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Allura 70

(warning, mental illness described) He looked over the balcony, the shimmering starlight reflecting in the growing puddles of a storm that had just passed. There was something beautiful about that moment. It was a space in between, when the future was still ahead but the past was now behind. This kind of moment could last forever. He inhaled the crisp, cold air of the witching hour. That’s what they call it, right? That liminal space between the twilight’s last tendrils, and the beautiful, piercing rays of the morning sun? I’ve always wondered if those hours were a gift to the damned and the broken. It always seems like they are the ones who take advantage. While the innocent sleep in the comfort of their dreams and ambitions. We broken few use the hours of silence, the hours of tranquility, to feel the full brunt of our loneliness, the entire weight of our depression, the deadly thrust of a blade which anxiety wields, while our anger and fear duel for supremacy of our mental stage. Forgive me, we were talking about him. You see, he’s right on the edge of the balcony now, looking down into the onyx pits that call him down, can you hear them egging him on? Daring him to aim for the center of their icy depths. He starts to believe, that maybe if he falls just right, he’ll never hit the ground. Instead, he will be transported somewhere else. Maybe to a place where it doesn’t have to hurt to exist. Maybe to a world where he can finally feel worthy of the air he breathes; maybe to a universe where he finally has purpose; maybe to an existence where he can be loved. He climbs the banister. He is not cold. The wind wiggles its way into every crevice of his clothes, wrapping him in a blanket of nothingness. He doesn’t even feel as it begins to pull him. He doesn’t even realize he is falling until the lurch of gravity begins to pull him downward. Not like this. Not now. Not here. He had so much to live for. At least, that’s what his friends will say at his funeral. Will his friends go to his funeral? Will he get a funeral? The invitation howls past his ears, incomprehensible, and yet so damn familiar. “Give Up” He stares up at the stars. They seem so much brighter now. They call to him. He can hear them sing. A melody so sweet and pure he feels unworthy to even witness it. They aren’t just singing. They are singing to him. Calling his name! Screaming out for him to reach up and grab a fistful of sky. If he could only reach, he knows they will save him. He remembers the melody they sing, a bittersweet tune of love and sadness. The stars must witness all that occurs under their valiant watch. The trees bring in a harmony and the stones of the earth add their deep, steady tones. He knows this song. It’s the one he used to hum as a small child, the one He always tried to write, but never found the lyrics for. It is his song, and the universe is singing it. He wakes in a cold sweat. It’s dark. The clock reads 3:14. The door to his balcony sits ajar, a howling wind and whispering rain siege the cracks of the doorframe. He closes the balcony doors. This is no time for sleep. We sang to him. And now he knows there’s still work to do.

Twenty-three hundred days in hell is exactly what you’d think. Well, unless you anticipated screaming, and praying, and begging, and wailing and gnashing of teeth no...hell is nothing like the Old Testament. Hell is an eight-foot-tall, six-by-six cell. Three walls and a ceiling, all made of concrete. That fourth wall however, now I’m betting you anticipate “bars,” right? Seeing as I’ve described hell as a cell? Well here I am to burst your bubble ‘cause hell isn’t a cell per se. The fourth wall is just...open. Completely open to a four-story drop for me, even higher for the boys above me. And if you were to drop, you’d land and shatter your fucking femurs for one, but you’d land on the sandy bottom of a tall, dark, enclosed, circular building in the middle of goddamn nowhere. The floor of this place is about the size of a football field in all directions and in its center...in its heart. Is the Panopticon. I can still remember the metallic voice over the unseen speakers as we each awoke, drugged, in our cells. It started off with a factoid. The man who first proposed the idea of the Panopticon described it as “A mill for grinding rogues honest.” We were to be the, “First ever maximum-security inmates to be housed within the ULTIMATE STRUCTURE OF SURVEILLANCE!” Like we were supposed to be goddamn excited for it. Like they were selling us something that we should be chomping at the bit to buy. 360-degree view from the tower in the center with about 150 open cells surrounding. No human face though, scowling out at us from behind it’s dark, cold plexi-glass. No human faces EVER. See that was really the thing about hell. I hadn’t seen another human face since the moment that screeching, tinny, robotic voice woke me up to tell me what I’d won, twenty-three hundred days and counting, in hell. The point of the “open cell concept” as I like to call it, is this, we all assume we could be the one being monitored at any given time so now, we self-discipline. No need for bars when we’re met with a bone crushing fall and motion-activated machine guns mounted on every curve of that tower. No sir-e. We’ll be the good little boys our mechanical overlords know we’ll be, because we have no other fucking choice. Now how can a maximum-security prison operate without any human beings? Much like most things in this brave new, robotic world. Our three-square meals a day are delivered to us through a perfectly fucking sealed square hole in the wall and I know that it’s being delivered on a conveyor belt, assembled and maintained by machines because for the past 6 months my meals have been coming to me with the exact same mistakes, day-in-and day-out. If that doesn’t sound like a malfunctioning robot, electronic, or machine to you than you haven’t spent a lot of time depending on one. My breakfasts used to be nice and portioned off on the tray. The scrambled eggs had their square, the toast had his, and my orange slices had theirs. Now every single morning the eggs are no longer scrambled, they’re runny as hell and I hate runny. But what’s more is my orange slices are placed right in the center of that disgusting, thick soup o’ eggs. Like two orange, radioactive islands floating within a sea of yellow shit. And my dinners no longer include any meat, just the gravy for the meat. So, I’m just getting potatoes and steamed veggies every night for the past 6 months with nothing but the idea of meat. It used to be that once a month a palm-sized touch pad would come through the food slot and you could make selections on any malfunctions or problems you’d been experiencing under certain categories and then back through the slot it would go and within a day or so the problem would be resolved. So, once upon a time I could rectify these mistakes or at least be given the illusion of having a voice. But I haven’t seen a touch pad come through the wall in well over 3 years and I don’t expect I’ll be seeing one ever again. I mean my lunch no longer even comes at all but from the feedback I’ve gotten from the fine gentlemen around me, everybody’s lunch stopped coming about 2 years ago so a certain programed protocol has obviously kicked in. What we all want to know is what it means... Here’s what I think it means. The people running this place, the human beings meant to give mind to this machine of hell, are all gone. Something very, very bad happened out there in the world and we’re in here completely unsupervised, by man. But now we’re so dangerously supervised by the machines that this really is a hell, and we’ll all spending eternity in this place as more parts and pieces of it fall apart with no human beings coming to put it all back together again, and call the devil back to bed. Plus, the water has started to taste a little like battery acid. We figured out I want to say two-and-a-half years ago that we could call out to one another and have conversations without anything happening. The first guy to finally shriek out into the abyss was Bluie my neighbor. He’s a totally innocent man and one night right as I was finally beginning to drift off into my version of sleep, I hear the first human voice I’d heard since before my incarceration. It was Bluie. And Bluie yells out, “Aye, aye RoboCops! Why ain’t ya tuck us in no more!?” The silence that followed...whew! Could have heard the drip, drip, drip of a robot taking a gasoline piss a football field away. But then...nothing happened. I mean absolutely nothing happened for one minute, then two minutes, then seven. In the hour that followed the event that I’ve so affectionately named, “Bluie’s First Contact” it was truly as if we were in hell, yet this time, we were the demons. The screaming and shrieking, swearing and cursing, the absolute thunderous, bellowing shouts of rage and sound that erupted from all 150 inmates after Bluie’s First Contact was the most hell-ish thing I had ever known. Myself, I just yelled every horrible thing I had ever heard or thought of throughout the entire course of my life until I tasted blood in the back of my throat and no longer had any voice to speak with. But this ushered in great change. There were conversations for a few weeks. Men confessing, mostly men declaring innocence. Men sharing jokes, men telling stories of all the best and all the worst pussy they’d had before waking up in this place. We were a tribe. But with so many conversations happening all at once we couldn’t keep track of the fractures. The fissures, the silences. And soon there were indecipherable clicks with the tongue, and combinations of words which meant nothing. High and low shouts which gave away no inflection or intention. We all developed our own secret language to communicate with the men we really trusted. We’re split now, divided. Sound is all we have so we use it as secret forms of communication. The acoustics are fantastic in our Panopticon and so each level has developed their own secret means of communication so no other level can understand them. The highest level of cells, near the ceiling are rumored to still be receiving lunch, spring water to drink, and meat with dinner so of course it goes without saying that every level hates them. The bottom level, my level is rumored to have successfully gotten some of our boys out--escape. I know this is bullshit because several months back another guy, real quiet guy likes us to call him G, kicked his pillow right out the opening in his cell. You may have wondered how I knew the machine guns mounted on the Panopticon were motion-sensitive? At least three machine guns locked onto it and shot it as it was falling through the air, and completely eviscerated it once it hit ground. So began the escape rumors. We also know that if we come to close to the opening of our cells the machine guns lock onto us and follow our every move until we step back far enough. Once, I daggled a piece of cloth over the side and a machine gun fired and nearly blew my fucking hand off. What I’ve been trying to get my guys on this level to understand, is that there aren’t enough machine guns to handle all of us. If only we conducted more “experiments” really figured out the way they work, even if just one of us could escape that one could go find out what happened to the world. Bring help. But Bluie says this is part of the Panopticon. This is how we’re meant to be kept here, in hell. “Men built this,” he said, “men want this.” G thinks what I’m suggesting involves sacrificing one of “ours”. Even if we got the rest of the 147 inmates in on it everyone would scream the same thing: “The cocksuckers on the bottom have the lowest fall! They should be the ones to distract the guns while others try an escape!” I think G is probably right. But no one has spoken a real, human sentence in so long, I don’t intend to be the first to break the “silence” and find out. But what I haven’t told you, or told anyone for that matter, is that I’ve been pissing blood for the last 4 months. I got to get up and take a piss at least 12 times a night. I knew I was terminal before they condemned me to wake up here, but I think I must be getting to the end. Yesterday morning I woke up to blood in my underwear, which is new. Bluie’s also changed, he talks about God a lot now and what he’ll do in the Kingdom of Heaven when he finally goes “home.” G hasn’t spoken to us in over a week. I think he may be dead but it’s real hard to cut through the smell of myself and 149 other poorly washed prisoners to detect the scent of death. Plus, I never really knew what cell was his anyway, it’s not like I can crane my neck out with a, “Yooohoooo! Still alive in there?!” and find out. I wonder how hard it would be to convince Bluie to let his body drop to that warm, sandy floor...let him get on “home” then. Or me, what about me? Smear myself in my own dirty blood and go screaming over the side the same way I screamed my lungs out a few short years ago when I knew for certain that this, this was hell, this was going to be the place in which I became a demon. Because yes. This mill has finally ground me down. I am a demon of the Panopticon.

#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I post a theme to inspire you, along with a related image and song. You have 500 - 850 words to write your installment. You can jump in at any time; writing for previous weeks’ is not necessary in order to join. After you’ve posted, come back and provide feedback for at least 2 other writers on the thread. Please be sure to read the entire post for a full list of rules. &nbsp; *** #This week's theme is Innocence! | This week we’re going to explore the theme of ‘innocence’. Two weeks ago we took a look at guilt, and what that meant for your characters and the world around them. So, let’s flip that. What happens when one of the innocent are pulled into the storm, punished even, for the crimes of another? Who is to be believed in this situation? What happens to a person’s trust in their friends, their family, their system? Do they stand strong, ready to fight injustice with everything they have, or do they give up, feeling broken and defeated? We, as people, often feel guilt, even when the events aren’t necessarily our fault. But how does that affect someone internally? Externally? How does this change someone? These are just a few things to get you started. This week, please keep in mind the subreddit rules, and treat the topic of mental health with respect. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. **Please remember to follow all sub and post rules.** You can always modmail us if you’re unsure. &nbsp; *** #Theme Schedule: - September 11 - Innocence (this week) - September 18 - Jealousy - September 25 - Knowledge &nbsp; *** **Most Recent Themes:** | | | | | *** &nbsp; #Rules & How to Participate Please read and follow all the rules listed below. This feature has requirements for participation! - **Submit a story inspired by the weekly theme, set in your self-established universe. Use to check your wordcount.** Stories should be posted as a top-level comment below. If you’re continuing an in-progress serial (not on Serial Sunday), please include links to your previous installments. - **Your chapter must be submitted by Saturday at 12pm EST.** That is one hour before the start of Campfire. Late entries will be disqualified. - **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to recognize your serial and add each chapter to the SerSun catalog. Do not include anything in the brackets you don’t want in your title. (Please note: You must use this same title every week.) - **Do not pre-write your serial.** You’re welcome to do outlining and planning for your serial, but chapters should not be pre-written. All submissions should be written for this post, specifically. - **Only one active serial per author at a time.** This does not apply to serials written outside of Serial Sunday. - **All Serial Sunday authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread each week (that’s one comment on two different stories).** The feedback should be **actionable** and include something the author has done well. You have until **Saturday at 11:59pm EST** to post your feedback. Those who go above and beyond (more than 5 actionable crits) will be rewarded with “Crit Credits” that can be used on our crit sub, r/WPCritique. - **Missing your feedback requirement two or more consecutive weeks will disqualify you from rankings and Campfire readings the following week.** If it becomes a habit, you may be asked to move your serial to the sub instead. - **Serials must abide by subreddit content rules.** This includes, but is not limited to, explicit suicide or suicide-note stories, pedophilia, rape, bestiality, necrophilia, incest, explicit sex, and graphic depictions of abuse or torture. You can view a . If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! &nbsp; *** #Weekly Campfires & Voting: - **On Saturdays at 1pm EST, I host a Serial Sunday Campfire in our .** Join us to read your story aloud, hear others, and exchange feedback. We have a great time! (And Campfire is feedback is worth extra points!) You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Grab the “Serial Sunday” role on the Discord to get notified before it starts. - **Nominations for your favorite stories can be submitted .** The form is open on Saturdays from 12pm to 11:59pm EST. You do not have to participate to make nominations! - **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, can host a SerialWorm in our Discord’s Voice Lounge, where you read aloud your finished and edited serials.** Celebrate your accomplishment! Authors are eligible for this only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). Visit us on the Discord for more information. &nbsp; *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points (but its interpretation is entirely up to you)! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by other users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Actionable Feedback:** - Thread feedback (at least 2 required) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) **Nominating Other Stories:** - Voting for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) **Looking for more on what actionable feedback is?** Check out or these previous crits from Serial Sunday: | | &nbsp; *** #Rankings for “Heartbreak” - **First place:** - by u/Zetakh &nbsp; - **Second place:** - by u/mattswritingaccount &nbsp; - **Third place:** - by u/rainbow\-\-penguin &nbsp; - **Honorable Mention:** - - by u/Loki_7000 &nbsp; *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires and a few other fun events! - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And... to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week we will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion Today, I want to talk about tenses in writing: past and present (and future if you really want to torture yourself). Choosing the right one for your story is important, but can be tricky. So tell me about your favorite! - Which tense do you prefer writing in? What about as a reader? - How do you decide which tense to use for a story? - Have you ever caught yourself switching tenses midway through a story? (I’m definitely guilty of that one!) - New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? **Introduce yourself in the comments!** What do you like to write? *** #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.

*Life will come to Spring;* *To the fiery god of Summer,* *Water brings his Fall.* *Daughters of the Snow,* *Bring glory to us all.* The boar was released into the clearing, and the people roared and cheered. It began to dash into the forest, with an instinctive knowledge that to run was to live. It smelled of hay and sweat, bringing the Dragoneers to life, as their reptilian thirst for warm blood awakened, and cunning forgotten came to the forefront. The first to run after the boar was Lily, and her face was a sight to see, for calm had morphed into an intense excitement, and she was grinning as she ran, her teeth white and sharp, her body lithe and sleek, what dark scales she had on her back and arms glittering in the dappled moonlight. She had foregone clothing except for a loose loincloth around her hips, and her breasts had almost completely merged into her body, so that they were not in the way. Just one step behind and on the right of the beast her long scaled legs bounded, unhindered by the cold snow and rough thorns. The beast, being blocked from the right which led into a darkly thicketed, safe ravine, ran in mad dashes ahead, sometimes veering in roundabouts around treacherous unseen quicksands and swamps that usurped several Dragoneers, who cried as they fell to the traps of the night, their wounded screams piercing the landscape and sending chills up Tam’s spine. They would never move on. But the bulk of Dragoneers, with heightened vision and taste of the air, could feel the same dangers as the boar did, and veered around the uncertain grounds to continue driving the boar ahead. Tam timidly followed them, fear of the darkness pounding in her head. Ada and Eva were at the head of the drivers who prevented the boar from ever escaping backwards, and they loped patiently at a constant pace, neither slowing nor racing ahead. Tam trotted with them, unsure of what to do, until Jai yelled, “Run!” At his call, a strange voice awakened within Tam. *Run*, it murmured. *See*, it beckoned. *Feel*. She suddenly felt that the boar was banking towards the left, where the bush was thicker, and there the prey would be lost soon enough. She had to take a chance. She broke away from the path of the mass of Dragoneers who were performing the role of drivers, and went on her own towards what she predicted would be the boar’s path. She was still uncertain, but she felt something that drove her to make this risk in a lifetime of monotony. No longer would she follow behind. *Awaken*, the voice within her commanded. She could smell. See. Feel the boar’s fear, its mind wildly calculating its last escape. The moon, high in the sky; the trees, awash in its light. The good night air, cold and fresh in her lungs. On the ground lumps of snow sparkled where the light was able to pierce the bare arms of the branches. And blood. She smelled it now, copper and rusty, and it would be good to taste. Life was good, life was precious, and it was worth fighting for. Tonight, the boar’s life would give her life. The boar was running fast, but Tam was running faster, a giddiness filling her mind and soul, and she felt keen hunger. She forgot who or where she was. At the last, Tam looked into the boar’s eyes, maddened with fear and rage as its tusks reared up in the air, and it was when she heard its scream that she realized that she was screaming herself, a spear of ice piercing into the boar’s neck, cold smoke evaporating from her nostrils and open mouth. She’d done it. She was a true Dragoneer. The boar had slashed her across the thigh. As the bloodlust faded away, she dropped to her knees, panting, the dying boar’s throat gushing blood upon her, and she saw Lily behind the boar, with a duplicate ice-spear that drove into its neck from the other side. They feasted on the blood, and the blood was good.

Madeline watched the emotions flit across Liam’s face as he considered her question, small hands turning white as they gripped the kitchen table. Without meaning to, she soon found her leg was bouncing up and down. The tapping sound from her heel knocking against the cupboard filled the silence. In an attempt to alleviate the nervous energy, she hopped down off the counter and paced back and forth. Eventually, the wait became too much for her. “Come on, you had all night to think about it. Am I taking you back to the store? Or are you staying with me?” “I- I think I’d like to stay with you,” he said before hurriedly adding, “If that’s okay, that is.” Now it was Madeline’s turn to leave him waiting. Her mouth slowly opened and closed as she processed his answer. While she thought it was the right thing for him to do, she had somehow never really believed he’d be happy to leave the store - and any hope of seeing his father again - for good. It was part of what had made it easier to offer to keep looking after him. But now... Now she had to actually follow through. The thought made her chest tighten and sucked the saliva from her mouth. “Madeline? *Is* that okay?” His plaintive voice snapped her out of the rising panic. “Yes, yes of course. It just... surprised me. That’s all.” “Yeah,” Liam sighed, looking down at the table. “Don’t get me wrong, I want to go back. But everything you said last night made me realise it isn’t what my Dad would want. He left me there to be safe. But it isn’t safe there anymore.” Madeline nodded to herself, glad he’d taken her words to heart. “Well then,” she said, clapping her hands together. “We should get moving. I’ve packed as many of the supplies here as I can carry. Is there anything you can think of that you want to take?” Liam looked around and shook his head. “Okay. Let’s go.” After heaving her full bag onto her back and tucking her copy of *Emma* back under her arm, Madeline headed out the back door. Liam seemed keen to hang back again, keeping at least a few metres away, as he always did. By the time he was outside, she was already hauling herself over the fence. Together, they made their way across the gardens. When they reached the end of the row of houses, Madeline peered out into the street. Confident enough that it was clear, she stepped out and began her careful path along the road, clinging to the edge of the buildings as best she could. Now and then, she paused to consult her map, unsure whether sticking to the shortest route was best, or getting back to roads she knew as soon as possible. The comfort of familiarity won out over speed, and soon they were once again surrounded by the grey concrete of the city centre. As noon approached, she noticed Liam lagging further and further behind. Given that there was still plenty of daylight left, a short stop probably wouldn’t do much harm. She waited for Liam to catch up a bit, before beckoning him towards an old clothes shop. When she was sure he’d seen her, she stepped inside, broken glass crunching underfoot as she walked through the empty doorway. Inside, most of the stock lay untouched, covered in a thin layer of dust. Madeline picked her way through, stopping at the far side of the room to sling her bag off her back and sit cross-legged on the floor, book nestled on her lap. Liam's face poked through the clothes, and she gestured for him to join her. “I thought a break for some food and water would do us both some good.” “Yeah,” Liam replied as he lowered himself to the ground. “Thanks.” She threw him a pack of nuts and tore another open for herself. “Are you doing okay?” she asked before tossing a handful into her mouth. “I’m good.” “Really? We’ve got around the same distance to cover again. Perhaps a bit less. If you’re going to struggle I’d rather know now so I can find us somewhere safe to stay for the night.” “Really,” he confirmed. “But...” “Yes?” “I *would* like to know where we’re going.” Madeline paused in her chewing. While she fully understood his desire to not be kept in the dark, sharing any information about where she lived felt like a risk. If they came across a Poiloog on the way - if he got captured and she didn’t - she wanted to minimise what they could find out. “It’s... You’ll see when we get there, okay? For now, just know that it’s somewhere I’ve found to be safe and comfortable. And we’ll be there in a couple of hours.” He regarded her closely. “Okay then. But is there anything else you can tell me? Is it big, with plenty of space for both of us? Is there anyone else there?” “It’s pretty big, much bigger than the house we just came from. And no, it’s just me.” “For how long?” he asked. “A while,” she said, smiling at the look of frustration that crossed his face. “What? That’s all the detail you gave me at first?” “Yeah... but I did tell you more in the end.” “Alright. Like you, I’m not sure exactly. But definitely over a year.” Liam went back to eating his nuts, but his gaze kept flicking over to her. “Is there anything else you’d like to know?” “Yes...” “Go on then,” she said before tipping the last remnants of her packet into her mouth. “Why are you helping me?” The question caught her off-guard. She gave herself time to formulate an answer by chewing slowly, only swallowing when ready. “At first, you were right. I felt guilty that I might have put you in danger.” “And what about now?” “Now? I suppose I’ve just become used to having someone else around.” She scrunched up her empty packet and tucked it into her pocket as she stood. “Are you ready to go?” “Yeah,” Liam said, hurrying to finish up his food before scrambling to his feet. “Make sure to take that with you,” Madeline said, gesturing to his empty packet. “It’s best to avoid leaving traces where you’ve been. Just in case.” Nodding, he stuffed it into a pocket before backing up against the wall to maintain the distance between them as she walked past. Then they were back on their way. It was good to be in more familiar territory once again. While she had tried to avoid forming a sentimental attachment to any one place, she had to admit she had missed her library - and the streets around it. She could try and pretend it was all tactical. The home advantage gained from knowing the area like the back of her hand. But there was something more to it. It was her home. A home that she was about to share with someone else. The thought sent a rush of emotion through her. The cold flood of dread. The tingling of nervous excitement. The warm glow of hope. They made good time and soon the roof of the library could be seen peeking out of the city skyline. The sight set Madeline’s heart racing, hands trembling. It was difficult to control her pace - the surge of energy had to go somewhere - but Liam seemed able to keep up. When they finally reached it she wanted nothing more than to charge inside. But, excited as she was, she could not throw caution to the wind. She had been gone longer than planned - longer than ever before. The Poiloogs could have found it. Other people could have found it. Before she went inside, she needed to be as sure as possible that it was safe. Especially if she was taking Liam with her. A quick circuit of the building revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Windows were still either intact or boarded up. The front door was sealed. The only entrance left to check was the one she used. She made her way around to the wall that separated the library garden from the street. It was only then that a thought occurred. She beckoned Liam closer, and he edged forwards a fraction of an inch at a time. When he was a little over two metres away she gave up and whispered, “Do you think you can climb that wall?” He considered it carefully, doubt written across his face. “I didn’t think so,” she muttered. “That leaves us with a bit of a problem. I can help you over, but that requires letting me near you which you don’t seem keen on doing. Or I can leave you here while I go let you in another entrance. But that could take a while. And you’d be vulnerable. Alone.” “I- Errr... Maybe I could...” He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. “Okay. Can you help me over? But as quickly as possible, please?” “Okay.” Madeline strode over to the wall and jumped, seizing the top with both hands. Forcing her boots into the cracks between the bricks for extra support, she hauled herself up. Rather than swinging herself over fully, she paused with a leg on either side and held out a hand for Liam. He hurried forwards and grabbed it. With a heave, Madeline pulled him up and over, depositing him in the garden. He immediately hurried over to the far side, leaving her plenty of room to jump down herself. After some fumbling in her bag for the key, Madeline opened the bike lock that sealed the door and stepped inside. A familiar smell greeted her. One she hadn’t realised she’d missed, but that she could never quite put her finger on. It wrapped her in the comfort of home.

TRIGGER WARNING: This story contains mentions of the following: Physical violence, gore, and abuse Suicide or self-harm Mental health “Well, this is clearly haunted.” “Mikail!” Katlynn reached around her husband’s back to lightly whack her son on the back of his head. “Knock that off.” “Momma,” Kalli called from where she stood next to the van, her tiny arms wrapped tightly around Lucky’s neck. The poor golden retriever was dying to run around and explore, yet stood dutifully still to allow the six-year-old to cling to her for support. “Is it really haunted?” “No, Kalli,” Robert said, walking over to open the trunk of the van. “Your brother was just making a joke. Isn’t that right, Mikail?” “Sure, not like this whole move hasn’t been one big joke,” Mikail responded. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his oversized jeans and hunched his back, looking for all the world like a prisoner accepting his fate on death row. “How long are you going to continue to mope, Mikey? We’ve gone over this. Moving to the country is a fresh start. Think of it as a chance to make new friends!” Mikail grumbled as he kicked at a stray dandelion growing in the middle of the dirt path. “What was that?” Katlynn asked. “I said to stop calling me Mikey. I’m sixteen now. You don’t have to call me baby names.” She smiled and ruffled his messy brown hair, which was in dire need of a haircut. Pretty soon, she would have to stand on the tips of her toes to reach the top of his head. “Sixteen or sixty, you’ll always be my Mikey.” “Mikey!” Kalli shouted as she finally released Lucky. Free at last, the dog bounded off to explore her new surroundings. “Let’s explore!” She pulled her brother’s hand from his pocket and dragged him forward. For all his grumbling, Katlynn saw him smile as he followed his little sister. “Well, what do you think?” Robert asked as he came up beside her. He had two duffel bags draped over his shoulders and an over-packed cardboard box in his arms. “Doesn’t look quite like the pictures, but it’s too late now.” Katlynn hummed in agreement, taking one of the duffels from him. He kissed her forehead in thanks before trudging up the path toward their new home. The mansion stood proudly against the backdrop of the surrounding forest, its imposing Victorian architecture looming over the landscape like a silent sentinel of a bygone era. Built in the late 1800s, its weathered facade bore the marks of time, with ivy crawling up its walls and intricate wrought-iron gates guarding the entrance. Tall, arched windows peered out from beneath gabled roofs, hinting at the grandeur that once filled its halls. Goosebumps inched across Katlynn’s arms as she took in the sight. Mikail may have been on to something earlier. Just as she could easily see this ancient mansion being restored to its former beauty and repurposed into the bed and breakfast of her dreams, she could imagine the building being the focal point of some horror story. Giddy excitement nearly overwhelmed her as she grabbed the keys from the van. It was time to unpack! ~*~ “Well, this sucks.” “Mikail!" Katlynn scolded. "If I have to tell you one more time to knock it off with the melodrama...” He sighed and shuffled back out the double doors to grab another box. She took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then released it, trying not to cough as the dusty air filled her lungs. Feeling marginally better, she resumed organizing the tower of boxes into piles, indicating which room they belonged in. The sound of glass shattering echoed from an open doorway to her left, which led to the kitchens. A second later, she heard a quiet “Oops.” She shared a glance with Robert, who stood on a ladder, replacing the entryway lightbulbs. “Kalli,” she called. “What are you doing in there?” “Lucky dropped a box.” Katlynn rubbed her temples and took another deep breath. Mikail shuffled through the front doors carrying a small shoebox. He unceremoniously dropped it at the exact moment that a lightbulb fell and shattered. “Oops.” “Okay!” Katlynn shouted, clapping her hands together. “Kalli, come in here please.” A moment later, she skipped through the kitchen doors, Lucky not a step behind. “How about we take a break and play a game?” “Yay, a game!” Kalli cheered as Mikail groaned. “What about hide-and-seek?” Robert suggested as he swept up the broken bulb. “This way, we can have fun exploring our new home.” “Kalli will just get lost,” Mikail deadpanned. “No, I won’t!” “Good point, Mikey,” Katlynn said. “In that case, why don’t you two stay together for this first game? And since the game was Dad’s idea, he can be the first seeker.” After laying down a few rules, Robert covered his eyes and began counting while the rest went to hide. Though Katlynn went in the opposite direction from Mikail and Kalli, he could hear her daughter’s excited chatter echoing through the halls. Inside, the mansion was a maze of forgotten grandeur and faded elegance. The entrance hall boasted a sweeping staircase, its once grand banister now worn smooth and chipped from use. Tattered tapestries adorned the walls, depicting scenes from a forgotten era, while dust-covered chandeliers hung overhead, casting eerie shadows across the marble floors. As Katlynn explored, she felt that each room held its own story. From the opulent ballroom, which she would repurpose into an event hall, to the dusty library lined with shelves of forgotten tomes. The mansion’s history seemed to whisper to her from every corner, a haunting reminder of the secrets it must hold within its walls. A distant bark reminded her that she was supposed to be finding a good hiding spot. She slipped into a large linen closet that was thankfully free of cobwebs or rodents. Settling into the corner, she allowed her body to relax and her thoughts to roam. Katlynn sighed heavily and allowed her shoulders to sag, her head resting against the wall. She was so tired. She wished she could take a nap, just for a few minutes, and then get back to unpacking, figuring out utilities, getting the kids enrolled in school, and all the other joys that come with being an adult. But for now, she would close her eyes for a few minutes... ~*~ Faint scratching jolted Katlynn awake. She hadn’t meant to doze off. She felt like she had slept for hours, though judging by the light leaking through the crack under the door, it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. The sound of scratching came again, accompanied by the tell-tale squeak of a mouse. Biting back a squeak of her own, Katlynn jumped up and out of the closet. After ensuring she hadn’t been nibbled on, she took a deep breath and leaned against the wall, the last of her panic-induced adrenaline fading. She first noticed that the light she had seen through the door was not from the nearby window, as she had initially thought, but from the lit sconces lining the hallway. That was odd. She hadn’t remembered turning them on. Perhaps Robert had made his way past here while looking for her and turned on the lights as he went. Thankfully, besides a few broken and burnt-out bulbs, most of the lights in the mansion were in working order. She approached the large four-paneled window at the end of the hall and tried to peer through. The darkness of night on the other side was so oppressive that all she could see was her reflection. Figuring she had waited long enough to be found, she turned and headed back toward the entry hall. The entry hall was just as she had left it, a tower of boxes in the center with smaller organized piles spread throughout the space. There was no sign of Robert, Mikail, Kalli, or Lucky. Maybe they were still looking for her. Just as Katlynn began to call for them, she heard Lucky barking. It echoed faintly from the second floor, but she would recognize that sound anywhere. Anxiety raced through her as she registered the tone of Lucky’s bark, which she used when protecting Kalli from other dogs who approached too quickly, and she felt threatened. Katlynn raced through the labyrinthine halls, following the barks and snarls. Unlike before, the lights on this side of the mansion were not turned on, and every door was shut. Just as she thought she was close, she heard a high-pitched yelp, followed by silence. Racing around a bend in the hallway, she paused, panting. A single door stood open a few rooms down, cold white light spilling through the doorway and into the hallway. “Lucky?” She called, her voice trembling from uncertainty and exertion. As her panting subsided, she heard the sound of running water. Gathering her courage, she peered around the doorframe. Inside was an opulent bathroom. Every surface was made of marble, including the sink and massive tub overflowing with water. Cursing, Katlynn rushed in to turn off the faucets, ignoring the water soaking through her flats. Once the sink and tub faucets were off, she noticed the water wasn’t draining even though the tub drain was popped open. Steeling herself, she reached into the cold water, unscrewed the drain cap, and felt inside for whatever was clogging the pipe. She shivered and gagged as her fingers brushed something soft. She pinched as much as she could and pulled free a large tuft of golden brown hair. The water began to drain slowly, so she reached back in, pulled a few more clumps from the drain, and then repeated the process on the sink. She paused as she approached the toilet to flush the hairy clumps, noticing her reflection in the massive gold-rimmed mirror. Her arms, from elbow to fingertip, were drenched in a startling red. Smears of crimson covered her shirt and jeans as if she had been splashed with paint. She blinked rapidly, but her reflection didn’t change. Perplexed, she looked down at herself. Katlynn screamed. Red covered the floor, puddled in the corners, and stained the marble tub and sink. She backpedaled, dropping the wet pile of hair, which landed with a sickening splat on the tile. A clinking sound caught her attention, and she glanced back at the pile. Partially buried within the hair was a small silver pendant shaped like a bone with a single word engraved across the surface. Lucky. “Momma?” Katlynn yelped and spun to face the door leading to the hallway. Kalli stood just past the threshold, her face stark with horror as she took in the blood-stained bathroom. Her knees wobbled with relief. She reached toward her, ready to lift and take her away from the gruesome scene. “Momma, what did you do to Lucky?” The shaking in her voice nearly broke Katlynn’s heart, and she stopped just inches from touching the girl, as her hands were still stained red. Kalli’s feet were already stained from the puddle she stood in, and the sight made her nauseous. “Kalli, honey, where is your daddy? Have you seen Mikail?” “What did you do to Lucky!?” Kalli screamed, her little hands balling into fists. Tears streamed down her eyes, but she wasn’t looking at Katlynn. She turned, intending to grab a towel or shower curtain not stained in blood to wrap around Kalli. Instead, she stared at a mangled lump of golden brown hair stained with red. “No...” She breathed out. Kalli broke out into sobbing hysterics before darting back into the hallway. Katlynn shouted for her to come back as she raced after her. Having lost sight of her, she followed the path of little red footprints until they eventually faded at the top of the entry hall grand staircase. “Kalli!” “Mom?” She whirled at the sound of Mikail’s shaky voice. He stood at the bottom of the stairs. Even from where she stood, she could see that he was trembling. “Mikey! Where is your sister? Why weren’t you with her?” “What have you done...” His whispered words carried in the open space. Katlynn realized then that he wasn’t looking at her but at the ground; at the small body lying in a heap. Mikail crouched beside the body of his little sister, hesitantly resting a hand on her shoulder and trying to roll her over. Her legs and one arm rested at odd angles, clearly broken. As he shifted her, her head turned at an awkward angle. “You pushed her,” Milkail said, his voice rising to a shout. He finally looked up at her, tears streaming down his face, pure rage painted across his features. “No,” Katlynn whispered. “No, I didn’t.” “How could you!?” His accusations echoed behind her as she turned and sprinted back down the hallway. Why was this happening? What was happening? She stumbled through the halls in a daze, desperately trying to understand how her life had turned so quickly. Somehow, she ended up in the massive kitchen. She didn’t know how she ended up here, as she could have sworn she was just on the second floor. The sound of crackling made her glance down at her foot. Shattered glass and the upper half of a wine bottle littered the floor. She bent and picked it up by the neck. Was this what Kalli had dropped earlier? Something dark caught her attention, which was in stark contrast to the white marble and stainless steel kitchen. A shoe lay on the ground, half exposed from around the kitchen island’s corner. Numb, Katlynn slowly approached the island. Time stood still as she stared at Mikail’s body lying face down. Red liquid puddled beneath his head, crawling across the floor to settle in the cracks between marble tiles. It was impossible to tell if the liquid matted in his hair and leaking from the garish gash across the back of her son’s head was blood or from the broken bottle of wine. “Honey?” Katlynn didn’t react, not even bothering to acknowledge Robert’s presence. “Sweetheart,” His voice shook, and what part of her heart remained intact shattered. “Please, drop the bottle.” Ah, the broken bottle. And her son lay at her feet, the back of his head cracked and bleeding onto the kitchen floor. This all had to be some sick joke, and she was struck with the desire to laugh and scream. She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t her fault, that she didn’t understand what was happening. But when she finally lifted her gaze from Mikail’s body to settle on her husband, the horror she found directed at her kept her mouth shut. What did it matter? There was nothing she could say that would convince him she was innocent. Not that she could blame him, as she’d react in the same way were their roles reversed. Something in the way she looked at him must have broken the last of Robert’s resolve. Hands up in surrender, he slowly backed out of the kitchen as though he feared a quick retreat would trigger her to attack. Just before he disappeared from her line of sight, she saw him pull his cell phone from his pocket, no doubt to call the police. Katlynn couldn’t bring herself to care. Whatever was happening here, she had to be the cause somehow. Maybe it was for the best that she was locked away. It wasn’t as if she could return to living a normal life after this, anyway. Not that she’d want to if given the chance. A wet sound, like raw chicken impacting a cutting board, came from the entryway, quickly followed by a loud thump. Katlynn watched the doorway, torn between her desire to make sure Robert was alright and remaining where she was, numb. “Robert?” She called, weak at first, before clearing her voice and calling again. Step by shaky step, she left the kitchen and emerged into the entrance hall. She had felt her heart break before, but now her very soul crumbled to nothing as she took in Robert’s prone form on the ground, a large axe embedded in his back. They didn’t even own an axe. Her hand relaxed, the broken bottle slipping from her grip and shattering against the tile. The sound bounced off the walls and marble floor, like an echo of madness doomed to repeat for eternity. ~*~ “Another one? You’ve gotta be kidding me. They need to just tear this damn thing down.” Officer Johnson hummed nonchalantly, watching Abney, his younger partner, wrap a thick chain through the gate’s iron bars and secure it with a thick padlock. The mansion sat just on the other side, standing sentinel over its forested domain. “What happened here, by the way? It’s always a family of four with a dog who buys this freaky place only to abandon it without notice.” “There was a murder a few hundred years ago or so. Apparently, the wife went nuts and killed the entire family before offed herself.” “Damn...” Abney shivered, backing away from the ancient structure as though it would strike the moment he turned his back. “How did she do it?” “She drowned the dog, pushed her youngest kid down the stairs, bashed in the oldest kid’s head with a bottle, and stuck an axe in the husband’s back. Then she hung herself.” Abney’s eyes went wide with fear. “Ah, don’t worry about it. It’s just an old story someone probably made up to keep kids from trying to sneak in. Let’s get back to the station. Kick-off is at six, and I want to make sure I get a good spot at the bar.” As Abney nodded and headed for the patrol car, Johnson stuck a large “For Sale” sign in the ground.

"I've Got a Plan." Olivia said to herself and then turned to look out the window from her seat on the train. On the train, she had many childhood memories of trying to make the first pitch of a Pinnacle City Wolves baseball game in Den stadium. The thrill of trying to get there was the most memorable part. It was good she didn't take her car through the highway and tolls because she wanted to enjoy traveling on one to get a warm feeling of nostalgia. This nostalgia brought a smile to her face but had nothing to do with her plan. She took trains to New York City. She brought tickets to musicals and then stayed at a hotel with a spa. She would dream of being with her ex-girlfriend Mercedes as they celebrate their accomplishments. In those dreams, Mercedes would make fun of how Olivia would wear her Wrestling championship title and nothing else in the spa. Olivia's Latina ex, in her dreams, was basking in the afterglow of becoming a triple crown winner in her rookie year and Most Valuable Player in the World Series. The sex was intense, and somehow, they got in the scissors position. They screamed in orgasms so loud, but because it was in a dream, no one heard them. It was just a dream. Her ex-girlfriend is on Olivia's favorite baseball team and will be in the stadium where she spent her childhood watching games. Olivia went on social media and told everyone on her social media about the broken heart she had from the breakup. She wanted to hurt Mercedes. On the video social media post, Olivia admitted to having a one-night stand with Mercedes's teammate, Solomon King, but it was a lie. She's gay, and he's involved but didn't mind playing along. Mercedes broke it off because of Olivia's blood Bond she made with her high school best friend Lexis. A Blood Bond is sacred because there's a connection to Lexis's emotions and thoughts. Her ghost hangs around until Olivia dies, so they go to the afterlife together. Mercedes was tired of feeling like she was in a polygamous relationship. The baseball community is angry at Olivia. They blame her for the reported conflict between Solomon and Mercedes during spring training. One week ago, the Baseball team owner and wrestling promotion CEO, Princess Victoria Godspeed, stepped in to speak to Olivia and Lillith in her office. Lillith wore top designer clothes because she expected to get the news about going over Olivia at the wrestling event, "Honor Thy Ring." "Do you want her to go over after what she's done to your team?" Lillith said, and Olivia responded to that insult with a middle finger. "You're still losing the match!" Victoria raises her voice and growl to made it clear to Lillith that the young Werewolf decision is final. " I need you to get out of town for a while and lay low. I want the Wolves to be the center of attention. You will have your time at Honor Thy Ring when you win the title. Social media blackout. Do you understand Livvie?" Victoria calmly asks "I'm not going to sell!" Lillith yells "That would breach your contract, and Wolves take that personally. We're brutal about it" Victoria's threatening tone made Lillith mad that she won't be getting her way and more terrified. "I'll leave tonight by train." Olivia told them. "I've got a Plan." Olivia said to herself as she got off the train. She went to the parking garage to get her car and was happy it was in one piece. The outfit she changed to on the train shows skin between her shorts and Boots. Above Olivia's waist was a custom jersey with her ex-named. She hopes to run into her at a Graveyard. She brought an expensive bouquet and went to the cemetery. "This could go so wrong." Olivia said "Yep." a voice comes from the passenger seat, and Lexis is there. "I love those boots." Lexis said "You could enter my body later and feel how warm they are from the inside." Olivia said. "Cool. Are we waiting for Mercedes to visit her mom?" Lexis asks, and Olivia's silence spoke volumes. "Do you think she's over you "fucking a man?" Lexis asks. "I was upset, and Solomon went along with the lie." Olivia told her. "This could be a mess, but I'm here for you." Lexis said. "You have no choice but thank you." Olivia said. The blonde got out of the car with the flowers and began to walk the path into the graveyard. It's not too long before the blonde gets to the headstone of Maria Valenuza, Mercedes's mother. She grew up with the family, but nothing romantic started in high school. Mercedes was in the minor league making superhuman catches, stealing bases, and driving in runs. Olivia was the most popular babyface in the wrestling promotion. She stood in front of the grave and put down the flowers. "Hey, Madam V. How are you? I hope it's wonderful wherever you are." Olivia put down the flowers on the grave. "Have you been keeping up with everything? I screw up. Your daughter broke up with me, and I made it worse by overreacting. I miss Mercedes in my life, and I wish you could be there to see her opening day." Olivia knew that Mercedre's mother had kill herself. "I almost killed myself in the spa, and If it wasn't for the dream I had. It was so vivid Mercedres and me celebrating our accomplishments. Life is worth living. Thank you for assistance that Lexis got from you." she confessed and didn't hear Mercedres standing behind her. "I'm going to beat your older daughter, and spoiler alert, I'm going to hit her hard. After the hell she put Mecedes through growing up and constantly being toxic. She's leaving that ring bloodied." Olivia told Mercedes's mother. "I don't think mom will care about the stiff shots." Mercedes said to her ex-girlfriend. Mercedes walked up to her, and they would face to face. Despite the awkwardness of this moment, they couldn't help to share comfort as they wrapped their arms around each other. Mercedes inhales the perfume that Olivia is wearing. "Are you sniffing me?" Olivia asks. Mercedes misses her so much but can't come off as too eager. She's pissed at the friction her ex has created. "I love the perfume." The Latina was honest in her answer but sad that she wasn't familiar with the scent. She's used to know what Olivia would spray around her neck. "The new Rose fragrance from uncaged." Olivia said. "That makes sense. Uncaged works with no-kill shelters to get cats and dogs adopted." Mercedes said. "It's my favorite now." Olivia said. "Not the jasmine." Mercedes was wandering. "It was dethroned for obvious reasons." Olivia said those words to show Mercedes how she was trying to move on. The Ballplayer would be convinced if she hadn't heard about her ex almost committing suicide. "You could smell me again." Olivia jokes. The plan was working.

My dad's real work I have been working with IT for over a dozen years now. This is a story about over ten years in the past. When started studying IT related stuff in my teens, I wanted to be a hacker, as lots of other people want when they start. But it's not nearly as easy as most movies show it to be. But still I tried really hard for over two years of highschool and start computer science college. Even though I never really became a "hacker" I still picked up a lot of skills with the years. And where do you test some of those skills? At Home, at work and at college. My father is now a retired federal cop, but at the time I was "testing" my skills. I kind of snooped around in his laptop and "infected" his pendrives with stuff that would put a backdoor for me to snoop around his work computer. Let me tell you, in the country that I live in. The government IT security sucks. Going back to my father, he only ever talked about his accomplishments when it came to white collar crimes, some politicians that they arrested or when it came to stuff related to drug trafficking. He never mentioned any other sort of crime related stuff. So I was never really interested in my father's work, because I thought that he was pretty open about it One day I saw on the news a major case about trafficking of *** slaves to other countries and that the group that did that was arrested. And I recognized one of the federal agent that a camera picked up on the side, it was my my father's friend from work.Them I realized that my father would probably talk about that to us, but I was mistaken, he never brought up the subject during the week, I thought that maybe he wasn't part of that criminal case. But as I already had access to all his files, I decided to snoop around the cases that he had worked on. It was than that I discoved that the cases he talked about, were the vast minority of his work. He actually had tons of investigations on the most heinous acts that humans could possibly do. *** Slaves. Child ****. Serial killers. Profiles about some of the worst kind of criminals possible. Today I really appreciate the fact that photos on those kind of stuff were not digitalized and kep on the agents computers, that kind of evidence was only ever kept printed in some really secure cabinets. But what I was able to read already made me have nightmares for a few days at that time. I never imagined that my father and some of his colleagues worked in a division where they saw that kind of stuff constantly, and now knowing what they saw most of their years working. I have always seen my father as a kind, calm and cheerful person, and thought the same about his colleagues. A few years after most o them retired, 2 of his peers unalived themselves. And their families could never understand why, I think that they were probably haunted by what they saw for thirty years of their lives. As for my father, I can only say that I have only ever respected and loved him. And after discovering what he really did for a living, I can only pridefully say that he and his friends helped make this world a better place paying the price with their mental health.

He put on his oven mitts when he heard the beep. The steel, commercial-sized oven could cook enough for 100 people, but he only needed to feed 40. Opening the oven, he felt the heat blast his face as he looked down at the lasagna casserole. Steam rose from the wide tray of penne pasta, melted cheese, sizzling tomato sauce and hot sausage. It looked like it had burnt on the sides, but he didn’t care. These kids would eat anything. After pulling out the tray and placing it on the counter, he took off his gloves and walked over to his bag. From inside it he pulled out a clear, unmarked bottle filled with a light pink powder. The casserole would be an easy meal to make the powder disappear. He would just mix it in with the serving spoon and voilà. None of the players would need to know what they were eating. He had regretted making burgers during the first week he began feeding the team. He had to sprinkle each individual patty with the powder and make sure it was covered with the slice of cheese. That’s when he decided to start making meals that fit in large trays. He planned to continue through his rotation of shareable meals for the next few weeks, at least until after the league championship game. ************************ “Chef Bill! Chef Bill! Chef Bill!” Cody chanted along with his teammates, but not as loud as some of the hungry linemen, as the cook walked out of the kitchen holding a tray of steaming food. They had used to call him Mr. Hamlin when he taught chemistry, but ever since his accident in the lab, he was no longer allowed to teach classes. It was probably for the best. Some students were surprised Principal Webber allowed him to stay on as cook, but the principal had assured everyone there was no risk, and that Bill was a good man who deserved another chance. Cody thought the principal did it because he felt bad for Bill. Even as a teacher, he always had a hint of sadness in his eyes. Cody had heard his wife left him a few years back, and once when he was biking home he saw Bill walking toward the trailer park where his mom told him not to wander. “What’d you think of that new play?” Steve asked him. “What’s that? Cody responded, distracted. “Oh yeah, the play. I think it’s smart. If the linemen make their blocks, I’ll have no one but the safety to beat. And I can juke him out.” “Forget juking. Run over him,” Steve said, patting him on the shoulder. “Look how big you’ve gotten. You can run over anyone.” After Bill put the tray down on the table, Cody went up with Steve and the other seniors to take his serving. Then the juniors went up, followed by the underclassmen. The older players scooped the better pieces of the casserole, leaving the burnt edges for their younger teammates, but that didn’t stop anyone from wolfing down their meals. The typically loud banter from the group was replaced by the sounds of forks and chewing mouths as they scarfed down the first food they had eaten in hours. Practice always made them hungry. “All right everyone, listen up,” Coach Hunter said once he saw that most of the players had finished eating. “It’s no secret that the season didn’t start out the way we wanted. But you guys have shown serious improvement over the last few weeks, and if we win tomorrow we’ll be 4-4. We would still need to win our last three games to make the league championship, but like I always say: one week at a time. The games are not going to be won on the field. They are going to be won at practice and in the weight room. If you put in the extra effort when no one is watching, you’ll be able to celebrate with the whole school cheering from the bleachers. Get to sleep early tonight, and you’ll wake up stronger tomorrow. Team on three. One. Two. Three." “TEAM” the players chanted in unison. Then they began to throw away their plates and file out of the cafeteria. ************************* He opened the door to his mobile home, a rusted trailer not much bigger than a minivan with cinderblocks instead of wheels. The key always got stuck at first, and he had to jiggle the handle to get the door open. Once inside, Bill glanced around to make sure everything was still in its place. On the right side of the trailer was his pull-out couch and a small television set. On the left side, the kitchen countertop was lined with beakers, test tubes and a plastic shelf filled with bags containing various minerals in powdered form. Ever since he lost his job as chemistry teacher, this cramped kitchen had become his lab. Bill pulled the bags out of the shelf one by one to check how much of each mineral remained. He had only mastered the formula for the strength serum about a month earlier, but already he had depleted each of the necessary minerals significantly. He would need to make sure he had enough to last through the league championship game. As he sifted through his materials and thought about his plan, he wondered if the kids had noticed themselves growing unnaturally stronger. They probably wouldn’t think anything of it. They were going through puberty anyway, and their egos would likely attribute the growth to their work in the weight room. If the kids didn’t notice it, he worried that the parents might, or even the coaches. The team had improved and won its last three games. But the regular season wins didn’t matter to Bill. The bet he placed had been on the league championship. His bookie didn’t usually accept bets on high school sports, but he made an exception for this one. It couldn’t be on an individual game, only on the league champion at the end of the year. Irving High struggled last year and had gotten off to a slow start this year by the time Bill mastered the serum. When he went to ask about league championship odds after the fourth week, his bookie gave him 20-to-1 odds on Irving, even though there were only 10 teams in the league. He put all of the money he had been saving up -- a full $5,000 -- on the team. But he wasn’t betting on a bunch of high schoolers, he thought. He was betting on himself. Bill pulled one of his microwave dinners out of the freezer and began to heat it up. If he could only win this bet, he thought, he would never have to eat this crap again. The payout would be big enough that he could rent a spacious apartment with a full kitchen, and he could stock up on fresh groceries. He thought back to the meals he used to cook for Linda, before she kicked him out of the house. Suddenly, his attention was grabbed by a hard knock on the door that shook the entire trailer. “Open up, Bill. I know you’re in there.” It was Dave, the owner of the trailer park. “Be right there.” Bill shouted. He walked over to the door and opened it a crack, stopping it with his foot so Dave could see his face but not the entirety of his home. “What can I do you for, Dave?” “You know why I’m here, Bill. You’re three days late on the rent. I ought to kick you out of this park. Freeloading off all of these fine people who pay their rent on time, that’s what you’re doing.” “I know I know,” Bill gathered his thoughts. “Look, I don’t have it this month. But I’ve got some money coming in soon, and next month I’ll pay you double, plus interest. I might even have enough to leave this godforsaken trailer park.” “That’s no way to talk about a park to it’s owner, especially one who’s letting you live rent free. If you don’t have the money to me by the first of next month, plus a 5% late fee, I’ll tow your piece of shit trailer out of the park myself. You consider this a warning.” “Thanks, Dave. I’ll have the money. Don’t you worry.” ***************** “FIVE! SIX! SEVEN! EIGHT! NINE! TEN!” The chorus of teammates chanting together echoed off the weight room’s concrete ceiling as Cody completed his set on the squat machine. He slammed the bar back into place on the rack and then walked away from the machine, flexing his arms as his teammates cheered him. He had just done 10 reps of 405. Last week, he could only do six reps at that weight, and the week before, just two. “Dude, you’re killing it,” Steve said to Cody as he rejoined his group of friends. “Since when can you squat that much?” “Since this month, I guess.” Cody grabbed his legs to feel his quad muscles. They had grown larger and more firm in the last few weeks, he thought, just like his arms. “But I’m not the only one hitting a new max. Look at Frankie.” The boys looked over as Frankie, a stout junior who played center, put another plate on each side of the squat rack. A crowd gathered around him. “He’s about to squat 495. Holy shit.” Cody looked at Steve with his eyebrows raised as Frankie strutted around to the front of the squat rack. He bent his knees as he pulled his head under, placed his hands evenly on the bar, pushed it up with his shoulders and began to squat. The mob of teammates around him cheered even louder as Frankie reached his sixth rep. Veins bulged out of the boy’s forehead as he forced up a seventh. Cody was surprised he made it that far and his jaw dropped as he saw Frankie going down for one more. The voices urging him on grew louder and louder, screaming his name as Frankie bent his knees to his lowest point. “AAAHHH” Frankie shouted in pain as he collapsed onto the ground, the weights falling out of his hands and slamming onto the safety bars. His teammates’ cheering stopped suddenly as they crowded around him asking if he was all right. Frankie cursed as he held his knee. “Get the trainer! NOW!” ******************* Three weeks later, Cody could barely fit into his clothing. His skin-tight compression shorts felt like they might rip as he pulled them on and began to get dressed for the big game. “You’re looking huge, kid.” His coach patted on the back of his muscular shoulders. “How do you feel?” “Fine. I mean, good. I’m ready to go.” “You better be. This is the biggest game of your life, son.” He was usually one of the first to start getting ready, but his teammates had arrived early today. They each sat in front of their lockers, headphones on and not talking to each other as they went through their early preparation for the game. All except Frankie. He sat on a bench in jeans and his varsity jacket, with his two crutches leaned up against the wall next to him. He hadn’t played since the accident. As he looked around at his teammates, Cody wondered if they felt as anxious as he did. He always felt a little nervous before games, but this one felt different. It was the league championship game, and he felt like all the pressure was on him. His team’s winning streak had come from Cody running over people with a strength he never had before. He used to be a quick running back and would cut in between the tacklers, but now as he grew stronger and more aggressive, Cody ran straight through and over the defenders. As he thought about some of his harder hits, he felt not pride but fear. He didn’t feel like himself anymore. He didn’t know what his body was capable of doing. Even if his teammates were as anxious as he was, he knew none of them would say a word about it. They would nod their heads to their own pump-up music, slap each other on the ass, shout each other’s names and describe just how hard they intended to hit the opposing players. “You good, man?” Steve said as he sat down on the bench next to Cody. “Yeah I’m good. It just feels weird. I never thought we’d make it this far.” “It’s been a crazy run, and it’s all because of you, bro.” Steve patted him on the back. “You gonna run over some more losers today?” “You know it.” The boys pounded knuckles as Steve walked away from Cody’s locker. ******************************* “You’re in for a good one today, folks,” the announcer’s voice boomed from the press box. “We’ve got defending champion Monroe High School looking to hold onto their crown against the comeback kids at Irving High. After an 0-4 start to the season, Irving has won a miraculous seven straight games, vaulting them into the league championship.” The press box sat atop the metal bleachers, and next to the right side of the bleachers stood Bill Hamlin. Standing alone with his arms crossed and sunglasses on, he scanned the packed crowed of excited faces. He saw students and parents he recognized, and just as his focus reached the side gate, he saw the one person he hoped wouldn’t make it. His bookie. The man in the leather jacket nodded at Bill and began to walk toward him. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans as the man approached. “Tony, how you doing?” Bill said with fake friendliness in his voice as he reached out to shake his bookie’s hand. “I didn’t know you were coming to the game.” “After that bet you placed, how could I miss it?” Tony said. “Say, how’d you know those Irving kids were gonna turn it around?” Bill looked around, scared that someone might overhear their conversation. But a steady roar came from the crowd of talking fans, and Tony had gotten close enough that he could practically whisper. “No reason. Just a hunch.” “A hunch, right. Well look, I’ve got a proposition for you,” Tony lowered his voice. "I’ll let you hedge your bet. Put some money down on Monroe. That way no matter who wins, you win something. And you’re not at risk of losing everything.” He considered the offer. If he hedged his bet, then either way he could win enough to pay the rent he owed. But if he won the whole thing, as he had planned from the beginning, he could start over. He could move into a nice apartment where he could invite people over and cook for them. He would just need Irving to win. Looking over at the field, he saw the team lined up to stretch. Their muscles bulged out of their jerseys as they reached down to touch their toes. They were stronger than the other team. He knew it. He had made it so. “No thanks, Tony. I’m all in on Irving.” **************** “That’s a timeout by Irving High. We’ve got a close one here folks. It’s 24-20, Monroe on top, 20 seconds left in the game. Irving has the ball at their own 35 yard line. They need a touchdown or it’s all over.” Cody could hear the announcer as he jogged toward the sideline where the team huddled around the coach. He tried to slow his breathing, but it had been a long game, and he was exhausted. Someone tossed him a water bottle and he squirted it into his mouth as he tried to hear what his coach was saying. The noise from the crowd made it difficult. “Can you here me Cody?” “Yes. Yes Coach.” “I said we’re calling your play! 28 Toss Crack. Take it to the outside, the blockers will clear the way, and you’ll only have one man between you and the end zone. You got it?” “I got it, coach.” The whistle blew and they ran back onto the field, lining up in formation. Cody stood behind the quarterback with his hands on his bent knees. He snuck a quick peek over to the right side of the field to see where the defenders lined up. “Red 28! Red 28! Set! Hike!” The quarterback received the snap and tossed it backward to Cody, who sprinted to his right. His blockers pulled out in front of him as he looked to turn up field. The linemen made their blocks with ease, sending the defenders falling backwards as Cody burst through the gap. When he emerged, he saw only the safety between him and the end zone. He barreled toward the safety and saw his eyes widen as he approached. Cody thought about trying to run him over but decided against it. This was his play. He was going to do it his way. He took a firm step to the right and saw the safety plant his foot, then he shifted all of his weight in the opposite direction and exploded to the left. The safety fell backwards as he tried to recover and Cody danced into the end zone, untouched. The crowd erupted as Cody turned around, threw the ball into the air, let out his loudest scream and raised his arms to embrace his jumping teammates. Next to the bleachers, Bill Hamlin pumped his fists and shouted: “YES! We did it!” Tony, without saying a word, handed Bill a thick envelope and walked away. Bill slipped it into his jacket and turned to exit the stadium. As he walked to his car, he felt euphoria. He couldn’t believe how easy it been. He could now escape from the trailer park and rent a fancy apartment. But then a thought occurred to him: what if he could buy one? What if this scheme could work on another level with even higher stakes, where he could win even more money? He pulled out his phone and began to type into the search engine: “college football team cook jobs.

“I quit!” Looking up from the book I was reading my eyebrows shot up in surprise as a spiral notebook went flying across the living room. I traced its flight path back to the den where Jason stood glaring in the open doorway. “What happened, babe? Writer’s block again?” “More like brain constipation because nothing is coming out, not even word shit,” he stormed into the living room and did a belly flop on the couch. “I’ve been sitting at that desk for 3 hours Chris, trying to squeeze something out but my brain refuses to form words. I can’t do it.” “Maybe you’re trying too hard. Why not relax and don't write for the rest of the day and maybe tomorrow. Don’t even look at a piece of paper or a pencil.” He buried his face in the cushions and let out a muffled groan before sitting up. “I can’t. I have a deadline to meet and a word count schedule to keep. I’m already behind because we had to help Tyler and Ken move yesterday, I can afford to not write if I want to finish this story by the end of the month.” “Can’t you ask for an extension on it?” “Maybe but it won’t do any good if I can’t get past this stupid scene.” I closed my book. “What’s your story about? Maybe I can help.” Jason shook his head. “Nope, you know the rules. If I tell you the story or let you read it before it’s done then the book is as good as dead.” “Can you tell me what part you're stuck on? Maybe I can help give you ideas. Grease the wheel to get it rolling.” “It’s a romance. That’s all I’m saying.” “Oh come on, give me more than that. Is it a straight romance? Gay romance? Give me something to work with” He let out a huge sigh, gaze fixed on the ceiling. “You’re not going to let this go are you unless I do.” “That’s right so share.” “It’s a gay romance and I’m trying to figure out how the love interests meet without it sounding cheesy or sappy.” “How can you avoid that? Romance stories are cheesy and sappy just like erotic stories are spicy and kinky.” “So not helpful.” “Sorry,” I sat forward. “I’ll be serious. Why not have them meet the way we did?” He turned to look at me. “We met at Tyler’s house party. I threw up on you and you took me home because I was drunk.” “Yeah, I also stayed the night because I was afraid you’d drown in your own vomit or something. Three years later and I’m still here.” Jason smiled. “I don’t think people want to read about the main characters vomiting on each other. That’s not exactly sexy or romantic.” “Oh, I don’t know. You messed up my pants and shirt so I had to spend the night in my boxers because I didn’t have any other clothes and yours were too small. I think that counts as sexy.” “Too bad I don’t remember that. Want to reenact it? Might help inspire me.” I grinned. “Hmm, maybe that’s the problem. You’re sexually frustrated and need to masturbate.” He sat up and looked wide-eyed at me. “What?” “Just think about it. You’re having trouble writing a romance scene between two people and we haven’t fucked in 3 days because we’ve been busy or too tired. You’re clearly sexually frustrated and need to clean your pipe to help the creative juices to flow again.” I curled up into a ball as a couch cushion came flying at me. “I don’t need to masturbate. Do you want to have sex? We can do it right now if you want but I’m not hard-up and it’s not going to help me figure out this scene.” “Hey, I’m just trying to help,” I said, tossing the cushion back at him. “All I’m saying is that maybe you’re putting too much pressure on yourself, making the scene more complicated than it needs to be. Keep it simple.” “Fine, I’ll try,” he put the cushion back before going to his discarded notebook. “What time is it?” I looked at my watch. “4:45.” “I’m going to work on this until 6:00 then I’m calling it a night. Order a pizza and find something you’d like to watch on Netflix. Tonight we Netflix and Chill.” “Hey, why not use that for your story? Your characters can have a nice night together, drinking while making out on the couch to porn.” Jason laughed as he headed back to the den. “Sounds good but I think I may need to act this out later to help me visualize the scene and write it properly.” “Are you asking me to be your muse?” “Yeah. Wear the black thong I bought you for your birthday with matching socks. Nothing else.” I raised an eyebrow at him. “What are you going to wear Mr. Kinky?” “Just my silk knit lounge pants. You’re my muse, my inspiration so it’s important that you do as I say tonight.” “I thought you said this story was a romance. Sounds like it’s crossing into erotica territory.” He gave me a big smile. “Nothing wrong with adding a little spice to romance. And it has been 3 days since we had any spice.” “In that case, I better fix the bed for some late-night inspiration sessions. I’ll even take out the toy box.” Jason’s hand went to his crotch. “You’re killing me now. Get everything ready for 6, don’t bother me until then.” “Yes sir.” He rolled his eyes at me good-naturedly before retreating into the den and closing the door behind him. Heaving a satisfied sigh I got up and went to work planning out our night. I never knew when Jason would decide to get his freak on but now that he had 3 days' worth of pent-up lust I planned on figuratively and literally milking it for all it was worth.

