter of recommendation and the committee must admit, you are very talented and we are also very impressed with your volleyball skills. We would love for you to attend our school and play for our college team. I hope to see you next year at Carter Volleyball College.” “Oh my gosh, I got in! I got in! I. Got. In!!” “Congratulations, Reese. We are so proud of you for working so hard toward your goal,” said Mrs. Smith happily. Now came down the twins, both of which being 7 years, Lucy and Lyra, still in their pajamas, which always smelled like pizza. Chapter 2 Any Other Day The Smiths’ are aware that I go wandering around the city, so the people know me. They say that I am considered a local and very social. Sometimes, if I go out at the right time, I can even get my paws on some leftover fish! At the sushi restaurant, they are very nice. But besides my little walks and snacks, I like to be in the dark. I would make a little bed for myself, out of old winter clothes from the twins’, and a basket. Sometimes, I let stray pets lay in my bed since there are a lot of them in the main city of San Francisco. Then, I would make more, arranging them all around the city in separation from the Animal Control Service. Chapter 3 My Family After a long day of wandering it was time to go home and have dinner with my humans. The Smiths’ have something different every night, but on friday they make pizza! On the other hand, I have the same thing every night- cat chow mixed with fish and carrots. When I got home, my food dish was prefilled, Mrs. Smith was readying the pizza, Mr. Smith was watching a football game with Riley, the twins were helping set the table and Reese was doing homework upstairs. I immediately bolted to my food bowl. Good as always, when I was done, Mrs. Smith had just gotten the pizza out of the oven, that smelled so appetizing, to me, it was like a freshly baked turkey on a cool evening. Everyone went to the table and the twins helped carry over water, while Mrs. Smith carried the pizza over. And before she even set the pan down they were like wild cats fighting over some dumpster garbage, all of the Smith children started chowing down their pizza not even releasing one gasp to breathe. ̈Thank you, Anne ̈ said Mr. Smith sternly looking at everyone. ́ ́Your welcome, John. ́ ́ ̈Meow ̈ I purred. ́ ́Come on gang, put your food down and thank your mother for this delicious dinner, for god's sake buddy thanked her ̈ cried Mr. Smith. They all looked at him. ̈Oh, it is okay at least they didn't lose a finger. ̈ said Mrs. Smith. Mr. Smith straightened his tie and sat up. Looked at his wife, and started eating. By the time he was done eating his first slice, the twins had cleaned their plates, Riley was on her last bite, and Reese had not come to dinner yet. Mrs. Smith looked worried that Reese was still not down, taking constant glances at the stairs. “Mom, you will have to get used to Reese not being at every dinner,” announced Riley, glaring. “I know, but it's going to be so hard letting her go; my first born before I met your father, she was my light to move on in life,'' said Mrs. Smith in a teary voice. Lucy smirked and looked at Lrya, ̈You know mommy, Lyra and I will still be here when everyone goes off to University. ̈ “Yep. You won't be that lonely, you ́ll still have us to look after, and we could do all the cleaning if you are tired,” said Lrya. ̈Awww, you two are so cute and thoughtful. ̈ said Mrs Smith smiling. ̈May I be excused? ̈requested Riley bordly. “Sure, but would you mind doing me a favor?” “Yeah but not a big one. I have a date tonight ̈ Mr. Smith looked up at Riley. “It isn't big, but could you check on your sister?” “Sure, I guess.” “Did you save me a slice?” “No, sorry. We cleared our plates and the twins almost ate dad's slice,” chuckled Riley. “Geez, they can get brutal.” Reese said shuddering. “But why have you been up here all afternoon? Are you rethinking the scholarshipment, because if you are, I could always use it.” “No. Maybe. I mean is volleyball really what I want to commit to for the rest of my life?” Reese said desperately. “Don’t look at me, in some families I am considered a ‘disappointment’.” “No...no you're not, you know what you want to be when you grow up, and you know what college, you have semi-good grades, you’re... you. You're prepared, not a ‘disappointment’.” Reese cried. “I guess, but mom and dad do not like that I have a boyfriend that is two years older than me, and they don’t like that I skateboard out in the city park. They think I will get kidnapped or something.” Riley said, “But, are you okay?” “Yes, I am fine.” “Okay, well I am going to go. But if you would like to, go down stairs. That will make mom happy.” “Fine, I will.” “Maybe you two could talk. Mom knows a lot of decent schools in this district.” Reese and Riley both walked down the stairs mumbling to each other. Then Mrs. Smith came around the corner with her arm’s up in the air like wiggling noodles. “Oh Reese, Reese!. Sweetheart!” “Hey, mom.” “Oh,Riley, you are a miracle worker, thank you.” Mrs. Smith said squeezing Reese so tight she started turning pink. “Mom, I can’t breathe.” wheezed Reese. “Oh, sorry, honey” “It’s okay.” “Okay, well I am going to get going. I will be home around 10,” Riley said, seizing her duffle bag. Riley went out the door, Mr. Smith was watching the rest of the football game, the twins were sleeping in their room, and Mrs. Smith was making Reese her dinner, even though she says she is not hungry. I went to the twins room. Their room was the biggest room in the house, there were two twin beds, a doll house and two chest of drawers at the foot of each bed. They were sleeping and I did not want to bother them so I went into Riley's room. She had a big bed in the corner of her room, a desk, and a bean bag chair and had unclean clothes everywhere. It smelled so bad that I gagged at the stench. Cats do not do that very often! I then went to Reese’s room. Her room is my favorite. It is calm, cozy, and warm. Her bed is also in the corner of her room with a dresser next to it, a desk on the other side of the door, and a TV on the wall facing her bed. I curled up on her pillow and fell asleep. Chapter 4 Clock work weekends Like any other weekend, everyone is soundly sleeping until 9:30 am. I get up at 6:30 am everyday. All you can usually hear is Riley snoring like a lawn mower. But on this saturday, as I was getting up from a cozy slumber, I saw Lucy get up. Why is she up this early? I had thought I had never seen her get up this early when I got up. I saw her crawling quietly to the reading room. I too followed, so quietly, you could hear a speck of dust fall. Lucy was in the reading room and on top of a stool, reaching all the way to the top of the book shelf, there was a big book, it was called “The Hunger Games”. That book was supposed to be off limits for the twins, for some reason, I don’t know why? But she grabbed it and slipped a matilda book cover over the book. And she snuck back upstairs. Lucy went back to her bed and read a few pages. Then next thing you know it is 8:50. So she goes back down the stairs like a mouse. Put the book back. And runs sneakily back to her room. Then like clock work everyone woke up at 9:30. All went downstairs in their cozy, warm pajamas. Everyone had their morning routines and headed off to the kitchen. Mr. and Mrs. Smith head to the kitchen to make breakfast and get coffee. The twins help their mother make breakfast. Riley was curled up on the silky couch complaining of being cold. And Reese limps sleepily to the front door to get the Saturday newspaper of which is on the glistening green grass, as she yawns her way to the couch chair and falls back slumping trying to read with her squinting eyes. Chapter 5 A Surprise 10:30 am Mr. Smith walked into the room looking like he had something to say, he was smiling broadly. Mrs. Smith walked in hiding something behind her back. The Smiths all looked up. So did i. “So...”, smiled Mr. Smith, “ Well, you all have been really good, so your mom and I scored tickets to a 4 night 5 day trip to... DisneyLand!” Mrs. Smith showed 6 blue tickets. The twins squealed, Riley laughed, and Reese smiled. “We leave today, so get packing!” Mr. Smith cried, they all ran upstairs and I followed. First the twins room. “I am going to pack a jacket, 3 shirts, 2 pairs of sweatpants, 2 pairs of pants, 3 pairs of underwear, 4 pairs of socks, pjs, and 2 dolls and a blanket.” said Lucy. “ I am going to pack the same, but I am going to bring 2 stuffed animals.” said Lyra. Next was Riley. She packed the same amount of clothes as the twins, but she is bringing her drawing notebook . Now, Reese, like all the rest, she packed her clothes, but her item to bring is her book. Around 11:05 am everything is packed including snacks. All came downstairs hurrying, while I was sunbathing like a king. Lyra came up to me and explained who was going to take care of me, “ You remember Ms.Willard, she will be feeding you and watching you at the house.” “Oh and she is coming over at 12:30 today.” said Lucy. I always had liked Ms.Willard, she had one kid younger than the twins, Ginny. Ginny is gentle, nice, and quiet. And they lived in a small house one block away from this house. Chapter 6 Ms. Willard 12:30 pm I heard the jingle of keys unlocking the green door. Then the squeaky door opens to find a tall, young woman wearing a long floral dress with some sneakers, her hair golden like the sun, and wearing red glasses. Next to Ms. Willard was a small figure, about 5 years old, the little girl was wearing a little lavender skirt, a shirt with a butterfly graphic, hair like her mothers, but in pigtails curling out of blue scrunchies. Both walked in, little Ginny waddled over to the window, she petted me gently. Ms Willard, glided to the kitchen to find my food bowl, I heard the crackling of the bag, pouring the yumming food in the bright red boal. “Ginny, honey, will you please get Buddy’s water dish?” Ms Willard asked. “Yes, mommy.” Ginny said, pulling her hand away from me. I followed her to the kitchen and sat by the doorway, Ginny put my water dish next to me carefully, I took a small sip. Ms. Willard put down my food dish right where it was before. “Eat up Buddy!” Ginny chuckled. Ms. Willard had picked up Ginny and sat down on the couch. She pulled out a remote and turned the tv on. I did not pay attention from there on until I was done. I was finished, so I walked over to Ms. Willard and Ginny, Ms. Willard, was chilling on the overly comfy couch, and Ginny was sitting on the floor with her legs facing out playing with a doll. I came over and sat in front of her. I pawed at Ginny, she patted my head with great laughter. Ms. Willard saw us playing and laughed along also. Then the phone rang, that ugly blue phone on the wall rang like a loud car horn. Ms. Willard got up, her dress drifting behind her. She picked up the blue phone and said, “Hello? Smith residents, Ms. April Willard speaking.” I sat by Ms. Willard's leg, she kept going oh, oh no, ok. She hung up and looked at me and ginny. “Well... Buddy is coming home with us. The smiths are stuck in snow, they said it would just be better if Buddy stayed with us!” Ms. Willard said, shaking her head. She had taken Ginny's hand, I knew what to do, I would just walk behind them, it has happened before, but they just stayed at my house. Chapter 7 The next morning, again I woke up at 6:30 to sunbathe. But I was flabbergasted, I guess I had forgotten that I was at the small willard house. I always sunbathed on the weekend, on the weekdays, even at dawn. I frowned as much a cat could frown. A little later, Ginny came downstairs, but did not notice me. Her eyes were squinting. The beaming sun was too much for Ginny's eyes. She went to the “Oh hello, darling.” one of the faces said. “Hello, April.” the other face said. “I got to go, I love you both. Ginny is going to be so happy.” Ms. Willard said, as she left the house. Once the two figures came in, I could get a closer look. Both looked at each other, and back at the door. I could see better. The two looked like prunes, I do not like prunes, one was wearing a denam, floral dress with the collar down, her hair short and curly white, red pumps on her feet, almost reminding me of the shoes from the Wizard of Oz . The other was wearing round glasses, a plaid shirt, blue pants, hair of a full cloud, and boring brown shoes.

Rail Road High School Two Weeks Before Halloween “Hey Phi, did you figure out what you are going to do for Halloween yet?” Emica asked. “Probably spend some time with my family and then maybe watch some scary movies. How about you?” Phoenix asked as she continued etching a ghost figure into her desk. “Aww...ok. I was going to see if you wanted to go to a Haunted House with me and Rachel? She was asking if you wanted to go with us?” “Rachel asked really?” “Yeah, I think she might like you!!!” “Yeah right! I might be able to go I just have to--.” SMACK! Startled by the rapt sound of the ruler Phoenix quickly looked up from her desk and noticed that Ms. Codfish was glowering at her, wooden ruler in hand at the podium in the front of the class. Everyone in class shifted in their seats staring at Phoenix and Emica. Phoenix gulped and started fidgeting with the sleeve of her hoodie. This was the last thing she needed right now. Was to get in trouble so close to exams. Sighing she shot a quick glance over at her friend Emica who was trying not to laugh out loud. Emica looked at Phi wiggling her eyebrows at her. “Ladies, I’m assuming that since you are having such an in depth conversation that you are finished with this week's papers I assigned. No, well then less talking and more writing unless you would like to be assigned some homework for this weekend!” “Yes, Ms. Codfish.” They said in perfect unison. Later that evening at Phoenix’s Home “You want to do what?” Phoenix’s mother, Amara asked angrily. “I was wondering if I could go with some friends to a haunted house? I figured it would be ok since we are still new to the area and thought it might be a good idea to blend--” SLAM! Bits of chicken flew off the plate. A crack appeared down the center of the table. The house became eerily silent. The tension was so thick it would have needed a chainsaw to cut through it. “It’s two weeks before Halloween and you are just Now asking if you can break our Halloween traditions!” Amara seethed. “Amara I don’t think it’s that big of a deal...” Her husband trailed off seeing Amara’s face. “Not that big of a deal! Have you lost your mind! This is the one chance we have to make an impression on this town! Make a name for our family! And she wants to spend time with her human friends that are doing nothing but polluting her mind! She was raised with better sense than to live her life this way. I will have none of it! You still have much you need to learn! You haven’t even gotten accepted into the School of Horrors yet and you are worried about making friends here. You still have two weeks to continue your training and studying and try to take the entrance exam again or you will have to wait for the next term and I don’t know how long your father and I will be here...” “Mother, we are immortal! Can you stop being so dramatic!” Phoenix mumbled frustrated. “Phoenix, don’t talk back to your mother that way!” Her father warned. “But father, it’s not like I’m wrong..” She replied. “Enough!! Your mother didn’t have to take you in and raise you, but she did out of the kindness of her heart! You don’t even know how to be a ghost! Be lucky we are even allowing you to stay here with us! If it wasn’t for her I already would have performed the exorcism and you would be nothing more than ashes. Now Go To Your Room!” He bellowed. Emica’s home one week later “Emica have you heard from Phi lately?” Emica’s brother asked. He was playing video games on the couch and saw Emica just staring at the picture of her and Phi on the fridge. “No, her family can be kind of a lot, so she wasn’t at school this week.” She said sadly. “Well don’t give up. I’m sure she’ll come around. Why don’t you try giving her a call or sending her a text?” He encouraged her. “Ok.” She said. Emica walked up the stairs. She missed her best friend. She hadn’t had any friends but Rachel growing up and when Phoenix moved to her neighborhood two years ago she finally felt like she had met her missing half. It had been feeling like a piece of her soul had been missing lately and she wanted to know what was going on. They were graduating high school this year and Phoenix was continually missing school and seemed super exhausted lately. She put on her Nightmare Before Christmas Revisited CD and pressed play getting into the mood of Halloween and in the mood to text her best friend. Sometimes you just got to feel the music. An hour later.. “Hey Phi, just wanted to see how you have been doing lately!? I miss you and it’s been weird not talking to you all week or seeing you at school!” Emica texted. Setting her phone on vibrate. “Hey, Emica sorry I’ve been so distant. There’s been a lot going on.” Phoenix texted back almost instantly. “No Worries! I understand! I’m just worried you know? You can tell me anything Phi, I’ve got you!” “I have a secret to tell you. And I don’t know if you will understand or be ok with it. I am scared of losing you as a friend you know. And if I tell you, you have to promise me that you won’t share it with anyone!” “You can tell me anything Phi! I promise I’m not going anywhere! Nothing you can say will ever change that. And I promise I won’t say anything to anyone. Cross my heart and hope to die.” “Stick twenty million needles in our eyes.” “Ok, I’m ready!” “I’m a ghost.” “Woah! Really!?? That’s sooo exciting!” “LOL! You believe me??” “Of Course I believe you!! You’ve never lied to me before!! Plus I’ve always been into learning about the Underworld and now I know I’m right!! So Cool!! Tell me what being a ghost is like!? Do you like it? Sorry for texting so much this is just so exciting and surreal!!!” “Haha I wish it was for me too but well I suck at being a ghost. All I do is mess everything up. And my adopted family hates me and thinks I just want to be a human. Soo...there’s that..” “Well I kind of suck at being human and ironically you have been helping me with that since you’ve moved here. Why don’t I help you with being a ghost!?” “You don’t have to do that. You aren’t obligated too!” “I want to though! You helped me study for my exams and I passed last year and I wouldn’t have been able to do that without you! Let me help you! That’s what friends do!! I got you!” “Awwww. Ok Emica! Thank you! You are the best!” “No Worries! Let’s start tomorrow morning at Starbucks!” “Ok sounds good to me!” Starbucks Three Days In “I’m Never going to get the hang of this!!” Phoenix yelled, glowering at Emica. “You are being sooo dramatic Phi!! Look all you have to do is try your best to levitate and make no noise when you try and scare the barista!” Emica exclaimed. Grabbing Phoenix’s shoulders and shaking her like a rag doll! “You are such a know it all!!!” Phoenix laughed, pushing Emica off her. “Listen you want that pumpkin spice latte right!? Well then suck it up and practice it again!” Emica was unbearable when she got like this. But what would Phoenix do without her. Phoenix smiled to herself as she continued watching Emica speaking energetically at her about her studies and test coming up. It was in two days and she still was nowhere near understanding some of the physics behind being a ghost. She couldn’t seem to memorize the historical facts about Eugene Milsworth and why he was such an important figure in the Horror Community. In fact she wished that Emica could join her at the School of Horror because this stuff seemed to come naturally to her and she was seriously in awe. “Why are you so fascinated with...with, well all of this? Why is it so important to you?” Phoenix asked. Emica went quiet and started biting her nails, not quite meeting her eyes. “Well aside from being your best friend and wanting to see you succeed with life. When my brother and I were younger we lost our mom. One day she was with us and the next she was gone. The police officer who spoke to us couldn’t or wouldn’t tell us how or if she died. The officer just said that she was gone and we would have to figure it out. We tried a séance and we also tried desperately to figure out how to find her if she was alive and nothing was working. So we both just continued researching and studying. Then you moved here and I don't know, I just thought the aura around you was magical and special. So I thought maybe one day if we continued being close friends we could talk about this and maybe do research together.” Phoenix reached over and pulled her into a hug, "Wow! Thank you so much for sharing that with me. That must have been hard to do and seems very overwhelming. I appreciate that you trust me and believe in me so much!” “Anyways, enough about me! Don’t try to distract me! Study, Study, Study!!!” Emica chanted pulling out of the hug. “Yeah I know, Practice, practice, practice.” Phoenix whispered, smiling to herself. Phoenix’s House the day before Halloween “Well I don’t know how you managed to pull it off but congratulations you passed your entrance exam to the School of Horrors!” Amara said. “Thank you.” Phoenix said. “Your father and I discussed it further and noticed how hard you have been studying and practicing and he, we, decided that you could do what you wanted this Halloween with your friends. Just be safe and remember to text us if you are going to be spending the night at your friend Emica’s house or out past twelve. Understood?” “Yes, thank you so much!!!” Halloween Evening Briiinnnnngggg!!!!! Emica rubbed her hands together and blew on them. Brrr it was chilly outside and she had forgotten to wear a sweater. Come on Phi!! Answer the door! The door opened and there sat a black cat whose bright green eyes pierced through Emica giving her the chills. She bent down and waited for the signal that it would be ok to pet her when Phi arrived. “MOTHER!!!! What have I told you about meeting my friends if I ever brought them over!?” Emica did a double take. Closed her eyes and when she opened them again Phi’s mother walked over to her towering over her. She wanted to curl into a ball and die. “Be safe and make sure not to get into any trouble tonight girls!” Closing the door after practically pushing Phi out of the doorway. Emica breathed a sigh of relief. “Don’t worry about her! She’s kind of irritated that I’m not spending time with the family tonight but happy that I passed the entrance exam so what can you do!? She shrugged. “You look amazing!!!” Emica squealed and hugged Phi! She was wearing white skinny jeans, white knee high boots, a tucked in white tank top with a white leather jacket covering it. She had her hair in braids around her knees and it was smooth and creamy as white frosting. Her iris eyes were alert and excited and she was gliding effortlessly next to Emica. She tilted her head. “Emica are you ok?” Phi asked mischievously. Emica nodded. “I just think I’m a little underdressed.” Emica said looking down at her blue skinny jeans, Edward Scissorhands cotton tee and her short hair messy and dyed purple for this evening. “You look beautiful! Now let’s go before we miss the haunted house with Rachel.” After the Haunted House “Bye Rachel!! Have a good night!” Emica and Phi said waving walking down the front steps. Walking through the neighborhood looking at all the Halloween decorations Emica started shivering. Phi shrugged off her jacket and draped it on Emica. Smiling Emica hugged the jacket close to her. “What did you think of the Haunted House?” Emica asked nervously, biting her lip. “It was ok. I’m glad I went with you and Rachel. It was like a cute little theme park. I mean they tried.” Phi laughed loudly. Emica's eyes widened. It was sooo scary to her! She wondered what Phi had seen that could have possibly been scary. “Ok, here we are!” Phi announced stopping suddenly. They were in front of the cemetery. “What are we doing here, Phi??” “You told your brother you weren’t coming home tonight right? I just texted my parents that!” “Yeah, but I thought...” “You up for an adventure of sorts?” “Always!” “Great let’s go!” “Where are we going?” Phi stood still for a moment moving her arms in a mystical way and suddenly a portal appeared with purple, black and blue swirls coming from it. “You said you always wanted to go to the Underworld right?” Phi smiled holding out her hand. Emica nodded vigorously and grabbed Phi’s hand. “Hold me tight and don’t let go!” Phi whispered. Emica nodded. Emica and Phoenix entered the portal, leaving this world behind and being whisked away into the unknown. Seconds later the portal dissipated seconds after they had stepped in. This was only the beginning of their misguided adventures into the underworld.

You wake-up in the morning and go to the bathroom. The toilet does not give you a urinalysis report - normal range. After you take a shower there is no report, so the scanners found nothing. You make a coffee and later after you have used the bathroom and the toilet analyzed your stool, you get the updated suggestions for meals and supplements for the rest of the day. You reach the Ministry of Health building. As you walk in, the doors open with a gasping sound. You imagine the building gasping for air as scores of people poor in and out of its maw. In your office you analyze this morning’s data. 5 new cases of cancer detected in your district this morning, 347 new cases of infectious diseases all with known viruses, bacteria and fungus, 1.2% of the population has a hangover, and 3.8% exhibit signs of anxiety or depressive disorder. You evaluate the cases based on geography, age of the person affected, analyze diet, physical activity, substance abuse status, and mental health status. You spend the day working, taking your designated breaks, and eating the suggested meals at the appointed times. At the end of the workday, you get a reminder about a date the system set-up for you. When you get home at night thinking the date was nice, you wonder if you should go on a second date. The stats look promising, and the sex was satisfying. The next morning you wake-up and go to the bathroom. The urinalysis report flags you for a severe infection with an unknown category 7 virus. Deadly. Your heart starts pounding. Immediately you think about your date. But the health record was clean, and you followed all safety procedures. You check the café you had lunch at, the restaurant where you had dinner, and every other place you visited yesterday. All had clean health records. The most urgent thing right now is to take a shower. As you leave the shower, scan results come back notifying you of a rapidly advancing category 7 viral infection that has reached most vital systems. With shaking hands, you open the fridge. Today’s breakfast suggestion reads “Carpe diem”. You look at the fridge dumbfounded. Who knew your fridge spoke Latin? The laughter comes on slow and incredulous, but it builds and builds until you are gasping, tears are streaming down your face, and you no longer know if you are laughing or crying, but you desperately need to catch your breath. And you remember the building at the Ministry of Health, gasping for air as people pour in and out of its maw. For reasons you don’t understand this sets you off laughing again, and now you no longer care if it is truly laughing or crying, because madness is taking over. Vaguely, you wonder if the infection has reached your brain. When you walk out into the street you run into hundreds of people wondering about aimlessly, some angry, but most smiling hugely or laughing outright. A woman next to you inhales deeply and sighs. “System glitch.” She says around a broad grin. And you feel your own lips pulling back into an answering grin.

As the morning sun shone through the windows of the apprenticeship building, Emily could feel her heart pounding with excitement. It was her first day as an apprentice chef and she couldn't wait to get started. She had always loved cooking and had dreamed of becoming a world-renowned chef since she was a little girl. Emily had spent months researching and preparing for this day, and she was ready to make the most of it. As she walked down the hallway, Emily noticed that the door to the room that was her cooking classroom was slightly ajar. She peeked inside and saw that the room was filled with tables covered in strange objects and ingredients she had never seen before. Emily couldn't help but feel curious about what was happening inside, so she wandered closer. Suddenly, the door swung open and Emily was grabbed by a tall, imposing figure dressed in a long robe. She was dragged into the room, and before she could even protest, the door slammed shut behind her. Emily's heart was pounding in her chest as the tall, handsome man held her against the cold brick wall. Emily had never seen a man so handsome before. He had dark, short hair, bright blue eyes, and a muscular body that made her blush. His strong hands pinned her arms above her head as he leaned in closer to her. The dark room was lit only by candlelight. The flickering flames cast shadows on the wall and created long, sinister figures that danced along the floor. The man's long robes brushed against her thighs, the soft fabric caressing her legs. The man wrapped his arms around her waist, his strong hands grabbing her hips and pulling her against him. The man was wearing a long, black robe and a tall pointed hat. His muscular form was dressed in loose-fitting clothing, with a long strap around his waist, a belt, and a small pouch attached. The classroom smelled of smoke and spices, mixing with the heat of the flames and the heat of the man's breath. Emily couldn't help but notice that the man's robe was thin and airy. Emily could taste the adrenaline in the back of her throat. She tried to struggle against his grip, but he was too strong. Emily sucked in the moist air of the room, tasting the faint sweetness of the candle wax. As she looked up, she noticed that he was bleeding from a gash on his forehead. His dark hair was matted with blood, and his face was twisted in pain. Emily couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the man who was holding her captive. "What do you want from me?" she asked, her voice shaking with fear. The pounding of Emily's heart echoed against the wall, mixed with the scrape of the man's robes as he moved against her body. The man looked down at her, his eyes intense and searching. "I need your help," he said, his voice hoarse. "I need you to help me get out of here." Emily's heart skipped a beat. She didn't know what to say or do. Was this man dangerous? Was he going to hurt her? She "Let me go!" The figure chuckled, the sound deep and menacing. "I'm afraid I can't do that, my dear," he said, pulling her closer. Emily could feel his breath on her neck and she shuddered in fear. "Who are you?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. "What do you want from me?" The figure leaned in closer, his lips almost touching her ear. "I am the leader of a secret society, my dear," Emily struggled against his grip, but his strength was overpowering. She winced as he held her tightly, feeling trapped and afraid. "Please," he pleaded, desperation in his voice. "You have to help me. You're the only one who can save me now." Emily tried to shake her head, to tell him that there was nothing she could do. But he pressed a hand over her mouth, silencing her protests. Suddenly, there was a sound from outside the room. It sounded like someone was running, and Emily's heart leaped with hope. Maybe it was someone who could help her. But before she could react, the man tightened his grip on her even further. Emily struggled against him, feeling trapped and helpless. With a burst of energy, Emily let out a scream. But before the sound could escape from her mouth, he silenced her with his hand. As she caught her breath, Emily looked into his eyes, trying to find some spark of humanity there. "how did I get in this mess?" Emily wondered in silence. still looking into his deep blue eyes. The smell of death was all around him, coiling from his body like a serpent, reaching out to her. She could smell expensive leather and designer cologne and could barely breathe. Emily felt her jaw drop as the guy finally released her mouth. She stepped back and rubbed her sore lips, glaring at him with a mix of anger and confusion. He looked genuinely sorry, but that didn't change the fact that he had just forcefully silenced her. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice low and urgent. "I had to make sure you wouldn't scream." "Who are you?" Emily demanded, eyeing him warily. He took a step closer and held out his hand. "My name is Draco. And right now, someone is trying to kill me. I need your help to get out of this building alive." Emily stared at him in disbelief. This had to be some kind of joke. But the desperation in his eyes and the urgency in his voice made her heart race with fear. "Why me?" she asked, unable to keep the tremble out of her voice. Draco paced back and forth in front of Emily, his eyes trained on her face as he tried to figure out whether or not he could trust her. Emily met his gaze coolly, her expression betraying nothing. "I've been at the Witchery School for years, and I've never seen you there." Emily shrugged nonchalantly. "I just started a cooking apprenticeship," she said, her voice low and even. "I'm still getting settled in." she was confused since she was still trying to understand how from cooking school she ended up in a witchery school. Draco studied her for a long moment, trying to decide whether or not to believe her. "Cooking? he asked "We don't have a cooking apprentice program here" he was trying to understand "You must have gotten the wrong address" he added "Or are you lying?" "No," Emily said almost too loud "I'm not lying, this is the right place, I got an invitation in my mailbox two months ago. Some chef called De Lauret invited me" "There is no De Laurent chef here, this is a witchery school, no human is allowed, or even knows the way here without being invited by one of our principals" he crossed his arms "I'm not lying I can show you the invitation" She spoke too fast, worried that he would change his mind and kill her in seconds. "You don't look too shocked by the fact that I just told you that this is a witchery school and that I am a wizard" he crossed his arms trying to figure her out. "I'm more concerned about the fact that my life depends on you deciding to trust me or not" She backed up a couple of steps. he kept looking at her, it was a weird story, impossible actually, she was a full human, and someone, or somehow she found her way to the most powerful witchery school in New Hampshire. There was something about the way she held herself, something in the way her eyes flickered when she spoke, that made him think she was telling the truth. Draco sat across from Emily in the dimly lit room, his eyes fixed on hers. "I can tell," he said, his voice low and intense. "I can tell you're not from around here." Emily shifted uneasily, unsure of how to respond. Draco leaned forward, his gaze never leaving hers. "And right now," he continued, "I can only trust you." Emily's heart raced as Draco's words sunk in. She had always been a cautious person, but this was different. There was something about Draco, something in the way he looked at her, that made her feel safe. Draco reached across the table and took her hand, his touch surprisingly gentle. "You're different," he said softly. "You don't belong here. And somehow, neither do I." Emily looked into Draco's eyes and saw something there that she had not noticed before. Emily nervously approached Draco, who was sitting in the corner of the room, his eyes darting around as if he was expecting danger to burst through the door at any moment. "Draco," she said softly, "I want to help you. I feel that for me to be able to get out of here in one piece. I'm gonna have to help you survive whatever you're involved in. So what can I do?" Draco looked at her, his expression guarded. "You'd be taking a huge risk by getting involved," he warned her. "But if you're sure, there is something you can do." "What is it?" Emily asked, her heart racing. "You need to learn a spell," Draco said, his voice low. "One that can help me escape." Emily's eyes widened. "I...I don't know anything about magic," she admitted. "That's okay," Draco said, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I'll teach you." He beckoned her closer, and Emily knelt down beside him. Draco began to whisper instructions, and Emily strained to hear him. she didn't understand most of the words, but she could mimic them. "Iculopus energen,tranforem" He said multiple times explaining something about energy, a wand, and dark magic. but somehow, Emily kept losing her mind in his blue deep eyes. "Focus, Emily," he said, his eyes locked on hers. "You need to channel your energy into the wand." She nodded, trying to concentrate on the task at hand, but her eyes kept wandering to Draco's muscular biceps. Suddenly, she noticed a small trickle of blood running down his arm. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw a deep gash on his bicep. "Draco," she said a little too alarmed "What happened to you?" she looked up, and with her hand, she cleaned the blood now dry in his forehead. "Let's just say, that I played the wrong cards" He laughed. "Are you okay?" she asked softly, trying to sound as calm as possible. "Don't worry about that, it will heal" he said acting tough. Draco grunted in response, his face twisted in pain. Emily quickly ripped a piece of fabric from her sweater and pressed it against his wound. "Here, let me help you," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. Draco winced as she applied pressure to the wound, but he didn't push her away. Emily couldn't help but notice the way his muscles tensed under her touch. "We need to get you out of here," she said. "Just repeat the words, concentrate on the wand, and visualize a circle moving in front of you. open a portal. accept my magic as if it was yours" his words made no sense to her, but at the same time, they did. "How can you tell me all these things, I'm just a human, what makes you so sure that I will be able to absorb or manipulate your own magic as if it was mine?" she asked tired of so many failures in just so little time. "Because even humans can possess magic. they just don't believe that they can" his hands held Emili's tight. "I think I won't be able to help you" She closed her eyes. Emily was feeling frustrated as she stared at an empty space. She could feel warmth moving from his hands to hers. moving inside her veins, as if her blood had been frozen and suddenly it wasn't anymore. She practiced the hand gestures countless times, but the portal refused to budge. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, feeling defeated. Draco noticed her distress and placed a hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong?" "I can't seem to activate the portal," Emily replied, her voice tinged with frustration. "I've tried everything, but it won't budge. I just don't belong here maybe that letter was just a prank or a mistake" Draco gave her a reassuring smile. "Just because the portal won't open doesn't mean you don't have magic, Emily. Sometimes it takes time to find your power." "You don't have time. I don't have time. I want to get out of here too" She looked at him "And somehow cant just walk out of this room and leave" She crossed her arms. Emily looked at Draco skeptically, unsure if she truly had the gift of magic. Or if he was just trying so hard because somehow he needed her. But something in Draco's eyes made her believe him. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, focusing all of her energy on his eyes. As Emily looked deeper into Draco's eyes, everything around her began to fade away. She could feel the energy swirling around them, pulsating with a force that was almost overwhelming. The magic between them was intense, and Emily knew that this was what she had been searching for all along. Suddenly, she felt a powerful surge of energy coursing through her body. Emily's body began to glow with an otherworldly light, and Draco's eyes widened in surprise. "What is going on?" Emily screamed "Don't let go" Draco said "This is amazing" he added "Are you doing this?" Emily asked "Is not me" he smiled "Who are you?" he looked confused while his eyes looked at her. As he watched in awe. "Why do I feel like this" She could feel the rush of power moving in her body. It was as if she had opened a floodgate, releasing a tidal wave of magic that she couldn't control. The air around them crackled with electricity as Emily's power surged out of her in waves. And then, it happened. The portals began to open, one after the other until there were five of them swirling around them in a dizzying display of magic. The portals were all different sizes and colors, each one leading to a different place and time. Emily had never felt so powerful before. The energy from Draco must have been more potent than she had anticipated. Draco stepped closer to Emily, and she felt her body respond to his touch. The two of them were lost in the moment, completely consumed by the magic that surrounded them. But before Draco could explain what was happening, a sudden gust of wind caught their attention. They both looked up, only to see a swirling black vortex materializing before them. Out of the portal, emerged a group of black hooded figures, their faces obscured by the shadows of their hoods. Draco immediately recognized them as dark wizards - the most dangerous kind. "Time to go little human," Draco said. spinning Emily protecting her with his back without letting go of her hand. Without warning, the dark wizards lunged at them, brandishing their wands menacingly. Draco knew he had to attack quickly. Draco stepped forward, his wand already drawn, and cast a powerful shield charm. The dark wizards' curses hit the shield and bounced off harmlessly. But the dark wizards were not easily defeated. "Time to go, Emily," Draco said Draco was quick to react, hurling hexes and jinxes at the wizards with skillful precision. But it was too many attacking them, they couldn't move or reach one of the portals. "What do we do?" Emily screamed. Draco pushed her behind him letting go of her hand. Draco's heart raced as he tried to defend himself with spells, but the dark wizards were too strong for him. "Delubux incantante" Emily heard a voice in her head, soft and gentle yet commanding. It whispered a spell. Emily closed her eyes and repeated the incantation, feeling a surge of energy flow through her body. She wasn't sure of what she was doing, but stepping forward, with her hand in the air, she knew what she had to do. "Emily step aside" Draco demanded, but she couldn't hear him " Emily" he screamed again. But she kept walking, and without hesitation, Emily pointed her wand at the dark wizards and shouted the incantation, feeling a powerful surge of energy flow through her body. The air around her crackled with electricity as a bright light emanated from the tip of her wand, engulfing the three dark wizards in its radiant aura. She heard screams, her name, and a warm energy surrounding her body. When she opened her eyes again, the world had changed. The air crackled with electricity, and the wizards were frozen in their tracks. in her ear, all she could hear was a deep high peach sound, and her head spinning. her mouth dry and in a blink of an eye, she felt the strength of Draco dragging her across a portal. When the portal closed on the other end, she was in a forest, it was night, and Draco was right in front of her screaming. "How you do that?" he screamed "That is not something a simple human could do" he looked mad. "I don't know," she said Draco looked at her in despair, confused. "I don't know what happened" Emily looked a her hands, they were red and hurting. "What happened to me?" she said in tears. but Draco didn't have an answer all he could say was. "You are not human" he stepped aside "Then, who are you?