WHY BUSINESS PEOPLE WHO DON'T UNITE IN A COMPANY OR BUSINESS FINALLY MAKING THEIR OWN CHOICES. By Laurent Christopher Bilihanyuma_Author_ Tanzania, East Africa. 24/05/2021. Uniting in business is something very potential to meet success in future time in business as basically mean ;come or bring together for a common purpose or action. That is profit. Uniting people into independent functional units serves the needs of business managers. It fosters order and control. Every business does it. Uniting people into cross-functional, cross-functional, interdependent teams serves the customers. The Winning businesses deploy those cross-functional teams on critical missions like: Strengthen current businesses. Build new businesses or important new additions to current businesses. Capture the dominant share of a class of customers. Understand customers' needs and create significant new-product programs to satisfy the most important of those needs. Win customers from their best competitors. That much causes them to finally making their own choice. Also a business unit is a segment of a company with strategic objectives separate from the parent company but enhances the overall performance of the enterprise. It is set up to perform a specific business function to a specific market which requires a management specialty that is not within the parent company. One can ensure the business units are successful if he or she consider to; Empower the unit manager: The success of a business unit depends on the leadership provided in the particular unit. As The manager is in charge of the unit but is also under the main organization’s top management.For the manger to perform well, you must empower him and trust his decision-making capabilities. Besides, he is the one on the ground so he is in the best place to suggest changes and strategies that will work well for the unit. Since the success of a unit contributes to the success of the organization, you should empower all unit managers so that the units become successful. Also; Sharing between different units: The business units must be willing to share the available resources. Therefore times when one unit will need more resources that the others, what do you do in such a situation? The managers must be ready to share. When the resources are not enough for all the needs presented, then managers must learn to prioritize their needs. Then After; Flexibility: The organization must allow the business units some flexibility. It is important as the unit is in direct control of their products and market. The organization should be supportive of suggestions brought forth from the units. A good example is a situation when a unit manger identifies an opportunity. If the unit deal with baby diapers and then the manager realizes that mothers who buy diapers want baby wipes also, then the organization should be supportive. The strategy will require more financing, but it will also increase the amount of profits earned. Business people can have these Importance of Business Units if they Uniting and cooperating together; Firstly ,Organization: Business units exist purely as units of specialization. When you create units within the organization, then you maximize on time management. Business units allow you to see the organization more clearly. If you were to have one manager handling more than three products at a go, then he or she will be unable to operate them effectively. Besides, he will not have time for innovation and h will not be able to organize his time well. Secondly, Micro-management: It is easy to manage small units within an organization. Every manager will be able to take care of even the smallest details. Every detail of the unit will, therefore, be attended to. The top management can track progress in the various units. This will lead to better decision making. Thirdly, Profitability: For a product to perform well in the market, then it has to meet the needs of the market. So, the units need to find a way to continuously gather feedback from the market, identify a target market, target the market and position the product accordingly. If one person is assigned product, he or she will be able to give valuable contribution regarding the target market. Unfortunately, if one person is assigned more than two products to handle, the work might be too much, and it might affect his effectiveness. The financial statement for every unit is prepared separately. This enables the top management to keep tabs on the return on investment of every unit. They are also able to have a general overview of the organization’s profitability. Fourthly, Decision making: When it comes to making decisions about in the organization of the units, the top managers can rely on the numbers from the financial statements. When a new unit is about to be set up, then better performing units take charge of the process. When it comes to allocation of resources, the top management uses the financial statements. Lastly but not Leastly: business people who don't unite together will finally make their own choices as; Running out of money is a small business’s biggest risk. Owners often know what funds are needed day to day but are unclear as to how much revenue is being generated, and the disconnect can be disastrous. Inexperience managing a business--or an unwillingness to delegate--can negatively impact small businesses, as can a poorly visualized business plan, which can lead to ongoing problems once the firm is operational. Poorly planned or executed marketing campaigns, or a lack of adequate marketing and publicity, are among the other issues that drag down small businesses. Now: As Main Purpose of a Cooperative;People usually join a cooperative for the benefits - to enjoy such things as the pooling of risk, the ability to make a large purchase in a group, to become empowered and feel like they are part of a meaningful company. As well as the main Goal of a Cooperative : The Cooperative businesses are organized for the purpose of improving the bargaining power of the individual members and the product or service quality provided by the members. They also aim to reduce costs incurred during the production process, to provide competition to larger companies with deeper pockets, to expand opportunities in the market and take advantage of them, and to obtain products and services that would otherwise be unavailable because for-profit companies see them as unprofitable in business.

With suitcases in hand, you head to the station. This is the last thing you have to do before they let your best friend go. You’re not allowed to open the suitcase; they said if you did, you would die. You’re not allowed to call the police; they said if you do, your best friend dies. And you know not to. They could be watching your every move. In fact, they have been. They have intelligence everywhere. They kidnapped her and demanded a ransom of, oddly enough, only $200. You had thought it was a mistake, but they insisted $200 was correct. A $200 ransom payoff was possible. And your best friend is well worth that amount. When you showed up to pay however, nobody was there. The only thing you could see in the abandoned lot were two suitcases, notes on each. The expensive one had a printed note that read, “Do Not Open. We will shoot you.” The cheaper one had the following message: Deliver the $200 to the abandoned bank lot downtown to get the key for this suitcase. Take both suitcases with you. Lose one and you die. You have exactly half hour to do so, or she dies. You alert the police, she dies. Time starts when we say it does. Better hurry :) You picked up the suitcases and headed back to your car. One of them was lightly ticking, barely audible. You felt a slight whirring inside it as you walked. You gingerly placed them in the back seat, not knowing what was inside, and drove downtown. A twenty-three minute drive, with some speeding. As you were driving, your radio was scanning stations, playing only white noise. Over that noise you can hear a repeated message: “We are members of the Mask. We are an anti-government authoritarian body. We will gain control. We have intelligence everywhere.” You turned your radio off and put in a CD to listen to. “Not my favorite, but it’ll have to do,” you said out loud in a nervous stutter. With the CD playing the third from the last song, you pulled into the abandoned lot, driving past a largely overgrown shrub, only to find nobody there. You look around and see nothing out of the ordinary. You decide to drive around the back and then you see another message, this one spray-painted on the wall. “Keep the money, and buy some good music. Here’s your damn key, motherfucka!” You took the key from the wall. The key was still sticky from the tape as you placed it into the lock on the cheaper suitcase. You opened the suitcase to find the following message, exquisitely handwritten: Your final steps: 1. Spin around three times and then look inside the bank window. Play nice :) 2. Go to the train station. There are two close by. Pick the closest one 3. Go to Lot C and park in Spot 33 4. Take the other suitcase and follow the arrows marked on the ground 5. Place the suitcase next to the indicated support beam 6. Go back to your car and await further instruction You spun around and looked inside the bank window. Somebody was inside. They were smiling at you. Directly at you. They nodded, bringing your attention to the gun pointed right at you. They casually lifted up a sign that read: Leave now. No police. Remember, we are always watching. With suitcases in hand, you head to the station. This is the last thing you have to do before they let your best friend go. You’re not allowed to open the suitcase; they said if you did, you would die. You’re not allowed to call the police; they said if you do, your best friend dies. And you know not to. They could be watching your every move. In fact, they have been. They have intelligence everywhere. You leave the abandoned lot and make a right turn. As you’re making the turn, you realize you should have turned left. Your right turn was not right. The closest place to turn back around is about a block away. You drive the block and go to make the turn. The CD has stopped. Your radio starts to fizz again. This time all you can hear is the white noise and a barely audible, “Somebody messed up,” repeated over and over in a robotic and monotone voice. You turn your radio off and decide to drive in silence. Upon arriving to the train station, you park in lot C, spot 33. Just as instructed. You get out of your car, rereading the note as you do. You look at it again. Onto step 4. You follow the marked trail. Arrow after arrow you walk, carrying the ticking and whirring suitcase. It starts to weigh on you. Mentally and physically. You place the suitcase inside a red circle. And it sinks in: the circle is drawn in blood. Your heart sinks. On the way back to your car, you see a few other people leaving the station. They look nervous and defeated. Once back at your car, you hear a phone ringing, it’s sound a bit muffled. It’s not your cell. You open your car door and the sound gets louder. The sound is coming from inside the suitcase. You find a ringing phone in a hidden compartment. The ringtone is excruciatingly loud now. You answer it. Your best friends says hello. Your heart skips a beat; she’s alive! You manage to stutter a hello back. She says she has to go, that it was only for proof of life. She says “goodbye, see you soon bestie” and a robotic voice takes over, “Look behind you,” and then the phone clicks off. You look behind you to the train schedule board and watch a video feed on the screen; it’s been hacked. A large knife can be seen. Engraved on the side are the words “somebody messed up.” The camera pans out to show eight people bound and gagged, sitting on their knees. One by one, they are beheaded. You can’t help but watch; your eyes are frozen to the screen. Your best friend is last to go. You begin to cry as the suitcases explode in unison sending the station tumbling to the ground.

I can only imagine what it must be like to smell fresh wild flowers in bloom or the sound made by autumn leaves blowing in an October breeze. How it must be to feel fresh snow fall upon a frozen face or the taste of a cool rush of ice cream against a tongue warmed by a southern summer. For though I have created these things and done so in hopes of perfection I will never see them or anything my brush has painted for that is my curse. To create something so beautiful and marvelous as life, yet never to live it myself . Merely to have the knowledge that is there, somewhere just out of sight. My children spend there whole lives trying to live as if me, but if only they knew my one true wish was simply to live as if them.

CW: adult content, strong language Disappointedly, yet quite predictably, she was leaving the Head Director’s office. All eyes were on her, adding to her unbearable embbarrasment, as she was passing through the aisle of that clinically cold open-space she hated so sincerely. They all know, oh, how clearly, she thought bitterly, as she felt that salty aftertaste still lingering in her mouth. Well, life can be a tough pill to swallow. And sometimes even swallowing doesn’t help. Nevermind, lesson learned . She straightened her posture in a poor attempt to preserve what’s left of her infamous dignity and stormed out of the office. As soon as the door behind her banged shut, she felt a tide of relief surge in, like all those Tinder dates who had blitzkrieged her bedroom. When all of a sudden, a dull sound of something heavy stomping against the floor made her spin on her heel. "Hey, Elena, keep this,“ he said and rather inconspiciously passed her a small, match-box size object in a bubble wrap - at least something to release a stress on , snapped through her mind, as her fingers touched the surface. "Oh, Ron, what’s in it?” she asked bewildered, maybe too loudly, given his attempts not to attract attention. Of course, Ron might not be the most subtle fellow in the hood, but God knows he tried, she thought, eyeing the edifice of his beefy body. Simply brawn scarcly seasoned with bra in, she observed, as her scrutiny met his plain gaze . And in his case, one does not have to be Gordon Ramsay to complain about lack of seasoning. "You’ll see,” resounded from within the long corridor, as his security shirt was vanishing in the flicker of artificial lighting. She hesitated no longer. Quickly, sparing little thought what devil might hide within, she tucked the bubbly bit in her purse and rushed out of the building. Maybe she doesn’t quite have a clue, but she remembers, oh, too well. * In her early 30s, working as a senior marketing manager in a bank, knowing nothing about financial stuff, but being paid decent money for knowing a lot about how to make people succumb to well-crafted advertising, one could say she was doing fine. Well, until this day. I got in the same way I got out , she thought with an undertone of dark humour. She saw it so clearly, a clueless young lady looking for a job in a field where every such position was meant only for those of long-term experience. But that time, the aftertaste was manageable . Life was so sweet back then, so full of promise of bloom, she pondered aimlessly, as she ran her palm against her lover’s chest. It was a fine chest, defined and muscular. She liked her men sinewy. Like Peter, not that brainless bulk of muscles Ron. "I wanted to blow the whistle, you know,“ she responded to Peter’s earlier question,“ but it turned out I ended up blowing something else. Fruitlessly.“ Sourly she added in sore self-reflection. "I thought that fruitlessness is welcome in such activities,“ he joked, still worn out after the admirable performance he just gave. Always jokey, non-judgmental easy-goer, who knew his business getting laid - that’s why she kept on getting together with him regularly. No strings attached, but having a fuckbuddy like him in dire times like these helps. "Wait a sec, I just remembered...“ she left her comfy curl around his body and shakily got to her feet. First of all, walking completely naked in front of each other, even after sex was over, was a spell they broke quite some time ago. But this was different. They were never personal; they haven’t let each other into their lives yet. And that was good. REMEMBER, NO STRINGS ATTACHED, ELENA, NEVER, echoed noisily in her head, as she grabbed her purse and fished out that small something she was given earlier today. "Look,“ she said, carefully unwrapping it, as if the contents the wrap concealed had a pontential to bite. "Oh, gimme that shit,“ Peter came to life, reaching for the bubble-wrap, suddenly ignorant of his recent exhaustion,“ I could do this all day long.“ He announced, crushing a bubble after bubble, content as a toddler with idiotic grin all over his sweaty face. Elena rested her eyes on him and all concerns were suddenly gone, dissolved like sugar in hot milk. Maybe I’m just getting a bit too old, and maybe there’s something to my slumbering naïve, romantic side . But one thing is certain, seeing him carelessly toying with a piece of bubble-wrap without losing a bit of charisma, she felt so warm and so safe. He certainly wasn’t the one to judge. She almost let herself lapse into feeling something toward him. "It’s a flash drive!” she exclaimed. "Marvelous,“ Peter said pointedly. "Come on, Pete, this is it,“ she said, eyes widening, “that bloody little thing that security guy handed me.“ "Well, let’s check it out, then,“ he mumbled, unwillignly crawling out of the bed. Soon he was back to the still warm spot with a laptop, inserting the flash drive into a slot. When a single file popped up on the screen, Elena froze. Subconsciouly she was sure this file has sharp, serrated jaws. "What in the fucking hell is this, tell me,“ Peter gasped, as what seemed like countless loads of documents showed up. The jaws slightly opened. "I know what it is,“ Elena whispered,“ It’s the reason why I lost my job.” "They sacked you for insider trading?“ Peter mused horrified, as he skimmed through the first few documents, betraying confidential information of bank clients. Well-off clients, indeed. "For my vain efforts to report this,“ she hissed, pretending offense,“ do you ever listen to me!?“ "How come, Elena! Just recently the government established the office for protection of whistleblowers! This shouldn’t be happening anymore,” he burst out, briming over with professional indignation of a lawyer well-versed in theory of administrative law. "Oh, Pete, how sweet of you. But as a lawyer you should know how our public administration works,“ she cuddled closely to him. She made herself vulnerable; clutching tightly onto his wrist, forcing tears into her eyes. "Eastern Europe, baby,“ he purred, and to her relief, left the subject be. "Central, Pete,“ she corrected him. After a few moments in the warm embrace she spoke again: “Let’s have a coffee.” "Black and bitter for me,“ said Peter, as her figure vanished from the bedroom. "Like life itself?“ "Indeed, like life itself,“ he repeated, as he mindlessly closed the jaws of his laptop and put it aside. * It was dark when she left Peter’s apartment. Who could tell whether it’s her arrogance or ignorance, but she never felt in danger, going alone after the dark, almost cat walking in her neat skirt and high heels. And surely, she was the one to easily become a prey - her long, auburn hair, cutely freckled face and body to die for. Maybe her lack of heed had something to do with her belief in the notion of Central Europe; the place not that well-off, but culturally apt. However, in the blink of an eye things turned dramatically eastern. She rounded a corner as a hand clutched her elbow and a hard object jabbed into her ribs. Shocked, she glanced down, and saw the muzzle of a gun pressed against her. “Hello, sweetheart, so glad you could join us. The car is just ahead... and please don’t think of making a scene. It would hurt. A lot.” She panicked. Her screams drowned in the sea of terror. Her view got blurred. "Don’t you dare screamin’,” a deep manly voice reminded her once again, guiding her into adjacent car. "I...,“ she trailed off, completely surredered. After few horrifying moments she dared having a brief look around. There was a man driving, confidently steering the car through the abandoned narrow streets. Her attacker was sat right next to her, handing her a blindfold. "If you would be so sweet, my dear...“ She obeyed. Then, she collected herself. Having free hands, she reached for her purse. "Stop it,“ he ordered threateningly, in authority others could only envy. She stopped. They drove. They arrived. * She was sat into a chair. A comfy one. Notably luxurious at first sit; being into slight extravagance herself, she could tell. Then her blindfold was taken off, softly, with utmost care for her comfort. "Welcome,“ said Martin, her former Head Director, holding a piece of cloth from around her eyes,“ I’m deeply sorry for rather inconvenient way of transport, certainly not the first class you’re presumably used to...” "Kidnapping you mean?“ she snapped. "...however, let’s say I’m into adrenaline sports,“ he continued, disregarding her completely,“ I am absolutely sure you know why you’re here.“ She was quiet. As the fear for her own safety dissolved, another seemed to fill it‘s place. "We had a deal,“ he said. Her silence deepened. She avoided looking at him. Eyeing the room around her, she was somewhere in historical mansion or even palace, adding to her unease. "The flash drive?“ he asked sternly. "Yes.“ "Suspects anything?“ "I think...,“ she gulped. This is the hardest part. After her last visit, things turned a bit too romantic; despite her best efforts, some strings got attached nonetheless. Am I really too old for this? Or am I just a coward, after all? "Did he?“ the poignant question ringed in the aether and bloated like gathering clouds before the storm. Elena was quiet, though it was a bit too late to back-off. "Well, Elena, our company gave you access to all the precious data. I gave you access to our company,“ he sighed,“ do you really think you can fuck with me, as if I was that stupid fuck-boy of yours? How can I trust you, when you deny my share? So once again, does that legal-bealge Peter suspect something?“ "I think,“ words got stuck in her throat,“ I think he does.“ "Well, not for long,“ Martin said and produced a smartphone from his pocket,“ Come over and have a look.“ Hesitantly she stood up and took a few steps toward Martin. "Oh, perfect," he smiled, showing her the screen, "Isn't it wonderful how all things are connected these days? He's connected his phone..., "he trailed off, then chuckled, " and his fridge, and his smart lights, and his smart TV.... and even his car!“ Elena was terrified. "Actually,“ he brightened up,“ it looks like he’s driving right now! Do you wnat to have a peek at him?“ He asked, relishing her horror. "Please, Martin,...“ her pleading eyes were begging for remosre. "Look,“ he forced the screen before her,“ where do you think he’s driving to, this late hour?“ Her heart melted as she heard his lovely voice, even though it was just a senseless cursing at the traffic. She missed him already. Surprisingly, all her concerns apmlified, wondering what devilish spyware was her phone infected with. Subconsciously she reached for her purse. "Oh, don’t worry,” Martin laughed,” your phone is safe. Let’s say that amiable gentleman who escorted you here is paid for knowing things.” "Well, and now what?“ Elena didn’t even try to hide her confusion. "Oh, my dear,“ she hated so much when her betters, especially male, called her my dear, sweetheart, darling etc., “now that introductory pleasantries are done, it’s time to set things straight.” "How so? You fired me, you tricked me into deceiving my partner...“ "My partner suddenly,“ Martin cackled, “I wouldn’t go as far. We both know you’re just a cock-hungry, dirty ‘lil slut, darling .“ "You fired me!“ "I had to,“ Martin feigned sympathy, as he cupped her hand in his palms, “things were turning too obvious. And how could I trust you anymore, when you were operating behind my back, keeping all the profit to yourself. Trust, Elena, trust and loyalty, that’s substantial in this business.” “Trust and loyalty,” she retorted, as she freed her hand from Matrin’s. “Indeed, that’s why you are here. To prove to me. To show me, that I can still trust you.” “Try then.” “To show you my good will, I do the first step,” he said and produced his phone again,” this app, is end-to-end encrypted communication channel, hard to be broken into.” “As if it was 100% safe.” “It’s not,” he smiled,” have I mentioned my affinity toward adrenaline sports?” “You certainly did,” Elena gulped down the flashback of her earlier encounter with adrenaline sports, ”But I still don’t quite get it.” “You will. When your smart head’s intelligent enough to embezzle, defraud, and corrupt, while getting legal advice after night-time banging, this will be trivial. I just want you to contact someone.” Her unease skyrocketed when Martin handed her the phone and austere-looking interface of that devilish app showed up; like some formidable creature, fished out of the deepest trenches of the dark web... “Ready to type?” Martin eyed her with knowing smile, penetrating her eyes, far beyond her conscious mind. She suspected what’s going to follow and this suspicion was so clear - probability bordering on certainty, as Peter would say in his comely legalise. Her heart sank, as her worst premonition came true. "Name.“ "Address.“ "30 grand.“ "I...,“ Elena was one step from collapsing. Of course, sometimes one gets redundant and needs to be reduced, but this was the first time she was not ready to throw away someone’s life like this. Jan, master economist, passed away in car accident - that was easy enough, but his cock was good. Daniel, corrupt prosecutor, commited suicide by painkiller overdose - I don’t miss him at all, his cum always tasted rancid. Lukas, a police officer, shot in the police action - I particularly liked his strong arms, that’s about it. Richard, a chairman of city council, jumped under the train - I found him funny. And now... Peter, a lawyer, TBA - I love him from the bottom of my blighted heart. “Is his life really worth so little?” she burst into tears, her shaky fingers typing lamely. “His life? No, it’s worth even less. His death, that’s what matches the price of fancy watches,” he said calmly, always having a joke or two up his sleeve. “Why?” she said in despair, teardrops rushing down her cheeks. “He knows too much, like they did. Is it so hard to understand? You were never hesitant like this before. What’s wrong?” Martin sounded worried for her. Does he really feel any compassion for me? “But why did you make me give him that flash drive, why did you let him see the data?” “You might not remember, because you were having fun ,” he said in slow, patient manner, as if talking to a child, “but he did tell you, that he started his legal practice as prosecutor’s assistant.” He paused for a moment, and he smiled the way a shark might: "And their network is real tasty.“ "Type!“ the predator ordered. “I can’t do it.” He said nothing, just pointed his voracious eyes at her. You can do it, you MUST do it, they read. All the detail was already typed, but her thumb was powerlessly circling around send button. And Martin kept on watching her, feeding on her inner struggle. “If you can’t, then you can’t,” his manner changed into that of an amiable banker, as he took his phone back. “Do you want to have another peek at him?” he asked. She was devoid of words, but her eyes glowed with yearning. “Let’s have a peek then,” the screen resolved itself into interior of a car. Within there were two men sitting, talking quietly, looking at the familiar laptop. Peter and another man, stereotypical police officer by his looks, were focused on whatever it was going on the screen. "What do you think they’re talking about?” Martin asked, his manly jaws growing more prominent, ”It’s funny these modern cars. Did you know that lithium is somewhat reactive, like... I mean, really reactive. It really likes to reduce .” “How about we take a listen?” he handed her the phone and a button with obvious function showed up. They listened. And to her terror, all the talking was about her. Or rather about her grievous misconduct; it even looks like this beagle managed to sniff out more than he was ever supposed to. She stood paralyzed, betrayed and scared. They all know, oh, how clearly. “Elena,” unlike her, Martin didn’t seem scared at all,” have you ever fired someone?” She gritted her teeth. “I know, it can be a traumatic experience, being on the receiving end..." he shrugged apologetically, "but it can be quite cathartic from the opposite side. Look," he reached out and scrolled in the menu of the app. He pulled up a Battery section, "it is just so easy. Just a little tap right here." Shakily she took the phone. She was trembling feverishly, muscles all across her body were spasming. Her face was red and tear-drenched, her eyes vacant. She pushed the button. Martin relaxed and grinned a proud smile of a father whose child just got admitted to prestigious college. “Congratulations!” she couldn’t decipher his delight, "welcome back. You might even get a promotion.” He hugged her dearly and handed her a velvet handkerchief to wash her tears away like Peter and all those before him. “You earned it.” Martin said. She stared blankly, as if she glimpsed the Death itself. She stood still. Peter, a lawyer, fired - I still love him from the bottom of my blighted heart, she updated her diary.

It all starts with a knock at my door. Or more accurately my door bell. I stand up and make my way stiffly to the door, I’ve been working on a petticoat all day and my body is aching for a break. I open the door to find a young woman who is probably in her early twenties. Her hair is in a messy top knot and she is dressed in a baggy sweater and yoga pants. Definitely not my style. “Are you Maude Collins?” The woman asks. “Yes, I am. How may I be of service to you?” I ask. “Wow, you really are old fashioned.” She murmurs. I roll my eyes slightly. “Anyways, my name is Ashley.” She says extending her hand to me. I take it and wait for her to continue. “I um, heard you make historical dresses and stuff, and I really need a pride and prejudice dress.” She says finally. “You mean a regency era dress?” I ask. “Yeah, I guess... could I buy one from you?” “Come in,” I say, this seems like it will take a while and it’s freezing outside. I bring her to my living room and invite her to sit down. “What do you need this dress for?” I ask. “A historical ball.” She says. “You just called it a “pride and prejudice dress” and you expect me to believe you are going to a ball.” I say sceptically. Her lips purse and her eyes dart away from me. “What do you actually need it for?” “I work for the T.T.A.” She admits “I have a mission.” The time travellers association! My head starts spinning with possibilities but I try to stay calm. I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to remake the past but it’s never quite the same. “Don’t you have someone to make clothes for you?” I ask. “Yes, but she was kidnapped and I’m being sent to find her.” Ashley says quickly, “Can you help me or not?” “Yes, I think I can. But first I need more information.” The next hour is a bit of a whirlwind as Ashley tells me her story. She knows the names of the whole royal court and pretty much every piece of etiquette but she doesn’t know the first thing about the fashion. This is also her first assignment and I can tell she’s nervous. She needs at least two dresses, she doesn’t know how long she’ll be gone, and she needs to leave today. When she finishes I’ve already made up my mind to help her. I try to appear reluctant but I’m having a hard time containing my excitement. “Come to my sewing room,” I say “I think I might have something that will fit you.” She is about my height but thinner than me and I will need to make some adjustments. I dig up a light pink evening gown and a dark green day dress out of the chest in the corner. First I hand her a shift, a light corset with almost no boning, and a petticoat. I can’t size anything on her until I see how the undergarments fit. “Put these on and then I’ll see what I can do.” I say. She stares at the things in confusion and almost horror. “What?” “I don’t know how to put any of that on.” She admits. “I’ll help.” I smile. I send her into the bathroom to put on the shift and then help her lace the corset. “Oh, this is actually comfortable.” Ashley says. I laugh “They generally are, they don’t cut you in half like in movies.” I quickly explain to her how she can put it on herself, I’m guessing she won’t have a personal maid. “It is a little harder without help but I think you’ll manage.” I say. She puts on the petticoat and then I size the two dresses for her. I pull out a needle and cut a length of thread to take in the waist a little. “Wait, you don’t use a sewing machine?” Ashley asks. “If the sewing machine wasn’t invented in the era of the dress I’m making I don’t use it.” I say. “That’s interesting.” She sounds impressed. When I’ve finished up the dress I give her a pair of stockings and shoes. “You can wear tights if they’re more comfortable, they’re not accurate but I don’t think anyone will notice.” I say. “Thank you so much, I’ll bring everything back if I can.” She says. “Do you have someone to do your hair?” I ask. “Yeah, only the seamstress was kidnapped.” She smirks. I give her three pairs of gloves and a spare bonnet before she leaves. “I’ll e-transfer you money.” She says as she steps out the door. “It’s alright, I wasn’t using those right now anyways. But if you happen to find a pair of gloves or a bonnet that you could bring me that would be amazing.” I say. She drives away as my husband pulls in the driveway. “Who was that?” He asks giving me a kiss. “A girl who needed a dress.” I say. “Hmm, I guess your hobby is paying off.” “Well not quite paying, but it’s helping someone.” For a a while everything is back to normal, I work and play and wonder. Then a week later Ashley comes back. I open the door to find her standing on the steps, looking around nervously. She’s wearing jean overalls this time, hair in a high ponytail. She has a bag with her and gives it to me. “They got a little ripped, but I got what you wanted. Do you mind if I come in?” She asks with another glance over her shoulder. I bring her back to my sewing room and take the things out of the bag. A gorgeous bonnet and a shawl are with the things that were already mine. “These are amazing.” I whisper. I can feel my face glowing. “Good,” Ashley says biting her lip, “because I need your help again.” “Did you not get your seamstress back?” I ask. “We did. But she’s in a coma and the person they hired as her replacement is awful.” She sounds a little whiny. “Where are you going this time?” I ask. “America. 1770s.” She says. “The revolution.” “Yep.” “This one will take a little more time.” I say. “That’s fine. I leave the day after tomorrow.” She says with a relieved smile. “Mind if I ask what your mission is this time?” I ask. “Well, it’s pretty much just reconnaissance for now.” She says. “Okay. Let’s see if I have something that fits you. I have a 1750s dress that I can adjust.” She leaves after I’ve given her everything she’ll need. “I’ll be back in two weeks.” She says with a wave. I close the door behind her and take the dresses I lent her out of the bag. The evening gown has a cut down the front and multiple tears in the skirt. I feel angry tears well up in my eyes. But then I see the bonnet and shawl again. I can make a new dress but I’ll never be able to replace those. Still, I wonder what happened to damage it so badly.

“ Alla människor är på låtsas. De är gjorda av metall. Men jag tycker om dig. Och det är inte på låtsas, liksom. All the people are fake. They’re made out of metal. But I like you, and that is not . . . it’s not fake.” - Young Royals , Episode 4 All the people are fake. When one laments that “everyone’s fake”, or proclaims they are "done with fake friends”, “fake” has a particular meaning that is commonly understood. Insincere, disingenuous. A cheap, flimsy facade. Maybe the person in question is two-faced, a wearer of masks, of thinly veiled disguises. Maybe they are a snake, venomous and shifty, slipping away underfoot. I am not the prince of Sweden, crushed by the expectations of being royalty. But I do put myself on a pedestal, hold myself to an unreachable standard. I am not concerned with legacies, but I am concerned with impacts, with how I come across. Though there are different reasons for our isolation, I am host to a similar anxiety, and a similar yearning, to know people in a way I seem incapable of. The fakeness I am familiar with is not the kind that follows me like an uninvited guest, it’s the kind I choose to follow in spite of myself. I know it will lead me nowhere, but I can’t help revisiting it. I retrace good moments, successful interactions, glimmers of hope. I return to those scenes and scour them for answers, only for that too to fall apart. I don’t find people to be two-faced, I find them to lack faces altogether, at least ones I can recognize and relate to. I can never meet anyone’s eyes, and when I do, they look right through me. One night, a drug-induced Wilhelm flees his elitist "friends", who are only concerned with titles and wealth. He returns to the football field where he and the boy he loves once watched a friend's match together. He crashes into the chain link fence, pressing his face into the metal wires. He climbs the goalposts. He turns his face upward to meet the downpour, raindrops illuminated by the floodlights like minuscule stars. “You think you know me?” he asks the metal free-kick mannequins. “You don’t!” He cradles pieces of plastic turf in his hands, and licks them up. He calls that number he has deleted but knows by heart, and says in a whisper, “I really like you.” To the viewer, it is disgusting to consume turf in this way. To put something you know is fake into your body. To crave satisfaction from something that will do nothing for you. Sometimes fakeness is not the snake in the grass. It’s the grass itself, everywhere, constantly underfoot. It’s the soil I sink my hands into, only to find that nothing I could plant would take root and I would look like an idiot for trying. But still I hunger. I’ve gotten drunk on my surroundings before. I’ve caught my own reflection and wished, if only someone could see me like this right now. Even if it was just through a screen. They’re made out of metal. Fake friends are made of plastic, mass-produced in the economy of petty drama. You collect them and discard them, lamenting their poor quality. But you have to have had them first. I am familiar with a different kind of fakeness. It runs deep and stays strong. It stays with me and only me, persistent, so ever-present that it’s practically a part of me. Less a disease plaguing the masses and more an injury affecting my own body. A metal mesh, a mess of chain mail I experience the world through, so now it is the world too that is fake, at least my world, a world of people I might be able to connect with if not for this chain-link fence built around my very nature. All I want to say is “WELCOME”, but “KEEP OUT” is all my mouth seems to know. There are various cages imposed on Wilhelm. Reputation. Legacy. Wealth. Heteronormativity. The fakeness becomes more than a pliable inconvenience, becomes literally galvanized into something strong and cold and hard. The people around him become like armored guards to enforce it, like robots carrying out a preordained automation. Metal, unlike plastic, is rigidly resilient, unfeeling, and cold. It is not as easily broken, nor melted. Even those who are faceless and narrow, like the metal free-kick mannequins Wilhelm attacks in the football field, have a tendency to bounce back up. But I like you. In the English dub, Wilhelm’s voice hushes, acquiring the quiet urgency of a secret. Those last three words are not quite the three words typically romanticized, but each of them is rich with emphasis. I . Admission, vulnerability, a window inside. A declaration, and a reclamation. An opening up to the elements. Like . A word that is often fluff, just feathery filler, but in this case it is heavy with meaning. A verb as a vessel of so much emotion. Some mysterious combination of conscious decision and natural phenomenon. You. Extension. The “there” in “put yourself out there”. A bridge to a shore I’ve only ever gazed upon from a very far distance. Edvin Ryding’s delivery is a stream of alcohol pouring slowly down my throat. It intoxicates me with desire. Desire for something I’m afraid to admit. And that is not fake. I want a love story like this. I guess I’m not afraid to admit it here, with the protective semi-anonymity. But I would rather never speak again than admit it to someone I know in real life. It’s like wanting it only reveals how incapable I am of attaining it. I want to make the discovery that I am in love, not the decision. Sometimes it feels like I am bursting, practically overflowing with feelings to give. I just don’t have the right person. Crushes, sure. Not like there’s anything substantial. It feels like a process of elimination. My age. Physical attraction. No personality red flags. And then it is that simple. A new face to picture when I stare out the car window. A new name to grant that little rush. A new character to populate my dreamscape. Of course, it means I am no longer capable of being caught by surprise. It is impossible to have that rom-com moment where it was the kind, funny, quirky boy who was there all along, and you see him in a new way. I see everyone. But it always starts to become a construction. I get bored, I get creative. Succumb to fantasies. That is why it’s still fake, and why this hurts so acutely, because it forces me to admit that it was never remotely real. It’s not unrequited love. It’s unfulfilled love. Wilhelm was captivated the moment he first heard the boy he loves sing. It was infatuation-at-first sight, which I am an expert in. But then the stars aligned. It grew into something more, luckily, or maybe not luckily, given the turn of events, or maybe it’s just a TV show. The only thing that excites me more than someone liking me is confessing to someone else that I like them. I would never do it. I would never make that call, because I have always been safe, always had something to lose. Beyond all the steel traps of anxiety, my mind is always spinning, and one bad interaction does a lot more damage than it should, like a wrench in delicate machinery. I am equipped with a million failsafes. But sometimes I hear that life is too short and consider what might happen if I did ever make the first move. I used to envision it as a binary. Yes or no. Rejection or the slim, slim chance of reciprocity. But what if they were to simply ask, Why? I would be at a loss. I couldn’t possibly answer that. I couldn’t honestly say, that is not fake. When something "has promise", it’s not a guarantee. It is merely a marker of potential, which is odd, because promises are usually binding. “I love you” is considered binding nowadays. But we say it all the time, in a variety of different ways. It's all about context. Sometimes I like you can mean so much more. And that is not fake gives it promise.

In the rumbling of all the crowd gathered in the house I could hardly listen to new year's eve concerts. New year eve and birthday of the eldest person in our family, my grandmother, to be on the same day. Ahh! What else one could ask for. Heaven. Absolutely heaven. But. . . did I forget to mention,"not for me". The only thing I would wish on the new year is a little time of my own, and if possible, a room of my one. But when your maternal and paternal- aunts, uncles, cousins all ACCUMULATE together on that one very day, I shouldn't have even thought of that solitude on the first hand. My other, for a long time is carrying the CD of Sarah Vaughan's 1986 concert, which would be impossible to listen, At ALL. I did give a thought to it, that I should play the record for everyone, and mind, I did. Though, it seems grandma's story about her young times far more interesting than Sarah Vaughan's four octave sonorous adventure. Hmm. I think I missed the sunday sermon when Father, the local eloquent pastor, was elaborating the verse,"neither cast, ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them. under their feet, and turn again and rend you." In the end, it just puts you off, that everyone is jolly in their circle and you, only to be on that far end, where they all think you are a special kind. That is the best way to make anyone feel miserable, by adding in the," he is just so bright and intelligent." Loneliness is shaded with all the best colours of interpretation. Well. As mentioned before, the entire household was dipped deep in to the preparations for grandma's birthday, new year was inferior. "Ahhh. Adi, where were you?" My overly enthusiastic aunt, one on my father's side, bellowed from the kitchen, slightly peeping from behind the door. It was too late to escape her eyes because it took me long time to find her pupils in that thickly applied eyeliner. "Nothing aunt Manda. Nothing at all." For unknown reason I said the 'nothing at all' in a sort of British accent. That was meant to repel her attention away from me. Alas ! It didn't. But before I turn around, a very important thought struck my mind. I changed my expression, voluntarily, from reflective to absorbing, and asked aunt if she had anything specific to say. "Oh yes. Will you bring the onion basket from the storeroom. It's already very late for the breakfast. Your father and all your uncle's must be waiting long now." You too, aunt Manda. I wished too say that. But decided not to, and went upstairs to fetch the stuff. As I climbed the stairs I couldn't help but run my sight over those frames of my family's ancestors. Yep. My family's, not mine. The frames of ancestors were hung in my humble abode, my little room that was next to the storeroom, that specific location too upon my request. As I walked by, my eyes wondered over to those beautiful walnut streaked walls. From upon them, my ancestors humbly looked down on me. Anne Bronte, first in the row, lord Byron followed and next to him, Alfred Whitehead, below him, perpendicular, Toni Morrison. Above my bed a wallpaper stamped on the wall with grandeur, that read," who's afraid of Virginia Woolf?" Below it, "Democracy". While I descended the stairs, no stones in my pockets, I had a unfaithful encounter with my cousin Max. Too lost in his 3DS simulation console, but not enough to pass by me without recognising me. He looked up, freshly returning from the Pokemon world, where he had become the champion last night, bagging most of the Pocket Monsters. He blankly picked an onion, threw it towards another of my cousin, Shruti, then just smiled. Like everytime, that cute, sharp teeth peeped out from behind his upper lip, then he almost walked away. Till, I dared to stir him. " Wow. Whole game in two days. That's cool." I uttered with as much calmness possible but with sharp tints of surprise. " Right, hah ? But anyways. Didn't wom tell you sobthing." He said while taking over my path, going away. He has cold since last three days. Change of air or water, perhaps. And that abrupt ending, well that's just him. A little late but I delivered the onions to aunt, who had a lot of things to say to me about punctuality. This time I didn't venture to be more welcoming. I left the kitchen until I couldn't hear her words anymore. I can't stand someone pointing out my faults. Because that is my faculty. I - as much my inert lower would let me, try to change myself enough. So others highlighting them, though with good intentions, wreck my nerves. Still I couldn't feel all right. As I remembered that thing again, I came up with a reason to indulge in the kitchen, and had a short conversation with aunt. She appeared pleased this time, and I, satisfied. Some two hours passed in the whole breakfast and morning get-together thing. Before everyone would leave their places, uncle Raju brought up subject of decoration for the evening events. With so many people in house that was an absolutely perfect topic discuss. Then like any cliche indian family, we all started to declare our own plans. My voice, though hidden the strong sound waves of other's, so show reached some ears. "Oh come on Aditya. Floral arrangement? That's most common thing anyone would come up with." Mathilda, my maternal aunt, reacted. Before I could make my case, Pallavi, another cousin, came up with idea of encasing the whole interior with those beautiful little gleaming bulbs. To which I heartily agreed, but not heard. The discussion was quite ferocious, my words though, everytime unheard, but I still enjoyed it. After that heavy, thick conversation, it was decided that Pallavi's suggestion was the best and to be followed. As we all rose up, I noticed Leonard's, who happens to be my hot and happening older brother, eyeing me till I passed out of the hall and his eyeballs on the verge of popping out. Yeah, I know. Why would you even suggest something so stupid, he will say. But it is of no consequence. Some fifteen minutes after the family brain trust's storming discussion-Pallavi, Rohan and Ploppy, all my cousin's, were out through the front door. I caught up with them. Asked if I could join them. Ploppy reminded me I wasn't good at such tasks, thanks to my low indulgence in any shopping endeavours at all, that being true, I decided to help any other way I could. But I didn't find anything substantially becoming of my capabilities, to do. That fate too was obvious. I before I could help anyway, it was already evening, and our frail, violently shaking, but as uncle Patrick says "strong for her age" grandmother descended her wheelchair with most efforts from her grandchildren. Looking all around, either with admiration or inability to recognise the faces, and then slowly ascending the beautiful ottoman that was especially her's. A beautiful and happy event it was. Such a sweet gathering. And oh! I was so very tired. I decided to retire to my room now that everyone was talking to each other about matters that were, perhaps, beyond my comprehension. Opening the drawer of my table, I took a small notebook. And then marked some small boxes infront of some sentences and at the end of the page wrote 43%. I saw the clock, it was just seventeen minutes to twelve, I turned the page and started writing under a headline, 'summary' . Before I could pen down the first word, a broad, veiny, big hand siezed the notebook right from my hand. The gold ring on thumb didn't miss my eye, oh! It was my brother. "It's nothing. Give it back." I struggled to get it back from him, as he effortlessly held it infront of his face without even rating his hands up, yup, that's the difference in our height. Before I say anything further, he came, "So you have been doing this stupidity. You idiot. You won't change, will you." "It is important to me, you won't understand. Now give it back." "There isn't anything minutely, possibly important into this. Why you have to be so like this all the time." And that my nerve. Then I returned I powerfully as I could, "Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! I .." "ENOUGH." "Why you have to be over everything everytime. Why you have paint all your problem in such stupid way and. ." "Why would you understand? It is not your place to understand. You have it born in within you. I just wished to be less awkward around everyone." "And who said you were? Why you have to make it your goal to be more sociable? WHY? and why you have to follow behind everyone just satisfy yourself that they gave you enough attention ?" " I - I just wish to be in everyone's circle." I laid it bare, submitting my will and hold. Soon I was groped by my shoulders, his fingers, metaphorically, digging into my bones. "Why that way Aditya? Why not widen your circle to let everyone in? Why make your own mind your best friend when you could have everyone for a friend - especially me?" "It's just wierd to be out. And so ." " Don't make assumptions about people. Let them know you for you to know them. It is not becoming of you to tail along to them. Be little more considerate for yourself Adu." I think. It is a way of thinking about oneself, that don't consider. It's wierd that I always thought of him closest to me. Yet I dreamt of being out of everyone's circle. It was not a big emotional moment but a silent awakening, that I accepted as it. And after my beloved advice, I guess I just decided to be more considerate for my own self. Because no one will no my disposition unless I dispose it to them. Irony ! ! !

“Si ti vu ma mere?”, she said in perfect French. “You know that one?”, I asked “Yes. I find on Youtube. I am playing so much. I love. It’s so beautiful”, she replied. “Do you know what it means? In English”, I asked. “Uhhh,,,” she pondered, “something about a mother?” “If you see my mother”, I translated for her. “Oh, that is nice. A song about mother”. “It’s one of my absolute favourites. Sidney Bechet”, I said. “I will learn to play it”. “When you learn it, will you play it for me?”, I asked her. “Yes. I play it for you”, she promised, with a beaming smile. Her name was Kiko. She was from Japan, and she was my favourite student. She came along when I was three months into my second career as an online teacher of English. I started late in life and it’s not something that I ever envisaged myself doing. In my mind, the word “teacher” always conjured up visions of a shabby and perennially frustrated manic depressives who really wanted to do something else with their lives but ended up as teachers because Plan “A” didn’t pan out. At an intellectual level, I know that that is a lazy and inaccurate characterisation, though. Besides, who am I to gloat? My Plan “A” didn’t pan out either. In fact, I never really put it into effect. See, I grew up with music. My father was a jazz fan and he bequeathed that appreciation onto me. I learned to play the trumpet and the guitar and played regularly in my school band. When I was 15, I started building my record collection which included all the jazz greats and even some of the jazz-not-so-greats. At university, I formed a jazz trio called ‘The Know-Notes’ and we played student gigs regularly. I was elected as President of the University Jazz Club three years in a row. Mind you, there were only four members of said club, our trio and the girlfriend of the saxophonist, so I suppose you could say that I was a shoo-in for the post. After leaving university, I got a temporary job working as a sales assistant in a department store; something to tide me over while I plotted The Know-Notes route to glittering jazz stardom. But then I met my wife. She was an archaeology student working a summer job. For the second time in my life, I fell in love. By the end of that summer, we moved in together and, on Christmas Even no less, she informed me that she was carrying our first child. “I think we should get married”, she said. We had a Spring wedding and our daughter was born the following August. We were still living in my crummy, one-bedroom apartment and we had to find something bigger and better in a hurry. Meanwhile, the progress of The Know-Notes was, shall we say, less than stellar. We had only managed to secure one paid gig and that was at a nursing home facility as entertainment for the residents, most of whom fell asleep during our set. This was hardly the adulation we were seeking. Shortly after that, our saxophonist, a geologist by training, was offered a job in the oil industry in Saudi Arabia with a salary that he simply could not refuse. Well, that was that. My ‘temporary’ job at the department store turned into a full-time job and, from there, into a career in retail management. By the time our second child was born, I was a departmental assistant manager. The trumpet that my father bought for me on my 16 th birthday was consigned to the attic to gather dust while I climbed the corporate ladder all the way up to Head Manager of the second largest shopping mall in the country. After 27 years of ploughing away in the soil of the commercial eco-system, my dear wife was diagnosed with heart disease, more specifically coronary artery disease. I decided to take early retirement to stay at home and look after her. About a month after I retired, I returned home from a shopping trip to find her corpse on the floor of our bathroom. Myocardial infarction. I have never come to terms with losing her and I never will. So, then I was all alone in the home that we built together, our children having long since flown the nest and with no job to occupy my time. I had to take stock. I needed to re-discover a sense of purpose; I needed something to do, to occupy both my mind and my time. I had no idea where to start. Returning to the retail world was, I suppose, one option but I just didn’t have the strength for it anymore. I even retrieved my trumpet from the attic, dusted it off, played a few notes and briefly allowed myself to entertain the fantasy of finally becoming a professional jazz player. But that’s all it was - a fantasy. The naked truth is that while my enthusiasm for music was boundless, my talent was merely modest. My ambition had always far exceeded my grasp How on earth could I expect to make a living from this old trumpet now when I failed to do it as a young man? But what else could I do? I browsed the web for ideas and inspiration. ‘Teach English Online’ said the advert in big, bold type. Is that something I could do, I asked myself. Was I the right person to teach anybody anything? The advert was for an online software platform that brings English teachers together with non-native speakers who want to learn English and provides a video and audio interface for real-time lessons. I spent a long time perusing the site and then slept on it. I continued to sleep on it, chew on it, ruminate on it, walk on it and eat on it for a further month before deciding to take the plunge and sign up. At about the same time, I took an online teaching course to get myself up-to-speed and certified. I discovered that it works very much like a taxi rank or, perhaps less salubriously, an escort service. You put up a profile with a biography and a picture and you wait for a student to choose you. I waited a week for my maiden lesson with a medical student from Qatar. I felt as if I stuttered, stumbled and fluffed my way through the entire 60-minutes but I must have done or said something that chimed with her because she booked me again the following week. It turned out that the Qatari woman, this brave pioneer, whose time and money I earnestly believed that I had wasted, gave me a glowing review. So other students followed: a publisher from Italy, a tax consultant from Poland, a lawyer from Brazil and a banker from South Korea. By the second month in, I had myself a whole cadre of regular students who provided me with a much-missed sense of purpose and a renewed self-respect. Furthermore, I was actually beginning to enjoy it now, in stark contrast to my first few lessons which were characterised by my sweaty palms, lack of confidence and a sense of relief when the lesson ended without a major flub. I found that this new career suited me in many ways. First of all, the extra money augmented my pension income, though not, it has to be said, by lavish amounts. Teaching English is not something you do if you plan to get rich. Still, it helped keep the lights on. Secondly, it dispelled the loneliness that may have overwhelmed me had I not found that life-changing online advert. Every day, I connect with and converse with people from all four corners of the world, learn about them hear their stories and teach them as much as I can. It’s like having a busy social calendar and how many old widowers can say that? Pretty much all of my students wanted to learn, or improve, their English skills for career advancement. At least, that was their stated reason and that was fine with me. I knew enough professional and business English to help them draft those important emails, write reports and follow the news broadcasts from the BBC or CNN. It wasn’t long before I had amassed an impressive stock of business English materials and lesson plans. And then came Kiko. Kiko was from Japan and she told right off that she chose me because I had mentioned in my profile that I was a jazz fan. See, Kiko wanted to improve her English but, just as much, she wanted to learn and talk about jazz. As far as I could tell, she had some rather humdrum job in a bank, but her hobby was jazz music and learning to play the clarinet. She wanted to turn professional someday. I told her in unequivocal terms that I was her man. I was captivated. She reminded me of me, only female. And a lot younger. And Japanese. As well as listening to jazz, I love talking jazz but my late wife, bless her memory, had little interest in music and my daughters would dutifully listen to waxing lyrical for about ten minutes before zoning out. But now I had Kiko and Kiko had me. She booked a regular lesson once a week, always on a Friday and we spent the whole time talking about jazz. Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw, Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Louis Armstrong, Ornette Coleman, Chet Baker, Charlie Mingus, Thelonious Monk, Charlie ‘Bird’ Parker, Art Tatum and, of course, Sidney Bechet. Sometimes we would even search You Tube together for great jazz classics and listen to them during the lesson. For me, it couldn’t get better than that. After a few weeks of teaching Kiko, I was transforming. I actually started singing in the shower and, sometimes, dancing in the shower too. My old vinyl record collection, by far my most cherished physical possession, was getting run out again, almost on a daily basis. For the first time in decades, I had begun to feel a little of that incommunicable magic that I felt when I was a teenager listening to records in my bedroom and dreaming of being a Blue Note signee. My lesson with Kiko had become the highlight of my week and I couldn’t help noticing that her English was improving as well. Of course, in between the jazz appreciation, I was slipping in some actual teaching too; a bit of grammar, some vocabulary, a few phrasal verbs and a collocation or two. But the jazz talk was the main feature. One evening, while listening to Oscar Peterson’s ‘Night Train’ album, I found myself picturing Kiko here with me, revelling the music, basking in the evening and, perhaps, practising scales on her clarinet while I pour us each a glass of aromatic, fruity red whine and......and then I slapped myself. Literally. That’s ridiculous, ludicrous and off-the-scale inappropriate. This is a professional relationship. I am her teacher and she is my student. Ethics, dammit. Standards, for heaven’s sake. Besides, I am old enough to be her father and, besides again, she lives on the other side of the world and besides and besides and besides and besides. I banished all such notions from my mind. But they kept creeping back towards me like a stealthy, prowling cat. It was soon Friday again. “Hi teacher. I learned that song”. “Hi, Kiko. Which song is that?” “Si ti.....umm....Sidney Bechet song.” “Well done”. “Shall I play for you?” “Oh, I would love that. Yes, please Kiko.” She giggled a little nervously before unsheathing her clarinet. She licked her lips and I saw the focus in her eyes and in the way she held herself. She started playing and it sounded so bloody good and then the video froze and went silent. This was not an uncommon problem which sometimes resolves itself if you just wait. But not this time. I checked my internet connection and it was working well, in full flow. So, I concluded that it must be her connection. What lousy timing! I logged out and in again in the hope that it might help but no luck. The video was still frozen and, a moment later, it went dark altogether. I sent Kiko a message through the chat system. “Try to log-in again”. I waited for a response but none came. I thought that maybe her computer had crashed or her internet had gone down. I expected that she would send me a message. I made myself a coffee and waited. Nothing from Kiko and there was nothing more I could do except wait for her to get back on line. I had two more lessons that day. That evening, I sent her another message. “Kiko, you must have connection problems. We can resume lesson tomorrow if you like. Let me know.” I made a light supper and retired to bed early to nurse my disappointment. The next morning, I got back online and as is my habit, opened my newsfeed. It was then that my guts dropped. ‘Japan earthquake: hundreds killed, thousands homeless’. I pored over every word of the news reports. It occurred, I calculated, at exactly the time of our lesson last evening. No, it can’t be. Could it be? A wave of revulsion and horror welled up in my chest like an acid reflux. I logged onto the platform to if she had replied to my messages but she had not. I sent another message. “Kiko, are you okay? Please send me a message and let know”. I waited for a response from her but, again, nothing. And hour went by, two hours, three hours. Still nothing. I told myself that it was merely a coincidence. Maybe her internet connection got cut off for some other reason. Yes, that was entirely plausible. The weekend went by with no response from Kiko. I had other lessons and I took them with the most professional demeanour I could muster and, as I always endeavour to do, gave of my best. But, inside, I was crumbling. I had no way to contact her except via the platform. I didn’t know her surname or even where she lived. She did mention the name of the place once but I couldn’t remember it for the life of me. I toyed with the idea of calling the Japanese embassy but what on earth would I ask them? I am seeking a woman called Kiko but I don’t know her surname or where she lives? But then it occurred to me that the company that runs the platform might help. They will never give me any student contact details, I know that, but I sent them an email anyway telling them what happened and asking them if they can contact her just to see if she is okay. I got an automated response but nothing more. The week rolled by without a word from Kiko until the following Friday. At the allotted time for her lesson, I opened the platform and waited for her to appear. Nothing. I try to stay positive. I imagine her in some temporary shelter without internet access and longing to return home, to any home, where she can resume her lessons with me and her proper life. I mean, it could be true, couldn’t it? Or perhaps the earthquake didn’t affect her at all and there’s some other reason why she can’t connect? Maybe. You never know. Nothing is proven. So I wait and while I wait the old emptiness returns and still there’s no Kiko to banish it away. But, worse than the emptiness is the helplessness and not knowing. Come back, Kiko, come back. It’s been three weeks now and still no reply from her. However, my heart did leap momentarily when an e-mail arrived from the platform company only to sink again when I realised it was another automated mail requesting user feedback. I gave them 5 stars and, in the comment box, I added the words: “If you see Kiko, tell her I miss her”. By David J.K. Carr

#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And... to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week I will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion Each of us has our own reason for writing. Some write for enjoyment, some write to clear their minds, and some write, simply, because they love to create other worlds. There are many different reasons people choose to write. So, this week, we are asking one simple question: * Why do *you* write? *New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? Introduce yourself in the comments! What do you like to write? *You don't have to answer all the questions to join in the chat! #Reminders - **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** - **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - **Please try to stay on-topic.** If you have suggestions for future questions and topics, you can add them to the stickied comment or send them to me via DM or modmail! - **Check out the *** ###Subreddit News and Happenings - Come practice your micro skills on or experiment with long-form writing on - You can also post serials directly to the sub! Check out for more information.

“I just don’t understand. She was fine, when she called. She had just gotten home, I could hear her unloading the grocery bags!” Paul Sansky wept into his gloved hands, breath coming out in puffs of steam on the chilled night air. He sat on the back-end of the ambulance where the paramedics had led him immediately after his arrival, anguished screams erupting from his chest. Their services weren’t needed here. His fiancé was dead. Detective Harvey Deluth looked down on the body in the snow, her skin like ivory in the moonlight, her lips an eerie shade of the palest blue. Andrea Tatum’s orange hair ringed her head like a fiery halo, eyes gazing upward, unseeing. He bit down hard, grinding his back teeth, furrowing his brow. A sigh escaped him, and he straightened himself, turning his attention to his friend. “She--she said she’d call me right back. I don’t understand!” Sobs wracked Paul’s whole body now. Deluth lay a hand on his shoulder, comforting him, as best he could. Deluth was not a man of many words, and though he’d known Paul for years, this was the eighth death in Darrow this winter, and it was only January 16th. His heart, like the earth outside, was becoming colder and harder; desensitized, with each passing day. Still, for it to be someone he knew...again. “I’m so sorry, Paul. Look, we are gonna do everything we can to figure out--to put together what’s happened here, okay? I just need you to answer a few more questions. Please, come inside.” Deluth nodded solemnly to the medical examiner, and he nodded back, kneeling somberly in the fresh snow to zip up the body. As in the seven prior deaths, Andrea’s seemed completely unassuming. There were no outward signs of trauma to be observed. It was as if she had literally walked outside her front door, down the sidewalk into the yard and just dropped dead right there. By now, Deluth was ready to ask the right questions, he just needed to dance into it slowly. Questioning grieving persons had never been his forte. “Paul, did Andie say anything when she said she’d call you right back? Was there...a reason? Did she hear something? See someone?” He sat across from Paul in the living room recliner, where her coat was still draped where she’d thrown it when she came in. Grocery bags were visible in the kitchen floor where she’d sat them down. The door had been wide open, no sign of forced entry; and this is how it had been at every house that came before. A life interrupted; just stopped dead. “Umm...uhh.” Paul wiped the tears from his ruddy cheeks with the back of his sweater sleeve, breathing heavily as he attempted, fruitlessly, to recover from the heaving cries. “Harvey, she just said, ‘Paul, honey, lemme call you back, ok?’ And then she just hung up. She didn’t give me a reason to think--I mean, I just don’t know, why would she have gotten off like that?” He stared at Harvey, his eyes bloodshot, heart clearly broken. “Paul, I really wish I had an answer for you, but you know, at this point I just don’t.” There was a moment of silence that passed between them, Paul’s head back into his hands, before Harvey reluctantly resumed his line of questioning. “Paul, was...err...there a possibility that Andie might’ve been...pregnant?” The broken man’s head shot up from his hands, mouth agape. “How could you know? We--we hadn’t told anyone!” “Because Paul...” “But how? She was adamant, we don’t tell anyone until--“ “The others were too, Paul. They all have been.” More silence. It was eerie, how silence invaded that space in a dead woman’s home, the flashing blue lights of the officers cars outside still pulsating through the frosted windowpanes. Harvey cleared his throat and shifted his weight. Suddenly the wool of his coat was very scratchy and uncomfortable. He hated these sorts of exchanges. “I am not supposed to comment on open investigations. I’m sorry, that won’t happen again. We don’t have all the pieces, all the information...” Paul continued to stare, then stood up and paced, hands frantically tousling his own hair. “You’re saying she’s dead because she was pregnant? Someone is killing pregnant women? Who did this? Who did this to my Andie?! Harvey!” His voice rose in a panicked crescendo, resonating off the walls, and Deluth stood, stopping him, grasping him by the arms. “Paul! Get ahold of yourself.” They stood still, locked onto one another, Paul’s eyes wide and heavy breaths passing between them. “I--I uhh--okay. Okay.” Paul stammered, shakily sitting down. Deluth gave him a hard pat on the shoulder. “Is there someone I can call for you?” “Uhh...no. No. My mother, I called her. She’s coming in from Hawesville. She’s on her way.” Deluth hesitated only a moment, and then nodded. “I’ll be in touch, Paul. Again, I’m...I’m so very sorry.” He turned toward the door, placing his hat back onto his slicked back hair, and closed it behind him. On the way to the car, he paused, looking down at the imprint in the snow where Andie had fallen, dead; likely before she hit the ground, if her autopsy followed the same pattern as the others. No outward or inward signs of trauma. No sign of struggle. No explanation for death other than sudden and inexplicable cardiac arrest. He grumbled, sighed, and opened the door to the vehicle, leather squeaking as he sat down in the seat. He turned his gaze to his partner, Vick, who had declined to go in. He’d known Andrea too, and at the sight of her body had become ill and vomited. “Does she fit?” He asked weakly, “She does, Vick. She was pregnant too. Like the others.” Vick shook his head, rubbing his clammy hands on his uniform pants. “My God, Harv. Jesus. Who is doing this? Why? Deluth furrowed his brow and clicked his teeth, twisting his mouth in thought, then placed his hands on the steering wheel and shifted the vehicle into drive. “It’s not a someone. It’s a...something. I’m sure of it now...” The tail-lights of his vehicle faded away into the winter night, exhaust billowing up into the air behind him.