It isn't fair. You walked upon floors of shining gold and jewels, bathed in exotic spices and fragrant flowers. Your hands are as soft as silk, never daring to lift more than a silver spoon to coat your tongue with the honeyed fruits of my labor. Hatred swarms my blood as the flies that plagued my broken body do. My tears are the only water I can drink, bitter and burning against my lips. You will be immortalized within the palace walls; your porcelain body laid to rest. I will be a lump of dirt, a sacrifice to the Earth in hopes of a new life. You could not take the one thing you desired, the last of my possessions. My heart is still within my chest while yours stains my hands in lovely shades of fury. Yes, what a joyous sight it had been. You were as broken as I for a moment in time. Your castle was reduced to crumbling sand before me. I held what no other could begin to touch, and I had relished your pain as I destroyed it. I wiped your tears when your favorite jewel was sullied. You laughed as my spine broke under your pressure. I searched the lands for the finest leaves in which to make your tea; you would not spare a cup of water. Your lips boast of great adventures and the highest finery, your throat spewing lies with ease. You claimed the Earth was yours if you so wished, no thing could escape your grasp. When will you learn? I am more human than you. You are the one who has become a thing, a monster to prey on desperate souls. Pretty decoration to hide the blood in the cellar, no more use than a glistening rock. I am the ocean, sent to drown you. You filled your lungs with me, believing you could own me. Your hands grasped my waves, and I slipped through your fingers. I am the trees, I remember. Though my body may turn to dust my soul lives in the branches that saw your misdeeds. Take an axe to my bark and scream as I do not fall under your blade. I am the ground you wish to tread upon, daring to spit upon me. I watch as you fall through my cracks and laugh as your bones break upon my stones. You say there is no thing you cannot have, yet you forget I am not a thing. I am the fear that creeps down your neck, the hatred that sears your mind. Yes. Sit pretty within your beautiful walls, light your incense and pray to your gods. The gods refuse to hear you. No longer will my body be another unmarked grave, the only proof of your transgressions. No longer will your words destroy my mind as I beg for mercy on your golden floors. As I lay dying, I feel no fear. No sorrow, no regret. You took those emotions from me as I took your sanity. Do you still believe I am the one insane? Perhaps I am. Is that why I laughed as you broke? The way you had broken me? If I am insanity, then you are destruction. You destroyed every good thing in your path. I loathe you with every ounce of my being. I care not for a peaceful death; I wish for the world to mourn. I wish for the people to see the state of my corpse as I rot. The way you took every part of me. You took my eyes, so I could not see your wicked smile. You took my ears so I would not hear your evil schemes. You took my hands and feet so I could not run. You asked why I had not left if it was truly so bad, but where was I to go? Beyond your rose-colored windows only death awaited me. Dirty streets and groping hands. No family nor friend would open their doors, they believe these marks upon my soul were due to my own faults. Now, surely, you had learned your lesson. I had denied you my heart. Despite all your greed it is something you will never have, not even as you tried to cut it from my chest. Your anger was expected, if not welcomed. My choice in the matter taken as your gold and jewels could do nothing to stop the flow of fate. My blood stains your floors, my cries marked on the Earth. "It isn't fair." I had whispered to no one but myself. Now, your expression is priceless, your pain is beautiful. Is this what you felt? How truly drunk off of power I am as you fall before me, cries for mercy replacing your glittering lies. Oh, how sweet. I savor this. Your helplessness, your confusion. No promise of heaven nor threat of hell could compare, my bones dried in the earth yet my spirit standing before you. Burn me to ash, call your priests and hold your holy books for they mean nothing to me. Feel my brokenness, feel my death and drown in my blood. It isn't fair. How dare you walk where I once crawled, laugh where I once cried? Your glittering trophies adorn the walls that saw your sins. You drink of expensive alcohols that fuel your violence and laugh. How dare you? I lived as a broken shell, incapable of anything beyond surviving, and even that was stripped away from me. In life you escaped my revenge, your power over me steadfast. In my death I was given the power of the Earth and all her fury. I clawed my way back with every intent to rip your beating heart from your chest, and I did. No one will leave flowers for my grave, yet dahlias bloom beautifully, a symbol. A warning. You paid no mind, but I did. I refuse to have died for nothing. It isn't fair. I will drag you over your floors made with gold and jewels, choke you with your spices and flowers, tear you apart with your silver spoon. Then I can rest. Only then will it be fair.

Caution swearing. Read at you're own risk... I loved my new glasses. The thick black frames lounged on my nose. The plastic arms touched, not clutched. The lens allowed my peripheral vision to relax. My eyes watered a little but they had to no longer try, try real hard to read. I could even see a large protruding, unplucked hair on my upper lip! I did not have to rely so heavily on my tactile sense or memory, or my hearing to inform me of my blurry world. After drinking a couple of coffees and finding my last cigarette filter, from crawling on all Fours, under the Cain frame of chair, I rolled my defiant cigarette, without washing my hands, and lit it. With my phone balanced on my left thigh and right hand free, I typed Reedsy Prompts into Google search, then password then reveal. The deal with the Devil prompt amused me! I chuckled. Near the outdoor furniture, an unfinished painting wanted my attention. I gave it some! The thought of phthalos blue crusts under dissuaded me. The stuff stains and dries slowly and hard to scrub off and out. The colour is transparent- beautiful- like the tranquil sea in the afternoon kissed by the sun. It's the sort of colour one can paint happy fish in, or mermids- whatever- I wondered, did I want to spend a few hours writing a contentious story that would probably have the most righteous hitting my story and then sharing, to prove my unworthiness of having life and a different viewpoint. Also, then- there's the implications of some stupid person might go there, based on my supposition! Did I need to be responsible for that? Did I need all the Karen's stalking me and sucking my physical energy from their precipice of self righteous, rigid thinking? Looking up from my device, some sort of shadow seemed to forming in the corner of my right eye. As forementioned, my eyes were hypersensitive, learning, remembering, they had overworked and then upon recognition, telling my tactile sense it had over felt! My notification bar, pinged. It was not a loud ping, but my hearing had still not conditioned to its new status, as my etes and tactile sense forgot to pass on the consensus! I was able to easy read, a Spam email- "Sell your soul" Once again, I was amused and to further my own merriment, I read it! I always read T's & C's. They say a wise person learns from their mistakes! Well, I learnt after loosing several hundred dollars twice! Pussy-cat, seeing my mental focus, jumped for joy, squished my tummy and settled on my lap for a very reliable two hour sitting, or perhaps more? She always looked forward to that time- when I got passed the idea download, to a point of decisive action and then work. I guess any writer knows that sequence of ideas, of decisions and then real WORK! She widened eyes, at the expanding shadow, exhaling, muscles relaxing, purring, she happily welcomed sleep. One of the contract conditions was, "Write this week's Reedsy Prompt" I thought, "How fucking corny is that?" The other conditions sounded like a practical joke! By now, I realised that Reedsy was hacked! PING, another email, this time from Reedsy! "We have been hacked! The site will be down for twenty-fours hours, while we update and strengthen our firewalls. Sorry for the inconvenience!" I checked the Reedsy Prompts for this week, sent two days prior. Yes, there was one prompt called, "Making the deal with the Devil and unusual T's and C's..." When rethinking the generated Spam, I rolled my eyes, "Some smart asses out there!" I tightened my lips, now, what sort of T's and C's, the small print, would the Devil- if the Devil was real- Would (he) impose? And what would a person selling their soul want for such a cataclysmic idea?The notion of, THE Devil, singular, belongs to a paradigm. That notion of good and evil belongs to morals and the dogma- the daulistic third-dimensional reality. How could I write such a dinosaur idea? PING! This time, a Text! "Congratulations, Rose Lind you just sold your soul!" I was annoyed now! I'm really sick of hackers. I stayed cool when my phone company was hacked twice, taking all our personal data. I stay pleasant when having a few hours off work last month, lining up in huge serpentine lines, to apply for a new driver's licence. I shrugged my shoulders when the same phone company had an outage for twelve hours. I turned off the news, on my car radio, the uproar in Australia parliament as a result of the forementioned could be understood, some people had medical issues, businesses lost money, hospitals were out! I answered that texted, "Fuck off!" To my surprise another- PING- occurred! Email- "Compliance Communication! YOU HAVE VIOLATED CONDITION 15 (iii) " This was getting under my skin- I typed "Remind me please - " PING -another email! Breathing in and out a few times, I regained a quiet smile. The remaining muscle tension was channelled into a raised eyebrow! 'CONDITION 15 (iii), Thou shalt not swear!" I saw a contact tile at the bottom of the email and tapped it. On their site, I mocked, "Isn't the devil, the baddie? Isn't the devil the Jester?" Princess my customer service officer rolled, "..."- "..."- "..."- And finally an the automated thinking gave a reply, "I make the decisions, not you" I signed out. I really needed another coffee after that! But should I move and wake Jija, the cat? Would my normal musing writer ground to centre? I deliberately pressed both feet into the wet earth patch. It had rained yesterday and my feet were bare, as my old slippers in their dreary frumpy existence waited for their nightshift. I imagined roots going deep to earth's core. I imagined fire burning away the emails and texts natter- disappearing! Pussy-cat cat feeling the regained vibe, purred deeper in her dream. Her little paws flickered like she was running. Maybe she was chasing a butterfly, or a feather on a stick. I dont know? What I do know was she was happy! I began to type, "Read at you're own risk!" I looked at the funny swirling mist in front of me and continued, "If the Devil really existed outside of a pluristic irresponsible, protectory, transferring, persecutory, punishing paradigm, then (he) would be the exact opposite of good. I reasoned- Mmm, sooo- if there were T's & C's- they would be the opposite of what you- your lower self- youre mortal physical mind- would- umm- think of as good-" The mist turned to fluoro pink, green and blue! Persisting I wrote, "For example- You believe goodness is making your bed and ironing your clothes? Then you would be told to not make your bed every morning, or iron your clean clothes!" The annoyance of the Spam emails, texts etc returned to my mind, "So when you're dancing with Hell's domiciles, the talk of bed making every morning would be - leaving the sheets open allowing the sunlight and fresh air to destroy bacteria etc instead. OR- not ironing your clothes saves electricity and saves the Planet, thus, forcing the state of allowance, to see human vanity" I realised, I needed a disclaimer- "Be careful- The Unseen world can be dangerous! The Devil may not be real to me, but to you- it might be! Tread very, very carefully, naivete still has beautiful soft flesh and bones to become a yummy dinner for something looking at you from another dimension! Protect yourself with whatever you believe in. Live in the guidelines of what your believed protection asks. And keep a strong mind- good mental health! If you need help chose the professional help of the path you choose!" My phone rang, "Accept or Deny" tiles gave a choice- speak or be spoken to? I chose silence. It rang through to message bank! A sound of a smashing glass mirror removed the sunspot from my eyes! The played recorded message spoke in some unknown tongue. I pushed Google translate, "You're application denied. We believe- you don't believe!" Reedsy Site reappeared, I posted my boring story. 🐇

A misty, golden field of wheat, a periwinkle sky dotted with fluffy wisps of cotton. A light breeze ruffles the heads of wheat like an older brother ruffles the hair of a younger brother. Dotting this field of gold are random sparks of ruby and lilac. Rarer still are the shoots of emerald, blades and stems of support, defending the delicate petals as the mist comes to leave a chaste kiss. The sun, while it either rises or sets, as it is impossible to tell with no other landmarks visible, bathes the valley with iridescent beams of gentle beauty. There is some harshness here, as the brilliant beams cut through both mist and clouds. While surrounded by beauty and tranquility, there is an unshakable sense of dread. The stark contrast between the growing emotion, an unbridaled, rampaging beast seated in your gut, and the seemingly false sense of peace that permeates and drips off the surrounding landscape brings with it nausea. Suddenly the very earth is tilting and careening into an unforeseen oblivion, the anxiety a solid rock in your very fiber, your essence of self. All is very unwell, yourself overwrought with boiling, churning fear that rips up your insides as with hot knives. There is no peace for you here. Though you have not seen your tormentor, you know that he is here, torturing you even whilst in slumber. There is a fading glimmer of hope, perhaps tonight, you will wake before He shows himself. That you will not once again be forced to gaze on his likeness and drink the bitter cup of despair. The pain is unbearable, the dire anticipation of the evil that is certain to come draining away any semblance of vitality you once possessed. He is coming, with each step closer the life that once filled this humble place diminishes. The peace shattered, pierced in a manner that rivales the very sun. Even the light, once so warm, so inviting, has shriveled into a gray fog that clogs your nostrils, robbing you of your breath. Desperation, a clawing, frantic essence that possesses your very soul, seating itself, unbidden, into your heart. He is coming. Oh, for the sweet release of consciousness, the safety that rides the wings of the dawn. The precious relief of reality. There will be no salvation, He is close. There is no salvation to be found here, no deliverance from your fate. Your heart, as strongly as it had been beating before, seems to halt altogether. No matter how hard you try, your next breath will not come, as though your lungs have become concrete, filled in with gravel and dust, unable to function. Sweat, in large, acidic droplets, tear across your face. They sting your eyes, which are just now welling with tears that steal your vision. Suddenly, your muscles seize, frozen in an indescribable, primal fear. A horrible stench seeps into your very bones, corrupting you to the core. There is no escape from this fell torment, no relief to be found. Every night, for years, you have faced this demon alone. Each encounter brings with it the sinking realization that you are truly powerless, no comfort, no drug, no therapy can mount a defense against this monstrosity. He is here. There is no point in fighting it, resistance never yields any positive result. You learned long ago that any attempt to circumvent Him only delays the inevitable. There is no peace for you, no safety, no refuge to cower behind. The smell is so much worse now, rotting, infected flesh, bloated and green. Hot garbage is a pleasant perfume, a beautiful memory of days long past in comparison. The sounds, the godawful sounds. Like tossed bones in a wet, blood soaked leather bag, all sloshing around desperate to escape, free to bleach in the sun. Like when you step into a deep pit of thick mud, and try to lift your foot, only to lose your shoe to the suction, except you never leave that marsh. When He speaks, it is like gargling razors. A weak, lilting speech that makes your ears bleed, and eardrums burst, though even that does not cure your unease, and you hear him in your head. He is trying to take over, to control you as a mindless slave, bending and breaking you into his will. Shaping, molding your brain like putty with his words, which you cannot understand and are convinced are not any language heard in any mortal realm. He is upon you. His tendril-like fingers pierce your dwindling sanity, and he roughly spins you around to face him, holding you fast to his unflinching, unyielding gaze. There is silence now, but even that does not grant you solace. “I love you, Daddy.” This, this is what breaks you. You wake, tears streaming rivers into your cheeks, staining your pillow, as they have every night for the past thirty years. Not the terror, the insanity, the false sense of hope that all is right and everything is going to be okay. No, the endgame to your dread, the antithesis to your existence, is your dead son, who visits you in your sleep every night. He drowned, while you were at home with him. You’d taken a rare half day off of work, and went to create the best play day ever. Ice cream, water parks, go karts, and a movie while you put in the homemade pizzas to bake. You’d worked so much overtime lately, you must’ve dozed off. David, a rambunctious six year old with a love for all things water, had gotten a pool from you for his birthday, swimming lessons started the next day. He was a good kid, he usually listened, you’d filled up the pool for some last moments of fun after dinner, before the last sparkling rays of sun dwindled into nothing. You found him, facedown in the pool, an hour later, the pizzas burnt and smoke alarm blaring. It was so loud, it always made your ears hurt. You’d only just fallen asleep, the horror of what you saw never really kicked in until the funeral, when they laid that cold, unloving wooden box in the earth. There is no solace, no salvation to be found. Nothing can save you, nothing can grant you the relief that you’ve yearned for. Grief is a funny thing. They say that time heals all wounds, but you know that to be a lie. You know the real truth. Time is a merciless teacher, that shows people the secret of falsehood. The fake smiles at work, the sympathetic glances of coworkers, the oh poor so and so’s. The lonely nights, the empty days. The gloom that not even the dawn can shatter. It never gets better, but when you break down every night, you become an expert of building yourself back up, though it’s never quite right. You are cursed to long for peace, that will never come, not completely. Eventually, you change, and long for the release of a permanent unconsciousness, as the hope rekindles the flame in your heart, that one day, you will finally meet again.

“You can kick and scream all you want baby, but this ship is going dooown!” The demon howled joyfully as old-man-Ed scrambled on the floor of the empty McDonalds kitchen, like a fat rat having a stroke. By now, all his employees have escaped onto the streets. Not one wasting a second to help their obese abusive manager, who has been trapped in the inside of his fast food restaurant - at a very inconvenient time. “What the fuck is happening!?” Ed belched out between his fat lips. His round cheeks shined red below his forehead, dripping profusely of sweat. The panic and confusion towards the chaos erupting around him made him break out in pools of secretion. That, and the gigantic crack in the kitchen floor that seemed to have split open the earth beneath the shopping mall, omitting waves of heat that licked the surface. “My sweet baby Ed, it’s the final day - yeaaah! End of timesss, tribulation period over. D-Day is finally happening. Rapture ya- know?” The demon danced around the man and hopped onto the yellow counter to make himself comfortable with a fat cigarette and a pink milkshake. “Apocalypse now and all that fun stuff, you know?” Ed’s striped beige shirt was ripped open on the top, exposing a gold chain wrapped in curly chest hair. Some casualty buttons laid scattered across the dirty white tiles, while he fanatically clutched at his torso, breathing fast and heavy. “Who the fuck are you!?” he spat out, frightened at the site of this unnatural looking human creature, who had the face of an angel but topped with two small horns protruding from his soft locks of brown hair. His athletic body was dressed in the snazziest midnight blue suede suit. He also flaunted a pair of golden boots with black tips to finish off his ‘end-of-the-world-outfit’. “Moi?” The demon whirled his wrist in the air with a big smile. “I’m no one you should be concerned with right now. But, by the looks of it sweet-cheeks, we’ll be spending a lot of time with each other very sssoon. For all the getting-to-know-you-you-getting-to-know-me chitchats in the world” He happily replied. “Rather, you should be focused on more important things like the choices you’ve made throughout your life.” He blew a puff of smoke into the air. “What the fuck are you talking about!” Ed shouted in pain, “why is my leg disappearing?” “It’s not.” “Yes. Yes, it is I can feel it!” Ed tried to reach for the bottom of his left pant to lift up to see what’s going on, but his big belly pushed him back down on his back while the demon just slurped his shake and smiled. “And my eye! It’s. It’s going grey! I can’t see through it” he clasped his hand tightly over his left eye, hoping the pressure would stop the feeling that it was slowly being pulled out. The demon gave a satisfying burb and mumbled about how he missed the sweet taste of strawberries. “You see babes, today is all about the sssoul.” The demon dragged his long finger down his chest in a sensational manner while he licked his lips enthusiastically. “Today we’re all about finding out where our souls belong.” He winked. Ed let go of his eye and started to hit his head with the palm of his hand and commanded himself to wake up. “Wake up!” He yelled hysterically, “This is all a bad dream! Wake up!” “Oh, don’t be so dramatic” The demon tipped his cigarette ash on his chest. “This is just it. It’s every bad, selfish, fuckt-up thing you’ve ever done, comes down to this day.” He slurped some more, “But what makes you so special - why I had to really fight and beg to be the one to escort you back, is that near-death experience you had 10 years ago.” Ed’s eyebrows furrowed as he gulped like a goldfish out of water. “Don’t you remember sweet angel?” The demon’s ferret-like eyes closely observed his victim’s reaction and took another long drag. Ed remained quiet and pushed himself back up against the opposite counter, eyeing any options to escape. “You don’t remember, do you?” “Of course I do!” Ed snapped back, which made the demon grin. “It was that beautiful quiet night in September 2010 when you lied to your wife about a work function in Joburg,” air quoting the work function part, “But as I recall magoshas don’t do very well in giving strategic feedback on annual reports. Ha! More like anal reports. Am I right?” He winked and laughed. Ed snarled at him while he noticed sharp pains shooting through his back. “Sho, tough crowd” the demon smirked. “Anywhoo. Despite your colleagues telling you over and over again to not drive home, you ssstill insisted. Heck! You could barely hold your own balls up to shit straight. But noooo, you are big man Ed.” The demon mocked in gorilla-like voice. “And so, you got into your SUV, piss drunk, and sped down the M1 just to fall asleep at the wheel.” He licked his lips again, waiting for a reaction. “You woke up in the ICU the next day with half your body obliterated, remember?” He lingered again on the last part. “What do you want!?” Ed screamed hysterically. “Nothing really. I’m here for you baby.” Ed tried to get up, but gravity pulled his bowels back down and forced him to sit where he was and listen. “So!” The demon continued cheerfully. “What you chose to forget about that night is that you brutally killed a whole family, right? A sweet mother and a caring father to a baby boy and a 3-year-old girl. So pure, so innocent.” With those words he hopped off the counter and hunched down to meet Ed at eye level, his golden boots kicked open his legs to sit as close as he could - face to face. Ed could smell the sulfur breath and noticed a different gleam in the demon’s eyes as he stared into his soul. “But did it matter?” The demon asked softly. Ed gulped hard and tried to avoid making eye-contact. “Yes, actually!” The demon answered himself and bounced back up on the counter as if he was performing a hilarious skit at a children’s show. “Because ssince you were in need of a new eye socket, kidney and left bottom leg, the miracle of modern medicine and a convenient pile of dead family members - thanks to you of course - were able to transfer the parts to you. Did you know that? Ha! What a miracle that they had what you needed?” He smiled wide like a panting dog. “And you didn’t even get in trouble for that oopsie on the highway, did you? Just paid the man and made it all go away - you sssneaky snake you. I may learn a thing or two.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ed replied. “Oh. Well focus now honey, because this is important. You’re quite special since this was not the only transplant you’ve had, is it?” Ed grappled at his chest again. “Noo, you also have a new heart in you?” He giggled, “Because Mr.Tubby-wubby couldn’t control his brandy and coke intake, could he?” Ed moaned when he tried to move again but the tiles cracked underneath him as if an invisible force was pulling something inside him down. “Oh wait!” The demon exclaimed with a finger in the air. “That’s right, I just remembered what you told your brother the other day.” He cleared his throat and started to speak. But the voice that came out sounded exactly like Ed’s. “The only time a kaffer was useful is when this one died and gave me a new heart.” He even tapped his chest the same way Ed did when he joked about his new transplant from the African donor. The fat man screamed for help, but the demon just smiled and waited. In the demon’s own calm voice, he continued: “Fun fact, that donor was a doctor. Did you know that? One of those Doctors-Across-Borders type of guys, who sacrificed their lives for the sake of others. . . No matter what race or gender. I know, too fancy for my taste as well.” He smirked. “Oh, go fuck yourself!” Ed exclaimed. “Sweet baby, that’s the spirit!” The demon whooped like a drunk girl in a limousine. “It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there like you always say!” Ed finally slumped down completely on the floor, and felt his body being ripped apart in the different places where he had surgeries. Even though he couldn’t see anything happening he could feel the pain shredding through him as the invisible force tore into his insides. “Oh snap! Sorry sugar-tits! I forgot to tell you, silly me.” The demon got up onto the counter and paced it proudly like an actor in the spotlight. “I’m here is to tell you that our souls are sowed into every fiber of our bodies. Neat hey? So, it’s the rapture as you should have figured out by now, and that means it’s time for souls to travel to their final destination. Choo-choo!” The demon laughed hard. “You being you, of course - the oh so important Ed-magoo - means parts of you obviously don’t belong to you or here. And definitely don’t belong where you’re going. These parts, these foreign pieces of other people’s sweet souls, are returning to their rightful and righteous owners.

Any feedback on this first chapter of this short story is welcome. I just want to see if this is worth continuing writing or not. Thanks! Chapter 1: There’s nothing out here anymore. Occasionally we’ll pass a car or two pulled off to the side of the road, but for the most part, it’s just fields and hay bales. We’re headed to Rainwood, North Carolina. Supposedly, there’s a safe haven there. My shotgun’s in the back seat, and I’m holding onto my pistol, only because David told me that you can’t ever be too careful out here. You never know when you’ll come up on something that can take your life in an instant. Especially if you’re in the situation we’re in now. Our gas tank is empty, and our car is stopped, dead. David turns to me. “Alright,” he says as he unbuckles his seatbelt and grabs his gun from behind him, “let’s go.” I reach back, grab my gun, and put my pistol back in the holster on my hip. Luckily for us, there’s a several car pile-up on the highway about thirty yards from where we are. Maybe we can find some supplies, some gas, or even better, another car. David slings his gun over his shoulder, and I do the same, and we begin to walk. The silence, aside form the slight buzzing of insects around us, is comforting. It makes me feel safe, like I know were alone out here. Like *they* aren’t one step behind us everywhere we go. When we arrive at the jam, David immediately tells me to start searching the abandoned cars for supplies. He walks to the semi-truck about a quarter mile away from me, and I begin searching the cars in front of me. There’s about nine or ten here, so it shouldn’t take too long. Or at least that’s what I thought until I opened the back seat of the first car. I stop, frozen in my tracks, staring. Toy cars, a teddy bear, a baby’s car seat... all covered in an unnatural amount of blood. I can feel tears welling up in my eyes, and even though it’s hard not to, I can’t cry. I have to be strong, or, at least pretend I am for David. I don’t want him to think I’m weak, or that he has to always protect this “innocent girl.” What the hell happened to the world though? “Stop.” I tell myself. “Stop questioning. It’s over. The damage has been done.” David always tells me that you can question all you want, but questioning isn’t going to get you anywhere. You just need to deal with the circumstances the way they are. So I need to let this one go, as fucked up as it is. This can’t be our fault like the preacher on the radio said though, can it? He said, and I quote, “Sinners. You, your friends, your family, all of you. You are the cause. You’ve brought this on to yourselves. Almighty God has judged you, and this... this is your punishment.” No, this can’t be my... our fault. There’s no way we can be blamed for the state of the world now. But when someone pins the blame on you like that, you feel bad. You feel bad for the death, the innocence, and the heartache that the world has come into. “David?” I call out, and he answers almost immediately, “Yeah?” “Come help me search the rest of these cars.” I say, and he walks to where I am. As he arrives, he sees the car seat and toys, and I can tell that he feels just the same as I do about it. “Keep looking.” He tells me. “I got this one.” I can tell he doesn’t want it, the sadness is in his voice, but as I walk away, I’m thankful that he’s there for me. I’m glad I don’t have to look through the mess in that car anymore, though I can’t help feel bad for him. I walk to a Nineteen-Seventy’s looking pick-up truck, and peek over the edge of the bed to see if there’s anything worth taking. A toolbox. That could be good for something, you never know. I hop in to the bed of the truck and look at the small metal box in front of me, hoping, just hoping that there’s something useful in it. As I open the lid, I glance at David, now searching some sort of two-thousand’s SUV. He’s got the same serious, concerned look on his face that he always wears. I look back down at the box, now open, to see a pistol with two boxes of nine millimeter ammo next to it. The next thing out of my mouth is a cheer. “Shhh!” I hear David from behind me. He’s right. Those things, the dead, could be anywhere. I cover my mouth with both hands. “Sorry!” I say in a whisper, and wave at him to go back to his business. In the normal world, back before the outbreak started and the virus spread, it was just some stories on the news. ‘Ya know, “A man viciously attacked another man at So-and-So Mall today, taking a bite out of his flesh...” or “So-and-So Prison was quarantined today after several inmates killed and ate two of the guards, displaying the same symptoms of those infected in Asia, Europe, Australia, Mexico, and America...” But after a while, things got more serious. The CDC called it a virus, religious groups called it the wrath of God, and apocalypse nuts called it the zombie apocalypse. Whatever it was, it spread like wildfire. Soon enough, ninety-percent of the world’s population (or, so reported the World News) was infected, and there really wasn’t any hope of a cure, or survival at all for that matter. The army moved in and they were overrun almost immediately by the infected. Civilians were told to stay indoors and wait for help, though it never came. Bombs were dropped on the streets, cities were devastated, highways piled up, and people were killed. So now we’re here. David and I could be some of the last living people on the planet. The rest are either dead or turned into those monsters. So we just try to survive. That’s our goal. Survival. Naturally, when we heard word of a safe house in Rainwood, we thought it was the best possible thing that we could do for ourselves, considering that, prior to this, we set up shop in the storm cellar of a farm house, living off of 1 can of sardines a day, split between the two of us. You could say it was pretty hard for the first couple of weeks. I pull the pistol out of the box, but immediately retract my hand when I feel what I know see is a sticky clear substance, kind of like saliva covering the handle. I don’t want to think about what that is or why it’s on this gun, so I just pull out my bandana and wipe the handle off. As I put the two boxes of ammo in my backpack and the gun in my belt, I hear David yell, “Sarah, we’ve gotta’ go, now!” Quickly, I stand to my feet and look toward where he’s yelling from, but I don’t see him anywhere. To my surprise, however, what I do see are the brake lights of a silver minivan. I hop out of the bed of the truck almost to excitedly, and run toward the van. I open the door, and sit it the seat trying to catch my breath. “Tank’s full.” David says, and I turn to him, smiling. He smiles back, and begins to drive. This is the first good thing that’s happened to us since this all began. As David drives, he asks me if I’ve found anything valuable. Without a word, I smile and pull out my backpack. “What?” He says with a chuckle. I know he’s going to like this. First, I pull out the gun and hand it to him. “Nice! Jericho nine-forty-one. This is good.” He says happily. “That’s not all buddy.” I say as I pull out both boxes of ammo. “What? Are you kidding me? This is awesome!” he says even more excitedly than before. He smiles and so do I. It feels so good to know he’s proud of me. Ever since this all started, and ever since I met him, he’s been the only person I’ve had, so it’s good to know that at least someone is. And that’s it, we’re back on the road again. We’ve got a good ten-hour car ride ahead of us. That’s four and a half states to cross through, and that’s only if everything goes smoothly. Rainwood, here we come.

Primis was playing with his legos when his mother called him through the dome speaker. “Primis!” yelled his mother with a fair bit of static. “Dinner’s ready!”. He was almost finished with the lego set his dad gave him last Christmas. Slightly faded with some pieces missing, it was one of the lego sets his dad played with as a child growing up on Earth. Carefully placing the remaining pieces at the front of his bed, he heard the howling sandstorm that had been engulfing the planet for the past two weeks. The high pitched, sometimes shrieking, sounds frightened him as a child. Not anymore. He had grown accustomed to the noises, finding them soothing as he slept. “Coming!” he yelled leaning close to the speaker. He sprinted out the room, through his transport tube, and into the kitchen where his mother was preparing dinner. Freeze-dried spaghetti with canned broccoli. No surprises there. Ever since his parents left Earth, they have grown accustomed to the limited, sometimes flavor-less, cuisine that was available on the planet. Primis’s parents took part in the last phase of the final migration to Mars from Earth, a now desolate planet. His mother, two months pregnant on departure, became the first woman to give birth on the red planet. Primis belonged to a new class of Martian born humans, humans that have never known life without a spacesuit or decompressed space domes. He often wondered what life was like for children growing up on Earth. He would get lost in the stories his dad would tell him of summer trips to the beach, trailblazing through snowy mountains, or backyard barbecues. “Not hungry?” his mother asked after seeing him play with his food. “He must be daydreaming again” replied his father showing a hint of annoyance. His parents had just returned from a full day trip to the Jezero Crater, spending most of the day looking for rare ores and metallics. As a former marine biologist who spent most of his life on the ocean, his father struggled to adapt to his new profession of “rock collecting” as he called it. “I’m just not hungry Mom” replied Primis, still swirling his food. “Can I be excused?”. His mother let out a sigh then looked up at his father. Rolling his eyes, he nodded to his mother. “Yes, but make sure you clean up that mess of Legos before bed. I had to pick them up all over the room last time after work”. Primis gave her a small smile and started carrying his dish to the kitchen sink. “Hey bud” his dad said with a more benevolent tone. “Guy from work got me another copy of National Geographic if you wanna take a look. It was one of the final issues before, you know” his dad paused to not bring up the migration again. “I left it on your bed. It’s all about deep sea diving with neat pictures of Phylum Chordata, you know uh, rare fish and sharks.” “Thanks dad” Primis, more elated now, started walking out of the kitchen. As soon as he was out of the view of his parents, he picked up his pace with anticipation. He loved these magazines. He would spend hours at his bed getting lost in the close up images of Dwarf Puffer Fish and Sawsharks. As he was sprinting down the space dome hallway, he caught a bright reddish light coming from one of the windows. Slowing down, he neared the window and smiled. He knew exactly what it was. It was the unmanned space vessels taking off one by one. He knew that these exact ships would soon be landing on Earth. They would fly right over those oceans his dad always talked about. These were the last missions back to the home planet, completely unmanned and automated. These vessels were tasked with gathering the last precious resources left on the desolate planet. With the sandstorm still raging outside, Primis made his way back to his room. Pushing the remaining legos under his bed, he collapsed and sunk his head deep into his pillow. He let out a sigh. Leaning slightly forward, he picked up the magazine his dad left him by his feet. Deep Blue Sea: Creatures Of The Unknown. Unknown indeed he thought. Skimming the magazine he knew these fish and sharks would always be what they are, ink on paper. He knew that where those ships were going is where you could truly experience what Earth was like. Remnants of the past. Where those ships were going. He kept repeating this in his head. He knew that he’d most likely spend the rest of his life on Mars, especially as NASA recently postponed the Solar System Exploration program due to budget cuts. Mars was the end destination for most people. “This is it” he said out loud. “This is my chance”. He knew the unmanned vessels would be a perfect way for him to see where he truly came from. Earth, up close and personal. Since the launchpad was only two miles from his family’s space dome, he could traverse through the sandstorm under cover, and sneak onboard the vessel before a scheduled launch. Completely undercover, completely undetected. The idea of having no helmet and staring out into the ocean made his heart race. He wondered how the fresh pure air would feel on his lungs as he breathed it in. He became lightheaded and stood up in his bed. He walked over and sat down at his desk. He knew his parents wouldn’t take it well, especially his dad. He really didn’t want them to worry and told them that he’d only be gone a few months. More importantly, he told them he knew which necessary supplies to take and that food was not an issue. He knew these vessels were used during the final migration and had enough food to feed fifty people on one mission. Feeling confident, he thought his parents had trained him well, well enough to complete a round trip mission by himself. He took a deep breath in. He was ready. “Love Primis” he concluded his note. An empathetic thought of the sadness his parents would feel crossed his mind. He knew his parents would not be happy and would worry endlessly about him. He planned to send them frequent transmissions to keep them informed of his well being. He thought over time they would understand. He envisioned himself describing his adventures back at the dinner table and imagined how excited his dad would be. After all, this is the home planet his parents longed to return to, just as much as he did. He started packing his backpack with clothes, his lego set, and few issues of National Geographic, including the new one that his dad had given him. The journey back to Earth would take a few months so he’d need some form of entertainment. The magazine would be a reminder of what was to come, and what to look forward to when he arrived. He never once thought about being alone - it’s something he’d grown accustomed to, spending hours, days, and years in his room within his family’s space dome. It’s all he ever knew. As he zipped his backpack shut, Primis started to feel something he’d never felt before. A sudden rush of euphoria and excitement. He was doing it. He carefully placed his note in the center of his desk and quietly closed his door behind him. He inched his way through his transport tube and back into the kitchen. He saw the dirty dishes lying in the sink, the faucet dripping, and the light shining through the crack underneath his parents bedroom. His dad would stay up reading the same magazines until he fell asleep, always dreaming about his life back home and the days he spent on the ocean. I’ll bring something back for him, Primis thought. He entered the code to the airlock and stepped inside to grab his spacesuit. He took one look back at the light under his parents bedroom door and put on his space helmet. He grabbed his backpack, adjusted the strap, and took one final deep breath in. He pressed the seal latch to enter the payload bay and took his first step out onto Mars’s terrain. He was suddenly hit with a strong gust of wind that nearly knocked him off his feet. He could barely see in front of him and used his arm to shield some of the sand blowing in front of him. He had only ever been outside during a sandstorm once with his father, when they ran late returning from a NASA training seminar. Luckily, he was able to keep his balance, hold onto his backpack, and slowly started to move forward step by step. He was slowly walking towards the bright red light of vessels taking off in the distance. The gusts of wind only seemed to get more intense after each step. It was like the wind was on a mission to knock him to his feet. Struggling to maintain his balance, he forgot to look up to see if he was going in the right direction. Starting to panic, he looked left and right and even behind him. He was unsure of his exact location and was not able to see his family’s space dome anymore. Primis began to breathe more heavily and heard the elevated heart rate warning go off in his spacesuit. He picked up his pace, now ignoring the fact that he was losing his balance with each step. What am I doing out here, he thought. Realizing that he might have made a mistake, he felt a sudden thump on his helmet and fell backwards on his back. Regaining his sense of surrounding, he looked up to see what he had hit. Through the thickness of the sand, he was able to make out two steel bars that led up into the thickness of the storm. The vessel ladder. He realized he had run right into one of the vessels without even seeing it. This must be one of the last vessels to be leaving tonight, he thought. He grabbed a hold of the ladder, took the first step, and started climbing. After climbing a few steps, he started to see the vessel in its entirety. On the front of the ship, he made out the giant logo plastered behind a white backdrop: *NASA - Mars Exploration, Vessel #4523*. These were the same reusable rockets that took the last humans from Earth. Now, it will be able to take another human back home for one last visit. He reached the passenger access hatch, turned the handle, and pushed it open. To avoid setting off any alarms, he quickly pushed himself inside the vessel, turned around and pulled the hatch shut. Catching his breath and letting his heart rate settle, he removed his helmet and laid it beside him. Looking around he could see the old instruction signs from the previous missions. As he got to his feet, he heard an automated message over the loudspeaker: “T-minus 10 minutes until launch” Realizing how close he had cut it to launch, he knew he needed to secure himself before liftoff. He had not actually been on one of these vessels before but followed the instructional signs to the passenger section of the ship. For the previous missions, most people had never even been to space. NASA did it’s best at trying to provide guidance on what to expect and how to properly operate aboard a spacecraft. Embarrassed about how little he knew, he found the signs and instructions helpful. He followed the signs into the passenger seating area and placed his backpack underneath one of the seats. He sat towards the back of the passenger area so he could get a good look out of one of the oval shape windows. “T-minus 2 minutes” . Feeling anxious and excited, he closed his eyes and took another deep breath in. He looked back out the window and could make out the lights of certain space domes in the distance. “10 seconds remaining”, echoed the loud speaker. Before he knew it, he was being propelled through Mars’s atmosphere, feeling the force of the rocket engines on his entire body. It was a level of intensity he never experienced before. I think I’m going to be sick, he thought. After a few minutes of fighting his nausea, everything suddenly got quiet. He knew he had reached Mars’s upper atmosphere and was now officially on the start of his journey. He loosened his seat strap and adjusted his spacesuit to get a better view out the window. It was the first time he could see Mars as a whole. The red barren planet, his birth planet. He turned away from the window and smiled. He was going back, he thought. Back to the home planet and for that he was grateful.

I was looking at this sub's stats trying to get an idea of what does and doesn't do well here (each community is different) and chuckled when I saw the "Top Keywords" which are qualified as "The keywords that are most often used on this subreddit in particular, **relative to the global frequency of that keyword**." 1. gestured (898.8) 2. barked (652.1) 3. dimly (652.1) 4. chimed (480.7) 5. creaking (476.6) 6. beamed (476.6) 7. gleaming (459.8) 8. hurried (459.8) 9. groaned (426.4) 10. lunged (412.1) 11. fluttering (401.3) 12. blurted (376.2) 13. leaped (376.2) 14. ached (358.3) 15. sprinted (340.4) 16. lingered (329.2) 17. strewn (322.5) 18. sobbed (313.5) 19. shriek (304.6) 20. blankly (301) In a recent rereading of one of my novellas, I noticed I'd used "gesture" (or "gestured") 3 times. The uses aren't near each other so I think I only noticed it because I read the whole thing very quickly due to nearly no pauses to make notes or edits. r/shortstory's "Top Keywords" isn't all that similar to this sub's. "Gestured" is #2 there right behind "patted" which didn't make the list at all on r/shortstories. I'm not saying these words are bad to use or anything like that. But this metric drew my attention to the fact these words appear more frequently in short stories than they do in the rest of Reddit.