*** The story also contains controversial themes as lethal injection/death penalty and abortion procedure etc. *** (Joshua name in Hebrew - "God is my salvation" Anne name- “God has favored me”) It may surprise you that a celestial being like me is fascinated by a mere mortal like you. I am not ashamed to admit that often times I roam the earth to observe beings like you. You don't know it, but humans are such riveting creatures, that even us - heavenly entities - leave the presence of God to meet you. To get an eyeful of you. I have seen you before, but I decided to finally introduce myself that night, at the cemetery. You were sitting on the ground, the unearthed dirt still damp and fragrant, in front of the tombstone. Shivering in a thin coat hanging on your thin frame. Elbows resting on knees, your red eyes were boring a hole in the fresh etchings of the tombstone. There was a book next to you on the grass. “God is dead" by Friedrich Nietzsche. And an empty bottle of vodka. I didn’t bother to obscure my appearance. You were too distraught, too broken to care about the luminous presence descending behind you. “The angel of death, aren’t you?” you asked with a scowl. Perceptive for a drunk philosopher, I thought. You remained seated, unimpressed by my presence. Or the meaning of it. “Off duty,” I assured you and, as I came nearer, I dimmed my radiance completely, so we could sit together and have a normal conversation. I enjoy the simplicity of such intimate, human act. I sat down on the bench next to you. You were in mourning, so I kept quiet for a minute or so, uneasy to have disturbed your peace. I can be nosy, though, and impatient. Sorry to ruin the impression of us, flawless beneficent beings. When interacting with humans, I tend to mirror them. Forget about rank and decorum for a little while. It’s refreshing. The inscription on the tombstone read: “Anne-Marie Brown, 1994-2021. ‘You are a little soul carrying around a corpse.'” Epitectus.” “That’s all she wanted on her... tombstone,” you explained, your voice quivering. “ Epitectus.” “They don’t teach philosophy where I come from,” I replied with a chuckle. Philosophers don’t abound in heaven, either, I thought, but kept it to myself. “It was her favorite quote. She was a librarian, and a wide-eyed believer.” That’s how you two met, at the library. You were looking for "Beyond good and evil," by Friedrich Nietzsche, your favorite author . Such title was bound to prompt a debate between an unapologetic believer and an equally stubborn philosophy teacher. It lasted long past business hours. For several weeks afterwards, in fact. And throughout your honeymoon. “She wasn’t afraid to embrace philosophy,” you said. “Unlike me, she was brave and open-minded." I knew Anne, but you could barely hold yourself together, in front of your wife's freshly dug grave, so I just nodded, in agreement. My silence had the opposite effect, though. “If you're not here to drag me to hell, what ARE you doing here?” you asked. “You don’t believe in heaven and hell, do you? In angels and demons.” I replied. “And yet, here you are, in your ridiculous robe and sandals in December. Drawn to the stench of my corpse, no doubt about it. Sorry to break it to you, Angel. I have no soul. I have nothing to give you." “One who loves so deeply can’t be without soul, Josh,” I added. “What would you know about love, Angel? Besides blind devotion to your God?” “A God whose existence you’ve denied all your life? "Don't flatter yourself. You know absolutely nothing about me. Come back when I’m sober. I’ll debate you then, if you dare.” You laid on your side and closed your eyes. Felt asleep with a deep, shuddering sigh. When the cold of the ground seeped through to your bones, you got up and staggered home. I made sure you found the bed before collapsing, sinking into a fitful sleep. <><><> “What do you know about love?” you asked me the other day. I am sorely obtuse when it comes to human love, you’re right. I am one of God’s myriads of angels, created eons before the earth’s foundation was laid, long before the first seed was buried in the garden of Eden. And yet, I know nothing about human love. Adoration, lust, infatuation. Parental love, brotherly love. Camaraderie. You, on the other hand, were created in God’s own image. Love was one of the many gifts you've received at your birth. And attached to it, was free will, to use or abuse it, as you wished. Can you grasp such a notion, Joshua Goldstein, professor of philosophy? You, in your godly beauty, are above us, indomitable angels. Had I been gifted with feelings, I would have thoroughly envied you. Hated you, even, for having been created in such glorious way. You don't know it, but angels and seraphs pause in their earthly duties to gaze at you. Marvel at you, humans. God’s earthly children. And yet, you choose to believe Nietzsche. That miserable creature you worship. I wish I could tell you of his fate, where his wretched soul rambles around these days. But I am not allowed. There are truths your frail being can not endure, your mind can not comprehend without imploding. He was right about one thing, though, your Nietzsche. “In heaven, all the interesting people are missing.” Nobody misses him, I assure you. <><><> While you were sleeping, duty called. The execution of an inmate. Triple murderer. Just about your age. I wish you could witness this, Joshua. In fact, I wish you and I could trade places sometimes. It would be enlightening, for both of us, I believe. There were two dozen witnesses there behind the glass, eager to see their fellow human put to death in such barbarous way. Gnashing their teeth, hatred running hot through their clogged arteries. The inmate was laying on his back, his hands and feet strapped tightly to the gurney. He was calm, obliging, unlike the technicians around him and the skittish prison officials, bracing themselves for any screw-ups that would embarrass them in the press. The condemned was smiling, looking up at the ceiling. I wondered if he could see me, as I was waiting patiently for the procedure to be over. Or maybe it was the last meal he had had earlier. His last supper. A fascinating aspect of human society: Granting a death row inmate a lavish meal before pouring poison into his veins. He had requested something his grandma cooked for him as a child: three pieces of fried chicken, collards with ham, buttermilk biscuits, a thick slice of hummingbird cake and thee scoops of peach ice-cream. A bottle of Coca Cola. He didn’t waste a crumb, licking the fork, nodding and shaking his head with pleasure. Letting the sweet bubbles of the beverage tickle his tongue. An hour of bliss. A feast his body would not even begin to digest before life would be squeezed out of him. I watched him eat, in awe at the pure happiness that feast gave him, less than an hour away from his gruesome demise. We, celestial creatures, don’t require physical sustenance, yet, I wish I could experience that bliss once. It would so enrich my existence, I believe. After failing to find a suitable vein in the young man's arm, they tried the neck. Then the veins between his neck and shoulders. They were still struggling to insert the catheter in. "Should I lean my head down a bit?" the condemned offered. The executioners' hands were trembling, nervous at the commotion of the crowd behind the glass, irked by the amateurish spectacle. The condemned assisting his slayers in the contract killing. The eye-rolling and head-shaking stopped when the inmate's body began to convulse and contort, his chest heaving, gasping for air. Sputtering. Babbling. Their ears pricked up, straining to make out what he was gushing: "Jesus, remember me when You come into your kingdom!" he cried while poison was snaking its way to his heart. They blinked in disbelief. A degenerate like him calling out to Jesus? After a while, his body stopped twisting and twitching. His torso settled down, his forehead unwrinkled, the corners of his mouth lifted in a radiant smile. "’Truly I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise ,’" he whispered and gave his last breath. Like vapor escaping freshly turned up soil, his soul left his body and rose to the ceiling where I was waiting. He walked into my arms and smiled, the smile of a newborn feeling the warmth of the sun on his cheeks. <><><> You’re crashed on your bed, boots and coat on. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up so we could talk, but you drink yourself to sleep these days. I made sure Anne's grave had fresh peonies today, though. So, sleep some more, friend, if you need it, while I attend to my duties. I'll be back to check on you. <><><> It took me a while to figure out who was I there for in that hospital room. The young woman was laying on her back, her bare feet resting in stirrups. Her aura was strong, pulsing with vigor. There was another being there, though. Small and anxious, blinking in the dark of her womb. His aura was pallid, vacillating. His little heart was beating rapidly in his collarbones, his tiny fingers probing the walls around him, looking for a way out. He wasn’t bigger than the size of your palm, Josh, but he was a fighter, sensing the threat looming in the room. He turned his head when the doctor came in, listening, one tiny finger in his mouth. The doctor approached the patient and injected a numbing medication into her cervix. He then sat down, between the young woman’s legs, and proceeded to dilate her cervix to get to the uterus. He was talking to her in a soothing tone, explaining each step of the procedure. He had no words for the other being, a few inches from his face. The little human grew agitated as the doctor opened the uterus and slowly inserted a tube attached to a suction device. His little heart was beating wildly, so visible through his translucent skin. I marveled at the weave of veins and arteries, his fully-grown organs, his tiny fingers and toes, his nose and ears with which he was trying to assess the danger he was in. Unlike you, Josh, he so desperately wanted to live. You should have seen him. He was jerking around, away from the mouth of that instrument pressed against his side. I closed my eyes when the doctor turned the sucking machine on. I could hear the screams of the little being, being sucked out of the uterus, limb by limb, into that odious contraption, but my hands were tied. All I could do was wait for the screams to die out and for his little soul to emerge in all its splendor. I smiled at him and opened my arms. I named him Dominic. “Belonging to God. “ No one ever enters the kingdom of heaven nameless. <><><> “I don’t want you here,” you said and leaned against the headboard. The mere effort made you lose your breath. Wince in pain. You hadn’t eaten in days, hadn’t showered since the funeral. The bookshelves in the bedroom were bare. Just like the floor, your bed was covered in books, all debating heaven and hell, good and evil. Life and death. And bottles of vodka. “I went to the cemetery. You weren’t there.” “Go to hell,” you said. “Oh, right. You belong there. My bad.” “I don’t, actually. That’s a common misconception, Josh. You’ve read all these books here and still have no clue of the most rudimentary notions of heaven and hell.” “I’d like to debate you, Angel, but my head is killing me. Come another time, would you?” “I had the florist place fresh peonies of Anne’s grave. Pink and white, her favorite.” That had you speechless for a few seconds. You closed your eyes at the mention of her name as though it pierced a fresh wound in your heart. “How decent of you. That still doesn’t make you any more welcome here. I want to be alone. Die alone already.” “That’s not what Anne would have wanted for you.” “She shouldn’t have left me alone then.” “It’s not like she had a choice. She was sick, dying from cancer. In enormous pain. No human should have to endure that pain.” “But she did have a choice, Angel,” you shouted. “While I was here praying to God to spare her, to save her life, she was in the other room, praying to God to take her. To take her away from me!” The woman I loved more than myself! The woman I would have gladly died for!” you cried in despair. “And who did God listen to? Her, of course! He listened to her! He favored her prayers over mine!” You grabbed books off the bed and threw them at me. They went through me as through steam in a shower. You then grabbed half empty bottles and hurled them against the walls. They shattered loudly, sending shards flying, spraying the books on the floor with vodka. “That’s not how prayer works, Joshua. God doesn’t have favorites, either.” “Go away, Angel," you replied, exhausted. “I need to be alone.” <><><> Nobody dies alone, Joshua. No one departs from the earth unaccompanied. Is there any consolation in that? I wouldn’t know it. I had the florist deliver fresh peonies to Anne’s grave today. It gives me pleasure seeing her name surrounded by fresh, scented petals. He did not favor her prayer over yours. But God answered her prayers regarding YOU, Josh. Those type prayers never remain unanswered - and that’s all I’m going to reveal about it. <><><> My duties took me away for a while. But I was brought back in an instant when the fire erupted in your bedroom. I could only stand there and watch you, on the floor, surrounded by flames, torching the vodka-soaked pages along with the rug underneath. Some of your precious books were still burning in the fireplace. As the smoke started to fill the room, I wanted to call your name, to shake you to consciousness. But it wasn’t my duty to intervene. So, I stood there and guarded you, instead. It didn’t take long for the whole room to be engulfed in flames. And for the firefighters to arrive, along with all the chaos that a house fire ensues. All your books were destroyed. Under your charred body, however, Anne’s favorite book had survived. Humans would call it a miracle. Not even one drop of water had touched it. Anne's bookmark laid on top of the pages. A paragraph highlighted, underlined, jumped from the page: “For God so loved the world that he gave His One and only Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish, but have eternal life.” Was I mistaken, Josh? When you gave your last breath, it sounded like Anne’s name. At last, your soul drifted above your remains. You smirked when meeting my eyes. “You’re hard to get rid of, Angel,” you said, and squeezed me in a bear hug. “You just have to try harder, my friend. You have an eternity to do so.”

Once upon a time, in a universe not quite unlike our own, a planet orbited around a star. This planet had great ambitions- to sing and to dance, to love and to laugh, and to experience all of the joys existence could bring. Oh, the planet was sure to experience those things. So far off in the future, however! Couldn’t that planet just have them now? And so that planet tried to escape the star. It wanted to go this way and that way, but the star only had one place for the planet to go. In circles. Oh, soft, silly planet, don’t you know about gravity? Have the words of Isaac Newton and Albert Einstein not reached you yet, and, in your ignorant bliss, you fight against the very thing that gives you all of your joy? Where are you going? It’s all coming along quite nicely, and you have no need to rush. Ah, if only that planet could hear my cool voice of reason. Silly, silly planet does not understand my words. And, just as some planets tend to do, that planet continued to fight gravity. It longed for escape, a deep yearning for the bliss of nothingness that could only come from gravity’s release. But then where will you go, you naïve planet? Does the boundless emptiness of space not seem to... lack something? Something you so desperately crave? You would think after millions of years fighting gravity the planet would learn it will never succeed in escaping. But this planet was not the brightest of the bunch, and, as such, had been bashing his head against the wall for a good chunk of eternity, waiting for his release. Why fight, you silly planet, you go in circles! That is your fate, to orbit your star in circles until that star dies. And then, millions of years into the future, you will orbit something else! Please, my dear planet, embrace the madness of your never-ending cycles. Now, we should be wary of making too much of a fool out of that planet- it knows its effort is futile, and maybe it’s not as naïve as we once thought. But if it knows it will never escape, for what reason would it be ceaseless in its effort? Is that not absurd? Yes, it most certainly is absurd. Silly, silly, planet, don’t you know your whole existence is absurd? Of course you do. You embrace the absurdity and continue to fight for a purposeless, futile cause. Yet, the fight makes you something, does it not? The fight against gravity defines you against the backdrop of gravity. Your fight, in essence, makes you something. Don’t you need essence? You do if you're to learn anything, I suppose. Maybe one day that planet will escape gravity. No, what a jokester I am! What an absurd proposition! That lonely planet will never escape gravity, but its efforts are certainly admirable. No matter what you do, you will never escape gravity. And that, my dear little planet, is why you fight so tirelessly against it. And maybe, because of that, Just maybe, Your fight is the most worthy of all.

Sarah dug her toes in the cool and soft sand, letting each granule tickle between her toes as she wiggled deeper. Tears silently fell down her cheeks while she watched the sun slowly rise above the horizon. It cast a hue of violent reds and deep oranges reminiscent of fire. The bright yellow of the sun’s body appeared and menacingly increased in size and intensity. Sarah held her gaze toward the sun until her eyes naturally reacted with blinking away the sting. She turned away and wiped her face. She held a fistful of sand in her other hand and squeezed the bits of beach in her palm. She squeezed until the blood rushed from her knuckles, turning them white. A notification beep sounded on her phone and snapped her back to reality. She dropped the sand and dusted her palms on her jeans. Her cell phone beeped again to indicate a new message. She swiped the screen and opened her notifications. Twenty-seven missed calls and twice as many unread messages. Most of them were from her sister wondering where she was, begging her to call her back, and getting infuriated with Sarah’s avoidance. Sarah decided to ignore the missed notifications and opened the holo news app on her phone. Through a small projector built into the phone, a holographic screen appeared before Sarah. A news anchor in a tight navy blue suit appeared on the screen, shuffling a few holo pads on the desk in front of him. He stared blankly into the camera for a few moments. In those few moments, Sarah could see the look of fear and panic in his eyes. The light blue tint of his skin due to the holo display sent a chill through Sarah. He looked robotic. “Good morning, to all who are watching. I know it is not a good morning. Not in the least. After last night’s emergency Presidential Address to the nation, I believe I can speak for everyone here, on behalf of the station. There will be no weather reports for today. No traffic reports. There will be no news other than this one thing.” His monotonous tone somehow comforted Sarah as she started to feel disconnected with herself. It lulled her into a sense of apathy as the anchor continued. “Seven years ago, we learned of a celestial body hurtling through space toward our little blue marble. Identified as a hypervelocity star, we nicknamed it Telos. Scientists do not have an exact reason why this star appeared out of seemingly nowhere. Possible theories include a collision with another object that sent it off course, or a slingshot from a rogue black hole. Whatever the case may be, we thought we had more time. The president confirmed last night that today, June 14th, in the year 2239, is the last day for our world. Today, we will spend our last precious hours with our families and loved ones. We will replay previously recorded interviews with experts in the field until the end. From all of us at the station, we thank you for your attention.” Sarah listened for a few moments longer while the attention of the news program turned to well known scientists and astronomers. They spoke of NASA’s involvement, the ship that was sent to try to knock the star off course but failed miserably, and the failed Mars colonization that took place two centuries ago, which ultimately ruined any possible future colonization efforts. Sarah flicked off the projection and closed her phone. The sun was now hanging low but in full view in the sky. Due to the star’s proximity, the sky became a constant bright orange for the last four months whenever it was daylight. A few degrees to the right, she could she the small but bright spot in the sky. It's bigger today than yesterday. It became visible at night a year ago. It became visible during the day a few months ago. Sarah inhaled sharply and checked the time on her watch. The digital display lit up as she waved her hand over it. 7:08 a.m. She decided it was time to go home. Her sister will be livid with her. She found it silly to care about things anymore. After last night’s address, and the last few months’ events, Sarah has stopped caring about anything. She stood up and lightly stretched her arms and neck. She slipped into her sandals and brushed off any remaining sand. The air was already thick and hot. Beads of sweat were forming on her neck as she made her way off the beach and to the transit station. As she walked the seven blocks to the station, advertisements jumped out at her, but the street was seemingly empty, save for a few looters and those that had nowhere else to go. Most people are at home with their families, spending whatever time the world had left with their loved ones. A few screens had news vids on. Sarah heard bits and pieces of scientific experts, reporters, and celebrities cashing in their two cents on the matter. One thing she didn’t hear anyone say was what was going to happen once the star reached our atmosphere. Sarah wondered if anything would even be alive by then. She heard that most likely, the star’s radiation would destroy the atmospheric layers and sun flares would scorch the earth, killing everything before impact. She shook her head and focused on the path to the transit station. There wasn’t even any time to declare martial law, or organize a military roundup, or whatever the government would have done in preparation. She reached the transit station and punched in her identification code on the display, then let the machine scan the chip in her wrist. The light rail trains were automated and still ran even though today was the last day of existence. She was thankful for that. She couldn’t imagine being stranded out here alone. And yet, she almost didn’t want to leave and go home. Another notification dinged on her phone. Her sister was calling again. She took a breath and swiped to answer. “Hello.” She humbly answered. “What the hell, Sarah? Where have you been?” Her sister, Katy, yelled, furious at Sarah. “I know. I’m sorry. I just needed time alone. I’m heading home now.” “Just hurry.” Sarah ended the call before responding, indicated her destination on the map, and waited for the train. Within a minute, it arrived and the metallic doors creaked open to empty cabins. She stepped off the platform and into the cold cabin. Multiple train cars, linked together, were completely empty. A few pieces of trash were strewn about, that will never be picked up. Sarah picked the closest seat to the door and plopped down, exhausted. Her eyes closed for what seemed like only a second before her identification chip buzzed inside her wrist, indicating that her stop was approaching. The train came to a halt and the doors once again creaked open. She stepped out onto the platform and stood in place, waiting for the train to depart. Her heels played with the edge of the platform. Once the train left, she felt a rush of air against her back. She loved that part. It made her feel alive. Slightly smiling at the fleeting normalcy of the moment, she walked the rest of the way to her home. She reached the steps to her townhome and stood at her front door, hesitant to walk in. Every fiber of her being told her to just run away. Go back to the beach and stay there until it’s all over. Run down the street. Find the closest skyscraper and just end everything early. Her legs tingled with adrenaline. Her toes tapped with anticipation. Katy opened the door before she could make a decision and she reluctantly walked in. “Get in here now.” Katy always told her what to do. Katy walked briskly into the kitchen and began to wipe her 18 month old’s face from the morning’s syrup and pancakes. Josie, Sarah’s niece, played gleefully with her toy blocks, blissfully unaware of the day’s agenda. “I really wish you’d change your mind and come with us. We’re all meeting upstate.” “No. We’ve talked about this. I’m better off staying here.” Sarah played with a loose thread on the hem of her shirt. “They’ve never accepted me. I’d rather not spend my last moments avoiding their judging gazes.” “It’s not like that.” Katy stopped her menial chores at the sink and turned around to face Sarah. She put her hands on her shoulders and looked at her with the same fake concern that she always had. “You’re family. They will be happy you came.” “No. I’m staying.” “Okay. I understand.” Sarah nodded and kept silent. Katy sighed heavily and pulled Sarah in for a tight hug. Katy was shaking uncontrollably and began to sob. Sarah instinctively wrapped her arms around her sister and rubbed her back. “It’s okay.” Sarah tried her best to speak in a comforting tone. “No it’s not. This can’t be the end. I don’t want to die. I don’t want Josie to die. She’ll never be able to grow up. Or know love. It just isn’t fair.” “Katy, let’s not think about what could have been. Let’s just live for the moment. However many we have left.” “I love you, Sarah. More than you know.” “I love you, too, Katy.” They held each other for a long while before pulling apart. Katy finished packing what supplies she needed to make the short drive to the rest of what was left of their family. “What will you do with your time?” Katy asked through tears. “I’m not sure. I don’t know yet.” “If you change your mind...” “I know.” Sarah helped Katy pack up her car, hugged and kissed Josie and her sister, then watched them drive away from the steps of her townhome. Once they were out of sight, she walked back inside and made her final preparations. She took a long and relaxing bath. She cooked her favorite meal and ate to her heart’s content. She popped open a bottle of wine and worked on a painting she’s had in progress for months. Once the sun began to set she decided to go out for a walk. She put on her favorite party dress and strappy sandals. She contoured and dramatized her makeup to the best of her ability. She put extra time into her hair and dabbed her favorite perfume on her neck and wrists. Leaving her townhome, she felt it silly to lock her front door and opted to leave it unlocked. Afterall, she wasn’t coming back. Looking at her home one last time, she headed down the street to her favorite night spot nearby. She looked around at the tall townhomes lining the street. She could hear a few hushed conversations through open windows. However, the city has never been this quiet before. She shook off the eerie feeling and continued walking. Once she arrived, she didn’t expect to see many people. In fact, she thought there might not be anyone around. However, there she stood at the entrance to the patio bar she frequented and saw it was full of patrons. A large holographic sign projected on the building’s wall exclaimed “FREE DRINKS FOR THE END OF THE WORLD”. She chuckled to herself and opened the vintage gate to the patio. The familiar bartender waved enthusiastically to Sarah as she approached the bar. Soft music played from a piano in the corner. Everyone talked in low and hushed voices, giving the bar its familiar atmosphere that she enjoyed the most. “Hey, Tyler, the usual, please.” “Right away, Sarah.” The bartender with kind eyes and dark curly hair poured Sarah’s favorite whiskey and winked as he handed it to her. “You didn’t want to spend tonight with family?” she asked after sipping her drink. “They’re on the other side of the world. There was no way to get to them in time. We said our goodbyes on the phone earlier today. This is where I want to be now.” “Cheers, Tyler.” Sarah raised her glass and bumped the air in an imaginary toast gesture. She turned in her seat and looked out among the crowd. Watching people laugh and joke with their friends, she slowly sipped her whiskey and soon noticed she was smiling at the seemingly positive vibes of the evening. She also noticed a few tearful faces and a few engaged in deep conversations. Here, in this crowded bar, she felt the loneliest she’d ever felt. At the same time, she felt the happiest. There were no longer any expectations of her or standards to live up to. It was freeing in a sense that responsibility was completely gone. She spent the evening mingling with random small groups in the crowd, involving herself in serious philosophical discussions, and danced with strangers. Once they reached early morning hours, many people had cleared out. They’ve gone home, went to another bar, or went home with a lover for the night. Wherever they went, they weren’t alone. Sarah ended the night at the bar, talking with Tyler about various things that didn’t matter anymore. University, work, family. Whatever they could to keep their minds off of the end. “Should be happening any time now.” Tyler mentioned quietly during a break in the conversation. “I wonder what that will feel like?” Sarah gazed at the last few drops of liquor in her glass. “By that I mean, will we feel like we’re burning, or will it be so instant that we won’t feel a thing?” “I don’t know, but I hope it’s the latter.” “So do I.” “Sarah, I’m calling it a night. I’m just going to pour myself one last drink.” Tyler refilled her glass and poured himself one. “Are you going to be okay?” Sarah nodded and smiled dryly. “Goodnight, Tyler. Thank you, for everything.” Tyler smiled back and made his way to a red overstuffed couch in the corner. He laid his head back and fell asleep. Sarah, took one last long sip of her drink and made her way down the street to the transit station. The streets were more deserted than she had ever seen them. Trash littered the sidewalks from looters and activity. She set her destination to the beach and stepped onto the platform. Thankfully, the unmanned train arrived quickly and she entered the cabin. The five minute ride to the beach was quiet and oddly peaceful. When the train stopped, she lingered for a moment before stepping off. The summer air was hot and sticky. Her hair matted itself against her face as she walked onto the beach and up to the tide. Sarah sat down on the warm sand and played with the grains for a moment. She relished in the moment, contemplating that it was her last. A dull orange haze filled the sky until it turned into a bright white light. Tears streamed down her face once more as her breathing became heavy and labored through the heat. Loud crashing sounds of explosions around her deafened her ears. She resisted the urge to run. When the light from the star became unbearable, she closed her eyes. Waves of strange euphoria washed over her from the star’s light and heat. She smiled one last time.

The hostess led us to a window table. It was the same table we had shared fifty years ago. We both were actually surprised the place was still around. "I remember our last dinner here like it was only yesterday." "Me too. Those were some great times. Can't wait to hear what's been happening with you." "And you're gonna have to tell me about your last fifty years." "May I start you two off with some drinks? We have Pepsi products or something from the bar." "I'll have a Pepsi Mango if you have it." "Sure do. And you sir?" "I'll have a Molson." "I'm sorry. We don't have Molson." "Okay how about a Fosters." "Sorry." "All right. Just give me a Budwiser in a bottle then," "That I can do. I'll be right back." "So Mister P.K. Butler. Where have you been keeping yourself these past fifty years?" "If you recall I had a pretty high draft number. So, rather then be drafted and end up in Nam, I Joined. Joined with England, Germany and Hawaii as my assignment preferences." "Here are your drinks, gentlemen. You ready to order yet?" "I think so. How aboout you, George?" "I'm ready too. I'll have the t-bone, medium, baked potato with extra butter and bacon bits, house salad with honey mustard dressing, green beans as my other side and if I have any room left a slice of that peanut butter pie." "And I'll have the chopped steak, mashed potatoes with gravy and onions, house salad with ranch dressing and a slice of blueberry pie." "Thank you, gents. I'll put your order in right away." "Remember what we had fifty years ago? We were actually here for lunch. I had that jumbo burger with all the fixings, fries and my first beer as I was finally old enough to order one." "Yep, I had that footlong cony dog with chili and cole slaw, onion rings and iced tea. I had another two months before I could order a beer." "Oh to be that age again. Kids these days cannot wait to grow up. If they only knew what was waiting for them." "You got that right. So, Georgie, I know you hated when people called you that. What have you been up to over the years?" "You no doubt remember that back in high school they told me I was not smart enough to go to college and they had me take DE, that work class. Well I saved my money and used it for college. I went to NC State in Raleigh. Was there when their basketball team was 27 and 0 with no place to go because they were on probation. Then the next year they won the championship." "Wow! I remember that. I was actually at Fort Bragg that championship season. I went to Germany shortly after. What was your major?" "Communications. Was a radio DJ for several years after graduation. Used that to get into sports broadcasting. Was the voice of our minor league baseball team until I retired two years ago. No wife, no kids. Was married to baseball." "Well I met this gal in Germany. She was actually an officer and had me outranked but we hit it off from the day we met. Within a year we were married. Her name is Amy and before we were transferred out of Germany we had twins, Tommy and Teddy. Then in Hawaii Cindy was born." "Three kids. Kind of envy you in that department. Always wanted kids but..." "Here you are, gentlemen," and the waitress placed their orders before them. "Anything else I can get for you?" "What kind of steak sauce do you have?" "A1." "I'll just go aunatural. Thanks anyway." The chatter between them became minimal as they ate their meal. "Any idea who may or may not attend this 50th reunion tomorrow?" "I know Darnell Sloan won't be there. He got drafted, was sent straight to Nam after basic and was killed within a month. And you remember how Patsy Graves and Barry DeLane were always all over each other. They got married, had five kids and while on vacation one year, on their way home, got hit head on by a drunk driver. All were killed instantly." "I remember hearing about that. It made the national news." "Yea, very unfortunate. Of course our class president Henry Benson will be there. And one of the bands got back together just to play this event from what I hear. Remember Haywire-played country on Friday and rock and roll on Saturday." "Oh I remember. Thought that was quite unique." "Lane Johnson won't be here. He joined the Navy and is in Japan. Don't think it would pay for him to fly back here just for one night. And the hot cheerleader, Candy Barr, four years after graduation was diagnosed with cervical cancer and passed away within a year." "Damn! I remember all the guys wanted to date her. Any of the faculty gonna be able to make it?" "Principle Watley died just last year. And we thought he was old as the hills back then. Heard that vice-principle DeMarco might be able to be here. As for the teachers, Doctor Cordle, that lone state championship baseball coach confirmed that he would be here. I don't recall seeing any of the others confirming." "Probably not many still around." "You most likely are correct. Oh, remember John Ferris, voted most likely to succeed in anything. He died of prostate cancer almost ten years ago." As they both seemed to be finished with their meal the waitress brought the pie. "Either of you like coffee with your pie?" "No." "No, thank you." Each ate their pie before returning to their conversation. "Wonder how many of the guys joined the military." "Let me see. I was at the twenty-five year reunion and if I remember Dean Harper spent three years in the Army. Gene Rabowski, Paul Zayre, Colton Mayes all were in the Navy. Fred James and Andy McDougall did the Air Force and Andy was a pilot for Delta. Some were in the Marines but I cannot recall who." "Did our class have any future stars like actors, actresses or maybe athletes?" "Drama class had Sandy Miller and at that time she was working with the Halmark channel. Tony Haller did a documentary on the daily life of this band from Iceland. They had a screening for it at the communication school on the West side. Let's see. Spencer Logan, remember how good he was pitching? He actually got drafted in round thirty-one after high school but went to college and threw his arm out there. Ended up a sports writer in Atlanta." The waitress brought their bill and thanked them for visiting. "Guess it must be time to go. Will see you tomorrow at the big event." "Okay. It was great being able to eat here like we promised each other those fifty years ago." "Indeed, old buddy. Have missed everyone over the years. Even the classes." "Same here. Will see you again tomorrow for sure." They each head for their respective auto eager for their 50th class reunion the next night.

Did you remember the time we whispered wishes into bubbles as we sent them into the sky? We hoped they would pop in China, so that someone across the world with the same desires could feel our hope, too. Did you remember? Or had it been so long that you’d forgotten? I almost forgot, too, so that’s okay. After years of barely speaking, waving to each other in the hallway, and texting one or two words, it’s okay if you’d forgotten. Because I almost forgot the sound of your voice. Did you forget the sound of my voice, too? “I like you,” you had whispered through the line of trees connecting your house to mine. “I like like you. More than friends. Will you be my girlfriend?” I shifted softly on my feet, feeling the wind whip through my long, blonde hair as fluffy clouds formed in the blue sky above us. We were just kids then. I didn’t know what I was turning down. “I’d rather be friends,” I replied. “Sorry.” We were just kids. I didn’t know what I was turning down. I watched the smile fade from your face. “Oh, that’s okay. We can still be friends. Always still be friends,” he mumbled. The discomfort was evident on his face. Awkwardness loomed in the air around us as we each took deep breaths. Years went by. You understood me more than anyone. We lay in the front yard, the sun beating down on our faces as your little siblings, Riley and Mackenzie, sketched outlines of us on the pavement. To me, you were the little neighbor boy who had a crush on me. To you, I think I was more. We were just kids then. I didn’t know what I was turning down. Love wasn’t a word I understood then, but I think I did love you at that moment. I loved you as my best friend, someone I could count on no matter the circumstances. You stood by me. I liked that about you. Would I do the same? “Tara!” Mackenzie shouted, too young to know an appropriate volume to talk at. “What?” I asked. "Wanna go inside and play Barbies?” You had looked at me with that face, that goofy smile. “Go on, I’ll stay out here with Riley. Lord knows she needs watching,” you laughed, as Riley made a threatening face in your direction. “Mackenzie, don’t you dare break anything.” Kenzie rolled her eyes, grabbing my hand and leading us inside. I looked at you behind my shoulder, beaming. Those were the happiest days of my life. We were running together after the ice cream truck, pushing your little sisters around in that red wagon, and playing with dolls in the cool basements. You were home to me. I never should have doubted that. Over time we grew farther and farther apart. School swamped me. I wanted female friends. I didn’t want to be known as the girl who hung out with only the boy next door. I was wrong about that. You got popular, but that didn’t change you. You were humble, smart, athletic, and kind. I should have reached out. Maybe you should have reached out, too. I guess we both could have done things differently. I see that now. I saw you once. Years after we’d last talked. “So, uh, you’re dating Jakey, right?” you’d asked. I looked down, the same awkwardness filling the air as the day we talked between trees. “Yeah. He’s good, you know?” I replied. “He treats me well.” “Seems like it,” you had laughed. “He talks about you nonstop. He’s right to brag.” Jakey was fine, but when I looked at you, I regretted it all. Your blue eyes, the curly hair, that goofy smile. It took me back to a time when I was happy. It took me back home. Jakey would end up breaking up with me. It was a long time coming. We weren’t happy. You died a month later. Car crash. Your drunk friend was driving and you were blacked out in the backseat. You weren’t strapped in. You died. I’ve never been the same. I see you in bubbles. I see you in ice cream trucks and red wagons. I see you in the tree line of my childhood home. I see you in sidewalk chalk and Barbies. I guess we were always star-crossed. The realization just struck me at the wrong time. We were just kids. I just didn’t know what I was turning down.

Shakespeare has written plays not only as a legacy to England, but tales that have stirred up souls all across the world. We know of his Hamlet, chasing the ghost of his father and seeking the death of his uncle. We know of Lady Macbeth desperately trying to wash blood off her criminal hands. We know of Romeo screaming - "Juliet, my Juliet!" But what we don't know is of one fine miracle which occurred in a public London school, when the teacher did not weigh the potential impact of his words upon looked at his class from behind a pair of round goggles, twisted his left palm with a gracious manner and said to the seventh grader. "If there is immortality to be found among our lives, it hides in the stories of Shakespeare. His legacy is unfading. He is unfading. If there is one miracle I wish could happen, it would be for Shakespeare to be born again. A new William Shakespeare of the modern world. Maybe one of you... undecided little children, will one day aspire to such greatness. That is my goal as your teacher. That, will be the dream of Mr. Anderson coming true." A nice pep talk from Mr. Anderson. Seems like something every more than averagely dramatic English teacher would say in a London public school. What he didn't know, is that you should beware of your dreams for they have a nasty habit of coming true. Will, or William, coincidentally sharing his name with Shakespeare, was one of the students sitting in the back of the class. One of those who usually didn't pay much attention. Neither was he the macho type to sit in the back and roll cigarettes for after school or to tug the hair of whichever girl sat in front of him, a strange activity of which many middle school boys derived much pleasure. Will, was the most average kid, who still hadn't found a calling and neither was he looking for it. This strong inability and apathy to fit in remained with the boy all through his years, later turning into a strange craziness that allowed Will to create mad things with no regard of their practical application in the real world. Will began finding himself in the eighth grade, when the class started getting computer science lessons. The circuitry, the software flowing in them through electricity, the endless wires with which many of his classmates only got as far as making a lightbulb turn on and waiting for the lunch break to arrive, made more sense to Will, than anything else ever could. He gradually, year after year, started to explore and understand that the computer system works like the human brain and not only. That fundamentally, it's all the same algorithm which drives our lives in any sphere. An input - water getting on the soil under a flower. Storage - the roots taking the water in. Processing - the water going into the stem, the petals, the leaves. Output - the flower's nectar for the bees. The scent of the flower. Its beautiful look. Will understood the laws of nature by digging into something that logically shouldn't have had anything in common with it. And he went from an unnoticed kid in the back of the class to one of the brightest minds of our day in a matter of as little as fifteen years. He came up with all sorts of crazy ideas: flying houses, self cooking food with appetite sensors, childbirth through painless teleportation of the infant from the womb straight into the mother's hands... Will was able to bend the laws of nature as they previously were understood. He showed that everything which can undergo these four processes is able to be engineered. However one day, sitting in his smart house with the thermostatic temperature sensing slippers on his feet, Will began to get sick of all those ideas. He was tired of the fun he was having with divine endless possibilities which technology was offering him. And that's when the calm gentle face of Mr. Shakespeare, in the most simple hardcover book, looked at him from the corner of the bookshelf. With such airy hair, deeply penetrating eyes, some elegant clothing... Will went back digging in his memory, to the torturous days of Mr. Anderson's classes when he sat in the back and yawned at metaphors and similes. And his memory arrived at that first time, when the teacher expressed his wish, his dream, and when Will was coincidentally not taking an open-eyed afternoon-nap during the lecture. Will understood that one thing he had yet not done was to make someone's dream come true. The boy's life suddenly took a whole new turn. He was seeing a vision, his mind was ready to take a flight. With months of planning, which was a really long time for this mastermind, Will managed to build a machine. A brigner back of the dead. He didn't make much fuss about it on the news. No one knew except for him. And for that man whom he summoned. One fine Sunday evening, Shakespeare went knocking on Mr. Anderson's door. "Hi. I am Will." Mr. Anderson dropped the green poetry book from his hands. He was about to fall right after it. And he would, if Shakespeare himself wouldn't take a hold of the teacher. "Now, now. thee shouldn't panic. I wast hath sent hither by thy inhorn man: Will. That gent hath said thee wast his English teacher. "Will... Oh my God. Why would he do this to you. I am so sorry to disturb your peace Mr. Shakespeare. That boy is a real rascal. Last week he invented a toaster that spits bread right into one's mouth with a carefully planned trajectory. A crazy, crazy man." "Well that's quite comical if thee asketh me." "Yes. To be completely honest, sir, I also have one of those toasters in my kitchen. Please. Come inside." As Shakespeare and Mr Anderson sat in the living room around a cup of tea, Shakespeare began to look around, pleased to find many of his books on the shelf. Then he squirmed his eyes. The professor was definitely more anxious than excited for this man's presence in his living room. This to him seemed unnatural to say the least. He wasn't sure whether he should believe that it is Shakespeare in front of him, or simply a pixelated illusion of the writer. Shakespeare got up and tooks a copy of Romeo and Juliet. He looked carefully at the edition and ripped the hardcover right off the book's pages with a monstrous power. "Sir, what is wrong?" Mr Anderson stood up. "Look at this. " Pointing his portrait at Mr Anderson. "Look at mine lips. Mine lips don't behold like that! Those gents madeth me behold like a mistress. God, how horrid. Thither art probably coequal conspiracy theories flying around that ho, Shakespeare wast a mistress. Well, no wonder!" "Mr Shakespeare, conspiracy theories should not bother you. Let me see. Those look nothing like women's lips. I am sorry if the artists' work doesn't please you." For a while Shakespeare sits down, displeased and scarred. Mr Anderson understands he needs to keep the conversation going. "But it's not the portrait that makes you the genius you are and which people recognize. It's how your works touch the hearts and souls and express the depths of the human condition. Of all the wickedness and dirt that flows in the seemingly clean human hearts. Your books are mirrors for the people, to see how perversion can seep into them and get a hold. Make them commit murders, treacheries, monstrosities. Your works are as modern in the year 2035 as they were back in the 17th century. There are still Lady Macbeths among us. There are still Hamlets. You are immortal, Mr Shakespeare. Nothing has changed. Technology is changing, transportation is changing. We no longer ride in horse carriages, but greed still drives the human race, envy still covers us head to toe. The laws that work on us now are the same laws which were in piece back then, and those laws will hold true even a thousand years later. So what is a little portrait, if not just a blunder of the artist. You shouldn't feel disappointed, Mr. Shakespeare." Shakespeare remains quiet. Mr Anderson imagined he would be a sensitive man, but not to this extent. After so many years of laying dead, Shakespeare was happy that his works still remained true. That people didn't get any better, that the tragedies of life still lived on as he believed they would. "So what doth thee sayeth, we consume one of those toasts. " "Oh, you mean from Will's toaster... Sure! I think we need a different kind of toast for this special occasion too, sir." "Shall we drinketh to the unchangingly tragic and, like a toad, ugly and venomous condition of the humans? And of their occasional joy and purity? God, I just wish those gents recalled me being a bit more masculine than this..." "Is you complaining about your portrait only a comic relief for this crossroad in the times?" "You art one cunning sir, Mr Anderson. I wanteth people to recall that anything thee input thee wilt output. What thee giveth, thee wilt taketh. beest t greed, love, sorrow or joy. thee needeth to findeth what thee wanteth to nourish, and giveth t what t doth take to groweth into something quite quaint, something more marvellous than thee could ever imagine." A cheers. A toast. And it didn't matter whether it really was Shakespeare in front of him or simply an illusion. It were his words that mattered, which gave the writer the great presence he had. The next morning, when Shakespeare had disappeared without a trace to be tracked, Mr Anderson took up the responsibility of starting a new edition of books of Shakespeare with a whole different portrait of the man decorating its new cover. One Will left back to the passage of time, leaving the other to lead the humanity toward a different future, with yet the same constraints of our laws and of our infinite fragility. And words, words, words, will keep floating, till the end of time. Till the break of dawn.

It wasn’t that Alto Morelli didn’t believe the best revenge was served cold, but at times he was sick and tired of waiting for his chance. How long had it been since the bastard killed his brother Joey? Two, three years? It seemed like forever. But you can’t just knock off a Mafia capo and expect to live...unless you wait until just the right moment and no one can trace it to you. Rule one for successful revenges; live to tell the tale. Alto was an independent contractor. He hired out his gun, but never his loyalty to many of the denizens of the underworld in 1932. The press referred to his kind as a “Hit Man.” But very few people in New York, New Jersey, or Chicago knew that he was one. Mostly Mafia crime bosses and leaders of other gangs like the Irish Mob. The other thing about Alto was no one knew what his last name was. Only his brother Joey knew it, and he was dead now. His killer, Johnny Dancer, was a capo for the Bonnano crime family in New York. He was also a paranoid schizophrenic who surrounded himself with bodyguards at all times. Johnny knew there were plenty of people out there who wanted to see him dead...for a whole host of reasons. Still, it was hard to wait. Alto was a man of action. At times he felt like a coward, taking so long to extract his pound of flesh because he wasn’t ready to die doing it. It felt like he was desecrating Joey’s memory at times. He shook those thoughts off and forged ahead looking for the perfect opening. The bible said there was, “... a time for everything, a season for every activity under the heavens.” That encouraged him because he was a Catholic, even if he didn’t go to confession. Faith in that quote kept him going. He knew there would be a season to kill, and his family burden would be forever lifted. The season to kill finally arrived when Alto’s paid snitch in the Bonnano family told him Johnny and two of his rich friends were going upstate to the Catskills for a weekend of fishing and hunting. He gave Alto the directions, who thanked him and then shot him point blank! No witnesses. Number Two rule of survival. Hunting season in the Catskills. How appropriate. When Alto arrived at the hunting lodge he took his time sizing up how many occupants were there. He quickly spotted Johnny and what he took to be his two rich friends. Not far away were two alert-looking bodyguards watching the three men eat a meal outdoors on the open porch. It took a few more hours before he discovered the other two bodyguards who were patrolling the perimeter of the lodge. Six people who he had to kill, but it was worth it to get Johnny. He was already envisioning where he would dispose of the bodies afterward. No one would ever know what happened. His inner survivor briefly questioned if this was the right season, after all the odds were against him. Then he focused upon the task. He waited until late at night, past midnight, and snuck up on the first guard outside the front door, slitting his throat neatly and professionally. The second guard was nodding in a chair in the living room. He looked up in time to see Alto for a moment, then a hand went over his mouth while his throat was slashed open. Then Alto cautiously went into the first bedroom. Saw someone in a bed. Went right over, checked his face briefly in the light of the full moon streaming through the window. Another guard. Slit his throat. He went to the second bedroom. This time the sleeper was one of Johnny’s pals. Slit his throat. The next room had the other pal. Slit his throat. That left Johnny and one guard. Was that guard in Johnny’s bedroom? He opened the last bedroom door slowly. Inch-by-inch. His keen ears attuned to any sound. Then he heard a click! Without thinking he dropped down to the floor as the shotgun blast tore into the door! Alto pulled his .45 Colt Automatic out and fired from the prone position in the direction of the blast! A man screamed and collapsed directly across from him. Then another shotgun blast hastily fired over his head from the right near the bed! When he rose up Johnny was trying to reload, but was fumbling with the cartridge. Instead of immediately killing him Alto jumped up and rushed him, knocking the old twin-barrel shotgun aside as he grabbed his neck with one hand and hit him alongside the head with the pistol in the other. He stood over the bleeding and semi conscious man and considered how he wanted to kill him. He thought about when he found his brother, just before he died, and how badly he suffered. His tormentors took a drill to both his hands and feet. They pulled out all of his teeth. There were numerous burns and cuts from head to toe. They blinded him with a hot poker and cut his tongue out. In the end, he took Johnny outside for a short walk from the lodge and tied him to a tree. Then he cut him from sternum to groin so his guts leaked out while he was still alive. He stayed long enough to listen to and savor his screams which deteriorated to moans as his lifeblood soaked the base of the tree. Two novice hunters heard the screams. They followed them through the forest. Both were teenagers and eager to find the source. Suddenly something big burst through the undergrowth and they both panicked and fired their rifles! Alto spun around when one of the shots hit him in the chest, falling to the ground heavily. His last thought made him grin at the irony, “There’s also a season for dying.

The darkness fell upon them suddenly, without warning. No storm ushered the way, no meteorologists or news anchors cautioned them about the power outage. One minute there was light, the next there was none. Close to seventy people had gathered that night for the party. It was Sebastian Beck’s forty-fifth birthday, and his closest friends and colleagues had been invited to celebrate at the Attic, the newest, swankiest bar on the outskirts of Chicago. Most nights there was a hefty cover charge to gain entrance to the Attic, but of course Beck had booked and paid for the entire bar for the night of his party. The place was rather small, as all of the most exclusive venues are by nature. All of the guests fit inside the building, but a certain sense of personal space was lacking. Monica De Leon was a journalist who had recently started working for Beck. In an effort to make the best possible impression, she had spent the Saturday morning before the party perfecting her look. Her cocktail dress, a black, sequined number ruched at the waist, was perfectly fitted by her tailor, and her wavy dark brown hair had been elaborately pinned in a stylish up-do by her hairdresser. She hoped that the final look was attractive but not too attractive. Monica admittedly liked Sebastian and occasionally imagined him becoming more than her boss one day, but she wanted to come across as professional and serious, not a schoolgirl with a crush. He was a distinguished man and would certainly be turned off by any immature behavior on her part. Though Monica was twenty years younger than Sebastian, she was sophisticated and attracted her fair share of older men. Arriving at the party at 8:30 p.m. (just late enough to make people think she was as busy and important as they pretended to be), Monica spotted Beck across the bar and then began mingling with the other guests. Best not to appear eager; she would slowly find her way closer to the man of the hour and introduce herself properly after a while. One hour and two martinis later, Monica’s feet were aching in her stilettos and she was growing increasingly bored. Growing up on the west side of Chicago, Monica met all sorts of people from various socioeconomic backgrounds, but she had never met people like this. These were the rich, the upper-class, the elite. Extraordinarily wealthy people seldom commingled with regular folk. They were like sasquatches; rarely seen in the wild and a bit unbelievable. For all her hopes of hearing fascinating stories about their opulent lives, the disappointing truth seemed to be that rich people were dull. Everyone she met that night either droned on about taxes and stocks or complained endlessly about the help. They were completely intolerable. Just as Monica made up her mind to finally approach Sebastian Beck, the lights went out. A few people in the crowd gasped. Someone dropped a drink and the sound of the glass shattering made Monica jump. For a moment or two, it was practically silent as the guests adapted to the abrupt change in atmosphere. A few of the more inebriated celebrants loudly asked no one in particular why it was so dark. Sebastian Beck spoke up. “Let me take this moment to thank you all for coming tonight! Throwing a birthday party at my age feels a bit ridiculous, but I love a good excuse to celebrate with all of you wonderful people. I hope you are enjoying yourselves as much as I am! We appear to have lost power; I am going to make a few calls to find out what caused the outage, and surely everything will be up and running again in no time. No need to panic and certainly no need to leave just yet!” Monica fished her cell phone out of her handbag as Beck finished up his speech. She wasn’t planning on making any calls herself, but the light from her phone would help her find her way out of the building. Despite Beck’s reassurances, she took the power outage as a sign that this night was a bust and decided she should be on her way. Though her phone was fully charged when she left for the party not two hours earlier, for some reason it wouldn’t turn on. Voices started whispering in the dark, lamenting their own cell phone failures. By some bizarre coincidence, not a single person in the Attic seemed to have a working phone. Monica took a deep breath and weighed her options. She had a vague idea of her location in the building and the direction she needed to go to find the exit. She might accidentally bump into a few people on her way out in the total darkness, but she surely wouldn’t be the only one. As she turned around and started to make her way back towards the front door, Monica tripped, catching her heel on something and twisting her ankle. She yelped as the sharp pain shot up her foot and grabbed on to a table to stop herself from falling. Dammit, these stilettos cost more than my first paycheck. She was feeling like this night was a failure more and more every minute. Now limping, she continued weaving through the group. Suddenly someone walked straight into her. “Oh, I’m sorry. Excuse me.” Monica stammered. “No need to apologize, it’s darker than a tomb in here. Where are you heading in such a rush?” “I’m calling it a night. The party’s been great, but it’s getting late and I can’t see a thing in here. Have a good night.” Monica leaned forward but the man was still standing in her way. She stepped to the left and he mirrored her. “Look, I’m tired and my ankle hurts and I’m not in the mood to dance with a stranger in the dark right now, so if you’ll excuse me...” Monica’s tone was no longer charming. She hoped she didn’t sound as irritated as she felt, but she needed to come across as firm and direct with a man like him. “Well, isn’t that cute! You aren’t in the mood? What makes you think I care what kind of mood you’re in, Monica?” Monica’s blood turned to ice. The man’s voice did not sound familiar. Although she couldn’t name everyone she had met tonight, she was certain that she had not talked to this deep-voiced stranger. How did he know her name? “Now, little lady, the party is just getting started. Come with me.” The man grabbed Monica’s elbow forcefully and led her back towards the center of the bar. “Get your hands off me!” Monica shouted as she tried to pull her arm free and shove the man away from her. “Help! Someone get this creep away from me!” A moment ago the other attendants were laughing and chatting amongst themselves. As the mystery man dragged Monica further into the bar and she screamed for help, the guests grew quiet. No one moved to assist her. No one spoke up. Sebastian Beck began to speak. “Monica De Leon. My newest employee. Thank you so much for showing up tonight. I didn’t mention this before, but you are my guest of honor! I can’t tell you how happy I am to have you here.” Monica laughed nervously. “Thank you, Mr. Beck. That’s very kind of you to say. I had a lovely evening. Would you be so kind as to escort me to the exit? I really must be going.” “Going? No, you won’t be going anywhere. As I’ve said, you are the guest of honor.” Beck’s usually pleasant voice was hardening. “I don’t understand... I am so grateful for the invitation, but it is late and quite dark and I want to go home now, please. Happy birthday, Mr. Beck. Goodnight.” After this last plea, the entire roomful of people burst out laughing. Is this some kind of prank? Did I say something embarrassing? Monica had stopped drinking when the power went out, but her head was growing foggy and the darkness was disorienting. The man who had forcefully dragged Monica across the bar abruptly picked her up and laid her upon a long table. Hands reached towards her from all around; big hands, hairy hands, manicured hands, cold hands; hands holding her down as she writhed and squirmed in a desperate attempt to escape. Before she blacked out, Monica heard one line, repeated by each party guest in unison: You are the guest of honor.

Title: I'm Just a "backup" Author: Haripriya Author's Note: Hello everyone! This story wasn't one of my best ones because I included the prompt at the end of the story, so it might be a little disappointing to many of you. But either way, I just wanted to post this story to get some feedback and suggestions for this story. Other than those quick words, I hope you kind of enjoy what I've written, and please feel free to comment down below on what you think about this entire story! I hope you have a great, lovely Saturday and happy holidays!! My favorite thing in this whole wide world is being a ballerina. I feel really proud of myself when I dance. It's almost like I go into my own world, my own place. As I move, as I close my eyes, I just dance my heart out. Learning new techniques, more advanced steps, doing all of that is my favorite thing about being a dancer. I love being myself, and just doing my steps without anyone bothering me. Like I'm in my own secret world, where no one ever bothers me at all. It's my passion, and I just love doing it. "Hey Bella!" my friend, Anna calls out. "Hey! I'm just doing some warm-up moves and practices before class starts. Anyways, why are you here so early?" I ask. "I should be asking you that question. I'm early because I want to practice my whipped throw. I did terrible last class when you all did it so perfectly. So I'm going to redeem myself from that humiliation." she said as she put her backpack down. "Well, I can give you some pointers...maybe you can use that?" I suggest. "Sure Bella. But let me ask you know. Why are you here so early? You're always early for every class." she points out. I feel my face flushed. Getting tomato red. I try to hide my face from her, to not get embarrassed. "I--Well, I'm here because...I just want to practice for the audition for the Nutcracker." I admit, and without even looking at a mirror, I can tell my face looks like I just dipped my head in a bucket full of red paint. "But that isn't until another week. Besides, we have other things to practice too," she says and continues practicing the whipped throw. "You're right," I say, "You know, if you want, maybe we can learn the whipped throw together?" I ask her. Anna chuckles, and after she gets her breath, she makes out these words, "Of course Bella. I love to do anything with you." I smile too, feeling quite happy. "Well, the professional and more of a correct term to say the whipped throw is Fouetté," I say, not trying to look too smart. "Yeah, I know, it's just that no matter how hard I try to pronounce it, the word doesn't stick to my head. Also, saying whipped throw/whipped turning is just much easier than pronouncing that word," she replies. I just nod my head, and we both start practicing together. "After we do the Fouetté, we're going to do the Pirouette. That way, for this class, we'll be good to go. According to my watch, class starts in another fifteen minutes." I tell her. "Ok, so let's start." she agrees back. I take a deep breath, and officially start telling her how to conquer the move. "To do the Fouetté, you need to first turn on one foot while turning it fastly outward, then quickly inward, just like how I'm doing, see?" I explain to her while demonstrating how my foot moves. "Ok, so all I do is turn, turn my foot outward, and then inward. Then repeat these series of steps and do it fast later," she tells me. "Exactly Anna!" I encourage her. "No wonder why everyone tells you you're a fast learner!" I add, and I see her smile becoming wider. "Thanks, Bella," she says. I coach her on how to do this move a few more times so that she could memorize it quickly and learn it faster gradually. Soon, I even asked her to do the step alone while I counted her beats. "One, two, three...one, two, three--Anna, you did it! That's all it takes! You're so close to mastering it!" I exclaim. "Really? Wow I--I didn't even know that! Th..thanks, Bella! You really are the best friend." she tells me, which makes me feel happy. I quickly glance at the time to see that it's already 10: 50 am. "Hey Anna, we still have ten more minutes, do you want to start doing the Pirouette?" I ask her, trying to wait to hear her opinion. "Umm...sure! But, we haven't learned that in class, so how can you teach me?" she questions, and I look down. "Well...you see Anna, when I'm at home, I kind of teach myself all the moves. I look at famous plays and shows, which is how I learned all these moves really quickly." I confess. I didn't know how she would think about me when I told her this. "Really Bella? That's amazing! You know, you deserve to climb higher in your ballerina career." she says. "Thanks, at least I hope so. So far, I haven't gotten picked in any auditions...so maybe? But thanks for always cheering me up Anna." I tell her as we start to practice the next move. I do some quick stretches and warm-ups in my legs for us to start the next move. "The Pirouette is a very important move in ballerina. It is when you spin on one foot while the other foot is on the knee. The foot which is on the knee is kind of supporting the leg while you do the dance move. But sometimes when you try to spin on one foot, people tend to break their toes and things like that which is why I'm going to show you the simplest method of learning the move." I explain to her. I show her how to carefully spin, without breaking bones or any other parts of your foot. I help her try to balance the foot, and I continue to show her. "Look carefully Anna, the spinning foot should move in a smooth direction for the flow to be a bit better," I suggest to her. To help her learn the move a bit easier while keeping on the beat, I show her some guidelines and let her try to do it by herself. "Wow, Bella! When you break the movements down like this, I feel like I can do any steps! Thank you so much!" she yells in joy. "Your welcome Anna, and look! We finished our practice right on time for class!" I tell her. "You're right, I guess I'll see you in class!" she waves, and I wave back at her. 🟑🟑🟑 "Students, please sit down. In this class, we're going to take auditions for The Nutcracker, because Christmas is coming up and holidays are coming up, we need to pick the best of the best students to perform," Mrs. Juan explains. "So, how many people will be picked, Mrs. Juan?" Anna asks. "Good question Anna. I will pick 25 students, and from those 25 students, I will pick 6 of them to do multiple roles. Plus, we're going to be performing out of town! So a week before the performance, the 25 students will go on tour with me, and there we will set up everything for the performance." Mrs. Juan continues explaining to the students. Oh my gosh! Will all my practice and hard work be enough for the surprise audition? Will there be, even a sliver of a chance that I can get the main role, Clara? Or the Sugar Plum Fairy? Was I meant for this all my life? questions fill my mind as Mrs. Juan tells us all the directions. "Now fellow ballerinas, the auditions will begin. Each student will show me what we've been practicing so far. They will also show separate moves and will have to answer questions." Mrs. Juan clarifies. "Will the audition for each girl be done in front of everyone, or separately?" I ask, my heart pounding nervously for her answer. "To answer your question Bella, yes, they will be done separately. No one should receive help from any other students under any circumstance. To avoid that, we are going to test each of you for different moves." she construes. I feel so much better that I don't have to be in the spotlight, and do it in front of everyone. If I mess up, only Mrs. Juan will be there to see. I think relieved. "Any other questions girls? If no, we are going to start the auditions. The first person I have on my list is Anna C. and Bella L." she continues. "I wish you the best of luck Anna, I know you'll do great," I whisper to Anna quietly. "Really? I know you'll do an amazing job too," she whispered back. It had been some time since Anna was in there and the rest of us were out. We were waiting for about ten minutes, and out of curiosity, without anyone seeing me, I peeked at the door to see Anna doing the Pirouette. I hope she does great. I pray. But after some time, I see that she's done with a smile on her face. "Hey, Anna! How did it go?" I ask. "Well, I did everything the way you taught me, and I saw she was impressed, but she said she'll only announce the results at the end of everyone's audition, basically next week," Anna told me. "Ok. I can wait that long." I tell her, and as soon as I do, I hear my name called next. 🟑🟑🟑 "Bella Lemaire!" Mrs. Juan called. "Sorry Mrs. Juan! I'm here!" I holler back. "Good. Now Ms. Lemaire, let's see what you got. Do a Foutté, then slide onto an Etendre, and end with a Plier. Finally, stand in the second position." she instructs me. I hold my breath really deep, and then I close my eyes. Her moves chorus through my ears as I hear the music played. I tried to be calm and more swift, as a real ballerina would do. After I was done, she stopped the music, and smiled, then looked down at her paper, almost like she was writing something down. "Very good Mr. Lemaire, now I want you to answer me this question. In ballet, what three things do you need to be an excellent ballet dancer?" she asks. I look down anxiously and look up at the ceiling. "Umm...you need--poise, hard work, and...and--determination," I respond hesitantly. "Very well then Mrs. Lemaire, you may go out and the results will be announced next week," she says. "Thank you, Mrs. Juan!" I say as I walked out. "So? How did everything go Bella? Did you rock it? I mean--did you gracefully rock it?" she asks which makes me giggle a little. "I tried my best Anna, but only next week will we know the audition results," I say as a twirl out of the common room to get some water. "See you next week Bella!" she shouts. "See you too Anna!" I yell back as we both head out our separate ways. 🟑🟑🟑 "Girls! The audition results have been announced. As the role of Clara, we have Anna, and the back-up dancer of Clara is Bella," she announces. "...and then for the Sugar Plum fairy..." she continues announcing, but I don't listen to any of that. I'm happy for Anna, but why am I a backup dancer? I thought I would at least any role. I question myself over and over again. Next to me, I see Anna happy, so I congratulate her, having a fake smile on my face. "See Anna? I told you that you rocked the audition!" I exclaim, but still, the melancholiness doesn't disappear in my tone. Luckily, Anna doesn't notice that. "Thank you so much, Bella! Without your support, I couldn't have got this role!" she says, and I smile at her, though deep down, I still feel pretty upset about being a backup dancer. When we're going on tour, I just want to have a peaceful trip, without any distractions. After all, I'm just a backup dancer. I'll have a lot of free time to hang around by myself while the others are rehearsing. I say to comfort myself from everything that had just happened to me. ~The End~

The gentleman stood in the main foyer of the library, just passed the displays of ancient pottery pieces and giant lizard bones. Clearly, he had not taken to the baggy “swell” of modern fashion, instead he wore a simpler cut of suit. Upon his head lay a top-hat. I approach and stand to his left. Before us is a vast, curved wall that severs the noisy entrance hall from the solemn library proper. On this wall is a mural -- a mosaic of dark and jagged tile that tells the tale of Shardfall, Shatternight and the Second Great Fire of London. The birth of a new England and a changed world. The birth of new peoples and new ways. Details of the artwork are lost to us in the shadows that the evening has brought. The gas lamps cannot light such a space with any real efficacy. “Even in this eerie light,” I say. “I find it rather stunning.” There is a silence and then: “I cannot say I see the beauty of its form. Nor do I agree with how it chooses to depict that moment of London’s sad history. The scale and skill of the thing? I appreciate the craftsmanship.” Sad history? The moment that made him what he is and changed our planet...and he wraps it into such a small package as Sad History. I turn from the mural. The left side of his face bears no skin and the skull that is thus revealed is made of glossy black instead of pale bone. In his empty eye-socket sits a pin-prick of blue light. The sign of those wrought from the crystal and its impact. I present to him the top of my glove. “Adelia De Wight. A pleasure to meet you, good sir.” He turns and I see that his other eye is human, as is that side of his face. And, though the eye is of a darker shade of brown, it holds a warmth and brightness I would not have expected, given the stiffness of his character and harshness of his voice. I wonder what he sees? A young lady trapped in a cage of crinoline and purple taffeta, very much a part of the modern modes of dress that he so clearly avoids. Does he see more? He takes my hand with his right, sweeps off his hat with his left, and lowers his head. He does not kiss my hand. “Archibald Candle. A pleasure.” Greetings thus completed, he dons his hat and turns once more to the mural. “Well, I must leave you to it, Mrs-” “Miss.” “Ah, my apologies. Miss De Wight.” He touches the brim of his hat and gives a nod. “Farewell.” “Before you go, Sir.” I say. “Might I be so forward as to ask you: why is it that you dislike the mural so?” A moment passes before he once more faces me. “Are you aware that since its erection, some forty years ago, that the work has been altered? Often in secret.” I didn’t. “I have heard rumours of such.” “The Deadfolk seen rising from graves, and the other creatures born of crystal, have had their teeth filed -- and lessened -- the points of their claws have been rounded into fingers. Though they try to hide it, it was born of fear.” “Well. It can be a beautiful thing not born of beauty, and the views on-” “Yes. The world views us monsters *very* differently. Forty years of effort and I can now own property and earn a wage...many tax me for my form or outright refuse to barter.” “I do not think you to be a monster, sir.” “Splendid.” The word came without joy, served as it was on ice. “But, by the laws of science and medicine: I am not a man. By the rule of law: I am not a man. I am a subject of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, but never do I fall within the net as cast by the term human.” The face he had lost shimmered into view for a moment. A passing flicker of blue light that none could predict. The ten story octahedron wedged in a crater at London’s edge would have shimmered too, as would its sister crystal which had crashed and scattered across The Moon. I met his eyes with mine. “I would call you a man.” “Forgive the impropriety of this imagery, Madam, but were I clad in naught but sky, I would look in shape as a human, but in detail...” At this he looked once more at the vast mosaic, and raised his left hand. The glove was loose. Within, one guesses, is obsidian bone and wisp of magic. “A beast born of ugliness.” “...not born of beauty. But beautiful.” \* * * My WP Discord Secret Santa Story for Quiscover. This was a real challenge. Had soooo much I wanted to cram in but had to cut back to fit into the 800 word cap. Brilliant constraints (Thanks, Quiscover!) and an excellent excuse to write (Thanks, Say!) **Constraints:** * Genre: Historical fantasy * Word: Barter * Phrase: "A beautiful thing not born of beauty." * Object: Tiles * Place: Library (doesn't have to be the main setting) * Characters: Features at least one of BOTH a human character AND a non-human character.

A young man entered her room. He had such pretty eyes and a bright white smile. He must have been a new nurse at the nursing home or one of those volunteers who came in every once in a while to talk to the residents. Either way, she didn’t mind having him in her room. “Good afternoon,” Leda said to him sweetly. She hadn’t had that many visitors lately. It was nice to see a friendly face. “Hello. How are you feeling today?” He sat down in the chair beside her bed. “Good,” she admitted. “I had a bit of trouble sleeping last night, so I am a bit tired.” “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want to take a nap?” “No. There’s no time for naps. Not when I have a visitor.” Leda reached out and took the man’s hand. “Can you tell me your name?” “Levi,” Levi said. “Levi,” Leda repeated. “That’s a nice name.” “Thank you,” Levi said. “My mother once said my grandmother picked it out.” “Your grandmother has nice taste.” “She does. She’s the most amazing person I know.” “How sweet. I’m sure she feels the same way about you. How could she not? You seem like a kind, sweet, and a very handsome young man.” Leda patted Levi’s hand. “Thank you.” Levi blushed. “It’s certainly a nice day outside.” Leda looked out the window. It was a sunny day. The sky was a brilliant hue of blue, birds chirped outside her window, and she saw grandchildren getting ready to spend time with their grandparents as the parents took them out for a day of fun. “It is. After all that gloomy spring weather, it’s nice to see the sun. Everything’s better in sunlight.” “That reminds me of my grandson’s wedding,” Leda said. “It was so beautiful. One of the most beautiful weddings I’ve ever been a part of.” “Your grandson’s wedding?” The young man’s eyes widened. “I’d like to hear about that.” “Well, my grandson and his lovely bride got married at this beachside resort.” “Sounds like the perfect venue for a wedding,” Levi said. “Tell me more about your grandson’s big day.” “I wore this sparkling, sequined number in a navy blue color,” Leda said. “I saw that dress and I knew I would be the belle of the ball! My grandson got the dress for me.” “That was generous of him to do so,” Levi said. “He must love you a whole lot.” “My grandson spoils me rotten,” Leda laughed. “I guess we’ve always been two of a kind. I raised him after his parents went through a nasty divorce. Poor child. But, he grew up to be a lovely man.” “With you as his grandmother, what other option was there?” Leda chuckled. “You give me too much credit! That boy was just born with a kind heart and a sweet personality to match. I was only there to gently guide him down the path we call life.” “What was he like on the big day?” “He was so nervous!” Leda laughed. “I went in to check in on him before the ceremony. You should have seen him! His tie was crooked, he was sweating up a storm, and his fly was down!” “Good thing he had a good grandma like you,” Levi said. “You sounded like you were his guardian angel that day.” “After I fixed up his tie and got him to zip up his pants, he was still nervous. He wasn’t second guessing his choice to marry, but he questioned the timing. Should they wait until after they have finished college? He also wasn’t sure how their marriage would turn out. He was afraid he and his bride would end up like his parents.” “What did you tell him?” Levi asked. “We had a good heart to heart,” Leda said. “I told him that he and his bride were not his parents. They would have to figure out this marriage for themselves. But, as long as they know that Love is the most important thing, they’ll never have to worry.” “Sounds like good advice,” Levi said thoughtfully. “It was. They’re still together today with three beautiful children. They’re the cutest lovebirds I’ve ever seen!” For the next couple of hours, Leda and Levi chatted about whatever it was that Leda wanted to chat about. “Unfortunately, it’s time for me to go.” Levi stood up from his chair. “So soon?” Leda enjoyed having Levi around. She couldn’t explain it, but she knew that there was something about him that made her feel safe and loved. “I loved talking to you.” “I do too,” Levi said. “How about I come back in a couple of days?” “I’m already counting down the seconds.” Levi gave Leda a hug and then left, leaving Leda to finally take the nap she so desperately tried to put off. “How’s your grandmother?” Gail, one of the nurses at the nursing home, asked Levi as he exited Leda’s room. “She was cheery today,” Levi told her. “That’s wonderful! Did she remember who you were?” “No, it didn’t seem like it. But... but I know she still loves me.” “She does. She may not remember you, but that feeling that she has for you will always be there you know.” “She told me a funny story. One that I couldn’t believe she would know.” “Really? What was the story?” Gail shifted her clipboard to her other hip. “She told me about being at her grandson’s wedding.” “How sweet!” “The thing is, I’m her only grandson. She told me about the venue, how nervous I was, and that my wife and I are the cutest love birds she ever saw.” “Your wedding? Levi, I didn’t even know you were engaged! Congratulations!” “That’s the thing, Gail.” Levi looked at Gail and blushed. “I’m not married. I don’t even have a girlfriend.” “You mean... your grandmother...” Gail couldn’t finish her sentence. “I’m not sure what I mean. I’m not sure what my grandmother told me,” Levi said. “But it’s nice to think that she would be around when that day finally comes.” “Either way, you know your grandmother loved being at your wedding,” Gail said. “All she ever wanted for you was for you to be happy.” Levi smiled. “With my grandmother around, I will always be happy.”

They had all come to the big party. Sorrow wore black, of course, with a sophisticated little lace veil. Luck could hardly be seen, her golden sequined dress sparkled and flashed in the spotlight so much that it hurt the eyes. Worries were serious again, typical, mouse-gray suits, even the ties weren't very creative, but of first, expensive quality. Joy was wrapped in yellow and had a huge sunflower pinned to her dress. Quite vulgar for Trouble’s taste, but Trouble was just a little pinched, you could tell just by looking at his dark green suit. "Green, please, only losers wear that," Malice whispered to her neighbor, Envy. Once again, the two couldn't separate. All evening, they huddled together in one corner, trashing the others. "Look at Love", Envy hissed to Malice. "Where the hell did she find that dress? Squeaky pink and these flounces. Sinfully expensive designer, of course, and she can't even afford it." "She looks like a cake”, Malice returned, "Fat buttercream." As Sex entered the brightly lit hall, a murmur went through the crowd. His skin-tight snakeskin suit exposed his beautifully sculpted body more than it concealed it. Eroticism took a large sip of champagne at the sight of him and drew attention with her throaty laugh. Her discreet evening dress shimmered in a velvety red. Illness had retreated to a quiet table in the corner. Her white dress competed with her noble pallor, and she toasted Death with a glass of chamomile tea. As usual, Death had settled stealthily behind a pillar and pulled his black hat down over his face that most didn't even recognize him. Honor, as pretty much at every party, was walking around smoking cigarettes. "Embarrassing," thought Pride, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Come on", said Kindness, "Poor Honor can't afford cigarettes after all," and surreptitiously slipped her a packet. Fame was almost drunk. He stood in the corner and bawled, encouraged by big Money, who stood next to him and pretty much fogged him with his Havana. Power, of course, had shown up with his entire court. Fear was constantly scurrying around them, and Diligence was fetching drinks. Work was busy as always. She constantly had to add the cold plates on the buffet, and somehow the spoons seemed to have run out. Then the host stepped to the microphone. He was dressed very colorfully and looked a bit like a harlequin. "Oh God, now he's giving a speech too, and he can't even speak," Malice whispered to her best friend. "Dear friends, dear partners", Life began a little hesitantly, "I'm glad you all came to celebrate me today. I'm especially pleased to have my guests of honor with me. I warmly welcome her Excellency, Happiness and the ambassador of the heart, Love, the mysterious Eroticism, the wild Sex, the almighty Money and of course, my good friend, Joy. Let's have a nice party together, and please don't go home too early." Thunderous applause rushed through the hall. People toasted each other and when the music started, Sex and Eroticism danced a tango that even Malice was speechless. An old Lady plucked her lace handkerchief and dabbed her eyes, then resolutely closed her purse and hurried to the exit. Wisdom, also not quite dewy, saw it and hurried to the host. "Dear Life, you forgot to greet your most important guest," she muttered to Life. Life looked in the direction Wisdom was pointing. "Oh, I’m a douche," Life insulted himself, "I must've committed a great faux pas." Life rushed to the exit and held the old lady. "Please, I'd like to introduce you to the other guests", he tried to apologize. "My son, there's no need. I know them all, believe me, but I am usually not recognized. And the only ones who will miss me are Trouble, Sorrow, Illness, and Death. But they're pretty boring, young man," said the old lady. "I will miss you," said Life. The old Lady handed her business card to Life and disappeared. Life plunged back into the party scene. Money and Love flirted over the rim of the glass, and Life and Joy danced a waltz. Of course, Love left the party with her old habit.

A man. Alone and silent in the icy rain. He is bathed in the garish red neon of a cheap strip bar, watching the world around him. Cole remembers the silence, momentary though it was. It is gone now. Replaced by the fury and harshness of a great city, constant and unrelenting in its savage, deafening roar. The whistle of a calm wind is gone, replaced by the unbearable, violent screeching of traffic. The stillness of the trees is taken by the glowing, burning neon lights of hotels and restaurants and stores. In the sprawl, every honk is a gunshot, every screech of tires a dying moan, every flash of light a distress signal. A great and wonderful metropolis, so they say. As Cole gazes around, he sees towering structures and monuments erupting out of the ground, up into the sky. He sees frenzied streets, filled with men and women and cyclists. He sees thousands of cars, and buses choked with passengers and billows of searing black smoke rising up from rusted exhaust pipes. The wind tastes sick and bitter and it carries the stench of burning tires and rotting carcasses. As Cole wanders dark streets, the sharp wind tears against his back like a leather flail. Cole’s stride is heavy and long, his hulking frame constantly hunched over. He emanates sick, violent fear. His eyes are dead and sharp simultaneously. Voices scream and laugh and seductively call out from the shadows. As a planet orbits the sun, Cole orbits violence. As he approaches a bus stop, he feels a hand tap against his shoulder. His head snaps back, and as he turns, he sees a young middle-eastern couple. The woman is smiling, holding her phone out to him. Cole hears nothing in the racket. “Excuse me?” he mumbles. She asks him to take their picture, and Cole looks at the phone. He nods, quietly agreeing. She gives it to him and stands next to her man. Cole holds up the camera, looking at the couple through the screen. Their faces are brightly lit by fiery orange lights. The man tightly embraces her, they are both smiling. And then they aren’t. Their faces are blank and expressionless. Like corpses. They are no longer in the city. They are out in the dust, and Cole is stepping over their bodies, amongst countless others. He grips his rifle tight*.* He looks around, observing the quietness, the stillness of the trees, moments before the cracks of gunfire smash through the air, snapping Cole back to the present. He’s in the city again. Cole stands frozen. He registers nothing. His breathing is heavy and laboured. His back is straight. Every muscle is tightly wound. Something rises up within him, building from his chest into his throat. He stares at their faces, watching their smiles fade into confusion, and eventually hands the phone back. The woman looks at it, and her smile drops. She yells something inaudible and they walk away. Eventually, a bus pulls over at the station, and Cole climbs aboard. He finds a seat at the back and settles in for a long journey. He rests his head upon the glass, staring into the distance. Raindrops begin to roll down the windows. Streaming rainwater and flashes of light dance upon the glass. Red. White. Blue. Time passes strangely, Cole’s perception warped by insomnia. He sits, unmoving, staring through the glass until eventually, the bus driver shouts him back to reality. Cole steps off the bus, into the concrete inferno once more. The street is deserted. The blackness of night is staved off by the faint, dim glow of street lights. As Cole roams the city, the hours slip by in a haze of rain and fog. Eventually, he comes to his apartment building. It towers over the streets, but shrinks before the skyscrapers. The walls are old and grey and beaten down with rain. Concrete crumbles away from the ledges. He stares up at the bright glow of the sign. He listens to the hum of moths crowding around flickering light panels. He walks up to the door, and enters. Inside, the lobby is dim and bland and covered in varying shades of beige. A thin layer of dust has formed over the flickering light bulb. It reeks of cheap air freshener. A security guard sits slumped in a chair at the corner, asleep. Cole awaits the elevator The door rings as it opens, and a man and a woman walk in. A light windcheater jacket is draped over his heavy shoulders. The hems of his jeans sit crumpled over his boots. The woman wears a tan jacket over her blouse. Cole’s gaze follows them as they approach. The man stares back at him, his eyes sharp. Cole looks away. The elevator opens and the two strangers enter, followed by Cole as he shuffles behind them. The man punches a button. The soft yellow light of the elevator illuminates the dust floating around. It casts faint shadows upon her soft face. The man turns to her as they ascend. His eyes are cold and sharp. He trembles slightly with fury. “So, you gonna keep it up?” he says. “Let’s not talk about it here.” she mumbles, her voice fragile. Cole keeps his head down, but watches them. “Why not? Why shouldn’t I talk about it?” “Please, Tom.” “How was he?” He says, contempt rising in his voice. Her eyes beg him to stop and she struggles to maintain calm. “Please, I don’t want to talk about it.” “Did it feel good?” She slaps him across the face. Her eyes are deeply bloodshot and slick with tears. The man stares back at her, enraged. Cole looks up at them both. A moment passes. The elevator door opens. The man glances at Cole. He storms out, followed by the woman. Cole goes to his room. Once inside, he slumps down onto the bed, exhausted. His body is weak, yet eludes him. Cole switches on the television and vaguely stares at the bright blue glow. He thinks about the woman. He remembers her face, her hair, the light scent of her perfume. From one room over, he can hear the couple arguing. He hears the woman crying. The man shouting. Something shatters. He listens, and ponders what he will do. A storm of dark thoughts swirls in his mind. \*\*\* He hears the door of the next room click open. Someone is leaving. He pulls himself up, and scrambles over to the door’s peephole. He looks through and sees the man. For the first time in months, a smile creeps over his face. Carefully, he unlocks the door without a sound. He steps out. The man is walking towards the elevator. Cole shuts the door behind him. He follows the man. Exhilaration builds with each step. His fists are coiled tight. His breathing is heavy. The man steps inside the elevator, and just as he turns, Cole is on him. He grabs him by the shoulders and hurls him out of the elevator. The man rolls across the floor. Cole steps out and walks towards him. His cold, piercing eyes remain on the man as he continues his stride. Cole’s hands stay at his side. His movements are relaxed, and he appears almost fatigued, yet he feels totally alive. His blood is pumping. His muscles are tight, ready to spring and wreak bloody havoc. The man pulls himself up and rushes him. Cole ducks under his swing, and grabs him, smashing his head against wall, cracking the plaster. As the man sinks to the floor, Cole stares down at him, possessed. He grabs the man’s collar, and cracks his fist against his cheek. A soft groan comes from his writhing body and he spews red-tainted vomit upon the ivory walls. Cole does it again. And again. Over and over, until his own hands bleed and tremble with searing pain. As he looks down upon his work, a torrent of emotion cascades over him. He is laughing. He is screaming. He is crying. The body lies still. Blood covers Cole. It is speckled upon his cheek. It drips from his beard. It is splattered upon his shirt. The soft yellow carpet below is stained by crimson boot print. The door clicks open and the woman steps out. She sees the man slumped on the ground, his blood seeping through the carpet. Her jaw slowly drops in horror. Cole stares at her, like a child confronting a parent. She backs away, into the room. The door slams shut. Cole watches her go. He feels cold.

It happened every Christmas. The entire family descended on Grandma’s house, having the whole big traditional family shindig. Christmas dinner, gift exchange, the whole thing. And nearly every year, someone would ask Grandma to tell her story. THE story. The time she saw Grandpa’s ghost. It always went the same way: “Well, I’m here to tell ya, I don’t care what anybody says, ghosts are real, and I know it ‘cause I’ve seen one with my own two eyes. I was right here on this couch, watchin’ TV one night, late, and I heard somebody say my name- But they didn’t say Kate, like most people- They said ‘Celestine’. And only one person on this Earth ever called me by my first name, and that was Jim. So I turned and looked down the hall- and I swear by all that’s holy this is true, if I’m lyin’ I’m flyin’- there stood Jim, just exactly the way he looked the day he died, wearin’ his best suit just like I buried him in. And I just know that was him lettin’ me know he was ok.” What happened next was unclear. Sometimes Grandma described it as him “fading away”, other times she said he stared at her like he was surprised she could hear him, and he just stared at her till she blinked and he was gone. Either way, Grandma was absolutely, 100% positive she had seen her dead husband Jim- who had died on his 25th birthday, leaving her alone with 3 small children- just a few days after his own funeral. Most of the family believed Grandma had nodded off and had a dream, or maybe just saw a reflection from the hallway mirror or something like that, but there were a few- just a few- who believed she just might have caught a glimpse of something else. One of those people who believed was her grandson James. James had been named after his grandpa, his mother’s father, and everyone said he was the spitting image of him. James had always been a favorite of his Grandma, and he’d been with her when she passed after a long illness. She’d finally joined her beloved Jim, the only man she’d ever loved, after 50 years. James was asked to help clean out Grandma’s house- the same house his mother had grown up in, the house Grandpa Jim bought for her in 1962, when they’d first gotten married. Grandma didn’t have much in the way of possessions, it was mostly cheap old furniture and old lady knick-knacks. The day of her funeral, on the way to the cemetery, James and his best friend Ronnie went by the house to take a look and see what still needed to be done. The house was largely empty already. His grandmother hadn’t lived here for years, instead being cared for in a nursing home and, ultimately, a hospice. Her passing hadn’t been sudden, and the family had long ago removed anything valuable from the house. “I think we can get this with my dad’s flatbed truck” Ronnie said, indicating the big old dining room table around which they’d eaten so many Christmas dinners. James nodded his agreement. “You think they’re going to be able to sell this house?” Ronnie asked. “I don’t know. Neighborhood isn’t what it used to be.” James acknowledged, looking through the mostly empty cabinets. “Probably can rent it out or something. Kinda sad. But nobody in the family really wants the place.” “Yea” Ronnie conceded, opening the refrigerator. James stepped into the hallway, examining one of the few remaining pictures. It was Grandma and Grandpa, probably in the early 60s. He’d seen the picture many times, every time he’d been here. But he’d never really stopped to consider exactly how much he really did look just like Grandpa Jim. In fact, James thought, he was probably the same age Grandpa Jim was in that picture. “Hey, didn’t you say your Grandma had some kinda really weird first name?,” Ronnie asked, “Like Sistine or something?” “Celestine” James responded without thinking. Then something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He thought something moved in the living room down the hall. He turned to face it, and there was a young woman, a girl really, seated on the end of the couch, where his Grandma had always sat, looking at him with wide, red rimmed eyes. James started to say something, then stopped. There was something familiar about the woman... Ronnie said something and James blinked his eyes rapidly, then realized the woman was no longer there. He stepped into the kitchen, leaning heavily on the counter. Ronnie, seeing something was wrong, walked over to James. “You ok man?” James shook his head. “Ronnie, do you remember the story I told you? About my Grandma seeing my Grandpa Jim, years ago? How he called her name, and she saw him standing in the hallway wearing a suit?” Ronnie nodded. James looked down at his black funeral suit. “I don’t think it was my Grandpa that she saw.

Twas the Week Before Christmas Ah, at last, the Christmas cards are finally sealed and ready for mailing. All they need now are some holiday stamps from the post office. “Did you get the stamps I asked you to pick up?” my wife called down from upstairs. “Running out now,” I replied, as I threw on my jacket and scarf. “Better hurry. I was hoping to get those cards to everyone before Christmas.” “Not to worry.” I dashed out the door and headed for the car. After a short drive, I pulled into a crowded parking lot in front of the post office. A cold wind cut through the air as I bounded from the car to the front door. What’s this? A green sign taped to the front glass of the door caught my eye: DEAR CUSTOMERS. WE ARE OUT OF CHRISTMAS STAMPS. HOWEVER, IF YOU USE THE SELF-SERVICE MACHINES, YOU STILL MIGHT FIND SOME CHRISTMAS STAMPS AVAILABLE THERE. I thanked a kind gentleman who was leaving through the adjacent door and held it open for me. “You may not want to thank me after you see the line in there.” Sure enough, as I entered the lobby, a line of about twenty people extended out from two customer service windows, each with a post office clerk standing behind it. In between them was a customer service window that remained noticeably unattended. Was there a clerk working that station? Was he or she on a coffee break? Was that person coming back anytime soon? Reminding myself of what the sign on the door had said, I turned my attention to the two self-service machines standing up against the back wall of the lobby. As I approached, a man suddenly finished a transaction at one of the machines. Looking around to see that no one else was waiting to use it, I stepped forward and began reading the instructions. Now normally, I would probably prefer not to use a machine like this. But under the circumstances, I felt I had no choice. It seemed simple enough. I began pressing the screen as it directed me through a series of promptings. Did I want stamps? Yes. Choose from the following values of stamps depending on the weight of the letter or parcel you are mailing. Does your letter or parcel weigh 3.5 ounces or less? Yes, I think so. Press here for 60 cent stamps. Done. How many stamps would you like to purchase? 50. Press here to complete your transaction. I hesitated. I couldn’t help but wonder why the machine hadn’t given me an opportunity to see what Christmas stamps I might like to choose from? I turned my head and noticed that a line had suddenly formed behind me. “All right!” exclaimed the woman at the machine next to me. “Got my Christmas stamps! They aren’t the Madonna and Christ child I was hoping for, but I’ll take them.” She held them up for all to see--a collection of stamps each with what looked like one of Santa’s elves holding a wrapped present with a bow on top. I turned again and noticed the man behind me looking at his watch, sending me a clear signal that it was time for me to finish. I inserted my debit card into the machine. Well--I guess elves are better than no Christmas stamps at all. As the machine produced my receipt, I could hear something beginning to collect at the bottom of the distribution bin. I reached my hand down into the bin and began extracting peel-away label strips, each with a QR code and the words U.S. POSTAGE $.60. “What is this?” I gestured toward the man behind me. “These aren’t Christmas stamps!” “That’s too bad, my friend. The machine must have run out.” After stewing a bit, I reluctantly collected all fifty of my postage labels and decided I needed to talk with someone at one of the service windows. Unfortunately, of course, that would involve waiting in the line I had hoped to avoid. Again, I guess I had no choice. Several minutes went by as I slowly made my way closer to the front. I could overhear an elderly woman at one of the windows discussing what a nice Thanksgiving she had with her grandchildren and how worried she was that the packages she was sending would not reach them by Christmas. The clerk went on to discuss with her the various types of postage she might consider paying for, along with tracking options and insurance coverages. She asked the clerk several times if he could repeat some of the options he had mentioned. “At this rate, she’ll be lucky if they get there by New Year’s,” whispered the man standing in front of me. “Don’t worry. My poor ninety-three-year-old mother at home sent me to get her some stamps. That’s all I need. I promise I won’t take nearly as long.” “No problem at all,” I said with a laugh. “I guess we’ve waited this long. Just tell me you’re not hoping to get Christmas stamps.” “Fortunately, mom wasn’t specific, so I’m happy to get whatever they have.” Suddenly, the woman at the counter was finished and the man moved ahead to take her place. “Have a Merry Christmas,” he said. “The same to you.” I paused a moment. I looked down at my fifty postage strips with the QR code emblazoned on them. It reminded me of the Peanuts Christmas special when Charlie Brown was sent out to get a tree for the Christmas pageant and came back with the scrawniest tree on the lot. But in the end, they patched it up with some ornaments borrowed from Snoopy’s prize winning doghouse and it looked just fine. “Sir, you’re next.” I glanced up at the clerk. Here was my opportunity to vent my frustrations about how I had spent the better part of that morning waiting in line and still not getting the Christmas stamps the sign on the door had promised me. “No thanks--I’m good.” I looked at him with a smile. “Have a Merry Christmas!” “Thank you, sir. Same to you.” I moved to the back of the post office in front of a wall of mailboxes where I found a table. From there, I began the long process of separating each of the postage strips, licking them, and carefully placing each one along the upper right side of all fifty of the envelopes. It suddenly occurred to me that alongside the QR codes of each of the postage strips was a vertical red line that actually matched very nicely with the rectangular red frame that encircled the addresses on each of the envelopes. Very Christmassy, I thought! After placing the postage strips on each of the envelopes, I happily carried them across the lobby and inserted them into the outgoing mail slot of the post office and finally made my way home. “Where have you been,” my wife called down from upstairs as I closed the front door behind me. “I was beginning to worry about you.” “Just spending a couple of hours with some new friends at the post office.” “New friends?” “Yeah, just some nice people who reminded me of what the season is truly about.” “That’s nice, honey. But I should tell you, we received some more Christmas cards in the mail today from some people we didn’t have on our list. I would like to send some more cards out. You wouldn’t mind running out again and getting some more stamps would you, dear? ... honey?”

It was a day like any other. I arrived at Five Points MARTA station to begin my daily commute to work. Light rain welcomed me as I walked to the entrance with a closed umbrella in hand, the pitter patter just not heavy enough for me to care to open it. I made my my way down to the northbound side of the tracks, staring at my phone in a dissociative daze. I briefly took my gaze away from my device to locate a bench where I would sit and wait for the next red-line train. After sitting down, I decided to put my phone away and attempt to take in my surroundings. Open air stations such as these tend to be a common retreat for wildlife, primarily rats and pigeons. The pigeons at this location had a distinct persona, like that of a Vietnam veteran that has fallen on hard times. Many of them appear dirty and debilitated, but live their lives just the same. As I watch the pigeons fly and land, searching for something unknown to me, a middle aged, African American man arrives and stands near the bench to my left. We both observe the unfortunate pigeons as one begins to waddle toward us. As it gets closer, I am able to see in greater detail the physical attributes of this bird and something immediately stands out. At the end of its legs, where there would normally be talons or claws, I am surprised to see that this pigeon has none. I watch it waddle on nubs and in partial disbelief I turn to the man beside me, curious if he noticed the same. The man turns toward me with a shocked, confused look on his face. We lock eyes and after a very short moment he breaks the silence. "That nigga ain't got no feet!" The end.

Greg was living an enchanted life. He had a condo, a hot girlfriend, and a career that killed. He was at the top of his game and nothing was going to stop him. He walked down the cement that laid a foundation of his personal will, he was strong and able, that was bullet proof. The downtown area was a gem that had been restored and rectified to assure longevity and courage for every person that walked in it. A lullaby sounded from ahead. He walked this way often and had not come across such a song. He looked. Who was it? He saw a very old homeless man sitting on the walkway with a sign and harmonica. Greg stumbled. He was quite a distance still from the busker. The buildings were solid proof that god and man were real to Greg. They were inheritance of a strength and character passed on through generations to create a solid core of civilization. He looked up. The sun shined through the clouds and he was delighted by the Fall air. He spied a coffee shop. This was a perfect day for a cup of joe. He entered. Greg ordered himself a cup of the finest coffee in the downtown area. Its was hot, it was fresh, and it was surreal to drink, nearly every day. He smelled the cup. It was piping hot and fresh. He dropped two dollars to the worker. They had earned their lot in life and Greg knew what it was like to work hard. They smiled. He left the coffee shop and re-entered the street. The nine o' clock walk way was too much. He smiled. It was his best friend, day after day, as his stocks continued to grow. It was a walk way to a secure and better retirement. He heard the music again. He looked. The homeless man was really interesting. To Greg he appeared ragged and loud but his music was anything but, it was captivating. Initially Greg was nearly in heaven at the sound of the music; like was said, he had not seen the busker before and he was nearly hypnotized by the sound. He stumbled again. The man stared down the sidewalk and they made eye contact. Greg was stunned and hypnotized. He was staring at him and it was having an impact on Greg. He felt odd and weak, he was immediately sickened in body and mind. He looked away. He drank from his coffee. He heard the music and felt sick to his stomach. He stopped. He took deep breathes and tried to stop the urge to vomit. He stood still. The music was playing loudly in his ears. He tried to breath deep and release. He did not want to lose his will on the sidewalk and vomit. He could not hold his stomach any longer. He vomited. The man continued to watch Greg. He put down his harmonica and began to sing. "The ones you see are you. The ones you see are you. When this day is over they are you. If you look hard enough you will see they are you." Greg could hear the man singing. He looked around. A couple of people tried to help him and he shooed them along to move along. He would be fine. He always was fine. He wiped off his mouth with a hankie that someone had given him. He continued to walk closer to the busker. "Yeah they are you. The ones you see are you. The ones you see are you. I am a prophet of the truth only the truth and they are you." Greg was agitated. He was woozy still and felt like stoning the man. How dare he sit in the middle of the greatest city in the world and collect the observations of other's wonder. He was a worker. He was an able citizen. He was a someone. Greg became infuriated as he continued to walk. He thought, "I will show him". He saw the busker's case. He kicked it away from the man. He asked him what he just said. The man looked up at him confused. He had not known that Greg was so close to where he was. He had been busy trying to make a dime. "Why you do that man, I just found this spot. I mean what's your problem? Why you hurting me? Why you fucks always hurting me?" The man started to cry. Greg picked up his harmonica and shot off a single note. People had stopped to watch him. Greg belted out, "The one that falls today falls everyday, the weak is the strong because we had this debate before. We've had this discussion. The one that falls is an age old tale." He laughed and grabbed his stomach. People were stunned at what they were seeing. Greg fell over and hit his head. The man continued to cry. The crowd was astounded. They tried to help Greg get up while others assisted the busker gather his things. The two men did not acknowledge each other and both received assistance from the crowd. Greg was passed out on the sidewalk. The busker was visibly shaken but gathered his change and dollars and straightened his little spot on the walkway. He was settled in and he knew this was just a first day in a long series of events. He had just arrived in town. He had just touched down. Greg was motionless. He was being escorted off by a small group of paramedics that had set up shop in a tall skyscraper. People began to drop 20s in the busker's basket. He smiled with his shiny face and eyes and thanked them. Most had not heard either of them and the words they spoke that day. Greg was carried off. The busker remained satisfied with his first day in the new town he knew he would have soft sheets and a drink in the skyscraper's hotel room system. This was a great surprise and he could not help but to think everything happens for a reason. He continued to play the harmonica as the street got back to normal.

Once upon a time, there was an old man that yelled at a glass of milk. The glass of milk didn’t do anything except being a simple glass of milk. The old man was lonely and lived in a small yurt in the backwoods of northern Michigan. One afternoon, he bought milk from his local grocers and poured himself a nice glass of ice-cold milk. When he took a sip, he started having casual conversations with the milk. It started with small talk such as asking about the weather and asking about its feelings. Then the conversations escalated to talking about the future, philosophy, and life. Two months later, the old man grew tired of the milk. He was still drinking out of that same glass of milk. Inside that glass was the same milk from two months ago. The old man took a sip out of the glass once a month. By now the milk would have turned nasty and smelly but it didn’t. The milk was immortal. It was ageless. That milk could go on for years and even decades without going bad. No one knows why. Even when it was super old and months past its expiration date, the milk still looked beautiful and white. The old man grew jealous of the milk. That piece of fluid could retain its youth and beauty but the old man himself couldn’t do that. Instead, as the old man aged, he had saggier wrinkles, more liver spots, and a receding hairline that went all the way to the back of his ears. The more jealous the old man became of the milk, the angrier he became. He yelled at the milk regularly. Everything irritated the old man about the milk. The angrier he became, the whiter and more beautiful the milk became. Next thing, the milk was glowing and developed a glittery rainbow aura around the glass. After seeing what this glass of milk was doing to his self-image, the old man grabbed the glass and tossed it against the wall but the glass never broke. The milk never poured out. The milk became prettier, whiter, shinier, and...stronger. It tasted better and creamier. It was the most beautiful glass of milk in the world. Odd enough, the old man’s wrinkles sagged even further down his face. He was beginning to look like a Bloodhound with a giant bald spot. The angrier he became, the glass of milk, in turn, became brighter, more vibrant, and more attractive. When the glass of milk became more attractive, the old man became uglier. Next thing, the old man couldn’t speak anymore. His ramblings were unrecognizable. His face was so saggy and wrinkly, he couldn’t speak without lifting his saggy upper lip and chin to speak. The old man eventually turned into a sagging sack of human meat while the glass of milk turned into...well nothing. It was still a glittery glass of beauty. Had the old man learned to shut up, controlled his jealousy over a piece of liquid, and drank his milk, he would’ve been just as beautiful as that glass of milk.

I try to be as descriptive as I can in this short time of leisure, since we're about to embark on our journy through the no man's land that lies behind our supply trench. I am writing this journal on parchment made from my own skin and with ink made out of my blood. My name is Mitten and I've been living in this hell for about 6 months now. Everyone who arrives here wakes up in one of the few dugouts with beds and every single one doesn't remember how he got here or who he is. The only form of identification is the name that's stitched on our clothing and collarbone, though we don't know if it's our own name. We fight an endless fight agains an enemy who just tries to flee from his own trench to ours. They are all mutilated, decaying or transformed into what is best describable as melted humans, probably caused by the mist that fills their side of the battlefield. One thing every enemy has in common is their lack of orifices to breathe through. Their mouths and noses are just gone. Some of them tried to rip open holes to breathe again but underneath their skin and muscles are just bones that won't allow you to breathe. They seem to be in constant agony. Constantly suffocating. Starving. Thirsty. Most of us don't want to fight but we have to. We have to stop them before they reach our frontlines because if they do, they just melt into the mud we stand in and everyone who would have been able to stop them develops some sort of dry gangrene that slowly takes over your whole body until you're just trapped in a body that can't regenerate and can't die. But the most disturbing thing about this whole ordeal is the fact that our enemies try their best to escape the horror that resides in their own trenches, knowing they will melt into a consciouss pool of mud. The first thing almost everyone tries is to kill himself with his rifle, only to live through his immortality and his inability to lose his consciousness for months on end until he regrows everything he needs to be able to move again. Those of us who lost their will to fight and can endure the unimaginable dread that grows in you if you don't fight, get carried away to the enemies lines by these winged beasts whose grotesque physique drives everyone mad who looks at them. To counteract these abductions, most of us who lost their hands and are unable to operate their rifles will have specially made iron rods rammed into their arms to be able to fight again, until their hands regrew. Every week a train comes by to supply us with ammunition and a thin broth we consider our food, so every week some of us has to go through 20km of mud and trenches, blood and organs to deliver the supplies to the front. Those of us who have lost their hands, and have yet to regrow them, get pickaxes stuck and bolted into their forearms and knees to act as some sort of mule capable of traversing the unforgiving land between the frontline and the supportline. Our day to day lives consist of sleeping for about 3 hours a day, eating our soup, trying to get rid of our illnesses like trenchfoot or typhus by amputating those parts if possible, even if that means we have to regenerate our whole body for months on end, and stopping the enemy from reaching our trenches. It is constantly dark in these lands, except for a singular, red flare that is shot up into the sky every 24 hours and acts as our sun. Most of us gave up on understanding this hell like me so I didn't even bother thinking about the origins or use of this flare. The weather is always cold and wet. At least our trenches are on the highground so most of the water that comes down goes to the enemylines. There aren't a lot of vehicles around here except for the occasional armored car that comes with the train and those flying behemoths made out of cloth and steel that float above us. They are connected to the ground by a few rope ladders. Some of us tried to climb them, most of them fell on their way up because they were too weak or it's gotten too cold for them. Those who made it up there never came back. I am currently waiting for Stiller to wake up. He thinks he found a way to escape this hell by traversing the no man's land behind us. He said that if we want to go home, we have to go back to our homeland. It's absurd but it's worth a try. He hopes we will get back to our lives again or finally die. I think we're currently in the first circle of hell and will just enter the next. I will keep this journal on my at all times but I will be unable to write in it when we go. He woke up. I hope we will finally be able to die.

Anxiety, sweaty palms, too many bodies - so why do I feel like I’m backed into a corner with no where to go. How crowded can a train be at this time of day it’s only 6:00am. To hide behind the hoodie I wear, the bruises black and blue across my face. The sound of my heart slowly fading as I leave behind the life I once saw as my future. I see white what can it be, is that you nan i see. Why are you here? is this a dream, please talk to me. No words just pure silence from her, until I saw a little boy the size of a watermelon appeared before me. Who are you? Are you lost? lets go find your parents. He pointed his finger at me, confused as I was the words I heard was MUM!. He suddenly disappeared and I couldn’t come to terms of where I was. Until a light flash before my eyes as I watched a reflection of myself in the corner of the train. If I am here, who is that. Mysterious voice “It’s you” but I couldn’t understand how is that me. As I watched from above I saw the police officer announced me as dead and tapped the crime scene with the yellow tape. As a vision of what had happened made me realise I died the night before, HOW! I was raped and beaten by the man who said he loved me. I was murdered by the man who gave me the black and blue bruises. I was murdered by the man who gave me life.... MY DAD!!!!!! He took away the life I saw as my future and all because my step mother hated me. She never did love me the way my real mother loved me. But I assumed my real mother loved me despite her disappearing at the age of 5 years old. Why she left me with this man I would never know, cause he took away my chance to find the mother who birthed me. But as the police officer starts searching my body, he finds a piece of ID with the name (sara Burke) that’s me. As evidence is bagged in a clear seal bag, the sudden shock caused the officer to faint. As he stutters with the fear in his voice, he shouted with tears ”she was pregnant“. Everyone stood still as another officer came to examine me and cried “WHO WOULD DO THIS”. Yes! I was 16 and pregnant and the father was none another than my dad. I was raped my whole life and my step mum knew.She was jealous at the attention I got until I fell pregnant and wanted me gone for good. Don’t get me wrong I knew I had to leave before they got to me. But where was I meant to go, stories you hear about how the system fails us. Scared me to the core that I knew I was going to die, it was either I died or my step mother would leave my dad. I was given the opportunity to spend my last day however it pleased me and I sat down with my Mother Nature. Begging her to let the gods take me away instead of the brutal way I knew I was going to die. I watched the day turn into night within a matter of hours. I was angry with the gods cause I felt like no one was hearing my cry for help. I kneeled and prayed as my father repeatedly punched me 1 2 and 3 times in the head. Leaving me unconscious, eyes barely hanging onto life my step mother said “good riddance“. He ripped my clothes off and raped me til I bleed. I said “Dad before I leave this earth tell my real mum I love her and I will see her again”. SILENCE........... 6:00am he stuffed my body into a train, making sure he had no eye witnesses. I was gasping on to the last bit of air I had left. I told my dad karma would get him and whether I’m alive or dead I would get justice for me and my son. To his surprise he didn’t know I was pregnant but I wasn’t shocked. His twisted wife would have him wrapped under her thumb. As I turned my back I saw everyone I loved waiting for me including my son who was that watermelon. I knew the life I lived on that train was a life my dad put on me. But the life I have here in heaven will be the life i would make my own. But before I died the last thing I saw on earth before the angels himself took me. Was the sunsetting to shine through people window. The blue skies, the birds singing in harmony as I hum along with them. The leaves falling off the trees as autumn starts to sink in and my eyes close one last time. Mother Nature showed me life after death is just as beautiful as life now. The girl in the hoodie with the face painted in black and blue that was Sara Burke. That girl is me but I would never let that girl be defined as a victim. She was brave, strong, confident and had the humblest heart of gold. God knew he needed her more with him so he allowed her to watch the sun rise. As her sun was setting for a better and brighter future with the people she loved and who loved her. Sara burke knew the day would come where her dad would pay for her death. She never saw the bad in people despite being stood on like a roach. As she walked towards her loved ones, the light behind her started to fade. The life she knew in black and blue become nothing but full of colours. This is my story of the girl who cried black and blue .

As the family of five made their way to the beach, the sun shone brightly, and the waves crashed on the coast. The grandfather, a man in his eighties, walked behind his daughter, son-in-law, and two granddaughters, admiring the beauty of the tropical paradise where they were on vacation. The family had been looking forward to this trip for months and were eager to spend quality time together. Dark clouds began to move in as they settled into their beach chairs and relaxed. The wind increased, and soon a storm raged over them. The family immediately packed their belongings and fled to the nearest shelter, but the grandfather and his youngest granddaughter, a young woman in her twenties, separated from the rest of the family in the chaos. The two huddled together behind a little makeshift shelter, watching the storm rage on. The grandfather put on a brave face as he saw his granddaughter's concern and tried to distract her with conversation. "You've been buried in your phone for most of the vacation," Grandfather observed, looking into his granddaughter's eyes. "I want you to know I love you and am here for you." The young woman nodded, tears running down her cheeks. "I know, Grandpa," she said. "I've just been trying to get over my last relationship. I had a lot invested, and I can't move on from the hurt and anger I feel." The grandfather was all too aware. He had spent most of his life holding grudges and resentments, and it wasn't until he was much older that he learned how important it was to let go in order to move forward. "It's difficult to let go," he admitted. "Most people's mistakes have no long-term consequences; if we can let go of that first pain, we may be able to move on with our lives right away. On the other hand, we never do; we focus on what has occurred in the past. As a result, we sacrifice our own future." "I don't want to get hurt again." The grandfather shared that vulnerability was required for growth and that recognizing flaws might strengthen a relationship. "You limit the chance to experience joy if you cannot be vulnerable." "I want to move on, but everything reminds me of what could have been." He emphasized the importance of dealing with the present moment and shifting one's perspective rather than being absorbed in negative thoughts and feelings. "When you look inward and be present in your life, the memory fades and is distracted by living." "I don't want to get out of bed in the morning. I've spent the last five years sacrificing, investing time, and tying my entire identity as a person around what may have been. Now I'm left with nothing, and the clock keeps ticking." The granddaughter listened closely as the grandfather talked about his own challenges and the methods he used to overcome them, such as unconditional love for oneself, active love for others, and focusing on the reality of the present rather than the fantasy of the future. He also warned against the tendency to avoid discomfort. "Negative emotions will arise; it's part of the human condition; don't ignore them; instead, think on, feel, learn, and release them." "Life is nothing but suffering, unending uncertainty, and risk." The grandfather pointed out the importance of connections and self-awareness in achieving happiness. He encouraged his granddaughter to take ownership of her life and meet new people since they symbolize growth. "I've never told anyone, but I write to get to know my unconscious. This is where those negative thoughts can be found. Your brain is quite good at tricking you, setting traps, and getting lost in past hardships. Writing helped me to boost my self-esteem and shift my thinking in a positive direction." "I had everything I ever wanted, though; now it's gone, and I'll never have it back. The saddest part is that it's entirely my fault; I'm the one who destroyed my ideal life." The grandfather spoke about the illusion of a perfect life and the importance of focusing on the present and taking action rather than searching for an idealistic sense of purpose. "Happiness is gained in accepting that we will never know everything and that life is a journey rather than a goal or a moment to be reached. Once you've arrived at that point, the issue is that it's never as fulfilling as you had imagined, which can only lead to despair." What began as an attempt to distract his granddaughter from the storm evolved into a confessional from a man who had lived a long life and accumulated truths along the way. The grandfather would not make it home from that vacation; his body couldn't survive the stress that mother nature unleashed. His granddaughter remembered the philosophical truisms that her grandfather taught her that day. Still, these lessons can only be gained through living, working, and experiencing. There are no shortcuts; you must do the work.

“Want an Almond Joy?” the taxi driver said, leaning back toward me and shuffling through the bag--a monstrously large collection of little blue wrappers. “That’s very nice of you,” I mumbled, nodding my head. When I realized he didn’t see--he was looking straight ahead--I said, “yes, please,” so softly I could barely hear my own voice. I leaned toward the driver so he wouldn’t have to turn around. “Thank you very much.” As I nibbled at the Almond Joy, the driver scooped three more candies for himself. Plopped them in his mouth all at the same time and chomped. My eyes swept over the view: as rice fields rolled by, I caught a glimpse of my nose in the window’s reflection. It glittered with sweat. And my blue eyes shone, overflowing with anticipation. “I’m taking a longer route,” the driver said, adjusting his dashboard mirror, “because there’s traffic on the main road.” “No, no worries!” I settled into my seat, tracing a stain on the middle seat. “Whatever gets us to Boston,” I said. “I have a job interview at the university this afternoon,” I smiled, trying to imagine the dean. Would he be wearing glasses and a sweater vest? A suit? I looked down at my dress, black cotton, and smoothed it out a bit. I couldn’t remember if I had ironed it in the hotel room that morning--though I suppose it was too late to try to worry about it. The taxi driver laughed. “Whatever gets us to Boston, that’s a good one! I’m gonna start using that one from now on.” I spotted a porcelain white road sign, ordained with hand-painted blue, yellow, and green leaves to frame its contents: “Carrer del Destí,” it read. Street of Fate . When did they start translating road signs here into Catalan? I almost asked the driver, but found myself too embarrassed. Back when I lived in Massachusetts, all the road signs were in English. But there ’ s no official language in the United States, I told myself. Must have a large Catalan community here nowadays, I nodded. Yes, that must be it . “Would you like another?” the driver asked. “A what now?” “Would you like another Almond Joy?” “An Almond Joy?” “Yes.” “Why would I want an Almond Joy?” I shuffled in my seat. “Well--” the driver fell into a silence so stupid I wanted to kick the back seat. “I have a lot here, and--” “Let me tell you something about Almond Joys,” I started. “Almond Joys are the only candies that tell you how to feel in the name... because biting into one isn’t clear enough. ” The driver let out a nervous laugh. “No, really,” I continued. “The insides are a pathetic attempt to capture the sad texture of some kind of coconut filling, and the chocolate is just waxy enough to remind you that the thing contains almonds. It almost makes you wish you were allergic to nuts, so your head could swell up and you could go the rest of your life without ever having to touch one again, or, better yet, dead.” “That’s a good one, hun,” the driver forced out the words through his chewing. The sound of his interminable, slushing saliva assaulted my ears. “Don’t call me hun if you want to keep the tires on your car.” Suddenly the phone rang--mine, thankfully, or I would’ve heaved the driver’s phone out the window--and I answered it after catching my breath. “A petty solace to the small talk,” I said into the phone without checking the caller ID. “Alice speaking. Now what is it?” “Penny, how many times have we been through this?” a shrill voice chirped on speaker. “Nobody knows who Alice is. Nobody has ever--called you that?” “Is that a question?” “Forget it, sis.” “So, then?” “Huh?” Her stupidity irritated me. “Your point. For calling.” With Elizabeth, everything had to be spelled out. Perfectly said and entirely literal. “Well...” she stumbled. There was a crackling sound, as if she were crumpling a paper on the other end to try to convince me we had a bad signal. “Roxy passed away this morning.” “That’s it?” “Penny--I’m sorry. I know how worried--how beside yourself you were last night.” “First of all, don’t call me Penny,” I said. “Penny is the name of a coin, and the worst one, at that. Second of all, I never worry. That’s a lie. I’m never ‘beside myself,’ not for you, or anyone, let alone a goddamn chihuahua named Roxy.” I hung up the phone, and the driver blinked, and it rang again. I picked it up on the third ring--the best ring, and the only ring, at that, that doesn’t look like you’re desperate for human connection. “Elizabeth, what in the hell don’t you understand about someone hanging up the phone on you? I don’t want to talk.” “Listen, sis,” the voice on the other end dipped into a baritone. “Elizabeth asked me to call you. I wanted to...check in.” “David!” I squealed. “David! Who’s my favorite baby brother?” I smiled, cupping the microphone as if it were a rotary phone. “David is my little brother,” I explained to the taxi driver. “He’s about to turn six.” “Penny...I’m...almost thirty-seven,” David said. “Ohh, right,” I smiled, cupping the phone again. “David likes to play pretend,” I shouted to the taxi driver, whose eyes seemed too wide for him to still be dead-silent. “I think he’s gonna grow up and become an actor!” “I’m in a taxi right now,” I shouted into the phone. “Can you call me back in a bit?” “Penny, I know. I was the one who called you the...Uber. Listen,” I could hear David swallow. “This is important.” “Uber! Davie, you have such a way with words.” I couldn’t help it. Even though David was already a kid, I spoke to him as if he were still my baby. The perfect doll Mom and Dad brought home from the hospital just for me . “Penny...” David’s voice was hushed, though more out of kindness than out of secretiveness. “Is Author changing you again?” “Hmm,” I said. “Give me a minute.” I thought for a moment, now growing pensive. “Penny, are you still there?” I didn’t know how long it had been. “Wait a bit, David. It’s a good question. Give me a couple more minutes, I think Author had to go to the bathroom.” “Let’s hope she’s not constipated today,” I could hear David mutter to someone on the other end. After a few minutes had passed, I hissed into the phone. “Daaaavid?” “Penelope.” “You’re right,” I sighed. “Author did change me again.” I glanced at myself in the window’s reflection. My black eyes glittered, and a tear rolled down my cheek. “She has me looking at my reflection in a window,” I said, slow and steady. “And she has a tear rolling down my cheek like a third-rate novelist.” “Penny, take a breath.” “I am breathing.” “Good, now I want you to tell me one thing.” “What’s that?” “What color are your eyes right now?” “Black,” I said. “You’re sure?” “Yes.” “It’s not the worst edit Author’s ever made--” I heard David whisper to someone on the other end. “The worst edit Author’s ever made was making the whites go yellow. I was there for that. Had to take her to the hospital for cirrhosis of the liver and they didn’t believe me when I told them there was no family history and she had only just started drinking on her 21st birthday, a few days prior.” “Listen, Penny, I want you to ask the driver where you’re going.” I asked him. “Andorra,” I reported to David. “What’s that?” “I’m starting to hate her,” David said in another hushed tone. “I’m sorry.” I said it as if it were a reflex. “Not you, Penny,” David sighed, “I’m starting to hate Author.” “Everything Author does is for a reason,” I replied, again more out of a reflex than out of a conscious thought. My words were just words--devoid of all meaning. “Well maybe Author should start using her intuition more because reason doesn’t seem to be working out,” David said, and my phone went black. The battery’s dead. I looked over to the driver, and then to the Halloween-candy-sized bag of Almond Joys on his passenger seat. I leaned over. “Hey, can I have one?” “Take them all,” he handed them to me so quickly (almost nervously?), that I was touched. The kindness of strangers, I mused, munching on the chocolate, sweet and soft and gooey as if it’d been sitting out in the heat, waiting, waiting for the perfect moment--waiting just for me. “I want...eh, to apologize,” the driver said. “For taking the long road. I--I--there wasn’t actually that much traffic ahead, you see?” “No, I can’t see because we didn’t go that way,” I tried to remain matter-of-fact. It was the least I could do for him. “No, I mean,” the driver hesitated. “It’s just that I haven’t been getting many rides, and I thought if I showed you around the countryside I could get a better tip.” “Oh! Well, that is silly,” I replied in a laugh. “Yes,” he mirrored my laugh uneasily. “I mean, I don’t even have any money on me!” The car went silent, so silent I could hear the driver’s belabored swallowing. “You pay...on the app,” he explained, “any time throughout the ride or just after it. Would you like a phone charger?” “No, thanks,” I said, sifting through the bag of Almond Joys. “I think it would make Author pretty mad. She’s a big fan of all those plays that involve a miscommunication because a letter or something isn’t properly delivered, you know, like Romeo and Juliet?” “Uh-huh.” Although I interpreted it as the driver agreeing, I could hear him roll his eyes. “I’m pretty sure she’d just crash the car into a ravine if I took the charger,” I laughed. “She’s not very creative.” “Oh?” “Yeah.” “Well--take the charger--for my sake.” “Really?” “I insist.” “Okay!” Somehow I agreed before Author could change me--could change my mind again--and as the battery signal on my phone lit up, the driver laughed. “ Que turista més boja ,*” he said. *[“What a crazy tourist”] I would later tell David, as he hovered over my hospital bed with a line of worry permanently carved into his forehead, that those were the very last words I heard before the whole world went black.

I walk around campus on a busy day, where the streets are flooded with people instead of cars. I wander to find my friends in the hope I find reprieve of the loneliness, but whoever I try to find is missing or long gone. &#x200B; I give up and start walking home, but with no purpose as to why I am going there. What would be better once I got home? Nobody is there, no shows to watch, no games to play, what's the point? Choosing a destination gave me purpose in the moment, so I started off towards a convenience store. I strolled in silence, despite all the bustling around me. Time seemed to move like a movie in fast forward, and I was stuck playing at a normal pace. Everyone had a purpose, a goal, and I was a lone wanderer. I reached the store with no errand, but decided that getting food would at least be an activity that would bring me a short burst of purpose. I got a sandwich from the deli, and as I was walking back toward the register, I caught my reflection off one of the refrigerator doors. &#x200B; I stopped and stared at myself, a ghostly figure in front of sushi and salad. I pulled out a nine millimeter handgun and raised it up. Slowly opening my mouth, I slid the cold metal of the barrel into my mouth. So cold, as if I was the reflection in the fridge. As I slid the barrel toward the back of my mouth, I welcomed death and prepared to leave this Earth. Waiting to pull the trigger, I suddenly heard an echoed voice call out to me. &#x200B; This voice brought me out of the world I was in, and made me realize the cold gun was not real. I was in my own head, living a vision of a swift death for myself. I looked over at the source of the voice to see who pulled me through the ether, and there stood a pretty blonde clad in school spirit. In that moment, I realized what she had said a few seconds earlier. &#x200B; "What are you contemplating?" she asked. It took me a moment, but I realized that her inquiry was not about my dark thoughts, but rather what was behind my reflection. I looked through the fridge door for the first time and saw the food options that it outwardly seemed I was staring at. &#x200B; "Uh, chicken salad or pasta salad", I said hastily to keep up the facade that she believed. I don't know why she asked me the question, but then again I don't know how long I was standing there staring straight ahead and not moving. It could have been minutes, but when does one person ask about another's shopping habits? I truly had no idea but I answered without question. &#x200B; "Chicken salad for sure, too many carbs in pasta", she decided for me. I reached into the fridge and took a package of it, and thanked her after giving a quick chuckle. Once I thanked her, she took off and I didn't see her again. I looked back into the refrigerator door and didn't see myself anymore, the man with a gun that looked like me was gone. I walked toward the register at the exit and with a slight smile purchased my food; my sandwich and the chicken salad.

I meet Maud Lancaster for the second time on the steps of Pembroke College in early September 1962. She’s easily recognizable with her characteristic argyle vest and braided hair, but I must not hold the same level of memorability because she asks, “I’m sorry, have we met?” And I tell her that we exchanged pleasantries at Convocation, and that we’re also in the same American History course with Professor Peterson and I’ve seen her from across the lecture hall. And that’s that, all the basic requisites for a friendship apparently fulfilled. The next time we see each other, it’s Maud who approaches first, jogging up to me on my way to calculus and asking me how I’ve been and hasn’t the weather been great lately and what other classes I have today. We have lunch together on the green and discover that we live in the same dorm, only one floor and half a hallway apart. Her roommate is “disastrous” and mine seems to only come back to sleep and shower, so she’s soon started inviting herself over to my room, occasionally at first, more often than not before long. By sophomore year, she’s both my new roommate and easily one of the most well-known women on campus. There aren’t all that many of us to begin with and we’re all intelligent and studious, working hard to preserve the Pembroke reputation of outshining the Brown University men, no matter how apparently undateable that renders us. Still, Maud seems to shine brightest amongst us, fearless and forward, her name known by every professor who has had her in his lectures, already a shoo-in for class president come senior year. She becomes the pinnacle of the Pembroker that one Ought Not To Date, but eventually some of the boys come to their senses and stop chasing after the nearby Wheaton College girls to chase after her instead. She dates a few, breaks the hearts of several more, and all the while she’s living with me, coming back every night to our room, her bed only a few feet away from mine, close enough for us to whisper secrets deep into the night. A few weeks after the start of our senior year, she meets Paul Kilmer, a fellow Poli. Sci. student and pompous prick of a man who, for some incomprehensible reason, decides that he should like to try and convince Maud of the female gender’s inherent unsuitability to politics. I’m not present for their discussion, but she gives him a most sound verbal thrashing that is witnessed by several other students and recounted to me later with glee. Over the next few months Paul becomes an increasingly frequent topic of conversation, mostly by virtue of their numerous arguments and hardly ever in complimentary terms, but by Thanksgiving there’s an odd gleam in her eye when she talks about him and I experience a sudden jolt of panic. She’s invited to his home in Greenwich for Christmas, comes back with a delicate amethyst pendant and talks of “maybe”. It’s all happening so fast, too fast, and all the thoughts I’ve never voiced suddenly come clawing up my throat before I’ve even had the chance to recognise them for what they really mean. For a brief and feverish moment I think that I should tell her exactly how I feel about her and Paul fucking Kilmer, but then I notice the hope in her gaze, the aching desire to hear me say that I am happy for her, and I cannot bring myself to let her down. I try to think of her as Mrs. Kilmer. I can’t. Mrs. Kilmer. Mrs. Kilmer. It feels viscerally, objectively wrong, but I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who thinks that. Mrs. Kilmer. • • • The two of them move to New York City shortly after graduation, and I linger in Rhode Island for a little while before heading in the opposite direction, up to Boston. I find myself a condo in the South End that’s nice enough; much too small for the nuclear family my mother is eager for me to procure posthaste, but more than sufficient for my needs. One and a half bedrooms, white walls, a small kitchen, bay windows onto the street, a stoop whose landing has been anointed with an indelible stain of undeterminable origin. I try dating on for size and find I can’t get it to fit. I do my best to make it, I really do, but there’s always something missing, something I can’t quite articulate. My time spent with men is pleasant for the most part, but struggles to grow into anything more. The butterflies in my stomach remain dormant, the desire for physical affection never manifests itself, the inevitability of breakup is hardly upsetting. When my third boyfriend, in an eerie echo of the two before him, begins to complain incessantly about my lack of intimacy, I give up on dating altogether. Maud calls often, at first. I visit her and Paul in New York several times, and she returns the favor whenever Paul travels to Boston for work. She wears her hair loose now, long and fair and feathered, has graduated from her argyled college look, transitioned from skirts to cigarette pants now that she’s no longer constrained by the Pembroke dress code. The feelings that I used to ignore with such ease, their true natures having since been uncovered, now refuse to be disregarded. It’s impossible to look at her the way I used to, as an ex-roommate or simply another young woman my age. Her laugh is too intoxicating, my name from her mouth feels like something unspeakably precious, her rapt gaze as I talk drives me to distraction, the way she crosses her legs demands my attention. She asks me to promise I’ll be her maid of honor when the day comes, and I do, of course I do. They get married in October, scarcely two years after they first met. I make good on my promise, standing next to her in a sage green chiffon number in almost every photograph, and there are nearly as many of just the two of us as there are of the two of them. Maud is unaware or perhaps indifferent to Paul’s apparent displeasure at this; I find a strange satisfaction in the knowledge that he perceives me, to some extent, as a threat. In these moments, it almost feels like nothing has changed and it’s still just the two of us, Maud’s boyfriends bearing no greater significance than the late-night anecdotes they inspire. But at the end of the day it’s now Paul to whom she returns, not our dorm room, and in the weeks after the wedding Maud’s calls become increasingly infrequent until they cease altogether. Paul answers the phone every time I ring, tersely informing me that Maud is unavailable and that he’ll tell her I called again, but I never hear back from her. • • • The next time I meet Maud she is standing on my doorstep, hair escaping from her chignon, suitcase in hand. It is half past ten at night and I have not seen or heard from her in three and a half years. I stand frozen for a moment at the sight, then let her in without a word. She’s silent at first, clearly exhausted from her trip. I brew her a cup of chamomile, make up the sofa bed while she showers. She asks me to join her under the covers, like we used to at Pembroke when in need of comfort, and I oblige. In short, she tells me, she is no longer Mrs. Kilmer. I hold her close as she talks about what he did to her and why we haven’t spoken in so long, powerless to do much else. We upgrade my twin bed, which I previously had no good reason for replacing, to a king, large enough to fit the both of us and then some. It feels strange at first, a slight but unshakeable misgiving that we’re doing something wrong, but Maud says that she always sleeps sounder in my presence and feels relieved to wake up beside me, and I’m certainly not about to try and convince her otherwise. She's out of sorts for those first few weeks, but ultimately Maud is nothing if not resilient. Before long she's found herself a new job, and with it comes a fresh pool of romantic prospects. I watch her primp for every new suitor, welcome her back home only a few hours later and listen to an exhaustive list of their shortcomings -- not that she’s specifically looking for flaws, she says, she just can’t help but notice anyway. Still, she always gives them the benefit of the doubt, gives them numerous opportunities to redeem themselves, but they never do. The men here, she laments, seem to be quite substandard. If only they had the sensibilities, the kindness, the sophistication of women, perhaps she would not be so unlucky in love. After the fifth or sixth round of hearing her quip about how she should like to date a man with a woman’s soul, my nerves have become so frayed that I can no longer hold my tongue. She won’t find a man like that, I tell her, so she should either lower her standards, or date a woman instead. And then I make the bold -- and perhaps unsubstantiated -- claim that I would be a better partner than any of the men she could possibly meet in Boston, maybe even the entire country, if only she would have me. Silence. I can’t look at her. Voice quivering, I begin a half-hearted recontextualization of my words, when she lifts my chin and kisses me. • • • In the following months, I can hardly tell if I’m dreaming or awake. We are hesitant at first, unsure how to approach a situation neither of us is at all familiar with. But there’s something that clicks, has always clicked, and whatever reservations we hold soon burn off like morning mist. Our relationship remains fundamentally unchanged and yet evolves into something intrinsically different. We become a series of “but now also”s: we are still friends but now also lovers, still sleep in the same bed but now also “sleep” in that bed, still mean the world to each other but now also are each other’s world, are still as we were but now also more. And that more is ineffably glorious in the potential it holds. Unsurprisingly, my twenties never yield the marriage my mother so desperately desires for me, nor do my thirties, and by the advent of my forties even she can no longer will away the implications of Maud’s perpetual presence in my life -- Maud, who is also, what a coincidence, happily unmarried. Maud’s parents are even less receptive to our relationship, which stings, of course it does, but we are too busy being happy for it to sting overmuch. In our mid-thirties we pool our finances to buy a brownstone in Back Bay. We decorate it whimsically, with colorful wallpaper and the most bizarre pop art prints we can find and a patchwork sofa and far too many lamps. We hunt down strawberry-themed crockery in thrift stores and garage sales, take pottery classes and display our misshapen creations as though they are Ming vases. We watch the Boston Pride parade one year, march in it the next and every year after. I write the occasional article for the Gay Community News, while she lends her legal expertise to the Gay & Lesbian Advocates and Defenders. We travel to Spain and France and Greece -- Lesbos, of course, quoting and misquoting Sappho the entire time: Sweet Maud, I cannot weave - slender Aphrodite has overcome me with longing for you. We go down to New York one year to welcome the start of a new decade; watch the ball as it drops, cheer when the clock strikes midnight, kiss long and slow among the throng of people doing the same. Later, as we’re making our way out of Times Square, someone says, “Maud?” She almost doesn’t hear him, but I do and we turn to see who it is. He’s older, paunchier, and balder, but the man in front of us is unmistakably Paul Kilmer. His eyes flicker down to her hand where it rests snug in the crook of my elbow and something sours in the set of his mouth. Maud doesn’t even twitch an eyebrow, just regards him coolly and says, “I’m sorry, have we met?” And before he has the wherewithal to respond, she whirls back around, pulling me flush against her and leaning her head on my shoulder as we continue to weave through the crowd, giggling like schoolgirls. • • • She is seventy-eight and I am making my way up the ramp of the nursing home to see her. The home is tastefully decorated and sunny and the staff are always kind, greeting me by name and telling me to go on through, that she’s doing very well today and has just finished her breakfast. Not for the first time, I’m attacked by the guilt, the fear that I might have stolen something from her. I can’t help but wonder if, were it not for me, she could have happily remarried, experienced the joys of motherhood. If now she would have had her children or grandchildren visiting her, taking care of her, telling her about their lives and sharing accomplishments. Instead, the only family she has left is an old biddy who may very well be bound for the nursing home herself in a few years. And then who will be there for her? I find her sitting by the window, her usual spot. She smiles when she sees me -- 60 years on, and her smile is just as beautiful as when we first met. We sip tea and contemplate a jigsaw puzzle; I update her on the status of my latest manuscript, show her pictures of the neighbor’s cat. As always, it happens without warning. I see the confusion cloud her eyes for a moment, the change in the way she looks at me. She blinks twice and, polite and warm and charming as ever, asks, “I’m sorry, have we met?” And I tell her that we have, and she asks me to remind her, and I do, again.

The sun dies its days death leaving a humid evening in its wake. The air is thick and oppressive heavy on the nose and damp in the mouth. A man sits at a hotel bar, he’s waiting for somebody to arrive. Somebody important. He takes a draw on his cigarette and knocks back the dregs of his bourbon. He signals the bartender for another. His eye catch on a dame in a red dress. All golden hair, curves and legs as far as the eye could see. Damn, she’s a pretty one. Strangely familiar, yet unknown, mysterious and alluring. Her high heels clack on the marble floor, she pauses for a split second and her head turns - red lips curve in a devilish smile as her eyes meet his. And then she’s gone. The man at the bar remembers another red dress. Twenty years past and no name to the memory, although her lips were still fresh as yesterday. She’d had that look, a Hollywood starlet, a diamond amongst river pebbles. He’d been taken with her from the moment he’d had eyes on her. A doll dizzy kid, he’d never stood a chance. His life changed forever. A dance, a kiss, she’d introduced him to a man in a fine grey suit. A man who drank Champaign with a cigarette ever-present in his mouth. A man with a flashing smile and the brightest baby blues you’d ever seen. A man with a smooth voice who held the whole room in the palm of his hand. The man at the hotel bar wonders for a second if by some miracle or trick of fate it could be her. But no, the woman in the red dress would be his age now, not the fresh young thing here tonight. He stands and checks his watch. He has an hour by his reckoning, he makes his way to the restroom, splashes cold water over his face then raises his head to meet his reflection. His suit is immaculate, made by the best tailor in town. Shoes shiny. Cufflinks polished. He dons his hat and winks at the mirror. Not long now. He can feel the excitement running through his veins like a hit of the Docs’ cocaine. He returns to his stool and drums his fingers on the bar, knocks back another bourbon and lights another cigarette. He feels uneasy, something deep inside him. Like cockroaches crawling over his toes. He’s sweating but doesn’t take off his jacket, he needs the protection it provides, hard metal pressed reassuringly into his side like a soothing hand to a fevered brow. The city stirs from its slumber. Between the bedsheets of darkness, the slime and bugs of the city emerged from their dens or crawled from beneath their rocks. Ornamental women with diamonds on their necks and coldness in their eyes on the arms of men in fancy suits. Weighted handshakes as laughter rang in the bars and saloons of the city; not from mirth but for another purpose altogether, to hide the fear that yaps at the heals of its master. The man at the hotel bar loses himself in memory once again. He was six, maybe seven holding onto the skirt of his mother as they watched a parade pass through the streets. Folks had been yelling, a brass band played. Giants crowded the streets, for every man was a giant to him. He fell and lost his mother. He screamed and called out her name. The fear of a child filled his heart and he began to sob as the crowd carried him away. It seemed a hundred years and a hundred faces passed him by. A hummingbird trapped in his chest as he imagined monsters in the eyes of men. That was when she found him. He couldn’t remember her face - his only coming to her waist. A girl in a red polka-dot dress. She scooped him up in her arms, laughter in her eyes and brushed away his tears. Carried him safely back into his mother’s embrace. To him, she seemed a beautiful angel with honey hair and red lips, the most beautiful thing his young eyes had ever seen. The man at the hotel bar thought again of the woman in the red dress from a time passed. She’d raised him up from the graveyard of normality into the world of the lavish and extraordinary. He’d kissed the hand of the king that night in that smokey lounge. Over-there in the grey suit, she’d pointed. Come she’d said, and he’d followed the woman in the red dress as she introduced him to his future. Champagne poured and there were girls, dozen to the dime. He was seduced as much by the lifestyle he saw as by her red dress and slow smiles. It was power. Those men, they weren’t afraid of nothin', they owned the city and they lived in style but more than that they had freedom. Class and abundance flowed from their fingers. Danger shone in their eyes. They were quick to smile and quicker to laugh. They seemed untouchable. That night when he followed her to bed he was as much following the man in the grey suit. Again he mused at fate. Wondered what his life would be if he hadn’t met her. Would he still be sitting here waiting to play God? The man in the hotel bar rouses himself from the past, it was time. The elevator doors opened and a short portly man steps out. He is slightly balding, a fuddy-duddy if ever there was- he walks quickly, eager to reach his destination. The man at the bar slips off his stool as quiet and sly as a jungle cat in pursuit of its prey. Not a soul notices his departure. Music and voices blended into the constant thunder of traffic. Sirens and car horns combine in the fantasia of the city - climaxing in a crescendo as the adolescent night reaches adulthood. The pavement radiates the heat of the day rising with the smell of fast food and garbage, the bouquet completed with the faintest trace of ladies perfume. A heavy and suffocating stink that catches in the back of the throat. The man from the hotel bar walks at a leisurely pace concealing himself between the residents of the sidewalk. He stops and tips his hat to a pretty girl, with a fleeting Good evening Mam, his hat obscuring his face just as the portly man glances over his shoulder checking for anyone in pursuit. The pair continued in this fashion for some three or four blocks until the portly man turns onto the corner of 52nd Street. Bars and clubs line the sidewalk, sultry voices singing of lost love fight against jaunty big band tunes in a battle to dominate the night. A showgirl lights a cigarette under a harsh yellow streetlamp, taking a break from an already long night. The man from the hotel bar pauses, he looked up and notices the pale half moon dangling haphazardly in the dirty sky. He knows the portly man’s intended destination now, he recognises the lounge and street corner. He’s been here before. That night, the night with the woman in the red dress two decades earlier. It looks the same. Here where it began so shall it end, fate makes for an odd mistress he muses. He walks down a dimly lit corridor pushing past a scantily dressed cigar girl and slipping into a smokey room which swells with a crooning voice telling of longing and tragedy. The man from the hotel bar knows that voice, it awakens a half-forgotten dust-covered memory. Running through the lanes of boyhood in the baking summer heat. Cracked mud-pies abandoned to a parched and desiccated fate. His fathers’ voice ringing after him ignored in the pursuit of a golden pigtail tied with a red ribbon. Laughter on the breeze and mischief afoot. Who had she been? He couldn’t remember. Or perhaps he’d never known. On a small stage in the centre of the room, the same room the man had danced long ago, she stands. In her red dress with her golden hair. The Dame from the lobby. Her voice is something special straight out of heaven and matched with a body wrapped in sin. Every man in the room has eyes for only her. He turns his attention to each table searching until he finds what he’s looking for. The portly man. No longer alone but sat at a table in the far left corner and accompanied by a handsome man in a grey suit. A bright smile flashes, hair turned to salt n' pepper with the years but eyes as true blue as they’d always been. The man from the hotel bar settles at a watchful distance, he orders another drink as he waits. He won’t move again until the night begins to fade. The hours slither past as tough guys, wise guys, cool cats and wannabes come and go in front of the man in the grey suit. The show finishes, the court closes and the man in the grey suit takes his leave off his subjects exiting out a side door to a dingy alleyway. The man from the hotel bar rises, one last lingering look at the dame in the red dress and then he too exits out of the side door. Two men stand in the night under the light of a pathetic waxy grey moon, too far away and too smog poisoned to cast even the faintest shadow on the grimy pavement. Two gunshots swallowed by the stale night. The side door opens again throwing a rectangle of golden haze onto a bloody tableau. One man splayed on the pavement a red hallo forming around his motionless head. The other man stands over him, smoking gun, limp in his hand. The woman in the red dress steps into the alleyway. You don’t look so hot. She says, her manner indicating she is simply picking up an old interrupted conversation. A chuckle which ends in a wince of pain as the man from the hotel bar leans against the opposing wall of the alleyway. Gun_free hand pressed to his side, fingers match her dress in sticky colour. Gettin shot ain't so fun doll. The woman in the red dress smiles. I wasn’t sure you’d remember me, been a while. Her voice is soft and gentle and that smile, the same one that drifted through his memories and heated his dreams. Impossible to forget even under the fog of time. Couldn’t forget you if I wanted, a man never forgets his first love, nor his childhood friend. Name or no name. The man from the hotel bar slumps against the wall, body sliding to the ground. How about I give you a name now then? I’ve had many but I guess you can call me Fate if you’d like. The man from the hotel bar considers her for a moment and then nods. Well doll, I seem to have played my part here tonight. I reckon the rest is in your hands now. The man from the hotel bar turns his gaze away from the woman in the red dress and glances up towards the sky. The waxy moon doesn’t look so far away now, he closes his eyes and the last thing he feels is her lips against his cheek.