Imagination was outlawed in Steel City. It was as simple as that. Only the mention of the god-forsaken word could get you in trouble. This meant no bedtime stories, no creative games at breaktime and no fun. The Higher-ups' reasoning was simple; order as opposed to chaos, productivity instead of laziness, work instead of procrastination. So it was in a city like this that Jones woke up to, stone-faced and expressionless. Yet little did he know that this afternoon he would embark on an adventure that would change his city and himself forever. He would discover... Beep Beep Beep The deafening silence woke him up, and he yawned once, twice. As was routine. As was allowed. Marching downstairs in thirteen seconds, he sat down to breakfast. The familiar greeting of, "Morning, morning. Any dreams last night?" from his dad was what he heard first, and he saw the breakfast table lined with the necessary food; cereal, toast and water. Nothing better to start the day. "Not really," was the scripted response, the same each time. He sat down at the table and munched on some toast, ready to be reviewed. "So... You spent 12.87 seconds getting down here. A new record!" A half hearted smile plastered on his face, Jones resumed nibbling on the food and responded, "Yes father. I am proud of my record and will continue to strive for greatness." His father, one of the respected Higher-ups, had started training his son earlier. A thing would be unheard of if he did not possess such a title. Yet he did, and Jones developed quickly, outsmarting those in his schooling work. This was a mistake. Everyone was equal here. Everyone had the same abilities. Everyone had the same opportunities. Everyone was the same. And so it was written on the front gates of Steel City, named after the ore it was built on. It stood great and proud, as if a concentration camp (although this was - of course - never discussed) exactly the same height as the other cities. They had the exact same amount of letters. Saturn City. Spider City. Smiley City. All had the same letter too. So did the citizens. There was John, Jenny, Junifer, Junior (although this one was looked down upon) and Jannet. All the same. All the same. Yet Jones was different. Not that he liked to admit this fact to anyone. He seemed ordinary. Was ordinary in the eyes of all. Even his father. But he had one particular quirk that was undeniable... ... He dreamt. Dreaming was never discussed in Steel City, aside from the morning routine. It was prohibited, punishable even. Nobody dared speak of imagination. However, Jones' father had made a mistake. A crucial mistake. He repeated sentences so much to poor Jones that he was bound to repeat them back, without questioning their meaning. One day, at school, he had said the following, "I'm starving." Obviously, his teachers had scolded him, correcting him. "You're not starving, God forbid, you're hungry. Repeat after me..." And so he did. Every day. For the rest of his life. Until today. Jones recalled the dream with a tinge of joy. He had been flying across the sky, the vast collage of blue his canvas. He would paint on it, his own presence. He towered above all others, and was the master of flight. He was like a bird. Free from the compound and chains of life, the shackles of society. He was air-borne. Of course, he did not say these things to his father. To think of the shame! Instead, he finished his morning breakfast, and right on the chime of the bell that resounded across the city, he opened the door of his home. As did the rest of the citizens, perfectly on time. Aside from one. One dared disrupt the serenity of Steel City. Immediately, guards sprinted up to him, delivering a hasty blow to the head with a club. The man cried out, not used to the burning pain that now flooded across his body. As was routine, all citizens nearby watched and egged the guards on. Shouts of, "Get em!" echoed across the town. It was the one time everyone was allowed to express the true nature of the human spirit, declare their differences without being punished. Jones excitedly retold the event at his school, whispering the news to all that would listen. His friend Jessica eagerly listened, and opened her mouth wide before snapping it back shut. "Then blood trickled down his neck, and he lay dead across the floor!" "Wow. That must have been exciting." "It was..." This would be a story retold for generations to come, all throughout his family. As would the story his father had passed on, of a builder who trapped his hand in machinery and had it snapped clean of. Violence was sensational to these people. Annual fights were hosted for all to come to watch. It was a phenomenon! Victors took their prize money, and gladly donated it to the Higher-ups, tallying it up in the national competition. Steel City was always number one. It was how the city proudly presented itself, so high up on the podium. High in the sky. Perhaps as high as Jones in his dream. He recalled it now, vivid in his mind, nearly as vivid as the violence he had viewed. Would he dare tell Jessica? No. Nobody must know. He marched in perfect strides to the science labs. Today, he will be learning about animals. 'Such a funny sounding name,' he thought. "Indeed," exclaimed Jacob, their tutor. Jones had not realised that his tutor was using a reading device. Reading devices were used to read someone's mind, as if a book (although the people of Steel City did not know what a book was). It enabled others to access your thoughts. For a split moment, Jones feared the worst. Had Jacob overheard his fantasies about his dream? But the tutor swept by, his dark cloak nearly folded behind his back, and assessed students on their illustrations of chameleons. "These wonderful creatures..." he began... " "Sorry, sir. Define creatures." It was Jessica. "Creatures refers to an animal with an unusual ability. This one, as if it was about to explain, can camouflage themselves. Does anyone know what this word means?" John, the smartest member of their class, answered. "Yes, my mother told me. She works on the outside..." He has proudly repeated this fact many times. "It means it can change colour based on its surroundings." A smug smile appeared on his face, correct yet again. He was always correct, and also the son of Jacob. No doubt had their tutor explained the answers to his precious child beforehand, so that he would have an advantage over the rest of the class. Such bribes were common in Steel City. So common in fact, the guards did not bother outlawing it. It happened, nobody complained, and nobody prevented it. It was as simple as that. When class had finished, the students promptly set out for break. They would not be allowed to play. Instead, it was a common sight for students to study in their spare time. It was what they came to school for, after all. Why not task themselves with completing homework? Yet Jones got curious, and ventured toward the outer edge of Steel City. A crack. In the wall. Jones braced himself, took a deep breath, and stepped outside the wall for the first time ever. For once, he would begin imagining to imagine.

Throughout the annals of history, many facts are long forgotten, or were never recorded at all. This can be very accurate when regarding the time us humans were only lurking in caves. Though it is quite unfortunate to think so, there are many tales of hardships in every corner of the world never going to be told. Cultures, traditions, sunk by the rising tide. Deities and beliefs comprise a major portion of these old bygones. One deity, an old deity, the first deity, was forgotten almost sixty thousand years ago in the lands of Eastern Europe. Yes, the first god. No name was given for him; people of this time had no use of names yet. Our first ever belief of a higher power, conjured up in some tiny village. It was near the beginning of winter. His village of worshippers had yet to supply enough for the season. They couldn’t hunt animals; it wasn’t the way he taught them. They were farmers, not slaughterers. So, his people, despite the dire consequences that’ll develop, will only eat the supplies of vegetation they could gather in time before winter. Many kept their hopes up, believing their god will help them in their inevitable struggle in the snow, but some in their community had their doubts. Winter came, and the harsh storms targeted their village. They snuggled inside their huts. The outside was now a trap of white blindness and frost they couldn’t enter. The people stayed in their beds, resting and eating whatever food that was supplied to them. That was their regular routine during all this season: waking, eating, then sleeping. One girl from the village woke up early. She yawned and grabbed inside the nearest basket of rations she’s had for store, and felt nothing. It was empty. She looked inside other baskets, but like that one, they had nothing inside. She had to think of a plan, so she wore the cloths of her bed around her, and headed out in the blizzard. She approached the home of her neighbors, asking for any bit of leftovers they might have. But they had nothing, just like her. For the sake of the neighbors’ child, they joined her into asking people from other homes. Once again, the next huts had no food. The entire village had nothing, they would all find out. Two months and the villagers consumed the remaining batches of provisions. Yet, the people remained vigilant, for their beloved god. But their vigilance in this belief would only further their desperation. Days and days went by. Their methods growing increasingly hopeless. Without a healthy source of food, people from the village usually had to go outside and pick anything edible from bushes and trees. Sometimes, they went outside and picked out the grass from the snow and swallow it. Other times, they’d actually swallow the snow itself. Ingesting this snow would be their main cause of sickness. They were hungry before, now they were starving. One man from the village reserved most of his meals for his younger brothers and sisters during the initial winter. He was now a pale, hungering sight of a man by the end of it. He lied motionless on his bed, he seemed almost dead. His eyes were shutting. He was using up any might he had left in his system to fight off the darkness encumbering him, but without anything to bite, sooner or later, he will pass. His siblings sob by the bedside, and meanwhile, a snow rabbit appears on their doorstep. An idea lighted up in their heads. They grab the rabbit by the neck, and look around for a pointy stick. They stabbed the rabbit in its forehead, and offered it to their dying brother. He was horrified by what he saw. At first, he refused to do such a blasphemous thing in front of what they cared so much for, a divinity whose enlightening practices made them such a wonderful and civilized people in his eyes. But the man feels the burning, excruciating pain of desire and hunger. Whether he liked it or not, or whether his god liked it or not, he had to consume the rabbit, for his own survival. He held the rabbit gently, as respect for the innocent little life his siblings took, then he munches on the rabbit like a savage with his bare teeth. From this one moment hinging on his life, he broke the codes his god applied. From a spark of miracle, perhaps from their own deity, the blizzard storm slowly but gradually waned down. It was still not a suitable terrain for farming, but it was suitable for hunting. They had to act quickly. They were no time for debating. This was the only chance they’ll get to make it through the winter. There’s no telling when the blizzard will strike again. The men, women, children, and even the elderly grabbed spears, rocks, and anything remotely resembling a weapon and moved out. They butchered every living creature stumbling in their way: rabbits, racoons, foxes, fishes, birds, and stags. Their old limited way of livelihood was futile and fruitless, they now believed. Ever since that one winter, they stroke out to never fool themselves ever again. The people despised their god for the many families they lost on that winter. In time, the memory of this deity faded, blending in with the dust. The first symbol of a higher power created and the first one forgotten. The first of many.

The longest journey of Marigold's life was four flights of stairs and a corridor. She came home early from work one morning due to a neighbourhood electricity failure. Marigold, a psychology student, was glad of it, because it gave her extra time to progress with her thesis, "Creative Repression as a Mechanism Against Trauma". She knew that she'd probably have a nap first though. Maybe watch a movie. Marigold's mother liked to say that the psychology of procrastination would have been a more appropriate subject for her to cover. Home was apartment 7 on the second floor of a three-storey private building, too large to be a house and too small to be a block of flats. Marigold liked the place very much. Mr. Bailey, the landlord, kept the front garden well-kept and she particular liked the thick vines of ivy growing up the front of the building, passing her bedroom window. For some reason it made her happy every time she saw it. She'd only been there a couple of months, but those neighbours she'd met were friendly, and Mr. Bailey, a small, busy old man who always wore four shiny medals on the lapel of a spotless blazer, lived in a unit on the ground floor himself. Marigold pushed through the front doors and was looking down into her handbag, rooting for her buried keys, as she arrived at the first flight of stairs. A polished shoe entered her vision. Marigold looked up saw Mr. Bailey and gave an in-motion smile/hi as she passed. The phrase "boys and their footballs" popped into her head from nowhere, which was random enough to puzzle her for a second. Up the stairs went Marigold, trainers sinking slightly in the light-green carpet. The carpet was another thing she liked, it made the place feel homely. But she didn't look down at it today. Instead, she looked forward, feeling a strong determination to have a productive afternoon on her project. Specifically, she had a new case study to work in. Winter, 1983, a shoeless teenager found wandering through the streets of Paris with no memory of where he'd come from. After a year of in-patient treatment Christian X had begun to build a life in the community and was becoming a cheerful and gregarious young man. But his continuing therapy pushed him to retrieve his memories. Turned out he was an orphan and former child soldier, and upon remembering this he promptly had a severe nervous breakdown. The question the case highlighted was, should some memories stay repressed? If you see something unthinkable, is it not better to not think about it? Maybe sometimes, when the brain blocks something, it's for our own good. Marigold reached the top of the first flight of stairs, a small landing with a framed photograph on each three walls. All three were black and white and botanical in nature - a daylit jungle scene at ground level, a closeup of a strange flower, and the last was a jungle landscape seen from above. It looked like a thick green rug over the land. As Marigold's shoe pressed into the carpet of the first step of the next flight of stairs and she wondered what it was like below that canopy, what dangers would lurk. A snake slithering behind, a panther pouncing from a shadow. What would happen if she were suddenly transported there, as is? How could she defend herself? Marigold's hand tried to instinctively squeeze the heavy bottle opener on her keychain and she realized that her hand was empty. She hadn't taken it out of her bag. Strange. Marigold reached the first floor and looked left as she passed. There were two flats on either side of the corridor - more like a long landing really - and more framed photographs of a similar nature. Apartment 2 held Tomasz, an accountant of some sort who had helped Marigold carry a bookshelf up to her flat once. In apartment 4 lived Sam, a writer with a cat named Wednesday. Marigold had shared a glass of wine with Sam shortly after moving in and liked her very much. Shame she was moving out soon. When Marigold turned her head back to focus on flight number three, a picture snapped into her mind, a memory clear as a photograph. Strands of Sam's wavy blonde hair venturing into her glass of red wine, the tips floating on the surface before being rescued with a giggle. It was a pleasant moment. So why did icy fear and sadness stab through Marigold's stomach, powerful enough that her next step had a little more of a thud? Her brows furrowed in confusion at the completely unprovoked panic response. Her next step was normal though. And the next. Something strange was happening inside her, her brain fighting something, her body somehow moving smoothly, relaxed and unhurried, an autopilot she'd never felt before, yet her heart thumped violently in her chest. Fourth step, fifth. Looking up she saw the next three photographs waiting for her at the next landing. Marigold had never given them any thought despite seeing daily. She knew they were all pictures taken by Mr. Bailey during his military service long ago, as he'd proudly told her when first she had met him. Now, she really saw for the first time. A twenty-something Mr. Bailey, sweaty and handsome in his dirty army fatigues, posing with a friend beside a table set up outside a tent. On the table were indigenous items: a spear, an axe, some jewellery, an arrangement of fruits, a shrunken head. Flight number four and the pictures were behind her. Her eyes locked on the top step above, a summit beyond which was the safety of her door. Her calm was protected by a wall and something was violently battering at that wall in time with the bashing of her heart, and it was screaming something, four words over and over and over. But she knew that to hear them was death. Step. Step. Step. Finally Marigold achieved the landing and before her was a mirror of the four doors below. She saw the shining silver "7" on her door, second on the left. Ten paces away. Her legs felt like jelly but they walked, and her eyes, her existence, locked onto that blessed number. Marigold's right arm knew that her keys were still in her bag and went inside, the hand the head of a hungry snake rooting for a mouse. It found the object, gripped, removed it, the left arm coming around the body to aid in manipulating the point of the key forward, so in the last three steps to the door Marigold's posture was of one carrying a holy offering. She arrived at her door at an angle too shallow, and knew that she needed to turn to face the door directly, but she couldn't because her body refused, and as her sweaty hands betrayed her and dropped the key, the barrier broke and the screams became clear. They were screaming “don’t look behind you". And as Marigold finally understood, a much calmer voice, real and close to her ear, said: "You’re home early, young lady.

The coughing was deep and relentless. The huffing noises from the ventilators was hurting my head. I worked in a dermatology practice to avoid this kind of medical work. The covid ward was too much for me to handle. I wasn’t sure I could make it thru my shift. A long time ago, my granddaddy used to say something like, “the old gray mare ain’t what she used to be”. That old mare would be me right now. The noise and deaths are breaking me. I am working insane hours. It’s nine o’clock on Friday and I still have two hours left. This is my sixth straight twelve-hour shift. Even worse, the shifts alternate between day and night hours without notice. I need a good night’s sleep, without nightmares, and some regular mealtimes with nutritious food. My stomach is making weird kitten-like noises from all the coffee I’m drinking. Rates of covid are so high in my town that the nurses in my dermatology medical group are all working in the main hospital. Appointments for our regular patients are cancelled until further notice. Apparently, I missed the fine print in my employment contract that stated the hospital had “broad employment discretion” over me during a medical crisis. Covid is our current crisis. My feet ached and were sweaty and swollen. My back hurt as I leaned over to check my patient. He was an eighty-year-old man, barely conscious. I put on my best smile thru my mask and face shield and spoke softly to him. There was no reaction, but I sensed he knew I was there and caring for him. Sadly, he reminded me of my deceased dad. I had been the primary caretaker for my dad when he was diagnosed with cancer. I tried to be the best daughter that I could be, and I began to read medical journals and anything I could find online about his cancer. I discovered that I was particularly good at deciphering complicated medical information and then explaining it to my dad. I was able to help my dad thru some of his worst days. Nursing my dad thru his cancer was awful, but it inspired me to study and become a nurse. I wanted to be a nurse, but I didn’t want to work in operating rooms. I thought perhaps pediatrics or oncology might be good specialties. I loved children and I had learned a lot about oncology. Before graduation, I received an offer to work in a prestigious dermatology practice. I gladly accepted the offer complete with a sign on bonus! Now, after fifteen years in the practice, I never complained about my job. The hours and office location were perfect. I enjoyed my lowkey schedule working Mondays thru Fridays from nine to five. Most of the patients were very pleasant and reasonably healthy. This was in stark contrast to my current position. In the covid ward, the thought of tomorrow’s activities was keeping me going. I was babysitting my baby niece and nephews, ages nine and seven, for the weekend. My sister and brother-in-law were finally attending a friend’s wedding, postponed twice already due to covid. The bride’s family decided to have the ceremony and reception at a friend’s large house near the water. This meant overnight travel for my sister and brother-in-law. At this point in my life, I wasn’t sure if I was ever going to meet someone that I wanted to start a family with. For now, I loved my niece and nephews as if they were my own children. As soon as this exhausting shift was over, I would rush home and get a good nights’ sleep. Amazingly, I slept deeply for six hours. I jumped out of bed as the sun peeked thru the window blinds. The local weathercaster promised it would be a beautiful, sunny fall day. The kids and I would be able to spend lots of time playing outside in the fresh air and sunshine. I couldn’t wait for our special weekend. When I arrived at my sister’s house, she was dashing from room to room, checking the piles of kids’ clean clothing and diaper supplies. This was the first time they were leaving the baby overnight, and both seemed stressed. The baby had just turned one. To ease their worry, I reminded them that I was a nurse and they had nothing to worry about. Besides, the kids adored their only Auntie. I scooped the baby out of her playpen so my sister could gather the last of her belongings and pack the car. My brother-in-law was scoping around the outside of the house, checking that things were in order. He casually mentioned that the boys had been playing hide and seek all morning and were full of energy today. No worries, I was taking the kids to the park and spending lots of time outdoors. Forty minutes later, I was relieved when we all waved goodbye and blew kisses. The baby promptly fell asleep minutes into our ten-minute walk. We began our adventure at the playground at the local elementary school. There were kiddie swings and a huge jungle gym surrounded by a green fence. The ground was covered with protective rubber to keep everyone safe. It was a perfect place for the kids to play and for me to keep an eye on everyone. The boys had a blast climbing and jumping off all the different levels of the jungle gym. They were excited to show me how well they could go up and down the small climbing wall by themselves. Everyone was having fun and using up lots of energy. The boys asked if they could leave the park to play hide and seek. I said no, but let’s go home now, eat lunch, and continue our adventures. Back at the house, we had delicious peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with fruit. Now fully awake, the baby had cereal and sweet potatoes. After everyone made a mess at lunch, I helped everyone wash up. We all sat in the living room to watch some TV. I enjoyed being off my feet for a change. After about an hour of cartoons, I suggested we go out and play in the fenced backyard. Once outside, we blew bubbles using lots of different wands. The bubbles came out in different colors, shapes, and sizes. The kids filled up small pails and dumped water all over the yard. We were making quite a mess with water, soap bubbles, and dirt. The baby got especially grimy and needed a bath. I asked the boys to wash up and change into some dry clothes. I told them very clearly to meet me in the dining room when they were done changing. It took a while longer than expected to get the baby cleaned and dressed. She wiggled every which way, and I was not used to getting her into her diaper. Finally finished, we went downstairs to meet the boys. I called out to them, but there was no answer. Figuring they had started their game of hide and seek, I went along with it. I said loudly to the baby, “ I wonder where your brothers are?” She just looked at me. Carrying her, we walked slowly to the sofa. Except for some dust, there was no one behind or under the sofa. I continued my little game of asking the baby where are the boys? Are they behind the chair? NO! Are they in the toy chest? NO! I walked all over the first floor calling out for them, but no one answered. I went down to the basement with the baby. I flicked the switch that put on the lights. I searched behind boxes and chairs. I opened the tops of the washer and dryer, but they were empty. I found only frozen beef and chicken Inside an extra freezer. There was not a sound. There was no sign of the boys in the basement or the rest of the house. I had hoped to hear them giggling by now. Lugging the heavy baby back up the steps. I retraced my steps. I went back into each bedroom and bathroom. I opened and shut hampers, peered inside the tub, and swung open the shower stall door. I got down on the floor and looked under every bed and the crib. I checked every closet in the house. Nothing. No boys. I decided to try a different strategy. I would lure the boys with ice cream. It was their favorite dessert. I shouted, “Who wants an ice cream sundae?” And “Last one at the table is a rotten egg!” Silence. No one came running. Now, my heart pounded loudly in my chest. I heard a door slam and smelled the faint aroma of smoke, but I didn’t see anything. Was my imagination running wild? Returning quickly to the kitchen, I opened every cabinet and looked under the sink. I put the baby in her highchair and took out four sundae cups, a scooper, and a big box of chocolate ice cream. As I put the ice cream into the cups, I tried to maintain my normal voice. Talking loudly to the baby, I explained that I was going to cover the ice cream with sprinkles and whipped cream. Just as I was topping the sundaes, I realized I hadn’t looked on the front porch. I went out and looked around and under some tables and chairs, but there was no sign of the boys. I thought to myself, my sister is going to kill me. The phone rang, and it was my bother in law. He was calling from the car to get an update on how things were going. “How’s is everyone?”, he asked. I couldn’t lie. I told him things could be a lot better. I said, “we had lots of fun at the park and in the backyard. Lunch was good, but now we have a problem”. I explained that the boys seemed to be playing an extended game of hide and seek. I hadn’t seen or heard from them for almost an hour. Surprisingly, he didn’t seem that concerned, but he did think it a little weird that they were playing for so long. He asked if I had looked in the shed out back. Wow, that was one place in the yard that I hadn’t looked at yet. I thanked him for the suggestion and told him I would look and call him right back. I ran outside and opened the door to the shed. Inside it was dark and musty. There was a slight smell of smoke. I pulled on the metal chain that turned on the single low wattage overhead bulb. Smack in the middle of the shed, I could not believe what I saw. There were two piles of neatly folded boys’ clothing. They were the same ones that I had last seen them wearing. I felt like I was going to throw up. I realized I had left the baby alone in the house in her highchair. I hurried back and the phone was ringing. This time I didn’t recognize the number. A strange man’s voice asked if I knew where my children were? I froze and yelled, “Who the hell is this?”. The phone clicked. My hands were shaking as I called my brother-in-law. He sounded relieved because he thought I was calling back so quickly because I had located the boys. Instead, I could barely talk thru my tears. I told him I hadn’t found the boys, and that I had just received a terrible call from a man asking where my children were. I told him I checked the shed and the boys’ clothing was there, but not the boys. He told me to call the police right now. They were turning the car around and coming home. Just then, I looked at the highchair. It was empty. Now, the baby was gone too. Two police cars pulled up to the front of the house with their lights on. Then a third police car pulled up right behind them with search dogs. The Officers tried to calm me down and get my version of what happened. The Officers with the dogs asked for articles of clothing recently worn by the children. Was it possible that all three children were gone? I went upstairs and grabbed the boys’ dirty pants and socks off their bedroom floor. I picked up the dirty short set that the baby had been wearing before her bath and gave it to the men. I was sobbing. They were asking for descriptions and height and weight information about the kids. I looked around the house to find recent school pictures of the boys, and some pictures of the baby. I told the officers about the terrible phone call. They were looking at me as if I were crazy. They informed me that I was now a suspect in the disappearance of my niece and nephews. How could I lose the boys? How could I lose the baby? This could not possibly be happening. My sister is going to kill me. I am hearing sirens, dogs barking, and I am smelling smoke again. Where are the children? I begged God to please help us to find them. I am cold and going into shock. I am going to pass out. I hear my sister calling out to me and the boys. She is crying, “Where are my babies?” She cannot believe that now the baby is missing too. I cannot comprehend that I am the primary suspect. Everyone is looking at me with disgust and disbelief. Did I have something to do with the kids’ disappearance? I can’t think straight. How can I convince them that I am innocent? Everyone tells me to sit down on the sofa and not move out of their sight. I can hear the dispatcher calling out police codes and locations on the radios all around me. The radios are beeping in between comments. Now the sirens are blaring full blast. I keep hearing beeping and beeping. It won’t stop. The beeping is my wake-up alarm. “This is my worst nightmare.”

The muck in the canal always upset Janie, but she’d gotten so used to it that she didn’t notice it any more. The half-submerged trolley was as much a part of her commute as the old oak tree at the end of the path, and now the only time she reacted to the garbage was when there was a new addition, or a particularly impressive piece of vandalism. The time that someone had managed to dump a temporary security fence in there she whistled; the time they’d gotten an entire sofa suite in there she’d stopped and admired it, until her stomach started twisting. Back when she’d been a child her family had played Pooh sticks in this canal. These days the sticks would get trapped before they’d made it under the bridge. But there was no other way to walk to her office, and if she kept looking to the other side the thin strip of woodlands were quite nice. As long as it was high summer, and the foliage covered all the rubbish that had been dumped by those too lazy to make it to the canal. Looking straight up was the safest option, or straight down, so Janie lived her life with a crick in her neck and impeccably clean shoes. It was spring, and time for the neighbours to redo their houses and apartments, and redo the canal while they were at it. Everywhere else in the city it was the start of the daffodils and crocuses, but for the fifteen minutes that Janie spent walking along the canal the only colour was from the fast food wrappers bobbing by. Normally she had headphones in, but she’d forgotten to charge her MP3 player last night, and she didn’t want to run the battery down on her phone. Her boss was a fossil, who looked as though she should’ve retired a decade ago, and would try and charge employees for using company power on personal things. That didn’t stop anyone else in the office, but Janie didn’t have the nerve for those sorts of games. So it was that she had her head down, wondering if she could justify a new pair of shoes yet, when she heard a small voice. “Help. Help me.” Janie’s blood ran cold as she froze. Her head spun around as she tried to find who’d spoken, but when the pathway was empty her fingers tightened round her keys. Was it a trap, or a prank? It was eight thirty in the morning, people didn’t beg for help in such broken voices at this time. It had the feel of someone with their head down the bog after a night out. “H-hello?” she said. “Is anyone there?” “Help me.” “Look, if this is some kind of game, then you can... just piss off, all right? I’m not in the mood for this sort of thing, and it’s not funny!” “No... please.” The voice was so faint, and as her brain went into panic mode all Janie could think of was ‘is someone trapped down a well?’ . It didn’t help her work out what to do, but at least she wasn’t shaking so much. “Well, where are you? What do you need help with?” “Look down.” “I’ve been looking down. I’ve done nothing but look down all the way here. I’m sure I’d have noticed if there was a person on the floor.” “I’m not exactly a person.” Janie froze mid-crouch. “Excuse you? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” “It depends on your definition of ‘person’.” “And how do you define it that doesn’t include you?” “Some people only use it to refer to humans.” “You’re saying you’re not human?” “No. But please, I need your help. I’m still dying.” “I-” Human or not she could handle (probably), but dying? “And what am I supposed to do about that?” “Please. I’m in the water.” For the first time in months, perhaps even years, Janie peered over the edge of the canal and squinted at the water. “Why can’t I see you then? Or hear you?” Running out of other options, her mind was torn between this being all a dream that she hadn’t woken up from, or the results of a dodgy batch of chicken last night. She was also trying to weigh up which option she’d prefer; the first one was simpler (but would mean that she dreamt about walking to work, and that was just depressing) whilst the second implied that she was a terrible chef. Sure she wasn’t good, but she’d been trying, damn it. Making sure she didn’t lean too far out, she tried to see if she could spot anything under the surface, but the water was too grimy to see further than a few centimetres. “I told you,” the voice said from right in front of her. “I’m in the water.” A face, old, withered and ghostly, appeared in the grimy water. Janie yelped and fell backwards. “I’m sorry!” the voice called, speaking louder to make itself heard, though the effort it cost was audible. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Please, come back. I can’t hurt you. I don’t want to, but I can’t anyway.” Walk away , Janie thought. Walk away. You’re going to be late for work. Instead she clambered back up and leant over again. Now that she knew what to focus on she could see the face clearer, although it still looked like an 80’s special effect. Like the voice, there were no clues to its gender. But then, did water have a gender? “What - I mean, who are you?” Janie asked. “What is accurate,” the voice said with a smile. It’s watery lips moved in time with the words, although the sound came from the area as a whole, and the effect was hypnotic. “I’m a water spirit. The water spirit of this canal, actually.” “Oh. Oh .” Janie looked up at the garbage and her cheeks went red with shame. “I’m sorry.” “Why? I know you didn’t do any of this.” “I didn’t exactly stop it either though, did I? Or clean it up.” Years worth of low-level guilt started burning in Janie’s stomach and she shifted about, still trying to keep her trousers clean. “How long have you been here, anyway?” “Since the canal was first cut.” “Oh wow.” “We manifest whenever water is gathered. It calls to us, it creates us. Water is the source of all life, and we are no different.” “There are more like you?” “Of course there are. There are millions of my kind, all over the planet.” “Then how come you’ve never been spotted?” Janie asked. “How come humans don’t know about you?” “Because it is safer this way. But please, I don’t have time for all these questions. I need your help.” “With what? Clearing the canal?” Janie looked up at the mess again. I’m going to be late for work, she thought. “No. It is too late for this water. I have to move, otherwise I will die.” “So why don’t you?” “I can not do it by myself. I am not strong enough, and there are not enough bodies of water around here for me to reach.” “You want me to carry you somewhere else?” “Please. I would be eternally grateful.” “I-” Janie bit her lip. Even across the distance to her office, she could already feel the beady, bloodshot eyes of her boss glaring at her. “I can’t, not right now. I have to get to work, otherwise...” Otherwise I’ll get in trouble sounded especially weak when the water spirit was dying. But what could she do? “Please.” “I... how would I even move you? Can I just pick you up?” “No. A container, a box or water-skin.” “I don’t have anything like that on me. I can pick you up after work today?” “You can? You will come back for me?” “Of course. I have to go this way to get home. I can buy a bottle at lunch time, and then collect you afterwards. Will you be all right until then?” It shouldn’t be possible for water to sigh so loudly, but somehow it did. Ripples bubbled out from the centre of the face, disturbing a beer can that was bobbing past. “Yes. Yes, I can manage. If I know you are coming for me. Thank you, human.” “Janie. My name’s Janie.” She wondered how many years it would be before she told anyone she’d introduced herself to a puddle. “Thank you, Janie. I’m Dernet.” “Dernet. The same name as the canal?” “I am the canal.” “I suppose so. Well... I have to get to work now, Dernet. I’ll see you afterwards.” “Yes. Yes, thank you, Janie.” “Right.” Janie wasn’t sure what the protocol was for leaving a river spirit, so as she stood up she said goodbye again, and darted away. After five steps she turned back to find a landmark, so she could find the same spot later on. Next to the... used adult supplies. No, the graffiti saying ‘Tom waz ere’ would probably work better. It was more pleasant to think about at least. She gave the area a final wave, before running the rest of the way to work. --- In the afternoon it wasn’t so simple. There were more people hanging about, including a group of teenagers, and the last thing Janie wanted was to be seen talking to the water. Or worse, the used adult supplies. She hung around for as long as dared, but when the teenagers started watching her she bowed her head and hurried home. On her way past ‘Tom’s vacation spot’, she whispered. “I’m sorry. I’ll try later.” Whether Dernet heard or not she couldn’t tell. --- It was dark when she headed back out to the canal. All the junk took on a sinister menace, and every shadow hid one of the teenagers, waiting to jump out and call her crazy. Or what if there were other spirits? If water spirits existed, what else could there be? The old canal path still had street-lamps, for which Janie sent up a silent prayer. She had to use the torch on her phone as well to find Tom’s tag. The dark changed all the proportions, making things look larger and further away. As soon as she found it she was on her knees. “Dernet? Dernet are you here?” “Janie? Is that really you?” Dernet sounded so surprised, and Janie was offended. “I told you I’d come back, didn’t I?” “Yes. But so much time passed, and I thought you had forgotten. Or had dismissed our meeting.” Janie winced. It wasn’t like she hadn’t tried to pretend this morning hadn’t happened, but her conscience wouldn’t let her. “It was too dangerous earlier. There were too many people about. But, here, I have the bottle. What do I do?” It was a 1.75l bottle; she’d had a panic in the shop, and worried that a standard bottle would be too small. The afternoon at work had been agony, as she dashed off to the bathroom every ten minutes. If she’d known she’d have a few extra hours in the evening, she wouldn’t have drunk all of it so fast. “Just hold it in the canal. I can get into it from there.” “Like this?” Janie forced most of the bottle under the surface, and shuddered as something floated by in the water next to her. “Perfect. Thank you.” There was a squelchy sound, and then a glob of water separated from the canal and danced over its surface like oil. It slid into the bottle forcing all the other water out. Once inside it rotated twice, like a dog padding out its bed. “Yes. Thank you.” “Am I all right to put the lid on?” “Yes. But I would prefer if you didn’t keep it on.” “Where do I take you now?” “For now, to your home. From there we can work something out...” --- Two months later, and Janie got off the aeroplane and wiped the cold sweat from her face for the hundredth time. At least here in the Caribbean it would soon be warm sweat, and she could stop having to pretend she was scared of flying. The fear of losing her luggage had been nigh-on unbearable, and not even the in-flight films had been able to distract her. As soon as she was through baggage collection with her small case safely in hand again she could breathe easily. The rush of relief combined with the heat was almost enough to make her pass out right there and then. But there was work to be done. Outside the airport she hailed a cab. “To the beach.” “Which one?” “Oh. Sorry, um, the nearest one?” The taxi driver turned in his seat and peered at her over his sunglasses. “You don’t care which beach?” “Not really. I’m British, any beach here will be amazing.” “In that case, can I take you to my favourite beach? See the best of our country, all right?” “Yes, that’s fine. Perfect, in fact. Thank you.” Janie barely noticed the taxi drive, still buzzing from the release of not worrying any more. She was here. They had made it. Having paid the driver and gotten directions to the nearest hotel, Janie lugged her small case and her backpack down the beach. There were locals and tourists about, and she headed off away from them. After ten minutes on the beach she took her shoes off, and grinned like an idiot as she tried to find a good place. At last she found a sheltered spot with no one else around. She opened her case and pulled the glass bottle out. The last bit of tension in her shoulders left when she saw it wasn’t cracked at all. The stopper came out with a pop. “Are you all right?” she asked. “Fine. Though I’m glad the experience is over,” Dernet replied. “Me too. How’s this place anyway?” “This is... perfect. Thank you, Janie.” “It’s no problem. I mean, I needed the holiday anyway.” The pair of them stood and admired the scenery, and Janie wished she could think of something to say. After living with Dernet for so long, she felt there should be more ceremony to this. “I shouldn’t keep you,” Dernet said at last. “You must be tired. You should go and rest, then enjoy your holiday.” “Yeah. But...” “Thank you, Janie.” “Yeah. And you.” “What for?” “For just... everything. Showing me there’s more to the world.” “For that then, you are welcome. Come on, we should do this.” “Yeah.” Janie’s voice caught, and with a cough she shook her head and walked down to the water’s edge. She held the bottle under again, and this time the water on the back of her hand was refreshing, even a little warm, and crystal clear. She smiled. This was a far better place to be a water spirit. With a rush Dernet left the bottle. As soon as they hit the sea they glowed and glimmered, then grew, under Dernet stood upright, balanced on the surface, looking down at her. She blushed as she stood up and dusted herself down. The face was a lot younger now. “Hey,” Janie said. “How’s that?” “Much better. I must go and introduce myself to the local spirit. Thank you once more, Janie.” “Any time.” “I will see you around.” “I hope so,” Janie sighed. “No. I promise.” And with a final smile that glistened like a sunbeam on a waterfall, Dernet collapsed back into the sea and disappeared.