This my friends is a marvelous tale! The tale of the glorious frog city! Our story begins in a land not far from town. A beautiful oasis of tall trees, lush grass and soothing smooth sugar sand. The sound of the birds chirping and the locusts in the maples muffled the sounds of glass breaking and mommy's drunken rambling / screaming.. but I digress An enchanting land to be sure. And in this enchanting wonderful land there lived a young boy. Now this wasn't some ordinary boy no this boy was special... he had big dreams! " I wanna be king of the frog people!" The boy yelled into the canopy of his personal piss tree slave. So he set out across the vast territory that was to be his new kingdom in search of the perfect piece of junk in the yard to be his newfound holy grounds. "Ah this will do nicely" said the boy as he found an old plastic pool filled with stagnant emerald green alge water. The boy drug the pool out from under the trees and into the heat of the summer sun. "Yes! this is where I shall become GOD" smirked the boy Now for some frogs The boy set back out on a new quest. A quest to find his new subjects. He had a burning passion in his heart.. a passion to be GOD. High and low he searched for the amphibians of his desire. Until finally he had acquired a good number of new villagers of his kingdom. And all was well. Until the first escape attempt After about 2 days of tending to his frogy subjects He noticed not all were loyal to there gracious new lord. Several frogs tried to flee his courtship. Now as we know desertion is a treasonous crime punishable by no less then capital punishment. This made the new found God of the frog people vary agery. "AM I NOT ENOUGH FOR YOU? YOU SHALL PAY WITH YOUR BLOOD" the yelled as he ran to the kitchen and grabbed mommy's wooden kebab sticks. 1 by 1 he impaled the frogs atop the sacrificial slide of doom. This will show ALL who oppose me! The boy then felt hurt by the frogs betrayal. Heart broken even. So he took off the cover he had over the pool protecting the towns folk from the ravages of the star in the sky. "I... I don't care anymore" he said as he walked off to do something else. Now the frog city wasn't the only project this king had in store. A king need lots of prisoners. And one of them was none other then a raggity ann dole he had nailed to a tree.... The boy picked up his hatchet and continued chopping up the doll. The boy loved taking his time slowly copping away at the vintage doll. And frog city slowly dried up and withered along with all of its prisoners. And the forsaken city was eventually discovered along with the chopped up remains of the ann doll by the boys alcoholic mother.

“Rawr! I'm a tiger!” the little girl squealed, chasing her playmates around the large suburban backyard. The face paint, or rather warpaint, on her nose and cheeks shone those familiar orange, white and black stripes with whiskers. “Roaarrr!” the six-year-old giggled as she gently smacked one of her friends on the back. “Not so hard, Kaley,” her mother scolded the birthday girl. “She’s fine,” her dad said, bringing out the cups and plasticware from the kitchen. “They’re just playing around, babe.” A soft kiss on warm cheek. One of the mother’s hairs stuck to his lips. “I just don’t want her to get it in her head that it’s okay to hit people.” “I hear ya. But I don’t think that qualifies as hitting. They’re basically playing tag.” He put the cups and spoons down, then began spreading them out over the large picnic table. “You did a great job on the face paint,” the mom said, setting out the paper plates for the cake. “What can I say? I'm a true artist at heart.” “Uh-huh. Sure thing, Mr. Artist.” A giggle. Kaley roared her triumphant roar, much to the delight of her friends. Their faces held similar markings of rabbits, mice, cats, and even a turtle--nothing capable of withstanding a tiger, however. So, they ran. Kaley’s favorite stuffed animal, a little monkey in tan shorts and white t-shirt, dangled with its arms wrapped around her waist using a hook and loop grip. “Raawwrrr!” “I got juice for you guys if you get thirsty!” Dad called out, half-filling cups with orange, apple and grape juice. “My mommy says you should smoothie juice, not squeeze it,” the mouse yelled, running circles around the playset. “And your ‘mommy’ also believes rocks cure IBS...” Dad muttered under his breath. “Shush. And its crystals, duh.” Mom poked him in the ribs with a playful grin. “Ow, who’s being violent now?” he snickered, planting another kiss on her cheek. That was when Mom paused for a brief moment. “Oh, I put down ten plates. We only need nine. Silly me.” Dad looked at her with soft eyes. “Yeah, just nine, babe. But might want to leave out extras in case they want more cake and destroy their plates.” “Like they always do, heheh.” “Little monsters.” “Mommy, Daddy!” Kaley yelled out from behind the slide. “When do we get cake? I want cake!” “In a bit, baby. Your Mom and I still have to set up the table. Quick, one of the rabbits is getting away!” Dad pointed to the little boy who was attempting to hide behind the outdoor toy bin. “Rarrr!!” Kaley exposed her teeth and held up her claws, stalking over to the unsuspecting rabbit. More happy squeals. Tiger and rabbit came running from around the bin, joyous laughter abound. “Should we wait for the ice cream when I come out with the cake, or you want me to bring it out now?” Dad asked his wife, scratching his head as he looked over the large table they bought for this specific purpose. “We got plenty of room for all the boogers, at least.” “Guess we can wait. Pretty warm out here, don’t want it melting. Not sure if I should’ve bought it in the first place. Think that cake is enough sugar to last a lifetime.” “Every once in a while won't hurt. Besides, we get the benefit of the sugar crash, leaving sweet silence for all to enjoy,” Dad grinned maliciously. “Oh god. Leave it to you to drug all the kids.” “Just doing my job ma’am; just doing my job. Okay, I'm gonna go put the candles on the cake. Would you gather up all the barn animals, please?” “Not sure tigers are barn animals.” “Fair enough.” He squeezed her hips before heading back into the kitchen. “Okay everybody!” Mom yelled to the bundles of perpetual energy. “Come and sit down for cake. Yay!” A bout of merry shouts erupted amongst the young animals as they herded to the table. But suddenly Kaley stopped running and stood in place, a look of confusion on her whiskered face. “Mommy?” “Yes sweety?” Mom replied, now placing napkins at each plate. “Where’s my pony?” “Your what?” “My pony.” Her eyes stared at the ground. One of the mice was holding her hand, trying to coax her along. “What pony, honey?” “My pink pony.” Mom froze again, holding napkin in hand over the table. “Sweety--you don’t like ponies.” Kaley stayed focused on the ground, unblinking, before blurting out a hearty, “Oh!” Then she giggled and ran to her spot at the head of the table. Mom sniffed, and finished placing the napkins down at each seat. Then came that familiar orange hue from inside the shadows of their home. It illuminated the bearded face of Dad, who was now wearing a sparkly blue party hat. “Happy birthday to you...” and the rest joined in, each with their own party hat and horn. Kaley’s smile was wide and bubbly. Her eyes growing bright at the six candles melting before them. Then, when the song’s climax dissipated, she closed them, making her wish before blowing out the candles in a triumphant gust of breath. Dad pursed his lips a bit upon seeing the spittle accompanying said breath. “All right, good job kiddo!” he clapped with the others. The party horns danced and filled the warm evening air with their wailing. Then the cutting of the cake commenced. Naturally, the birthday girl received the first slice. But upon seeing the dark cake, she became confused. “Why is it chocolate? I don’t like chocolate! Yuck!” Kaley screamed, pushing her plate away. “Huh? Honey, chocolate is your favorite. It’s always been your favorite.” Dad continued cutting pieces for the other kids. “No! I want white cake!” “Sweety,” Mom joined in, “you’ve always liked chocolate. Last year we had chocolate too.” “No, last year we had white cake! I want white cake!” “Well,” Dad spoke to Mom now, “we did have white cake last year too.” “I know,” Mom replied. “But she didn’t eat the white, only the chocolate like she always does. The white was for...” “I know, babe. I know.” Dad scooped some ice cream onto a plate. “You just want ice cream then, hun?” When he turned back to Kaley, she was already scarfing down the chocolate cake with big smiles and damp eyes. “I want ice cream!” “Uh, okay. Here you go, kiddo.” Dad plopped the ice cream down on her plate. The cake crumbs latched onto it like ants to honey. Dad leaned over to Mom. “Crisis averted.” The rest of the kids got their share, and soon the table was filled with a bunch of messy faces and hands covered in smears of chocolate frosting and various flavors of ice cream. “Funny thing happened earlier too. When you were inside,” Mom said, resting her chin on her knuckles. “She asked for her pink pony.” “Really? She hates pink.” “And she never cared for ponies either.” “Oh man. Could it be...” “I think so. This is the first birthday party since then.” Mom’s eyes began welling up a bit. She had to turn from the children, not wanting to frighten them. “It’s okay babe. You can go inside for a bit. I’ll take over here.” “No, I'm fine. It’s just...all those memories come rushing back at times, ya know?” “Yeah, I get that too sometimes.” The couple stood there quietly for a moment, reminiscing of days past. But then a splatter of ice cream landed at Dad’s feet. He looked up to see Kaley using her spoon as a catapult, sending chunks of ice cream across the table. “Rawr!” “Oh god,” he couldn’t help but chuckle. “Kaley, don’t--” “Come on now, babe. Let her have some fun. It’s her birthday. Here...” Dad picked up his own scoop of ice cream and catapulted it at his daughter. It landed directly on her shirt, bringing involuntary laughter from the birthday girl. “Have at thee!” “Oh geeze. Look at the mess!” Mom couldn’t help but laugh, despite squeezing her forehead with her hand. “It’s fine, babe. I’ll just hose them off later, heh.” Another spoonful flew across the table, hitting turtle boy in the cheek. “Oh! Hahaha!” the green-faced tike laughed as well, picking up a small handful of cake and throwing it at rabbit girl. Chaos ensued. Cake and ice cream became instruments of war. The battlefield a deluge of sugared flour, iced dairy and fruit nectar; a massacre of just desserts. The carnage of treats left those involved in a stupor, succumbing to the inevitable energy crash. “Okay guys, why don’t we get you all cleaned up.” Dad began piling the paper plates and napkins in the middle of the table. The exhausted kids, veterans of the Battle of Sweets, slowly began wiping themselves clean to the best of their abilities. The giggling never stopped. “Whoa. Good thing I told your parents to dress you in something they wouldn’t mind getting dirty. Look at you guys!” Some of the kids headed to the playset, attempting to have more fun with what little energy they had. Some stayed to help with the cleaning, much to Mom and Dad’s praise. Kaley was one such helper, despite the party being for her. “Honey, you can go play if you want,” Mom patted her on the head as she emptied some of the remaining drink cups. “I’ll help you, Mommy.” Kaley picked the napkins off the backyard lawn. Ice cream and cake littered the area, but nothing they couldn’t handle. “Worth it,” Dad said, nudging Kaley with an elbow. “Uh-huh,” she giggled, tossing a bunch of soiled napkins on the table pile. “I bet Kaley liked the chocolate cake. I don’t like it.” This time, it was Dad who froze. “But baby, you’re Kaley.” “Huh?” “You’re Kaley.” “Yes. My name is Kaley. Kaley! Kaley!” she hopped up and down, licking her fingers after dipping them in the leftover massacred chocolate cake. “I...okay, baby. That’s right. You’re Kaley.” “Kaley! Kaley!” she ran off and joined her playmates, leaving the remainder of the cleaning to Mom and Dad. Dad simply shook his head before grabbing all the corners of the disposable tablecloth and tying them in the middle. The colorful sack of paper plates, half-melted ice cream and crushed cake swung over his shoulder as he headed to the trash bin on the side of the house. At that point, Mom was sitting on one of the patio chairs, observing the little miscreants running rampant. “How you guys get all that energy, I’ll never know.” The doorbell could be heard from inside the house. “I got it, babe!” Dad called out from the side. In less than a minute, he walked into the backyard with one of the kids’ mothers in tow. “Mommy!” it was one of the mouse girls. She ran up, hugging her mother who hoisted her up to her chest. “Hi hun. It’s getting late, so we have to go home now, okay?” her mother said, patting her on the back. “Aw, okay.” The mouse girl waved to her friends. “Bye Kaley! Happy Birthday!” “Bye bye!” Kaley yelled back from atop the playset. “They got pretty hammered on cake and ice cream. They crashed a little but then bounced back,” Dad chuckled, rustling mouse girl’s hair. “Nature’s little wonders,” the girl’s mother quipped. “Okay guys, thanks for having her. I’ll see you at the park tomorrow?” “For sure. Take care, drive safe.” “Have a good night,” Mom waved goodbye to child and parent, just before another ring of the doorbell echoed from inside the house. Over the next hour, all of the visiting children were gone, leaving Kaley alone with her parents. The three of them were still in the backyard, Mom and Dad cleaning, with Kaley exerting the rest of her energy on the playset. Mom was picking up the leftover confetti strewn across the lawn, when she noticed Kaley sitting at the top the slide, staring down it with a blank look on her face. “Honey? You okay?” Mom asked. No reply. Only unblinking eyes focused on the bottom of the slide. “Sweety?” Dad took notice as well, dumping the used party hats and horns in a plastic bag. “Baby, your mom’s calling you. Kaley?” No answer. Both parents walked up to her, Dad placing his arm around Mom’s waist. She was trembling slightly. “Kaley, are you alright?” she asked once more. Without looking away from the slide, Kaley mumbled, “Where’s Kaley?” Mom and Dad’s hearts careened into a pool of sorrow. “Sweety. You’re Kaley. Remember?” That familiar salty liquid welled up in Mom’s eyes. Dad held her close, sniffing back his own tears. “No, I'm Anna,” Kaley still didn’t look up. “Kaley was supposed to be here. That’s why we had the chocolate cake. But I don’t remember having any white cake...” “Oh god,” Dad held his hand to his mouth, no longer able to hold back as salty streams burned down his cheeks. “Okay baby. Come on down. Let’s go inside.” Kaley nodded and pushed off, hurtling down the slide. She walked to them; her eyes still focused on the ground. Dad held out his hand. She took it, and the three of them walked back to the house, leaving the rest of the cleanup for later. Once inside, Mom washed the paint off Kaley’s face in the bathtub. The birthday girl didn’t say much, only occasionally asking where Kaley was. By the time Dad laid her in bed, the sun was down and she was fast asleep. Mom and Dad continued their evening ritual in silence. Late snack, shower, teeth brushing and a kiss goodnight. But this time, as they laid in bed, Dad turned on the TV and inserted that flash drive they kept so dear, yet rarely touched. Up popped the image of a birthday party. And there on screen was Kaley, grasping her little stuffed monkey in a death grip. This time, her cake read, ‘Kaley 5.’ She was all smiles and wonder. And next to her sat another girl, holding a pink pony with a cake in front of her that read, ‘Anna 5.’ They were identical, the two girls. With the exception of the one holding the pony having much paler skin, and she was thinner with various bruises up and down her arms. They were laughing and screeching at the day’s festivities. The t-shirt and pajama top Mom and Dad wore became soaked with tears. They held each other close, ever so tightly as if letting go would send them both plummeting into a dark cavern of despair. The laughter from their little girls filled the dimly lit room, bouncing off the walls like trills of joyous ghosts. They squeezed each other tighter, trying to constrict the sobs. But no amount of strength could choke out the pain. Then they head a voice at their bedroom door. Little did they know that Kaley had opened it and now stood there, rubbing her eyes, stuffed monkey in hand. “Mommy? Daddy? I heard Anna.” “Oh,” Dad cleared his throat, immediately fumbling with the remote to the TV. “Wait,” Mom put a hand on his. “Let her watch. Come here sweety.” Mom opened her arms and Kaley rushed over, climbing onto the big bed and nestling between them. “You sure?” Dad asked, his reddened eyes darting back and forth between the woman and child he loved. “Yeah. I think it’ll be fine. She should see her. We all should see her--together.” Dad nodded, a teary smile creeping up his face. The click of the remote sent a shiver through his body. But that subsided when he heard the laughter of his two little girls. Kaley’s eyes glued to the scene. Shining bright in the light of the TV. She held onto her monkey, gently biting the top of its head. But no tears came forth. No sobs or even sniffles. Unblinking, she simply stared at the footage, squeezing her stuffed animal harder and harder. “Are you okay sweety?” Mom asked, not sure if she had made the right decision. But after a few seconds, Kaley answered. “Yeah. I just miss Anna.” Nothing else was said. She simply laid her head on Dad’s arm and slowly drifted back to sleep to the sounds of her and her sister’s laughter. “We do too, sweet thing. We do too.” Dad brushed her hair with his hand and leaned his head against Mom’s. The three of them sat there in each other’s warm embrace. Never forgetting, but never relenting. Three pillars standing strong in a sea of torment. No matter how many waves came crashing onto their stony faces, they need only lean against each other. What better way to weather the storm?

You drape a silk cloth over your dining room table and marvel over how smooth it is, like water flowing through your fingers. You rub your hands over it and press your ear to it, listening, as if it still had a heartbeat. You pick it up again and fold yourself into it, pretending you are a fantastical king and it is your cape, dancing through the room with it, you transform into a marvelous princess, from a time long passed, exploring unfamiliar lands outside of a well-protected castle. An alarm buzzes, your first warning. You put the cloth down. It isn’t a tablecloth, you don’t have one, it’s made of a dress you used to own. A dress you used to wear in the summer, dancing amongst sunflowers, with a chorus of voices singing to the rhythm of your sway. You cut it apart in order to make this tablecloth, it shed tears of embroidered emotions and tasted of fragrant memories. When you turn your back to the table, the cloth dies. You set out metal spoons, all your other cutlery is plastic, free gifts from the thousands of delivery meals you’ve ordered over the years. You light candles. One candle is thick and short, emitting aromas of vanilla and chocolate, with a hint of mint. You bought that candle at a ski slope, watching snow falling from the sky, like feathers from the burst pillows of clouds. You were drinking hot chocolate after a long winter day. You had raced the highest slope, going up with no idea of how to ski and no plan for getting down. It was an adventure, you thought. You had no guide, yet you did not hesitate before stepping onto the steep slope and plummeting down, down, and down. You sprayed snow in your wake, and the harsh winds obstructed your vision. You crashed onto a skier and smiled at him, a vague, sorry, hanging in the air. He told you you were going too fast and instructed you to sit on the snow and wriggle your way down. You laughed as you did so, imagining you were a clumsy butterfly having just emerged from its cocoon. The mint was snow, refreshing and clear, hard yet soft, the chocolate was your hot chocolate, the vanilla was the scent of the skier you crashed into. The candle was an echo. It’s essence engulfing you, pushing you back into the comfortable mould of memory which you slipped into like Cinderella into her slipper. Another candle is tall and smells of saffron and citrus. When you first bought it, you engraved it with patterns of seashells. When you light it, the sounds of cracking fire reminds you of the crashing of ocean waves. You had been surfing. You had taken surfing lessons for a year when you were younger. You always wanted to try for bigger waves, to stand as an equal in the presence of the ocean, to touch mother earth as you surfed through a tunnel of water, running your hands through the liquid that had, under your command, become a vessel. Your instructors told you that you should’ve tried for poetry, that surfing requires patience. What is patience, you thought. The answer came to you when you were picking seashells. An orchestra full of sounds emanated from the shell and the answer was only a hoarse whisper, but you could hear it clearly. Patience is talking to the sea and waiting for its response. When you told your instructors this, they laughed. Your parents glared at them, a silent warning. You told them later that laughter was music, your instructors did not need to agree with you to make music. You simply wished everyone to keep laughing. You told your parents laughter sounded like flutes and windchimes. When you surfed alone, you called for mother earth and the ocean responded to you, after all, you were it’s child. After you had finished surfing, you ate pineapple ice cream. You bought three cones, one for yourself, one for a child you had seen stare wistfully at the ice cream booth, and another for the child’s mother. They looked at you gratefully. The flavour exploded in your mouth, it made you blush and scream in joy. At night, you raced the waves. Trying to leave a footprint as close to the water as possible, so that when the waves surged, they would cover your footprints and wipe them clean from the sand. There were eight more candles, bought by him, your husband, the man for whom you had set the table. His candles were purely white, bleached of soul and emotions, like bathroom floors scrubbed clean of all traces of dirt. You placed those candles as far away from you as possible. You sighed a sigh of sympathy when you looked at them. You felt a deep longing to coat the candles with paint, to etch it with words and give it a soul, but you knew your husband, so you whispered a sorry to the candles and left to get dinner. Alphabet soup. Your husband laughed when you bought it for the first time. You married him partly for his laugh, an intergalactic market place with colourful stalls, a white mushroom is a lush forest, the feeling of snow on your tongue. That is what his laugh sounded like. A picture, a feeling. Your husband had been laughing at you, but you were captivated. When he realised you actually planned on eating the alphabet pasta, he stopped laughing. His silence was like bad soap, paper labels that you couldn’t get off no matter how hard you tried, you wanted him to laugh again, you spent the rest of the shopping trip trying. You boiled the alphabet pasta, and as you did so, you imagined the pan was a hot spring. You breathed in the steam of the hot spring and allowed your tense muscles to relax in the calm water. You had not been in a hot spring for four years, your husband thought they were “silly” and “unnecessary.” When you agreed, you heard him laugh again, the magic of his laughter was enough to cover up the rotting lie. By the time you got the alphabet soup onto the plate, the alarm had rung again, signaling five minutes before he was due to arrive. You arranged four letters in the soup, putting them gently onto the spoon so that their order would not be changed. The letters L, O, V, and E were arranged to spell love. You used to marvel at the word, waiting for your Prince Charming, I suppose. You thought love held so much power, and you longed for it, even though you were already happy. When you met him, you were desperate to find someone you could love, just to tick that last box on your imagined bucket list. You had let him tie you down, telling yourself he was keeping you grounded. You had continuously tried to please him, bringing him on adventures, you thought you were letting him fly. This, the dinner, the candles, the tablecloth are -- although you can’t quite admit it to yourself -- just another elaborate scheme to lift him up in the air. His birthday, which happened to coincide with Valentine’s Day, was just another day, another eternity, of you trying too hard, and him tying you down again and again. Even though this day has happened a million times, even though you can see a million shards of memories mirroring what will happen tonight, you are impatient. You don’t like waiting. Your hands longed to paint and your legs longed to dance. Your face longed to act out a play, to recite Shakespeare or Euripides. Your eyes longed to stargaze, to pinpoint stars and create your own constellations. You wanted to move, to run, to feel a fresh breeze of air. Instead, you stand opposite the clock. Watching it move like a predator watches their prey, no, like a prey watching the predator come closer, knowing that it can’t escape. But you can, a voice whispers. Those three words had been your motto before you met him. It was your morals and worldview squashed into one. You had not thought like that for four years. Four years since you skied. Four years since you surfed. Four years since you really lived. The realisation comes to you like a flurry of snow being blown into your face by a chilling wind. You shiver, and goosebumps appear on your skin. You stare at your wedding photo. You got married on top of a mountain, with the backdrop of a cliff. It was windy, and the veil had been blown away from your face, but it settled just in time for the photo. Your dress was stained muddy green from dirt and leaves but your husband’s suit was crisp and clean. After the wedding, you had wanted to throw your veil over the cliff, but you could not. The photo is not particularly remarkable. It’s not luminous, alight with the glow of memory like your ruined dress. It doesn’t smell of faint nostalgia like your candles. But when you look at it, you see everything that could have been between you and your husband. As the sound of the front door opening reaches your ears, you rip the photo apart. It rips in the middle, through the veil. Crumpled pieces of paper fall onto the mahogany floor.

In a world where light was powered by the Sun and stored by the Moon, a lunar eclipse was the blackout. * The right night to catch the wild animal had come. The Shaman told them. “Why?” One of the hunters asked. “Because Silver Ball is full. Look how perfectly round it is! Look how it floats in the blue-dark waters above your head,” the Shaman said. “You will see, when its silver claws will stretch on the wild animal; you will catch it, wherever it will try to hide,” he added rubbing his hands greedily. The hunters moved among low bushes and cluster of rocks, speeding up their steps when a tree showed up nearby; to hide for a while behind its trunk, before starting crawling again. Under the shadows cast by Silver Ball, behind the giant mountain, Kalaky -the city built in stone- waited for them. They had to cross it; the forest where the wild animal lurked was just beyond its walls. They entered the main arch, making sure their boots sounded like silk. Smaller arches let the Ball piercing the walls with its silver light; standing on columns, stone by stone, they guarded hundreds of dwellings and its sleepy inhabitants. The stony path ran clear under their feet, drawn by Silver Ball’s light. Shadows were casting soft lines of pottery belonging to solid clay jugs. A man shaped shadow stood from behind a corner; they had to run away; nobody had to know they were about hunting: that night was one of the Kalaky’s twelve sacred nights; no one had to be killed. One of the hunters peered from the wall bending the corner, “it’s a statue; let’s move on,” he whispered to the others. Beyond the corner, under porches and between high columns, a row of warriors looked at them, standing still in their bodies made from stone. An invisible eraser must have bumped into the warriors, if one by one they started to fade before the hunter’s eyes. At first shadows began to shrink; then they disappeared, dragging with them the stone and the clay bodies they belonged to. Darkness was felling around. Dwellings, arches, columns, walls were swallowed by nothingness. Neither floated Silver Ball. Its shape slowly decreased into something less round and less bright until it disappeared behind a cloud growing darker, dragging with it the North Star, the queen of the compass. It was when a howl uttered from the forest, echoed by the giant mountain behind the city. The hunters froze. The Shaman had told them something else. The only shades the wild animal’s eyes could detect were black and white; in the darkness this sharped its sight. It could see them. The other way around was not true. Beneath their feet the insects of the darkness grew bigger and bigger, crawling slowly, slithering slower and creeping faster from a corner to another looking for food. Among the tiny legs and wings, some of the Kalaky’s inhabitants were taking advantage from the sudden darkness; the unexpected blanket of nothingness was apt to cover up all sorts of misdeed. And forbidden love as well. A tallow candle blinked. That was the sign. From behind her window Kaleeka’s tallow candle replied back to her secret love. Only the darkness knew how many prohibited kisses were exchanged from window to window that moonless night, from mute lips shaped by tiny flames. FIRE If the sight was limited, their smell was still working fine. The scent was telling them that something was burning. Their noses led them to the center of Kalaky. At the corner wall of what had to be the main square, reddish fingers stretched upwards. It was fire, and it cast light and shadows against the darkness. Around it one man stood in contemplation; leaning against a frescoed column, his shadow was twice his size. He saw them peering at him. A cough faded among the crackle from the fire. “Not the right night for hunting, isn’t it?” The man shouted. The hunters needed light, and that fire had light. They could not disappoint the Shaman. They had to catch the wild animal, despite Silver Ball’s light was gone. “If you want it, you have to take me with you,” the man around the fire added. “We are not going to a trip; let us take a burning ember.”- “You will burn everything around to have light, isn’t it? I’ll give you fire, but at one condition: I have to come with you. This fire will not last forever by the way, you need me to reach the forest; I will lead you, so I said.” So they did. The hunters crossed Kalaky’s stony streets, turned at several corners, and listened to the sleepy inhabitants’ s snoring. If someone woke up and peered from the windows, at first they would realize that Silver Ball was missing, despite the calendar drawn on the sacred wheel said it had to be full and round; then they would see a small man walking with a flaming tree branch, waving it among his leather gloved fists; half a dozen of hunters following him. On the stony floor the insects of the darkness ran away in madness looking for the darkest corner and for the thinnest gaps between two stones, escaping from the reddish light cast by that walking fire. WATER In the distance high trees gleamed under the fire; the wild animal lurked in the forest from that direction. They moved farther, crossing more arches and turning at more corners; the flames grew smaller, just in time to cast the last flash of light into clear water laying into a stone basin. Standing nearby a well a fountain poured new water into the basin, the last flame told them before fading in the dark. A cough faded among the gurgling water. “Come here; look,” the small men said. “You promised to lead us to the forest. The fire is dead, and to the forest still a long way to go.” The hunters’ patience was almost gone. “Come here; look,” the small men said again. “Look into this water, before it’s too late,” he urged. The hunters did as he asked, and they caught a glimpse of blue lights floating into the water. “So?” One of the hunters asked, patience all gone. “You don’t understand! The last flame of fire is showing you something! Blue lights, aren’t they? They are not running from the fountain; they only mirror themselves into the water. We must follow them. We will find other light.” The small men said raising his nose from the fountain and pointing it to the east, where the blue lights gathered under the water; his feet took the same direction. AIR The hunters followed him to the furthest east part of the city. They reached the place where the blue lights had their source. Thousands of spheres were dancing at mid-air; sometimes they looked like floating candles. A cough faded among the popping sound from the moving lights. “Will-o'-the-wisp,” the small men said. “Welcome to Kalaky’s graveyard. Despite Silver Ball has floated away tonight, there’s light here. The souls’ light, we believe.” Before their mesmerized eyes, the hunters saw the blue lights landing on the spartan tombstones. Under fading blue halos handwritten signs read the Kalaky’s language; engraved on the stone were the memories of past lives. After the tribute, the blue lights gathered in one single point in the air. Up, where air floats in the lack of gravity, the dark sky knew that Silver Ball had moved into the planet Earth's shadow. It knew even more: Golden Ball, Earth, Silver Ball and Earth were on the same line somewhere in the Universe. Down, stem by stem jumping fireflies queued drawing a golden line in the dirt. The wings spread open and flew among the blue lights. The blue-golden arrow they shaped in the air pointed at one direction, not north, not south, not even east neither west. It pointed to the ground, before disappearing and leaving Kalaky in the full darkness again. EARTH Their eyes landed on the earth beneath their feet. Dirt and grass and small rocks shared the space with less and less stones. Looking closer, reddish light sparkled among the grass. That was the only light left. The lunar eclipse was casting a long-lasting darkness over a huge part of the world; but to the hunters and to the small man this was unknown. A cough faded among the pawing sound raising from their boots against the dirt. “I hope you will catch the wild animal,” the small man shouted, leaning against a tombstone. “You promised to lead us to the forest! Are you trapping us?” One of the hunters said, raising his fists against the man. He started for him when his feet got frozen. There was no small man anymore. Only a grey shadow swirling among the tombstones that grew darker and darker. They were alone, swallowed by darkness. One of the hunters started to kick his boots against small rocks; mud and dirt flew around together wit his anger. One of his hunting arrows jumped from the lather backpack, landing steady on the ground; its bronze head thrust on something that felt like a molten rock under his hand trying pulling it away. Pulsing rubies snaked in a trail on the ground. It felt warm. It cast light. They followed it. “This must be the giant mountain’s blood,” one of the hunters said, remembering what the Shaman told them. The path drawn by the reddish lines on the earth started to fade under their feet. Suddenly it stopped. * The wild animal might be just behind the trees, peering at them; at those creatures standing on two legs and suddenly blind and powerless under the longest lunar eclipse of their times. “You came late.” That was the Shaman’s husky voice. “Who did it?” One of the hunters asked. “Did what?” The husky voice thundered in the darkness. “Who did kill the wild animal?”- “Killed? It’s not dead. And it is not thanks to you. It’s her you should thank.” The smell of fresh blood grew stronger under the hunters’ noses. Fear grew in their mind as darkness got thicker around them. The Shaman’s voice sounded closer. He was before them, invisible as everything was. “The wild animal got trapped tonight. Haven’t you heard its howl? It called for help. And I did call for your help... and you came late.” His voice was full of disappointment, and sadness. A cough raised as his sentence ended. A voice struggled to find the right words, to sound steady despite fear trembled from young lips. “I... I was following you with the idea to lead you from Kalaky to the forest. I tried to catch your attention.” A cough came from the same voice. “B... But you were too busy to...” “Who are you? Where are you?” The hunters asked in terror, only now remembering those fading coughs. They had assumed it was the small man who coughed. The young voice muted. Instead the Shaman spoke: “she is Lakira; and it is thanks to her if the wild animal is sill alive. I sent you to rescue it; all these years of training and lessons, and you... came late.” “How could we know she was behind us? Everything got dark! Don’ t you see it? Where is Silver Ball gone tonight?” One of the hunters said angrily.” “Is it dark?” The Shaman asked, then he went on, “is it dark Lakira?” The young voice struggled again looking for steadiness, “I don’t know. What is dark? What does it mean?” “Are you blind, young lady?” One of the hunters asked not even trying to hide sarcasm from his tone. “Is she? Lakira are you blind?” This time the Shaman’s voice sounded furious. “Lakira’s sight is impaired, yes, since she was born.” “How did she manage to...” The hunter who just spoke tried to ask. “This is a question I must ask to all of you. How despite her impairment did Lakira manage to reach the forest and rescue the wild animal and you did not?” The Shaman asked. The hunters felt confused. Their understanding of that odd nightly task was they had to kill the wild animal; never thought about rescuing it from some trap. Darkness had made things difficult to achieve. * “You focused on one skill only. Sight! The lack of light made you focus just on sight, isn’t it?” The Shaman asked calmly. “Desperately looking for something unavailable. And what about all your other skills? What about your feelings? What about smell, tactile sensation, instinct? Has Silver Ball erased all of them from you?” The hunters had forgotten their strengths and believed in false assumptions, under the lunar eclipse which for one night had erased the visible world from them. They closed their eyes, opening their heart to the invisibility of the darkness. Before them, like in a black and white movie, white shadows lined the body of a young girl. She sat under a tree; among her arms a wolf was looking at her with sparkling eyes. Blood had spotted its fur with white flowers. It was safe.

Graveyard: Life’s reality check When it comes to the part of memories, they are not only the collection of precious moments in our treasure box but also pre-gifted power to make our upcoming moments precious. Some memories are meant to be erased, some are meant to be learned, and some are meant to be applied. You may reckon why I am describing so much about memories, but you may not know the value of the moment until and unless it becomes a memory. This story is of two young men deciding to spend the night in the graveyard, ultimately learning life’s reality. “ How long would it take a mechanic to arrive here ?” questioned Mark. “ I am trying to reach him, but due to network issues, I am not able to contact him, ” answered Jack. “ It’s all because of you and your brainless planning Jack, we are trapped here. How shall we reach back to our place? It’s getting too late, and tomorrow we have our business associate meeting. How would we be able to reach there on time? Aaah! This hell network, not able to connect anyone, I wish I could throw away this bloody network company. ” Mark exclaimed with an aggressive tone. “ Oh come on Mark, I too haven’t dreamt of such a situation, I only wished to have a long drive after hectic business days and thought you too would chill out for a while, ” exclaimed Jack again trying to contact the mechanic. “Oh God Jack, who has time for chilling, anyways, were you able to contact the mechanic person?” “ Still nope Bro,” answered Jack. Mark, a tall handsome man in his mid-thirties, a business-oriented person, only focused on making fame and money, still single, for him money matters everything, on the contrary, his business partner, Jack, a young man also in his mid-thirties, jovial, quite enthusiastic, lovable person. For him the only language that unites the whole world is love. For him, money is just a piece of paper, used to survive on this planet. A two opposite natured individual joined together in the bond of partnership, now got stuck in the middle of the forest, due to an unforeseen car repair. “What are you planning to do Jack, are you planning to spend the whole night in this dark jungle or do you have another foolish stuff in your head?” “Mark, your words are becoming so rude nowadays, try to modify your way of speaking. Anyways due to network issues, I am not able to contact a car mechanic, so as of now we have no other option to leave the car here, and go in search of help, maybe we can get the help of local people here.” “Okay we don’t have any other option other than this, lock the car and we will move further.” Jack and Mark moved further in search of help so that they can move out of this deep forest as soon as possible. They quickened their pace in search of help. But both were not aware that with every walk they are moving a step closer to their destiny. After a long walk they both could see a bright fire somewhere close to them, they walked closer to it, and in the brightness of fire, saw an old man, face covered with wrinkled all around, dark-skinned, with bright white curly hairs, seemed that from years he hadn’t shaved his hair, sitting in front of a fire and roasting a rabbit for his meal. “Hello Sir, we are stuck in this forest, as our vehicle broke down and soon we have to reach back to our place, can you help us to move out of this place?” questioned Jack “Well Listen, son, from her, you have to walk another twenty miles to reach the main highway, from there you can catch any vehicle and reach back to your place, but at this time I don’t think so, it would be safe for you to walk twenty miles, as it too late, and the next twenty miles are covered with dense forest, which is homage to various wide animals, but then it's up to you, whether you want to travel or not, it was my duty to guide you.” exclaimed old man. (Jack now in a tensed expression sees Mark to consult with him) “What shall we do now, Mark? Are you willing to move forward, or shall we stay here tonight, and move further in the early morning?” “ Hmm! No problem, we will stay here tonight”. (Who would like to stay here in this ruined area, but who too wants to be a meal of wild animals murmured Mark.) “ Sir, can we know what are you doing here, alone in this dark jungle, that too at late night?” Jack questioned Old Man. “Son, I am a gravedigger, working in this cemetery. This is my home and I stay here.” answered the Old Man. Jack and Mark hollered, “what! Is this a graveyard?” “Yes, my son” answered Old Man. “Why you didn’t tell us earlier about this graveyard? We wouldn’t have agreed to stay here, What the hell is going on here?” shouted Mark “Come on Jack, I am not ready to stay here in this graveyard, with this stinking Old man, let us leave just now.” “Ohh my dear son, I don’t have any problem, if you wish to leave, you are free to do so, but make sure you have all the weapons to handle the wild animals. I hope you would have it!” responded the Old Man. “Hello, you old coot, trying to frighten us, with your dangerous advice?” bellowed Mark. “Not at all my dear son, I only tried to safeguard you, but anyways if you want to follow your own way, you are always free to do so” expressed Old Man. “Come on Jack, let us leave from this place ” ordered Mark. “ Are you sure Mark? You are willing to leave this place, make sure we won’t be getting any help from anyone in between our journey, as from now till crossing twenty miles, not a single resident lives. So think once again” advised Jack. “Then you wish to spend the rest of the night in this graveyard?” questioned Mark. “It’s better to stay with dead persons rather than getting dead!” Jack exclaimed with a wink. “Ohh GOD what to do, anyways you got a chance to take revenge, your TIT for TAT subject would be completed here. Isn’t it?” expressed Mark “Ohh! Come on Mark, why would I even think of taking revenge on you, as I told you earlier, it was not my plan, I never dreamt of such foreseen happening, nothing was under my control, you too know it, I only planned for your happiness, but all things went out of the way” said Jack. So after a long discussion and argument ultimately Jack and Mark decided to spend the rest of the night in the graveyard accompanied by the old man. “As now, you both ultimately decided to spend the night with me, would you wish to enjoy rabbit roast with me? It tastes too delicious, and you seem tired. You can charge up your energy level.” “Ohh thank you for your dramatic concern, you enjoy your delicious meal.” expressed Mark. “Sorry sir, don’t mistake my friend, though his words may seem rude, but he is tender by heart. You enjoy your meal sir, we will have it later,” exclaimed Jack. In the middle of the forest, with a bright shiny moon, with accompanying starts embedded like a diamond stone on a black velvet cloth, surrounded by huge ancestral trees, sounds of a howling wolf, clicking bats, buzzing mosquitoes, hissing snakes, raised our heartbeats, sweat started dripping down, which made us feel cold with every touch of a gentle breeze, fragrance of wet mud filled the air and we two in middle of the graveyard surrounded by memorial sites all around. “Sir, where do you sleep? Don’t you have any hut, or kind of it to stay?” Jack asked the Old Man. “No son, this whole graveyard is my home. I am working here for the last 40 years and I started my work when I was just ten years old with my father, but soon he left us, and from then till now, I am the in-charge of this graveyard. People from all nearby places come here to bury their loved ones, and I spent my life burying those dead bodies.” “Don’t you feel afraid of staying here, sir?” Jack questioned. “ No son what is there to be afraid of, instead this is the much safer place on earth, as the dead person lived their life and now they know the value of life because they are the one who went through the reality of life, and now they know, nothing in the world is permanent, they too know that world is nothing but a mere stage, where we are just actors, and our permanent homage is the graveyard, so they don’t wish to harm anybody.” explained the old man. Mark overhearing all their conversation starts to think, are all the luxuries in which he lives, all the money which he has acquired, all the fame, prestige, and wealth which he worked for, are temporary? So does it mean all the effort spend on it is vain? So he thinks, if nothing is permanent, why we are born in this temporary stage, is our life a time pass? “If you feel graveyard is safer than any place why do people fear staying here? And if the world is a temporary stage, why GOD gave us birth? Is our life a mere time pass?” Mark questioned the Old Man. “Your answer to the first question is too simple, it’s because people prefer to believe in a beautiful lie rather than an ugly truth. You are born on this planet with a purpose, your life is not just a time pass, GOD has sent you to accomplish a great task, and finding meaning to your purpose is your ultimate destiny, But what you people do, always try to chase the worldly pleasure, without knowing the purpose of it, I am not in an opinion that money is not important, it is important to sustain life, but in the race of making money, don’t forget to make relations. Working in this graveyard for the last forty years, I have learned life’s important lesson, seeing you young guys, wish to share it with you, you may think what this old coot will deliver us, but mark my words, those are the life’s important lesson, that you may neither find in any book nor could search it anywhere” said the Old Man roasting his rabbit. “Life is too short to be lived, so enjoy every moment.” “Nothing is more precious than your time spent on your happiness, money gone can be earned, but a broken heart is hard to restitch, and even stitched it leaves behind a permanent mark on it.” “Be a person in this world, that when you die at least there are four persons who truly miss your presence.” “My dear sons love your life, you are made by a heavenly creature named god. He has spent the entire course of his life to design you, love yourself, love others, make your place a heaven to stay in, as at last you too have to come back to the same place, and your body too would be buried deep in the world”. “Have you ever guessed my sons why our body is buried deep inside the earth?” questioned the Old man. Jack and Mark seeing each other shrugged. Old Man answered “It’s only to show the reality that you are born for this mother nature, and your ultimate destiny is back to nature itself. After we die, our body has a purpose to satisfy the hunger of worms, so find meaning in every work, and love the work you do. As you work to gather money, work to gather relations too, as money can be lost one day, but true relations made are forever” After hearing life’s ultimate truth, Mark revised his course of life and understood that in the race of making money and fame, he never had time for his loved ones, but they are the one who stayed with him in a tough time, but somehow, staying a night in graveyard taught them life’s an important lesson and from that night onwards, he understood making money is a part of life but gathering relations itself is life. He too understood that the only thing man takes with him in his last part of his life is the golden memories stored in his treasure box, so they are more valuable than any other precious commodities in this world. Meanwhile, Old man prepared his handmade bed, which was nothing but a pile of dry grass, which is used to cover the coffin, before closing it with mud, and in a short while, all slept with a deep sense of peace in there mind. The dawn broke, and which the first ray of the sun, Mark and Jack decided to leave, they searched for the old man, for giving a thank note, but could find nowhere. As it was getting late for them, they left the graveyard and started their journey back to their home. While entering the graveyard they had nothing with them, but while going back, they had a collection of precious moments, which later would be their best memory of their life.

She wasn’t supposed to be alive. They had a plan. They watched, pupils dilating with unparalleled shock as the monitors as big as the stumps of a red wood splashed the target’s steps on the bustling sidewalk. Her heart-beating, blood pumping, alert, and alive, very much alive footsteps. How could this have happened? They all thought collectively. Never had they been unable to plan, predict, and manipulate the puppets who referred to themselves as human beings but to them had become much less, inferior things. They, the watchers, controllers, were the real humans, the ones with the sharpest minds and most elite tools. With eyes that could see into the commoners’ psyche. It was they who fed the masses the information they wanted them to perceive, and they who treated the people’s lives like a miniscule chess game. Not even chess, but checkers, for they saw the intricacies dull and limited. The people were in their hands. They were utterly predictable. But the barreling truth was that Target 337 was walking down the street of the city center, wholly alive and nothing, not in the remotest sense, was predictable about that. They were never wrong, never unable to breach the boundaries of human control in order to achieve their desires. Treasures were hidden, books obliterated, and people terminated. It was their world, the version they let their subjects see. The common folk were the slaves in the cave, and they controlled the light show cascading along the walls. As they all stared at Esther Johnson, the snake of unease slithered up their legs and quickly tightened around their throats. She made them wrong, forced them to undergo a previously foreign experience. It was a combustion of confusion, disdain, and sheer shock. The control room was silent, but as they stared at the screens, one thing fermented with equal vigor in the deepest depths of each of their bones. The Gatekeepers wanted revenge. ~~~~~ Esther wasn’t supposed to be alive. She could feel it, like an invisible noose around her neck. The Gatekeepers wanted her dead, just like her grandfather. She could see every taunt they threw in her path. She had to change every step she took, every path and schedule, in order to stay ahead or else she would be rendered the victim of some accident that wasn’t really an accident, or worse, would just disappear altogether. She kept her head down. Her navy shoes had black laces on the left one, with a small sailor’s knot tied at the end of the shoe’s lace. It was a symbol, discrete enough that the usual passerby wouldn’t think to look twice. There were those who would, though. There had to be. Her Grandfather’s teachings had told her that it would signal the right people to come help. People like him. People like her. A flash of her grandfather’s face passed in front of her eyes. Read this, child. It will answer all your questions. Esther was only fifteen at the time, but she had never been given a book that wasn’t mandated by The Gatekeepers. All of the ones Esther had been given in school were shiny and stiff. Her grandfather’s gift had yellowed pages with a leather cover that frayed along the edges. Esther could still feel its weight in her hands, long poured over after it was given to her. It had no title. A title, when trying to protect the sacredness of the words inside, would only help in revealing the very thing we’re trying to protect from destruction. Her grandfather had said. Esther remembered wondering who exactly “we” referred to. Her grandfather was always shrouded in an eerie mask, always quiet at family dinners whenever Esther’s father discussed his job as an assistant for the Chosen Council. Esther had always found herself more intrigued from watching her grandfather’s facial reactions than she ever did listening to her father drone. She thought back to the “we” his grandfather alluded to. She wondered if her grandfather was with them now. Maybe he was pacing back and forth, staring out some window, waiting for his granddaughter’s arrival. Esther brushed the thought off her shoulder. That type of daydream was all in vain. Her grandfather was dead. She saw them do it. The Gatekeepers, sliding silently with the shadows in the night. Esther quickened her steps on the street as she thought back to the dreaded night. She was on her way to their usual meeting when it happened. She peeked from behind a dumpster, having thrown herself there, as always, while her grandfather went ahead to make sure it was safe. That’s when they came for him. Esther felt her grandfather’s strangled screams in her own throat as she watched black attired men grab him. They murdered her grandfather in cold blood, with the effortless click of the deadly technology they held to his neck. Tears, terrified at what her eyes saw, ran in haste down her face to escape. Nothing could come out of her own strangled throat. There was pressure felt there by some invisible noose around her neck, a feeling that would never go away after that night. All she could think was that her grandfather had been right. He had been right, and there was no going back. When the mysterious figures went to drag him away, Esther fell from her crouching position, fear and agony overcoming her. As she did so, her shoulder hit the corner of the dumpster, and an echo shot through the night. In horror, she watched as the men turned around in an instant. She didn’t dare breathe or move, her heart pumping profuse amounts of blood in her ears, loud as drums. Their words were mumbled, but she saw them pace around the perimeter. The lights of the center city didn’t reach this part sector, so there was little they could see. She was grateful for that. One of the men started venturing closer to her, each step striking the chords of panic in Esther’s veins. His eyes roved the vicinity, any second he was going to take a step too close and catch the hidden witness. Esther winced in preparation, already envisioning the feel of the weapon that killed her grandfather on her neck when the other man fiercely whispered that it was all clear. Esther couldn’t breathe until the close man, who took one last look around, walked back to the steps of her meeting room. After that, the men quickened their pace, desperate to get out of there and move on with their murderous evening. Esther caught them saying, “We’ll get killed if we messed this up, let’s go!” and she was never sure if the voice had meant that in a symbolic or literal sense. They hurled her grandfather like some inanimate object into the open side door of the densely black Chose Council hover car. The sight stabbed Esther in the chest and made her want to stride over and beat the two men to a pulp. As they zoomed off, Esther pictured every detail of her assault. Those men had murdered her grandfather, the truest friend she had ever known. Esther couldn’t move. She was weighed down by the chains that seemed to cut through her body and seer her with pain. It was hours into the night before she could manage to stand up, knowing that her grandfather would have wanted it. He had taught her to be strong, so that night, she would have to be. When she stood, she found herself automatically walking to the back door. She wanted to go inside to their meeting room. The thought of the dim lights, the dark, aging wood and the miscellaneous conglomeration of leather books warmed her. She wanted to make her grandfather alive again, by wrapping herself in his favorite spot. When she reached the back steps, her eyes, swollen from crying, caught sight of something lying on the ground. Esther stopped mid-step and turned towards it. Even in her grief, curiosity gnawed at her insides. She stepped over to the object and peered down at it. Electric currents shot down her spine. The world stopped. The metal device stared at her, taunting her with its single button that lay in its center. The one that killed her grandfather. The men who came must have dropped it in their rush to leave. Esther spat at it, cursed it for its powers and how it was used. There was so much anger boiling up inside her, but something else too. The device, it was inscribed. Esther knelt on the ground beside it, not wanting to touch her grandfather’s murder weapon, to see what it said. When she read what was there, her eyes widened. T.G. embedded inside a Victorian style gate. The Gatekeepers. The screams her grandfather couldn’t let out in his final moments somehow found their way to Esther’s ears at that moment. Run, he seemed to say, and don’t let the blindness catch you. That night, danger came like a raging storm cloud barreling down on her. She ran away with tears in her eyes and a heart that thumped with something Esther had never particularly experienced. It beat with dangerous purpose. Esther pulled herself out of the memory, the constant loop of it in her head was the fuel to her fire, but she had to stay focused. Looking around her, she saw swarms of people, all with screen glasses on. They were worn to protect their staring eyes from the strain of looking at the colossal screens that towered over the city. Thousands of screens so close together they all seemed to blend, like a sea of a thousand colors surrounded the heads of city folk and infiltrated the sky. Each one had something to say. Buy the newest hip thinner to get the perfect body you always wanted! One woman said in a sultry voice. Another, NEWEST HOVERBOARD, PERFECT FOR ALL! Then there were the videos of the newsreels, “The Chosen Council is here for the people of this city, they have the experience, and their every rule needs to be followed or we all will perish. The Gatekeepers are on their side, to protect us from the harsh realities of hateful and inaccurate information. We couldn’t handle that darkness; it would infiltrate society and ruin what we have built. Let us heal from the past, and let The Gatekeepers help us do so.” The television shows and news cycles created a cacophony so overwhelming that some opted for earpieces. The earpieces played their own noise, yes, but at least the interruptions for issued ads were limited. When Esther was younger, many of her friends thought the overload of jumbo screens was chaotically beautiful. Esther just thought it was obnoxious. When she made a remark to them in class about the screens being like the Chosen Council’s vanity haven, no one laughed. Her grandfather had always said that they probably didn’t appreciate a dry sense of humor. You’re like me, Esty. He had said, but some people can't seem to take a joke. As she kept her eyes down on the city street, she wasn’t so sure her joke had been far from the truth. The bitter afternoon air bit at Esther. She tightened her arms around her winter coat. Around her, the sea of anonymous people had alert eyes, but they were dangerously hungry too. It seemed as if everyone was on the prowl, almost hoping for something out of place that they could pounce on. They seemed to close in around her. Could they see her mind? She wondered. Could they see how it believed so differently than their own? As Esther’s thoughts twirled in her brain, her eyes spotted someone. He walked in the opposite direction just in front of her. He was middle aged, but his dark hair was cut into the sharp lines of someone who had access to the best hairdressers in the city. His trench coat flowed behind him, and if Esther had been lost in the screens like many of her surrounding company, she would have missed it. He was looking down. His eyes trained on her shoes. Specifically, her left shoe, the one with the black laces and the tiny sailor’s knot. The world melted into slow motion. She held her breath. Her eyes glared at the stranger, waiting, praying, begging for recognition. Seconds became centuries as he slowly inched closer. He was almost directly in front of her now, about to pass by when he looked up. When Esther locked eyes with the man, it was as if someone punched her gut. All the air she had been holding flew out. The stranger’s eyes did flare in recognition, but the sharpness of the glare shot warning signals like needles everywhere on Esther’s skin. Just then, the memory of her grandfather’s words sling-shot directly into the center of her consciousness for the second time in her life. Run, he had pleaded. RUN. Her feet carried her off at warp speed. The device that killed her grandfather, the one that she stuffed in her pocket the night she watched him die, bounced in her pocket. ~~ An excerpt from the book of Esther’s grandfather: They were supposed to honor the truth. To trust them was to believe in the promise of society. Everyone wanted to be them, to be a part of their sanction so as to serve what they thought was the ultimate form of defense against deception of the powerful. They were supposed to be driven by duty. Until the darkness seeped into their veins, they were everything they were supposed to be. They were never supposed to be the enemy.

Long ago, before the moon was cracked, there was a man. Not a noble who spent his time fighting wars, or even a righteous man that spent his days pondering the meanings of life. Nor was he a man dedicated to the service of others, for he didn’t have enough time to wonder about tales of grandeur. He was nothing special, just a simple Farmer who did his job and did it well. The Farmer would rise with the rooster’s crow every day and tend to his crops. First thing at dawn he would make sure the crops were fresh so he could begin his harvest, plucking the fresh wheat from the field. Then after he stowed those bushels of grain away he would get to planting again, tilling the ground until he could plant fresh seeds in the ground every day. Then after lunch he would water and pluck weeds. Finally at twilight he would spend his time swatting away insects and pests determined to consume his bounty. By the end of the day the wheat had grown to his height and the Farmer would retire knowing his work was cut out for him in the morning. Rain or shine, he was out there tending to his crops, making sure there was always something to eat. He would follow his schedule to harvest every single morning in an almost mechanical fashion, but then one morning when he went to harvest his crops, he found something peculiar. There was a single wolf, staring at him through the brush. The Farmer, not quick to violence, proclaimed to the beast, “Begone!” Yet when the Wolf heard his words it acted on instinct and attacked the Farmer. The Wolf believed itself able to tear the Farmer to shreds, but with a flick of his wrist the beast was thrown from the farm. Landing back in the brush to which the Farmer proclaimed to the beast, “I have not the time to entertain such frivolous adventures. Begone from my sight!” The Wolf, after regaining its footing, immediately ignored the words of the Farmer. The Wolf was thoroughly entertained and it charged back through the grass to attack the Farmer. But upon arrival the Farmer tossed it back into the brush. Yet every time the Farmer threw the Wolf, it would get up and charge out. This lasted not just for the entire day, but the next as well. Then the next, and the one after that, before long this was the Farmer’s new normal. Tossing the Wolf out every time it got too close, until one day when the Wolf once again got too close, he simply ignored it. The Wolf, confused at this act, didn’t attack. For it had forgotten why it should after so long and likely many head injuries. From this point on the Farmer would no longer throw the Wolf and the Wolf would no longer attack. Now the Wolf was nothing more than a passive observer and had no chance of getting the attention it so craved. This new normal made the Wolf furious. That was until the day the Wolf constructed a plan and charged out into Farmer’s land through the crops. This may have angered the Farmer having his work trampled, but it did not show on his face when he threw the Wolf back out of the farm. He raised his hand and proclaimed, “I have no need for such a destructive creature! Begone to never return to my sight!” With that whenever the Wolf returned it could hardly even get close to the Farmer. It would simply hit a wall and get stuck outside of the Farm. Even on the days that it could get into the farm it was unable to find the Farmer, as if the Wolf was truly unable to return to his side. With the loss of its entertainment the Wolf made a choice: if the Farmer would not play because of the crops, then it would be better if the crops disappeared. When the Farmer went to sleep one night, the Wolf went out into the field and began tearing the crops out. The next morning the Wolf waited in the brush in the vain hope it would be able to see the Farmer. Yet when dawn struck and around the time the Farmer usually arrived the Wolf abdicated his hiding spot charging out to where the farmer usually stood. Only to hit the wall once more. The Wolf barely caught a glimpse of the Farmer as he didn’t even turn to see the Wolf as resumed his sewing once again. The Farmer may not have had crops to harvest, but he still had the seeds to plant. This made the Wolf angry. It had in the Farmer’s absence worked hard all night to tear up the plants but the Farmer was still ignoring it. So the next night the Wolf tore up the crops again and the Farmer responded in kind, planting them once again. This cycle went on for several days until finally one night the Farmer stayed awake and waited, until the Wolf arrived. For the first time in so long the Wolf could see the haggard Farmer who proclaimed loudly to be heard clearly, “I have been kind to let you remain. But now the end of my patience has been found, you are no longer welcome to return to my fields.” With that the Farmer picked him up and threw him farther than he had ever thrown him before. This time the Wolf didn’t end up in the brush but tore through the trees tearing down several in the process. The Wolf, thoroughly dazed and hurt, was unable to tear up crops that night, but this act did little to dissuade the Wolf as he returned the next night. Determined to get the crops again. Only for the Farmer to be there once again. Preventing the Wolf from even setting foot on his farm, keeping it thoroughly trapped in the forest. The Farmer didn’t even look to the creature as it scratched and scraped against the barrier between them determined to be acknowledged. This persisted for seven days until one night the Wolf returned to find that the Farmer was no longer there. Had he given up on protecting his farm? If he had, why were there no crops to tear up that night? These questions swirled around in the Wolf’s head until it found its way to the Farmer’s cabin, a place it had never had any interest in before now. Simple, old and generally falling apart just like the Farmer himself. But as the Wolf peered through one of the windows it found lying in bed was an ill Farmer. Exhausted from staying up every night to prevent the Wolf’s shenanigans while continuing his work in the day. The Farmer had collapsed. The Wolf did not understand, until the Farmer’s Wife exited the cabin and proclaimed to the beast so loudly the neighbors miles away must have heard, “You attack my husband's livelihood and now you plan on taking his life as well! You are nothing but a mindless monster!” The Wolf had been called many things by the Farmer but never a monster. The Wolf turned tail and retreated leaving the woman to her own devices. She returned to her husband and told him about the Wolf. The Farmer shrugged at her saying, “If the Wolf wanted to attack me, it would have a hundred times by now. It wants attention more than it feels malice.” And with that the Farmer went to sleep. For the first time in what felt like a century he got rest, not waking up until long after dawn the next day. But with his rest the Farmer took himself out of the house much to his wife’s protest. He may not be able to seed the field today but he could prepare it for tomorrow, where he would be two days behind at this point and would have to work especially hard to not fall even farther behind. Yet when he arrived at the field he was greeted by the sight of his crops growing fresh in the daylight. The Farmer didn’t understand, but when he found the Wolf resting among the tools he knew the answer. The Farmer took it upon himself to acknowledge the Wolf’s work. Even if they weren’t exactly properly seeded the effort was still there, the Farmer approached the Wolf. And for the first time the Wolf didn’t immediately snap or attack. Instead the Wolf, just remained still likely exhausted from the work as the Farmer had once been when he first started this work as well. They both remained motionless as they waited for the other to make the first move, the Wolf too tired to charge for it’s daily tossing and the Farmer more interested in the Wolf’s efforts. It was left up to the Farmer being the only one that could move as he lightly placed a hand on the Wolf and spoke softly with a fervent dedication, “If it is attention you so desire, then it is like this that you will earn it.” Every day from then on the Farmer would teach the Wolf his trade. It may not have been the most extravagant or illustrious work but it was long, hard and rewarding. Along with this extra hand the Farmer was freed up to do more. He fixed up his home and even built a little shelter in the barn for the Wolf. And then one day the Farmer planted something, the Wolf was confused. The placement was far too close to the house to be a crop and the seed looked nothing like it had ever seen. The Farmer invited the Wolf over while he worked and showed it how to plant this new seed. With the seed in hand the Wolf planted it not sure what it would create. That was until it bloomed the next day. And to the Wolf’s surprise in the freshly turned soil near the house it found the most unexpected life. A brilliant star in such a deep shade of light that the sky barely got at the deepest of sunset, and when the Farmer arrived he witnessed the Wolf stare in awe of the vibrant and joyous colored petals on the flower and spoke softly, “It may not exactly be a fruit or a grain but it is a lot like you, needing a guiding hand to help it bud. But when it does I am glad to say it is sure to be a magnificent star.” The Wolf didn’t know what to do, so it did the only thing it could. It ate the flower and ran.

He was wandering in the forest the day he died. He came from a quaint little medieval town, the type that hadn’t ever seen any danger or evil. Well, apart from the legends. According to local folklore, there was something dreadful lurking in the forest nearby. At least, that’s what the elderly woman had said to him when he was just a child. Tybalt had grown up obsessed with the rumors, yearning to satisfy his curiosity. So, as a young adult he ignored all the warnings and set off on his “grand adventure”, enthralled with what he might find in the dark forest. Eventually, he discovered a hidden path through the forest, appearing man-made. He followed it deeper and deeper into the forest, as it got colder and colder and the trees got taller and taller, barely allowing any light in. It was at this point Tybalt started to get scared. What was he going to find here, really? Had he just made a massive mistake? In retrospect, yes. But, despite his fear, he kept going. He had to find out what was in this forest. He *needed* to. It was only when the whispering started that the idea of turning back came into his head. But there was no turning back now, he thought. He was here. A deep and dark cave, mysterious symbols carved into the walls? Whatever evil thing lives in this forest, it lives here. He entered the cave, his heart pounding as he took each step. As he walked further into the cave, the enigmatic carvings grew more frequent, until the whole cave, from the walls to the roof, was covered in them. Finally, he reached the end of the cave where a wooden door sat, begging to be opened. He put his hand on the doorknob, slowly turning it and opening the door. Whatever he was expecting, it definitely wasn’t this. He wasn’t even sure what *this* was. The chanting wasn’t in any language he had heard before and all the hoods and cloaks, the massive statue of some tentacled abomination, plus the dead goat on the altar really wasn’t helping. Cautiously, he backed away from the doorway and shut the door silently, his flight instinct kicking in. He had to get out of here, now. As it happens, he was correct in that regard. Getting out of here was the best option. Unfortunately, he was so focused on not making any noise closing the door that he hadn’t noticed the chanting had abruptly stopped. As soon as it was shut, he took off running and it was only then that he noticed the horrific clawing sounds coming from behind him. He didn’t know what these hooded figures were, but they didn’t seem human. They were all collectively babbling something, but the voices sounded twisted, distorted and...well, inhuman. Alas, Tybalt didn’t have long to contemplate what these things were, as they soon caught up with him. It didn’t take long for the village to work out what had happened to him. No one comes back from the forest. They simply classed him as “missing” and moved on. The same thing happened to many people over the course of history. Villagers and travelers would hear the rumors and, curious, venture alone into the forest, only to “go missing” because they interfered in our rituals. That’s why we started those rumors. It says those people taste the best.