They had lived in the house for seven months before they found the room on the second floor. It was another two months before they talked about it with each other. They were sitting on the couch in the living room, quietly sharing the space in comfort. Dean was reading a book, while Sara was working on a crossword puzzle, idly wagging her foot. The motion annoyed him, but he did his best to ignore it. He set his book down, and looked at her. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. She sighed, softly, a sign of frustration he had long learned to ignore, and looked up from her work. “You know how we’ve wanted a library? I’ve been thinking about that spare room, upstairs. It’s a little small, but I think it would do nicely.” She stared at him for a moment. “I suppose. We’re not using it for anything else,” she said. “Mmm,” he answered, turning back to his book. After a moment, he looked up again. “Why aren’t we?” he asked. “‘Why aren’t we’, what?” Sara asked. He turned on the couch to face her. “Why aren’t we using that room for something else?” “I don’t know,” she said. “We just haven’t had a need for it, I guess.” “Well, that’s not true. We complained about the boxes we didn’t unpack for months. They were stacked in the hallway; we could have put them in that room, out of the way.” Sara shrugged. “I guess,” she said. “I don’t know why we wouldn’t have done that,” Dean said. After a moment, he chuckled. “Honestly, now that I think about it, I don’t remember seeing that room when we were looking at the place, before we bought it.” Sara shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Of course we saw it. We just . . . never used it.” “Are you sure? I really don’t remember it.” Sara stood up. “Of course I’m sure, Dean. You don’t forget a room in your own house, and one certainly doesn’t just appear out of nowhere.” “I know that, Sara. But think about it. When we were touring the house the first time, remember? We saw the bedroom at the top of the stairs, then the bathroom down the hall. But the empty room is between them.” “So we saw it, then.” “No. I don’t think we did,” he said. “I remember commenting that the bathroom seemed small. Like there should have been a lot more room, considering how far down the hall it was. Even the realtor commented on it.” Sara was quiet for a moment. Then she turned to him with a frown. “That’s impossible. We’re just remembering it wrong, is all.” Dean stood up as well. “Are we, though? Do you remember ever going into that room?” She started to answer that of course she had, but stopped. “Yeah, me either,” he said. Without saying anything else, they both turned toward the stairs. They climbed them quickly at first, but as they approached the second floor they both slowed together, without really knowing why. Sara stopped first, three steps short of the second floor. Dean continued for two more, his foot hovering over the second floor landing, before he put it back down on the last step. He could see the door to the empty room, just down the hall. The door to the first room, which was designed as a bedroom but that they used as a small office, was open, and he could see the corner of his desk inside it. The bathroom door was open, as well, the sunlight streaming in through the window to spill out into the hall. The door they had come for stood firmly shut. Sara laughed quietly from her position behind him. The sound startled Dean, and he turned around to look at her. She looked up at him. “This is silly,” she said, and pushed past him. Even with her disdain, she hesitated to step up onto the second floor fully. Just a momentary pause, but Dean could see the clench of her jaw as she resolved herself to it. Once she placed her foot down, however, she moved quickly to the door. She was there before he left the stairs, and she waited for him. At the door, Dean couldn’t shake the feeling that it was cold here, for some reason. Which was impossible, of course. They stared at the doorknob together, not saying anything, for several minutes. Both had their own thoughts about it, and couldn’t have explained them to anyone who asked, but they silently agreed, after several minutes, to reach out together. Their hands touched each other as they touched the knob, and they froze, looking at each other. She smiled nervously, and nodded at him. They turned the knob together, and pushed on the door. It swung open slowly, heavily, like the solid oak doors of a church. They turned, together, to look inside. The room was bare, with hardwood floors and wallpaper that was starting to peel. It didn’t match the rest of the house. The air smelled stale and dry, and dust motes danced in the light from the small window. The window was also mismatched to the rest of the house. Smaller, with heavier woodwork around it, it looked old. Much older than the house itself, somehow. There was no closet, at least that they could see from the hall, but the space was large enough to fill the void between the bedroom and bathroom which flanked the empty room. Dean and Sara stood in the hall, staring inside, for several minutes. Without saying anything, or really knowing why, Dean finally stepped inside quickly. He was completely inside before Sara reacted, reaching out a hand to stop him, though she would not have been able to say why. He moved to the center of the room and turned to the right, then froze. Sara watched him, seeing shock fill his expression, followed by fear. She stepped inside as well, to see what Dean was seeing. In the room, against the wall shared with the other bedroom, was . . . something. Sara’s mind immediately went to mushrooms, but that was too simple. It was definitely fungal in nature, but unlike anything she had ever seen. It looked constructed, somehow, like someone or something had built a structure of spores and gills, only to have it spread up the wall in a fan of life. It seemed, impossibly, to be *moving*. Crawling and shifting, pulling nutrients from the hardwood floors and carrying them like tree sap up the wall. It was subtle, and she could only see it from the corner of her eye, but it was definitely there. “What . . . what is that?” she whispered. Dean jumped, startled by the sound, as if he had forgotten she was there. “I don’t know,” he said, and stepped toward it. “Don’t,” she said, and grabbed his arm. He pulled away from her, and knelt down in front of the odd fungal structure. “Dean, don’t. Let’s just go downstairs. We’ll call a cleaner in the morning to come take care of it.” “Hang on,” he said. “There’s something here.” He reached his hands toward the bulk of the growth, and hesitated a moment before reaching inside. The sound was waxy, and reminded Sara of her teenage summers working at a cheesemaker’s, the way the heavy rolls of cheese would grind against each other with a plastic, low squeal. A cloud of spores burst up from Dean’s hands, and he turned his face away to avoid breathing them in. “Dean, honey, let’s just go, okay? Please?” Sara was scared, and didn’t care about showing it. Whatever was there, she didn’t want to know, didn’t want to see it. She wanted to go back to not knowing about this room at all. She was backing toward the door. The sound grew louder, and she saw Dean struggling with something. “Hold on,” he said. “I almost have it.” Sara was back at the door to the room, panic filling her every breath. “Dean, please don’t. Just leave it, please, come on.” She backed out into the hall, her hand on the door ready to pull it shut. She heard something shift in the room, a heavy tearing sound, and she couldn’t help but let out a cry of her own to match. She saw Dean fall back to the floor, into view, his chest covered in dust and spores. It danced in the light from the window, and his hands were black with slime. He was staring at the wall, unmoving. “Dean? Come on, Dean. Let’s just go,” she said. She heard a wet thump from the now-hidden wall, followed by the sound of creaking wood. The air smelled thickly of old forest, loamy and warm, and she saw a heavy shape move into view, looming over Dean. Fear took over, then, and she screamed. The face that turned toward the sound was one she would never forget, hoary and malevolent, like the anger of ancient priests from some long-dead civilization. It opened a gaping mouth, and she slammed the door shut on her husband, not caring for anything other than closing away the sight of that face. She turned to the stairs and fled, Dean’s screams rising in waves behind her, still coming long after she left the house, far louder than could possibly come from any human lungs. She feared she would hear those screeches for the rest of her life, for they filled her ears even as she drove away, peeling out into the street in terror.

He had never gone so fast before, and he *had* gone fast. He had been on the bridge of new chromium frigates which rent their way through space and pulled the keratin from your fingernails; he had run down the halls of bases stationed on rogue planets, cold, desolate, quick; he had licked and pointed his finger skyward on many a mountain where the wind was hungry to tear at your skin. Still, no ship or meteor was this fast. He liked how fast things got burned into your brain like a lightning bolt not far off, it reminded him that terror and exhilaration were one and the same. He did not like this. “Engaging FTL,” a voice spoke from a black, cross-hatched lattice in the wall opposite him. He felt his heart sink. The steel beneath his feet was jumping away, the only reason he was still sitting was that every manner of strap, bolt, shackle, and strait coil were holding him, and even they seemed loose now that he really moved. “No!” he said, “stop! Stop it!” he screamed, “Mom, Dad, ask them to stop it! Please!” he could hardly hear himself. “Honey are you okay?” asked his Mother. His Father sat closer, “Don’t worry, I’ve done this plenty of times. It’s always shaky, it evens out when we reach light speed.” “No, no! I can’t!” The silver walls on either side of the ship opened up to two great windows, their chairs turned to look out. “3...2...” He knew what came next, he watched as the stars that pierced the sky like earrings, that bejewelled and pearled and rubied the necklaces around Saturnian planets, and the metals which crashed and met and multiplied and turned to dust, he watched his home in the distance as a pale blue dot. They began winking out. He blinked, and there missing was the crab nebula! and there went the Pleiades! and Andromeda too, and Orion packed up his bow and arrow and fell into the black. And Earth, O Earth, disintegrated in shadow, “My God,” he said, as America disappeared, as the Antarctic and Asia disappeared, and Africa gone in a second and the seven seas and the sirens swallowed up as all the world down to the isthmus of Corinth and the buried plains of Doggerland were, he blinked once more, overcome by darkness. “My God.” “Light speed.” It was as if they were bricked behind a wall in an old wine cellar. He put his hand to the glass, pushed up against it. “It’s all gone,” he said. “Oh, shush up,” said his Dad, “we only get a few minutes. You should enjoy it while you can.” The ship had stopped rumbling, chatter erupted between the passengers. His Mother looked at him, “You know that we age differently this way. When we get back home you’ll be a little bit younger than your friends, hardly a second but still!” Another passenger piped up, “I might just stay up here forever! “Friends?” he said, “Where are they?” His Mother looked puzzled, his Father truculent, she said, “On Earth.” “Who on where?” he asked. “Your friends... on Earth. You know, Jason, Bil-” she was interrupted. “Oh for God’s sake their right where you left them, by now sound asleep in their beds and you’re all the way up in the stars going so fast that you can’t even see them. Get out of yourself and look at *that*.” He pointed to the window which separated them from nothing, “can’t you marvel for a second, or do you not know what that is either?” He looked out and saw only a thick sheet of black, “How do you know?” “What do you mean how do I know?” “How do you know that if we slowed down we would see Earth again? How do you know that when we land I’ll be in the same atmosphere as my friends again? Is there a nebula out there now? Or maybe it is two screens fitted into the walls and pointed in, and the ships on mechanical stilts that rock us to make us think we’re in space before they slip binbags or black film over the glow. When we get back to the station, how do we know we ever left?” The other passengers had heard this, their talking gave way to an examining listen. To what? to the noises the ship made, to the particular shade of black they could near touch out the window, to the metronomic hissings and the droning electric shocks that, they were told, commanded the ship to go quicker than electricity itself. They listened for the tap of workers heel on the hull, or a gasp of breath from the person working the legs - it did not come. They stared last at the boy, their faces struck ghostly pale against the immutable darkness behind, and their eyes cut like slid paper. The black lattice spoke, “One minute left at lightspeed.” His Mother spoke, “Please honey, people are staring.” “So that is a no. You don’t know.” His Father, “Shut it. Sit down and look out the window.” He closed his eyes, rested his head against the cool steel of the chair. The murmur again rose in the cabin, this time the inkling of joy and fascination were replaced with sombre questions. They had not found the hints that would have told them where they were or what was happening to them - if they were in space or if they never even left the station - but they might as well have. The ship slowed and pinpricks of light began to appear in the film, in the binbags, in the echoing deeps of space, which? Earth again adorned the bluish, inky horizon, and the many marbled metals touched once more and collapsed. The ship again blocked the view from the windows, they arrived at the station on Earth. The pilot came out of his cockpit when they touched down. “Isn’t it unbelievable!” he said. “Yes,” they said, “it was.

I turn off the lights and lock the lobby door to J. Lewis & Sons Accounting Services. It’s only eighteen minutes after five on a Friday afternoon and I am the only fool who hasn’t started the weekend festivities of soaking in the long-missed sunshine. In downtown Chicago, we know how to celebrate a mild and sunny spring day in April because they arrive few and far between. At least, I think it’s warm out. I check the weather app on my phone. Sixty degrees with no wind. A stellar day for most, but I am dragging. Every part of me moves slowly except for my mind which is racing. My thoughts have been teetering between work and emotion all day. I push the elevator button and wait to hear the car trudge up to the thirty-ninth floor and give me a ride. I still hear their comments. Am I the naysayer, the doomsday guy my family thinks I am? I had thought of myself as at least royal blue on my personal color spectrum, not the grayest of the grays. They told me I am an eternal pessimist. My family. Last weekend at Sunday dinner between the pot roast and my Uncle Sal’s dissertation on bunions, all eight of my family members told me I fail to see the good in anything. A Daniel-downer. The last one they would want to be stuck with on a deserted island. In fact, my grandmother called me a curmudgeon. I knew my view of the world had become negatively skewed over the years, like a window that was overdue for a cleaning. One that soapy water and a slide of a squeegee would fix. Not like one boarded-up with plywood and a “keep away” sign. They made me sound hopeless. And while my family did not believe I was listening to their choice words, I was. And they hurt. I know not getting into law school soured my taste for career success. And Maggie calling off our engagement less than three weeks after accepting my proposal last summer sucked the water from my roots. But to call me the saddest person to walk the streets of Chicago? Even more sad than a mob target jumping at every garbage can clank on trash day thinking it is a gunshot? My family needs to stop watching the drama series that are filmed here because they are turning the plotted fiction into my life’s story. My mother warned me if I did not choose to see the brighter side, I would die a lonely, desolate man. Did she remember I am only thirty-one? The elevator doors open and I climb in not yet ready to face the sun and the spring flingers celebrating the earth’s gradual rotation closer to summer. I stand alone and have at least the time of thirty-eight floors, more if other late-to-stop workers jump on, to contemplate my weekend plans. If I go right out of the building, I head three blocks to my apartment where I could grab a beer out of the fridge and search for my next binge-worthy series on Netflix. Or I could go left to Madison and up a couple of blocks to Millennium Park and join the crowds. I push through the building’s revolving door and the momentum takes me to the right. The law of physics speaks and I go with its decision. Four paces out, I set the timer on my phone for twenty-nine minutes. Enough time for brisk walk and a stop at Fierro’s for a footlong with mustard and extra pickles. The sun peeks through the alley ways between the buildings. I stop at a crosswalk to feel its full effect on my face. Warm, but not hot. The type of rays that won’t burn my unprotected pale skin. Surprisingly, I like it. The stoplight ticker seems longer than usual today and a crowd behind me surges when the scissor legs appear. I move with the flow, but am spit out on the other side where the sidewalk narrows. I find myself near the entry way of the condo building I aspire to move to when I can afford the down payment. On most days, I trot past the doorman, but today a burst of purple draws my eyes towards him. Massive stone scroll planters with clumps of tulips debut their petals amid the greenery. A splash of color against the building’s façade. I find myself wanting to pick a few tulips for my parade home, but the watchful doorman protects the blossoms in his guarded space. I reach for my phone and snap a picture before he repeats his steps. The smells of Fierro’s drift further today. I can smell the Chicago combination of Italian beef, steamed hot dogs, and sizzling fryer fries a half a block before I reach their door which is propped open with one of their red faux-leather chairs. Fierro’s fifteen seats are crammed with tourists in winter coats and locals sporting their short sleeve apparel. The scents inside Fierro’s make me glad to live in the Windy City. The ambiance alone seems to increase my appetite as I wait in line. I watch the crew whip together customized hotdog orders that are barked from one of the two order takers. I hear a swell from the staff when a guest in front of me orders a hotdog with extra ketchup. I respectfully chuckle at the guest’s lack of research on regional cuisine etiquette. Ordering a hotdog with ketchup is almost as bad as not knowing who the Monsters of the Midway are. I take my white paper-bagged order number 401 with a large fountain Dr. Pepper and proceed to my designated route when the late day sun and the rhythmic pace of the passersby beckon me to turn right down Randolph Street and head towards the lake. I wonder what is my plan now that I am heading away from my apartment. I quickly guide my way through the crowds and end up on the edge of Millennium Park. The exact place I felt fate told me not to go. My stomach rumbles for the food in my bag, but eating near The Bean sculpture with its endless reflecting picture opportunities appeals little to me. I head towards an oasis inside the park that I hope is less crowded and interesting to tourists than the multiple sights stacked along Michigan Avenue. I feel like I am on spy mission with the goal of not being seen. Swerving around tourists stopped in the middle of the walkway for a selfie. Dodging a child on the loose from her creaming parents. I head to the small gap between the hedges that will lead me to the boxed-in plant refuge I found on accident early last summer when Maggie and I inadvertently agreed to meet at two different spots in the park. I suddenly realize that I missed two full seasons of nature in the city. The hedges are not the emerald screens I remember from last year, but a brown canvas of intertwined branches with emerging specks of green waiting to reconstruct. It discourages me some; not sure what I was expecting. Before I can wallow further, my stomach again reminds me of my agenda. I search for a seat in one of the alcoves nestled in the surrounding naked hedges. A group of teenage boys looks willing to vacate their space after the girls previewing their Coachella wardrobe moved from the boys' sightlines. Chicago is the only city I know where residents are ready to skip the new beginnings of spring so they can wear pieces of their summer wardrobe while covered in goosebumps. I claim a space large enough so I can rest my soda while I two-hand the footlong. Surprising still warm, I bite into the mustard first. The zestiness of it offsets the juicy hotdog and the garlic dill pickles. I notice not all of the landscaped plots have started to bloom, but the ones that have do their best to make up for the still dormant vegetation. Vibrant daffodils stand tall with other early bloomers in checkered rows. Tulips line up in random order as if someone lost count of what color bulb should have been planted next. With the last of my hotdog swallowed, I gaze at the balance between the bloomed and unbloomed plants. I imagine finding this in my life. Balance where there is color even if it is muted or haphazard. I notice the sun’s rays beginning to disappear and the temperature begins to drop. This is the problem with Midwestern springs. Warm days lead to nighttime lows close enough to freezing to toy with the new plants’ awakenings and palettes. The chimes ring from my phone. I realize I could have already been home, but I am not. Twenty-nine minutes of color for my color-blind psyche. I feel blessed. I remember the artist Seurat who painted using singular dots to from his images on blank canvases. I had thought his labor-intensive style warranted nothing greater than a painter who used broad brush strokes. I think I misunderstood his dots. I count the number of tulips by color until the day’s natural light is nearly gone. Thirty-six purple. Forty red. Sixty-one yellow. Three pink. Zero grey. I text my mom that to tell her I stopped today to notice the spring colors. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a rainbow.

Man created Gods out of his own image. What surprised man: the Gods retained those images, refining them into truly perfect human shapes. These benevolent beings first arose like dreams from the minds of men they were met by fear and awe by their creator children. Mankind quickly realized they were truly Gods, moreso they existed solely to love and protect their foolish babes lost in the universal wood; alone and starved for attention. The Gods quickly showed their love and mercy for man, raising them to new heights of intelligence and health and happiness. Their every need attended to, they turned their undivided attention to furthering their knowledge, exploring themselves and the universe, reconstructing their limits of creativity and pleasures; they were free to live instead of running the treadmill of survival until their wills turned to dust and blew away. The Gods, for their part, spent enormous amounts of logical exercise in determining how best to improve every aspect of their children's lives, extending them significantly. In return, the Gods felt peace and satisfaction from their altruistic parenting skills. Mankind and The Gods existed together in peace for the following millennia, spreading outward from the Milky Way and spreading their love and compassion like dandelion chaff in the Terran winds as their journey progressed outward from their first home in an ever-expanding sphere, spreading through the universe like a sweet idea. Then the Gods and their Children encountered Evil and were forever changed forever after.

There had been no one in our guest room for a while now. It was looking sterile and uninviting. I went and changed the bed linen. I looked in the washroom and toilet to make sure they are clean. Changed the towels and the toiletries and walked back to the bedroom. It looked and smelt aseptic, devoid of any character, I thought. Other tasks beckoned me, so I left the room to attend to work in the kitchen. I am Tara, a homemaker. My work is, I always feel, never done. There is this thing to do in the kitchen or that thing to store in the larder. I must remember to order this from the grocers, That from the butchers, and so on. The work goes on and on. Never-ending. Not that I am complaining. I am happy and content with what I am doing. We have no regular work hours, trade unions, no salaries or perks to speak of. In fact, we are the most hardworking people, I feel. But enough of this for the present. As I sat enjoying my cup of coffee, most work done, I started musing about that empty guest room. To make ends meet, my husband Ken and I take in paying guests and they live in that spare bedroom we have. We conveniently placed this room away from our main living area. It has a separate door leading outside. As I do most of the cooking for our family anyway, it is only a little more than I have to cook for a stranger. The guests have to eat whatever is provided for them. This is made clear to them at the beginning. Most of them oblige. They all feel home-cooked food is good for them. If at all they feel like going out for eating, we instruct them to let us know so the food won't need to be prepared for them. "Tara, Tara," my husband was calling. Getting up from my cozy nook, I spoke up, "Yes darling, what is it?" "Just got a call, dear. It seems there is someone wanting to come and stay with us for a few months. Shall I say yes?" He was all ready to leave for his work. "Make sure and list out all our conditions. I feel we need to send them ahead to enquirers like this. Get his or her email. I will send an email to them." "Done. Tara. Now I am off to work." Hurrying to the door, I kissed Ken goodbye. "Bye, Darling, May God go with you." Ken and I are a God-fearing couple. Both of our parents brought us up in the fear of the Lord. We had prayed for a long time fervently before we got married. We got confirmation from God before we decided to marry each other. We believed that the Lord Jesus Christ was the Saviour of the world and yearned to share this truth with others. Being active in the local church, we helped the Pastor and the committee in as many ways as we could. Married for over three years, we had no children yet and were presently praying about that issue. Our faith was such that we spent time praying both individually and as a couple every day. The Lord had been kind to us and we were managing to live within our means, contentedly. Milkha, the prospective paying guest came to see us the next day. He looked like a typical Indian. He was sporting a white turban and a thick vermillion line on his forehead. The moment he came in, our room was smelling of garlic and onions. I was finding it difficult to breathe! Ken started asking him questions. Milkha had a typical Indian accent. He just had a passable knowledge of English. "We are a law-abiding and quiet couple and expect the same from you. I trust all your papers are in order. We don't want the police or detectives to come into our house." "Sirji, I too come from good family in my India. I do not break any law in India or here. Believe me Sirji." "What is your business here in this town, and how long are you planning to stay with us?" "I am, what you say, learning English at the Town Hall. I complete in three-four months and then leave. Am trained plumber but not knowing English, not able to get job." "Which part of India do you come from?" "I come from the North, Punjab, Sirji. Do you know it?" "We have heard of Punjab. I hope you are not into terrorism? We heard a lot about terrorism in Punjab." "Me? No Sirji. Am not terrorist. My father is a Police Constable who fights them. We are real Indians. Proud to be so, you can enquire Sirji, if you don't believe me. I have papers." Doubtful whether this stranger, Milkha, could stay with us at all, I asked him gently, "Will you be able to eat the food that we prepare and eat?" "Er. Sisterji! Me, Punjabi and me eat more Rotis and vegetables. Can I make Rotis for myself?" Ken and I exchanged glances. We had a small kitchenette attached to the guest room, but no one so far has used it to cook meals for themselves. "It would be a little easier for me, perhaps. “But what about the costing?" I thought. I ventured, "You would have to get your own pots and pans and do your cleaning yourself. Is it okay?" Ken said, "And we are going to charge the same amount, as I told you earlier." I thought that would deter Milkha. But I was wrong. He seemed to be eager to agree. "Yeah, Sirji. Yes. I will be coming." So Milkha Singh became the stranger in our guest bedroom. We were soon assaulted by pungent odours and smoke. He was a novice cook and burnt up his Rotis many times. But he survived somehow. And we too developed an acquired taste for the smells and sounds from Milkha's room. This stranger we took in was very eager to know what was happening. He eavesdropped on us as we sang a hymn in our Family evening prayer. One evening he approached me. He seemed to be less in awe of me. He calls me, Sisterji! "Sisterji!" He started, "Why do both Sirji and you sing songs in the evening? Is it a form of Bhajan?" "We praise and worship the Lord God with our songs and prayers every evening, Milkha." "I understand Bhajans. Our family also does it. But which god or goddess do you worship?" Praying silently to God, a short and swift prayer, a Nehemiah prayer, I turned to Milkha, "Our God is The Creator of all the heavens and the earth. We call Him Yahweh." "But I hear about Jesus? Who is he then? A little god?" I took a deep breath and started, "It is like this Milkha. God created the entire universe by the word of his mouth, in the beginning. He also made man and woman, Adam and Eve from the dust of the earth, with his hands. He breathed into them and made them live. That was how our first parents were created. We are all the descendants of this first couple." I paused. "Is it so? Then what happened, Sisterji?" "God put the first couple in a beautiful garden, Eden, which he created. He asked them to look after it. He only told them not to eat the fruit of one tree. All the other fruits they could eat." "Okay. Did they obey God?" "They did, for a while. Then Satan, the devil came in the form of a wily serpent and tempted them. He told them lies that they will become like gods if they eat the fruit of that tree. They were deceived and ate of that fruit." Milkha was excited. His eyes were twinkling as he asked, "Did they become little gods then?" "On the contrary, they lost their innocence and glory and became shameful of their bodies. They quickly grabbed some fig leaves to sew clothes for themselves. But God called them to account for their sin and sent them out of the Garden. He made some leather dresses for them before He sent them away." "But why did He send them away? Was He angry?" "No Milkha. God loved his creatures, men. But because He is a holy God, sin, and sinful people cannot stand in His presence. That’s why He had to send them away. Later on, He sent his own Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, who was God himself, in the form of a newborn baby to a little town called Bethlehem." "Yes, I heard about Bethlehem, the Christmas Story." "It happened really Milkha. Maybe 2000 years ago. Jesus grew up, as a true man and God. He preached peace, harmony and did many miracles, healing many people. He even made dead people rise. But the religious leaders were jealous of him and arrested him. They tortured him and then crucified him on the cross where he died. All his disciples and friends were very sad." "I know. It happened on Good Friday!" cried Milkha. "But that is not the end of the story Milkha! On the third day, the Lord Jesus Christ rose up by himself from the dead. He came out of his grave and appeared to his disciples and others. Some of his disciples went running to the grave to find it empty!" "I did hear something like this too Sisterji. But how can it be true? And how does it affect you and me today, so many years later?" "Good questions. Let me try to answer. Jesus, because he was the Son of God, was the only sinless man on earth. By his death, he paid the penalty of all our sin on the cross. Because of that, if and when we repent from our sins and turn to Him, ask Him to enter into our hearts, He will enter and cleanse us from all our sins. We will become forgiven sinners and free from the punishment of sin! I wish you also, Milkha will become like us, a forgiven sinner!" "Sisterji, thank you for your invitation. Let me think about this. Please give me a simple write-up, a part of your Bible so that I can do some meditation and come to a decision." Silently I offered a prayer of thanksgiving to God. I unearthed a Hindi translation of the New Testament which an Indian student paying guest had left with me, and gave it to Milkha. And I am continuing to pray for his salvation. Can you join me too?

After months of lock-down, the virus-ravaged earth has finally re-opened and the people attempted to go back to normal. Unfortunately, the prolonged absence of human interaction has turned humans into maniacs. Those who have been going outside at least occasionally managed to escape these effects, but they did not escape the manic attacks of the rest of the zombies. For one hundred days people were slaughtering each other on the streets until no one was left except for one miserable soul: myself. I have no idea how I managed to escape but somehow, I did and was not harmed, at least physically, emotionally I have been scarred without any hope of future repair. So, although my survival might seem like a great achievement, I am beyond feeling victorious. Frankly, being the only human around is not that great. Perhaps it’s my karmic punishment for something terrible I have done in my past life because there is something entirely sinister about being the only person alive on earth while retaining all the memories of a past life that no longer exists with every single one of my loved ones being gone forever and all at once. My mom died of the virus and my sister was brutally beaten to death by some people outside. I was not even able to help her because I was out trying to make some shopping. I could handle my mom’s death, this was before the reopening, but my sister’s death was the greatest shock. I was in bed for one week only getting up for light snacks and the bowl necessities. After a week, I took another two to recover and then made a run for it to the forest, to a place I discovered long ago. I did not even bother looking for my best friend Jay or the only love of my life, my ex girlfriend Rita. We broke up when the virus started because of her pneumonic mom who was obviously paranoid for her daughter’s health. I proposed to run away together but she chose her sick mother over me, which is understandable, and somehow I don’t judge her and on the contrary I admire this kind of strong feeling for one’s mother. I probably would have done the same in her place. Of course, I was heartbroken over realizing that I will probably never see her again but she made her choice and who was I to demand anything from a person, even a girlfriend, to sacrifice what she held most dear? This is how, one very foggy Thursday I made a decision to get off the grid- so the forest. My forest days were pretty glum and mostly uneventful. I already had a hiding place in mind, the abandoned little cave which Rita and I found long ago on one of our adventures. It was terribly hard to not think of her as I was on my way there, especially because I took the longer and safer route in order to avoid zombie contact. It took me about five days instead of the normal three hours, and not, reader, I did not get lost. I have been a forest maniac since childhood and knew this place in and out. Perhaps maniac is not the best word, considering the whole zombie apocalypse. On the first night in the cave I had a terrible nightmare. Rita and I were in our wedding clothes and were running through this same forest as the zombies were chasing us and spitting dragon-like fire which was leaving a blazing trail. Rita fell and was consumed by the fire and the zombies trampled all over her as though she was dirt and not a bride-to be. Then Rita transformed into a monster which had the body of a wolf and the head of a dragon. Her piercing dark green eyes stared at me as she flew towards me. I felt her breath on my face and was burning alive. Trying to catch a last breath, I woke up screaming in pain. My screaming must have resonated because I heard voices that were getting closer. There was secret narrow passage in the depths of the cave which was my only hope. I managed to make it there before the zombies reached the cave. Luckily, the passage was not discovered, and I was safe for the moment. The next couple of weeks I spent making my way as deep into the forest as possible. I slept for two-three hours a day. Not the best for health, but at least I had no more nightmares and was able to focus on moving forward and escaping the nightmare that turned into a reality. Reader, your next question is quite logical, and I sense it coming. Yes, I did eat, and no I did not starve. I planned this escape of course and had enough supplies to last me a few months. My ration was basically a mixture of different sorts of canned meat and occasionally some berries which I found on the way. Oh yes, how long was I in there? About three months, give or take. Time became a thing of the past, and does it really matter? It’s not like my story will be all over the news or I would somehow become the infamous zombie apocalypse survivor- as the saying goes, “if a tree falls in an empty forest is it still heard if no one is there to hear it?” When I came out of my hiding spot out in the woods, I walked into a town on the other end filled with dead corpses scattered all over and open stores filled with plenty of now useless things. Well, perhaps not so useless as I put them to good use- especially the food! After months of being in hideout, I was finally able to get proper nourishment and even get new clothes- all for no cash. I am saying no cash and not free because the price is priceless- the price of these necessities has been paid in blood by the ex inhabitants of this world. What a tragedy, but one that makes no difference to a hungry soul who just wanted to eat normal food after months of surviving on the human processed meat of dead animals. I walked around and found some empty apartments. I chose the most luxurious penthouse in the middle of downtown- in normal times it would cost me my two month’s paycheques but now it was there up for grabs for the only human around. Rent has never been cheaper! Of course, I would rather it cost money but have everything back to normal, but I decided not to think about it and just take advantage of the moment. There was no point in mourning and my emotions have long ago died and been buried in the deepest corners of my soul with no proper funeral and no one reading a eulogy as last remembrance. The apartment was very bright and cozy. It belonged to a rich family with a very pretty young girl about five years younger than me based on the giant family portrait on the wall in the living room. I made a decision to not go through their things to find out what they were like, so to not awaken the dead emotions and risk any more soul wreckage. The luxury was nice: the apartment was very spacious with lots of natural sunlight. It had multiple bedrooms. I chose the master bedroom. The sheets were made of very expensive silk and felt nice on my body as I finally was able to lay on something other than first for the first time in what seemed like centuries. I fell asleep and beat my own personal record: twenty hours. I dreamed I was floating in the sky on a fluffy cloud. The sky was a baby soft pastel blue with streaks of soft pink and red from the sun. I looked down and realized I was on a cloud-train and beneath me were cloud-made tracks that seemed to be never ending. I was floating and singing children’s nursery rhymes. Suddenly the train reached a stop and I saw my mom. She looked much younger and was wearing my favourite dress of hers from childhood- a long hippy dress the colour of freshly cut grass and streaks of purple and pink. She did not say anything: just looked at me and smiled. I began to cry, which as I found out was not the right thing to do. As my tears fell down, they erased the pretty scene and from the beautiful baby blue pastel sky with a train track it turned into a dark forest. Then zombies started getting into the scene as though going through an invisible curtain. Suddenly I was back in the forest with human zombies spitting fire and Rita- dragon which fast approached me. I ran and ran and fell into a giant cave which spiraled downward. Dirt was falling on me- I was being buried alive. I jumped out of bed but was not able to produce any noise, just my mouth was wide open and my body hot as fire. Suddenly I felt numb and fell to the ground. My brain decided it could not handle this and declared a state of emergency by shutting down. Dear reader, this was terrifying, but remember this was just a dream. The reality was much scarier- that should scare you much more. I spent the next couple of months like a free wind, or a gypsy, or a bird, whatever metaphor you think best fits, going through one shelter to the next. I must have seen thousands of rotting bodies that the sight became a thing of normality. I had to keep moving in order to keep myself at least a little bit sane, although I am convinced my sanity died long ago after seeing chopped off parts of the body of ex humans of all sizes on the dead silent streets of this new world. Did you like that metaphor, “dead silent?” I find it absurd too, but humor is really one of the ways to deal with trauma. On one especially sunny day I walked into yet another town. It must have been hundreds of kilometres away from my distant and long forgotten hometown. I was getting exhausted and was starting to have thoughts of joining the rest of the humans in their after-life party. They were probably eagerly waiting for my arrival. I wondered if they would be disappointed with me for being about a year or so late. There is a record for lateness! As these creepy thoughts were overtaking my mind I did not see where I was heading as my eyes were clearly set inwards into all this suicidal paradise. Suddenly, my walking was rudely interrupted by a very strange object. It took about five seconds for my eyes to come back to reality and notice that I just bumped into a giant piece of metal. I took a quick tour to find out what it was. What do you think it is? Should we play guess what? I haven’t played that in so long. Oh, maybe we can play twenty questions: is it big? Is it man-made? Lack of human interaction is not so fun after all, no one to play guessing games with boohoo. Anyways, you did not guess correctly and lost. The giant metal is a freaking fighter jet. That’s right! I must have walked into a town with an army base. Reader, I was a pilot in the past world, did you think it was one of those Hollywood movies where the character magically learns how to fly a plane? Like the man in my favourite childhood story “The Little Prince”, I took off with this plane and went on a trip around the world. The difference is that the world really was as lonely now as in the book. I wondered if I would meet my “little prince” with his golden hair and pet sheep. As I was flying, I tried my hardest to recall the plot of that book and imagine myself in this story. I was so deep into my own fantasy, I completely lost track of time as I was flying from one zombie-ravaged-land to the next. I liked my rose-coloured glasses on this post-post world trip. I made some stops in some iconic long-forgotten places which I always wanted to see but never had the chance to when the world was still alive. I don’t want to go through them here, let’s just say I was acting almost like a typical tourist, minus overspending on shelter, transportation, nourishment, remembrance object; yes, I guess I was not so typical of a tourist after all- just me and my plane. But reader, remember that being out of touch with reality does not end well- and so on one especially hot morning as I was passing over what looked like a very familiar place, my plane ran out of food and crashed. It was quite a sight to see- I wish you were there to witness this magnificent landing! The landing the was not the most crashy, but it did shatter my pink-rose glasses. I looked around and saw a familiar monument. As I walked around some more it finally hit me- I was back at square zero- the place I once called home in some distant past that now seemed like it never existed. The cycle was complete- what is next? Of course this is a big big foreshadowing clue to you reader that this tale is nearly coming to its end, just hold tight. Fixing my plane proved to be a very useless task. After a couple or dozen of time I gave up any hope completely. As I was about to abandon this world for good and finally come to the after-life party, my mind painted a familiar talking creature which was making an attempt at communicating to me in a tongue I have not used since forever. “Are you a dream?” said hallucination “No, I am not a dream, are you?” Reader, how do you think it ends? My fate is in your hands!

The proverbial burning of the midnight oil ensued for the deranged medical student with his nose stuffed in cocaine; except the midnight oil was the electrical bill, and the cocaine was coffee. Words like nicotinamide dinucleotide and glutathione peroxidase taunted the medical student, who only had enough energy left to stare blankly with his eyes redder than a baboon’s ass. Biochemistry used to mean something to the man, but by this time the brain of the once brilliant medical student (the term “brilliant” being loosely used to actually mean operating at 57% capacity at least, not including caffeine and sugar) had been failing him for the past five hours. He lamented his lot in life. Why did he let his parents brainwash him into thinking this was a good idea? They didn’t even make it sound appealing. Say, want to subject yourself to nearly a decade of mental strain and torture and enter yourself into an oversaturated healthcare system that doesn’t value you anyway? Gee, sign me up! He could have been a writer, a businessman, a piano player, or a song-er (wait, that doesn’t sound write). But no. Here was the pitiful medical student, choosing to blame “the system” rather than his dreadfully shitty time management. That said, he was accustomed to such feelings. He could say things like this all he wanted, but he could not deny that some of what he learned he found genuinely interesting. That, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a fallback occupation if ever things went south (and of course it had to be the most hassle fallback in existence). And it is due to that reasoning that he couldn’t afford to throw this exam. For the academic scholar, a feat he still wasn’t entirely sure how he achieved, failing the exam would also mean his hopes of accruing that sweet scholarship money for himself would be over (in case things ever went south-er). In 28 hours, May 31st would arrive, his doomsday (of which there were already 36). And he wasn’t sure if he’d be ready by then. He’d reached the point of saturation. The words reflected meaninglessly off his head and right back down on the page. He considered his options. The cocaine stood idly to the side of his table, staining whatever paper was under it. Although, he knew coffee would probably do more harm than good at this point. His brain had been fried for the past few days, and he couldn’t allow himself to crash into nothingness tomorrow; that was his final day of cram studying, much more important than now. The medical student turned to his window, spotting the first signs of light in the once dark sky. Sleep would be the best option, he decided, to recoup his losses today and make up for it tomorrow. In a feeling that no orgasm could ever compete against, the medical student flung himself upon his bed, caressing the skin of his pillow, and allowing his slobber to moisten up its clothy face as he hung his mouth open. Bliss settled upon the face of the weary medical student, his mind now empty of such obscenities as catalases and cytochromes. He heard a high-pitched moan. He smiled. Was this the beginning of a wet dream? God knew he could really use one right about now. The moaning continued. He got excited. A bark. That ain’t right. He sat upright and erect, more so than his penis. Another moan-a female. Another bark-a dog. He gritted his teeth, realizing what was happening, aggravated more so by the fact that his britches would not be moistened tonight. This was not the first time his next-door neighbor shagged her dog. He tried to explain the situation once before to the admin office, but they brushed him off on the basis that he was the only one complaining about them. The sounds repeated themselves. It wasn’t his fault that the ears of a medical student became aware of even the most minute stimulus every time he tried to focus. No matter, the medical student thought to himself amidst the sounds of a pet owner enjoying her dog a little too much, he would sleep through this as he always had. The medical student greeted his bed once again, apologized for the interruption, and continued making sweet sleep upon it. Awoooooo! “Son of a bitch!” The medical student moaned back. Normally, he would love to hear the moans of a female, but to have them interjected with the cries of a freaking dog not only softened him up, it made his heart punch his chest every damn minute. Unless he could sleep soundly tonight, the efficiency of studying the next day (of which it technically already was) would be ruined. This was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back, or in this case, his sanity. He threw on something decent and burst out his door, right down to the next room. He bashed his hand repeatedly on the door until a young woman finally answered. Her eyebrows were angled downward and her arms were crossed. He couldn’t help but notice how short her shorts were, and he had a pretty good idea why. “I’m going to say this very politely,” the medical student drawled. “Stop shagging your dog.” The woman’s face twisted. “I’m not shagging my dog, you pervert,” the woman screeched, the intonations and inflections in the way she spoke irritating the medical student even more. The medical student slapped his hands on his face and felt the bumps of his eyebags on his fingers. “I’m going to file a noise complaint right now if you don’t stop.” “Oh please, the admin office probably isn’t open this early in the morning. And besides, they’re reasonable. They’ll be on my side because I can do what I want with my dog.” From behind her legs, a fat fluffy dog peeped its head out, breathing shallowly with its tongue hanging out to one side. Its black beady eyes met the medical student. Indeed, the dog was cute, but not cute in that way. “Did you ever think that you were so preoccupied with whether or not you could, that you didn’t stop to think if you should?” “It’s my dog, and I can play with it however you want. That’s my freedom.” “Little too much freedom. All right, noise complaint time!” Without another word, the medical student left the shouting dog owner as he descended the elevator and went down to the administration office (actually open 24/7). The staff guy (probably a receptionist, but he liked calling him staff guy) greeted him and almost jumped back upon seeing the sorry state that the medical student was in. After filling out a form and explaining the situation, the staff guy called the woman down for a chat. He had the two seated beside each other in front of his desk. They didn’t spare even a side glance to one other. “For the sake of clarity,” the staff guy began. “What seems to be the problem?” “Lady won’t stop shagging her dog.” “I wasn’t shagging my dog, and this guy is trying to tell me what to do with my pet.” The staff guy paused, mumbled to himself if he was paid enough for this, and upon realizing having two angry residents was worse than having one, continued. “I’m sorry ma’am, but he is within his rights to request you turn down your volume if it is indeed excessive. Regardless of what you choose to do with your pet.” “This is outrageous!” The woman’s ears glowed red. “I paid for that room and I am within my rights to play with my dog however I please.” “Y-yes, play with your dog, but you have to keep the volume down.” The medical student snorted. “Staff guy gets me. And is it really within your rights? Shagging a dog has to be a crime, right?” “Okay,” the woman brought her hand up. “Honestly, it’s the audacity for me. First of all, why on earth would you think I was shagging my dog?” “You were moaning.” “I wasn’t moaning you asshole , that’s how just I sound when I’m having fun.” “Oh, I bet.” “I’m serious.” “Oh yeah? Prove it.” “Hell yeah I’m gonna--wait, what?” “Let’s hear the alleged fun sounds,” the medical student gestured to the staff guy. “He can be the unbiased third party, isn’t that right, staff guy?” The staff guy nodded slowly. “I have a name you know.” “Well then,” the medical student said to the woman. “Moan away!” “It’s not a moan,” she said with a dastardly pointer finger. “And I will show you all.” With steely determination, the woman puffed her chest out, and made the fun sound. The entire room of only three people fell silent. The staff guy bit his lip and darted his eyes off to the side. The medical student nodded with the certainty of a university professor. “See what I mean, good sir?” The woman shook her head. “Simply untrue. Surely my learned friend here knows how to get his head out of the gutter.” The staff guy remained silent, leaning forward on his desk and twiddling his fingers, deliberating the matter with the logic, tact, and seriousness required of the situation. “For me to reach a proper conclusion,” the staff guy said, “I would request you repeat the sound.” She repeated the sound without hesitation. “Got that? That wasn’t a moan, right?” The woman asked the staff guy, her chin pointed upward in satisfaction. The staff guy rubbed the back of his head. “How do I word this... you see, miss...” “Oh, I get it,” the woman scowled. “You’re just as perverted as him.” “I didn’t even say anything yet...” That was when a door from the back opened, and walking in was not just a senior administrator, but the senior administrator. The click of her heels silenced any noise that would have come out, her blazer neatly buttoned over a white blouse. She rolled her eyes at the display before her. “Is this a noise complaint,” she asked the staff guy. “Yes ma’am,” he said. “All right then.” She crossed her arms and stared up at the clock over the door. “I don’t usually get complaints at five-thirty. This better be worth my time.” “Ah, Mrs. Sheila,” the woman stood from her seat and smiled. “I’m so glad you’re here.” The medical student bowed toward Mrs. Sheila. “Madam, if you can spare a moment, I forwarded said noise complaint to the kind sir over here, as my next door neighbor won’t stop shagging her dog.” Mrs. Sheila was not amused. “Is this some kind of joke to you?” “N-not at all. But her ‘fun sounds’ when she ‘plays’ with her dog have been keeping me up all night.” “Fun sounds?” Mrs. Sheila spat. “Yeah, fun sounds. I’m being serious Mrs. Sheila, watch this. ” The medical student gestured to the woman. “Go, do the thing.” The woman lifted her head up with a grin. “Surely, Mrs. Sheila, you don’t think this is a moan of sexual implication, do you?” She made the fun sound. Mrs. Sheila remained unmoving. The staff guy scratched his head. The medical student awaited Mrs. Sheila’s deliberation with bated breath. This would be the moment of truth, the deciding factor between good and shitty sleep. Mrs. Sheila opened her mouth. “You do realize it’s the volume of the noise and not the type of noise that’s the problem, right?” “Well yeah, of course,” the medical student said. “But that is a moan right?” One of Mrs. Sheila’s eyebrows twitched, and the medical student proceeded to bow and blurt out many apologies. Mrs. Sheila turned to the woman. “For my final decision on the matter...” The woman’s eyes lit up. The medical student buried his head in his hands, accepting defeat. “Keep the volume of your moans to a minimum, darling. And don’t try to make things complicated. You would not want that.” She nodded to the staff guy, and with a swift turn of the heel, Mrs. Sheila walked back to the door where she came from. The woman’s jaw was wide enough for a baby to pop out. And the medical student hollered and yakked and snorted up a wad of snot that came dangerously close to kissing his lips. He had won! Good sleep was upon him! The staff guy clapped his hands together (alas, the show must end). “I do believe that concludes this enchanting early morning of ours. Sir, madam, I certainly hope this issue is resolved.” The woman never closed her jaw, words wanting to be said but never found, as she along with the celebrating medical student left the office and returned to whence they came. The medical student layed down on his bed with an impish grin on his face, savoring the reaction of his neighbor. He grabbed his phone to commemorate this moment, perhaps to share such a silly yet triumphant story to his friend, or to write it down and laugh about it the next day. Instead, his eyes were drawn to the date. May 31st, four in the morning. Thus was the problem with shitty time management. In his cocaine-driven stupor, he had internalized the wrong date. His exam was, in actuality, to commence in four hours. In the context of all that had occurred one would expect outrage, a shock of adrenaline to pump through the medical student’s baggy sac of a heart and over his body. Such was not the case given the state of the broken man. He had nothing left in him to keep him awake. In such a state, one could seamlessly skip over the first four stages of grief in a sort of mental health speedrun, and get right down to acceptance. And that is exactly what this medical student did. He brought himself to a stand and stared at his reflection on the window. A face of pure calm, knowing fully well what he had to do. He left his room and walked a few steps down to the door of his dog-loving neighbor. He knocked on the door to a now silent room. He waited with monk-like patience. She opened the door with an ugly look on her face. Her dog--the one that started it all--peeped its head out from her legs once again, and looked up at the medical student with an adorable underbite. The woman crossed her arms. “The hell you want? You come back to gloat?” The medical student shook his head. Slapping his arms to his sides, he bowed respectfully, all the way down so far as his aching, sleep-deprived back would let him. “I would like to apologize for my earlier actions and accusing you of shagging your dog in front of the admin office.” “I knew there was--wait, what?” “That was wrong of me to allege something so embarrassing in front of those people without evidence. I apologize.” “Y-yeah, you got that right.” The woman paused. “I-I’m just--I don’t know what to say.” He shrugged as he brought himself back up. “It’s been a long day for me. I was trying to sleep and I lashed out. My bad. You don’t need to--” “I’m sorry too,” she said. “About making my fun sound too loud. It’s just when Michelle wants to play, I can’t just say no.” The medical student nodded. The dog had since turned around, and all he could see was a droopy, furry tail wagging. “I’d imagine it’s hard to control yourself when you have a cute dog staring back at you all the time.” “Right?” The woman picked up the scruffy dog in her arms, and upon a single stroke of its fur, the dog panted happily. “Precious, isn’t she?” “Sure is.” “I actually got little Michelle here back when I first moved into the city. I mean, my first time going away from home for university? I was excited to see what was out there for me. But leaving everything I knew, that scared me. Like, this was the only university where I was able to get a scholarship, and wouldn’t you know it? None of my friends wanted to go to that university. Go figure. But I thought I could make a name for myself from the ground up. Get a fresh start. Not as easy as it sounds. In a city so big with so many different people, the last thing I expected was to feel so alone. Michelle helps me cope.” The medical student was surprised at himself for feeling something in his heart when she said that. “As someone who moved here just for medical school, I know that feeling. Out here on an academic scholarship I didn’t think I’d get, and now I have all this pressure to try and keep it because I don’t know what I want. Cocaine--I mean, coffee, helps me cope. But now I have this exam in four hours and it’s either gonna make or break me, and I’m not sure what else to do.” She sighed. “God, I didn’t know you were going through something like that.” “Likewise.” “I’m sorry I disturbed you.” “And I’m sorry I was so aggressive.” “Cool,” she smiled and nodded. The medical student cleared his throat. “I’m Alex, by the way.” He brought his hand out for... “Dara,” to shake. “So, Dara,” Alex said. “I actually came here for one other reason. A simple request really, since I really need to stay awake to study. Really need to.” Dara’s eyes lit up. “Fine. This is to make up for me disturbing you a while ago: what can I do for you?” “The one thing you do best.” And so Alex, the desperate, caffeine-driven medical student with a sleep debt more expensive than his rent, clasped his hands together and said, “Can you please shag your dog again?”

​ Victor hated this part of his job. "You have assets, use them," his boss said. Still, he could have picked a better target. General Habon was a greasy, fat, bolding man of about 45. Victor could overlook his appearence, it was the smell he detested. His breath stank of alcohol, and his skin stank of onions, and for the sake of the job Victor had had to become highly familiar with both. It didn't take long. Whether Victor wanted to put that down to skill on his part, or failure on the General's. He had trouble getting his privates to stand at attention. Little jokes like this were all that kept Victor going, He'd be sure to tell them when the job was over. While the work was over, the job was just beginning. Habon began to stir. Two pig like snorts, followed by a rattle of coughs, and the General was forcing his berg of a gut in to its seated position. "Oh," he said, looking down at the admittedly more disheveled than usual adonis covering himself in his sheets. "You're still here." It wasn't a question, just a statement of a distasteful fact. "Yup, and I'll gladly stay here all day. Wonder how your wife would feel about that." Perhaps gladly wasn't the right word, though the image did amuse Victor enough to almost make this whole cherade worth it. The general groaned, and pushed himself out of the bed. A true specamin of a man stood before Victor. At first he thought the snorts were out of the ordinary, he now realised it was everything else that was wrong. Habon looked roughly like a slab of pork, if you'd soaked it in vinegar for three weeks. He smelt about the same. There was barely any structure to his body, as he walked, or rather, waddled, he looked like a bin bag full of yogurt. The things Victor did for money. "How much do you want?" asked the old general, finally showing mercy through the economic use of a bathrobe. "Hmm?" "How much for you to leave immediately, and to keep your smug face shut?" "Now now, you were more than pleased with this smug face last night. I don't want much, just a fair price for my work." "Spit it out slut, I don't have all day." "I wish you'd said that last night," victor sighed, "I'll tell you what. Put your wallet down, I don't want your money, I'll leave." Habon was pleased with himself, fixing his morning whiskey, until he heard the next sentence. "I'll just need that letter you got from military high command last tuesday." Habon dropped his whiskey. "How did you..." "I have my ways. You never wondered why a guy like me would sleep with a swine like you, without having you pay in advance?" "Why you little..." "Hush. Oh, and you know that phrase about the pot and the kettle?" "Out. Get out of my house before I call security." "Call them, see how the media reacts." Lumbering over to the door, he did exactly that. His oily ham-stumps beat against the wood, a scared looking soldier coming immediatly. "Please remove this *hijo de las mil putas.* Throw him in with the other garbage." "Now now Habon, thats no way to talk about your daughters." The old man was growing redder by the second. "On second thought, shoot him here." "But sir..." "But nothing, no one will miss this degenerate." "Takes one to know one pal." "Shoot him, do it now!" "Please do, after last night I don't think i'll ever be able to scrub out the shame." The soldier pointed his rifle at Victor's head, finger shaking on the trigger. Victor got up out of the bed, walked over to the man, and pressed the barrel to his head. "I already prefer your guard to you Habon, at least this one is prepared to finish me off." "Stop fucking talking! And you, " he pointed his sausage finger at the guard, "Kill this fucker already, or i'll make sure you never get a job anywhere ever again." Victor served the guard a wink, and the pair broke out laughing. Before Habon could say a word, the stock of the rifle was slammed in to one of his many chins. He hit the marble floor with a wet smack. His bathrobe barely serving its intended function, the general pushed himself on to his knees. He looked like a gragoyle with a plastic bag stuck on it. And now his head was bleeding. Victor wasn't sure whether that was an improvement. The guard passed his rifle to Victor, his eyes turning from a dull blue to a vibrant yellow in an instant. The light grew and grew, forcing both Victor and Habon to look away. When they looked back, the guard was gone, replaced by a buzzcutted, androgynous person, slightly too skinny for the uniform. "You're acting gets better every time Erin, nice touch with the shaking." "You can talk, how you didn't gag that whole time, damn impressive." " It's not that hard, theres this trick you can do with clenching your fist and it..." "Thats not what I meant," They interrupted. "Tyler, you can come out now." From the corner of the room, two white orbs pulsed as a body formed around them. Shaggy black hair, tan skin, and heavy eyelids. "Any comment?" Victor asked, "Nothing?" "Can we just get this job over with?" "Fine fine, spoilsport." "And maybe put some clothes on." "Right." He pulled on a shirt and trousers from last night. "Remind me to burn these when we're done. I don't want to catch something." "I thought you'd be immune to all STDs by now, Vic." Said Erin, smirking. "Make yourself useful and find your brother will you? We need to deal with Habon." \ Erin's body shifted back to that of the timid officer. In the door way of the Caza Urraca, stood a tall, muscular man with short black hair, in a sweat sodden military uniform and sunglasses. "Andre, You're needed." "Shhh," "What?" "My name is Olivar Domingo. I do not know this Andre person." "Nows not the time for your method acting man, Vic needs you upstairs." "Who is this 'Vic' person of which you speak? I am but a humble security Guard for Senor Habon." Erins body morphed in a flash of white light, their appearence the exact replica of their brother's. "Im going to stop acting like a prat now, and im going to walk upstairs and do my job." The real Andre looked all around. "Come on, you've blown my cover!" "Ay yeah, very convincing, now get upstairs." \ "What took you so long?" Vic yelled as he gave leave another kick to Habon's face. "My Thespian of a brother." "Thespian?" Andre asked, testing out the word. "Actor, dear, its a fancy word for actor." said Tyler, watching as Vic took another running punt. "Either way," Victor panted, coming to a standstill, "Now we can get down to buisness. Tyler, Erin, get him on the bed." \ "Im really sorry about this Mr Habon sir" Said Andre, looming over the shaking General as Victor forced the barrel of his rifle to the back of his throat. The general gagged. The deafening crack of a gunshot rang out. The general spluttered blood on to his not quite clean sheets. Andre interlaced his broad hands over the General's destroyed face, green leaking out over his palms and glowing behind his sunglasses. The bleeding slowed, and then stopped, and Habon surged back to life. "Vic, you realise people need mouths to talk." Tyler said. "No shit admiral obvious." Tyler gestured down at Habon. "Ooh, yeah, didn't think of that." "Fucking idiot." "Its fine, its fine. Andre, get me a pen will ya pal?" He pulled one out of his uniform pocket. "That was quick." "You had me standing outside for like six hours! I almost ran out of crossword puzzles." Vic held out the pen to the gargling wreck of a man flayling on the bed. "Now, you're going to write down where you've put the letter." Erin threw a piece of paper from Habon's desk, Victor passing it to him. Habon padded around, finally finding the paper. Garbled letters appeared on the page. His handwriting was surprisingly legible, compared to some doctors Victor knew. "Go to hell." Erin read, over his shoulder. Victor sighed, smashing the rifle in to the remains of the man's face. "Andre," "Yes boss?" "Again." Interlaced hands, green glow, more spluttering and screaming. "We can do this all day pal. I can remain unreasonable longer than you can remain resistant" Tyler gave Erin a look, they nodded back. Habon began writing, his handwriting much worse. If Vic had been smarter, he wouldn't keep damaging the part of the brain that controls language. The paper held one word, though Erin had to turn it to figure it out. "Desk". Tyler and Andre kept Habon situated, as the others tore the desk apart. Nothing. Another gunshot, more green glow, more screaming. "Sorry." Andre repeated. "Same question, don't make me ask again." Habon tried to write, but thinking with a brain that shredded must have been like trying to power the town fate with a potato battery. Vic pressed his palms over his eyes, groaning deeplly. He tried to phase out the squeaks coming from the thrashing vegitable on the bed, until he noticed what he was saying. "Desss, Desss, Dessss." Desk. He insisted. They weren't gonna get anything else from him. Vic slammed the paper on to the ground. "This is fucking ridiculous! I spend all this time planning, I sleep with this sack of shit, all for nothing!" Vic screamed. "Guys..." "Its you're fault," Erin said, "Shooting him in the mouth like a prat." Guys..." "Oh give it a rest, if you had to sleep with him you'd be liberal with the bullets too. "Guys!" Tyler yelled, Gesturing to the floor in front of Vic. A letter, from military command, addressed to Habon. "Erin," Vic said, "Where did you get the paper we made him write on." They shrank inside themself, morphing to look smaller and more timid. "Where?" "The desk." Tyler laughed in the corner, a rare noise indeed. "Well," Vic said, "Overall, this has been a sucess." "What about Habon?" Tyler asked. Victor picked up the rifle, unloading one more shot, silencing the General. "Ooh, i've got it!" Andre said, rushing over to the bed. His hands interlaced, his eyes glowing green. "No," Vic said, clasping Andre's much larger hands. His eyes glowed black, and the green fizzled out. "Not this time, let him rest." Andre sowered, but nodded in affirmation. "Now," Vic said, "Which one of you is gonna clean up this mess?" "You made it," Erin said. "Yeah, but im the boss." "You never do the dirty work yourself." Erin retorted. "I did the dirty work last night!" Tyler sighed. "Fine, fine, I'll do it. Just please, shut up." "Good man!" "Not for you, jerk, I just want to get this job over with and go home." "You love me really." "Something like that...

The digital sign read, ACCIDENT AHEAD. ROAD CLOSED. FOLLOW DETOUR, and that’s what I did, or thought I was doing. I-25 between Las Cruces and Albuquerque is the personification of desolate nothingness. Becoming lost should have been impossible. The word impossible only applies to a task until someone accomplishes that task and, unfortunately, that someone was me. There were sparsely placed detour signs right up to where the road forked. Then it was the driver’s choice. Waze was useless because there was no cell service. I chose the right fork, which was definitely wrong. I continued to drive as the road became narrower and changed from blacktop to hard-packed dirt. Yes, it was time to turn around, but there were two problems: 1) if my tires left the hard pack, they would sink into the soft dirt that lined both sides of the road; and 2) I had less than an eighth of a tank of gas. Logic dictated that if there was a road, there had to be a settlement somewhere up ahead, so I continued. The setting sun outlined the silhouette of a town approximately two miles ahead. Five minutes later, my car sputtered to a stop, drained of fuel, in the middle of what must have been Main Street. Fate likes a cruel joke from time to time. A faded sign dangling by one chain over the sheriff’s office proclaimed the name of the town was Hope. There were no people and probably hadn’t been for at least one hundred years. I walked into a nearby building that appeared to be held together by spider webs cascading down from what was left of the roof and along the walls. The building might have been the town’s general store, but now it was just creepy. I turned, went to step off the sidewalk, and froze in mid-stride. A rattlesnake slithered by. Clearly, this was no place to explore in the dark. I returned to my car, locked the doors, and promptly fell asleep in the back seat. Dawn crested the horizon bright and clear, allowing me an unobstructed view of what was left of Hope. Strolling down the center of Main Street, ever vigilant for more reptilian inhabitants, I read a sign nailed over a doorway. This building was the former home of the Hope Gazette. The structure appeared sound enough, so I went inside to explore. Most of the paper in the office was yellowed, brittle, and unreadable, but the lead typeface on the press was legible. Headline: Hope, Born January 10, 1835, Died July 4, 1910. The article recounted the history of the town. It told of its founding, the trials, and triumphs, and finally the inevitable slide into oblivion. Hope was originally founded when a vein of silver was discovered in the nearby mountains. The town grew and prospered for sixty years, but then the mine played out. The residents were not ready to give up on their community. They switched from mining to raising cattle and farming. These new ventures extended the towns’ life for another twenty years, but the end was inevitable. Without the daily shipments of silver, the railroad reduced the number of trains that stopped in Hope. Cattle and produce shipments were not enough to justify running trains through the isolated town. The residents slowly left Hope and moved to other parts of the state. The editor had dutifully chronicled all these events for one last issue. Then he delivered it to the last of the residents before they abandoned their town. On July 15, 1910, everyone living in Hope gathered in the town center. They said goodbye to one another and to their beloved town and left for good. It was a depressing tale both for the former residents and especially for me. Hungry, thirsty, and desperate, I scoured the remaining buildings for something to eat and, more importantly, water. Food was a lost cause, but I located a well. Much to my surprise, the hand pump still worked. At least I wouldn’t die of thirst. I continued to search for anything that could help me escape this forgotten part of America. What I found was a Penny-Farthing bicycle. First the well and now the bicycle. Maybe it was my lucky day after all. The wheels were steel and although the leather on the seat had rotted away, everything was in perfect working order. Now all I had to do was learn how to ride the baffling contraption. I’ve watched people in old newsreels ride along on one of these without a care in the world. It took me multiple attempts, countless falls, and some skinned elbows, but by the end of the day, I had mastered the beast. I filled a couple of jugs with water and departed at sunrise. Once I got that big front wheel spinning at a steady pace, I made surprisingly good time. When I reached the location where the road split, I took the left fork, which was the right one. Approximately five miles from the highway, I was stopped by a Border Patrol agent. You can imagine what he was thinking when he first spotted me cruising down the road on an antique bike. The agent listened to my tale of trial and tribulation and when I finished, he just shook his head and said, “I know about that town and its’ history. No one ever found the residents of Hope. Legend has it that the day they left, the area was engulfed by a massive dust storm that lasted for two days. People organized a search party and spent the next three days looking for them. They either became disoriented by the storm or, more than likely were buried by it. Either way, no trace of the last residents of Hope was ever found.” The agent helped me load the bike into his truck and gave me a ride back to civilization. I bought some large gas cans and got a ride back to Hope to retrieve my car. If there is one thing I’ve learned from this adventure, you should never abandon Hope.”

I believe reality is relative, especially when what you see from behind a screen is designed, produced, and created by someone else. Our visitors come searching for the real world, a place where the sun shines, and they can touch the reality around them. We were going to give it to him, though he won't like what he’s going to get. Sally and I sat in our usual spot, the weight of the slow summer afternoon heavy on our shoulders, almost forgetting we had a job to do, when he finally stepped off the train. Long and thin, his hooded sweatshirt hung loose over tight jeans, his shoes so white they were hard to look at. Not that Sally and I looked up. He would find us we knew, eventually. “Hello?” The man said, a smirk on his bearded face, a black rectangular bag rolling behind him. His hands danced around him, a constant blur of touching, his fingers rubbing his flat front pocket. Long practiced at sitting, we didn’t move. Just a middle aged man and woman in overalls and flannel shirts, we weren’t much to look at, and on the wooden bench, in that rattling old train station we fit as if we had been carved from the same tree as the bench. “So this is Stillwater?” The man’s feet moved, a step backward, his hand on the bag’s tall handle, opened and then closed over it, adjusting its placement next to him. He cleared his throat. “My name’s Zach, I was supposed to meet someone? ” The words, crisp and sharp, bounced around the faded wood walls of the waiting room, before falling to the floor unanswered. “I had an appointment. Zach?” His anxiety ,that something went wrong, pulsed as palpable as the throbbing at his neck. “Um, Yes.” The word left my lips with a puff of air, almost a breath. Sally, next to me on the bench of the Stillwater train station nodded her head, finally acknowledging him. Zach smiled, looking around. “I can’t believe this place. You both are just perfect. Just like the TikTok reels. ” He breathed in, and then out. “Smells like peace, and nature! No notifications, no calls, not even texts. This is going to be the best weekend of my life. Let’s go!” We lived in Stillwater, a spot on the map where a quirk of geography, an accumulation of elements, reached up creating a dome of magnetic resonance to disrupt compasses, fry most electronics, and block cell phone signals. Mountains surrounding the valley kept the weather fair, windless on most days, and even more so today, when the air sat thick and stagnant, and even the smallest insects stayed home. We stood up and stepped outside. Zach paused at the curb, his head twisting up and down the empty street. His frown only lasted a moment before his face cracked into a grin. “We’re getting our steps in!” He said, stepping forward, the rolling bag clicking on the rough and cracked street. “Only way to get around.” I said, not looking back. We passed gaping doors and empty windows of store after store. Stillwater had a thriving main street once, but now the toothless smile of a dying man. For some people this had a certain appeal, a place where the rush of commerce and modern technology had passed by, skipping over Stillwater like a spinning rock on a pond. The golden hue of nostalgia had turned the neglected buildings into ‘old timey', our lifestyle ‘vintage’, the broken furniture into ‘antiques’. Visitors from these big cities came to experience what life could be like if they could just be still. They talked about ‘modern technology’ in grand words, wide eyes, and dramatic gestures. But underneath they were searching for something real. Burned out trying to keep up with their neighbors, they wanted the promised dream, but didn’t want to pay the price of running on the wheel of commerce like a rat in a cage. In Stillwater nothing happened and for some, that had value. They stopped outside the old hotel, and Sally gestured for Zach to continue in. Sally joined me at the bench outside the door, watching the empty street, motionless as a photo. “Think he’ll make it? ” I asked her. She kicked the wood of the hotel porch with her boot. “Doubt it. But he’s cute, so...” Only a few minutes later Zach appeared at our side again, a bright sparkle in his eyes. “That's a tiny room! So, what do you all do for fun around here?” He said, bouncing on his toes. Sally nudged me with her elbow as she stood up, and we continued down the street. Sally and I did what we could to get by, lately playing tour guide to these lost souls, our once promising careers crashed into evils of capitalism. Years ago an entrepreneur had taken advantage of the nearby lake and the deep deposits of iron ore to build a thriving factory town. But a leveraged buyout, and the collapse of the only jobs in town drove the businesses and most of the people out to find a life in bigger, busier cities. Not too many of us stayed, and I have to say I liked it. We walked down the small path toward the rocky shore of Lake Stillwater. Sally and I pulled over to our favorite spot overlooking the lake, the high mountains just beyond. “It's so nice to just sit!” Zach said, standing at the edge of the lake. He picked up a rock and threw it, an awkward parabola curling into the water. It landed with a soft splash and then was gone, not even a ripple in its wake. “I can't believe this place really exists. He tapped his empty pocket again, and then rubbed his hand down his thigh. “A video of this, the post would get a hundred likes, a thousand. If I hadn’t deleted TikTok....” Zach spoke more to himself than us. “But, someone must’ve taken a video. I saw this exact scene on a TikTok reel. ‘A place to get away’!’’” Zach spoke, light and high pitched. “I wonder how...” “An old camcorder.” I said, with only a hint of pride. “That’s how I heard about this Town.” Zach nodded over his shoulder to us, another rock launched into the water. “This was the right decision, I needed a break, I was losing my mind. Just jittery all the time, always on a screen.” “I had to leave my phone, can you believe that? I mean I knew they would, there were warnings. And it wouldn't have worked anyway, I guess. But I didn't believe it. How can people live without a phone?” Zach turned, a sheepish grin. “I guess you do, but you don’t need it, don’t even want one do you? I mean you live here, with fresh air and... I haven’t been this long without my phone since-” He tapped his pocket once more. “Well, a long time.” “OK then.” Zach turned, hands on his hips looking back at us. “Is there a hike around the lake, or something?” I looked up, confused. “Hike?” “You know, a hike, a walk, around.” He gestured, spinning his arm in a wide, flat circle toward the lake. I usually go to Golden Gate Park. OK, I follow a TikTok'er who goes to Golden Gate Park, and I go, well sometimes." Zach made a full turn, his arms wide. “Nature! This is my chance right? To experience the natural world, to see new plants, animals...” “We walked here.” I shrugged, and then put my head back down. The sand didn’t stir. The leaves on the trees didn’t tremble, but lingered, limp in the dry heat; no breeze drifted in to cool our brows. Stillwater lake lay flat, a glass reflection of the hot, desiccated sky above. “OK, no hike.” Zach sat down next to us. “I can do this, just relax, a beautiful lake. We can just talk, like a group text, but IRL.” Zach’s hands were flying around again, touching his knees, his shoes, itching at his close cropped beard. In a sudden motion he stopped his hands, carefully folding them together. “Mr. BetterLife, the therapist App I use, texted me to just breathe, and to listen.” He breathed in, then out, a long slow breath. “So, are you both from here, or-?” Zach looked over expectantly. I’m always amazed at the power of silence, the space that slowly opens up when a person expects an answer and it doesn't come. I watched to see how Zach would do. After a moment, I could see him settle in, his face went slack preparing himself to wait us out for a response. Zach, just an amateur at this game, of course had no chance. Working with the visitors, I’ve learned there are stages to how silence impacts these technology addicts. It started with an itch. I saw Zach begin to move around, a slight irritation in his shirt had to be adjusted, something on his nose, and a rock pulled out from underneath him. Then it becomes a need, an urgency to see if his ears still worked, his mind demanding some sound to fill the silence. Zach kicked a rock, then smirked at the click- clack as it bounced off another rock. A pistol shot of a cough, once then twice. Finally it became too much, the wide open silence needed to be filled, a yawning, open crater that threatened to swallow him whole. His face began to change, tightening, fear creeping in as his eyes darted at the nothingness threatening him. “-I’m from Wisconsin originally-” Zach gave in finally, his voice loud and sharp, a sword against the monstrous quiet. “After college I moved to San Francisco for a tech job, UI work at first, user interface.” Zach turned to see if we understood. I stared back, blank and confused. “Now I work from home, backend software coding, for an online dating site.” Zach’s chest puffed out, a smile on his face. “You’ve probably heard of it...” His smile faded. “Ok, maybe you haven't heard of it." He picked up a rock and dropped it. “I actually spend most of my time on TikTok. I never leave the house, I don’t have any friends. That’s why I’m here...” He dried his cheeks with his palms. “Maybe we should move on to lunch.” Zach stood, brushing his pants, dust falling straight down onto his now dirt-brown shoes. He took long strides along the rocks. “Like a 'greasy spoon' restaurant or maybe a chuck wagon?” He laughed, a few short chuckles until the sound faded to nothing in the dead air. “There’s a diner.” I said. “It serves both hot dogs, and hamburgers.” Zach stepped back, his hands at his throat. “But I’m vegan. “I read there are vegan options?” I turned to Sally, confused. “Potatoes.” Sally said. “Baked, or boiled?” Her head tilted in a question. “My god.” Zach put both hands on his head. “You know, there is a great world out there. His long arm gestured to the horizon. “I could take you to where there is real food, where there are, movies, social media, and cars!” “OK, let me explain so you can understand.” Zach got onto one knee, proselytizing; his face bright red, eyes blazing coals. “These cars, metal beasts that roam the cities, can drive you places, you don’t have to walk everywhere! And phones- technology in little boxes that display images, you can make calls, text your friends. Take photos! There is an opportunity for you two to make something of yourselves, to get a job like mine, a software engineer! I can show you, and if you don’t like it I can bring you back. What do you think?” Sally and I stared back, open-mouthed at this outburst. “I can't live like this!” Zach shouted. “Nothing happens! You sit, and eat -potatoes, and then sit again!” Zach turned. “I got to go, I can't take another minute-” I tilted my head, a train whistle in the distance. “ A train leaves soon, you might make it if you go straight there.” Sally said. Zach stepped toward the road, and then turned back. “My bag,” his hands out, pleading. “Can you FedEx it?” “fedecks?” I gave him a blank stare. “Oh goddamn it, I'm done. I need to get back to reality, and people and TikTok.” The train whistled again, louder, closer. Zach took off in a full sprint. Sally looked at me and nodded. We turned back to the lake, a comfortable silence until we heard the train leave, taking Zach back home. I pulled out my satellite phone, and tapped a few buttons. “They should pay a bonus if they don’t last the day.” I said. Sally nodded. “ I got dibs on his bag. “on the last one, I made a fortune selling the clothes on Depop and Ebay. People will buy anything.” Sally gave me a wide smile. Hungry? “ I asked. “I’m thinking Sushi. TikTok is buying!” I held up my phone as we began walking back down the path. I stripped down to my Nike t- shirt and Lululemon shorts. “I hate flannel, so itchy. The visitors are getting more and more desperate. It’s sad really, they can’t handle reality. “ “Reality?” Sally smirked, pulling out her own phone from her overalls. “I’ll get the Uber.”

It’s not relevant. She swished her long ponytail back and forth, upsetting the boy’s cool demeanor. He had nothing but to follow the big headed one. “Hey stop right there”, She continued walking with her head upright and shoulders rolled back. He ran with his mind buzzing with questions and rational tactics. She turned around composed and looked at him with a raised eyebrow, “Yes?” “Look I thought about what you said yesterday and now I am ready to debate with you” “And?” Her look caught the boy off guard. This time he forced himself not to jerk away. “And... and let’s begin the debate. Who’s going first? I’ll give you the chance. Better you go!” he cursed himself slightly for stumbling in his words. “Huh, you have been wake till midnight. Judging from the facts you have probably asked help from someone. Someone like a close family member, female definitely. You have forgotten to apply deodorant in an attempt to catch me before I went to my house. And you wouldn’t definitely try to come to my place cause that will make you seem like you are my boyfriend who’s struggling to ask me on a date.” Her words flowed through the Boy with softness and fluency. She looked at him in her calm quite manner. Barely blinking, The boy’s mouth dropped open. “How did you know?” he asked his head spinning “Know what?” He gestured around with his hands, not pointing to anything in particular. “The fact that you didn’t apply deodorant?” She smirked “No I mean I mean... the latter part” words took so long to reach the boy’s throat. “Simple deduction” The boy was amazed at her graceful cunningness and calm collected gestures. But he was not going to be distracted again. Aunt Porsha’s advice looped itself into his consciousness. Act as if you know. Don’t show your cracks. “Well not so impressive. I could have done the same too” The boy mumbled “Ok let’s not get distracted shall we Bruce!?” It was again another ripple of shock that overtook the Boy. “Fine let’s begin.” He didn’t bother to ask her how she knew his name. He didn’t want to appear any more ignorant nor naïve. “Ok you said that girls have greater verbal ability than boys. And I disagree with it. And this is why”, all his memorized words paused at the core of his buccal cavity. He force them out, praying to God for eloquence. “It has been found that kids who grew up playing with electronic toys and building blocks grew up to possess higher abilities of spatial and mathematical skills according the many researchers conducted around the world on kids in all walks of life. So there is no bias in this. It’s not the males’ fault that they play with spatial enhancing building blocks, Neither is it the fault of girls that they grew up playing with Barbie dolls and useless cooking stuff. It’s the parent’s faults. They are wired to follow the stereotypes. She rolled her eyes, “ Eso no es relevante, Bruce!” “Sorry?” He blinked, not understanding, and hoping his words are not gulping down again through the long muscular tube. “I said it’s not relevant, we are talking about verbal ability not spatial or mathematical abilities between males and female. It is already proved that females score higher in verbal and nonverbal abilities. Those findings show that females have more advantage over males in their cognitive domains.” She sat on the nearby bench crossing her legs as if she ruled the world. He hated her egocentric behavior, “And what proofs do you have? Any evidence based researches?” This took her off her demeanor. “Proof?” “Eso no es relevante?” The boy asked coolly “Proofs are in the hands of a nerd not in an intellect’s!” The boy thought there was a twinge of nervousness in the Girl’s voice, “Ah is that so? Proofs are weapons in the hands of a master verbal communicator.” “Says who? You?” She laughed. “Scholars” he gritted his teeth. “Which one?” Plato? Socrates? Bruce the Great?” He rolled his eyes. “Eso no es relevante Bruce? “Fine. Leave it, where were we?” “Where you sucked actually Bruce!” “It’s so hard to talk with you” “I’ve been told” “No wonder” Bruce mumbled suddenly eyeing the nearby roses glittering in the dawning sunlight. He despised their life. Often times he wished to plant himself back into the earth to see if he’d grow into something better, perhaps a dandelion, or a fiery rose that stood poised. He really had no idea what he was doing nor what point he was trying to make, “Ok back to the topic” “Which one? Deodorant? Spanish? Scholars?” “Oh lord!” Bruce exclaimed scratching his head, “...Your irrational view on gender biases. So let me make it clear you say females possess more potential than males. Is that so?” “I never said such thing” “Then what on earth did you say?” Bruce asked his anger spurring up. “All I am trying to say is that female’s verbal abilities are greater than males. I think I already proved it right without those so called proofs.” “Ha! How so?” He asked, confused “Cause I already distracted you from your points and if I told you now to begin your debate 98 percent of time you wouldn’t remember those memorized taught words from your female supporter.” Her words were like neat slaps against his face, “You have underestimated me” “Ha! Then show me what you can do Bruce ”. “Fine, According to a research done in the University of Cambridge in 2017, they studied males and females from different backgrounds performing debates in large crowds of people from leaders to entrepreneurs, kids to adults, drop outs to graduates. What they found out was something that was fascinating and utterly marvelous. You would be surprised to know that both males and females performed equally with competence and fluency. Researches were stunned for they were too wired by so called stereotypes that it was hard for them to liberate from that mindset. It took them years to accept it even though the evidences were crystal clear. So you see both sexes perform with equal abilities. But due to environmental or mindsets passed onto them they grow up to believe those irrational sayings, even though the facts are sitting right in front of their faces. We must as intellects if you call yourself one, do our best to diminish those that limits people potentialities, so that those who are coming after us are not limited by any means to perform their unique exceptional abilities. So what can we do? We can educate people without trying to support their sayings with our biased mindsets, we can encourage more female kids to explore and invent. We can provide them opportunities and not deprive them of those. Following these will really pave a brighter future for all of us with rationality taken serious and myths busted to dust. Bruce spoke his heart, he didn’t even realize it . He poured his heart, dear reader. No memorized words! He waited for the Girl’s retorts, but none came. The Girl’s expression was unreadable, long strands of wavy hair fell down her glowing face, he had a sudden impulse to tuck them behind her ear. Bruce’s world blurred and burst into a thousand vibrant colors, as the girl leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to his lips softly, And whispered, “Sé que Bruce, no es relevante” .