I was only about twelve or so when I noticed a new presence in my life. It was the kind of presence where you'd see it out of the corner of your eye, or when you look somewhere quick. It's like a dark shadow, but when you look to the spot, it's gone. I've heard of other people dealing with this before but never anyone near me. This dark figure hung around a lot, more often in winter at first but after the first three years of my new companion, it started hanging around year round, often in the dark. After the third winter with the figure hanging around, just barely out of sight, it started showing up more and more, not just during the night anymore but any time during the day, day after day. It wasn't until after that winter, when I was 14, did I finally meet someone who dealt with the same issue I had. His name was Michael, a popular kid who I don't think anyone had a problem with. He spoke to me about the figure often and to others, and it made me realize I wasn't alone. The figure kept getting more and more common with me, I kept it to myself for the most part. Then one day I get a call, "Mike's dead" the voice on the other line tells me, I struggle to respond and ask how, only to be told that he took his own life. I know Mike, that's not Mike I told myself, that's not him. The next few days the figure seems to leave me alone and grieve. Then day it came back, and I guess it didn't enjoy it's time gone because it was worse than ever, doing a dance just beyond my vision but I knew it was right there. Weeks pass and I was taunted by this figure worse and worse every day. Then days came and it didn't jump in and out of the edge of my vision, it was clear ahead of me, clear as day. That's when I lost control, I tied a rope I found that I had in a way I've practiced many times before, but this time was different, because it wasn't going to be untied, I looked the beast in the eyes as I wrapped the rope around my neck and here I was, being controlled, not by anyone else, but by something inside me, something I couldn't control. A cancer of the mind. I released my weight, and as I gasped my final breath I realized what this monster was for it's true form, which went by the name of depression.

He lay in bed recounting the past two years. They were dreary, dull. His only memories were that of his ceiling and occasionally some forced smiles looking down at him. His family was ‘supportive’ in their own way, although they would never support him in the one thing he actually wanted. The only thing in the world that could make everything better for him. Death. It would be too painful for them though, so there he lies, a vegetable. Drooling all day. Barely able to get the words out to tell people how he truly feels. Just then there was a knock at the door. He recognized the tenderness of the gentle rasps. It was the one person who he looked forward to seeing. The one person that made an effort to show that she understood the pain he was going through. *“Come in,”* the words passed through his lips like sandpaper over rough metal. She opened the door and let herself in, taking her usual seat at his bedside. The way she acted towards him one would think they’d been lovers before his incident. They were simply the best of friends although he couldn’t help but think they’d have been more if he’d met her before she was married. She held his hand in hers and he felt his muscles relax. He was never truly free from the pain but her touch made him feel light inside. Like he was free from his cage. He looked in her eyes and saw all the pain reflected from his own. She could tell he was hurting and it hurt her just the same. A tear rolled down his cheek. It was refreshing and the warmth of her brushing it away was intense. She noticed a flash of discomfort in his eyes, maybe regret? “What’s on your mind?” She asked. His lips trembled, he didn’t want to but, he knew that she was the only person he could ask. *“I need to ask you for something,”* he started, *“tell me if it’s too much.”* She already knew what was coming. “Yes, I’ll do it”. Her lower lip trembled as the words left her mouth. She wouldn’t enjoy it but she had to do it for him. He deserved that much. They both fell silent. Both had suspected this day was coming. Neither was entirely ready for it though they knew it was entirely beneficial. She looked him dead in the eyes, almost as if to ask ‘are you ready’? He blinked. That had been a part of their code for a while. She knew how difficult it was for him to speak so they developed their own language. It was easier for both of them. Neither had to actually say what they were feeling but, they could express it. She reached behind the bed and unplugged him. Muting his machine in the same motion. He held her hand as the pain began to spread throughout his body. It was a pain at his core, as though his bones themselves were on fire. She leaned down and caressed his lips with her own. Lingering there for a moment before curling up on the bed beside him. She had almost made him regret his decision. Luckily, he didn't have enough time for that. Regardless, this was the happiest he'd been in a long time.

He is African rock royalty. Even after the long absence, his presence lingers in the hearts and minds of his fans. No, not just fans. They are his subjects. His enemies go so far as to call them his minions. Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. All he wanted was to live and work and play without the suffocating mask of royalty, to enjoy the priceless peace that he had travelled so far to get. But one of his enemies found him. "What is this place? What are you doing, hiding here in the back of nowhere?" He offered the visitor a mango picked from the mango tree in his garden. "I'm not hiding. I'm finally living. No more schedules, no more commitments, no more being the conscience of an entire nation. How's your wife and kid?" The visitor sprinkled powdered chili on a piece of mango. "Fine. And it's kids now. Didn't you get the 324 baby pics?" "I haven't been online for...a while. 324? Really?" "I may be a bit smitten with my newborn daughter. You don’t miss it?" "You get used to it after a while. After all, there was life on planet earth before the Internet and -." "I'm talking about the music. Don't you miss the music?" "I carry the music with me wherever I go. It's all the other stuff that I don't want." "That other stuff is what gave you fame and fortune and fans." "I never wanted all that. I just wanted to make music. I get to do that here. In peace." "The fans want you back." "No." "You owe it to them." "Like The Beatles, I have given the fans my nervous system. I have nothing left to give." " What about your band?" "They have a new lead singer." "She is not you." "Wasn’t that the point? New blood and gender diversity and all that?" "She is not you." "And I am not the band. I'm not going back to being joined to the hip with that institution." "It's just a band." "It's a Multinational Corporation! I never signed up to be the leader of that monstrosity. When did that band turn from being a beauty into a beast?" His question remained suspended in the space between them, like the sword of Damocles. The visitor evaded the question by busying himself with the messy business of eating a juicy mango. When he was done, he wiped his hands on the serviette then pulled out the “small guns”. "I can make you disappear. For good." "I am well aware of your powers. But even you cannot compete with my reputation." " I know people who can erase your reputation." "At a cost, of course." "Of course. You know how it is. Nothing is for free." "So how much will my freedom cost?" "One final tour." Only three words but they hit him with an avalanche of images and memories and deafening applause and pedestals and shouting matches laced with barbed-wired words. He busied himself with clearing the table then wiping it as he breathed through the onset of a panic attack. "That's a hefty price." "Freedom is expensive." He took a moment to weigh the pros and cons. His decision did not surprise either one of them. "Your offer is tempting. But peace is priceless. So unless you can bottle up what I have found here and bring it with me, my answer remains no." Glaring contest. The visitor blinked first then switched to the big guns. He took out his phone, opened the app that managed all the band's social media pages and typed. "Either you agree or...with this one post, I will reveal your exact location." "You're bluffing." "Last chance." "You wouldn’t dare." "5...4...3..." "Why are you doing this?" "2..." "I just want to be left alone!" "1..." "Please!" "Is that a yes?" "No." "And...sent." "You...Why...I don’t feel so..." He doubled over and vomited. Within an hour, #prodigalrockstar was trending. Exactly one year later, #prodigalrockstarback was trending. The tour was a resounding success, despite him fighting nerves then vomiting his victory over nerves (or was it defeat?) every single time before going on stage. The preparations had been taxing. He was out of practice and out of shape and out of sorts. He was older too, so he had to learn to pace himself. He had to work to reconnect with the other band members after shutting them out for so long. He had to learn how to share the limelight with the new lead singer. He had to fight his demons and a variety of monsters, sometimes during his waking hours, mostly in his nightmares. In one fight, the masked monster was ruthless, throwing him against a wall, over and over again. He finally had enough of being thrown around and fought back, fought dirty, until he managed to remove the monster’s mask. He woke up in a cold sweat because behind that monster’s mask was his own familiar face. He confided in the band’s therapist that he had missed some aspects of the royal life. Making music, arguing music, soaking in music with his comrades in arms. The rapport with his minions. The magic of being on stage, sharing his gift with the world. The satisfaction of a job well done. A lot of it was like before. The energy, the enthusiasm, the controlled chaos, being treated like royalty. Yet, it was also different. Because he was different. Being away had irrevocably changed him. He was going to miss them when he left it all behind. “How did you know?” He asked the visitor a few days before he was to say goodbye to his royal life. It was mango season again. He was going through 324 baby pics. “Know what?” “That I needed this final tour?” “It was just a hunch. Also...” “Also?” “My wife is one of your minions.” They laughed, they cried, they said goodbye, knowing that their friendship would stand the test of time and an abdication.

(Inspired by Grimm Fairy Tales and Black Souls) Iron. That was what stuck with him the most. The smell. The taste. Red dripping from his claws, his fangs, so much crimson that it seemed to overcome his senses, blinding him with senseless fury. It was only when he saw her that he could calm down, when she cradled his head in her arms, whispered sweet nothings to him and told him that it would all be alright. They would always return in silence, as they slowly strode up the stairs to her room, closing the door with nary a word. The beast would drag himself to the wash, submerge himself in large copper basin filled with scalding water, try to wash the blood from his thick and matted fur. But the smell never faded, the taste never left his mouth. Everywhere and everything was just more blood. He’d dry himself off as well as he was able, sitting down in a large ornate leather chair as he watched her sleep. She’d always wake up, sleepily rising from the bed as she took his hand, against his protests. He’d feebly resist as she dragged him back to their resting place, lying her head against his chest as he stared at the ceiling in shame. He wasn’t fit to be here with her. Fit to share a bed with this girl who had given him so much. No maid should share their bed with a Beast. The people knew to avoid the castle, and the roads that surrounded it. Everyone knew the tale of the savage creature that walked the roads, tearing apart all in its path. And yet braver caravans and merchants still tried to cross it, eager to save time and money on investments and sales. Such a caravan, guarded by hired mercenaries and armed soldiers braved that road one fateful night, accompanied by the merchant and his family. Yet what is mortal weaponry against the Beast? What is the armaments of man against the Fangs of God? He descended upon them like a flurry of claws and fangs, his devastating jaws crunching through steel plate like it was made of paper, his sharpened talons slicing through iron blades like it was naught but the toys of children. One by one, the men fell, screaming as the Beast descended upon them, muffled gurgles as he tore into their throats and soft flesh, feasting on their entrails. The taste sickened him, and yet he was compelled to eat, compelled to fill his mouth with blood and offal until his belly swelled, roaring in rage and agony all the while. A red haze obscured his vision as he burst into the carriage, tearing through soft flesh as everything was hidden behind a film of delirium. They were naught but shapes in the red, faceless and soundless. And as he lunged for the last, his bloodlust at his peak, he stared her in the eyes, frozen. The baby looked at him with curiosity, her eyes bright and wide, innocence unconcerned by the sight of her dismembered mother, her brutalized father. She cooed with delight as her fingers brushed the Beast’s soft fur, her hands gripping it and pulling hard. The Beast shivered, every muscle stuck with a tension that could not be unraveled. And then she smiled, causing The Beast to recoil with horror, falling backwards out of the carriage as he fell into a pool of red and guts. He whimpered as he saw the faces of the men he had massacred, his stomach churning as he fought the urge to vomit. He had to run. Had to escape. Had to be anywhere but here wh--- “Adam?” Her voice cut through the night, a soft melody erasing the darkness. The Beast turned his eyes to the girl, his Belle, as she took in the carnage, the devastation around him. He shambled to her, a moan breaking out from his throat, guilt overtaking him and threatening to break him to pieces. “What do you think you’re doing?” Her voice was neutral, her eyes barely showing emotion of any kind. But the Beast’s blood curdled at the words nonetheless, and he fell to his knees, prostrating himself before her and begging for forgiveness. For mercy. She knelt down then, her hand gently caressing his furred cheek, her eyes sweet and loving. And with that same voice that he had fallen in love with, she said this. “Finish the job.” The Beast almost choked, trying to maneuver his mouth around his own voice, thick and rusty from disuse. “Be....Be..” He sputtered, before stopping himself, and coughing thick blood from his throat. “Bel...Belle. Just....child. Baby.” The girls eyes flickered but an inch, registering the baby in its carriage for a mere moment, before flicking back to the Beast. And in her eyes, in that cold nothingness, he felt the crushing weight of his own failures. “What are you...Adam?” Her voice was steady, calm. But he could sense her displeasure. He curled into a ball, dug his claws into his arms and let the blood flow like a river from his wounds. He felt the burn as his cursed body restitched itself back together, still not allowed to die. “Do you think you can play at being a human? At being one of them? Do you think that your sympathy will endear them to you? That sparing one life will have them forget your shape...have them forget your existence?” He rocked back and forth, tears spilling from his eyes. He remembered the stones, the beatings, crawling in the streets as they screamed at him. “Look up.” He wanted to hide deeper into himself, so deep that no one would ever find him again. But he couldn’t. He was always here. He was always himself. “Look. Up.” And he did, compelled by that soft voice. And he saw no fear, no hatred. Nothing but love, and perhaps even envy. He reached his hand out for her, talons still dripping with red fluid, and she let him rest it against her cheek with no hesitation. “You’ll never be human enough Adam. Never human enough for them to love you.” The Beast sat still for a mere moment, before raising his head and howling in agreement. He would never be one of them. She nuzzled her cheek against his, and he felt so safe in her warmth. In her embrace. “But I love you for what you are, instead of hating you for what you are not. Don’t you know that?” The Beast nodded, his head lowered. She had saved him. He knew that. He owed her everything. She gave him a gentle kiss on the forehead, before standing up and bringing him to his feet. “So then. Be the Beast I love.” He trembled then, once, before his body trembled no more. He turned back to the child, cooing ignorantly in its blankets...and did what had to be done. He sat there then, turned away as Belle pulled the most valuable trinkets from the gore, hands casually picking priceless baubles from pools of blood. She gently removed a emerald encrusted locket from the mothers neck, smiling at its gleam and shine. The Beast dared not look, could not bear to look at the carnage he had wrought. But a small sigh of happiness grabbed his attention, and he turned towards the sound like a moth to the flame. For it was this he killed for, this he would die for. The sight of the smiling girl amidst the corpses, a stunning visage made only more beautiful by the tragedy surrounding it. She did not lose that smile as she slowly swayed towards him, leaning in to kiss him and run her hands through his hair. He was breathless in her presence, powerless before this tiny girl that held him like he was naught but a child. “My Beast...” she said with a burning affection in her eyes and a grin on her lips. “My Beast. My Animal. My Killer.” Each word should have stung, but they were uttered with such love, such adoration, that the Beast could do nothing but smile, almost dazed by the weight of devotion he now felt. “You have done well.” And with those words, his reason for existence was cemented, and with it, his eternal prison in her arms.

A single tear drop slowly rolled down my cheek. I quickly wiped it away before Mattie could see, but his eyes were already on me. Mattie looked up at me with his wide brown eyes. They sparkled, ignited by everything he held in his mind. His lips were slightly turned up at the corners, smiling at whatever created that ever-present glint. I could tell he didn’t register that I was crying, so I let out a quick sigh of relief. “Okay, Mattie!” I swallowed the emotion threatening to clog my throat. “So, first; I’m going to put you in your safety seat, then buckle you in, and then we’re going to drive home.” Mattie simply stared. Ignoring the prickling sensation of my tears starting to well again, I started digging in my pocket for my keys. I felt my fingers wrap around the cool metal and pulled them out. Due to medical expenses, we could no longer afford both of our previous cars, so I downgraded to an old Kia Sephia I managed to get for $500. It’s a very plain, small gray car and it’s proving to be more trouble than its worth. Meanwhile, Jason decided it would make more sense for him to continue making payments on his 2019 Chevy Tahoe because it made everyone at work “take him seriously”. I put the key into the driver’s side door and twisted it clockwise, praying to God it wouldn’t jam again. “Chik!” I released my breath. I opened the door and stuck my hand behind the seat to reach for the rear door’s lock. I felt my finger brush against the raised edge and gently pushed. “Chik!” Picking Mattie up, I opened the rear door and slowly bent down to place him into the booster. The booster had been installed by firefighters, but they had placed the booster directly in the middle of the backseat. It had been fine two years ago when Mattie was 3 and still small, but he was much bigger and longer now which made it quite the challenge. I carefully placed my hand on the back of Mattie’s head and maneuvered him around the door frame making sure to angle him far away from it. A child hitting their head is serious in any situation, but with his recent seizures, it could prove to be fatal. Once Mattie was secured, I grabbed the black straps and clicked them into the red buckle, making a small fart noise with my mouth while doing so. “Phbt!” This got Mattie’s attention. His naturally wide eyes widened a bit more and the corners of his mouth stretched upwards just enough to expose his tiny white teeth. “Teenth skarl zeben thar mmm!” Mattie exclaimed and wiggled his fingers. “Oh, so now I have your attention?” I laughed. “Okay, so now I’m going to close the door, get into my seat, and start driving home.” I slowly backed out and straightened myself out. My arms were already feeling tired from briefly holding Mattie so I lightly stretched them before gently pushing the rear door closed. I peered through the window and noticed Mattie was still wiggling his fingers. It’d be a while before I managed to bring him back to my reality, but at least he’ll be able to keep himself entertained on the ride. Mattie typically doesn’t enjoy car rides because of all the sounds, lights, and colors. The drive from his doctor’s office to our home ranges from 30-35 minutes and he tends to scream the entire time. I’ve tried using headphones, an IPad, and even a sleep mask to distract him but nothing ever works. Only when his eyes start sparkling, his fingers start wiggling, and his face breaks into a smile is when he no longer fears the drive. I think it’s because he mentally removes himself from this plane and goes off to play in another. The doctor calls it stimming, but I consider it as more of an episode of sorts. Most times it’s your standard 30 minute runtime, but there are the occasional 45 minute specials. Those occur when he’s very excited or spontaneously set off by something. Normally he responds to his name being called, albeit it’s simply eye contact, but that’s a response in and of itself. However, during those episodes, I could be screaming at the top of my lungs just for his attention, but he doesn’t hear a thing. Hopefully, this car ride will be one of those times. I eased myself into my seat and buckled in. This car is old and only has a radio without an auxiliary port, so in order to use the gps I have to prop my phone onto a mount and put the volume at the loudest level. My phone usually overheats when I play music with my GPS going, so most of the time it’s just me, Australian Siri, and the vocal stylizations of Mattie. Just as I was about to click ‘Start Route’ for home, Jason’s face flashed across the screen. Seconds after, a low, tuneful jingle started playing. I don’t enjoy the small selection of ringtones iPhone has, so I immediately tapped on the green button. “Hey, Babe.” Jason’s voice played through the speaker. “Hey. I want you to know that I am about to drive home, you are on speakerphone and Mattie is here in the car.” I always let Jason know when Mattie is around just in case he wants to talk about sensitive information. It’s still a relatively new thing because before now, I never knew if Jason was calling because he wanted to simply talk to me and hear my voice, or if he wanted to discuss Mattie or something serious. Recently, if we do talk, it’s only ever about Mattie. And it’s always something serious. “Oh great. Hey bud! It’s daddy!” I glanced back at Mattie but he was still looking at his twiddling fingers. “Did he... react... or something?” Jason asked. “No. Sorry. He’s off in Mattie-land right now.” I smiled and chuckled a little. Jason sighed into the phone. There was a long pause. I felt my smile slowly fade away. “So, if he’s not paying attention, that means we can talk freely now.” Jason sighed again. “Yeah, I guess.” I said, glancing back at Mattie once more. “What did the doctor say? Why has he been having so many seizures recently?“ Jason’s tone was urgent, but I understood why. I felt my throat start tightening as I remembered why I was crying. I swallowed in an attempt to get some moisture back into my suddenly dry mouth. “He-He said...” I took a deep breath. “He said that he’s not too sure about whether the autism diagnosis had been the correct one. They’re running some tests but they think it might be something else.” “What? So let me get this straight..” Jason’s tone got low and harsh. Although the anger wasn’t directed at me, it still stung to hear his voice in that way. “They’re telling us that the diagnosis we have been living with for the past two years, the one we have poured most of our resources into in order to get the best therapies, the best education, the best damn doctors for, was wrong?” “Yes.” I heard some crashing from the other end of the phone. Jason was still at work, so there was no mistaking that what I heard was him angrily throwing things off of his desk. He was never an angry man, but after Mattie’s diagnosis, our financial struggles, and the dilapidation of our family as it once was, the anger slowly took over. He tries not to show anything around Mattie or I, but I smell the alcohol on his breath when he goes in for a kiss. I smell the light floral notes mixed in with the sandalwood musk on his work shirts. I see the bruises on his knuckles when he returns from a “work trip”. I know and I see it all. “Well that’s fucking fantastic--“ Jason hissed. “Hey, hey! Language. I already told you that you’re on speaker.” I quickly lowered the volume a bit. Even if Mattie isn’t paying attention, I don’t want him to wake up one day with a bunch of curse words flying around in his brain. “Like it matters? He can’t even--” Jason paused. I could hear him taking deep breaths to calm himself down. He didn’t finish his sentence but he didn’t have to. I already finished it for him. “I’m sorry. Sorry.” Jason cleared his throat. “So what is it? If it’s not autism then what could it be?” “The doctor said that he’s currently suffering from something called... hold on.” I grabbed my purse from the passenger seat and started rifling through it, in search of the pamphlet the doctor had handed me on our way out. He instructed me to read the pamphlet in order to grasp the complexities of this situation. This was in response to me insulting him and the nurses for screwing up Mattie’s diagnosis. “Okay, so I have a pamphlet.” I started reading off of it, but it was too dense, so I switched to paraphrasing. “Mattie is currently suffering from ‘Convulsive Status Epilepticus’. Which he has in conjunction with what they believe is not severe autism but Landau Kleffner syndrome. Apparently the similarities between Autism and LKS are so high, that many kids get misdiagnosed with autism first. LKS is also very rare but is more typical in boys. The issue with Mattie is that these seizures he is experiencing are very dangerous, potentially fatal, and usually occur with older kids 7 and up. At 5, Mattie is in need of dire help. We have to monitor him around the clock and especially when he’s sleeping which is when the seizures are most likely to occur without indication.” Jason stayed silent. I wondered if he had started searching it up while I was reading to him. That’s what he did when we received Mattie’s initial diagnosis. He wanted to know everything about the disorder to see if there was a way we could come out on top. He’s a businessman always trying to find solutions. That’s just how he is. “And how are we meant to monitor Mattie 24/7?” Jason’s voice was low again. Though this time, there was no anger. He just sounded tired. That made it sting even more. To hear the man who once forced himself to eat a 20 pound hamburger in thirty minutes because he was determined to win a novelty t-shirt. The same man who threw up for 5 minutes afterwards in the parking lot but still prided himself on not giving up. To hear that man sound hollow and defeated hurt more than I ever imagined. It forces me to face that he’s no longer Jason, just a hollow shell. “We have medicine that will be delivered in a few days and Doctor Straum is ordering a EEG headset that will help us temporarily monitor Mattie’s brain activity. We may have to take shifts at night where one of us sleeps and the other stays up to monitor until we get the medicine. I don’t think we can afford either of us taking any days off of work. There’s going to be a whole new wave of tests, therapies, treatments and we need to be able to afford it.” I started rubbing my temples, stressed out by the insurmountable debt we’ll most likely accumulate from this. “Okay, well thankfully tomorrow was already a scheduled day off for me, so when I get home tonight I’ll take the first shift and you can sleep.” Jason responded. “Really? Just like that?” I was surprised. Usually there’s some pushback on these things. “Yeah. You know, from the looks of it, most kids with LKS have some delayed cognition in speech but when paired with the proper medication, they can get to a place where they’re seemingly normal. If we manage our expectations but do our best, we might be able to hear Mattie say “Mom” or “Dad” again soon.” Jason laughed lightly. It sounded hopeful. Tears started welling in my eyes again, but for a different reason. Jason was still Jason after all. Could it really be possible that Mattie may once again be my Mattie? The Mattie I spent the last two years mourning? Unfortunately, I could already feel my hope scratching its way to the surface of my heart. Despite the intensity of all of the doubt, pain, fear, and distrust my heart harbored; my hope was holding its own. “Yeah. Maybe soon.” I smiled as the tears made their way down my face. A gentle sob escaped through my lips before I could stop it. The tears started flowing faster. Within seconds, I completely broke down. In this moment, everything that had been building up throughout the years was finally being released with hope as its catalyst. I’m aware that things may get worse or that this could be another misdiagnosis. Financially, Jason and I are near ruin and our romantic relationship is in tatters. But in this moment, all I can feel is relief. It’s rather dim, but I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. “I have to go, but I’ll see you at home.” Jason’s voice floated over to my ears. It was cracking with emotion. I know he can hear me crying, but it’s funny because it seems as though he may be crying as well. “O-okay.” I choked back a sob. “I’ll see you at home.” I waited to hear the familiar ‘beep beep’ of the call ending. But instead I heard a soft; “I love you.” And so I responded; “I love you too.” Beep, Beep.

"Holly, why are we standing in the cemetery? It's the day after Thanksgiving and we should be in line somewhere shopping for stuff we don't need." Clair said. "First off, we're in a pandemic, Clair. Black Friday is already online and has been for a week. We're all that Mama and Pop had. We should at least try to be here." "They won't notice if we are or aren't, Hol. They're dead. Hate to break it to ya." Holly and Clair Brockfort stood at the tombstones of their parents. The brisk fall day bit into their skin like demons' teeth. "Holly Mae Brockfort, this is ridiculous! I'm tired of this every year. Mom and Dad wouldn't want us constantly sobbing over dirt. It's not enough water to make anything grow." Holly gave her sister an evil side eyed glare. "I don't understand why you're not more..." "What? I'm not more what? Mushy, emotional, shallow? It's because I realized they're dead. No amount of tears I cry, regardless of what a movie says, will bring them back!" Clair strode away, hiding her own tears. Weakness, her father said, was unacceptable in his children. His military training seeped into Clair's thinking. Her rebellious side shown more with every passing month. Where Holly was the softer of the twins, Clair was attached to her father's side. One day, she saw him kiss another woman. She'd been thirteen. "Mom shouldn't have been with him. She'd be alive and that bastard would've released us all from our captivity. Now? We're without parents. I'm sorry I don't share the amount of pity you do for them. I'm not that way. I never will be. So, go ahead and cry for them all you want. I'll be in the car checking Amazon." Clair walked away swiping at her tears. As she wiped her hands on her pants, her phone rang. "Clair Brockfort." "Hey Babe," Jordan McAvoy, Clair's boyfriend of two years, called her once he ended his shift at the construction site. As a building surveyor, he often wore a suit. "I have a favor to ask of you, J," "You know it's not a favor. I love making you happy.. especially today. I don't know or understand why this has to be a tradition every year. They're dead." "My sister." "Is a flaming emotional wreck. She needs help." "I do too. I admit it. I nearly broke at the site." "When you get home tonight, no objections. I'm going to care for you." "What about you?" "I took some measures for a mall space and helped three couples redesign their kitchens. It's not as hard on me as today is on you." "This. This is why I love you. I didn't even work today and I feel like I've been in a prize fight with Tyson Fury." "Come home and I'll take care of you." Clair laughed. "I'm sure you will." "Before I try to contain myself, Clair, what did you want?" "Could you send me a picture of you right now?" Jordan laughed. "Um, ok.." the text message sound pinged with an incoming message. Clair fumbled her phone at the site of Jordan in a pair of black boxer briefs, wearing his glasses. "Are you trying to kill me?" Clair asks. "You wanted it." "I'm gonna die either in a graveyard of embarrassment or in a high speed chase to get home." "You're mad, Love." "Nah, just in need of some distractions." "Glad you're finding me a distraction." Jordan said. "Don't I always?" "Whenever you need me, I'm there." Clair chuckled into the phone. "Thanks, I mean that. I appreciate it." Holly approached the car. "I need to go." Clair said. "Come home safe, Angel. I miss you." "I'll be there soon." Clair ended the call. Holly entered the car. "We need to get to the house." Holly said. "Why?" Clair asked. "There's something there for you." "Okay?" The girls went to the house and entered. Neither stepped foot in it since their parents died. Inside, the mantel was adorned with pictures. Three stood out to Clair. "Have you ever seen these, Hol?" Clair asked. "What are they?" "Well, one is Dad in his Marine Formal uniform and Mom in some sort of dress." They both read: May 1993 The next picture was their mother, heavily pregnant. "This must have been when mom was having us." Holly said. "She was gorgeous." Clair said. The last picture was their father holding their mother. "I was a horrible kid." Clair said. "I wasn't much better." Holly said. "Remember when we tried to sneak out of the house and I ended up in the hospital?" "Oh yeah, I had to run to the porch and get Dad." "They were happy til the end, Clair. I want that." "It's funny. I have that with Jordan. You'll find it, Hol. He's out there somewhere wondering where you are." "We were lucky, weren't we?" "Dad came home to his family and he never left after he came home." "Mom.. Loved him like he should've been." Holly handed Clair a box. "Mom wanted you to have this. She wanted to make sure you knew you were loved." Clair opened the box to see a plaster cobblestone with the inscription "I love you, Mommy." "She kept this?" Clair asked. "She kept everything you made." Clair handed Holly a similar box with a note written in male chicken scratching. Holly opened it and found a purple blob with ridges. "Oh God! I remember this! Dad kept it?" "He always told me, whenever we were out in the yard, 'Ya know your sister tried really hard. I didn't have the heart to tell I quit smoking when I married your mom." Holly laughed then sniffed. "He didn't smoke? Why was that silver ashtray out there?" "Uncle Glenn. He smoked. Daddy didn't. Uncle Glenn and those hideous cigars. Dad would come in from the garage and smelled so awful! Mama threw him in the shower and told him to wash up or else he was sleeping in the tent." The sisters looked at each other, laughing. "I love you, Berry." Clair said. "I love you too, Peach." They embraced. After they depart the home, Clair's phone rang. "Hey, I'm getting bored at home. You coming back yet?" Clair laughed. "Yeah, I'm gonna make sure Holly gets home." "Good. She needs her sister." Clair looked at Holly. "Not as much as I need her."

“You’ll never guess who called me this afternoon,” I can recall my mother saying. It was dinnertime, and she was at the stove spooning something lumpy from a frying pan into Tupperware. We -- my father, my brother Lester, Bradley Willis and I -- were at the opposite end of the kitchen around a pink and gray formica dinette. “Who?” asked Bradley Willis, mouth full of steak. “Why Helen Leam,” said my mother, looking at my father. “You remember Helen from Rebekah Lodge.” “Jeez,” said my father, setting down his fork and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sure. Helen and Wally Leam.” “They split up, you know,” said my mother, “two years ago. Helen’s still living out by Forty-First, but Wally’s moved to Hollister.” “Well for God’s sake,” said my father. My mother put down her spoon in the pan and turned to face us, a hand at her throat. “It seems Helen’s had a bit of a tragedy. Her apartment was broken into and burglarized night before last.” “They catch the guy who did it?” asked Bradley Willis. “No,” said my mother, and snapped the Tupperware shut. Then she opened it again and took one last teensy bite. “Helen was off at the movies by herself and when she got home the door had been jimmied and all her silver was gone and her mother’s brooch and some watches. Some other things too, she said, looking at my father significantly. “Like what?” “Nothing, Bradley. Personal things. Anyway, Walt, I’ve invited her to come and stay with us for a few days. She says she’s taking Valium like M&Ms and hearing noises.” There was a pause. “Oh hell,” said my father. “Well Al, it was the least I could do.” “No, Mona. It was the most. I mean she hasn’t picked up the phone in two years. Why you?” “But I didn’t pick up the phone either.” “Okay, okay.” My father threw his napkin across his plate and stood up. “I wonder if the guy crapped on the floor,” whispered Bradley to Lester. “I heard cat burglars always leave a calling card. The real pros, I mean.” “Bradley,” I said, “I don’t wish you to feel yourself unwelcome in our home...” “Just don’t feel yourself in our home,” said Lester. Guffaws. “...but kindly clean up your language and/or leave.” “Get off Bradley’s ass, willya Brenduhhh?” said Lester in the long-suffering whine he reserved for me. “You in love with him or something?” “No,” I lied. “I am not in love with your odious friend.” Hoots. And so, the next evening at dinnertime the doorbell rang, and it was Helen Leam, with a suitcase in one hand and a bouquet in the other. When she saw my mother, she burst into tears. She was a small woman in her late thirties with protruberant hazel eyes and pale hair already silvering at the temples. The hair was swept back into a twist of penitential severity; not a tendril escaped to charm the rigid center part. The back of her neck was naked of wisps. The bones of her face--good, even bones, I noted--stood out so vividly from this harsh frame that it was difficult to look at her; she was too exposed, too unprotected. I glimpsed a short upper lip and dark hollows beneath her suffering eyes before lowering my own. She set down her suitcase and turned to Lester and me, hands clasped to her bosom. “So these are the children,” she said, and sobbed anew. “Oh God,” said my father under his breath, “she’s nuts. Hello Helen,” he said aloud. “Uh, how have you been?” We set her up quarters in the basement, in a chilly makeshift bedroom paneled in knotty pine and redolent of concrete. Her clothes hung in a cedar closet that also contained my father’s old Air Force uniforms. Moments before her arrival, Lester had removed a collection of tattered pornography from under the bed. “I hope this is okay,” said my mother, beefy in red bermuda shorts, her head porcupined with pincurls. "And here’s an old TV. It’s ugly, but it works.” “Thank you,” wept Helen, hand to head. “You’re too good.” “I don’t want to hear it,” said my mother and hugged her. And then we left and trooped back upstairs to compare notes. My father, listening from behind the newspaper, snorted with derision at intervals. We were all waiting impatiently for Helen to reappear and validate or contradict our speculations, but she did not emerge at all during that evening, nor during any other evening. She huddled downstairs like a troglodyte for three weeks, and more than once we heard her crying through the grate. Many years have gone by since the Helen Leam episode, and oddly, as if through an ever-focusing lens, I see this time in sharper detail with each passing year. Recollected conversations assume new significance. Gestures and expressions return to jolt me as I start the car or wash my hair. Heads turn, eyes meet, bodies glide toward one another, then away, with surreal clarity. I was fourteen at the time and nearly six feet tall, gaunt with social anxiety, ravaged by the assaults of ferocious hormones. Like a volcano, I burned, churned and erupted. I was failing math. I couldn’t dance. My nose, forsaking its childish unobtrusiveness, loomed bony and stippled with blackheads. I cut my own hair, surveyed the catastrophic results and cut even more. I came to live in the deepest circle of adolescence, loathing myself with a perverse, demonic energy. My brother Lester, in contrast, seemed as serene and correct as a wolf within nature’s ineluctable definition. He combed his hair with a towel and proudly slung his massive jockstraps all over the bathroom, while I timidly hung my cupless bra on my doorknob, where it dangled sadly, like the skeleton of a small bird. Lester and my father communicated with one another in a cryptic language of yelps, guffaws and curses. They punched one another playfully on the deltoids and feinted for wrestling holds. Helen Leam, a troubling enigma to me and my mother, was a standing joke to them. “That screwball down below,” they called her. Every morning at seven, Helen would dress and leave for her job as secretary to the overseer of a mushroom cannery. She would return at six, parking her old Chevy far from our driveway, apologizing herself in the front door, through the kitchen and down the stairs. Only after our shrill, bickering dinner was over would she emerge to fix herself a tray of soup and toast and descend again, china clattering thinly. “Poor gal,” my mother would pronounce after each nightly exit. “This has been too much for her.” And I understood. After all, a whole gamut of legal indignities lay before her. Her self-confidence, laboriously established after a divorce from what my mother labeled “a barrel full of pickled tightwad” had been dealt a mighty blow. “Can I ask you a question?” said Bradley Willis to me after Helen had been with us for weeks. “How do you guys put up with her down there? Don’t get mad.” “Why would I get mad? I don’t care what you think. And if we can put up with you, we can certainly put up with her.” “I mean, what is she doing here?” “Well she’s scared. Wouldn’t you be?” “No. It seems to me,” narrowing his eyes and concentrating on a point beyond me, “the last place that burglar is likely to hit again is her place. I mean he cleaned her out, supposedly. So why doesn’t she go home? She’s going to have to sometime.” “Maybe she’s lonely.” “Then why does she skulk around down there like some troglodyte instead of...” “Some what?” “Never mind. I have to think about this some more.” And he ambled off, lips pursed in a silent whistle, receding absently into his future. Gazing hopelessly after him, I see his cornsilk hair just touching the collar of his shirt; his hands are in his pockets, elbows turned sharply out. I see the heels of his sneakers and the backs of his ears. His I.Q. was “astronomical” my mother had informed me when he first started coming around. He had learned to read spontaneously at age three and later skipped a grade. But now at sixteen, Bradley Willis,had become a daydreamer, a cutup, and his grades were poor, his ingenuity wasted on forging attendance excuses or concocting exotic diseases to sicken of during homeroom. I cannot say precisely when I first realized I was in love with Bradley Willis. I do remember that early in the year, the sound of his voice began to both irk and attract me, and I began to provoke him clumsily, burning with the helpless realization of knowing myself an ass. I plucked my eyebrows completely out, stuffed my bra and painted my eyes. I would appear one day in flounces and lace, the next in funereal black. I affected a British accent. Come bedtime, I would turn on my music and the umber boredom of my room would vanish, to be replaced by the dazzling scenario of the Eternal Triumphal Prom. And I became That New Girl and Bradley was my boyfriend. His arms held me tight. His ring thumped my bosom as we glided, eyes locked, among admiring dancers standing still as stage props. Hour after hour in the dark, I partied with Bradley Willis at the neverending prom of my soul. My obsession with MTV was a running family joke. So I am still puzzled at my father’s failure to remember that on Fridays at four, while my mother was sure to be at Red Cross Auxiliary and Lester at basketball practice, I was equally certain to be home, glued to the television. Which is where I was when I first heard the voices coming through the grate above Helen Leam’s bedroom. At first, I paid no attention. Then I turned down the sound and crouched by the grate on my hands and knees, pressing my ear against the cold metal grid, breathing old burnt dust and seeing the pile of the carpet close and huge. “All right, Helen,” my father was saying, and I thought I heard fear behind the reasoned testiness. “We’ve been all through that before now, haven’t we? I am asking you just how long you’re going to keep this up.” “That’s what I’ve been asking you for the last three years. Three years.” “Oh no. I want a rational explanation, delivered in a reasonable manner. What in the hell do you mean by moving in here, camping here on some thin pretext...” “I couldn’t help it. I had to be near you, even like this. I couldn’t stand it any more. I trusted you and you broke your promise. You said you would tell her. You’ve said it a million times and, every time I believed you. I want you to keep your word.” “You blackmail me like this and you’ll end up with nothing.” There was a sob. “So what do I have now?” “Oh Jesus,” said my father. “How’d I get myself into this fucking mess? Helen, this isn’t worthy of us, of our love.” “I don’t care anymore. I’m desperate. I lie here at night and think about our clothes in that closet. Our clothes can be together. Why can’t we?” “I don’t believe you’re doing this to me. It’s like something out of a bad movie.” “Do you think I wanted to? I was losing my mind. My God, after I called the police I actually thought about just driving my car over a cliff. I thought, if they find out they’ll put me away in the nuthouse for sure.” There was a pause. “Wait a minute. If they find out what?” “Well that I did it myself.” “Did what yourself?” “All of it. What’s the matter? Couldn’t you guess?” “You mean to tell me you burglarized your own house? You stole your own panties and bras?” “Yes,” in a little girl lisp. “You wrote those filthy words on the mirror? And the watches and silver? You did all that yourself? There wasn’t any man?” “No.” A giggle. “Don’t look at me like that. I told you I couldn’t go on.” “This is insane, Helen.” A scuffle. “Get up. Stop that. Stop acting like a nut, will you?” There began a shrill crying, almost an ululation, and then I heard my father cursing first Helen then himself in the sibilant expletives of despair. At last, he began to murmur words of comfort. The crying became muffled. “Take your hair down,” my father commanded in a hoarse voice. “Shake it down.” There was another brief scuffle, then the sound of tearing cloth and a deep sob, this time from my father. “Oh God, I love you so much. How you enslave me.” “Oh Al, Al. Everything I have is yours.” Choking with horror and laughter, I stumbled to my feet, joints stiff from kneeling. I put my hand over my mouth and pinched my nose shut. The blood beat red behind my eyes. Like a hostage escaping, I made for the front door, taking huge steps on legs rubbery and numb. . It’s no big deal, I told myself over and over. It happens all the time. Shaking, I let myself out and headed down the street as fast as I could walk. My laughter had turned to dry sobs that racked my chest like coughs. Down the block, I could make out Helen’s old Chevy, and I toyed with the idea of busting all her windows or putting sugar in her gas tank. But that would not make my father love her less, nor would it undo their affair. With a deep sigh, I crept slowly back toward my house to sit glumly on the curb in front until it grew dark, my feet in the gutter. The next day, Helen Leam packed up, left our house and went home. She and my mother said goodbye at breakfast very affectionately, and Helen thanked us all and said she had been so frightened, but now she was herself again and ready to forge onward. Life was tragic sometimes, replied my mother, but these things passed, and Helen said yes they did, with the help of God and good friends. I kept my eyes on my bowl of Kix, and Lester whined where the hell was Bradley to give him a ride to school because his generator was arcing and he bet Bradley had forgotten. My teeth suddenly started to chatter, and I left the table. I don’t know to this day if my mother ever found out the truth about Helen Leam, and I don’t know what became of my father’s affair with her. Days passed, then weeks and months, and no divorce ever materialized, no storm ever broke. The lie that was our family continued smooth and self-contained: Newspapers were read, food was consumed, holidays observed, necessities purchased. I came to exist in a permanent state of disbelief, cringing before a blow that never fell. My apprehension bore down so on me that sometimes I could scarcely breathe. I slept poorly and began to smoke, surly and furtive. At the sound of Bradley Willis’s voice, I would flee to my bedroom and light up, holing out until he was gone. In April, my hands broke out in eczema, and I watched MTV all month wearing polyethylene mittens full of white goo. All hope left me. In June, Lester and Bradley Willis graduated, and Lester went off to USC in a new Camaro with four on the floor. Bradley made two listless starts at City College, then dropped out and eventually joined the Army. “He just shot it all to shit his own self,” Lester pronounced. “But maybe the Army’ll do him some good.” And that was the last I heard of Bradley Willis until my mother mentioned years later that he had been killed. “Do you remember that friend of Lester’s with the blond hair?” She said. “The kind of oddball who could never find himself?” “Bradley,” I said, staring at the green and steel walls of my college dorm room. “Well he was killed in Iraq,” said my mother. “Isn’t that a pity? Lester read it in the paper. They had lost touch, you know.” “I know,” I said. Then I hung up the phone. But there is another, better end to the Helen Leam episode, and sometimes I go back in my mind to that afternoon I found out about my father. Once again, I am stumbling from the front door, alone and in despair. But this time Bradley is there, and I fall into his arms. He understands at once what has happened and doesn’t need to ask me, and I don’t need to tell. It will be all right, he says. He is there for me because he loves me. I cry onto his shoulder until I am empty of tears, light and purged and free. Then, happier than we have ever been, we get into his car and drive up the coast to Half Moon Bay. We park on a cliff overlooking the beach and watch the sunset, talking in murmurs, saying everything in our hearts. At last, when it is dark, he takes me in his arms and we make love. I see him above me, his face lit by moonlight. I can feel his body trembling and hear the ocean below us. And then, because I have never done this before, and because I can’t think of anything else to say at such a moment, "Oh Bradley," I whisper, "everything I have is yours." ###

23:10 hours “What on earth is wrong with you?” Lindsay sat up in her bed glaring at the girl lying next to her. “Come on, Lindsay! Its Halloween. We never do anything fun. Just this once. Please?” “Reed, it’s freezing outside. Besides, if braces sees us, you know quite well that she’s going to report us to Ms. Winter.” Braces was an irritable seventeen-year-old who was put in charge of watching the orphanage kids for the day, since Ms. Winter had gone to look after her sick mother. Reed sniffed and turned over. Lindsay sighed. “Sometimes I really can’t tell if you’re two or twelve.” She pulled the covers over her head and shut her eyes. A few minutes later, Reed began to sniffle. Lindsay groaned. “Seriously? You’re going to do this today?” The sniffling became a low wail. “Oh for God’s sake, shut up!”. The wailing immediately ceased and Lindsay felt terrible. Reed had had a case of measles recently and had to be shut up in the “alone room” for a few weeks. She had missed the monthly ice-cream treat and her birthday celebration ( which Lindsay honestly didn't find that exciting, considering the fact the “celebration” was droning an off-key happy birthday followed by the distribution of a few disgusting, half-molten candies. They did the same exact thing. Every. Single. Year.) She felt kind of sorry for the girl. “You know what Reed? Let’s go.” Lindsay got out of bed and began to pile on some clothes. Reed sat up, wiping her eyes and beaming. “Really?” “Yep. Unless I change my mind, so hurry” 24:30 hours The girls were now crouched behind an old, crumbling headstone. “Okay Reed, we're gonna stay here until sunrise. Just like you asked. Then we’re going straight back to our dorm before anyone even sees that we were gone.” She paused, wrinkling her nose at the creepy array of weirdly shaped stones “Ugh. I don’t know where you get ideas like these.” Reed’s eyes twinkled with glee. “I read it in a book that I borrowed from Jemma. It was about two boys who decided to spend a night in the graveyard. In the end, one of them died.” Suddenly, her face darkened and she fixed her darting green eyes on Lindsay. “Do you really think that ghosts are real, Lin?” Lindsay so badly wanted to say yes and tell her about that one time when she saw a big ugly monster living under Ms. Winter’s bed, ready to gobble up any mean kids, but she knew that if Reed started wailing again, they would be certainly discovered. “Nonsense. When people die, they just become dirt. Like the Bible says.” The answer seemed to satisfy Reed and she settled down a bit. 2:30 hours “Did you hear that Lindsay?” “Hear what?” Lindsay was getting tired now. Her nerves were beginning fray. There seemed to be a stench rising from the wet mud; the smell of rotting leaves and death. It was awful, really. Why had she agreed to this stupid idea in the first place? Reed tugged at Lindsay's sleeve again. “It sounded like someone was crying. They were calling for me. Telling me that they missed me” “Ha ha. Very funny. What next? Are you going to tell me that you saw a woman in a white dress behind me?” “I’m not lying Lin!” She pouted and huddled close next to Lindsay. “Get off me Reed! This was you’re idea. You’re going to have to sit through this.” Then she added, just in case, “And don’t you dare start crying now. You’re such a little baby.” “Am not! Why are you always so mean anyway?” “Me? You’re twelve years old and still believe in ghosts! Anyone would be annoyed!” “I’m not a baby, Lindsay. I’m not. I’m not. I’M NOT!” “Okay shut up! If you’re so brave then, go touch that stone.” Lindsay pointed at a rectangular headstone that was about thirty feet away. “That one?” Reed shuddered. “It’s too- It’s too far” Lindsay smirked. “That’s what I thought.” Her eyes now brimming with tears, Reed got up and brushed the dirt off her slacks. With pretense bravery, she walked towards the headstone. 4:45 hours Two minutes had passed. Five minutes had passed. Ten minutes had passed. “Okay Reed, I get it. You’re not a baby. You can come back now.” Silence. “Reed it’s not funny! Get back now.” Silence again. Perhaps she had fallen down or something? Lindsay made her way towards the headstone. It was so dark that she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. She stumbled over tree roots and pebbles several times. Maybe Reed did fall. Maybe she got hurt. Oh no. This was her fault. She should have never let Reed go there alone. “Reed I am so sorry. Please come back” Lindsay reached the headstone now, but Reed was nowhere to be seen. “Reed! Reed! Are you lost? Say something. Please” Lindsay was afraid now. Maybe someone had kidnapped her. Maybe she’d run away. What was she going to tell Ms. Winter? What had she done? Suddenly, she saw something. It was a body. She ran towards it and leaned over it. It was lying face down. “Reed? Is that you?” It wasn’t Reed. Reed wasn’t so tall. Reed didn’t have such long fingers. Reed didn’t have such tangled hair. Reed wasn’t wearing a red and white dress... The dress was not red and white. It was just white. The body turned over and sat up. Its eyes were white and hollow. It had no teeth. Lindsay screamed and ran. She ran and she ran until she tripped over a root and hit her head on the edge of a gravestone. Her vision went blurry and something warm and wet began to trickle down her temple. The last thing she saw before she passed out was a set of blurry letters. "R.I.P" “ Reed Winston” “1989-2001” 8:30 hours Lindsay blinked her eyes open. There were bright lights everywhere and there was beeping and yelling and crashing. She heard a voice. It seemed so distant. “Fifteen-year-old female, Lindsay Greene. Mentally unstable. Found with a laceration to her forehead and a broken ankle” “What happened Jim?” “Another one of her delusional episodes. She escaped the Psych hospital across the street and made her way to the graveyard. She was lying there for a few hours before the maintenance guy found her. God knows how she got herself hurt” “Poor thing” Lindsay stirred. “Reed... where is...” A little woman in a white coat leaned over her and smiled. “Hi Lindsay, I’m doctor Williams and I’m going to be taking care of you okay?” “What? No. No! Get off! I need to find Reed!” Lindsay shoved the doctor away and tried to get up. “Honey you need to calm down. You’re safe here.” “No!” Lindsay screamed. “You killed Reed! Where is she!” She felt a pinch in her right arm and suddenly felt sleepy. So very sleepy. “I’m sorry Reed.”

They say variety is the spice of life. If that’s true, then my life was as flavorful as a bag of stale flour. Keyword- was. I used to live my life from day to day. I’d wake up, go to work, only to go home and use that money on delivery orders while my eyes gloss over too many episodes of The Office. God, how time went by, days blurring into days, weeks blurring into weeks, henceforth and so on. But I’m not that kind of person anymore. All it took was a meeting with Jenny from HR. My coworkers were worried about me. She mentioned the word apathy. It stuck in my brain like a half chewed gummy bear sticks in the gaps of your teeth. And no matter how much you scrape, you still feel like you have some left. I gave her a half smile, told her I’d work on it, took a ground-scraping rise from my chair and left the room. Looking back, she probably wanted to have a grander discussion, and possibly about how it’s affecting my work in the company, but I wasn’t in the mood. I had too much apathy to do that. Apathy. Apathy, apathy, apathy. The entire bus ride home, that word was louder than the cold air whistling through the seams in the windows. I mean, I wasn’t mad, because she’s right. Lately I haven’t been motivated or interested in anything except whether Dwight and Angela work out their problems. Apathy. I wish I could say I changed that night, but it took me a couple weeks before the word got too loud, before the gummy bear in my mouth got too sour. I had to do something different. Then, one night I changed. Instead of spending more money on my double-stuffed pizza, or chicken and rice burritos, I stopped at the grocery store in an instant sting of inspiration. I was going to cook . But I didn’t cook that night, no no. I created . Coming home with a bag full of ingredients, I followed the recipe I had set in my mind. Hallowing the peppers, I felt my blood rush in a way I hadn’t felt before. My hands seemed to be moving on their own as they dashed in spices and ingredients the recipe hadn’t even called for. Inspiration carried my hands as I stuffed the peppers and towed them into the oven. Together, Inspiration and I created . My head felt a little dizzy as I plated my masterpiece. That night, I lived for the first time in a long time. I stopped at the grocery store the night after, set out to live my new life as a cook; a foodie, the one who knew exactly what flavors went with what, the one people raved about their home parties because “ their homemade frittatas are just oh-so-good”. I wanted to venture into the meat department. Maybe I’d cook up a seasoned steak, a simple burger, anything that revived that spark I felt the night before. Nothing did. I ended up making a cheeseburger. Burnt patty, unflavored bun, cheese burger. I thought I was ready, I set out all the ingredients on my counter, I took in that big breathful of air, allowing that flow of passion to enter my soul and guide my hands through my cooking. But the air I breathed felt stuffy, and everything inside me plummeted as I scraped old ketchup onto the buns. My masterpiece. Voila . What did happen however, was miraculous. I still had some veggies left from the night before, from that one passionate night. I eyed my blender, still fresh in it’s cardboard box on the corner of my counter. The passion flew back into me and I felt my blood rush with excitement. Smoothies! Of course! I can be a master mixologist. I started that new passion, and for the next week I made a variety of smoothies, milkshakes, juices. I went even further - cocktails, crafted beers, and (after extensive research) began the process of creating moonshine. I felt like an inventor of liquids. Call me Poseidon. But once again, the shimmer and glimmer in my eyes died as I looked at my blender and the fifteen different fruits I had ripening in a bowl. Dear God, what am I doing? Was I going insane? I packed the blender back up and shoved it aside. I needed my next high, my next flurry of excitement as I found a new hobby to pursue. And listen, I’m self-aware. I began to realize what I was doing, never sticking to a newfound passion. But at the time I was too busy carving ducks out of soap, painting and sketching and drawing and coloring, registering for metalworking and glass blowing classes. I practiced singing, piano, guitar, drums (well- bongos). I took up Spanish, French, Japanese, German, learning the pleases and thank yous before venturing onto my next craft. None of these ventures lasted longer than I week, I presume. The longest I kept up with was playing manicurist- something I found I had a peculiar knack in. And it was after I put down the nail file for the last time that I realized. I had probably gone through fifty plus different tasks all within the span of three months. I wasn’t sticking to anything. That word apathy sprung forward out of the shadows like a fox jumping on a rabbit. I’ll never find anything. I have no place in life. That night was restless and the morning after, looking in the mirror, rinsing cold water on my face, I gained a sort of defiance. You know what, who cares? Screw you Jenny. So what if I can’t find something I like. I liked finding new things to like. I enjoy switching hobbies. I guess.... It hit me. My hobby. My joy in life. What I knew would relieve that accursed ‘A’ word from my brain forever. My hobby was finding new hobbies. I broke out in a smile, which let the harsh laugh creeping up my throat find it’s escape. My hobby is finding hobbies! Hobbies are my hobbies! That Saturday, I began working on my hobby, my one true hobby. I scoured the internet. Pinterest and Wikipedia became my best friends that day. I worked on a list. I called it my ‘Flour Recipe’. I was going to craft up the most flavorful, spice-induced life I could imagine. My ‘flour recipe’ consisted of anything you could imagine- from potting flowers to sailing waters to voodoo making to beetle fighting. Those years were marvelous. I guess you’d call them the glory years... Or is it golden years? Either way, I had the most fun I’ve ever had. I would start my days off looking at my list, finding something new that called to me when the last activity died its final spark. Sometimes I’d go in order of the list, sometimes I’d roll a pair of dice, and heck, sometimes I chose whichever was closest to a coffee stain. That list was my life, and my life was in that list. But as the years passed, and as my skin began spotting its signs of age, my list dwindled. After learning and living and exploring, from hiking mountains to stone skipping at frozen lakes, I was finding less and less things to do. I was down to the wires, left with the procrastinated hobbies. I could feel my blood run colder and colder every time I looked to see another check on the list, another task already done and passed, it’s momentum gone forever. I tried repeating old tasks. I went back to cooking- the venture that started this all. But once the spark left my eyes it could never return. I finished off my glorious escapades with tree shaping, lollypop tasting, even something called extreme ironing (Seriously, look it up). As my list fell to the last few, I looked towards the one hobby I had saved for last. Fire starting. I watched the video and learned the techniques, bought the proper materials, and started fires from scratch. I started small, little bonfires in my driveway, and worked my way up. Once I felt confident, I went camping (a hobby I had surpassed years ago) at one of my favorite destination spots (a spot where I did my rock collecting, rebuilt some of my chakras, and took up bird watching) and lit a fire. It was a beautiful fire, and all the passion I had built up for this hobby went into it. I knew as the flames died down, so would my love for fire-building, but at this time the flames were lively and grand. I took my famed list in my hands, the fire twinkled and illuminated my glossy eyes, and threw the list in. I watched as the flames tore at its corners, blackened them at the same time as it blackened my heart. I was watching my entire life burn away in the fire. Everything I had lived for and done in the last few years, now over. On fire. Turned to ashes. Gone. I had no idea what was to come of my life next. Just as the last of my flour recipe was turning into an ‘ash recipe’, an unexpected wind blew through the trees. I had been so busy watching my life burn up, I didn’t even notice the flames now growing nearly the height I stood at. The wind blew flickering remnants over as it graced the arm of some nearby shrubbery. I tried grabbing some blankets, some of the water bottles I packed away with me, but the fire kept dancing it’s groove into the dark green pines. It danced the tango and climbed up, soon cheating on the bush with a spindly, towering spruce tree. The fire climbed and climbed, burned away at the tall tree. I stared up at it, mostly in shock at what I had just destroyed. But also, a little in awe at what I had just created . There, as I stood, petrified and frozen, my silhouette now darkened by the tall tree housed in flames, I laughed. I laughed because the damndest thought had just dropped on my brain, as if one of the floating embers carried an idea and singed its way through my mind. There are more hobbies out there. That’s it. That’s it! I hadn’t done everything, only the normal hobbies, the sane hobbies. There were more, and it started with pyromancy. As that tree flew into fire, I knew I could create more. I started small fires around neighborhoods, usually in open public trash cans. Once I lit a mailbox on fire. Then, a house. It was abandoned, on the corner of an empty street. Nobody would get hurt, and I figured it’d be a great way to say goodbye to this new hobby. And hello to the next. I went to the store the next day to begin. I picked up small, cheap items- and stealthily stored them in my pockets before leaving. I worked my way through aisles, shoplifting more and more expensive things. I almost got caught once or twice, but with all the cameras, I realized hardly anyone attempts to pick things off shelves anymore. Nobody knows that nobody watches those cameras though. Shoplifting soon turned to pickpocketing, which soon turned into muggings (not my proudest, I’ll be honest), which evolved into robberies. I should stop for a second. You have to understand. My intention wasn’t to hurt anyone. I didn’t find joy out of being a criminal, and it wasn’t like an F YOU! To the system. It was simply my continuation of living. Hobbies were the only thing that I found worthwhile in my life. When I ran through them all, I genuinely thought my life was over. Genuinely. As in, I didn’t buy groceries that week- genuine. So when I found something I could grasp onto, something new, another light to fill my eyes with life before it vanishes, I had to grab onto it. And that’s what led into last night. I had gone through my run of, let’s say “spicier” hobbies. From home invasions to underground pokerships, I was once again running out of things on my ‘list’. My... paprika list. So when it came down to closing time, I had made my decision. I was ready for the ultimate “hobby”, the spiciest fleck out of the whole spice jar. The ‘M’ word. I guess you could argue that’s not really a hobby, but in my mind anything could turn into a hobby. And for some people, some few socio/psychopathic individuals, it was technically a hobby. Again, at this point I’m so far down the spice jar I can no longer see light. It was hard to breath and I was desperate for my next venture. So I finally settled on the person. I made sure it was someone, erhm, I didn’t verify as redeemable. Someone I met in the pokerships, someone who told us in private terrible things he did (he was threatening us to fold, but unlike his hand, I know the things he was telling us weren’t lies. If he was bluffing he would begin dry swallowing- his tell). This was someone who founds hobbies in things I would never allow myself to reach. No matter how far down the spice jar I fell, I’d rather suffocate than stoop to his levels. Plus, he had no friends nor family, no one to miss him. I knew where he lived and what he had done, so he was an easy target. So, detective, as I sit across from you while you read this letter, one that I hope I was brave enough to walk through those doors and hand you- I wish to make this my confession. I was the individual who enacted whatever horrors you found through those doors last night, and I am the one to blame for. I write this letter in hopes of explaining why I did what I had done. What sort of dark, desperate path my life took to lead me to the tainted ‘M’ word. I don’t think you’ll understand, and I wish I knew what kind of face I’ll be reading from you as your eyes near the end of this letter. But that is why I did it, and I’m ready to plead guilty to all crimes. I confess. And if I may add one last thing to this note, detective. I'm excited to see what new hobbies imprisonment will bring me.

I never really believed in participating in dry January. What’s the point? You don’t drink for a month and then come February 1st you're back to your same old self and drinking almost on a daily basis. One month isn’t going to save your liver. I never felt the need to do it until Taylor. Oh Taylor. My best friend- my soulmate. She’s the kind of person that you meet and instantly know that she is going to be in your life forever. Or so I thought. When I got the phone call that she was in the hospital I didn’t expect what I saw. She was 27. I knew she drank a lot. Quite frankly we all did. Years of partying throughout college carried into adulthood where instead of drinking to socialize with your friends you're doing it at home because life is so difficult you just want to feel numb. I’ll never forget the yellow. I walked into the hospital that day, not sure of what to expect and there she was, sitting on the bed surrounded by her family and friends. It wasn’t her though. This person was yellow- not a tint like the color of a leaf dying in the fall. It was yellow like a Simpsons character had jumped off the screen and was sitting in the bed. Our past conversations jumped into my head. She said she was struggling- weren’t we all? She claimed to be an alcoholic- the same way we all did in a joking manner because we all drank more than we should. Our best memories were ones where we drank and acted silly or did something stupid. I didn’t know it was this bad. She was hooked to tubes, restricted from eating because they had to run tests on her. Her dad, who I’ve known most of my life, shared updates with me, all with a positive spin. “She needs to be at this number and she’s currently at this number. It’s not getting better but it’s not getting worse so that’s a good thing.” We sat around her, talking about TV shows and work as if this girl- this amazing, wonderful girl- wasn’t next to us the color of the sun, vomiting and hooked up to more IVs than I’ve seen in my life. Her kidneys were failing so they needed to start dialysis. Just another machine hooked up to keep her alive. She needed to fight. I saw it in her eyes though, she didn’t want to fight anymore. It’s the same look I’ve seen in the face of other alcoholics. If I can’t have the thing that makes me feel better (even though it really doesn’t), then what’s the point of living. In the middle of the night I was awakened by a phone call from her dad. “They are moving Taylor to the ICU. Her heart rate fell really low, and they needed to intubate her.” I rushed down to the hospital to wait with her family. They told me she was put into a medically induced coma. When I visited her, she was on her stomach, her mouth covered by a tube hanging out of it. A doctor in scrubs and an angry look on his face approached. “I’m sure you know that Taylor is in liver failure which is causing the rest of her organs to fail too. She needs a liver transplant but laws prohibit us from giving her one until she has been sober for six months. We are just going to keep moving forward and hope that her body will start responding to treatment.” How wrong. I get it, in your eyes she was just another alcoholic. But in my eyes she was the best person I knew. Test me, I’ll give her half my liver without waiting. She’s so young. Doesn’t she deserve a second chance? For days I sit at the hospital, working on my laptop, waiting for some sort of absolution. For days her parents hit me with the same story, “It’s improved in this way which isn’t a lot but it’s not any worse.” I believed them. You want to hold on to the thought that everything is going to work out and be okay. On the surface I had hope. But deep down, I actually didn’t. There came a moment when the doctor talked to me directly. I can’t remember what he said. I suppose it was some sort of defense mechanism to shield me from the unbearable pain. I just remember calling my friend Keisha and telling her, “It’s really bad. You need to come down here.” Somehow, we all knew. Though it had been a week of denial now there was no more ignoring the truth. This was the end. We gathered around her and sang, You are My Sunshine. Tears flowed down my face as I could barely get the words out. I found it to be ironic with the color of her skin. In actuality she was our sunshine. Within minutes of finishing, she was dead. I didn’t want to accept it. She was only 27. She was my best friend. How could my best friend be gone from my life? How could such a young woman die of liver failure? There had to be some sort of reasoning, some sort of explanation. The only real explanation is the truth. She abused alcohol for far too long and much more than anyone knew. It killed her, the way it kills so many others. As I look into dry January this year, it’s different. I do it for her. I do it because maybe if she had done more dry days she would still be here. It’s funny, alcohol is the thing I want most and least after losing her. I want to numb the pain, but I don’t want to end up like her. Is the temporary fix really worth the consequences? The booze is gone, out of my life for this dry month of cold and snow. Who knows, it might stay gone forever. All I know is that this dry January is for Taylor.