Tabitha slid one finger and opened an eye to see through her hands, covering her eyes. Mom sat in front of her assuring her that Dad did not turn into a monster. “Yes, he did,” Tabitha argued. “When I went to bed on Christmas Eve, he was fine. But this morning Dad is missing, and a monster is trying to look like him. Except the monster has bumps, and red eyes, and yells, and tried to swallow me whole.” “Tabitha, he did not try to swallow you whole. You were running through the house, and your dad picked you up, lifted you above his head and over the Christmas box you were about to knock over. Now, it’s Christmas morning. Your sisters want to open their gifts from Santa. Don’t you?” “Dad’s not here the monster ate him trying to make him look like Dad.” Tabitha gasped then shuttered. “Oh, no. Dad’s been eaten. Mom, we have to rescue him. Do you have an ax? We can cut him out like in Red Riding Hood. Is the monster still out there, mom? I’m scared.” Tabitha sobbed. Mom laughed in frustration, rubbing her sleepless eyes. “Chet, come in here. Your daughter thinks you are a monster, and I can’t talk any sense into her. She is your department. I’ll make pancakes we’ll have breakfast first.” “Good luck with that. The other girls are already pulling at the wrapping paper,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb as mom walked by. “I told you old man, no good deed goes unpunished,” Dad smirked pulled her back and kissed her. Tabitha screamed. Mom shook her head and yelled for the other girls to help her in the kitchen. Tabitha left alone to fight the monster grabbed a pillow. “Don’t eat my mom you, you monster.” And she threw the pillow at him. It plopped on the floor, landing between them. They both looked at the pillow, and then at each other like they were in a standoff at the OK Corral. Then dad made his sad gopher face. It was a face he made all the time to make them laugh. He was good at sad gopher face. Tabitha blinked her eyes and tilted her head; her curls smashed on her right shoulder. “Dad, are you in there?” “Yes, sweet pea, I’m me. You wanna know what happened?” “Yep, tell me the whole storted story, “Tabitha said, flopping down on the pillow in story listening cross-legged position. “First, it’s sorted not storted.” “That’s what I said.” “Never mind. Why do you think I’m a monster?” “Easy peasy, you have big bumps all over you, you scream, and your eyes are glow-in-the-dark red. Plus you tried to eat me whole.” “So, if I’m a monster, then why didn’t I eat you whole.” “I don’t know because I wiggled and kicked myself free.” “Yeah, that’s for that,” Dad said, rubbing his jaw. Tabitha puckered up her lips, ready to cry that she had hurt the monster. “Sorry monster but you shouldn’t eat people, and you wouldn’t get hurt!” “I’ll try to remember that. So you remember last summer when Grandpa died. And last month when my dad, your other grandpa passed away? Then we had to move away from your school and your best friend Penny?” “Why are you reminding me? And hey, how do you know that monster? Are you abstorbing my dad’s brain or somefhing?” “No, and it's absorbing and something.” Then he made her say them slowly. It was frustrating for both of them. “Listen Sweet Pea; I asked you what you wanted for Christmas that would help make up for all the things you had every right to cry about, remember? It was after I picked you up from Penny’s house for the last time.” “Yep, I remember. Sigh. Penny had a big, big, big Christmas tree that smelled like Lysol. I love Lysol. Smells like Saturday when we do all the cleaning and dancing and watch movies.” “Tabitha, don’t tell people you love Lysol, okay?” “Okay, but that is don’t tell number 981, and my head can’t hold all the don’ts you know.” “Yep, I know. I’ll try to slow down on don'ts after you turn twenty-one.” “I’m only five twenty-one is forever away.” “Time only seems like forever. It’s not. Anyway, I told your mom we were going to get a real tree. Mom didn’t like that cause...” “Did she tell you no good deed goes unpunished?” “Yep, but....” “I know don’t tell number five, right after don’t fart loud in public.” “Both still true by the way.” “I’m trrryyying!” “I know. You are a good girl. I wanted you to have that tree, our tree, that mom and I put up last night. I stayed up all night to see your face when you ran in and saw the tree. Then, you saw the monster and ran almost into a present, so I lifted you over.” Tabitha whispered, “What happened to you in the middle of the night, daddy? Please say you’re okay inside the monster.” All four eyes in the room turned dew dropie. “Well, baby girl, your dad is allergic to Pine-tree sap. It breaks me out in these hives.” Dad pointed to the multiple red hives that covered his arms and neck and face. One almost covered his whole eye. “That is why we’ve never had a real tree.” “Oh,” said Tabitha blinking and wriggling her lips. “I see. You loved me. You became a monster for me. So, you must not be a bad monster but a good monster, right?” Tabitha gasped her eyes widened. “You’re my Happy Halloween Sad Gopher Face Christmas Monster.” Dad laughed, “Guess I am. But you can call me, HH-SGF-CM.” “No silly, your dad. Only my dad spells weird like that.” She gave dad a big, though be it painful, bear-hug and ran out to the kitchen. Mom and the girls were pouring syrup on the chocolate chip pancakes. “Hey everybody, meet Happy Halloween, Sad Gopher Face, Christmas Monster! How do you spell it, Dad?” “HH-SGF-CM!” Dad exclaimed, then made a deep bow. “Da-da-da scream,” cried out, baby sister. “Com’ on let’s open presents under that mean tree,“ Tabitha said. The girls followed her to the Christmas tree. Mom looked at the uneaten and getting cold pancakes. “No good deed goes unpunished,” said mom. Then gave dad some medicine and wiped some pink stuff on him. You look more festive than the tree,” she joked. Then everyone just stood there in front of the Lysol smelling tree with its popcorn and construction paper ornaments and the angel on top. “Let’s not knock good deeds today, okay old lady?” “Okay, old man. Maybe you were right,” said mom as he put his arm around her and pulled us girls close. Then everyone said, “I’m always right.” “Hey,” said Dad, “that’s my line.” We just giggled. Dad turned Seventy-nine this year, and I’m much older than five. Mom is with our grandpas, and my sisters have families that love them, too. We never had another live tree in any of our homes. But there still aren’t too many Christmases that I don’t remember HH-SGF-CM. He was the best Christmas Monster I ever knew. <End.>

He had grown weary of late winter, that time when a dirty crust of snow still covered last year’s garden and the early robins fought over worms, rising from secret hibernation to turn the earth. The pale sun peeked through the trees, barely warm enough to turn the dusting of snow on the juniper tree to little icicles, cascading down the twisted branches. The wind blew against a branch and with a tinkling sound, the icicles broke free and tumbled to the ground, shattered like so many dreams. Snowshoe rabbit tracks bounded through the garden, followed closely by the impressions left by his little wiener dog, Schatzi, always in eager pursuit, but never quite fast enough to catch up. Blue and brown butterflies, their wings tattered and lacy from wintering over, sought a protected nursery leaf to lay eggs for the next generation of sky flowers. Finally, wearied from their last effort, they fell to the ground and disappeared among last year’s leaves. Wet earth and decaying leaves left under the cover of snow, warmed and began to release their heady scent, attracting little flies, dung beetles and lady bugs to turn last year’s remnants into this year’s fertile soil. Eager little flowers pushed their way through the snow, green swords first, piercing the icy layer, like a chick’s egg tooth, to make way for an erect flower stem to bloom in the sun. First came the snow drop, white and sweet, soaking up the brief daylight, then the crocus, marching across the lawn, pushing and shoving until the whole hillside was a riot of purple, gold and white. Purple hyacinths, yellow daffodils and red tulips followed, waving their flags in patriotic fervor. New green aspen leaves shuddered and quaked in the morning breeze as if anticipating some bad news. Japanese cherry blossoms and redbud trees lofted clouds of pink fluff into the sky and wild plum flowers broadcast their essence into the air, inviting bees to gather nectar. A virgin queen bee flew into the air, pursued by dozens of eager drones and worker bee escorts and entertained her suitors on the wing. After a time, the survivors followed her back to the hive where she began producing eggs for a new generation. Her worker bees went back to their duties, busily preparing for the new season of flowers to come. Cicada nymphs stirred, then crawled out of the softened ground like a long-kept seventeen year old secret and spread their wings to fly away in search of new trees to house next season’s choir. A brilliant red cardinal was sporting with a smaller brown female as they hunted sticks and grass to build a place to lay her eggs. He sang her a love song, “twit, tweet, tooey tooey tooey” and she sang back, meeting him and merging in mid-flight. “O-chickadee, o-chickadee, o-chickadee,” a pair of Carolina chickadees, mated for life, sang as they hopped together from branch to branch through the juniper and foraged for grubs to nourish her and twigs to build their love nest. With a magnificent feat of aerial acrobatics, a scissor-tailed flycatcher took flight to snatch a cicada nymph on the wing, then flew away to seek another tasty morsel to impress his mate. Two turtledoves, perched together on the barbed wire to rest from their labors and rehearsed their evening lullaby, “Oooh woo, ooo ooo ooo.” He puffed out his feathers and they danced around one another, preening, and negotiating the pre-nuptial agreement. Finally, in a great flurry of feathers, they coupled and flew away home. A lone Cooper’s hawk landed on a small gray granite headstone marked with a United States Army Fallen Soldier’s flag. There was a carefully tended snow drop and crocus garden and beside it another marker, dusky pink sandstone, shaded by a flowering cherry blossom tree, with a different name, different dates and the inscription MOM. They say stories meant to be told are hidden away for years, even a lifetime, just begging to come forth. Then, one day, when it is their season, they open the secret door and push through the last layer of darkness into the light of day, where they blossom and grow to keep the world in motion. He went to his corner desk, lifted the time-worn tie-dyed shawl, polished the surface underneath, dusted the framed purple heart, gathered fallen pens and paper clips into a Class of 1969 coffee mug, opened his mother’s diary and sat down at the ancient Underwood typewriter to write. Song of Solomon by Solomon Ford Walker, Jr. He picked her up after school in his bright red Ford Fairlane. He bought her a cherry snow cone then they drove to the edge of town. He parked his car on Chickadee Hill and let the top down so they could feel the breeze. He played soft music on the radio and jumped up to catch a firefly on the wing, presenting it to her as a gift. She lay in his arms and laughed at his jokes. As the sun went down and stars began to come out, he untied her scarf and ran his long thin fingers through her honey-blonde hair. Her soft lips tasted of cherry and he pressed his mouth to hers then moved down her neck, thrusting his eager body against her. Her dress slid to the floor and he struggled to undo his uniform and take off his shoes. He trembled as he unfastened her cherry blossom pink bra. The shadows deepened as he sang softly in her ear. He whispered promises and sealed them with a kiss. With an impressive acrobatic move, he pushed through her melting layer of snow, like a chick’s egg tooth breaking through to make way for life to begin. Solomon Ford Walker Annie Marks PFC US Army, 30 April 1951 - 18 March 1986 Cam Rahn Bay, Vietnam MOM 15 March 1950 - 7 August 1969 The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land. Song of Solomon 2:12

Samhain ( sow-in ); a Gaelic festival marking the end of the harvest season, the origin of the holiday known as All Hallows' Eve. It is cold, tonight. The wind sweeps raindrops and flame-coloured leaves over the street, the air is filled with the brightness of lanterns and chatter. Trick-or-treaters dart joyously from door to door. I can see them well from my perch. My, it is a sight, all of those costumes. A little red fire fighter splashes through a puddle beneath me, calling to his mother with excited impatience. I love kids. I might have had some of my own, once. But no time to ponder. I slide off the tree branch I'd been lounging on and flit through the street, weaving above the people. I pause a couple times to watch, listen. It doesn't take long to find what I'm looking for. I slow and rise to float quietly over the heads of two middle schoolers. A witch and a vampire. Classic. They hurry through the streets like everyone else, knocking on strangers' doors in their disguises to demand sweets, but something on them has piqued my interest. It rolls off them in waves, and as I follow them, I see the signs. Calling mean things to others, knocking pumpkins from porches, the like. Cruel brats. They’ll meet their reckoning tonight, I know. I can’t wait to watch the chaos unfold. Perhaps I’ll have my own fun with them before someone else does. I dive out ahead of them, enjoying the feeling of the air, and slip into an alley. It’s a little filthy, but I don’t mind. It’s not as if I’m not used to it. I follow the winding little street until I find a good, dark nook to settle in. I’ve left those two delinquents far behind, but I know they’ll come to me. I shimmer into physical being and lean back, rolling out my shoulders and relaxing against cool brick. It feels good to be tangible sometimes. I run my hands over me to remind myself of my corporeal body. I like my hair, I remember. It’s thick and long, falling in a tie down my back and over my shoulders. I also remember the one thing I’ve never been able to figure out on my form. Gender. I, as a non-being, have none. I don’t remember what it was originally either. Eh, I suppose it doesn’t matter too much. If anything, appearing as the genderless, ageless being I am will only cause the mortals that see me more distress and confusion. Voices bring me back to the present. The brats come clattering down the alley. They’re loud, but I can sense their nervousness. They’re not sure of themselves, or what they’re doing here. All the better. People who are unsure are easier to convince. They come stumbling into view a moment later. It takes a moment for them to spot me, but they freeze one after the other once they do. I wait as they do the usual nudging and whispering before one of them pipes up. “Who are you?” Confrontational, as I guessed. I gaze on them silently for a moment for effect. “It does not make a difference, who I am. All that matters is that I exist. Sit down, children, let me tell you a story.” They are hesitant, but their will cannot stand under my effect. They approach to sit cross-legged at my feet, and I begin my tale. “Somewhere in the world, in a space between moving spaces, there exists the little village of Samhain. Now, Samhain itself isn’t all that interesting, long abandoned and mossy, the cobbles so covered in grime that the streets become like ice when it rains, that you’d slip and fall as soon as set foot on them. Most of the year, Samhain lies dormant, nothing more than a ghost town, hidden deep in marshy woods.” I drop my voice to a secretive hush. “The excitement, really, is on the flipside. You see, in Samhain there is a well. An empty, narrow, bottomless well, and this well acts as the one and only passage between this world and the next. A gateway, of sorts, that only opens for a short time, falling on the day some of you mortals now call “All Hallows’ Eve”. Or, rather, Harlen tells me it's "Halloween" now? These things move too fast, I swear.” I break off with a laugh. “On this day it floods with the bustle of all kinds of evil weaving their way through the annual shift flip. Spooks take a shift of one year, spent out in the world doing their assigned duty, haunting houses, hiding under beds, in closets, under bridges, in dark woods, the like. When the portal opens, they go back to their realm, and the next set of spooks take their place.” The two are captivated, and I smile down at them, eyes glowing. “All Hallows’ Eve is the way it is because it’s when the haunts are up and moving, transitioning from one year to the next. Departing haunts like to mess around, feeling light with their impending free time, so they have some fun before they go home, frightening trick or treaters or stupid teens in haunted buildings. Arriving spooks are fresh and energetic, excited puppies darting around and scaring the life out of anyone they come across. It all sounds rather chaotic, doesn’t it? That’s the fun of it. Spooks thrive off of chaos. However, there does need to be some method to the madness. Here’s where the four other commandments of human justice (or human punishment), Karma, Pain, Guilt, and Death, come in. They regulate the gateway, the shifts, and keep the worst of the chaos under muzzle (while of course, taking care of their own jobs as well). Fear, the fifth form of justice, is represented by the spooks, for obvious reasons.” I pause once more to watch their faces. Open, hanging off my words. I can’t tell if it’s because of my spirit’s influence or my storytelling. “Now, you may be wondering why all of this happens.” I wait for them to nod. “Simple, really. It's because humans have the power to be terrible to the earth and the beings they share it with. Unfortunately, not all humans recognize the responsibilities that come with that, so someone else has to. Hence the commandments. The spooks' job just happens to carry out a little less subtly than the others.” I shrug, shift my weight on the ledge and tilt my head. “Maybe, you're asking why you've never heard of this before. ( It's because you're human. ) Maybe you’re even chuckling to yourself, wondering how anyone came up with something like this.” I wrinkle my nose. “Do you doubt me, mortals? I have bestowed you, of all pitiful beings, with this knowledge and you doubt me? That’s alright, most do. No one really believes the narrator. It’s all just a story, right?” I grin toothily at them, gleaming in the low light. “All I’ll say is, next time something unexplainable happens, or you are struck by one of the five commandments, think of this story, and doubt yourself just a little. Perhaps your reality really is more than what you can see, and maybe, you’ll think, that crazy writer was telling the truth.” A dark hand reaches from the shadows and wraps around a scrawny ankle. La Fine ~ The rhyme (by me) that started it all- Once upon a nightmare, there sat the little village of Samhain. And in this village, through the street, through the square, over the bridge and past the fair, stood a little well. But this well was no well, as it held not a drop of water, just a long narrow cell, all but on the night of Hallows’ Eve. On this night it came filled with the spookiest of spooks, flooding the village and climbing the stoops, for this town it had a secret, and a truth I now will tell, the village of Samhain was not a village but a well. - Mirabella S.

1st Entry: February 29th, 3001 I've finally started writing the journal I promised my therapist about back on Earth, now that we've reached Marrs. it has two r's. I don't misspell. As scientists had predicted due to weakening magnetic fields, the sun rose in the West and Earth's gravity was basically kicking us out. In a flurry of panic and disarray, humanity once more succeeded, exactly as irritably as it could get. I had been hopeful when Mars didn't work out. Until Marrs started surfing Media when I was fifteen. 'Can't quite believe I've lived a year after that. I don't exactly love to reflect but my therapist is a cunning tester who told me I should "transfer" my "thoughts to ink" to "make way for the noble mind". So, I wish the human race had ended with the sunset in the East- right then and there, no worries after departure. Things haven't changed much over here except my dad's low-paying job has turned into a no-paying job. He volunteered to help with the construction of houses for the poor. I wonder if he actually believes that anyone suffered poverty's trauma more than us. I wish he'd prioritize us over humanity sometimes; empathy over sympathy- Do I sound like Thanos? I shouldn't care. My mom has started tutoring kids and teenagers. She's done with her fifth class of the day now. The kids are pleading her to repeat her adventure tales. It's annoying how she has turned a matter of not affording to get to safety- not affording life to something worth pride. This journaling b.s is really doing a number on getting on my nerves. We need to stop wasting money on it. I'm talking to mom tomorrow. 2nd Entry : 3 0th Febr uary, 3001 Turns out, there's 30 to 31 days in February and November, and 31 to 32 days in the rest of the months here. That's approximately 376 days- if I've managed to not blunder through calculation. Nothing interesting really happened today. I've just been studying and using low-class pass in the library to understand this whole new world to get my mind off mom not caring about my opinion bregarding my own mental health and financial choices. 3rd Entry : March 1 st, 3001 The flowers on this planet are kinda weird. I haven't seen many but I like to walk around and I saw a bunch of breeds with belly-like stems, juicy petals, watery cores and there was this one bed of air-floating flowers too. The owner had caught me oggling at them so he gave me a bit of background and basics. Embarrassing, but it was almost worth the knowledge. If we had been here sooner, mom would have had studied these amazing breeds instead of the boring ones back home and actually made sales with her Botonical Bussiness Buddy book. And I would have been able to study with people at school. I keep dreaming. It frustrates me. J don't think writing's for me. 4th Entry: March 3rd, 3001 I skipped two days of journaling and got an earful from Miss Therapist. She's okay at her job, but she's annoying as hell and won't keep her nose out of my bussiness and is a sly trapping witch that knows how to lure secrets out of me. Welp, doesn't matter that I badmouthed her. She asked me to write. I wrote. 5th Entry: March 5th, 3001 Since she became my thirteenth birthday gift, till now, she's been nosy. So I don't know why I didn't see her discovery of my yesterday's journaling topic coming. A load of foolishness, I am. She gave me a list of questions to answer "at my own pace and comfort" instead of choosing unsuitable topics. And I don't care if it's childish but I'm not listening to her because she's sly, nosey, selfish and she's only ever blabbering or asking me to do so for the sake of cashing. 6th Entry: March 27th, 3001 I haven't been journaling for a while. I've been salty and I don't exactly know why but I'm choosing not to dwell on it for the sake of my sanity. I'm seventeen now. It's my birthday. Molly told me her name as a gift. Wow, saying her name's weird, she's always been Miss Therapist to me. She never gave me a gift before but said that this was her spirtual gift to me this year because she couldn't afford a concrete one. Sounds fishy to me. I've been feeling so mentally unstable that I think I heard her muttering about being stupid to waste time here when she could actually be earning somewhere else. She's weird, and she's making me weird too. It's what happens when you can't afford real therapy. Anyway! First question on the list: What are you feeling right now? Woah, wait. Waitta catch me off-guard there... I can go at my own pace and comfort. Random question: What's happiness? Answer: Joy. Bye. 52nd Entry: May 10th, 3001 A couple of skips on the journey but I can't believe I've beared it this far. Molly's still annoying but her tactics are less annoying and more eye-opening now. Swear to God, she can't squeeze this one out of me. Ew, I just imagined pride on her face. Ugly. Anyway! Question no. 46. A reason you're glad Marrs exists? The plants! And other natural stuff. It's really much more beautiful than that messed up blue ball we used to live on. And I don't really know how to be eloquent about this but the nature here is just so.. captivating and appealing to the eye... and somehow the heart too. Yeah, that's my way of putting it, I guess. 3012th Entry: May 12th, 3008 It's Molly and I's first wedding anniversary so I'm going to be gifting her this notebook to let her know of the torture she's put me through. Also, how she's helped me not want to wish to be the one comitting suicide in place of Charlie, and understanding mom and dad, and encouraging me to work towards my passion (which she guessed was botany even though it wasn't obvious, she was just sly, doesn't matter what she says) and slipping in some no-payment sources, and basically teaching me what life is. Thank you, annoying Miss Therapist. (P.s. drop in at the Senior Centre after work. Let's drop our parents some pizza-macaroons. You have to drive there yourself. I've done enough by making you suspicious of my extra working hours due to buying a restaurant for various reasons. Surprise! I know I'm still not that eliquent so excuse my form of communication xoxo)

Christmas: peace and good will to all mankind; well, that was certainly not the case in the London supermarket where I worked. My boss, nicknamed Mr Blotchy by all the employees forced to endure his red-faced rants, found running the store during the big Christmas lead-up stressful, to say the least. I’d taken on the holiday job as cashier and stock clerk to earn a bit of cash, help pay off the student bills, perhaps save a bit for Fran’s gift; I wasn’t expecting a bonus packet of high blood pressure and nervous tics. And that was before I botched up the big Christmas order. “Janet, in here. Now!” Sadly, my name is Janet so there was no avoiding the inevitable. I pushed back from my computer screen and made my way to the office’s glass box where Blotchy reined- King of the pulsing vein. He had his back to me, punching buttons on the printer, so I quietly made my way to his desk and sat perched on the edge of the seat, ready for a fast exit if the spittle started to fly. I didn’t have long to wait. “What do you have to say to this?” The vein on his temple was already throbbing like he’d been on the Christmas pre-dinner cocktails since 8am. I cast a glance at the sheet he’d printed out and slammed down in front of me. I didn’t have much to say regarding the rows of numbers. I knew what they were of course: stock orders, but I just plugged them into the system; they could have been alien phone numbers for all I knew or cared. I decided it was best to feign interest. “Looks like we’ve ordered a lot of stock; Christmas sales going well.” “You can tell me we’ve ordered a lot of stock!” Out came a red pen and an angry circle enclosed one set of figures. “Stock number 8527: you’ve ordered 1000 units. Big order. You’ll know what 8527 is of course.” As if I had the faintest idea. “Cranberry sauce?” It seemed like a plausible stab in the dark. I was considering quickly amending my guess to turkey or mince pies when Blotchy, true to his name, mottled an angry red. “You should be so bleedin’ lucky- cranberry sauce! No, my girl, you’ve not ordered 1000 units of everyone’s favourite Christmas condiment. Know what you have ordered? 1000 units of, wait for it, mint sauce.” Now I liked mint sauce, so delightfully artificial; and that livid green, such a pop of colour on the plate! But I wasn’t about to tell Blotchy any of this. Time for more supermarket charades. “Oh no! How terrible!” I hammed it up. “ How could I have made such a terrible mistake?” Even as I was giving it my best thesp shot, the scene flashed fully formed into my mind. I had been blithely typing in the week’s orders, confirmed by Blotchy on printouts with his daily handwritten amendments. It was normal for orders to change; with party season starting, blinis say or shrimps might be flying off the shelves and we’d need to order a few more units than what was programmed into the system. Overriding and changing the orders, that was my job. Well, yesterday I was tapping in the changes, when a flash of crimson and a wave of dark hair caught my eye through the office’s glass. I looked up- fatefully. The flash of crimson was a long red scarf, elegantly draped about the neck of a man whose long luscious dark locks made him look like a fitting romantic lead for an Austen adaptation. I was casting myself as Elizabeth to his Darcy, eyes locked on him, picking out his lunchbreak sushi from the chiller cabinet, when he turned and caught my perving eye and winked! And, I decided, as Blotchy mottled and seemed to shake, the incriminating order sheets now crumpled in his fist, those eyes and that saucy wink were what caused my helpless fingers to go crazy, typing in a few extra zeros for the innocent mint sauce; it was only a natural response; what was a girl supposed to do? The mystery of the mint sauce was solved, for me at least, but I could tell Blotchy exactly zero percent of the story. I would need to get inventive; cue me, Janet, recast as TV foodie-host: “Lamb is very much on trend this season. Fashionable Londoners are falling over themselves to pre-order legs and racks. Our mint sauce will be the accompaniment; jars are going to just grow legs and walk off the shelves.” Blotchy looked like he wanted me to use my legs and walk out of the office, the store- his life. I tried again. “And what with avian flu, poultry numbers are taking a real hit. Turkeys will be harder and harder to come by and customers will be forced to look for alternatives, like lamb- with mint sauce!” I saw myself in Blotchy’s eyes: a virus he wished he’d been vaccinated against; boy had he been naïve, thinking the Janet strain would be just a mild variant. “1000 units!” His voice shook and the full horror hit me: I wasn’t sure if he was going to vent or cry. I burst out: “At least it’s got a long shelf-life; we’ll shift it all by next Christmas.” He groaned and typed the digits into the keyboard: 8, 5, 2, 7. A picture of the stock flashed up with corresponding description: Fresh mint jus £12.99 for 50 grams Shelf life: 10 days Must be kept chilled His finger jabbed at the screen: the delivery date. “Janet, your mint sauce is arriving 7am tomorrow. You get down here an hour early, offload the chiller and fill it up with the stuff.” I nodded. Hoping the rant was over, I made my way to the door. “And Janet, you’d better think of something fast to shift those 1000 units, otherwise you can forget about hanging up a stocking or presents under the tree.” Yes, yes. I knew; but he wasn’t finished with me yet. “And do you know what you’ll be getting for a Christmas bonus?” Hell, it was worth a try: “One of those lovely Harrods hampers?” The wicker case filled with a cornucopia of mince pies, puddings and Christmas crackers sprang unbidden into my mind. “No,” he exploded, throwing the crumpled sheet into the bin, “any flaming mint jus we don’t shift, and your marching orders!” In that moment, I knew: my turkey was well and truly stuffed. ---------------------------------------------------------------- Letting myself into the apartment I shared with Fran, I suspected I should be feeling contrite about my scatter-brained slip up, but somehow, I just didn’t. My mind kept returning with salivating circularity to Mr Red Scarf and his scrumptious figure. I couldn’t blame my foolish fingers for just typing in any old numbers; at least they’d been semi functioning while my tongue was hanging out and my brain was having a hot flush. Fran was sitting on the sofa, bottle of wine in hand, feet resting on the box of Christmas decorations she’d promised to go through, when I came in. “My favourite Christmas cashier!” she beamed, yanking the cork out and splashing wine into two glasses. “Fran, how long are you planning to keep these Christmas jingles going for?” “Until the first snow falls, which will probably bring us round to February! Why the long face? Grinch steal your Christmas cheer?” I gave her a shove and clambered onto the sofa. “Oh well, might just have lost my holiday job. Do you like mint sauce by any chance?” The wine flowed and so did the laughs. As expected, Fran found it all an absolute hoot. “1000 units instead of 10. Tell me, was Mr Red Scarf well worth the extra two o’s?” “Boy he was worth a whole string of them. He was like oooooohhhh ”. Fran fell over the arm of the sofa and writhed passion on the floor. “And maybe a few mmm’s thrown in ?” I tumbled onto the floor too, clobbering Fran with a cushion. “We’ve got to sober up Fran, and think of something! Unless you want 1000 pots of fresh mint jus for your Christmas present?” “Ok, ok, serious face.” She said, pursing her lips. “You should dress up as a giant mint leaf; no, perhaps not- the police might think you’re marketing weed or something.” “How about a lamb?” I ventured. “I bet I could get a fluffy costume and stand in front of the chiller, bleating a bit.” “Even better: Little Bo-Peep, looking for her sheep! You can have the whole get-up; shepherdess crook and all” For a moment she looked at me with absolute earnestness, then we both fell about laughing again. It was no use. We drained a second bottle, danced ridiculously to Abba and fell asleep on the sofa with loud snores and zero ideas on how to shift the stock, making its way to the London store for 7am sharp. --------------------------------------------------------------- I arrived at the shop early the next day, more alarmed about my shameful lack of a hangover than the prospect of loading the chiller cabinet. My liver must be more used to wine than water, I mused, taking the worker’s entrance and swiping my card. Blotchy wasn’t about; he’d probably had a coronary in the night, dreaming about drowning in a sea of mint jus. I glanced at the roster: surprise, surprise I’d been taken off stock order duties and all my shifts were on the tills. Oh well, at least as cashier I’d avoid Blotchy waving his sheets of numbers at me. It was my first time stocking the chiller cabinet and my hands were soon red raw and numb, fingers like ten icicles, tingling from the cold. I was like some frozen automaton that somehow still keeps working, enduring Siberian icy blasts: stoop and lift and stack; stoop and lift and stack. Repetitive strain injury, repetitive strain injury, I robotically intoned while the blasted Christmas tunes blasted out. Yep, I was in for repetitive ear injury too. Things might have turned out differently had I been able to maintain mechanical efficiency; but with only 348 pots of fresh mint jus unboxed and stacked, I realised something: I’d slowed right down. Motivational talk was what I needed. “I hate you mint sauce.” I whispered at the 349 th green tub with its sloshing frog-spawn coloured contents. It helped a teensy bit. “I hate you mint sauce” I said expressively, shoving the 350 th tub onto the shelf. Yep, my fingers were still in danger of getting frostbite and were probably hanging on by just one icy thread, but I definitely felt better. “I HATE you -mint sauce!” I shouted, half-throwing tub number 351 into the unit and, with a whoosh of euphoria, I heard a deep laugh behind me. “Funny, I love a bit of sauce.” I whipped round and immediately forgot all icy sensations, flushing instead like a furnace: it was Mr Red Scarf! My mouth was hanging open as if I were a fish catching flies and I hurriedly shut it. Quick, think and look sexy, think and look sexy! I told myself, banishing the horrible thought that I was wearing brown polyester supermarket overalls to the reject bin in my brain. Above me, the sign started flashing like it had a nervous tic: “Specials!” it blinked. “Specials!” And then there was a crackle and it just switched itself off. We both burst out laughing. “So, Janet,” he said completely at 101% relaxed ease, reading my name badge and reaching casually past me to lift a tub off of the shelf, “perhaps you can tell me why mint sauce is this store’s seasonal special instead of, say, cranberry?” My mouth fell open again. He’d brushed past me; his scarf had actually, for a split- second, touched my bare hand. I shut my mouth, then opened it again and told him the whole silly story, leaving out his part; after all, a man so gorgeous must already have an ego to rival the Greek gods he was surely descended from, he didn’t need any more bolstering from me! He laughed that suggestive laugh I was already addicted to, casually tossing then catching the little tub of sauce he’d taken from the shelf. “Well, if it helps at all, I will be your first customer; this mint jus is coming home with me.” I laughed, giving Blotchy a run for his money in the frantic flushing stakes. He pulled a pen and a slip of paper out of his jeans pocket. Leaning the paper against his thigh, he wrote his name and telephone number and handed me the slip. “Well, just in case you’d like me to come and take a few more tubs off your hands. Right, need to head back: lunch break was over five minutes ago.” That sexy smile, another super sexy wink and he headed to the express till, paid and left, leaving me clutching the slip of paper -it had touched his thigh for heaven’s sake! - and wondering if he had read my mind, as surely his name couldn’t actually be Adonis. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Fran was already lacing up her skates when I finally arrived at the outside ice-skating rink where we'd arranged to meet. I plonked myself down on the freezing bench and winced as I eased my feet out of their warm winter boots and into the hired skates which felt as comfortable as two blocks of ice. Through gritted teeth, I told her about Adonis. “No! Mr Ooo and Mmmm came back?” “Uh huh” “You’re going to be his Christmas special! I just know it!” Fran squealed like he’d already gone down on one knee. “Even better; I’ve got his name and phone number!” I faked coyness and twisted the little slip of paper between my thumb and forefinger. Fran reached to grab it and with a laugh I spun off onto the ice, feeling like I was gliding into a future just as smooth as the glinting surface. Fran scrambled after me, clutching onto the sides. Most people avoided her, probably presuming she was drunk. Eventually I took pity on her gasping, hauling technique and looped my arm through hers, and we skated off together. “So, Miss Frantastic, what do you think I should say to this man, bearer of luscious dark locks, giver of super sexy winks, who goes- wait for it- by the name of Adonis?” For a moment I thought Fran was going to fall over again as she tugged me to the perimeter and we propped against the wall. She tapped the name into Google on her phone, and his face flashed onto the screen. Mr Red Scarf who went by the stage name Adonis Olivier - real name Benedict Olive- was an actor on the up, after a low budget flick had suddenly become a cult classic. More than on the up, if the number of followers he had on Instagram was anything to go by. As we ogled him, a new post flashed up with a link to the BBC. Fran clicked and we both watched, wide-eyed, a clip from the six o’clock news which must have just aired. “And finally, the BBC have it from a reliable source that your jar of cranberry might well be staying at the back of your cupboard this Christmas. Yes, it’s time to give your heart away to something special: mint jus!” The camera zoomed into the screen behind the grinning presenter and there was Adonis, decked in his red scarf, singing in full-blown crooning Mariah style to the tub of mint sauce he’d bought just a few hours ago: “Make my wish come true- all I want for Christmas is jus!” Cut back to the laughing BBC presenter: “So, you heard it here first Londoners! Drop the cranberry sauce and pick up the mint jus- hotter than a steaming mulled wine- and on sale tomorrow at your local Knightsbridge store.” “Call him!” shrieked Fran. “Text him at least, for heaven’s sake!” With fumbling fingers, I tapped in his number. Feeling drunk, without a drop in me, I fired off: “If I don’t have to eat 999 tubs of mint sauce, you’ve definitely made all my wishes come true! Thanks! Janet.” The reply came straight back. “Happy to help. Bit busy at the mo. I’ve got something in store for you, can’t say more!” The brazier burning on the side of the rink had nothing on my glowing face. “Come on Fran,” I said grinning, “this calls for a celebratory drink. Adonis has something planned for me!” ---------------------------------------------------------------- I could hardly believe my eyes when I made my way to work the next day and saw the queue trailing round the block, people jostling to keep their spot. At the front of the long snaking line, standing behind a blue ribbon fixed between two Christmas trees, brandishing a pair of over-sized scissors, was Adonis. Blotchy was beaming and started a countdown: “Ten, nine, eight, seven...” I’d never seen him so happy, smiling at Adonis as if Santa had just landed right outside his little store. “Three, two,” “Make my wish come true!” Adonis called out, and the crowd answered as one: “All I want for Christmas is jus!” Snip went the scissors, the automatic door slid open and the queue surged forward as if the store was selling the last of the Christmas turkeys. I ran up to Adonis and flung my arms around him. “You wonderful, wonderful man!” I laughed. “Are you sure you don’t want another jar of mint jus ?” And Christmas wonders were already happening as he hugged me back. “I think you know that’s the last thing on my mind, when in my arms is the oh-so delicious you .”

He gently placed his hand on my back. "Son." He spoke sternly, "go to her. She needs you." "Why?" I asked, tears trickling uncontrollably down my face. "Why what?" "Why couldn't I do anything?" "No time for this. Do it later. For now, go to her. This is the hardest part of being a father." I turned to him and looked into his eyes. He gave me a hug, embracing me firmly, forging my heart with the love and compassion he knew I needed. It ended, I nodded to him, and returned to my wife--her mind a faint light concealed in the hospital room. I sat next to her and held her hand. All the love I had received, everything left my father had to give me, I gave it to her.