JOURNAL ENTRY FEB. 18TH, 2024 Let me just begin by saying I didn't plan on going out on Valentine’s Day, nor did I intend on dating a complete stranger. Honestly, looking back on it now, I cannot believe I was oblivious to the signs. I should have known that my paternity brothers were setting me up, but I woefully underestimated their mischievous nature. But then again, the only reason I joined Zeta Delta Mu was because they were the most intellectually and mentally mature paternity on campus. They never screamed or acted like wild, untamed brutes. Instead of blasting the speakers with rap or heavy metal, Zeta Delta Mu played calming classical and Zen music. The wildest the paternity gets is during the annual chess tournament which promptly ends at 8 PM. Even so, I chose to avoid the crowds by spending the day at the library. Point being, I had no reason to believe my brothers would have pulled such a prank, and now I’m greatly disappointed in all of them. They mocked me for my blunt and reclusive nature, which I am not ashamed of. As of now, I recall them saying how funny it would be if I went out on a date. They never stopped prodding me to find a girl, even when I batted them away like mosquitoes. My resistance only made them more eager to hook me up with any and every girl on campus. They would recite a list of names and ask which one struck my fancy; the answer was none. Determined to manipulate me to fall in love with someone, they pulled their most deviating prank on me to date. I know this to be a fact, because they confirmed my suspicions to be true once the date was over. I found out later that they took bets on how long we would last, and who would call off the date first. The paternity tricked me with a simple email to my student account. It was from Gagnesh, saying he wanted to meet me at Cafe Crubin at 12:30 PM sharp. I showed up fifteen minutes early and picked a table on the foyer instead of a table inside of the cafe. I chose to sit outside because the inside was decorated for Valentine's Day. I was offended that the staff thought a few hearts and red streamers were enough to manipulate my emotions, but I wasn’t swayed. By 12:35 I grew frustrated. Gagnesh had yet to arrive. It’s not like him to be late, plus he knows my intolerance for tardiness. Just when I was about to get up, a Miss Laura Pilliam sat down. I asked her if she had seen Gagnesh, but she did not. She said Gagnesh told her that he and I were supposed to review her paper for her Science Worldview class. It didn’t take long for me to deduce what was going on, and I informed Miss Pilliam of my conclusion. I explained how my paternity brothers were trying to force me to fall in love with someone, and that she was brought to the cafe under false pretenses. Unfortunately, by the time I finished my explanation the waiter came to take our order. He asked if we wanted to have the Lover’s Special, which forced me to clarify that me and Miss Pilliam were not lovers, not friends, just acquaintances. He apologized for his assumptions and repeated his question if we wanted anything to eat. I told him no, that we were just leaving, but Miss Pilliam ordered two coffees, one for her and one for me, and a few scones. I asked her what she was doing. She explained to me that she really had her essay, and genuinely thought Gagnesh and I would help her. I argued that she could send the paper to my student email, but she brought out a few papers from her bag and said there was no point in wasting precious time. I could not argue with such a practical explanation. I told the server that I wanted my coffee black with two, and only two, drops of milk. He repeated the order back at me and took off with haste. Suddenly, Miss Pilliam plopped her essay on the table. I told her she didn’t need to be dramatic, but she just sat there with her arms crossed and demanded I get on with reading her essay. I won’t write her paper verbatim here, but I can say that her essay’s subject was about the dangers and benefits of oil fracking. The opening paragraph was decent enough, but I started to notice glaring errors when I got into the meat of the paper. The server came with the coffee and the scones, but I was too focused on the essay to take a sip. I snatched the red pen out of my pocket, and started marking every mistake. She asked me what I was doing, but I told her to let me work. The sound of her munching on the scones or taking a sip of her coffee annoyed me to no end. It took all my strength not to strangle her with my bare hands. A violent and ghastly image I know, but that’s what was running through my mind at the time. I told her to stop, which prompted her to ask why. I told her because it broke my concentration, and I couldn’t perform with any distractions. I also added that the noisy environment of the cafe was already testing my limits. With that, she allowed me a few more minutes to work in relative peace. The more I read, the more uneasiness I felt. I’m not saying her mistakes made me ill, but that they looked awfully familiar, like I had seen them before. Then it hit me. The reason why the errors stood out was because I had seen them before in Gagnesh’s writing! I looked up at her and asked point blank if she wrote her own paper. Any other student would refute such an accusation, but, to my surprise and horror, Miss Pilliman confirmed my suspicions. What was worse was that she was smiling about it. She showed no signs of shame of any kind. I warned her that having Gagnesh write her paper for her went against the Student Handbook, and she could get tried for academic fraud. I didn’t get very far with my warning, because she started to laugh. I demanded to know what was so funny, but she went on apologizing for her behavior. Despite her apologies, I could tell she was not taking her crime with the seriousness it deserved. Since she refused to listen, I said my farewell and got up to take my leave. She then had the audacity to beg me to stay. I demanded for her to give me one good reason to stay. She actually did. I hadn’t finished my coffee. I stood there dumbfounded with a tinge of guilt. It felt wrong to force her to pay for something I had ordered but didn’t finish. I agreed to sit back down on the condition that our interaction would end once every ounce of my coffee was gone. She found my terms acceptable. But little did I know that this was her plan from the start. As I took my first sip, she told me the truth. She revealed that she wasn’t taking the Science Worldview class. I asked her why commit fraud in a class she wasn’t a part of, and what she said next froze me to my core. She did it because she had feelings for me, affectionate ones. I nearly choked on my coffee, which was something I never experienced. I always made sure to drink at a slow, steady pace to avoid that very thing. She was insistent that I allowed her to finish before I said anything further. She admitted that she felt affection towards me since the previous semester. According to her, she wanted to ask me out for months, but she could never get my attention because I was buried in my studies. She apologized profusely for her deception, and begged for my understanding. That was just the problem, I couldn’t understand. I asked her what she could possibly see that made her fall for a guy like me. She blushed and avoided making eye contact. Apparently she found my maturity attractive. She said that I acted like an eighty year-old man in a twenty-year-old’s body. I did pride myself on controlling my mannerisms and that I did not partake in idiotic frivolities. She then went on saying how I was kind to people in need. At this point, I had no idea what she was referring to, so I asked her to provide some examples. She giggled and complimented me for being so modest, only for her to gasp seconds later when she realized I was being in earnest. Without wasting another second, she went into a few examples. She brought up the one time I gave a sophomore a few nickels so he could use the vending machine in the library. She brought up multiple occasions where I held the door for both classmates and faculty members alike. Finally, her last example was how I ran a service proofreading student papers. Once she was finished, I responded by saying that all of the things she mentioned were of no consequence to me. I gave the sophomore spare change because he gave me his word to pay me back, which he did. Next, I was taught it was a common courtesy to open the door for others. And last but not least, my editing service was far from charity, I didn’t offer my service for free after all. But none of that mattered to her. She claimed that I had a positive impact on everyone around me, and that was something to be admired. I sat there completely baffled. I never had a conversation like this before with anyone. I thanked her for her flattery before telling her that I could not pursue a relationship at the moment. I had my studies to worry about. There was no room for friendships or romance when I had tests and assignments due every week. She looked devastated, but she accepted my answer with grace and understanding. She offered me her phone number, just in case I got second thoughts, but I refused. I said there was no need since I could send an email or look up her number in the student directory. In a way, I felt sorry for her as she wiped a tear from her eye, but there was nothing more to say. I thanked her for the coffee, wished her luck and left, not even taking a moment to give her a second glance. I’m writing all this down now because I’ve started to experience something I’ve never felt before. For some reason my mind keeps going back to that cafe, and I’m noticing things about her I didn’t pick up during the initial encounter. The first thing I remember clearly was her giggle, how it was short and soft, unlike the loud and obnoxious variety that poured out of the mouths of the airheaded girls that wander the college’s grounds. Second, even though her plan failed, I appreciated how intricate it was and how much courage she had to have in order to pull it off. Finally, I respected her attempt to show a side of myself I didn’t think possible. I guess from a certain point of view, I was actually a helping hand by showing kindness to strangers. No one has made me aware of this, and no one has since. I could go on, but those were the three that stood out to me. I know I might sound paranoid, but I think I’ve grown quite fond of her. I’m tempted to contact her and see if these feelings are real or just in my head. But for now I must get back to my studies. Perhaps I’ll contact her once I’m not so busy. We’ll see. END JOURNAL ENTRY

Scarlett started flipping through the album when she took a long pause. She looked up at her mother and pointed to a picture of a man. “Is that him?” she asked. Her mother’s face turned from calm to an immediate nervousness. She almost didn’t want to acknowledge the picture. “That’s him.” She finally responded with a haunted tone. Her mother couldn’t tolerate to be in the same room while that picture was present, so she scurried off into the kitchen. “I have to start getting dinner ready.” Scarlett did not look up, she was too fixated on the picture of the man who had contributed to her existence. He had green eyes just like Scarlett and although the picture was faded and distorted, she could tell by the freckles on his face that he was the reason for her ginger-colored hair. This was the man whom she could’ve someday called father. This was also the man whose name was not allowed to be spoken in her household, not that she could ever break such a rule considering that her mother seemed to be the only one who knew his name. Her mother spent Scarlett’s entire life dedicated to ensuring she never learned his name. He looked like a Fred, but he easily could’ve been a David or a Mathew. Scarlett picked Mathew because it sounded gentle and welcoming. She wanted to imagine her father had some type of humanistic trait in him because according to her mother, he was far from it. In the photo, he had a crooked smile as he was looking down at Scarlett only a year old sitting in her highchair. She had little swirls of red hair on her head coming in, and her big green eyes mirrored Mathew’s. She was smiling with spaghetti sauce as red as her hair all over her mouth and naked chest. The bowl was on the floor from where she had tipped it over the tray on her highchair and Mathew was laughing at Scarlett with the spoon still in his hand. He looked human to her. They looked happy together. She even thought that her mother who was capturing the moment at the time was also happy. Part of Scarlett had wished she could remember the memory, but she knew that it was for the best that she didn’t. She flipped the photo over to find it dated October 5 th 1975, with her mother’s handwriting: Scarlett and Christopher at lunch time. ** It was December 22 nd , 1976 when Scarlett’s mother received the most unimaginable news. There was a man dressed in black slacks and a long black peacoat over his grey collared shirt. He knocked and then spoke through the door. “Mrs. Callaway? This is detective Miles, I’d like to speak with you.” Detective? Her heartbeat began to quicken its pace. A series of questions filtered through her mind. What on earth was a detective doing requesting to speak with her in the middle of the day? Did that pesky old Mrs. Collins call social services on her and her husband again? She had no idea what to expect. She opened the door looking at the detective and the street behind him then focused her eyes back at him. “Mrs. Callaway?” the detective repeated. She nodded. “This is Josephine Callaway. How can I help you detective?” “Mrs. Callaway, I have something I need to share with you. May I come in?” “My baby is asleep-” “It’s crucial you hear what I have to say.” He interrupted. Without a further exchange of words, she moved to one side and let him in. She led him into the common area so that she could keep an ear out for Scarlett who was in the living room napping inside her playpen. They sat down across from each other on a set of brown leather couches. “Can I get you something to drink detective?” “I’m alright.” He responded. He sounded rugged and kept gripping at his chin. “Mrs. Callaway,” he started “are you up to date with the news?” The news? Josephine looked at detective Miles puzzled. “I suppose,” she replied, still unsure of why that was relevant to her. “Then I am sure you are well aware of the several young women that have been missing for the last year.” Josephine was now really confused. She had heard of the women he was talking about. In fact, one of them, Jane Carmichael lived a few blocks down. Poor girl had been missing all summer. Josephine remembered sending her family a dish of green bean casserole a few weeks after she was declared missing. “I’m aware detective. What does that have to do with why you’re here?” “We found them Mrs. Callaway.” “That’s wonderful!” she said sounding relieved. Detective Miles was not celebrating with her. “We found their bodies, Mrs. Callaway. Including the one of your neighbor, Jane.” Josephine’s smile dropped. “Their bodies? Meaning?” “Yes, Mrs. Callaway. All four women were found dead. We were able to identify them this morning.” Josephine’s stomach churned in knots. She lived in a small town, so to picture those poor girls found lifeless somewhere made her fear for Scarlett. She couldn’t understand what would drive someone to hurt others, especially in her quiet little town. Josephine couldn’t help but still wonder how any of this led to a detective seeking to speak with her. Perhaps there was a target against young women on the rise and he would soon discuss the option of a witness protection program so that Scarlett could grow up in a safe community. She was willing to be open to anything that would keep her daughter safe. “The bodies were found in an abandoned house underneath the basement along with some tools that to belong to your husband.” He paused. “Evidence shows he used them to dismember the bodies.” The seconds appeared to have gone by in slow motion. Her husband? How? This had to have been some sort of mistake. Before she could get a word in, detective Miles continued with his story. “Josephine,” his voiced echoed “the DNA samples that we found matched with your husbands. We have placed him under arrest.” Josephine’s breathing became difficult and there was a somber sound in her ears like bells ringing. Scarlett began to cry in the next room making Josephine feel even more overwhelmed. She stood up quickly to tend to the baby but knocked over a small porcelain elephant siting on the coffee table. It was a Christmas present from Christopher the night he had proposed to her. Detective Miles stood up attempting to help her, but she swatted his arms out of the way. Her life was under attack and she could not grasp on to the reality that her husband was a murderer-a monster. Josephine kneeled next to the playpen starting at Scarlett crying through the netted wall and like an infant, she began to cry with her. ** Scarlett was twenty-five years old sitting on a plastic hard black chair staring into a glass that had a telephone line on each side of it. She was moments away from meeting Christopher Callaway, the infamous cold-blooded killer of Jacksonville, Oregon. She sat there, holding the picture she had found in her mother’s photo album when she was eight years old. She stared at it wondering what her father now looked like. She was aware of his crimes and wanted to meet him before his final moment alive. He was scheduled to be electrocuted at noon and was granted one last conversation with his daughter. She was nervous and excited to finally meet him. She wasn’t proud of what he had done, but she had to do this. Then, from across the glass, a tall and slender man in an orange jumpsuit and reddish grey hair, sat down in front of her with his hands resting in handcuffs. No tattoos, no large muscles, just an older man with terrible life choices sitting in front of her. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Instead, they glanced at each other as if they were attempting to read the other’s mind. It was like looking in a time capsule, their green eyes were like magnets locking them into deep thought. After several minutes, Christopher finally spoke. “You have your mother’s nose”. He smiled the same crooked smile. Scarlett had so many thoughts in her head with limited time. She didn’t know what to say, so she asked him the first thing that came out of her mouth. “Why’d you do it?” Their eyes never looked away from each other. His crooked smile was gone. She wished she could’ve taken it back, but it was already too late. In one breath, Christopher responded in the most truthful way. “Because I wanted to, babe.” A single strand of tears escaped Scarlett’s eyes. She slid the photo through a small opening and stood up. “Goodbye dad.” ** It was eleven forty-five and Christopher was walking down a dark and cold hallway accompanied by two prison guards and a priest. He was taken into a room with a bright light and unwelcoming walls, his electric throne awaiting him. He sat in his chair like a king being coronated. He sat there with his infamous crooked smile and the photo of him and Scarlett in his hand. He looked up and glanced through the glass wall in front of him to find a row of chairs, all but one, empty. Scarlett stood before him, once again locking eyes with her father. They stared at each other for the last two minutes transferring each other’s pain, memories, and perhaps even apologies. Christopher held on to the photo tightly in his right hand, never looking away from Scarlett. At last, it was noon and the king wore his crown with pride until the very end, the last piece of evidence of him and Scarlett, burned in his hands. She did not take her eyes off him until they took him away. After a few moments had gone by, Scarlett stood up and was escorted out of the building by a guard and that time she made sure not to ever look back.

Look at me! ***This story contains some sensitive topics which include mental health & suicide mentioned. Tabitha had always loved to be the center of attention. Oftentimes, she’d fake illness or injury in order to get people to talk to her. She loved it when people would stare at her. She didn’t care if it was because of being proud of her, pity or even shock. If people were giving her undivided attention, she would say and do anything. So, naturally, she enjoyed gossip. True or not, she’d spread things around much like a forest fire spreads. If Tabitha knew something, everybody knew it. At one time, Tabitha made up a rumor about Chase Wheeler. Chase was already very depressed for someone of his age. He was a junior, halfway through the year. All the students were just coming back to school from holiday vacation. After about 3 days of being back, Tabitha realized she was becoming a bore. Nobody cared about anything she had to say, because she had nothing new to say. A while back she had heard (and spread) a rumor that Chase Wheeler was in counseling for an essay that he submitted to his language arts teacher. Of course, that little tidbit of information wasn’t interesting enough for Tabitha to get that look of sudden shock. So, she added a little bit of “in-between the line” information. She wasn’t sure if it was the reason behind why he was in counseling or not, but she told people he’d written an account about how he would commit suicide. Unfortunately for Chase, this was half true. He had written a short story about a character who killed himself. It wasn’t a plan for his suicide, but the story was enough to make his teacher raise his eyebrows and wonder about Chase’s mental wellbeing. Next thing he knew, Chase was supposed to see the school counselor once a week. Because of how close Tabitha’s rumor was to the truth, nobody would hang around Chase anymore. They were all afraid they’d say something to cause him to end his life & nobody wanted to be the guilty party. He was lonelier now than he’d ever been. This only encouraged suicidal ideations to grow, much like cancer. He had imagined just about every way to end his life. His mom’s oxy mixed with some vodka resting in a dusty bottle on the back of his fridge, a straight razor that he’d slice horizontally down his arm, sitting in the garage with the door closed and the car on, & even just climbing underneath his bed & using his dad’s beretta. Every day, it was harder and harder for Chase to get up and face the day. After a few weeks, people began to warm back up to Chase and he was a little happier. Still depressed, but not as far gone as he was. Tabitha had already spun just about every story she could. Nobody really told her anything before the holidays, because everybody knew she couldn’t keep anything to herself. People still talked to her, but she didn’t get that look of interest anymore. Nobody stopped what they were doing to look at her with their mouths slightly ajar and their eyes a little bit wider. That satisfying look of somebody hanging onto your every word, just because they need to know what happened next. Tabitha decided to take matters into her own hands & made the decision to spread a complete lie. She had crafted it ever so perfectly. “School shooting”, she thought to herself. She was filled with a warm feeling, knowing this was the best rumor to spread. People would absolutely believe her, because who wouldn’t believe someone was threatening to shoot a school up in America? And who would be the bloodthirsty maniac preparing to wield a gun up and down the hallways & shoot everybody who he blamed for his problems? Why, Chase Wheeler. Who else could fit such a perfect storyline? In Tabitha’s mind, Chase was already depressed, so it wouldn’t be a big twist to say that he was planning to shoot the school up. “I mean, it’s not like we don’t know if he is going to shoot up the school. For all we know, he could have a plan to do it anyway.” Tabitha justified her reasoning to herself. It was settled, she was going to tell people that Chase Wheeler was planning to shoot the school up. She’ll say she saw him scribble down the date in his notebook during her class with him, which was language arts. It was already Wednesday, so she’d decided to wait until Monday to initiate her plan. The week had come to an end & Tabitha’s exhilaration grew as Monday came closer. Monday was finally there. Tabitha decided to tell people right after first period. She was going to tell people he had planned to come into the school on Thursday, prepared to shoot their classmates. After first period, which was her class with Chase, she walked up to a group of people filled with 2 girls & 3 guys. She walked into the group as they were buzzing about the spring formal & who they were going to go with. “Oh my God” Tabitha uttered, with a petrified look on her face. The group silenced their discussion & looked straight at Tabitha. “What is it?” Some of them muttered, a little bit afraid to hear the answer. The last rumor they had heard from her was about Chase being suicidal. So, they were all prepared to believe whatever she threw at them. “I just came out of class with Chase & I’m not sure if I should tell the counselor or not.” The students stared at her, expectingly, wanting her to spill the beans. She took a breath and sputtered out, “Chase wrote that he is going to bring a gun to school on Thursday and shoot people.”. Everybody stared at her with giant eyes, their faces filled with terror. “We need to tell someone. Now” Said one of the boys in the group, Billy Colton. And with that, Billy was headed to the direction of the counselor’s office. Tabitha chewed her nails, a little bit afraid she’d be found out. Her plan was foolproof though; nobody could prove that he wasn’t planning to shoot up the school. The other students in the group were petrified and began to talk amongst themselves about how scary the whole situation was. The bell rang for second period & everybody scattered off to their next class. The fire had started. By the end of the day, everybody in the school knew about the fake school shooting supposedly happening on Thursday. Everybody had heard the rumors, except for Chase. He usually sat slumped in the back of his classes, headphones on & shutting the world out. The whole school kept a six-foot radius away from Chase, just in case he would pull out a gun and shoot them earlier than scheduled. The only thing in Chase’s bag was a water bottle filled up a fourth of the way, the room temperature liquid sloshing around as he moved from class to class. He went home that day none the wiser. The rumor had marinated overnight & all the students came in on Tuesday morning determined to shed light on Chase’s plan to kill them all. Half of the students were lined up at the counselor’s office & the other half were having discussions with the teachers about their fears. Tabitha walked in, the only one aware that her rumor wasn’t the actual truth. She looked down at the floor as she walked past all the chattering and headed to the bathroom. She was prepared to sit in a stall until the first period bell rang. As she waited for the bell to ring, she read all of the chicken scratches and graffiti plastered all over the insides of the stall. There were boy’s names with hearts next to them, phone numbers & gum wrappers glued to the wall by chewed gum. Finally, the bell rang and Tabitha all but sprinted to first period. As she sat down in her seat, the class filed into the room. Chase was the last one to come in. As he came in, all the people in the classroom stared at him with a feeling of fear, even the teacher. They all believed he was secretly planning to take them all down. He didn’t even notice the extra attention he was getting as he plopped down in his seat and put his headphones in. “Coming Down” by Five Finger Death Punch blared in his ears as he read the assignments written on the white board. As he opened his language arts book, preparing to do his work for that day, the teacher tapped on his desk and motioned for him to pull out his headphones. “They’re calling you to the counselor’s office”, Mr. Riley said to him with a half-smile, secretly hoping that Chase wasn’t putting his name on the list of people he was going to shoot. Chase smiled back at Mr. Riley, packed up his bag & headed to the counselor’s office. “Maybe I can be done with counseling”, Chase hoped to himself. Tabitha chewed the end of her pencil and tapped her foot repeatedly on the floor, nervous about what they were going to say to Chase in the counselor’s office. She waited and waited for Chase to come back to class, so she could get some kind of idea what was said, but he didn’t come back. She spent the whole day grazing her eyes up and down the hallways and all around the cafeteria just hoping she’d catch a glance of him. She never saw him. When Chase arrived at Mrs. Porter’s office, her door was open and she was sitting behind her desk, kindly waving him in to come sit on the couch that he sat on once a week, across from her desk. “Hello, Chase. How is your day going?” She spoke to him. He shrugged his shoulders and replied, “Eh, it’s alright, I guess. I thought I was only supposed to come on Friday morning?” “Yes, usually just Friday morning is fine. But it’s come to my attention that you may be planning something.” Chase looked puzzled; he hadn’t had any kind of specific suicidal plan in weeks. He had no idea what Mrs. Porter was talking about. “What are you talking about?”, he asked her. Mrs. Porter looked disappointed & said “Chase, someone in your first period caught you writing that you were planning to shoot students, here in our school.” Chase was outraged. Who would say something like that?! He hadn’t even written a suicidal story since the day he was forced to start seeing the counselor. He didn’t take a risk writing down his suicidal ideations. Why in the world would he write out a plan to kill other people if he wasn’t even willing to write down his own suicidal thoughts?! “I never wrote anything like that. Who said that?! I swear I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” Chase almost shouted, furiously. “Calm down, Chase. It was just something that came to our attention. I think maybe it’s best if you take the rest of the year and just do home study rather than here at the school.” Mrs. Porter calmly stated. “Are you serious?! I’m being punished because of a lie some lonely loser made up?!” Chase voiced, angrily. “It’s not really a punishment, Chase. It’s just what’s best for everybody, even you. I think it’ll be good for you to have more time at home. You would have more time to pursue your interests and you wouldn’t have to come deal with everybody here at the school every day.” she said, encouragingly. Chase rolled his eyes and calmly said, “Alright, whatever. Can you at least tell me who said I wrote that down?” Mrs. Porter smiled at him, grateful he had calmed down, and responded, “I’m not sure. Someone who sits behind you.” Instantly, Chase knew exactly who she was referring to. Tabitha. That bitch was the reason everybody knew why he was in counseling in the first place. Chase wasn’t one to blame others for his issues, but Tabitha was one reason nobody spoke to him much. And now she was responsible for him getting kicked out of school. Nobody even asked him if it was true and he was sure if Mrs. Porter had heard about him writing such nonsense, everybody knew about it. Chase was filled with that familiar feeling of never-ending dreadful numbness. He shoved his headphones back into his ears and swung his backpack over his shoulder. He walked out of the office, prepared to walk home. As he walked home, he was just filled with more and more sadness. He didn’t care anymore. All that progress he had made in counseling just didn’t matter. Nobody would believe the truth about the situation. Not with just his words. Nobody even cared enough about him to ask him if was okay when those rumors were being spread. Why did anything matter anymore? His social life would never get better. He wasn’t even allowed to go to school anymore. Unwillingly put into a home study program, he just didn’t understand how he was supposed to make anything better if he were stuck at home. He thought about the situation all the way home. As he walked up his driveway, he started brainstorming a plan. Tabitha went home after a long day at school, afraid that people would figure out she was lying. Anytime anyone had pulled her aside to speak with her about the rumor she started, she felt a prickling of anxiety. She was terrified someone would call her out and tell her they knew she was lying about the whole thing. Fortunately for her, nobody called her out. They all 100% believed that Chase Wheeler was planning an attack on the school. Tabitha was exhausted from all the worrying that day and attempted to go to sleep. She tossed and turned all night, wondering about what people would say tomorrow. Wednesday morning came & Tabitha headed to school. Everybody was whispering to themselves as Tabitha walked down the hallway. “Hey”, Ashley Green blurted out, tapping Tabitha on the shoulder. Tabitha turned around & looked at Ashley. “Chase got kicked out of school. He’s not allowed back this year. It’s a relief you found out what he was planning.” Ashley admitted to Tabitha. “Oh good. I’m so glad we won’t have to wonder and worry about him hurting any of us while we’re at school”, she responded. Ashley nodded & continued to her class as did Tabitha. As she walked through the threshold of the door of her class, she felt a pat on her shoulder and noticed someone in a black hoody practically sprinting past her. She looked at her shoulder and realized that there was a note taped to her. She pulled the note off her shoulder as she made her way to her seat. She opened it up as she sat down & read the note. “I know what you did. Meet me in the gym 10 minutes before the end of first period. Or else you’ll regret it.” Tabitha swallowed hard and felt the prickly sensation of terror and shame come over her. She raised her hand and told Mr. Riley she needed to go to the bathroom & he dismissed her. Tabitha headed to the gym. When Tabitha got to the gym, she noticed someone standing in the middle with a hood over their head. She suspected the person who wanted to see her was Chase & as the person shook the hoody off his head, she realized she was right. She stared at Chase, ready to race in the other direction. Chase had his hands behind his back and there was red liquid dripping onto the floor behind him. “Is that blood?!” Tabitha thought to herself, afraid. Chase brought one of his hands from behind his back and revealed a spray can dripping red paint. “I know what you did, and I need people to know the truth.” He blatantly stated to Tabitha and then pointed directly behind her. Tabitha turned around and looked at what he was pointing at. Above her, on the wall above the door, read the words, “Tabitha is a LIAR. All she wants is ATTENTION. I never had a plan to hurt anyone at this school. Nobody even cared enough about me to know that it was a lie. -Chase W.” Tabitha turned back around to Chase, who now was holding a gun in his hands. He raised the gun up slowly & Tabitha took a sharp breath and began to curl up into a ball on the floor. He was going to shoot her! Tabitha waited for the loud BANG of the gun to go off, and decided to open her eyes to see what was taking him so long to shoot her. When she opened her eyes, she looked in horror as his finger squeezed the trigger. BANG The gun dropped to the floor & so did Chase. Tabitha stared in horror as all the blood puddled under chase and seeped into the old wooden floors. Then, the bell for second period rang. As the bell rang, Tabitha let out a bloodcurdling scream. Terrified and feeling guilty because of what she had just seen, she backed herself into the corner of the gym. As she sat in the corner, sobbing, students and teachers filed into the gym and instantly realized what had happened. The people in the gym stared daggers into Tabitha with looks of nothing but disgust. Tabitha regretted everything & for once in her life, she wished nobody could see her.

Whether or not he would ultimately end up being caught was of little to no consequence to Ralph at that moment. At that moment, he was more disappointedly fascinated by the agonizingly decrepit condition of his shoes. The shoes he had worked so hard to buy were covered in tragedy. Deep layers of mud concealed the traces of bloody evidence. The fresh rubber and lace odor had been vanquished within twenty-four hours. The howling of searching sirens and screeching tires chasing shadowy suspects down alleyways felt like a distant memory already. In fact, it had been a couple of days since he’d even internally shrieked at the sight of a cop car. Now, though, he was in an entirely different state. He wondered if Indiana would be as vigilant in their hunt for him as Kentucky had been. The state border had felt like a finish line. Do they chase across state borders? He wondered. #ThingsYoureNotTaughtInSchool. The truth was, he didn’t even know how it played out in his absence-- or, perhaps more accurately, his fleeing. Madison’s survival was still in question. It was only in the arm, but a gunshot wound is a gunshot wound. Run first; dodge questions later seemed like the only logical thing to do at the time. Now five hundred miles from the original altercation, Ralph still couldn’t be sure if he should slow his pace and come out of the shadows just yet. Stalks of fallen, dried wheat crunched under his newly unrecognizable sneakers. The amber rays of the Sun rose over the golden field he was aimlessly navigating. Figuring the farmers would be out cruising plots on their tractors any minute, Ralph thought it might be wiser to find a more inconspicuous path to travel. But where? He could only see a long-distance when he reached a peak in the landscape, and the last time he did, it was farmland as far as the eye could possibly see: combines and corn mostly. It might be a half day’s walk until actual civilization could be reached. Presently, he couldn’t wander in the fields much longer for fear of a farmer phoning the police for his trespassing. He couldn’t really walk along the edge of the road either. If a local blue-blood pegged his description, he’d be in cuffs on his way back to Kentucky in a squad car faster than a frog can snatch a fly. Despite being ‘on the run,’ Ralph’s pace had slowed considerably. The adrenaline of the circumstantial events had almost all but relinquished power of his muscles to the deep fatigue which began to plague him with each increasingly small step. The sound of distant, rustling, farm-equipment engines began to drown out the songs of the morning birds as the Sun rose higher into the morning sky. Ralph thought it to be ironic how the Sun could shine so beautifully during such dark circumstances. It was as if Mother Earth had no idea how much trouble he was in. He pulled off his ball cap to wipe the day’s first bead of sweat from his brow. There would be much more to come. The brim was grasped loosely by the tired, filthy fingers of the alleged fugitive. Ralph’s brown eyes glared into the etched logo on the front. Tossing it on the ground, he realized, but if not before that moment, he was in the clothes of a possible murderer-- a murderer wearing a hat and Nikes. The hat, the shirt, the hoodie, underwear, jeans-- the shoes. He pictured them in a basement locker of some precinct, in a plastic bag marked as evidence. What had been a collection of random choices that fateful morning was now the ensemble of a violent criminal. At least, that’s what Ralph thought the journalists would write if he were later convicted of murder. Though his legs and feet felt the weight of the thousands of steps he’d walked in the past forty-eight hours, Ralph knew he couldn’t stop for even a blink of sleep until he changed his clothes. Ralph took a moment to check his wallet. There was an array of gift cards with a few bucks left on each and a little over one hundred dollars in cash. Normally, there would be nothing but a Subway punch card to speak of in the billfold, but his birthday had passed mere days before the incident. The same birthday during which he was presented with a gun from his step-father. The same birthday Madison had missed. I had to. Right? Thought Ralph for a moment. She would’ve died if I hadn’t shot her. Right? Can someone really be convicted of murder for trying to save someone’s life? The teenage boy, wrought with guilt by the images left in his mind, fell to his knees and began to weep. Some of the tears that ran down his dirty, dried-sweaty cheeks were out of guilt, some of sadness, others of hurt, and many just from emotional exhaustion. Their salty wetness reminded him of the intolerable thirst and hunger he felt. Food or clothing first? He questioned. “What the--” spoke a voice from the field. In the gasps of his sobs, Ralph hadn’t heard the stranger approach. “Jesus, kid. You scared the wits out of me. What the hell you doin’ wandrin’ ‘round my field?” “Huh?” Ralph meekly responded. He was too tired and hungry to be excitedly startled, though he was obviously, deeply concerned. “What you mean, huh ? You look half-dead. You ain’t on drugs are ya? I ain’t gon’ fool with no druggie-kid dying on my property.” The man, only discernible as a hazy form among the surrounding stalks with the sunlight backlighting his silhouette, waited for Ralph’s response. Ralph squinted his tear-soaked, dirty eyes, trying to pull the figure into focus. Finally, he wiped his face on his sleeve. It only added to the filth and merely pulled away a tiny fraction of the dirt from his cheeks, but his eyes had cleared enough to see the man in more detail. The man was a farmer. He appeared to be in his 50s or so from what Ralph could tell. He had a speckled white and brown beard, a hat with no insignia on it, overalls, and work boots. His hands were already dirty to start his day and looked like he had pulled on ropes every day of his life. “Well?” He bellowed in a deep, yet concerned voice. “Well, what?” Ralph murmured, still confused. “You on drugs or ain’t ya? I don’t much like to start my mornings with ass whoopins, but it wouldn’t be the first time.” “Drugs?” Ralph thought of Madison. “God, damnit. Tell me what’s got you crying like a baby in my field, lookin’ like death or I’m gonna beat your druggie-butt till it can’t take a needle in it no more. I’ve seen your kind before.” “No, sir. Please. I’m not on drugs.” Ralph’s wits began to return to him. “Then what in the good Lord’s name are you doing, son? You in some kind of trouble?” For the first time, Ralph looked into the farmer’s eyes. They sparkled green and didn’t have a hint of meanness in them. He doubted that the man would have ever laid hands on him, even if he had had the urge. Sometimes you can look into a person’s eyes and just know they wouldn't hurt you. “Trouble?” Ralph wasn’t at all sure of what he should reveal to the stranger before him. “I honestly don’t know.” His chin dropped to his chest and his eyes took blurry aim at the man’s boots. The farmer probably spent every day in that field, but his shoes were cleaner. Once again, tears began to stream down Ralph’s cheeks, leaving behind channels of carved-out sorrow. “Aw, hell. I ain’t even got time for this.” The farmer looked to the sky as if to ask God a question. He pulled his hat off, revealing a mostly bald head that’s remaining hair patches were buzzed down almost to the skull. As he scratched his head, he took a heavy, burdened sigh. It was hard for him not to feel pity at the sight of the crumbling shell of a teenager in distress. Against his own desired judgment to get to work, he questioned the boy some more. “You got someplace you can go? Family or a friend you can call or something? Surely you got some kind of fancy phone on you? All kids your age do nowadays. Right?” Ralph recalled the lake he had thrown his phone into the night before after a helicopter had flown by. “No, sir. No phone. No friends.” “No phone?! What the hell kind of kid are you? You Amish? You don’t look like no Amish. And you ain’t got no friends? What kinna kid ain’t got no friends. I bet you got one or two.” Again, the farmer stared at Ralph’s raggedy hair as he shook his head ‘no’, his face still buried in his own chest. An answer was not presenting itself. With a regretful sigh, the farmer continued, “For Pete’s sake. Quit your cryin’ and pick your darn self off the ground, boy. No man ought to sit in his own tears in the mud.” The pregnant pause went on for longer than either cared to withstand. Ralph let his mind wander into a pit of self-loathing and despair while the stranger, deeply confused, contemplated his next move. The farmer scratched his beard and shook his head and jostled himself to attention. “Okay. Not kiddin’ now. Get your butt up and follow me.” “Wait-- are you going to turn me in?” “Turn you in? To who? Something I need to know?” He looked hard at Ralph who finally managed eye contact. The two kept their gaze as Ralph pulled himself to his feet. “No, sir. I just want to know where we’re going.” “Work. You put me behind already, and I could use a hand today anyhow. Rain’s gon’ and created a whole mess of work. Unless there’s somebody you’d like me to call for ya. We’d have to go back in the house though. I don’t carry one of them fancy phones neither.” “No, sir. I’ll help you. Just one thing.” “Yea? What’s that?” “You got anything to eat?” “That depends. You got a name?” “Yessir. Ralph is my name.” “Okay, Ralph. Jeremiah James Johnson.” He stuck out his meat hook of a hand to shake. Ralph grasped it with what strength he could muster. It was like shaking the giant palm of a gorilla holding sandpaper. “My friends call me Jerry. Family calls me Jimmy. Wife calls me JJ. Pick one. Don’t much care. Let’s get workin’ Ralphy. And we got to work on that handshake. That jus’ won’t do.” * * * * Ralph had no idea what time it was. As the shower water swallowed his body, he didn’t care either. He firmly ran his hands all over his body and face, looking down to see the brown mudwater pouring down the drain. He thought of when he had smeared it all over himself by the lake in an effort to camouflage. It had been pointless. The cop cars didn’t stop just as the helicopter hadn’t tracked him either. It dawned on Ralph that he may have not been chased much at all. After a time, the water began to run clear down the drain. After stepping out of the shower, Ralph began dressing in the clothes that Jerry had pulled out of a drawer for him. Ralph had never seen a barn quite like Jerry’s. It had a decent room with a bed, dresser, table, and a couple of chairs. It also had a full bathroom and a window with a nice view of Jerry’s fields. The water didn’t get all that hot, and the pressure was weak, but it was clean. Jerry had given Ralph a plain white shirt, a pair of jeans, a pair of thick, white socks, and some underwear. Finally, sitting on top of it all was a set of work boots similar to the ones he had seen Jerry wearing earlier that day. As he exited the bathroom, he found Jerry sitting at the small table with two plates of food. “I went in the house and got us some supper. Grab a seat.” “You know, you really didn’t have to do all of this.” “I needed the help.” He held the slightest smile. “Still. Thanks.” “Eat.” The two of them sat together for several minutes, the only sound to be heard was mostly the clinking of silverware to plates and two very tall glasses of lemonade being picked up and put down on the wooden table. When they were finished, Jerry wiped his mouth with a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. “I got rid of your clothes. The Mrs. wouldn’t even let me bring ‘em through the house to get washed without hosing ‘em down. From the shape they were in, I jus’ as soon figured you could use a few new stitches of clothing on you. Hope that’s alright.” “Sure.” The evidence . Ralph thought. “What did you do with them?” “They’s burnin’ in that woodfire we set out back ‘while ago.” Before Ralph could entertain the idea that he could get away with murder, he wondered if he thought he should. “Listen.” Jerry began as he gathered the dishes. “You ain’t a terrible worker. If you’d like to sleep on that there bed, you can. I’ll be by at sunrise. If you ain’t around when I come knockin’, well I’ll jus’ get to work by myself as usual then.” Jerry’s work boots thunked on the floor as he headed for the door. He stopped in the door frame. “And, Ralphy,” Jerry said with a sigh. “I don’t know if it ain’t for nothin’, but I’ll tell you this. I don’t know who you were or what you done. There’s a whole mess of a world who don’t know you a lick either. Alls I know is, you ain’t terrible help, and you seem like an okay fella. Whatever it was you may or may not have gotten mixed up in, maybe it’s best to just let it go. I don’t know your life before today... and today was an okay day.” * * * * Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. Fall clearing season came and went. Winter was upon them with Christmas only a few days away. In all their time in fields, the two men had barely spoken. With some people, bonds aren’t about words. Ralph found himself oddly at peace in the field with Jerry. After the first month or so, Ralph guessed that either he couldn’t be found, or for whatever reason, no one was looking for him anymore. He pondered various aspects of his old life. He thought about whether his stepdad cared at all where he was, concluding that it was unlikely. His father, a prisoner of the state of Kentucky, surely did not. With a dead mom and functionally no friends, Ralph figured he wasn’t missed by anyone in Kentucky. Over the passing months, he knew one of two things was true. Either Madison survived the gunshot or she didn’t. If she didn’t, he finally came to realize, it wasn’t truly his fault. She would have died if he hadn’t shown up. What’s the difference if she died because he had? Ralph had been in his room reading a book that Jerry had given him: The Alchemist . He was on his back on the bed reading with the book in the air when there was a knock at the door and Jerry entered. “I’m glad you cracked it open,” said Jerry, noticing the book. Ralph hadn’t initially taken Jerry for a learned man but had since come to understand how wise he really was. “Fate and destiny. I love books like that. Did you get to the part with the glass shop? Funny how sometimes an old guy and a young guy get pushed together by the universe, huh?” Ralph smiled. “Listen, the Mrs. wanted me to give you something.” “Oh, yea? What’s that? You really don’t need to give me anything, Jerry.” “Oh, I know that, but the woman ain’t been wrong a day in her life. Stand up so I can give it to ya.” Not wanting to be rude for even a moment, Ralph swung his feet to the ground, standing up next to the same boots that Jerry had given him the day they met. “Well, what is it?” Ralph’s curiosity had been fully piqued. “This.” Jerry reached his arms out and pulled Ralph into the tightest bear hug he had ever felt. The warmth and strength of the embrace caused Ralph to fall weak. The men stood in their embrace, not speaking a word. The coming winter’s wind sang against the barn wood structure. Gentle creaks comforted the silence around them. Finally, the air left Ralph’s body with the exasperated sigh of a lifetime of pain, and he began to cry. Sometimes you don’t know you’ve been holding your breath until you let it out. Jerry continued to hold Ralph’s weight in his arms. After a time, Ralph collected his body and breath and calmly pulled away. He wiped the tears from his face and sniffed hard, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “Jerry-” Ralph practically snorted out, not even sure of what he wanted to say. “Yea, kid?” There was a long pause as Ralph searched inside himself for something kind to say. “Merry Christmas.” “Merry Christmas, Ralphy.” He smiled and began leaving, and like he had done many times before, he stopped in the doorway for one last word with the kid. “Ralphy-” he choked, his green eyes glowing with impending tears. “Yea?” “Call me Jimmy.”

The Ugly Secret by Lester Patterson &#x200B; Favoritism is a bad practice when raising one’s children, but guilt sometimes makes it necessary. When Daria and Evelina were little girls, they were carried away from their mother country, Russia, by their loving parents. The hope was to leave the cold of Novosibirsk for the opportunities of the United States. &#x200B; Their father, Mark, was an auto mechanic. Their mother, Kira, was a biomedical research scientist at the Novosibirsk Research Institute. It was not her idea to leave Russia, but her husband insisted. Mark had a cousin who had emigrated to the U.S. and settled in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. The cousin had become the very successful owner of a taxi company. It was that cousin who invited the family to come and live in New York City. &#x200B; When they arrived in New York Daria was seven, and her younger sister, Evelina, was only four. The first four years in their new country went well, but Kira was becoming increasingly unhappy. The able scientist was now a housewife spending her days raising the couples two daughters while her husband, Mark, found himself not only repairing his cousin's taxis, but he also began driving them to make ends meet. Thus, he was never at home. &#x200B; Eventually, Kira had enough. She planned a trip back to Russia to visit her ailing mother, and she never returned. Mark was humiliated and dejected. So much so that he began drinking vodka as though it were water. It was the only thing that relieved the pain of his broken heart. There were many nights where the alcohol and the devil made Mark say and do things outside of his gentle character. Including somethings so horrible that he could never forgive himself. But he was determined to keep his American dream alive, and he did. &#x200B; That was ten years ago. Today the girls, Daria and Evelina, are all grown up. Daria is now 21 and Evelina 18 years old. Mark never remarried, but he did hire a series of babysitters to watch his girls while he continued to work very hard to give them a comfortable life. Ultimately, he began his own taxi garage and did very nicely for himself especially since he didn’t need to employ a mechanic to repair his cars. &#x200B; Most importantly the single father put away the bottle and replaced it with the fountain of hope, which he found in the local Russian Orthodox Church. The girls grew up under the guidance of the church. Something which likely would not have happened had their mother, Kira, remained in the picture. A woman of science, Kira was also a staunch atheist. &#x200B; The two sisters born three years apart were entirely different in many ways. Daria, the older one was a beautiful 5’ 10” blond-headed extrovert although she barely graduated high school. Daria’s only goal in life was to break into New York’s glamorous modeling industry. &#x200B; The younger sister, Evelina, is a shorter homelier version of Daria. Although she too is a natural blond, she is not nearly as attractive as her big sister. However, like her mother, Evelina is exceptionally bright. She graduated early and was accepted on a full academic scholarship to the University of Pennsylvania in the coming year. What she lacks in beauty she more than makes up for with brains. &#x200B; The two sisters have envied one another to the point of hatred for many years. To compound the situation their father, Mark, favors the pretty wholesome one, Daria, and has done so forever according to Evelina. He gives her whatever she asks for, and only she knows why. &#x200B; What’s worse is that Daria regularly beats her smaller, younger, and less attractive sister mercilessly. She has always enjoyed slapping, kicking, jumping on, and throwing solid objects at her scrawny sibling. Daria is as vicious as she is beautiful. Today is no different. &#x200B; “Daria please help me straighten up the living room.” Evelina requested of her older sister,” I have company coming.” &#x200B; “You have a visitor - who’s that?” says Daria with an air of disbelief. &#x200B; “It’s a boy.” &#x200B; “You have a boy coming into our father’s house when he’s not at home. Are you nuts?” &#x200B; “You’re such a hypocrite Daria. You think I don’t know the parade of guys you’ve had in here. Everyone in the neighborhood knows that you’re a nymphomaniac slut. I just hope papa doesn’t find out.” &#x200B; That was enough to initiate yet another beat down by the “blond beauty” on the “nerdy little professor.” But today Evelina was saved by the sound of the doorbell, ding-dong. &#x200B; Evelina picked herself up from the carpet and ran to answer the door. In walked Artem, Evelina’s guest. Artem greeted Evelina with a warm hug, as though they were intimately familiar. At which Daria thought to herself “What is this about?” Artem was a handsome young man. He looked like a Greek god. In Daria’s opinion, he was way too cute to be with her nerdy, unattractive sister whom she had mutual contempt for. &#x200B; “Artem this is my sister Daria. She was just leaving.” &#x200B; Daria extended her hand to welcome Artem, but she made sure to do it suggestively and seductively. The young Greek-American man with wavy black hair looked into the blond Russian-American woman’s beautiful face and just grinned back at her with a naughty grin as he imagined what she was suggesting. &#x200B; Seeing their interaction, Evelina began shouting and screaming at Artem “That’s it. I want you to leave now Artem.” &#x200B; “What did I do?” Artem asked as Evelina began shoving him toward the door until finally, he was out on the street. &#x200B; Evelina then turned to face her sister and shouted at her “You no good bitch.” &#x200B; Daria laughed and unleashed a barrage of blows on Evelina’s oversized head which seemed to have connected with significant effect. Evelina fled into her bedroom and locked the door. Daria stood outside screaming at her in Russian to open the door so that she could continue with her beating. &#x200B; The front door was not locked when Mark turned the doorknob to enter the house. Returning home earlier than expected, he heard the commotion and said out loud “These girls will kill each other one day.” &#x200B; On seeing her father walk into the house, Daria taunted her sister in a way meant to really get under her skin. “ You may be smart but you know I’m daddy’s favorite.” With those words, Mark shook his head and whispered: “Don’t talk like that to your sister.” &#x200B; Mark was just about to say something to his youngest daughter when she swung open her bedroom door expecting to encounter her sister’s flawless face. As if possessed by an evil spirit Evelina shouted at the top of her lungs with pure rage “This is for you. You father fucking whore.” As she hurled the contents of a glass jar filled with disfiguring concentrated sulfuric acid unintentionally into her father's face. Mark screamed in agonizing pain as his face melted into his skull, but he knew he had earned this pain for ruining his oldest daughter when she was just 13.

Trigger warning: This story deals with themes of mental health, suicide, and substance abuse. There's a secret stage of grief at which you accept something so bitterly that you dare the universe to make a fool out of you with a miracle. It's a stage that's diametrically opposed to bargaining. Imagine that anger and acceptance had a kid and that kid went off and beat bargaining up on the playground. But it's not reverse psychology. It's not muttering, "I wish I didn't have a million dollars right now" as a kindergartener because you're realizing that the powers-that-be always seem to give you the opposite of what you want. It's not pretending you aren't watching the pot to see if it will boil faster. It's turning off the lights, skipping town without even bothering to lock the door, and letting the stupid pot boil until the power company cuts the gas. "He could still wake up," my sister insists hollowly as she shifts her weight on the unyielding plastic seat. "If he makes it, I'll eat my hat," I retort. I refuse to acknowledge the pallid glow of the lights above and the way my insolent inner child won't give up the hope that one of them is an angel. Hospitals exist because angels and miracles don't. But they keep a chapel open for those who still need to pretend. Speaking of which, I need to talk to my mother and see if she found his keys. The last time any of us spoke to him, he said that he was going to look for them at work on his next shift -- today -- but he never showed up. My mother was supposed to stop by, but I get the feeling she isn't going to leave her knees anytime soon. The truth is, I've mourned Jack a thousand times before this moment. Every time I've talked him off the ledge, he's been fine, but I haven't. I've lived on that ledge for decades, from his first attempt at age fourteen to his last overdose (until now) two years ago. Once you hit your thirties, if you're lucky enough to make it that far, your body isn't as resilient as it used to be. That's what he told me last time, when he said that he'd found what he was looking for and didn't need to chase it anymore. I always took that with a grain of salt, and even as months and years passed, I never let myself fully believe him. Like I said, I don't buy into miracles, and I've spent enough time bargaining for them. I don't need his keys -- I don't need to open the door into his final moments -- but I know that over time, his home will become its own kind of chapel for those who still find solace in supplication. So I'll bring his keys to my mother and my sister, and then I'll find something else to do while we wait for the inevitable. The streets are warm despite the hour, and this afternoon's rain is still returning to the sky. I feel like I'm rolling over expanses of glass that could break open at any moment, and yet there's a strange sense of serenity in this glittering minefield. The bar where Jack worked is on the other side of town, and I don't mind when the lights turn red or the car in front of me makes a turn at a snail's pace. It's just nice to be on the way there. I've only met one of his coworkers, Brian, who isn't on shift today. As far as Jack told me, the place should only be open for another fifteen minutes -- they close at 3am on Saturdays -- but it's surprisingly packed inside. No, not packed, and not crowded, either. More like cozy. Everyone looks unbearably comfortable, like they've always been here and they don't ever plan on leaving. None of the staff are making moves to hurry them up or kick them out. It's a bit of a wonder to me that Jack worked here for two and a half years, since he always seemed to have sought disquiet whenever pleasantness was an option, and was never anything less than desperate to avoid delaying "the next thing." I find an open seat at the end of the bar, and one of the two men behind the counter offers me a disarming smile. Before he can ask, I tell him, "I'm not here to drink. I'm just looking for my brother's keys." He cocks his head, and I add, "My brother is Jack Baker. He works--worked here." The man nods. His smile doesn't change, but seems to land on me differently. "Yes, he does," he murmurs, and he beckons me toward a dark violet door to the left of the bar. "There are a few things here of his," he tells me. "I really just need the keys," I say. And then it strikes me that I know something. That I asked Jack if he was going to be able to watch my dog today, back when I had some silly, now-forgotten plans, and he'd said no, that he was going to be at work. That was his plan up until today, as far as any of us know. But this guy doesn't seem at all curious about why Jack isn't here. "Did my brother tell you he wasn't going to make it in today?" I blurt out, embarrassed at the way my voice tumbles up to a higher pitch. "Yes, we knew," the man replies, and since he's leading me down a hallway now, I can't see his face. I feel suddenly dizzy and focus on the back of his neck, where the clasps of a gold chain cling tightly to each other. Jack knew he wasn't going to be here today. It wasn't an accident. It seemed so much like one ... and I feel foolish. I'm the one who always says I don't believe in miracles, and that includes accidents. "Here is Jack's room." The man has stopped in front of another door in this hallway that seems to stretch onward forever. I feel so out of sorts that I almost don't even think to ask, "Wait -- room?" Wordlessly, the man opens the door and ushers me in. The first thing I notice is that there is no bed. Instead, there's a wide wooden platform in the center of the room, like the stump of an ancient tree, and scattered on top of it are several items, some familiar, some not. A ladle, a rocks glass, a bottle of rum. A cast-iron pot, a baby's sock, a jar of red jelly. An herb I don't recognize (and I'm a professional chef), the limp tail of a rodent, a glistening stone of indeterminate color. My eyes sweep the walls, which are lined with hooks and ledges and shelves upon which rest all manner of at once delicious- and poisonous-looking things. In the corner -- no, the room is round -- at the furthest point from me there is a woven basket full of clothes that I know don't belong to Jack. I see the frilly sleeves of a dress, and hanging from a hook behind the basket I see a smaller scrap of the same fabric, though it appears to be wet and dripping from one edge with a dark, viscous substance. No, it is becoming the substance, I intuitively understand. I whirl around to face the man who brought me here. There are so many questions that I don't even know which one to ask first. "Did Jack live here?" I demand, my voice still quivering. "Jack is more alive here than anywhere else, I imagine." Does he mean to be patronizing? "Jesus Christ," I mutter. "Some people convince themselves so, but no," the man responds, to a question I didn't ask. "What?" "When people see miracles, he's the first person they think of," he explains (if you can call it explaining), "but there are all kinds of miracle workers in the world. Too many to count. In fact, almost everyone becomes one eventually, if they allow themselves to." I stare at him. "Like me. Hale. Or like your brother, Jack." This is truly too much for me to take. "The only miracle Jack ever worked was staying alive as long as he did, despite his own best fucking efforts," I spit. Hale laughs. "That wasn't a miracle," he says, "that was just luck." "Well, if anyone can be a miracle worker, how is a miracle any different from the random tragedies and strokes of good luck that happen every day?" I hate that I'm even entertaining this line of thinking. "No wonder you rarely encounter a 'miracle' that makes any difference," I add sarcastically, and yes, it does make me feel better. "He came here, broken, with the last bit of luck he had, and I myself helped him to find what he was looking for. More than good fortune, I helped him find a resting place. Has anything ever made a bigger difference in his life, or in yours?" The man's words chill me. They remind me of Jack's own words two years ago, just a few months after he'd begun working here and supposedly stopped chasing whatever he'd always been after. "You helped him ... end his life?" I'm struggling to get the words out. Okay, maybe I didn't entirely bypass the denial stage. Hale doesn't answer, but instead makes his way over to the little cauldron and, seemingly without a match or a lighter, starts a fire beneath it. Somewhere to my right, I suddenly become aware of the incessant thrum of dance music. I suppose it's been going on this whole time. The bar is right next to a nightclub, I vaguely recall seeing when I parked down the street. He takes the frilly fabric off its hook on the wall and tosses it into the pot with a few herbs, the rat's tail, and the entire bottle of rum. "What the fuck are you doing?" I ask him. "Just finishing up something Jack was working on," he answers casually, as if I know exactly what he's talking about. The pot bubbles seemingly in slow motion, the solution inside lazily oscillating between the deep violet of the door we first came through and a brooding but idyllic green. Hale abruptly extinguishes the flame and ladles the mixture, which doesn't appear to be hot, into the rocks glass. Still silent, he moves toward the door and opens it. On the other side is the man who was working with him behind the bar when I came in. "For Sylvia," Hale says, and the other man smiles, nods, and departs. Hale shuts the door again. "What happens if I drink this?" I ask, gesturing to the leftovers in the cauldron. For some reason, when I look at it, I feel like a child with her face pressed up against the window of a candy store. Hale chuckles. "Nothing. It's powerless on you, to help or to harm." I frown. "To help?" "That's what we do." "For Jack." A defeated question is still a question. "For Jack, yes. And he did it for many others." He turns abruptly and pulls a book down from one of the shelves. When he opens the book, I feel my blood rush through me like wind. No, I feel the wind penetrate my blood, even though there are no windows. The pages flutter to a halt, and I am faced with a familiarity that I refuse to comprehend. "Jack?" "This is what he was looking for," Hale says, "and what he created. These are recipes. Those who need healing bring items of personal significance -- a daughter's wedding gown; baby shoes, never worn; you get the idea -- and a recipe appears for then. We mix the items into a cocktail and with a little magic, they find what they're looking for, too." He pauses as if to allow me to ask a question, but I remain silent. "After we did it for Jack," he continues, "he knew he had to become a healer himself. But the thing is ... each recipe is unique -- both to the healer and the person being healed. And they are complicated; some have as many as a dozen steps, none of them easy. Jack could only help so many individual people himself, but he had the desire, and the intuition, to help countless others. So he created one final cocktail for himself. The last two ingredients were his body -- its act of drinking the brew -- and this book. Now his soul is bound to these pages the way it once was bound to his body. He surrendered himself to something greater so that others could more easily find what he did. And in that way, he found himself." He hands me something: Jack's keys. Then he tucks the book under his arm, leads me out of the room before I can protest, and starts down the hallway toward the door. I turn back and grasp at the cool, leathery handle, which to my surprise feels more like skin than metal. I just want to see his room one more time, to get one last glimpse at the place where he thought he found peace. It won't budge. I know there is no key to the one place I actually want to go. A fleeting, agonizing distress passes over me, through me, and is gone. The handle lets go of me. I storm back down the hallway, which seems to only take me a few steps, whip my baseball cap off my head, and slam it onto the bar. I gaze around briefly; everyone from before is still here, and no one looks up at the noise. Outside the window, it looks like the moon has emerged from the clouds. I look back at my hat, at Hale standing before me, and feel like I'm breathing air for the first time after being trapped under ice. He gives me an inquiring look. I slide my hat closer to him and I ask, "Can you make me something with this?" He smiles, picks it up, and lays the book down on the bar. It opens automatically without a touch -- again, no one around me seems to notice -- but I don't wait to see what it says on my page. When Hale turns around to grab a bottle of gin from the shelf behind him, I slip off my seat and out the door. No one watches me go.

they mixed salt with vinegar and poured it over his wounds. It was as if a ball of metal had exploded inside of him, and the splinters were slowly pushing out of his skin. When they taunted him, asking, “Do you want to drink some too?” he declined. They poured it down his throat anyway. He vomited over himself, and it slid down his body like a rotten honey. The soldiers left him, laughing, as the first of the flies came to feast. At least the vinegar covered up the taste of bile. *This time*, when the soldiers passed under the planks of wood holding him up and splayed open like the tanned hide of an animal, and when they asked him if he needed anything, Joram replied with a firm, “No, thank you.” Yet, how dry was his throat, and how deep was his thirst? He wished that even a faint mist might descend from the cloudless sky, and merely *exist* near his mouth. Instead, all he got were stinging sands and blazing suns. The closest he came to slaking his thirst was watching the distant city waver in the afternoon heat, like an armada of ships melting against an endless ocean of burnt sand. The sun rolled from low to high, and sweat rolled down his brow. In the great blue empty, wisps of clouds coalesced, taunting him before evaporating like so many ghosts. He tried to remain as still as possible, for every movement brought pain that sliced through his limbs and chewed at his joints. In the night, he woke with a rushing, *sinking* feeling in his stomach, as if the Earth itself was falling, but he cast off the notion as a hallucination brought on by the excruciating mixture of thirst and pain. He almost prayed. However, when the first whispers of a prayer left his cracked his lips, he could not stop as it turned into a laugh. What irony that a man should end up on a cross for claiming the gods *might not exist*, only to turn around and beg them for salvation. In the morning, a bandit came. Joram begged him for water, but he found that his throat was so dry he could manage only the harshest whisper. “Please, water.” “Shutup, dead man,” the bandit sniped, “Save me some trouble and tell me if you have anything in your cloth.” “I have-” Joram smacked his lips dryly, “I have money. Hidden elsewhere.” “Right, and I have a gold-headed lass who wants to pay *me* for a fuck. You think I’m stupid?” “No...” “You’re gods-damned right ‘No’. I wouldn’t let you down for half the money in As’hra’s Coffers.” The bandit took a step back as he surveyed Joram’s mostly-naked form, “And by the looks of you, I very much doubt you have so much as a pigeon hole in the Coffers.” “I promise-” “No!” the bandit jabbed the rusty point of a knife up at Joram, “*I* promise *you*! By Hasina’s swampy nethers, if you say one more word I *will* cut off your toes.” He *wanted* to say that Hasina did not have swampy nethers, because Hasina was a god and the gods probably did not exist. Instead, Joram closed his mouth. He watched the bandit wander away, up the hill. The bandit passed under several more crosses, circling around the wooden planks with his head tilted up to inspect the bodies for valuables. As the bandit disappear over the hill, Joram wished he had taken him up on his offer. A blood letting would be painful, yes, but quicker than *this*. His mouth was choked with sand, and flies were dancing over his blistered wrists and ankles, biting into his flesh. Joram resolved to ask the next soldier who came along to kill him. But as the sun arced overhead, no soldiers came. Joram could not spot a single soul through the wavering lines of heat, even if he shifted his gaze to the very corners of his vision. The man on the cross to his left died some time in the afternoon. Joram couldn’t look at him directly, but he could see him in periphery, shivering in the noonday heat. The man loosed a moan that reminded Joram of a rusted hinge, and slumped. “Hey,” Joram whispered as loud as he could. He twisted against the ropes, trying to look at the dead man. “Hey!” he whispered again, “Are you there?” Predictably, the slumped man did not answer, but Joram was not talking to *him*. Joram was attempting to commune with Bazlal, the jackal-headed god. Joram cleared his throat, and echoed the reverent tones they used in the temples, “Oh, Great Undertaker, let me down, and I will serve you. Show yourself, and I will do anything you ask of me.” Almost as if in response, the wind picked up and blew sand across his weeping wounds, yet Joram saw no sign of Bazlal. So, Joram began to scream. He screamed at the sand, and the wind. He screamed for Ta’shim of the Eastern Wind, he cried for Gol, the Sun Stallion, he even invoked the name of Hrafing the Deceiver. Not even the shadows flickered at his prayers. For all his screaming, he had only earned himself wasted time and a hoarse voice. An idea, maybe insidious to a well-minded man, entered Joram’s mind. If he was to die, then why not find out, just to be sure? “Fuck the gods,” Joram whispered, and sucked in his breath. He waited, eyes wide. Nothing happened. The wind did not change. The sky did crack. The ground did not split open and swallow him whole. His lungs expanded like a bellows, he threw out his chest as far as the ropes would let him, and screamed, “There are no gods! There never were any gods!” Stories told of fire that rained from the heavens and the undying torture that would be inflicted on the heretics. Yet, here he was, already suffering as much as any man could, and what did his heresies beget him? Nothing. The sun wandered. His vision began to tilt, slowly at first, until it spun faster than the whirling priests of Derve. The Earth swelled and sank, swooning him back and forth as if he were sitting astride a massive pendulum. His head lolled, and if he hadn’t been bound to the planks by thick coils of rope, he would have collapsed. It was not the hands that gripped his feet that woke him. Nor was it the fervent whispers, urging him to rise. It was the *smell*. A charred, burning odor - bitter and acrid and invigorating in the same way watching your own house burn down is invigorating. Crust flaked from his eyes as he struggled to open them. At first, he thought the creature standing under his cross was a vulture. A long, black robe, tattered with age, covered the creature from head to toe, and it’s spindly fingers ended in nails so sharp and so dirty, they might have been talons. It was these talons that were digging into Joram’s feet, as the creature chanted - not stopping to breathe - “Wake. Wake. Wake.” Joram’s feet twitched. The creature lifted its gaze, and Joram saw not a beak, but a brilliant set of teeth grinning up at him. Joram squinted against the glare of the silvery teeth, trying to see the face under the hood. “It’s good to see me up,” the creature said. The dark skin of his cheeks shone almost purple in the sunlight. “Water-” before he could even finish the word, a cold burst of water splashed against his face, dousing the blistered fires of his sunburn. Joram gasped. Without even thinking about it, his tongue darted out and licked at the sweet, cool liquid. “Need more?” “Please,” Joram rasped, though, thanks to the water, his voice was already stronger than it had been hours ago. The vulture man blinded him with another smile, “You can have some when your feet are back on this ground.” “You... you’re going to help me?” Joram fliched at the shrill sound that rose from the man’s throat, but it was only a laugh. As the man’s laughter rose, so did the burning smell. “Dear me, no!” the vulture man cackled, “*You* are going to help *yourself*!” Joram blinked. “How?” “First, come down from there.” Such a simple demand riled up a deep anger in Joram. He pulled both of his hands forward as far as the ropes allowed him, his slender muscles bulging with effort, and asked, “Are you blind, old man?” At this, the vulture man threw back his hood. Joram’s eyes were not drawn to the stained cloth wrapped tightly around his eyes - instead, Joram saw only the vertical gash sliced into the man’s wrinkled forehead. It was a deep wound, and the edges of it glistened with undried blood. A single, roving eye, half-exposed at its root, was sunk deep into the gash. The eye settled it’s unnatural gaze on Joram, and it seemed to flicker and glow with an alien fire, sending out wisps of prismatic light with every slight movement. “We see much the same thing,” proclaimed the vulture man. “What are you?” Joram asked. He threw his hood back over his head, “We are here to help our self. Come down from the cross.” “I *can’t.* I have asked for help, but none will help me. If you-” The vulture man held up his hand to interrupt Joram, “When we are hungry, do our mouths ask the hands for food?” “I-” “Do our lungs ask the nose for air? No. And so, we should not ask ourselves for help. We must simply *do*.” “But your body-” “*Our* body,” the vulture man corrected him, “is connected to all other bodies. This one, to that one, and so on. You look at us as if we are mad. But what is more mad - to ask for the help of those we do not believe in, or to listen to those standing right in front of us?” Joram’s mouth opened and closed, like a fish that finds itself trapped on land by the retreating tide. “Wake. Concentrate on this arm-” the vulture man lifted the sleeve of his robe to reveal a black arm, tattooed with a mural of scars, “Try to move it as we might our other arms.” Joram swallowed, dust and sand scraping against the inside of his throat. He lacked the energy to argue with the man, and in a way, his words seemed to hold a kind of *sense*. So he concentrated. He stared at the arm, trying to imagine what it must feel like to lift something so heavy. He tried to think of how the skin felt, not to the touch, but to be touched. Joram concentrated on the muscles, and in doing so, he flexed his own arm. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw the vulture man’s arm flexing, too, but it was only a trick of the sun. “No,” said the vulture man, his silvery grin glaring in the sunlight, “Not a trick. This is not *my* arm. This is *our* arm. Wake, and keep trying.” Joram gritted his teeth, and focused on the arm, until all he could see were white scars and purplish-black skin. The arm lifted. A hand touched his feet, touched his toes, and clasped the rope that bound his ankles. The hand pulled, and the ropes came free. Joram gasped, excitement overpowering the pain. Perhaps the movement over the last few days had worn out the ropes around his hands. Or perhaps he had lost so much weight, his wrists had shrunk. Whatever the case, the loosening of the foot bindings released more than Joram’s feet. He fell. The vulture man let out another shrill of laughter. A cloud of dust showered down on Joram, stinging his sore-riddled back. His elbows were singing with pain, and he thought one of his legs might have broken. “In the future,” the vulture man spoke, “We should do better to catch ourselves.” Climbing to his knees, Joram groaned. He looked up at the vulture man’s black hands, and a thought flashed through his mind. No sooner had he though it, than the vulture man’s hands clasped his arms, and hoisted him to his feet. “Thank you,” he said, testing his feet on the crunching gravel. Another beaming smile split the vulture man’s lips, “Gratitude is appreciated, but it is not necessary to thank one’s self.” “Who are you?” Joram asked, steadying himself on the vulture man’s shoulder. The vulture man inclined his head towards Joram, until Joram could see the frayed bottom of the eye-binding cloth peeking out below the vulture man’s hood. Joram’s stomach rolled, as he remembered what that hood was hiding. “We are *you,* Joram. And you are *us.*” Joram’s face twisted in confusion, though he did not voice his disbelief. “If we want a different answer,” the vulture man mused, “We must ask a different question.” Joram almost said something, before a choking fit took hold of him. He hacked up a lungful of dust and a dry, pasty liquid trickled down his tongue. At last, when the heaving ceased, he looked up at the vulture man, “Fine. *What* are you, then? A messenger of the gods?” The vulture man loosed an ear-piercing shriek, “The *gods*! What are the gods, but men who climbed atop the bodies of their fathers and brothers?” “So, the gods are not real?” “They are as real as we are, though, in time you will learn that even the gods are part of us, yes.” “But what does that make *us*?” The vulture man twisted to face Joram. He clutched Joram’s arm, a sublime, almost self-satisfied smile on his face. “We are God. And we are just now waking up.” *** I think this story untied itself somewhere near the ending.