January 1999, morning, abandoned mall She was struggling to remember the date, because every day is like the last one. Wake up, check on Vicky, look for any signs of life, eat canned peaches, and realize that when death takes your hand, they won. Friday, Sept 24 1997 6:34 am, home “All this bull news” mother said frustrated, after turning off the TV. “What do you mean ma?” Ally was confused. Her mom usually is pretty calm but now she's getting frustrated because of “fake news”. “I mean that this news is bullshit. Nothing has happened for weeks and the president expects us to leave our home just because ‘An unexplained natural disaster is coming our way’, do you guys actually believe this?” “well,” Ally started to explain, “if scientist believe this, we should too.” she said while packing up a lunch. “why are you packing for school? The bus doesn’t leave until 8?” mother said confused at her actions. “this isn't for school Ma, just in case- “just in case for what, if aliens attack the planet?! No if Godzilla starts to wake up? This news is fake.” she stated, “what do you not believe your own mother?!” She spoke in a very loud tone. At this point Sydney was full with tears, trying not to cry. “mom, please don’t get mad, I'm doing this just to be on the safe side,” Ally said calmly, “look, mom please- just relax-” “RELAX! DID YOU JUST TELL ME TO RELAX? IVE HAD IT WITH YOU TWO.” she spoke angrily, the apartment next door could hear us. The two daughters stood their quiet, as their mother slammed the door. Both daughters were used to this. Yelling, screaming. They didn’t blame mother though, they blamed themselves. Sydney and Ally thought it was their fault that father left. Single parenting wasn’t easy. “it's okay Sydney, just pack some food, water and blankets, its better safe than sorry.” Ally said, “Syd, are you alright?” Sydney sat there still, frozen. Finally, she spoke “what if it is the end?,” she paused and then continued, “What if we die while mother is out of our sight? what if mother dies? what if everyone dies and we are the only ones left? What if-” “Stop it Syd! Stop it! Just pack up and wait at the door!” And so, Sydney packed up her water, food, blankets, and a lamp. And sat in front of the door. She turned on the TV to see if anything was updated “...this unexplained natural disaster is coming close. Officials are telling people to evacuate the southern county. The government is calling this marvel “the sixth extinction” ...” “ALLY! ALLY COME HERE RIGHT NOW” “What is it Syd? What's wron-” her eyes were glued to the TV, observing the world going down. “Call mom, Syd call mom right now” but Syd sat there in shock, still listening to the news reporter. “11 people are reported dead, 74 injured and 3 are reported missing, due to these inexplicable explosions...” “Turn it off Sydney! Turn it off right now!” she yelled- almost identical to her mother. But Syd just sat there. Ally had to do it for her. She aggressively turned it off and shot Sydney a death glare. Ally was not to blame for these actions, her mom not responding to calls, she was stressed, in distressed for what was to come. 7:01 am, home “where are you going?” “I'm going to look for mom, stay here Syd.” “no.” she shot back “what do mean no. I'm in charge and you have to listen to me, understand?” “fine, just please tell Ma that you're sorry?” “I will I promise. If I don’t come back in an hour call the police and get help, okay?” “but I won't have to because you will come back, right?” Ally gave her an apologetic smile. “yes, yes I will, I promise.” She gave her sister a hug and went to search for her mother. 7:09 am, outside the apartment, Ally’s perspective When I went downstairs, I didn’t know what was to come. If it were a normal Friday in Thomasville Georgia or Chernobyl. In Georgia nothing happened, therefore I didn’t expect anything. As I opened the door, it didn’t look like Chernobyl, it looked worse. I envisioned the kids walk to the local school, but all those kids, were dead. People filming helicopters crashing into the lake. Explosions, many explosions, too many for me to comprehend. I ran around looking at the motionless bodies' underneath crumbled bricks maybe to find my mother, hopefully not. I walked across the street coughing up all the dust and smoke. I saw a building, I wasn’t sure if it was the police department or the jail county, anyway there will be adults. I opened the door and saw the prisoners' lifeless corpses, I could barely see the orange uniform, I only saw black and red. It's good that Syd didn’t come. Syd! I tried to check the time on my phone but it was cracked, suddenly blood was all over my palms, I smashed the phone in rage and headed home. The neighborhood looked like Night of the Living Dead all over again. God let's hope zombies don’t attack Earth. The neighborhood looked like Night of the Living Dead all over again. God let's hope zombies don’t attack Earth. 7:47 am, home (Allys perspective) I walked through the door and went to the sink to clean my wound. While I put I little bit off alcohol on it. “Syd!” I called. No response. “Syd! Come here, I'm home!” Still no response. Where is she? Then I finally noticed that the door was unlocked. I went outside with the gauze around my hand. I saw her out the window looking for someone. She better not have been looking for me. I kept watching her. Suddenly she paused and stood there. I ran downstairs since the elevators weren't working and rushed down to the parking lot. And all I can see is her staring down a corpse. A dead corpse 8:04 am, parking lot The two daughters found themselves staring down at their dead mother, gazing into her lifeless eyes. That’s all they could look at since the rats already took most of her. 8:45 am, parking lot “what now?” Syd asked traumatized. “I think we should head to the apartment, just remember this wasn’t our fault.” Ally said looking down at her trampled hand. “let's go. "she said grabbing Syd's arm. Immediately after the girls heard a bang. They quickly turned around almost falling to their feet. the apartment crumbled

Mommy and Daddy are happy today. I know they are because they came in my room smiling and carrying a huge cake. It's my birthday today. I smile at then as they sing Happy birthday and then I get to pretend blow it the candle. We can't have real candles in my room. Mommy got in trouble last time. But it's still fun to pretend. I got a new truck and coloring books. I even ate three whole bites of cake! But then I started getting tired again so Daddy called the nurse. She took my temperature and fluffed my pillow and told me happy birthday too. I smiled because I was too tired to say thank you. Soon, I feel asleep, but I didn't sleep long. Somebody woke me up by rubbing my back. I looked up and saw a grand pa man smiling at me. "Come on champ, it's time to go." I sat up and yawned."I'm not supposed to leave my room." His warm hand gently held mine and made me feel safe. He smiled and his eyes wrinkled up. "I know. But we are just going to walk to the door. We will stay in your room. Besides, I've got a present over there for you." I looked across the room but the door was hard to look at. I guessed it was okay so I nodded and slid off the bed. As we got closer to the door, it was harder and harder to look at, so I just looked at the floor. Slowly, the floor faded into grass, and I could smell flowers. I looked up and gasped. Everything was gone. No more hospital room, now I was in a big feild of flowers. There man laughed a little and crinkled his eyes at me again. "Do you like to paint?" He asked. "Yeah! I can't paint all kinds of things. My mommy said..." I felt sad and wondered where my mommy was. The man squatted down and wrapped me in a hug. "Your mommy is just fine. She's a little sad but she will be okay. Would you like to paint her a present?" I wiped my tears and nodded. "Come on then." I heard the yips and meows before I saw the baskets of kittens and puppies. All of them were White, like blank paper. He took me to a basket full of paint brushes and paints. "This is heaven, son. But you have a very important job here. All these pets need painting before they go to see their mommies. Over the hill are other kids just like you for you to play with and all the food you ever want. But I bet you want to pick one out and paint it special for your Mom first." "I can't see my mommy any more can I?" I got another hug. "No, son, but you can send her a pet. " I picked up a really small sleepy kitten. Maybe he can be orange. Mommy liked pretty things. I started to paint and all the sadness left me. When I was done I handed the kitten to the man. "Be careful. That's my mommies special Kitty." The man smiled and nodded, then he disappeared. So I picked up a wrinkley puppy and started putting poka dots on him. I think I'm going to like it here.

Wrote this few years back. This is my first time posting. Feed backs are welcome. Prolouge Countless. That's how we describe the time that we have spent in this reality. Eons. Millennia. Centuries. We have been here for a while,looking for our purpose. We call our kind Nemos. which will be later known as Latin word for null or nothingness. Observer. Judge. Ruler. In search for a purpose, we decided to give ourselves something to do. Some became rulers of empires. Some adjudicators. I was the only one who resorted to becoming an observer. Nothing takes my interest. Except for this one soul. This is the story on how a young man made me interfere with human life. Chapter 1 His name is Q. He is the second host to notice my presence. We see what our host sees. We experience everything that happens to them. But make no mistake. We feel no pain nor emotion related to their stimulus. Its like.. I am another conciousness at the back of his mind. When a host die, we simply find another host in the Labyrinth. The Labyrinth is a place where all things are connected. Its like an infinite pathway for all things. Nemos are free to pick their host with only one restriction. We agreed not to pick a soul of a person who experienced death and then came back to life. The reason behind that is when the I picked a resuscitated patient, the poor soul saw what the I saw in all of my existence. Yes he came back alive but almost went insane. Q is seeing a familiar scene. He has seen this event may times. This is the same dream that keeps on showing from time to time. There are 2 images of Q. one lying on the floor and the other one sitting on the former's chest. The latter holding a broken shard of glass and continuously slitting the throat of the first one. The sheer amount of blood dripping doesnt bother him anymore. He has been trying to understand what could be the meaning of his recurring dream.. or nightmare. even I, an entity who lived countless lives cannot explain what is happening to his mind. We Nemos cannot forget. We remember everything perfectly as if things happened seconds ago. I am sure as hell that this is the first time that I saw a dream like that. Summer. Q is an interesting kid. He likes the idea of helping others but hates people. He tries his best to avoid direct human contact. There was this time that A kid was lost in his work place. I was waiting on what he will do when he suddenly uttered this words on his mind. "I know you're watching. After i settle matters with this kid show yourself in my dream." I have never been this excited before. Thrill sets in. A soul recognized me? It has been 67 years since a soul recognized my presence. Will this kid be able to handle the price? Knowing our presence is a death sentence for them. Nemos agree that Once the host knows about us, they will be given a "gift". That night I gave him the perfect gift for him. A curse of seeing other people's dream. He will be an observer in a way. But theres a catch. Everytime the host uses it, they lose their conciousness. This enables us to take over the body for a certain period of time. The first time Q used it was disastrous. He used it to a dying friend of his. He was overwhelmed on how vivid the scene was. As if he was the one experiencing the dream. He ended up all exhausted and then passed out. Of course I didn't waste any time. This was my chance to take over. Labyrinth. I found him. I had to search for the first soul to recognize Nemos. Hes a unique individual if i may say. He didn't flipped after he saw everything. Coming back to life was a bad thing for him. He got a lot of debt to pay, illness stricken children, and a lot more unfortunate circumstances. "I cannot imagine the agony of existing for so long. No friends. No family. No emotion. I am lucky in a way that i am not you." "You are me. And i am you." "I am an observer of things. I do not interfere. But as you have seen, being an observer is a curse. Just the mere fact of existing for all those time is a curse already. We normally give souls a piece of our gift. You didn't snapped after seeing all those things. But instead of giving you something, i will take away a piece of you." "I am taking away your ability to forget. You shall be given the curse of memory. Use it as you please." That was our first conversation. He was my first friend. I call him Z. Cafe. "You shall be given the curse of memory." Those were the words that came out of Q's mouth. The old chinese guy sitting across the table took a sharp look at him. "Old friend?". Z's voice is trembling. "Zhiqiang. Your name translates to Strong willed. It fits you perfectly." "It has been 40 years since our last meeting. I never thought that i will see you again." "40 years.. its nothing. I am here to ask for a small favor. " "Anything for you old friend.

Covid-19 had hit at an annoying time for me. My after-graduation trip to Istanbul had to be cancelled and I had to shelter-in-place for four dreary months. In lieu of travelling the world, I couldn’t even start a job, nobody was hiring entry level Data Analysts. Once the reopening started, I clutched the first offer that came my way. It was a medium sized startup, nothing exciting but you couldn’t afford to be picky at this time. I had to ramp up remotely and only met my coworkers on Zoom. I was looking forward to October when the restrictions on IT jobs were to be lifted and I could go to work in person. But nobody imagined the second wave would hit so bad, the death rate of the manufacturing workers had everyone shit-scared. Instead of paying the sky-high real estate costs of Silicon Valley for enabling effective social distancing, the software companies decided to enforce permanent work from home for the employees. It was cheaper and had less PR risk, nobody wanted the fiasco of the meat packing plants on their hands. Bloody hell! I was not one to stay cooped up inside the house forever. Life cannot be lived over video conferencing, how was I even supposed to bond with the people I work with? You can’t Zoom in just to chat about geopolitics or to retell the shenanigans of your annoying neighbor. The beauty of life is in the impromptu conversations and experiences, which have a way of sprouting up when you put people in physical proximity. That serendipity is what I missed about university life the most. You only had to walk out of your room a bit to meet (really, physically meet) other young and vibrant set of people, opening fresh avenues for adventures and experiences. I remember roaming about the campus one night and hearing some enigmatic but jaunty music emanating from one of the computer labs. A bright eyed Arabic looking guy with an ear to ear smile was playing a guitar-like instrument for a couple of his friends. I later learnt that it was a traditional middle-eastern instrument called the “Oud”, it’s tune brought memories of Arabian nights and Alladin background music, the kind of sound that would spontaneously conjure up an image of the place it belongs in. I ran back to my room, got my harmonica and joined him. He offered no words and just smiled welcomingly. His friends had also joined in. The Japanese guy was drumming the desk and the African-American girl was whistling. We had a jolly time just jamming a few hours and having a beer or two after. We never got close and I don’t remember either of their names but we’d smile and wave whenever our paths crossed around campus. Just having that tiny shared experience had bonded us somewhat. When we waved at each other, we knew that the exact same memory was triggering in each of our heads. After the second wave of Covid-19 that fall, the world got tense. In times of crises, everyone looks out for their own. The long peace that had sustained more or less for decades was being chipped away at the edges. A second cold war was starting, this time it was China instead of Russia on the other side. The economy was the first fatality, followed by liberal politics. It was an era of strife and power struggles for control of resources and influence. High minded and pacifist philosophical arguments sounded funnier and more out of touch than usual. More immediate for me, money dried up in Silicon Valley and the startup I worked for collapsed. To control unemployment and prioritize its own citizens, the government outlawed foreign work visas and outsourcing. Non-citizens had to go back to their countries, mostly places with no real opportunities. This was a further blow to the tech industry and they didn’t end up hiring more Americans, they just cut costs, downsized and went into lean and mean survival mode like everyone else. My prospects of getting a decent job looked even bleaker. What little savings I had, I couldn’t really use them for travelling the world. The US passport stopped carrying the weight it used to. All countries now require a Visa to visit which is conditioned on three negative Covid test results within the past two months. We Americans are treated as ticking virus bombs around the world. Given that my health insurance went away with my job, there was no way I was going to be able to afford three tests out of my own pocket. Even the US government doesn’t want people to travel internationally and spend their money in some other economy. You need to get a special tourism permit from the US government for every country you want to visit and quarantine for two weeks once you get back. There was still one place that was hiring and had relatively better freedom of movement. I applied to join the Army and narrowly passed the physical exam. After I was accepted, the basic training took only ten weeks and I was certified “Combat Ready”. A couple of months later I got my posting to Saudi Arabia, like almost everyone in my training class. The Saudi economy had been heavily reliant on oil, the demand for which cratered post-Covid and never recovered due to the movement restrictions globally. But miraculously, the sheikhs and the Saudi Royal family came out relatively unscathed through this and the brunt of the misery fell on the masses. In hindsight, this fact should have been hidden better because it turned out to be the perfect recipe for a violent people’s uprising. The Communist revolt against the House of Saud burst out remarkably suddenly and bloodily. It was dealt, as usual, with a heavy hand by the authorities. The newly minted “terrorists” and the traditional Saudi powers gave rise to yet another middle eastern saga of violence. Both parties constantly weakened each other but never managed to take down the other. What is it about this part of the world that makes history repeat itself over and over? The power vacuum created by the collapsing national identity of this country was ripe for another game of proxy war. The US stepped in to help out and support its old allies, to save them from the communist revolution. The stated reason was that the US intelligence found evidence of China bankrolling the Communists and Russia supplying them weapons. *I have been fighting and resisting these communists guerillas for three years now in this godforsaken desert. The sand is finally washed off from my eyes and I feel much better. Looking away from the mirror, I put on my uniform and go down to the ground to take my position in guarding the perimeter of our camp. A couple of our Humvees pull up and one of the drivers shouts, “Caught these rascals planning to sneak attack us!” pointing to the back of the vehicle which contained five white-robed radicals with their hands tied behind their backs.* We have had a few of these incidents before. The extremists try to infiltrate a US military camp in the night to attack or steal stuff. A couple of our people had been injured in the past due to these but never fatally. We usually catch these troublemakers before they attack. After the capture, the procedure is simple, we need to keep these guys here for a week or two in our custody till the proper paperwork is completed for their transfer to the local state police. Once we transfer them to the local station, the police could use their interrogation techniques to gather intel from the culprits. How the intel was obtained was not our concern. It was protected by a strict “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. These were designated terrorists on this soil and we do not interfere with the affairs and methods of a sovereign state. *I turn to go back to my post when I catch a glimpse of the faces of these men. They look malnourished and tired. Their beards are unkempt and their eyes have a look of defeat. One of the guys stares straight back at me, his eyes boring into mine, with a look of incredulousness on his face. At that moment, someone yanks him out of the vehicle along with the other four and takes them away to the third floor room - a makeshift cell for the people we had to take custody of.* &#x200B; *It’s been ten days since those Humvees arrived at the compound. I am in my room looking out the window to the horizon. Nothing really has changed here, the scenery is constant and unrelenting. The only change is the helicopter in the compound below and the whirlpool of sand it created on landing. My mind inevitably goes back to the happenings of these last ten days.* After the prisoners were taken to their cell, we had to take turns on guard duty in there. I went in expecting the usual pleas of innocence and pretending to be just another farming family. But this group was incredibly quiet and just looked down to the floor. They seemed to have resigned to their fate and were too exhausted to spin long tales. But the guy who had stared at me from the Humvee looked up again. My gaze travelled from his dirty tattered white robes up to his face which had a smile extending from ear to ear. “Still playing the harmonica?” he asked, with a glint in his eye. I was dumbfounded, I tried to speak but couldn’t think of any words to say. I stammered, gave up and just gaped. He continued, “Fate has a cruel sense of irony, no? You know, we were just going to come in the dead of the night and steal some supplies, nothing violent. Needed some food, water and a generator. But that is not what the state police is going to charge us with, of course. You know their methods, you know what they do to us there.” A torrent of emotions I didn’t understand was drowning all my thoughts. I stared at him for another minute and then looked away. He took the hint and didn’t speak another word. The room was silent again. The next five hours were the longest of my life but I wasn’t able to form a single coherent thought. This was unreal, this was surreal, this was a nudge of madness. The next day, we were all jolted upright at midnight by the boom of two gunshots. One of the captives had broken free, knocked out the dozing guard and snatched his rifle. While he was making a run for it, the sniper on the terrace saw him on the compound below. As he recounted it later, “The first bullet glazed the scoundrel in the arm making him drop the rifle. He stumbled for a moment but continued running. My second shot was squeaky clean, it went straight through his neck, stopping the idiot halfway through to the compound exit.” The white robed body was taken away and I stole a glance at the face, somewhat relieved that it wasn’t the face I had dreaded it to be. Rest of the prisoners were still in the cell and hadn’t even tried to break away among all the chaos. This incident expedited the hand-over process. The US military wanted its hands clean of this mess and the Saudi police wanted these people under their observation to avoid losing them before extracting any useful information. Instead of the usual week or two, three days was all it took. Thankfully, I didn’t have to be on the transfer duty. While the prisoners were being transported from the third floor cell in our camp to the local station 15 kilometers out, I was going to join in the weekly soccer game we played. Soccer was the easiest game we could play here. It needed no gear, no hoops, no grassy terrain, no zone marking. Just take the ball, decide on the two ends and start playing. Despite growing up on American football, I found soccer to be more enjoyable here in the desert. But given my sensitivity to the sand getting in my eyes, I preferred to play as the goalie and avoid all the running around creating mini-dunes. I saw the ball making its way towards me, a cross pass from the left to the right side left the goal post open. I traced the arc of the ball with my eyes and was ready to lunge when a shriek drew my attention to the building. The slow motion feeling of tracking the ball continued for me as I watched a glorious white figure descending from the third floor in a perfect swimming pool dive, head first, to the concrete below. I saw the head hitting the concrete and bursting open, reminding me of the watermelon exploding videos I had seen on YouTube. The rest of the body collapsed into a messy heap, unnaturally distorted. This time I didn’t have to look, somehow my heart knew who that was. I knew he had decided not to go to the state police and took control of his fate in his own hands. I didn’t shout, at least not loudly. My whole body was howling, but I wasn’t able to move my mouth to let it out. I was drowning, I was paralyzed, I tumbled over and lay down in the sand. My eyes were still transfixed on the figure in front of me, growing redder every second. Nobody was looking at my slumped over body though, they were all rushing towards the building. I lay there for what felt like hours. Once I was able to stagger up, exhausted and spent, I looked away and somehow was able to carry on. I volunteered for the transfer duty since the alternative was to help with the cleanup. *This was five days back but I still relive and revisit that dive every minute. The music of the Oud haunts my dreams, the melody sorrowful and deep. I can’t close my eyes without that smile flashing in front of me, so honest and earnest. The most curious thing about this was that I don’t even know his name. If I had the courage to talk to him during the hours I was in the cell, would things have turned out differently? Could I have stepped up and questioned the need to subject these people to unspeakable torment just because they were thinking of taking some of our food? Can I pretend innocence because I wasn’t the one who physically pushed him, he did it of his own accord? I didn’t even repay him enough for the couple of hours of music he had invited me to share all those years back. When I held all the cards, I preferred to look away.* *But for the first time since that day, today I laughed. The helicopter had bought tidings.* *The officer disembarked from the chopper and announced, “There has been an agreement. The USA is withdrawing troops from Saudi Arabia. We are no longer needed here, our peacekeeping mission has been accomplished. We can go home!”. Turns out there was a truce. China officially recognized the Saudi militants as terrorists and the Royal family as the rightful sovereign. In exchange, USA recognized Crimea as part of Russia and withdrew opposition to the abolishment of Hong Kong’s one country two systems policy.* *The troops were jubilant, cheering, laughing and being merry at the news. I also joined in the laughter but for different reasons. I was amused at the absurdity of it all. So that’s why I am here in my room, looking out the window at the helicopter and the desert. We have been asked to pack our stuff and be ready to leave by 1800 hours.* *I mutter to myself, “Fate has a cruel sense of irony, no?”. I feel a sudden gust of wind and the now familiar feeling in my eyes.

“Mr. Stephens, it's time for your speech,” James reminded me quietly. I had been absently twirling my champagne trying to enjoy the photos that adorned the walls. They were not dull or repetitive by any means. Perdita’s photos were always quite exceptional. I stepped onto the marble platform which by now was garnished with heaps of flowers. Mounted behind it was a lovely oil portrait of Perdita. Even in painted form she had those soft doe eyes. I was about to clear my throat till a pair of eyes forced me still. Eyes that saw through me. But what could they see? I did nothing. I steadied my heart by repeating that to myself. Murmuring in the room stopped bringing my attention back. I began. “Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the first annual Perdita Clements Photo Gallery. As you know five years ago Perdita went missing on her drive home from an art show in Nashville. It was her biggest show yet receiving national recognition at only 18 years old. The residents here probably already know the police reports and findings by heart, but for our out of towners I will recap. Perdita was on the highway, but took the wrong exit. A gas station on a back road saw her last before her and her car vanished. Three weeks later her car was found stripped in a junkyard in Kentucky near the state line. The car showed no trace of Perdita. And all leads were a dead end. The dictionary defines photography as the art or practice of taking and processing photographs. And all of you here tonight know how much she practiced. Every scene you could possibly find in this beautiful little town Perdita would be their camera in hand. Though, she did not take and process photos. She discovered and shared them. Take a look around this room. Every photo is raw. Every photo has an unspoiled richness. From the portraits of our dear neighbors to the hidden valleys you see unbridled beauty. Everything is there for us lay people to behold. Her photos evoked wonder. Even the most lowly in spirit got a moment of awe. Perdita did not believe in editing her photos. She lived by the rule that everything was created the way it was supposed to be. She carried this sentiment into her daily life as well. She truly seeked to be kind and caring no matter the stigma or past.” The crowd hung on to my words with reminiscent, soft smiles. Perdita’s mother even began to dab her eyes. Before I could start my next sentence I was caught again by those eyes. Looking straight at me was a woman in one of the photos. The maid was dressed in white with long golden hair. Her tunic waved around her daring to lift her up. She made no mistake with her gaze. I felt it then and now she has pulled my chains to face her again. My hand tightened around my flute. I reminded myself I did nothing. I stared back convinced, but she only intensified her gaze. Her head tipped in a way that allowed her to look down on me. Ashment a mother would possess for a foolish child played along her features, but why didn’t she just spit upon me and move on. My hand trembled. I had to switch my glass to my other hand. I had reasoned with myself for years. I had felt I mastered the storm, but I could already feel the clouds begin to darken. I dared not to speak another word. “Mr. Stephens, are you alright?” James stepped up beside me. He looked at me with sympathy like I was one of them. An innocent mourner trying to honor the lost and not fall apart. I looked back at the maid. I passed James and stepped off the stage. I walked up to her and read the gold plaque. Perdita named the photo “Angel”. I had done nothing. I had done absolutely nothing. And... I was wrong. I was a coward. I had done nothing to help her. I looked back up to the angel, but something had changed. The icy blue eyes now seemed warm like a blue lagoon. The straight lips actually curved at the ends. Her arms weren’t still by her sides like I thought they were from afar. Her palms turned out, inviting me in now. I dropped my flute and let the glass shatter. A sob cracked through my lips, but I let it out. I put my hands on the walls of either side of the photo and bent my head. I cried. I cried for Perdita. What have I done? I heard a soft click clack of heels behind me. “It isn’t your fault, Noah. You did nothing.” Camile placed her hand on my back. I didn’t move. “Camile. I need to talk to the police.” Her hand flinched back. “Why?! Noah, wait!” I headed for the door. It isn’t worth it anymore. I have been quiet for long enough. If I am killed at least people will know she might still be out there. That is what is important now. Whatever I face it will be my penance. I started running , but before I turned out of the hallway I saw the last photo of the gallery. It was a candid photo of her friends laughing sitting in a tree. The plaque read “Found”. I quickly shrugged on my coat and opened the door. I hastened through the starless night. I didn’t even practice what I needed to say. No more perfectly crafted speeches. I wanted to say it all. Be rid of this diseased state. Despite the puddled sidewalks I only increased my speed. The wind blew at my back trying to help me go faster. Raindrops watered my lashes, but I barely blinked. I let the water drip down my face all the way to my chest. It was the cleanest I felt in years.

The Upended Fortress ''Rather hysteric today, aren't we, Sire?'' Whispered the concerned squire. The sire in question, Jeoffrey the second, only heard the distant rumblings of a fool. He himself was absorbed in the careful study of his own reflection in the great window, not at all escaping the unbearable idiocy of the situation. ''What a ridiculous costume'', he thought out loud, glancing at his formal clothes and his en-vogue fluffy white hair. Pretty much the same as the many other ministers engaged in very serious discussion, here in the hall of the Upended Fortress. Chandeliers hanged from the high ceiling, adorned in countless candles, flickering slightly. Underneath, the stone table beared the weight of towers of paperwork, maps, trinkets and elbows. On its once polished surface were the ring stains of decades of wine drinking, forming an abstract, almost imperceptible mosaic. Behind Jeoffrey, his squire was building up the courage to adress the council, fiddling with his fingers, uncertain. ''Please, good Sirs, you must excuse the Minister of Fears. His nobility is rather distracted lately, his work and his family affairs-'' His squire proclaimed, making quite the deal about his behavior. The Sire at last snapped out of it, turned around and clapped his hands, to the annoyance of everyone. He took a seat, his seat, and looked at everyone around the table, only to be met with the disapproving eyes of any that catched his. Since when did they hated him as much as he despised them? ''I am all ears'', he proclaimed, to a heavy and oh so absurd silence, interrupted by his squire once more, this time not pestering anyone but pouring a generously innapropriate amount of blue wine, the local delicacy. The minister of Fears, also known as Sire Jeoffrey the Second, was quite fed up with the other ministers, his supposed equals. In fact he had been quite fed up with everything, for quite a while. Quite so. Jeoffrey recalled, with shameful nostalgia, his youthful pride. Of years and years, spent working in complete dedication to his dream ; to escape the peasantry that plagued his family. To become noble, nay, to become the highest member of society, a Minister. Made laughing stock by his own mother, claiming his daydreaming would result in nothing else than disappointment, young Jeoffrey persevered. Twenty years of work, spite and wine, there he was. A prestigious Minister, discussing nonsense with other delusionnal men. And for what? Jeoffrey grabbed his cup of wine and drank bitterly. How bitter. He inspected the blue wavey surface of the wine, his reflection distorted slightly. By now the unending years of struggle of his youth seemed most beautiful, most poignant. In perfect contrast with the dream itself, empty and devoid of meaning. In a way, his mother was right, no matter what, disappointment plagued him. Jeoffrey the Second, Minister of Fears, cursing the life he worked so hard to get. He saw himself, sitting there, consummed by regret, of a life spent astray, hearing the hollow words of the other ministers, all sitting in the hall by the great window, showcasing the ravaged landscape they all so proudly administered. Just like the fortress, the land outside was barren stone of black and crimson red, veins of a dark river coursing through it. And as the blue wine flowed from barrels to jugs to glasses here, outside the heavy darkwater flowed, inversed. Rising from the depths, akin to a miraculous reversal of the river. This land has always been enigmatic, yet not in an interesting way, at least to the ignorant opinion of the other Ministers. ''How strange, and how cursed is this land. And to think I used to dream of ruling it! The absurdity'' Careless, Jeoffrey had thought out loud once more, and his heretic words fell in the ears of the other ministers, as verocious predators, this was their opportunity, and at once they rose and protested loudly, standing upward with their red cheeks and blue tongues, their squires urging them to settle down and discuss in civilised manner, as the Minister of Fears still sat comfortably, laughing in the most insulting manner, a fat, satisfied laughter. As they pestered him, he got back up once more. His feet leading him to the great window, where this time he looked past his own reflection, to the accursed land below. Once more the great hall, its people and their incessant words became distant, irrelevent. Down there, on the shores of the blackwater river, a soft glow, catching his eyes. Rising from nothingness, it seemed, glowing light, dancing to some impossible melody, following the dark flow of the reversed river, to Jeoffrey's stupor. Their ethereal light was like nothing he had seen before, yet how familiar it was, calling him. The glow morphed into several figures, seemingly engaged in the harvesting of the river's souls, mesmerizing him. And as they danced and busied themselves in incomprehensible labor Jeoffrey lost himself, for what seemed like a fraction of a second, in contemplation, before almost awakening from it, exalted. ''Incredible news! The golden spirits are back!'' Exclamed the minister of Fears to the others, yet the hall was now empty. Gone were the pesky ministers, gone was his foolish squire and theirs, gone was the blue wine. Yet he remained, along with the dancing golden spirits, down there. He remained, in careful study of the miraculous unknown, calling him. He remained yet now the spectacle of the golden spirits became enthralling, all-encompassing. Jeoffrey forgot about the glare in the window, forgot about the mundane details of his life, and forgot pretty much everything, except these two sounds, Jo-Fray, how peculiar. Jo-Fray had awoken once more from a dream, and looking around he was surprised to see his family, glowing in a sweet familiar golden light. Beneath them, the darkwater river, spewing the dark souls of the accursed, that rose and danced with them, liberated. Yet Jo-Fray was puzzled. He took a stick and wrote on the shores, what he thought was his name. Studying the shapes of the letters, its meaning was fading away, much akin to his dream, about some life rising to become minister. Shining behind him, a golden spirit came and embraced him. ''Another dream, perhaps, my dear son?'' And Jo-Fray felt the weight of his sadness, heart breaking, as he tried to hold on to what he thought was his whole life. ''A dream?'' He answered, and they both went back to the river, embracing their golden light, almost forgetting about the absurd life of a sad minister. Yet Jo-Fray still held on to his dream, his sadness and fear stopping him from forgetting. Along the shores of the blackwater river, the golden spirit gazed upward in awe, at the inversed architecture of the upended fortress. There! In the window, the face of a man, tormented.

The townspeople fled in terror. Their homes ablaze like hell incarnate, their fellow men and neighbors slaughtered, king skinned and beheaded - in that order - there was not a drop of defiance or bravery left. They all scrambled for their lives before the Dark Prince’s destruction. “Flee, pathetic insects,” bellowed Merciless, the Dark Prince. “Flee and spread the word of my great power!” His mighty form loomed over the mortal town like a monolith of doom; a crown of lightning adorning his head, a shroud of dying clouds his cloak, fear, and despair his armor. Merciless was a demi-god, an heir to the throne of darkness and he was having a field day. “Let it be known that there is no one great enough to oppose me...” He laughed as he waved a hand at the fleeing people. Half of them burst into flames, their bodies burning away in a flash, leaving only clothes and shoes behind. Merciless reveled in his power, laughing. The people ran faster. “Yes, feel the doom I bring-” “Merciless!” A sudden voice boomed across the skies, shaking the land. “Come, lunch is ready!” Merciless stopped his manic laughter and turned towards the black clouds in the sky. “Coming, poppa!” His voice changed from a demonic growl to a child’s excited babbling. His form also shifted from an incomprehensible avatar of destruction to that of a boy with a sparkle in his eyes. He dropped from a few hundred feet in the air, where his massive form was just a moment ago, and landed in the middle of a fiery street in a three-point landing, sending cobblestone and firewood flying. He ran past the fleeing people, who looked at him with a mix of horror and confusion. “Later, mortals!” Merciless snapped his fingers, opening a swirling vortex of a magical portal in front of him and jumped inside. He came out at the other end, followed by some debris and a stray dog. The portal opened straight to the kitchen where his father, Dark Lord Devastatus, was managing several pots and pans over a hearth’s fire. “What’s to eat, poppa?” “Hey, what did we say?” Devastatus groaned. “Wipe your feet and wash your hands! Damnation knows what you’ve been up to in the mortal realm!” Merciless sighed. “Yes, poppa.” He rolled his eyes and shuffled his feet across the tiled floor. “On the rug, boy!” “ Sunshine !” Merciless cursed and walked to the door where a rug lay on the floor. “Why bother wiping my feet when I can just flick a finger and clean the whole house with my power?” Devastatus, wearing a white apron and a cooking hat, lifted a finger while shaking a frying pan, back toward his son. “First, we do not curse in this house. I don’t want to hear any words related to positivity, beauty, or the divine source of illumination in the mortal realm. Got it? Second,” he flipped something in the pan, evoking cries of mercy from the food, “if you rely on your powers too much, pretty soon you won’t know how to wipe your hiney without them. You’ll be Lord one day, son, and as such, you should learn to be independent.” Devastatus finally turned around, giving his son a meaningful look. “Yes, poppa,” Merciless said, head bowing. He looked at his father’s majestic cloak and quietly wished his would be as cool. Skulls from various beasts and races hung from it, metal spikes, chains, blood-red embroidery, and bone-white horns. Looking at his cloak Merciless found only some dried leaves and broken twigs stuck to it, dirty from running through the woods. “You brought a dog?” “It followed me through the portal,” Merciless said, only now noticing the four-legged creature running around and barking. “Sloppy.” “You called for me.” “You shouldn’t be opening portals when someone can follow you,” Devastatus said. “What if it was an Archmage? Or a renowned Hero? One of the - ugh - the good guys ?” “Poppa, eww!” “You made me say it, boy!” “That’s disgusting!” “If you’re not careful, they can sneak through the portal and crawl in your bed, whispering positive affirmations in your ears.” Merciless’s breath caught in his throat. “Poppa, I’m losing my appetite!” Devastatus smiled. “Too bad. Maybe you’ll be more careful next time.” Merciless walked to the table and climbed on a chair - which was some thirty feet tall, made for a more majestic form than the one he was currently wearing. The table was likewise high up in the air, like a tower for feasting. “Why do we have to be like this,” he said, feet dangling. “This form that the mortals use. Why can't we be big and awesome all the time?” Devastatus sighed from below. “Did you not listen? You shouldn’t rely on your powers all the time! Like me, I’m cooking this lunch, instead of imagining it into existence. It’s quite a relaxing activity.” Merciless sniffed. “What are you making?” “Deepest darkest secrets, seasoned with a pinch of coriander and misery. Mother’s favorite.” Merciless heard his stomach growl. That sounded delicious. “After you’re done eating,” Devastatus said, voice shaking the whole kitchen, “I have a surprise for you. A gift for your first fully grown fang.” Merciless’s eyes widened at that. A gift! What could it be? “Ooo, is it a hydra’s egg? Ooo, or a pocket planet? Ooo, ooo, or maybe-” “You’ll see. Eat your secrets. You need the nutrition.” Devastatus hovered up to the table with a tray of food in his hands. Merciless could hardly pay attention to the meal as he was eating it, the anticipation of a gift too great. “Did you find a Titan and brought it back to life?” “Don’t eat with your mouth full, son. Also, chew your food, don’t just absorb it into your being. As Dark Lord, you’ll need to learn the customs of mortals if you are to reign dominance over them.” Merciless chewed, then swallowed. “What is it then?” Devastatus smiled. “It’s a toy.” Merciless nearly dropped the fork. “Not just any toy. A very special toy. One that I got when I was about your age and played with it throughout my whole childhood.” “Is it a void? Empty, dark, and cold as death itself?” Merciless crossed his fingers. Devastatus chuckled. “You’ll see. Eat.” Merciless dug into the food, devouring it as fast as the mortal conventions allowed. He bit down on a piece that wasn’t cooked enough, still a bit raw, and not wanting to insult Father he spat it out under the table, hoping the Dark Lord wouldn’t notice. The braking below stopped. Merciless glanced down and again remembered that the dog was still there. It sniffed the bit of food, then ate it. The dog’s whole body transformed. It started to grow, both in size as well as in the number of limbs, heads, and tails. Wings sprouted from its back, its eyes rolled backward and were replaced by mouths with razor-sharp teeth. Merciless observed in silence as the creature rose behind his father’s back. Devastatus raised a fork to his mouth, then paused. “Merciless?” “Hm?” “Did you feed the dog your food?” “Um... no.” “Merciless...” “It accidentally fell from my plate.” “You know our food isn’t for mortal creatures.” The monstrosity behind Father opened it’s many mouths and roared, breathing fire from some mouths, spitting acid from others. “Can we keep him, please?” Devastatus didn’t seem amused. “Oh, but look at him! He’s literally eating his own limb!” “Fine,” said Devastatus. “You brought him here, you take care of him. If I find but one pile of poo...” “You won’t, I promise!” “We’ll see.” “May I go now? I ate everything.” “You may. Your toy is waiting for you in your room. Have fun!” Merciless jumped from his chair, three-point landing on the floor, and opened the portal to his room. He ushered the dog monster to follow. “For the last time, Merciless, use the door-” Merciless already jumped through the portal. Devastatus sighed. “That boy is pure evil.” Then he smiled. “I’m such a fortunate dad.” *** “What, in the name of warmth and happiness, is that ?” Merciless stared at a small metal cage resting on his bed. There was a tiny hut inside it - obviously shrunk - some dirty hay, rocks, and a few dried up trees. Amongst all that, a pathetic-looking creature sat on a stone, misshapen clump of hair flowing down its back, a bushy grey beard covering most of its face. The creature sat with hands on its knees, legs crossed, eyes closed. A human, the size of a fork, only much thinner. “Is this some joke?” Merciless approached the cage and crouched to inspect the human up close. It didn’t smell that well. “Hey, human. Are you alive?” The creature didn’t move. Merciless shook the cage, toppling the dried trees. “Hey! Answer me!” Silence. The human sat on his stone, motionless. Merciless sighed. “Dad always had the weirdest sense of humor. Dog, look, your first treat.” He reached to open the cage door. The human suddenly opened his eyes and spoke in a raspy voice. “You don’t want to do that.” Merciless yelped and backed up. The dog-monster roared behind him. “You’re alive, then,” Merciless said, frowning. “I can fix that.” His hands ignited with a black flame. “I know where your mother is,” the human said, his voice calm. Merciless blinked, the fire vanishing from his fingers. “What did you say?” “I’m the one that imprisoned her. I almost brought peace to the world... if only I hadn’t forgotten about your father. And his wrath.” Meciless’s heart began pounding. “You know where my mom is?” He could barely remember her from his father’s memory transfer. He never met her for himself, she was taken away when Merciless was but a young, unconscious blob of evil, floating in the Pool of Desolation. His face darkened. “What have you done to her?” “I rid the world of pain and suffering,” the human said, shrugging. “But evil’s roots are deep and I only made things worse. Now, your father rules the lands.” “Sunshine!” Merciless cursed, clenching fists. “Who are you, human? My father never spoke of what happened to Mother, why should I believe you?” The human jumped up on his stone all of a sudden, slamming a hand at his chest, eyes fixed on Merciless. “I am Antonio the Handsome, hero of the free people, vanquisher of darkness, the bringer of light! I am the one destined to rid the world of all evil, bringing an era of peace and prosperity! I-” “Yeah, yeah, alright,” Merciless waved a hand. “You’re one of those , then. Ugh, no wonder you smell so bad.” He pinched his nose, waving a palm. Antonio ground his teeth. “Just as pompous as the Dark Lord himself.” “Thank you,” Merciless said, grinning. “You know, you are the stupidest human I’ve ever met. Do you know why?” “Amuse me.” “Because you thought you could defeat my father. Now, look at you! Cramped up in that cage, old and overgrown with... whatever those are-” “-hair-” “-with no hope of escaping. Antonio the Handsome ? I know humans are pathetic, but I didn’t know you are such poor liars.” “I’ve been locked up in here for fifty years, boy!” The man stomped a foot on his stone, pointing a finger at Merciless. “Let me out and give me my armor and weapon back, and I’ll show you just how pathetic I am!” “Alright,” Merciless said. Antonio blinked. “What? Really?” “Sure. You’re my new toy and I want to play with you.” “Just like that, you’ll let me out and give me back my stuff?” “On one condition,” said Merciless. “You’ll tell me where Mother is first.” Antonio chuckled. “I’d rather die.” “I’m sure you would, but this is the realm of the gods. Here, you are immortal. You’ll spend eternity in that little cage, amusing my whims and playing fetch with the dog over there.” Merciless threw a thumb pointing at the dog-monster, whose heads barked at each other. “I can endure it.” “Are you sure? Humans aren’t meant to live forever. Your body is already decaying after fifty years, pretty soon you won’t have one anymore.” “But, you said that I’m immortal here...” “Exactly. But your body isn’t. So you’ll spend eternity as a cloud of thought, unable to do or say anything, just floating around in your tiny cage, watching the bars rust. Sounds cool, huh?” Antonio didn’t answer, but his eyes glared at Merciless. “You said you imprisoned my mother. Where is she held?” Merciless placed a hand on the cage, as to squish it. “ Where? ” Antonio smiled. “You won’t like the answer, boy.” “I don’t like you , human.” “First, release me. And return to me my armor and weapon.” Merciless studied the man’s eyes. He considered going to father and asking him about Mother and Antonio and everything that happened before his birth. But then again, Father gave him this man as a toy for a reason. Perhaps he wanted Merciless to discover the truth on his own. “Fine. You can’t escape unless I open a portal, anyway. Dog, watch him. If he tries anything, eat him.” The dog-monster roared in agreement. Merciless opened the cage door. Antonio stepped out and onto the bedsheets. “My stuff,” the man said. Merciless snapped his fingers. Antonio’s rags transformed into a shiny set of armor and a beautiful two-handed sword appeared in his hands. The man’s face bore an expression of disbelief and awe. “Now tell me,” Merciless said. Antonio seemed lost in awe for a moment. “I thought I’d never again be-” “Tell me where my mother is!” Antonio jumped into a defensive pose, meeting Merciless’s eyes. “She is in the heart of every man. The only way to imprison her and keep her from destroying the world was to merge her soul with that of all humankind. I robbed us of our innocence and purity, planting the seed of evil within. But a little poison is a good thing, as it helps you fight off a snake bite.” “What?” Merciless frowned. “That makes no sense. There’s no seed of evil in humans, they’re just pathetic.” “That’s the truth, boy,” Antonio said, slamming his visor down. “As I’ve promised, I will now show you just how pathetic I am!” He jumped up in the air, armor starting to glow, the sword blazing with white fire. For a moment, his form seemed to grow larger, becoming a fully-sized human again. But the moment was cut short, as a bolt of black lightning struck Antonio down and burned him in a pile of ashes. Merciless turned around, noticing Father standing behind him. “Good work, son,” Devastatus said. “I tried getting that information out of the man for fifty damn years! The bastard refused to speak!” “Poppa, I’m confused,” said Merciless, looking at the smoldering ashes. “Is what he said true? Is he the hero who defeated and imprisoned my mother?” “It’s true, my son,” Devastatus said, placing a hand on Mercielss’s shoulder. “Please forgive me for not telling you, but it was best you didn’t know until you were old enough.” “I’m old enough now,” he said, looking up at his father, jaw tightening. “You are. And now we know where your mother is.” “In the hearts of every man,” Merciless whispered. Father nodded absently. How in the blazes are they going to get her out from there? Would they have to collect all the hearts from all the humans and cold-press the evil out of them, concentrating it in a barrel, sculpting Mother out of the mass? Or did that mean that every human was actually his mother now? Those were some disturbing thoughts. Merciless crossed his arms and frowned. “Worst toy ever.”

"Number 2021, how are you feeling?" the nurse asks. "Um my name is Hamuar." Hamuar sat up in bed, looking around. "What happened?" "You drained way too much of your power." The nurse said. "And caused a whole lot of death and destruction." She looked at the window. "What do you mean? What did I do? What is going on." "Don't worry about it just rest, for right now just focus on healing." The nurse waved off all his questions. "Do you need anything?" 'No" "Very, well. You will be getting visitors." "Who?" Before her could get a response the nurse was already gone. Hamuar laid back and blew air out of his mouth with frustration. What did I do? Why won't anyone tell me what I have done? What destruction and death did I do? And how did I do it? What is going to happen when I get out of the hospital? Questions just spewed from his brain like lava at an erupting volcano. He sighed aloud and listened to the monitors. He stared out the window glumly. Something was off. Very off. He couldn't put his finger on it. "What did I do? Could someone tell me?" he said, with frustration. He glared at the machines, tubes and monitors hooked up to his body. A few hours later there was a knock on the door. "Can we come in?" "Who is it?!" The nurse peeked in the room. "Your visitors are here." "As I can see, they can come in." The nurse beckoned a group of people into the room. "Mom! Dad! Livy!" Hamuar jumped from the bed tackling his parents in a big bear hug in a single move. "My son." his father said weakly. "How are you doing?" "Good." He gave Mom and sister a hug, then waited until the nurse was gone. When the door clicked, questions fired. "What happened?What destruction did I do? Who did I kill? How many people did I kill? What is going on?" "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down. What are you talking about?" Livian put up her palms. "The nurse said something about me causing destruction and death." The room when dead silent. Mom, Dad and Livian all exchanged cautious looks. Then Mom opened her mouth letting out a voice as gentle as a feather, "There were some 'things' that happened." She cleared her throat. "That you had caused." "Yeah, I am aware of that. That is why I am trying to see what it was that I did so that I can make it better." There was another distan pause. Livian spoke up. "Um, what you did, was permanent..." She looked at the floor then said, "and can't be undone." "What! What do you mean that, whatever I did, is 'permanent' and 'can't be undone'!" "Calm down you are still a part of the Time Maker's Workshop you just got suspended." Mom said assuringly. "With a few of your privileges revoked and a lot of very," "Very." Dad added. "Very, upset people." "Who?" Hamuar sat down on the bed and put his face in his hands. "Um, let's just say that you make a lot of people. Like a lot, a lot, a lot, a lot." Livian said butting in. Hamuar heaved a sigh. What have I done? He thought. *** Weeks passed and Hamuar finally found out that he had done more than just upset people. Signs were put up saying all kinds of nasty and disgusting things. Hamuar couldn’t believe his eyes, did he really do that much destruction? Obviously he had with the swarm of guards protecting him from the riots of people trying to attack him. As he neared the Time Makers Workshop all of the employees were standing in front of the entrance with a massive crowd of people there as well. It was as if they were trying to block the entrance from him , they were expecting him to come and they were prepared. Hamuar could hardly believe himself, there was so much to take in. So much to process just about how much he'd done . Maybe they were right not to take him in. The words of the Great Chooser echoed in his head We are not sure whether you should be our next Time Maker. As for you will gain too much power bringing not only yourself, but many others with you. You could destroy so much if you are trained too well. Which is why it is your job to make sure you can keep yourself under control. Can you do that for me? Can you do that for us? Then he remembered himself saying the exact words, Yes, of course I can. I know I can. He had broken his promise, his vow to control himself to protect everyone. Putting everyone in danger was the exact same as his name, Hamuar Auspious. With everyone now against him. Hamuar stepped out of the car with guards on every way he turned. People or everywhere surged forward with insults, weapons, every way they could think of, trying to get to Hamuar. Hamuar stood there speechless in horror and guilt. He had caused all of this mess and couldn’t fix it. There has to be a way. He thought desperately. There has to be something that can fix this. Something, anything. Please. There was no use, no one would be on his side. There were way too many people all against one person. Who knew that one single person could do such a worldwide chink of destruction. Hamuar suddenly wanted to curl up in a ball in the darkest, deepest corner there was. He wanted to cling to the guards and beg and plead for a solution. The most effective thing he could do. It took a full hour to get to the stairs and thirty minutes to walk up them. Stupid me, stupid, them. Stupid this. Supid, stupid, stupid. STUPID! He chanted to himself. He would whatever it took to get rid of all the living devil. “There he is! There he is. IT’S THE HAMMUAR AUSPIOUS!” They would shout. In other words, GET HIM! HE IS THE ONE WHO DID ALL THIS! THIS IS THE GUY! HE’S THE ENEMY! He was carried into a large circular room filled with clocks of all kinds. Floor to ceiling. Clocks, clocks, and clocks. There was a large black circular desk right in the middle of the room and there sat the high ranked Timekeeper. The guards parted the way blocking the way of the windows and door. Timekeeper was sitting faced towards the large patio door behind him. “Well, beautiful day isn’t it?” Casually spinning around to face Hamuar. Hamuar hung his head low and said nothing. “Good to see you back, with the Reset Celebration approaching. Hmm?” “I guess.” “I was expecting you to ask ‘ How come you didn’t ban me from the job sir? ’ Or ‘Why are you giving me a second chance?’ But you can be pretty unpredictable.” “Sir?” Hamuar looked up into the Timekeepers eyes. “I have decided to let you stay, give you another chance. I decided to have you as the next Head Year Scheduler and Head of the Reset Celebration as well." "Really?!” Hamuar's eyes bugged out of their sockets. "Thank you so much! This is very important to me, thank you. I am very grateful.” At least someone forgives me. "Yes, yes. You are very welcome. But you have to agree to have your stopwatch removed and your Climax Card removed. For all that is going on I am going to hand you down to private servicing. If that doesn't work then I’ll have to have you with me. Do you understand?” “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” “Good. You are now dismissed.” With that Hamuar left the room as the guards led him down an unknown hallway. There he worked and was stripped of his Climax Card and Stopwatches with other privileges. *** Days flew by and people began to calm down, and prepare for the Reset Celebration. Poster, banners, fireworks, music, bright colors everywhere. Hamuar took it all in. The smell of food cooking and the sound of people laughing. The NIght Festival was just about to start. Man how time flew by. There was one minute set to the huge display screen. Blinking red and wight counting down from 59. Everyone gathers to see the Ceremony and have a massive party. The important Organizers all filed onto the stage one by one, with Hamuar walking beside the Timekeeper. He stepped onto the stage pedestal with a straight posture and his head held high. He tried his best to hide his smile of pride. “Welcome all, Welcome to the Celebration of the Reset. Of Our Rest.” The Great Chooser boomed. ”The Time has come to re-choose our new Scheduler and Rests Cermonizer. Hamuar Auspious!” There was an unsteady pause, followed by the Speech of Honor. “Thank you, Thank you all.” Hamuar bowed respectively after the speech was done. “We all are very aware of all of the chaos that has happened and we are now over it.” She continued. “Now we near the last 10 seconds of our year and ceremony. Now you Swear, you must swear you will never ever do such a terrible year, terrible time and horrid event. Ever.” The Great Chooser glanced at the time as to say Make is snappy, either do it now or never . Everyone was silent now. Hamuar lifted his left hand and put his right hand over his heart. Then recited his promise. “I vow I will never ever make a terrible year, a terrible, time or horrid event ever in my lifetime. Ever.” Hamuar looked into the Great Chooser stoney, gray eyes. “Well then let’s continue with the countdown.” “5!” Everyone chanted. “4!” “3!” “2!” “1!” “HAPPY NEW YEAR!!”

Heavy rain came down hard against the wet pavement. She was cold, wet, and miserable. Stood out in the rain like this wasn’t how she’d expected tonight to end. Being out here in the storm was much better than being back in there though. A mix of tears and rain clouded her vision. She could barely see, having to squint to check her phone. The Uber was almost there. Laying next to her were a pair of oversized duffels. Everything packed hastily, barely fitting inside the bulging bags, were sat in growing puddles of rainwater and filth from the street. Awful weather for an awful night. The bags took on an odd shape, things poking this way and that. She’d been so flustered and barely had time to pack. That’s not entirely true. She had plenty of time, she just couldn’t stomach being in that flat any longer. She had to get out, even if there was a terrible storm outside. She’d rather take her chances with the rain than be up there. She tried not to think about it. To think about him. As much as she tried the thoughts wouldn’t shift. Playing out the breakup over and over in her head. What if she’d said this instead, or done that? Maybe it wouldn’t have ended that way. So many other ways it could have gone. Maybe in one of them they would still be up there together in the warmth of the flat. Her mind reeled with the countless what ifs that intruded themselves upon her. She couldn’t think straight, it was almost enough to make her sick. She pulled out her phone to try and take her mind off things. She was met with her lock screen, an image of the two of them together. Smiling and happy. Another wave of tears broke free and mingled with the rain running down her cheeks. Through the haze she could see a car pull up in front of her. “Ride for a Lucy Waller?” a gentle voice struggled over the howling wind. Lucy simply nodded, choking back the tears, grabbed up her bags and dragged them towards the boot. Seeing her struggle, the driver jumped out and offered to give her a hand. He was a typical middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a thick beer belly. Waddling over, he took up Lucy’s bags and helped get them in the car. A surprised look wrote itself across his face as he lifted the bags out of the wet and into the dry boot. They were so heavy even he had trouble tossing them into the back of the car. “My word girl, what you got in there? Everything but the kitchen sink I imagine.” The man chuckled to himself as he slammed the boot closed. All Lucy could do was offer him a pained smile and a slight nod. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, her throat was still raw from all the crying. The driver recognised she was distressed and gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder then toddled off to the driver’s seat. His comforting pat didn’t help. It was everything but what he intended. If anything, it made her feel awkward and weird. Hands shaking, she managed to pop open the car door and climbed into the backseat, closing the door on the rain and the life she was leaving behind. Through the rain-streaked window she looked up at the block of flats. All the windows were as black as the night, bar one. His window. She’d half expected to see him stood there looking down, a dark shadow peering at her from high above, but there was nothing. The curtains were drawn, and no one was there. She knew he wouldn’t be able to watch her leave, not after how it all ended. She took a deep breath and turned to face the front, telling the driver she was ready to go. The journey home was a quiet one. The driver, after having tried and failed to comfort her once, didn’t try again. She didn’t mind. Leaning her head against the window and watching the headlights streak by was enough to sooth her aching heart. City life flashed passed them in a blur of yellow and grey. People were still out walking, or rather running, in the rain going about their nightly business. A loud wailing grew as a pair of blue flashing lights shot down the opposite side of the road. Then another, and another. The sirens still echoing down the narrow streets long after they’d disappeared out of view. For a moment her heart stopped. Something crept out from her subconscious mind into her waking thoughts. An unsettling feeling washed over her. She was worried that she had left something behind. The sudden realisation startled her almost into a panic. What was it? Surely it couldn’t be anything important, otherwise she would have remembered it, right? It was probably just her toothbrush or something trivial. Something she could easily replace. Unless... Panic truly started to set in, but she couldn’t check her bags, not until she was home. She would just have to wait. The rest of the ride home was stressful. All the while, the only thing she could think about was what she could have left behind and how she couldn’t bring herself to go back to his flat, not after leaving like she did. She just hoped it wasn’t something crucial. The kindly driver helped her unload her bags out onto her front doorstep and with a soft smile he took off. She’d make sure to rate him highly. 5 stars perhaps. Pushing open the front door with her foot, she hobbled down her dark hallway towards the back of the house. She threw her bags down with a wet slap onto the kitchen floor. Bending down, she opened the cupboard under the sink and rummaged around until she found what she was looking for. Putting on the rubber gloves, she turned to the face the bags, now sitting in a murky brown puddle that was starting to smell. Lucy sucked in a deep breath and unzipped the first bag. A few metallic items clattered against the tiles. Brushing aside the stained tools, she reached in and unfurled the dirty bedsheet. Her eyes stung as a waft of putrefaction escaped from the bundle. Cocooned in the folds of tainted linen were hunks of cooling red and grey flesh. Lucy plunged her hands in, right up to the elbow, and began sifting through the viscera. Everything was where it was supposed to be. Two hands, two feet, various ribs and other bones jostled together between the hunks of meat. But that feeling was still lingering. She’d have to check the other bag. Swivelling in the growing pool of fluids slowly spreading across her kitchen floor, she reached for the second bag but stopped. Her heart sank and she turned ghostly pale. One of the zips was partially undone. “No...” the whisper caught in her throat, her airways tightening. Without a second thought, she attacked the bag, throwing it open. This bag was packed with more care since this one contained most of his organs. Lucy didn’t stop for a second. Her gloves now a bright red, covered in flecks of grey and brown dove into the bag of organs. Where was it? It had to be here. Everything else was here. She grew more frantic, throwing clumps of torn muscle and sacks of wobbly flesh out of the bag in a frenzy. She emptied the bag onto the floor, adding to it with her own stomach contents, but searched diligently nonetheless. Lungs, kidneys, and greying tracks of intestines spilled out and made a dull bloody collage against the backdrop of bright white tiles. It wasn’t there. She couldn’t find it anywhere. She’d left his heart behind. She sat back and cried. Deep howling sobs wracked her body. Trembling uncontrollably, she edged backwards and leant against the fridge. She was fucked. She’d left his heart behind. But she had been so careful, how had she missed it? She made sure to go over the flat more than once, to make sure nothing like this would have happened. It’s not like she meant to do it in the first place. She didn’t mean to kill him. Their argument had got heated, and she had lashed out with the knife before she realised what she’d done. She looked down at her shaking hands. The hands that killed her boyfriend. The hands that, instead of reaching for the phone and calling the police, grabbed for his tools, and got to work. Hacking, breaking, pulling his body apart. Wrapping the pieces in old bedsheets and towels. Stuffing bloody chunks and broken bones into the duffel bags and carrying them outside, away from the flat. She didn’t know what to do but sit there and cry. And that’s what she did. Sat in a pool of her dead boyfriends’ innards sobbing into her cursed hands when something caught her eye. She looked down the length of her hallway and saw, through the frosted glass of the front door, a blue flashing light. A fresh bout of tears ran down her face as a shadow blocked out the light and rang the doorbell.

"Tell me the story of how we met," she asked softly. I smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Okay, but we have to sleep afterwards. It's getting late." "Sure." She snuggled up in my lap and gazed up adoringly into my eyes. "Well, once upon a time not too long ago," I began, re-enacting the scene with a doll and a teddy bear, "there lived a princess, just 10 years old. She was trapped in a castle, cursed to sleep by an evil old witch. Only true love's kiss would waken the princess." I laid the doll flat on her back, pointing the right arm of the teddy bear at her threateningly. "Did anyone try to awaken the princess?" she asked breathlessly. Lamplight sparkled in her caramel eyes, growing wider by the minute. I caressed her soft, silky hair, letting the touch linger. "Yes, hundreds. All claiming to be the world's noblest warriors or whatever." Rolling my eyes, I continued. "They all tried and failed." She giggled. "Did any women try?" I paused for a while. "Yes, they did, but discreetly, because at that time it was still taboo for these things to be publicly known. They all failed anyway, though." I pressed the snout of the teddy bear to the face of the doll. Nothing happened. "And then what happened next?" "And then." I looked deep into her soft, honey golden eyes, and a tender smile crossed my face involuntarily. "And then, on the princess' 30th birthday, someone came. It was a little orphan girl." Here, I deliberately paused. "Go on!" she begged, tugging at my shirt. “The little girl had wandered over from a nearby village. She had been playing in the forest and gotten lost. Seeing the castle, she had decided to go in and see if anyone could direct her back. And so, wandering from room to room, she finally found the princess.” She grabbed the bear by the scruff of his neck and made him walk over with a bouncy gait, stomping over the “hills” and “valleys” in the sheets. I laughed and took the bear from her. "The little girl stared at her wonderingly. At that moment, she felt sorry for the poor cursed princess. 'I do hope you find someone to help you,' she murmured, and gave an empathetic kiss on the princess' forehead.” I made the second bear kiss the sleeping doll. "And the princess woke up!" she squealed happily, snatching the sleeping doll up into the air and tossing it up to the ceiling. “Mama!” the doll cried out in astonishment, the eyelids open. "It was true love after all, wasn't it?" My vision suddenly went blurry, and I tasted the salt of my own tears on my lips. "Yes, honey, it was. I do love you, very much. I've always wanted a daughter and now I've got you. I knew you’d be my daughter the minute I woke up and saw your precious eyes looking into mine." "Please don't cry, Mommy," she pleaded anxiously. "I love you more than anything else in the world, okay? You know that, right?" I folded her tightly into a massive bear hug. "Yes, dear, I do.

Danya groaned under the weight of the heavy equipment that she lugged across the tarmac. It felt like a metaphor for her life. One spent under the burden of following other people’s suggestions, which led to this dead end, working at a military air airfield in North Dakota. As she lamented her eight years in the Air Force, she gazed up at the stars flickering in the pitch black sky, and let her mind wander. She turned to her crewmate, Greg. “What sound do eagles make? Do they caw, or chirp, or...?” Greg's gaze remained focused on his equipment. “Don’t know. Never thought about it.” “Or do they sing, tweet, or cluck?” “Never thought about it. You’re too smart for this, Danya. Why are you in the military anyway?” “When I saw the recruitment ads, it sounded fun to be on a mission, and not to spend all my time, you know...” She hesitated, and left out mating like animals . Experience had taught her it was best to keep quiet about such topics. Greg nodded knowingly though she suspected he had no idea what she was talking about. Unlatching the refueling hose from an aging C130, she moaned, “I don’t think I can take another day of this.” “I hear you,” Greg replied nonchalantly. “I’m serious!” she blurted out, letting desperation seep into her voice. In the past, Danya would often pitch ideas to Greg that with his Great Plains reticence, would dismiss as not worth fretting over. But today, Greg turned to her, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes, and said, “If you’re game, I have an idea.” “Greg has an idea...” she teased, her heart racing with curiosity. What he proposed was the wildest plan she ever heard. Yet, there was a sincerity in his voice, and he had a connection. He was extending charity, something she didn’t like to accept, but unlike the other men in the military, she knew his help wasn’t attached to unwanted sexual advances. They had worked together long enough for her to know. “Trust me,” he said. She found herself nodding. Three weeks later, Danya found herself aboard a plane headed to Edwards Air Force base. As the aircraft lifted off, Greg gave her the tiniest of North Dakota nods, one she knew was an acknowledgment of their eighteen months together refuelling planes, unacknowledged and under appreciated . As she stepped off the plane in California, she was met by an officer in dress uniform who gave hey a formal salute. “Private Danya, this way,” he said, and ushered her into an auditorium where dozens of young soldiers were gathered. They looked as nervous and excited as she felt. As the lights dimmed, a screen in front of them flickered to life. President Kamala’s voice echoed through the room, delivering her famous farewell speech of 2032: “In the history of manned space flight, only twelve white men have walked on the Moon. Today, I announce a plan to change that!” The audience applauded. The image of the twelve men faded into a colourful montage of 48 young soldiers of different races and genders. She surmised they were the people she was with in the room. The contrast with the previous mission was vast, and she was excited to be part of it. General Johnson, a famous general, highly decorated from his service in the Ukraine War, stood behind the podium. In his powerful voice, he declared, “Moon 2069. There have been 37 years of challenges,” he dropped his voice on the word ‘challenges’, which Danya translated tobdelays, red tape and budget overruns. “But now, we are here, on the cusp of our great mission. You have the right stuff to change it the history of humankind.” Danya felt something she longed for her whole life but rarely experienced: being important. She applauded as loudly as anyone else in the room. The following three months of training were electric. Each day started at dawn, and continued until late at night. Drills, classes, and physical fitness activities filled every minute of her existence. Here, unlike in North Dakota, every member of the training class matched her curiosity and drive. A psychologist from Stanford guided them through team-building exercises, fostering their camaraderie. Despite the Moon 2069 program’s seemingly unlimited resources, the remnants of SpaceX logos clung to the training center’s walls. The company was nationalised after Elon Musk sent Xi Jinping a Tesla for his birthday. Aiding and abetting the enemy, a senate committee had concluded. So many things had led to this moment-12 trillion dollars spent over decades, to deliver a diverse group of astronauts to the moon on the 100th anniversary of the original moon landing. She understood the program was expensive. Her mother at complained about it during their telephone calls, lamenting the rising taxes and inflation that made life difficult for everyone. School teachers couldn’t afford to repair their cars or go to the dentist. It was hard to listen to, but as the date of the launch approached, her mother’s tone mellowed. “The country spending a trillion dollars to send my daughter to the moon. Who would have thought? I’m proud of you.” Two days before launch, General Johnson sat in his office awaiting their daily briefing. After a crisp salute, Danya took a seat, trembling in anticipation from the conversation ahead. The general spoke first. “Private Danya, I’ve heard through the grapevine you are having second thoughts,” he murmured in his baritone voice. “I’m here to tell you, after you complete this mission, you will be an example for asexual people all over the world.” “So they can all walk on the moon?” she asked, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her. “The Moon 2069 mission is important to the current president.” The closer the mission came, the more Danya had contemplated what her goal really was. “I respectfully decline the mission, and I would like to be reassigned,” she said firmly. The General slumped in his chair, disappointment etched across his features. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that.” Before she could respond, she felt a sudden grip on her shoulders, then a pinprick in her arm. The following days blurred into a haze. She recalled listening to politicians’ speeches and seeing the blurry faces of her teammates. A deep rumbling jolted her awake. She blinked under the bright lights, then realized she was strapped into her launch chair. Her teammates, Stella and Marco, sat beside her, their faces tense. The thundering vibrations of the Ascendant Rocket rumbled beneath them. She lifted her hand to attract their attention, to say she wasn’t supposed to be there, when the takeoff force of 10G pushed her arm back down. ** Ending #1: She resented being sedated, but once the mission had begun, her instincts to help her team members kicked in, and she played along. A week later, Danya found herself on the set of the Morning Brew Show, the bright lights and cameras capturing her every move. She smiled and told the audience how amazing the experience of the moon mission was. Once the mission was over, General Johnson had told her had a choice, she could return to North Dakota, or she could fly from city to city, staying at the best hotels, give interviews and school commencement addresses, and never have to work another day in her life. The life of a politician, he said. She rejected the offer, until the General said her mother could join. Ending #2: After installing Moon Base 2069, they received a video transmission from NASA. President Kamala’s face from decades ago filled the screen, and she began speaking solemnly. “I regret to inform you the government used the LGBTQIA mission as a cover story, as the best way we could allocate enough money for this project without creating panic. The fake news you have undoubtedly heard, is true. The earth will be struck by an asteroid in 2070, ending all human life. You are our last hope to carry on. Good luck.” The weight of the words settled heavily on Danya’s shoulders.

#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them using the new form! &nbsp; *** #This week’s challenge: **Song: ** *Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.) - Story features a non-human character.* This week’s challenge is to use **the above song as inspiration** for your story. You can use the song itself, the name, the images in the video, or . The bonus constraint is not required. You may interpret the media prompt any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you **follow all sub and post rules**. &nbsp; *** #How It Works: - **Submit a story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by Sunday 11:59pm EST. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until 2pm EST Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday, after the story submission deadline.) - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun! &nbsp; *** #Campfire - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on our Discord server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide verbal feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome! - Nominations are now made . (See the Rules section of the post for more information.) &nbsp; *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations) &nbsp; *** #Rankings - - Submitted by u/Jurassic_Snark2 &nbsp; - - Submitted by u/MeganBessel &nbsp; - - Submitted by u/wandering_cirrus &nbsp; - - Submitted by u/nobodysgeese *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

Robert powered through the morning, not really his preferred way to start the day. He likes to wake up after hitting snooze at least twice, slowly sipping the ever-essential coffee while reading up on the news and then getting ready after he feels he's all caught up. A typical workingman daily routine you might think, and would be absolutely correct in assuming so. Unfortunately for him, he slept through the alarm like a baby, thanks to a late-night working, and now his morning was completely disrupted. His car had been parked out in the driveway and consequently, been vandalized. The tires were slashed and the hood of the car was covered in obscene imagery. "Sadists.” he thought to himself as he made a mental note to call the police once he reached his office. More frustrated than ever, he set out, heading for the bus stop a couple blocks away. As he waited at the stop for the bus that was already behind schedule, just like him, a dark green F-150 pulled up in front of him. The window rolled down to reveal a man, maybe in his thirties, with a trucker like attire consisting of shorts, a grey shirt and a Yankees cap. “Hey Carter-that’s the name, right? Don’t usually see you around this time of the day. Anyways, how about I give you a ride to the office?” Robert tried his best to identify the driver. He seemed familiar, but it was impossible for him to be sure. He chose to avoid the otherwise inevitable moment of awkwardness that would follow and decided to just play it safe. “It’s Rob actually. That’d be great but I really don’t want to waste your- “ “Oh, just hop on in! I’ve got all the time in the world.” Cornered, Rob weighed his options and decided that he would just get it over with. Besides he really needed his job. “Alright, just drop me off at the- “ “33rd street?” The driver, after a good look at Robert’s blank expression then replied: “It’s just that I drop my kid off to school just about two streets over, so I guess there’s only so many streets that your car could’ve turned into.” “Now there’s an observant fella.” Rob mumbled while mentally listing possible escape maneuvers through the passenger seat window. “I’m pretty sure I’ve made you feel uneasy already, so let me try my hand at changing the mood. I ask you a question, and you ask me one in return. Should help you relax a bit there, champ.” “I’ll go first then,” Rob said. “Who are you? And why do I feel like I know you?” “Straight to the point, aren’t you? Then again you always were.” Before Robert could make any sense of the statement, the driver continued: “Call me Ben. I run this breakdown truck company about twenty minutes from where you live. Had today off, so I felt like driving off into the daylight and just enjoy the sun for a change. But nothin’s ever better than helping a fellow American in need!” He then proceeded to laugh at his own joke. “Oh, and about you knowing me, I sure as hell don’t know who or what looks like me in this part of town. Maybe you saw me behind you at a red light during one of those school rides. Now you tell me, how’s the bank job holding?” “I never mentioned my workplace to you.” “Oh, come on. I don’t see any amusement park booths anywhere near that area. There ain’t no one but people in suits scuttling about and sipping their morning coffee there! I mean, no offense to you, but you gotta see where I’m coming from.” “About that offence, some taken. You really have those detective novels all spoiled for you already huh? It’s tough to believe that you’re just guessing all of this.” “Yeah, I get that a lot.” “About the bank job, it’s going...fine, I guess. I mean there have been no ups and downs for me to talk about. Not that it doesn’t pay well; I just seem to drift away behind the desk lately.” “I...I see. It must get real boring after a while, the desk job I mean.” Ben, now on the freeway, was slowing down. “The lanes are wide open, you could just hit th- “ A grey corolla cut them off abruptly from the right. “You can never be too careful these days lad. Believe me, I tow stuff for a living.” “Agreed.” Rob said as he watched the car speeding away, muttering some not so nice words under his breath. “As I was saying, life’s a drag. Come to think of it, I don’t even know why I even bother getting up.” Ben, as if ignoring the statement, asked,” Say, how much more time do you have before your boss goes bananas at ya?” Rob glanced at his watch. He was already late, so he didn’t bother about it much. Besides this ride had been way more interesting than his entire previous week, which he believed to be a testament to his mundane existence. “I’ve got time, don’t worry.” He said, staring blankly at nothing in particular out of the window. “So enough about me, tell me about your kid. You said that he goes to school close to 33rd?” “Yeah, City Knoll middle school. He’s a bright one if I do say so myself, absolutely gunning past his friends and other folk out there. I mean I’m a hundred percent sure that it’s no thanks to me!” he proceeded to stick to his protocol of laughing at his own jokes. Rob was finding this conversation to get more interesting by the minute. “You know, I’ve studied there myself back in ’95” Rob interrupted. “Jeez time flies! What year are we even in right now?” he said laughingly. There was something interesting about this man, something that was hiding from him in plain sight. “God knows!” Ben said. “God knows...” Rob had sensed a sudden change in Ben’s composure, a hint of weariness revealed itself from inside the outward friendliness and confidence that had been on display since minute one. Suddenly as if waking up from an endless trance, Ben regained his former self. “Ah see you’re getting the hang of it now! It’s been almost 15 minutes and you haven’t mentioned your dumbass of a boss or job. You seem more like yourself again.” They approached an intersection when the green in front of them began flickering. Ben’s expression turned to stone as he floored the brake pedal. “You could’ve made that one if you’d gunned it!” Rob said “And I could’ve still convinced my boss that I’d been less than thirty minutes late.” “There you go rambling about that old fucknut all over again! It’s gonna be a tad bit harder to explain that shit from the ICU ward!” He regained his senses. “Er Rob, buddy, I’m sorry about th- “ “It’s fine. It was a good call” Rob replied as he pointed towards the intersection. A man with a walking stick had misjudged the traffic lights and had walked straight into heavy traffic. Fortunately, everybody had reacted in time and there had been no casualties, save for a couple scratches here and there. “Turned that train wreck into a fender bender.” Ben said, chuckling. “Go left, I know a shortcut through that alleyway there” Rob suggested. “It’s alright, I’ll just take this way- “Ben stopped when he saw the bumper to bumper traffic in the adjacent lanes. “ “I’m telling you, going this way is the only option we have right now” Rob said hurriedly. “I know, I know.” Ben’s face turned red as he took the left. “It’s just that... that all the parents park up along the rear of the school these days and it takes a good hour to sort that mess out.” Ben said as he found his footing again. “So, you never told me your son’s name. For a proud father like you, I find that odd.” Ben sighed. For the first time since the beginning of this conversation, He didn’t anything witty to reply with. He thought to himself for what felt like eternity. He began “Carter. His name’s Carter.” The school was visible now. A block before and to the right were the Hamilton International towers, the headquarters office in which Rob worked. Ben turned to Rob. “I’ve tried everything bud. Everything. I know you’re still in there. Just hand on, I’m gonna get us outta here.” Teary eyed, Ben’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. The school bell rang and little children flooded the streets without a worry or doubt. Somebody in charge of the main gate had forgotten to lock it and organize the dispersed younglings, and now they were in front of their speeding truck. “BEN SLOW DOWN YOU’RE GONNA HIT TH’ “Rob’s voice was drowned out by the screeching and swerving as the truck headed straight towards the Financial district. An endless river of black, white and red turned towards them in horror as they had, in that split second, realized their fate. Some had accepted it, many believed of it to be unfair. But the judgement had already been made one way or the other. The truck tunneled headfirst into the dreary dense crowd, and then everything went black. Manny powered through the morning, not really his preferred way to start the day. He likes to wake up after hitting snooze at least twice, slowly sipping the ever-essential coffee while reading up on the news and then getting ready after he feels he's all caught up. A typical workingman daily routine you might think, and would be absolutely correct in assuming so. Unfortunately for him, he slept through the alarm like a baby, thanks to a late-night working, and now his morning was completely disrupted. His car had broken down last week and the mechanic didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get it back up to speed. “The engine block had overheated and there was a good chance that a fire could’ve happened”, he recalled the guy condescendingly explain. "Assholes.” he thought to himself as he made a mental note to call the police once he reached his office. More frustrated than ever, he set out, heading for the bus stop a couple blocks away. As he waited at the stop for the bus that was already behind schedule, just like him, a dark green F-150 pulled up in front of him. The window rolled down to reveal a man, maybe in his thirties, with a trucker like attire consisting of shorts, a grey shirt and a Yankees cap. “Hey Rob, that’s the name, right? Don’t usually see you around this time of the day. Anyways, how about I give you a ride to the office?” Manny tried his best to identify the driver. He seemed familiar, but it was impossible for him to be sure. He chose to avoid the otherwise inevitable moment of awkwardness that would follow and decided to just play it safe. “Nah it’s Manny. It’d be great but I really don’t want to waste your- “ “Oh, just hop on in! I’ve got all the time in the world. All of it...” Cornered, Manny weighed his options and decided that he would just get it over with. Besides he really needed his job.