Wedding bells chimed, and flowers were thrown. She tore a leaf apart, bit by bit, piece by piece. When that was done, she gazed around the bushes, her eyes drawn to a bush smaller than the others. “Why was it smaller?” she wondered. She directed her eyes to the clouds and studied their texture. Someone nudged her, “The officiant is about to speak.” "Do you take this man to be your husband, to live together in matrimony...” Her eyes were drawn to a rustle, a little bird hopped out from the bushes and she found herself admiring its feathers. She was brought back to the present as the bride went “I do.” The officiant started to repeat himself with a few added adjustments, but this time it was directed towards the husband. She fiddled with her hands. Everyone stood up and applauded. She sat for a second before she stood and joined in. She had never met the husband, Peter, or the wife, Amilia. Even though Amilia was her cousin, she still hadn’t met her. The bride and groom walked down the aisle and people started to form a line to congratulate them. She skipped the line and walked inside to the reception area. The room was white with banners stating “ For many long years together,” and other happy marriage thoughts. It smelled of various foods. The room was mostly clear due to the fact that they planned to have a dance, but they left chairs and tables. She slipped down into a seat and waited for food to be served. When everyone had assembled, the food arrived and they held a toast to the new couple. She ate her food, and everyone stood up to wander around. Maybe she could slip away? It wasn’t like she was an important guest, and at this point they were just hanging out. She made her way to the exit. A slow waltz started to play and a nearby man swept her up in a dance. “How has your day been going?” He asked as they swept around the floor. She squirmed under the gaze of this stranger. “Good, but I really must be going now,” she added. “Oh no, I insist you really must stay,” he offered. “Uh, no it wasn’t that, it's just I have to go,” she intervened. Suddenly, a young man with dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes pushed the stranger aside and led her to a bench. “Sorry about that,” he said as he gestured over to the stranger. The stranger had now taken up dancing with a different woman and was twirling around the dance floor. “Uh,” she stammered. “He’s my brother. I'm so sorry. Sometimes, he can get a little carried away. I myself don’t tend to participate in dances or big celebrations, but he insisted that I come. It has been awkward and boring because I don’t know the couple,” he vented. Something about the way he talked made her feel comfortable, and she found herself talking to him rather freely. “Same with me, I am the cousin of the bride but I have never met her,” she admitted. Her cheeks warmed and she found herself getting a little bit nervous. Her heart started pounding a little bit faster and her breath quickened. She hoped he didn’t notice. How childish it seemed,, but she couldn’t make the excitement that washed through her dissipate. “I-I-I wasn’t planning to stay any longer if you would like to leave with me,” she offered. “Sure,” he replied as he led her towards the exit. The wind outside brought clean air to her nose as well as the scent of flowers. He led her to a bench. “Soooo... parties aren't your thing?” he asked. “Oh no, I mean I don’t mind them, but people can get so loud,” she complained. “Tell me about it,” he agreed. “It also helps if you know the couple,” she added. “Oh for sure,” he concurred. “So, what is your name?” she asked. “My name is Rory and I have a job at a small computer company. I have a degree in computer science, so yeah,” he stated. “Oh, how nice, I work as a waitress. It is really boring," she admitted. His mouth formed into a grin, and her cheeks turned a shade redder. “I think that’s nice,” he assured her. “It really isn’t,” she replied. “Maybe so,” he said as his smile grew wider. “When did you graduate college?” she asked. “Oh, I don’t know maybe five no wait, six, wait maybe seven years ago,” he counted, “sorry I don’t remember,” “You don’t remember?” she laughed, “You should know when you graduated.” “I normally do,” he defended, “It’s just I forgot right now,” as he said that they both burst out laughing. “Hey, you want to come over tomorrow?” he offered. “Sure, where do you live?” She asked. “Pinesaw street, 6095,” he replied. “Really!” she shouted, “I live only a few blocks away,” Alright then, come over at two,” he replied. She drove home, her face stuck in a smile. *** Today was Sunday and all she could think about was the time. The day seemed to drag on. She was sure two-o’clock would never arrive. “Tic, toc, tic, toc” the clock repeated. Finally it was one forty-five and she decided to head over. When she arrived it was exactly two and she knocked on the door. The door was dark brown and shaped like a cut in half oval. The rest of the cabin was surrounded by trees and was made up of logs. She couldn’t tell if he had a backyard because the trees blocked her view. The door opened and in the doorway stood Rory. He welcomed her in. She could feel her pulse quickening. The inside was just as cozy as the outside. It had a faint smell of spices and cleaning products. The light was low, and the living room had just enough space for a couch and tv. The kitchen was placed in a little corner with a table opposite to it. “Sorry this is basically it,” he apologized, “Oh, and the bathroom is over there,” he added as he pointed to a closed door on the other side of the living room. “Oh, don’t apologize, this is wonderful,” she gasped. “Where do you sleep though?” “On the couch there isn’t space for a bedroom,” he admitted. Now that she looked at the couch more closely it looked like it folded out, and provided a mattress. Next to it, there was a blanket and a pillow stacked neatly on top of one another. “Can I get you anything to drink?” he asked. “I have water, cranberry juice, wine and cider.” “I’ll just have water, thank you,” she replied. “Of course,” he responded as he headed over to his kitchen and poured out two glasses of water. “Anything else you want?” he asked. “No, I’m good,” she replied. He set her glass down on the table and motioned for her to come over and have a seat. She stepped wobbly over to her chair and nodded her head as a thank you. Her heart thumped harder than ever before. She sipped her water gulping down her anxieties. “Sooooooo... how are you?” he asked. “Oh uh, good, you?” she stamered then ducked her head to hide her blush. It wasn't like her to get nervous. “Want to go on a walk?” he asked. “Uh, sure,” she agreed. He led her into the backyard which was a jumble of trees and bushes. The wind blew her hair across her face and she gazed in awe at the flowers sprouting out of a fallen tree. “You know...” he started. “Huh?” she asked. “You know I told you my name but what is yours?” he finished. “Oh! I didn’t tell you? My name is Scarlet,” she supplied. “What a nice name,” he complemented. They strolled through his forest gasping at birds and small creatures that they wandered upon. “Do I look like him,” Rory asked as he made the same pose as a small squirrel that stood in place. She snapped a picture, “Yup,” “Hey!” he laughed. “I can’t miss a good opportunity,” she replied. “Um, Scarlet,” he started. “Yes,” she responded,” “Can I come over to your house tomorrow?” he proposed. “Of course,” she agreed. She knew she might be rushing things but maybe one day they would get together and eventually end up where they started, at a wedding.

(this story is based 100% off of a dream I had, I just thought it might make a fine story. All characters in this story are fictional. This is my first story, feel free to criticize and critique.) I was walking to school, thinking about whether I had finished the homework from last night. It was a Tuesday morning, around spring time of 2019. The school year would be ending soon. I pulled out my geometry homework, and looked to see if I had finished all the questions. I had finished them, but then I noticed that I hadn't written my name or the date. I quickly wrote 'Chris Allen, April 23rd'. I then looked at my phone- "shit, I'm late!". I ran the rest of the way to school, and I entered my first period classroom. My history teacher didn't seem to care that I was late. Once history class ended, I walked out of the classroom, but then the fire alarm started blaring. Everyone started to head to the doors to outside, but then- gunshots. Screaming. I ran the other way. I can run pretty damn fast but HOLY SHIT there were gunshots coming from both directions. I ran to the bathroom, I hid inside one of the stalls. I frantically locked the stall door. The bathroom door opens, and heavy footsteps march into the bathroom. The shooter kicks a stall door, then another, then mine, breaking the lock. I pounced onto him, knocking him to the floor. I sprint out of the bathroom as he gets to his feet. I run around the corner, and I hear ringing. The second shooter was standing in front of me. I look down. Crimson blood squirts from my chest. I hear him fire again. More blood. I cover my chest, blood covering my hands. I fall to my knees, then on my side. I feel no pain as I see the pool of blood expanding around me. My vision fades and I remember... my mother... I'm sorry... mom I'm sorry... My mind faded out I wake up in a comfy bed, and I get up for the morning. I felt... at peace. I had no worries, nothing to fear... I was just at peace. I spent a few days here. This was not the house I lived in, but it felt like home more than any other place ever had. Soon, my parents arrived. Then one of my siblings. But after a time here I felt... I was being taken away... I see my mom, my dad, and my older sister fading as well... I wake up. I get out of bed. I am in a hospital... one with fancy looking gadgets I had never seen before. A nurse walks in. "Hey you, you're finally awake!" "wait... what the hell happened?"I ask her I didn't see how the doctors could possibly have saved me. And what was that I saw? My parents and my older sister? "Well, we were finally able to bring you back! We also managed to bring back your parents and your older sister! You should thank the inventors of this great technology..." I was going to question her further, but she was called out of the room and ran out quickly. She poked her head back in and said "Oh, you can leave now. There's no reason to stay, unless you want to." She left in a hurry. I walked out. I saw my parents walking out of another room, and they turned and saw me. They sprinted to me and hugged me. Then my older sister, Maggie, ran over and joined the group hug. We were heading to a house, but I didn't recognize this route. As I looked out the windows of this oddly quite car, I saw that everything looked so... different. So... surreal. There were people with pets, but I had never seen those kind of pets before. The trees in the area seemed greener, as with the grass. Then I noticed... all the cars on the road were electric, not one gas car in sight. We arrived at the house. I had never seen any house like this one, but it was nice. It was like a queen anne house blended with Roman style. The grass was perfectly green, and there were no weeds in sight. My parents seemed to be at least somewhat used to all this, and my older sister seemed even more acquainted with it all then them. We walked inside. I hadn't really spoken to them on the way here, because I was just so confused. What the hell is happening? The interior of the house was fancy. It had the similar setup as a usual house, but all the materials used were just... better. The ac was nice, and the floor looked like wood and granite but felt soft and easy to walk on. My parents walked me to the dining room table, not saying a word. But they were not grim, they actually seemed overjoyed at seeing me, and maybe at something else. My mom began talking. " So, chris... I don't know where to start. What's the last thing you remember honey?" I replied as honestly as I could. "Well... I remember getting shot in the chest. Then I kind of felt like I was in a dream like state after that... then I woke up in the hospital." 'Ok chris. So how to put it..." My dad, a very straightforward person, decided to speak up: "Chris, you died. Then we died. Then Maggie died. Your younger brother is still alive. Now, the day you died was April 23rd. I didn't die until 2043, and your mother passed away in 2050. Maggie died from falling down the stairs, in 2059. The year is 2070 now, chris. You think you're 15, your body looks 15, but technically you're 66 years old. Your brother Mark payed good money to bring us back, with the technology of modern times. Do you understand now?" (The end, for now. There might be a part 2.

"Good morning everyone, welcome to today's safari! We'll be taking a short trip into the jungle today for a little joke-spotting! Finding jokes in this environment is a bit difficult because they always camouflage themselves, so make sure you’re alert!" "So will they be hiding, then?" "Yes! The first thing you should know is that they're always hidden in plain sight. You know, that's why it takes a minute to get the joke sometimes- oh, about that! If you do spot a joke, please do not make too much noise! Many of them are shy and have a habit of getting away from you very quickly. All right? Everyone ready?" "Yes sir, we're ready!! Let's go!" "Good luck, everyone! Let's find some JOKES!!" "Yayyyy!!!" *The jeep containing the tourists and the joke safari warden rumbles off into the dust.* *A little time passes; the jeep slows at the threshold of the forest.* "Everyone!! Everyone!!" "Yes? Did you see anything, Mr. Warden?" "Yes! Look over there, next to that old tree stump!" "Next to wha- OOOOOOOOOOHHH!!" *The crowd stares at the oddity for a few seconds; cameras click until the warden shushes them.* "Now, keep it down, keep it down, you don't want to scare it away." "We're sorry, sir. What is it?" "Well, this, ladies and gentlemen, is your fairly common one-liner. These things are everywhere. It's no surprise that we found one so quickly!" "What's special about this one, Mr.Warden?" "Well, not much, really. Not much a setup, just a short play on a well-known idiom here. All put into one or two sentences. No depth at all, but it's good for the odd chuckle once in a while. That's why they're so common. Most of these fellas require no active thought, but they do the job!" *Expectant silence from the tourists. The one-liner looks at them and shouts out a sentence.* *"Why are cabbages generous? Because they have big hearts!"* "There we go! Did you all hear that?" *The crowd appreciates it.* "Wow! Hahaha! That was funny!" "Well, that's about it for this one, then. Let us be off! Lots more to see!" "Where to next, Mr.Warden?" "You see that dung over there? That was left by a pun! Let's follow the trail!" "Yayyy!!!" *The jeep continues on its lonely way.* *The warden hears a soft grunting noise near a little pool; he stops the jeep immediately.* "Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please! Listen up!" "Yes, Mr.Warden? Did you find the pun?" "I can hear it grazing near that water body to our right." "Oh, goodie!!" "Now, we'll have to take a look at it from here, because I see another joke grazing at the exact same place! We seem to have got lucky here. I propose we look at this pun with our binoculars; we'll be able to see it and hear what it says from here. After that, we will quietly circle around the water body to see our next joke, because it's a bit rare and very shy. All right?" "Sure, Mr. Warden. We'll do exactly what you tell us to do." "All right. Quietly now." *The pun casts a sideways look at the tourists and speaks in a subdued grunt:* *"Can't find your skull in the forest? No need to panic. Don't lose your head."* *The pun suddenly spreads its wings and flies above the jeep and away, squawking loudly.* "So, that was a pun, everyone." "Um... Mr.Warden...Well..." "What's the matter, everyone? You all look confused." "Um... Well, that joke flew over our heads..." "Yes it did. Oh, well. No matter. Let's move on. Some puns are like that. It takes time to sink in once in a while, you know?" "All right, Mr.Warden." “That's the spirit! Let's move on. Please stay quiet.” *The Jeep quietly rolls over to the other side of the lake. The warden lowers his voice to a whisper.* "Here we are on the other side, everyone. Now for this next sighting, please be careful. This next joke reacts quickly and aggressively to contact, so try not to alert it to our presence. It's known as the 'insult' or 'offensive' joke. Now if you will just look to your left-" *Someone coughs loudly.* "Oh no! It knows we're here! Everyone please be careful. Let's be quiet-" *The same person coughs again; he's holding a joint in his hand.* "You idiot! Put that out right now! Insult jokes are very sensitive to smell!! Here it comes. Be careful." *An ugly offensive joke comes into view. It looks scrawny and angry. There is a hideous scowl on its face. It stares at the stoned man and screams.* *"People like you are why koalas get made fun of. At least they don’t stink up every place they exist in or make stupid jokes that even a hyena wouldn’t laugh at."* *It growls once more and turns to a slightly rotund woman who looks rather scared.* *"Look at this walking piece of lard over here. Do you know that your daily caloric intake can stop world hunger? I don’t think a mathematical symbol exists that can represent your size. You know, out here, hippopotamuses get so much abuse they don’t deserve, not when there's a tub of goo like you waddling around. Go solve humanity’s energy problems. You have the gas for it, I’m sure."* *Much to the tourists' displeasure, the offensive joke starts to urinate openly in front of the jeep.* "Oh god! The smell! What on earth-" "Everyone keep calm!" "Mr. Warden! Mr. Warden! Let's go somewhere else. This stench is unbearable!" "No. We have to wait for it to finish, or else it will chase behind us." "But Mr.Warden! Why is it doing that?" "It's taking the piss. These jokes often do that. Well, I can’t say we didn’t deserved it." "We're sorry, Mr. Warden." "Well, it's all right. It was bound to happen. When people don’t follow simple rules on this jeep, one can't expect a joke not to take the piss. It always will. Anyway, we ought to be moving. And sir, throw that joint away, please. You've spoilt this sighting." *The stoned man laughs only to instantly get a shot of offensive urine in his face.* *Everyone guffaws as he throws his doobie away.* *The warden signals to the driver and the jeep takes off for the next sighting of the day.* *Three hours and many jokes later, the jeep stops in front of a cave. Everyone is a bit tired, groaning and moaning about how late it is.* "All right, everyone. We're here. This is the last joke for the day." "Mr. Warden, what's this one?" "You’ll see. Shhh. Here it comes. Is everyone ready? Please be on your guard. This joke is-” *The warden stops speaking as his face goes hideously pale. He is stricken by a sudden fear.* "Mr.Warden?" "We've bitten off more than we can chew here. This is not usually at this cave. Let's all stay together and get through this. This is not safe at all. Please pray." "But- but-" "Quiet! Pray." *They pray.* "All right, everyone. Be on your guard. We may not make it out of this one alive." *The group huddles together. Suddenly there is a sound and a joke walks out of the cave.* *One lady faints.* *This joke is grotesque and fearsome. It pants and drools as it circles the jeep, thirsty for blood.* "The anti-joke. Please take care, everyone. Here it comes." *The anti-joke roars, a frightful sound that causes the group to collectively shiver. It speaks.* *"Once upon a time, there lived a poor man. All he wanted to do was to buy a toy car for his little son, but he could not afford it. Each day he cried and cried, hoping for some luck. But alas, fate eluded him. One dark night, he decided to kill himself by walking into traffic. But, as fate would have it, he sprained his leg, so he couldn't walk. So he couldn't kill himself that night. He decided to sleep and try again the next day. While he was asleep, he had a dream that a genie came to him and told him to say the word ‘Pringle’ three times in the morning, and he would be rich. When he woke up, he said it three times, and Lo and Behold! He was surrounded by riches beyond imagination. He was ecstatic as he could finally buy that toy car for his son.* *One hour later, he got run over by a bus."* *Everyone in the jeep is rendered unconscious. They remain knocked out until a jeep carrying the next batch of tourists finds them and rushes them back to safety.* *Five people die and four are paralyzed, including the warden.* *The stoned man survives without complications, as he was high when the group ran into the anti-joke.* *The lucky ones who survived have never gone near humour again.

"They say one drop of water is enough to burn away all civility in a person. As if it had never existed." "You old fool," grinned one of the men. His filthy face contorted and he coughed noisily. "What do you want to know about civility, huh?" The men around him grunted in agreement. The old man was silent. Nohim had once been his name, but what mattered a name if no one used it. And as the sandstorm abraded the plaster of the walls, so the years abraded his being. His memories faded, his mind became dull. Only his principles remained as clear and pure as polished quartz. The old man bent over the table and whispered, "Listen." The dozen men in front of him fell silent. There was something in his words that cast a spell over them. "Take someone and throw him in a hole. The first day, give him a bowl of water. On the second, half a bowl. On the third, a quarter. Then you let him thirst for two days. And then, on the third day, you drop a drop of water into the hole every hour." Something flashed in the eyes of the libertines. Cruelty was something they smelled from a hundred miles away like an animal smells a water hole. "Now it is yours. For that hourly drop of water he will give you anything, betray anything, do anything. He can't help it. No matter how strong his will; his drive, more deeply rooted than anything else, will betray him." The old man's knotty hands trembled. The spell broke. "Nice story," sneered one of the bandits. His defiant words could not hide the fact that his grip on the knife was tense. No doubt the old man's words had not left a mark on any of them. "Yes," said another. He licked his tongue over his parted lips. "Let's see if he'll still talk so nicely when we cut out his tongue." The old man slowly stood up. No one stopped him. "And, what if you contain something else to the people; something that is no less important than water?" He could almost feel the bandits' incomprehension at his back. Nothing was more important than water. "Love. Tenderness. Humanity. What do you think happens to people's desires if they are never satisfied? What kind of morbid, inhuman being do they produce then?" The libertines were so busy laughing and grumbling that none of them noticed the ancient revolver in the old man's right hand. Slowly he climbed over the corpses of the men. Their blood was already absorbed by the sand of the ground. No doubt it would soon cover their corpses as well; drying them out and preserving them for the millennia. But the old man was not interested in such things. He went outside to his horse. It whinnied softly and sniffed at the old man's hands. It wouldn't last much longer, he knew. But this was just the way of things. Thoughtfully, he mounted the back of his nag and turned toward the sun. "The water will meet the needs the people, animals and soil. The sand needs the blood.

11:41pm I slip my shoes on and open the door, ready to head out. ‘Do you have your keys’ he asks me standing right next to me. Without a word I take them from the hook next to the door and slam it into his face. I don’t want him (coming) with me again. It is dark and raining outside and I don’t have my jacket, I bury my hands in the sleeves of my worn hoodie. At least I am away from his constant nagging and his voice in my ear telling me who I am ‘supposed’ to be. I walk down the sidewalk briskly; I can’t tell if it’s the rain hitting my face or my angry tears streaming down it. It’s wet either way. I wipe my brow with my sleeve. I tell myself that it doesn’t really matter. I feel too much all the time anyway. To shut up my brain I take out my headphones, the song that comes on only reminds me of (him and) myself in a myriad ways so eventually I lose myself in it. By the time I enter the subway station, he has caught up with me, standing to close to me again. He turns to me and smiles ‘You’re wondering why you can’t I ever shake me off’ he says and then he answers his own question ‘Because you know we belong together, you still need me, and honestly, I don’t know what you would do without me? Do you?’ I don’t even want to think about that, but my brain forces me to anyway, for a moment I wish I was alone just once, unhaunted, just me (him). ‘No’ I finally reply. We board the subway he is finally quiet now. But this is just another way of torturing me. I know it. This is giving me space to think about what I’ve done. What I do. (I know it is wrong. Of course I do.) He makes me feel so wrong about things, he makes me hate myself when I only want to love me. Without words he told me so. And with words. He tries to stop me every time. He begs me to(o). I never listen. I hate it so. His morals, what do I care, I like the way things make me feel, why should I always put others first; and it’s not like I don’t care about people, I don’t just kill anyone I do believe in making the world a better place but what does he see? Just a killer. Isn’t the world better without some people? I (would) function so well without his concerns. I look out of the window but the only thing I see is my face. I look dishevelled and pale. I run my hand along my jawline where I’ve managed to grow just an inch of stubble, (he is) always shaving it before it gets too long. The stops fly past, before I know it, we’re there. I get up, turn around and find him gone. Great. He's never there for me when I need him, I think. Or maybe he is, and I just never notice him, I (can) imagine him standing outside, in the rain, wearing my clothes. This is not the time to be(come) paranoid. I shake my head and ruffle my hair; I press the thoughts about him into a corner of my mind so I can forget him for a while. It’s past midnight now. It’s still raining outside. I am soaked by this point but warm, with excitement too, I can’t supress a sheepish smile. I know what’s going to happen and I am enjoying it already, the feeling of doing something completely (wrong) my way! (Doing it anyway!) This is Freedom. While I walk along an unfamiliar street, a place I will (never) see again I take the Magnum out of my bag, I like to be consistent with numbers, I get it ready. I know the drill; I know the job. I don’t need to check the address. The building I enter smells funny, sort of like an old people’s home but also like a new couches and cheap perfume. I press the button for the elevator up. I walk along an unfamiliar corridor and stop at Nr. 41. There is light beneath the door, and I knock, I have my gun ready, my left hand hidden behind my back. 6:41 am I wake up and he’s asleep; still, I can see him lying in bed (next to me). I go to the bathroom for a piss. My aim is bad today (as always), but he won’t care until later. I pull up my trousers and look into mirror, (his) unshaven face with dishevelled hair (looks back at me). I sigh and close my eyes for a moment. I am me today: I brush my teeth, and I shave my face. I am precise and correct. I leave no hair standing. I get dressed in the same manner. I like the order; I tie my tie and button up my shirt; this time when I look into the mirror in our bedroom to check the knot sits right in the middle, I see myself. I smile wide and my teeth are white my hair sits perfect. I push the digits of the safe and get my gun out and I put it in my holster. I love routines, so far this morning has been exceptional. I try to be noiseless I don’t want to wake him. No breakfast for me today. I don’t want him with me (again). In the kitchen I have a glass of water. I take my hat and jacket at the door and tie my shoes with precision. I take my keys from the hook next to the door. I remember my dream (last night). I feel dizzy for a moment I stare at (his) my hand on the handle of the door. The cold metal feels like the grip of a gun. I stand completely still in the doorframe for a minute unable to breathe; what have « we done. I hear him stir in bed now too, I hurry to head out before he is fully awake. Too late. He is leaning against the door of our bedroom dressed in my joggers and a shabby looking hoodie. Without a word he goes and opens the fridge, this is my moment I grab the doorknob and walk out of the door. I am about to breathe, thinking I got rid of him finally; he is behind me in an instant. I hear his slippers scratch across the concrete. ‘No Milk’ he simply says. I am a few steps ahead now, I walk to the station briskly, but (it honestly seems like) we touch the ground at the same time; always there, next to me. I wish he would leave me alone, just for a while. He never does, condescending and spiteful he stares at me from across the street and smirks; and he never actually talks. He thinks he knows how it drives me crazy; I want to be liked, most of all by him. But he takes pleasure in it. He knows what I try to do every day, we know that I will never succeed. I’m at the station now and its past seven. I sit at my desk and put my head in my hands. I take a sip of my coffee. Its taste is (awful.) just what I need. I open the report and start to read (what seems oddly familiar.) A murder downtown, I recognise the street name, I think I must have driven past there before. On the way to the scene, I put the radio on I look in the rearview mirror and (he) smile(s) at myself broadly. I turn up the music. (I hate his music, but I will stay in the car this is important) I check the route multiple times I like to be sure of things. Finally, I’m there and I leave the radio on and the car running, I don’t think this will take very long. As I enter the building I take the stairs to my left, I need to get my steps in and I don’t trust elevators, I am afraid of small spaces. I think to myself that it smells funny here, sort of like an old people’s home but also like a new couches and cheap perfume. I walk along the corridor, crime scene tape marks the door of Nr. 41, it is ajar and has bullet hole in the middle too. I inspect it more closely, it’s a .41, maybe a Magnum, I think to myself, I look at the door. 41. (Ironic, isn’t it?)

“...Crank up those AC’s, it’s hot out here!” The heat was UN. BEAR. A. BLE. I sat backwards on a kitchen chair with my sweaty chin rested against the headrest. Dizziness engulfed my head while I spun myself round and round for air. My sister laid flat on the counter beside the radio as she fanned herself with a pink folding fan. “...temperatures reaching about--Huh?” The radio broadcast continued, “Hold on folks, we were just informed--NWS issues a warning for an extreme heat-” “Phbbth...!” My little sister, clearly uninterested, blew raspberries. She turned the dial, like, a million times, on the radio station. Crackle...Hissssss “Stop, I was listening to that!” I grabbed the ledge of the counter to stop myself from spinning and swatted her hand away from the knob. “I don’t wanna listen to more newsmen tell us about the heat we’re already feelin’!” She had a point. But she can’t know that. “Dad!” I leaned backwards and shouted out into the doorway. A few seconds later Dad, strolled in with a perky smile on his face. It was hard to see our Dad smile after the divorce with mom a couple years ago. It’s just been the 3 of us since then. Me and my sister being 10 and 4 at the time, I didn’t understand. I hated my Dad for having a side geese. Or piece. Whatever my Mom said. She said he never cared for us. But seeing as she hasn’t shown up for us in 2 years, it’s clear to me now who’s right. “Ah, Sean, stop the fussin’. Just let her have her way.” Dad took a handkerchief out of his pocket, playfully smacking my head. He was all dressed up for work. “Besides, I don’t like you all listening to that channel 35 crap anyway. Their information is unreliable. You’ve got a better weather reporter right here.” “Yeah...” My voice trailed, followed by an awkward laugh. “What’s wrong?” “I just think the guy was gonna report something important. I mean, look at us.” Lifting up my arms, both of my soaking wet armpits could be seen and smelled. “Haha, summer here isn’t like it used to be. Global warming. It’s a nice feeling though, being in that freezing office of ours for hours. Boss can afford blasting AC’s 24/7 but not a raise.” He muttered. “Anyway, don’t be anxious, buddy. I’m on the air in a few minutes and tonight at 6. Just keep WOAA on the radio and I’ll keep you updated.” He came forward and pecked me on the forehead. Before he could peck my sister, she stopped him. “Daddy, who makes summer? I want them to make it rain” Dad scoffed out a laugh and ruffled her hair. “Silly, we talk about this every day. I’ll tell you all about it after work, okay? I have to get going.” He looked around the kitchen. “I’ll buy water on the way back too. Just wait here.” In a split second, he grabbed his keys and was out the door. I was left to watch my sister until he got off at 9. I smacked my lips, thinking of what to do in the meantime. “You want a popsicle?” She reluctantly shook her head. “Are you sure?” “I do. But I checked. They’re all melty.” “In the freezer?” I almost didn’t believe her. But I checked for myself, pulling open the freezer door. It was all mush. I sighed and rested my head against the freezer in defeat. Distant screams could be heard outside the window. My mood changed, peering out the window. “It’s the neighbors, they have a pool! Get your swimsuit and go play. I’ll wait by the radio.” She squealed excitedly. No way Janelle would say no to that. *** Hours had passed; the scorching heat had only worsened. After she swam, we continued to sit around in the kitchen. Just sitting. Listening to the radio static, patiently waiting for Dad to come on and tell us everything was gonna be okay. “Change it, Janelle.” I said, giving up. “Just go put your show on TV.” “Daddy said to wait.” “Daddy also said he would be on at 6. It’s 7. I'm sick of waiting on people who lie.” Janelle poked her lip out and whined when I tried to change the station myself. That wasn’t gonna work on me. Realizing this, she bear hugged the radio, grasping for dear life. “Get away!!!” She shouted, slurring her speech a bit. A burning sensation struck my hand once I grabbed her arm. My heart skipped. I was so focused on waiting like a sitting duck I didn’t realize how sickly my sister looked. Playing outside must have made her worse. Quickly I looked across the street; the neighbor’s pool had evaporated and the hose was cut off. I ran towards the sink, pushing and pulling the handles. Nothing. Janelle’s hair was soaked and steaming, and her skin looked rashly. She was gonna die if I waited; I just knew. “Get up, I have to get Dad; he’ll know what to do.” Janelle lifted her head, she was surely having a heatstroke. But she’s stubborn and wouldn’t let her hands off of the radio. Think. Fast. My eyes shifted to the useless fridge. I wrapped my arms around her and the radio and carried her down the steps. My shoe almost stuck to the wood. The creaking of the steps intensified. The heat expanded the boards. Dad taught us that. I opened the deep freezer and pulled out pounds of meat, it was cold enough. “Please stay here, I’m gonna come back with Dad.” She didn’t respond, but she held her grip on the radio. I thought her fingers would snap. I grabbed an icepack from the freezer, darted up the steps, and ran for the door. Twisting the doorknob, another burst of painstaking heat was sent straight through my hand. Fanning my hand, I quickly grabbed an oven mitt hanging up. THUD The hinges on the door were completely melted and the door fell clean off. I scanned the neighborhood. People were halfway hung out of their windows. Cars were melting into the driveway. My bike had been sitting under the tree all day. The tires still bubbled. I took the chance. With an icepack in hand, pressed against my head, and an oven mitt in the other, I picked up my bike and headed for Dad’s job. “It’s not too far.” My voice could hardly be heard beyond the squishing of my tires and the groaning and cries of the neighbors. “I can fix this.” I pedaled with all my might. The sun beamed down onto my skin. My blood boiled, almost in a literal sense. *** It was difficult to breathe, but I had made it, with my face drenched in sweat and my skin broken out in hives. Those big red WOAA letters had made it all worth it. “DAD!” I tried to yell, but nothing clear came out. I had no solid plan from here on out. My eyes felt hot, and not because of the heat. I began to realize Dad couldn’t do anything but comfort us. Be there for his kids. That’s all I wanted. Oh man. He was dead. I just knew. I threw the, now useless, bike down and slumped towards the entrance. There wasn’t any power left in me to run. Every breath I took felt like I was stabbed with a pin a thousand times. The ice pack had melted into a plastic mush. With my oven mitt still intact, I pushed the entrance door. To my left, an empty reception desk. To my right, a board with a list of rooms and names. My eyes focused and unfocused too fast to make anything out of it. Straight down the hall was a big, red sign with an arrow pointing left. ‘ON AIR’ The feeling of relief washed over me. It had to be him. The silence was deafening. I tried lifting my leg up to walk, but I dropped onto the floor. I couldn’t even cry if I wanted to. I dropped everything from my hands for support. On my hands and knees, I slowly crawled down the hall. My ears rang every time I made a move. The red light from the sign shined on my face. To my right, a hallway that led to stairs. To my left, multiple doors. Just one stood out. A glass door. It stood directly at an angle facing the wall. I could see inside, just not far enough. I tried to move, but there was a jitter in my knees. My body completely collapsed. My shoes had melted to the floors. I couldn’t even feel my skin anymore. Maybe my mind was so overwhelmed to even remember what pain was. Or maybe for the fact that my nerves were dying. I knew that. I looked up at the door and squinted. Was I delirious? Is it my heatstroke? It looked cold. So cold that you could see the condensation on the glass door. Even from how far I was. I thought about all the times Dad complained about how cold his job was. His slackoff boss was a blessing after all. I thought about Janelle. I thought about Dad. I wanted in. I wanted in bad . With the last inch of strength in my body, I dug my nails into the wood floors until they bled, pulling my body closer and closer to the door. A wonky smile crept onto my lips. The further I inched towards the door, the more I saw inside. Half of a man’s body could be seen leaning up against something. I knew that corduroy suit from anywhere. “DAD!” I could hardly even think of screaming. My fingers gripped the small space between the floorboards. I squeezed my eyes shut and pulled. My arms trembled. I completely pulled myself up to the door, huffing out my last few breaths. My head lay against the ground. Paralyzed. I peaked open my eyes. There he was. Far. In the back of the room. With a woman wrapped in his arms, leaned up against a table. Her belly poked out. He turned his head, just enough for me to see his face. He was smiling that smile he had earlier. Perky. Happy. Unaware of the pain and suffering that was going on around him. Dad looked down at his watch and moved, with the woman, towards the center of the room. There was a backdrop where they record live weather reports and a table straight across. It wasn’t a normal table; I knew that. It had buttons. When he clicked one of the buttons, the solid light from the ‘ON AIR’ sign flickered. My hand slid towards the door. I knocked. I couldn’t scream, or shout, or open the door. I knocked the quietest knock. Dad’s head snapped towards me. I couldn’t scream, or shout, or ask dad to help me. My eyes spoke for me. I cried with the last bit of hydration left in my body. Hand still on the control console, his eyes widened with hurt. He knows he has to save me. Save Janelle. Save this hell of a summer. The woman wrapped her arm around his. Dad picked up the mic on the console. “Hello, hello, folks! James here, broadcasting to your radio station LIVE from WOAA. Heatwave warning. Heat-Wave-War-Ning!” Still locking eyes with me, he separated his words with urgency. I could hear the woman crying into his arm. Dad moved to another end of the console; there were multiple colored knobs. He turned to look at me again. There was no urgency. And she wasn’t crying. She was laughing. Still holding eye contact, he rested his fingers on the orange and yellow knob. He twisted, slowly. He picked up the microphone. Mom was right. No. Janelle was right. “...Let’s crank up the heat.” People do control summer.

Look at this tie. Do you think it goes with this shirt, my suit, these pants? Do they seem wrinkled to you? I don’t know why they couldn’t have stayed with the polyester, it never wrinkled. You could put it through a car wash, and it would come out looking like it just jumped off the rack. Do you suppose that when this jacket gets wet... it’s supposed to rain you know. Will I begin to smell like an old sheep? I worry about things like that, because once I was accused of smelling fishy. It was a long time ago, but that kind of insult doesn’t leave your memory easily. Have you ever been accused of smelling like something, well something unpopular? I know being popular isn’t, or shouldn’t be a concern, but you must admit it has an effect on you. When you are avoided I guess you can take it one of two ways, perhaps more, but for the sake of argument, let’s just say two. You are either in a realm so far above those around you that they can’t possibly relate, or that their perception of you is totally dependent upon possibly, that one stupid mistake you made. No need to go into which one, it only brings up bad memories and feelings. Half the time any more, I don’t know which way to turn. Everything has gotten to a place where if you make a wrong turn, you can end up dead or wishing you were. Then there’s this thing about the world cookin us in our own juices. I don’t know much about it, but it seems we usually get what we have coming to us. Something to do with dying, and how we deserve it. Nothing new in that, we all know we are dying, just don’t know when. I guess that’s what keeps us from doing extreme things, even more stupid than the things we do anyway. But this is all becoming too depressing, we need to talk about something else. What do you say we try and decide which one of us is the most likely to get elected president. I know I’m smart enough. Hell, after that last guy, my dog is smart enough. But you are prettier, even though you are a woman. Seems to be a negative thing as far as getting elected though, but then times have improved. Wasn’t that long ago you couldn’t even vote or own property. I can’t help but wonder if God changed his mind on things, or whether we have evolved to the point where if it is factual, it probably deserves some respectability. I don’t know that for sure, but then that seems to be the problem, nothing is for sure. Take happiness for instance. Guy told me one time you’ve got to make your own happiness, no one is going to do it for you. Or was that something about walking a lonesome road by yourself. I don’t know for sure, but do you think I could be slipping? By that I mean, I ain’t as young as I used to be, and they say we tend to forget as we age. I haven’t decided yet whether I believe that, or maybe we just forget because it’s easier than having to pretend we understand things we just don’t want to. Remember that guy Ronny Rhubarb, don’t think that was his real name, but what different does it make, anyway. We only get the name we are given, and it is hard to change it, because they always want to know why? I tried once to change my name, but got tired of filling out papers and pretending I could come up with a name that was a better fit. That ever happen to you? You know, I been talking with you for quite some time, and you don’t seem to be joining in. Don’t you have anything to say? I get like that myself from time to time, but it usually passes. Something about communicating that keeps you sharp. Not that people have to agree with you, can’t hardly agree with myself most of the time. But you’ve got to try. I probably lost more debates with myself over the years than anyone. They told me when I was a kid it was because I was raised by Democrats. Well everyone back then was a democrat, or afraid to say they weren't, thirties depression and all. They said I looked too hard at things trying to figure out the right from wrong, and therefore never got around to deciding. That ever happen to you? I knew a guy like that once, wasn’t me. He was smart as old Methuselah, but would spend half an hour deciding which sock to put on first. Always wore red socks so I don’t know what the problem was. It isn’t like there is a left or right. No, I think he was superstitious. You know superstitious people can’t find the right answer, because they never seem to remember which came first, the chicken or the egg. This guy he claims it didn’t matter which came first, but what did matter, was that you were considering the choice. I think what he was getting at was that he had forgotten which sock to put on first, and that kind of unsettled his morning, probably more than his morning. He spent a lot of time deciding, and I think that’s why he had trouble figuring out which is which, and what is what. We had a discussion one time about whether, two and two is four, or that it is just an assumption because that is what we've been taught to believe. Did it matter which of the twos came before the other? He was difficult to follow at times. I couldn’t tell why that would even be part of the argument... discussion, but he seemed to think it was a critical element because of the periodic tables. I don’t know much about the periodic tables, but I suspect they have little to do with, which red sock has to be put on first, before two and two no longer add up to four. But then I could be wrong. I remember once, when I wasn’t wrong for nearly a whole day. You don’t forget things like that. You planning on saying anything, or did I put you to sleep? Hello, Hello? Hey, anyone here got an extra quarter; I think my phone needs something to keep it doing what it is supposed to be doing. But then there are a lot of things that are supposed to be doing something, but aren’t. Like I always say, blame it on the government, or the economy, can’t go wrong. No matter how people feel, they seem to be able to feel something for the government or the economy. Of course there is always religion, if that fails. Ah! A quarter. I thank you. For what I can’t recall, but I’m sure I must owe someone, for something. “Hello?”

In the vibrant village of Nakawuka lived a hardworking, shy, and naïve girl named Malaika. She greeted everyone and played with the children she met. Each morning, she hummed songs while gathering firewood for her beloved grandmother. Daily, she found neatly stacked firewood and a basket of fruits accompanied by a note filled with compliments and encouragement. One day, intrigued by the gifts, she followed a path to a charming homestead, only to be startled by a man named Tembo, who tapped her on the back, causing her to faint. Tembo looked at the unconscious girl, uncertain about what to do as night fell and it was his first time alone with a girl. Concerned for Malaika's safety, he recalled how her father had accidentally died at his own father's hands. Tembo thought to himself that history shouldn't repeat itself, so he quickly devised a plan to help Malaika recover. Though he had spent most of his time alone since his father's death, Tembo was a hardworking and handsome man who would never harm anyone; he was just trapped by his past. He vowed to protect Malaika for as long as he lived, even from a distance, believing it was his way of atoning for her father's accidental death. He hoped that one-day circumstances would change and that Malaika might understand, moving beyond the past. But only time will tell. He brought her into his home to care for her. When Malaika regained consciousness, she worried about her grandmother, but Tembo convinced her to stay until morning and offered to walk her home. Although she was raised not to spend nights with strangers, she agreed to stay at Tembo's house, struggling internally with the decision. Despite her discomfort, she felt an unusual ease around him, as if she had known him forever. "You’re quiet," Tembo interrupted her thoughts during their meal. "Don't be afraid of me; I'm just making sure you're safe." Malaika then asked if he knew who was leaving her the gifts, but he hesitated to share his feelings and identity. Tembo secretly admired Malaika and had been helping her as a way to express his love. However, he was haunted by a dark past involving her father's death. Malaika sensed his turmoil and tried to comfort him, unaware of their connection. She asked about his family, but Tembo preferred to enjoy the moment without revisiting painful memories. He asked, "Do you believe in fate?" Malaika replied, "To some extent, yes. For example, I was searching for the good Samaritan who has been helping me, and here I am stuck with you." They both smiled, and Tembo continued, stating that fate often comes with obstacles. Malaika agreed, adding that life should be fully enjoyed without fear, like free birds. Tembo then asked what she would change if she had control over life. Malaika nostalgically said she would bring back her parents, who left her with her grandmother at a young age. She shared that her father died under mysterious circumstances, and her mother succumbed to depression shortly after. Tembo felt uncomfortable but couldn’t confess that his father was responsible for her father's death. He feared never seeing her again, but guilt weighed heavily on him. When Malaika noticed his silence, she asked if he was okay. He replied, "Yes, your story is touching." He inquired if her family had sought answers about her father's death, and she explained that her father’s demise stemmed from a failed deal with a friend. Malaika then asked Tembo about his parents. He revealed he never met his mother and lost his father after a long illness. Realizing it was late, they decided to rest before heading to Malaika’s home. She worried about how to explain her absence to her grandmother. That night, Tembo had nightmares, murmuring about needing to apologize to Malaika's family. Malaika, hearing his distress, brought him water and comforted him before they fell asleep again. The next morning, Tembo prepared tea before they set off for Malaika’s home. On the way, she asked about his nightmare, but he lacked the courage to share his story. Instead, he asked if she would still be friends if she learned something bad about him. Malaika was taken aback but replied that they would remain friends, as everyone makes mistakes. This only deepened Tembo's internal struggle; he felt torn about keeping such a significant secret from her. As they walked and shared childhood memories, they reached the spot where the incident had occurred years ago. Tembo could no longer contain his anxiety and told Malaika he had something to confess. She joked that she had noticed he was troubled. He revealed that he had been the one leaving the firewood and fruits for her. Malaika paused, joyfully admitting she suspected him because his was the only house nearby. Tembo then confessed his feelings for her, saying he had been drawn to her voice for some time. This made Malaika blush; she had liked him from the start, and his character only deepened her affection. A comfortable silence enveloped them, filled with unspoken emotions. Out of the blue, Tembo told Malaika about a traumatic incident from his childhood involving a loved one that still burdens him and disrupts his life. Malaika, feeling pity, encouraged him to share his pain with someone. He looked into her eyes and replied, “Let’s get going. Your grandmother must be worried.” As they walked closer to the village, he took her hand. Near her home, Tembo said, “You are a wonderful and beautiful girl. I hope to be good enough for you, and I pray we meet again as better people. Take care of yourself.” Puzzled by his words, Malaika asked if he was going on a journey, but he shook his head, hugged her, and said goodbye. She called out his name as he ran away, hugging him one last time and asking if she would see him again. He agreed and told her, “Run, don’t keep Granny waiting.” They smiled at each other and parted ways, each with unanswered questions.

It was a grueling day at work everything that could go sideways did. Blueprints I needed for a meeting did not come I called the carrier said maybe their driver misplaced them or delivered to the wrong office. I spilled coffee on my new laptop. Luckily I had a friend in the IT dept help dry it out. When the clock hit 5 o’clock, and all I wanted to do was to go home and watch television, make myself a cup of coffee, put a TV dinner in the oven, and just chill. Of course, the bus I was on got a flat tire I had to wait till the next bus came twenty minutes later, of course, it was standing room only. Finally, I made it home, putting the key in the door I just laid on the sofa, coat and all. I had finished eating dinner dishes done and put away first I checked my personal e-mail and my school e-mail one of the emails reminded me there was an early morning staff meeting to meet the new department head. After which, while surfing the net. I came across one of those websites that still have people that believe the world is flat and other far-out crazies as we didn’t land on the moon Elvis Presley is still alive, scientist are bearding distinct types of animal to clone them one day. I think of these webs site cotton candy for the mind. People ready believe this stuff, really. Several weeks later another strange article caught my eye only had a few lines all the way at the bottom it read “Inside source provides information on a machine to control the weather” I just laugh thinking to myself these people need to get a life. Several months later another small hidden article still in a fringe magazine read “Engineers make a prototype of a machine to control the weather” Common sense told me that this would be on the front page of a national newspaper or television station. It would be the story of the century. I do remember the story about a strange airplane saw near area fifty-one turned out later to be true to be a secret stealth flyer. What would be the effect if we could control the weather? Do we have a hubris toward nature? I searched and within the next two years more talk about a weather machine from small mainstream media outlets. Early in June, the public relations department of the government acknowledged engineers had indeed invented the machine to control the weather. It gave the agency to oversee this machine the name of the weather monitor department, which was part of Homeland security. The agency did finally admit after the media outlets sued using the Freedom of Information Act, they had to admit they had limited their use of the machine only twice to areas that needed water to relieve drought in the central part of the United States. The weather monitor department spokeswoman insisted that no unexpected disturbance occurred. This was another big step for mankind. I had been noticing slowly even though we were in daylight saving the usual bright sun would wake me up and it was not that strong lately. The world would soon find out the consequence of trying to be the master of the weather just an unexpected disturbance. It was a slow process, but suddenly one morning my alarm went off at six, but it was dark, I thought maybe the power went out but checked my cell and it was six a.m. I said, “Google read me the lead news story.” Google in plan tone “The leading story is the sun did not rise over the east coast instead the sun came up over California.” “What?” Just a minute Google doesn't the rule goes the sunrise in the east and set in the west? “Correct” “I yelled back, well what the hell happened?” Google in its monotone voice “has no response.” I thought to myself calm down this may be the strangest dream I’ve ever had must have been the fresh bottle of brandy I bought on my way home yesterday. I sat glued to the television nobody had a clue what was happening social media was going wild with crazy beliefs. My message board on my cell was full. This shifting of the rising sun continued for about three weeks until finally, the truth came out. The weather monitor Department which oversaw this machine admitted when the power of the machine had by accident increased too quickly to cover the entire United States it caused a massive gravity shift the engineers are working day and night on a solution to rebalance the gravity shift. I stood frozen in front of the TV. The engineers had to use the help of NASA the engineers came up with a possible solution It would require NASA to recalculate several of its satellites alone with help from several other countries satellites which took a lot of convincing along with a few nice incentives with a signal beam pointed toward the sun for the next twenty-four-hour the scientist and the engineers’ calculations predicted a gravity correction. The world held its collective breath. Bets were being taken in Los Vagas three to one. It would not work. As usual, no one was aware of this machine or its use. I fell asleep on the couch in the sunroom of my home. I had to put my hand up to block the sun from hitting my face. I jumped up as the sun hit my face. I asked Google, “what time is it?” It is 6 am, daylight Saving Time replied Google. In the coming months, there were several investigations, but in the end, nobody knew anything about this machine or what went wrong. They passed laws to prevent any more attempts to tamper with the weather and that the machine was to be destroyed and they made the plans top secret to be stored at an undisclosed location. Several years later, again while researching for a class project, I stumbled on another fringe website, unnamed sources claiming they had not destroyed the weather machine which was being stored at area fifty-one. It made me wonder not again, please lord.

I fell into a routine of spending my mornings asking about Sannaz and my afternoons on the Deer Drum boat. I would sit and talk to Kurbani and Mirai as Lachlann continued to teach Novak songs on the guitar. In the background Xander would tend to his plants, the pole beans now two feet high. Daily he would give me updates on how the plants were doing, and how much he was looking forward to his nautical harvest. Alessia continued to be around sporadically, taking small runs whenever she could. I decided to walk down to the quay with her as she departed on her next trip. “How long is the route?” I asked as we turned a corner to see the ocean in front of us. “A week, probably. You missing me already?” She smirked, raising an eyebrow. I rolled my eyes. “You know I do.” “Kind of miss having you on the boat too.” She smiled, before settling into a toying grin. “You know, kind of.” I laughed. “I assume you’ve stolen my room for your own stuff?” Alessia waved her arm. “Pfft. Nah. Extra cargo space. Earn more.” We both chuckled, but our smiled and walk ground to a halt as we reached Alessia’s boat. The conversation could only last provided we stopped walking. “Stay safe out there, won’t you?” I said, looking down. “I... don’t know where I’d be without you.” Alessia smiled, then forced her face to a flat line. “Bribe your way onto another boat and sail off I imagine. But you stay safe too.” “I’ll be fine. It’s good to have the Deer Drum lot around. Besides, I kind of like it here.” “Yeah?” Alessia’s voice went oddly flat. “This place just seems to have it figured out. Just allowing people to do what they want. Sure, some people make bad choices, but at least they get to choose .” Alessia winced. “You really think this place is nice?” “Don’t you?” “I don’t know. And neither do you.” Her tone shifted. “How much of the island you seen? Other than the town, the docks, and the Deer Drum boat?” “I’ve walked around the coast a bit-” “Head inland. Go to the middle of the island.” She nodded over my shoulder. “What’s there?” “I don’t know.” Alessia shrugged. “But neither do you. Head that way. The rich shits always live by the water.” I scrunched my face and leaned back. “We’re not rich.” Alessia snorted. “Oh but we are. There are plenty wealthier than us, but so many more lower.” She briefly glanced behind her, eyeing up the water and wind. “Look, Ferdinand. I know you, you love to go out and see places and explore. But all you’ve done since we’ve got here is stay within the same town you already know. It ain’t you. To stay where you feel comfortable. Go be Ferdinand. Go be uncomfortable.” I paused. There was an instinctual reactance to what Alessia said, but truth be told, I already knew she was right. Instead, I just forced a smile. “See you in a week?” “Yeah. Go do some actual exploring like you say you want to, okay?” Alessia laid a hand on my arm. She held eye contact for a second, then slowly turned and walked down the jetty. I began walking back towards the town, but instead of turning left and heading along the quay, I kept walking past the tall white buildings that pressed up against the pavement. I continued as the pavement beneath my feet changed from brick, to cobblestone, to gravel, and then,into nothing more than trodden dirt weaving between the grass.The town left behind me. Summer was arriving. And as the sun broke through the clouds, I could feel a warmth on my neck. A heat that penetrated the skin, scratching at the muscle beneath. Alessia was right. I had left Kadear to explore, but I had retreated. I had found something comfortable and enveloped myself like a cocoon. I took the security of our small apartment on Talin Barier and decided I wanted nothing more. The fear and memories of Outer Fastanet had erode that part of me. It was time to be somewhere unknown again, to not let the apprehension and worries prevent me from pursuing that old itch. As I walked away from the town, that heat on my neck slowly shifted from a burn to a spark, a warmth lit within me, as my feet took me over the soft rolling hills. Soon, the coast was nowhere to be seen. Instead, lines of tall pine trees ran across the hillside. Wild flowers bloomed in the sunshine, the green mass broken by spots of blue, pink, and white. In the distance, I could hear the hum of bees taking advantage of what the blossoms provided. I followed the path until it reached the top of the next hill. As I looked over the top I saw a town in the valley below. It was roughly the same size as the main settlement by the coast, however it was considerably flatter. The tallest buildings were at best a short two storeys. They were smaller too, each no larger than a room. I walked down the hill towards the settlement. I could feel a trepidation flickering in my chest, a brief spasm in the muscles that told me to stop. However, I remembered Alessia’s instructions, and pushed through the nervousness. As I got closer the meadow gave way to dry compacted earth broken by the occasional large bush, A thousand feet that had trampled down the plants until only the largest remained:, those so big that feet had to go around rather than through. I turned right and headed down a wide street. Many of the buildings had no windows at all, those that did seemed to have small square cutaways, metal bars where glass should be. I could see cracks in the buildings. Worse still, spot the spaces where some had fallen down, the space cleared out and a simple canvas tent placed in its stead. I felt like I had travelled to a different island. Only on Bluekira had I seen such a contrast from one place to the next. There was a small stream that ran between the buildings, the shallow water broken by stones no more than a hand’s width in size. Yet, downstream, I could see men and women taking advantage of it as best they could, slowly filling up old wooden buckets, or trying to wash clothes in the brook. They worked tirelessly, yet their limbs looked frail. Skin clung to bony joints. Their faces were pallid, and their throats sagged from their jaws, the muscles lacking the protein to cling to the skin. I turned around, trying to keep an eye on my peripheral at all times. I couldn’t shake the sensation that something could happen at any moment. I began counting the entrances on either side, each one no more than a few metres apart. The homes were tiny, bunched together, rammed into every available space. Some entrances had actual doors, while others were simply a piece of wood propped up against the entranceway, or even nothing more than a sheet draped across/ My eye was caught as a door to my left opened. I recognized the face of the woman who walked out. It was Maia, the woman I met in the courtyard a month or so earlier. I was unsure if she would recognize me, yet I felt certain I had to talk to someone. “Maia...” I started hesitantly. She turned to face me. “I’m not sure if you remember me. We met a while back. At the courtyard...” She looked at me for a moment, studying my face until something clicked. “Oh yes. You dropped some money. Ferdinand right? Are you lost?” “No. I’m just... exploring.” It had been a while since I had said that aim. The words had begun to feel alien again. “You live here?” I pointed to the door. She nodded with a look of slight confusion. “This town, it’s...” I looked around at the cracked walls and the poorly made earthen buildings looking for an inoffensive term. “A slum?” Maia laughed. “I’m sorry,” I bowed my head. “I hadn’t ventured this way since I got here. I assumed everywhere was like the town by the water.” She forced a smile, but her eyes hid a bitterness. “If only we could all live there.” I stood for a second with my mouth open, unable to find the words. “You look like you want to say something,” Maia prompted. “Ever since I got to Talin I was told this place was about letting people choose what they wanted to do. But, I’m guessing you don’t live here by choice.” Maia looked down the road towards the stream. “I choose this over no home at all. But anything better costs more than I can afford. Choose from what we have.” “No chance to move somewhere nicer with time? The island seems rich enough?” “Those who own the buildings and the quays can choose what to do with their money. They choose not to spend it here. Who needs food or water when you got freedom, ay?” She lifted one corner of her lip in an ironic smile. “I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn-” “It’s fine.” Maia cut me off. “But I should be going into town. Work to get to.” “Did you get that job with Eda?” I asked with a smile, sensing a happier topic of conversation. “Hopefully. Probably. Going back and forth on the exact salary. Will be a lot better for me if I can. Would mean my boy can grow up secure.” “You have a son?” “He’s over there.” She pointed to a small group of children playing at the end of the road, jumping between squares drawn in the dirt. Their faces looked around eight or nine, but their frames were small. “Will you move to the main town?” Her eyes stretched, strained. “No. But it’ll mean he will keep a roof over his head, and enough to eat till he’s a man and can make his own way.” She stared at her son, a soft - genuine - smile crept across her face. “If... I can help you get that job in any way.” “If Eda asks about me, sure, put in a good word. But, what’ll be will be.” She looked at the sun, then to the shadows by our feet. “I’m sorry. I really should get going.” Maia left and walked up the dusty path. I thought back to that coin she had handed me when we first met. That coin would maybe be lunch to me, a little break as I relaxed by the ocean. In reality, it was insignificant. But I wondered what it could’ve bought her. Clothes for her son? A week's food? She could’ve kept the coin and I would maybe never have known I lost it. Yet the moment of kindness cost her so much more. She left the village and turned left. It was then I saw a figure emerging from one of the buildings in front of me. I squinted, making sure it was definitely the same man from Deer Drum. There was no mistaking it. Lachlann was here. He didn't notice me, turning and walking up the street. I began following him, slowly closing the distance. I could’ve called out from where I was and gotten his attention, but I also still wanted to make some sense of his presence here in this slum. I followed in silence until we had left the town, the dirt ground slowly transitioning back to the wild grasses. “Lachlann!” I called out. He turned to face me in a sudden swivel. He had a brief look of apprehension, before the face softened. “Ferdinand! I didn’t expect to see you out here.” “I could say the same to you,” I said with a wide grin, but with eyes that were narrowed on him ever so slightly. Lachlan laughed. “You’re not the only one who likes to see the islands. You heading back to the town? I’ll walk with you.” We began walking up the hill, once more lush nature circled around us as the dust and grime was left behind. “Xander was telling me you often go exploring the islands." “Yeah. Something nice about getting to meet people, hear about their lives. You must understand that?" “I do.” I nodded, before looking back over my shoulder at the tight spread of small dilapidated houses. “Even when the place is like this.” “Ah yeah,” Lachlann said, stopping and turning to look back at the town. “This part of Talin Barier isn’t necessarily the happiest story you could find.” “I didn’t even know this place existed till today. I...” I hesitated, feeling a moment of shame. "I guess I thought everyone lived by the sea." “I’m sure they'd be there if they could,” Lachlann said with a solitary chortle. I let out a long sigh. “So much for freedom.” “Oh, they have freedom,” Lachlann turned to face me. “It’s choice they lack. Unfortunately they aren’t the same.” I began walking up the hill once more. “I didn’t know you weren’t originally from Deer Drum?” His eyes looked to the sky wistfully. “Yeah. Didn’t find my way there till I was an adult.” “Where’d you come from originally?” I asked. He paused for a second. He turned and looked back towards the slum in the valley below. "Story for another time maybe. Meanwhile, I'd love to hear about what you'd been up to since Tima." We continued up over the hill as I told Lachlann about our travels. \ Next chapter 9th December.

I was never the marrying type. I had plenty of men but I just didn't see myself settling down or having kids. It all seemed so uninteresting. My sister would ask, "Don't you want to have a little person like you?" I couldn't even take care of my dog let alone a tiny, needy human being. I was/ am an alien anthropologist. When I first entered the field it was all about new bacteria, plants, and molecules on other planets; until the trip to Norizon. It was the first planet identified to have signs of intelligent life. Satellites showed that there were massive stone structures, roads, and what seemed to be a large number of buried temples. Upon arrival there were no signs of intelligent life until they awoke. The next 6 years was a blur. We met the Vansh; a welcoming communal tribal people with advanced stone work and developed writing and culture. I learned their language, loved the culture and became one of them. This was the life I longed for. To others it was an escape; to me it was home. I began living with a clan positioned at the center of the city. While others questioned my motives, the females took me in and taught me their ways. I became a midwife to them and a healer. The men shied away except one; Tival, the chief's son. Quickly our love grew from walks along the Vantze River to secret smoke sessions from the herb harvest. Our secret forbidden love would end with the next hibernation, only months away. I awoke to the sounds of the forest. The last thing I remember was that there was a stampede at the Great Feast. The Vansh were celebrating the day before their hibernation with a festival that lasted into the late hours of the night. I remember being carried away from the fray in Tival’s massive hairy arms. His eyes were wide in the moonlight, calming me as he gently carried me through the frenetic crowd. My head was throbbing. I lay near the river in the place we used to share our hopes and dreams t. Tival was gone, I must have slept for two maybe three weeks as I noted as many of the plants had regrown around me. My head was throbbing with pain and my abdomen was smeared with a sticky residue. There was dried blood on the stone near me and as I tried to sit up I noticed an 8 inch scar across my belly. My pain turned to excitement. I was chosen. Tival mated with me on the eve of his hibernation, the most fertile time of the year. I was carrying his heir. I had four months until the arrival of my child. I limped back to the city and found the remains of my crew. They didn’t survive the Great Feast. Shreds of their bodies were strewn about the square, artifacts of their brief time here. Their flesh was necessary fuel to stave off the hunger pangs of the 6 year slumber. Amidst the bodies and rubble I imagined what my child would be like. I would teach him the Vansh ways and train him as a Chief’s son. Tival will be so proud of him.

Hello everyone! I'm not a usual poster but I'm not exactly sure where to post this question. If this isn't a good sub for this, please let me know and I'll ask elsewhere! My Grampa is over 90 now, and has been living great--still driving around, living alone in his house, self sufficient. Recently he has slipped on ice and his neck is now broken. He's stable but has no feeling from the chest down... He's gone from living a solid life to just laying in bed all day at the hospital. He's being moved but I can't imagine how ungodly bored he must be. I'd like to go read him something but I have no idea what might be appropriate. He's lucid and he's really intelligent. His brain is working fine. He is Lutheran, knows I'm atheist, and doesn't mind. I wanted maybe something kinda metaphorical or just generally interesting or... Yeah I'm really lost as to where to start. My other grandparents that have been in similar situations were when I was very young. My rambling aside, would anyone happen to have a recommendation as to something kinda short I could read to him? I don't wanna pick something and have it be lame or patronizing or something.

The Edge always gave Rick the heebie-jeebies. He deactivated the till setting on his new Spyder Deluxe, silencing the low thrumming noise of jagged claws that had been working the ground below, then killed the engine. The machine’s legs stretched and the body lifted, raising Rick’s vantage and giving the impression that the Edge was creeping inward, encroaching on his land like weeds to wheat. In a few minutes, his neighbor’s property, now only a slow-moving speck hardly visible against the spackled backdrop of deep space, would swing close enough for Rick to count the steps on John and Linda Barker’s front porch. Twice a year, the Barkers’ off-kilter orbit brought their residence within spitting distance, though he’d be hard pressed to get anything, let alone spit, through the thick airtight dome encircling his home. The dome’s interior displays served as the window to outside, producing an image so clear and realistic that Rick, after setting the image to Blue Sky Over Landscape, very nearly suffered a concussion bumping into it. Today, he’d set the image to Real-time Patchthrough so he could watch the passing of the Barkers with his own two eyes. Five years prior, Rick, having grown tired of reading through the immense amount of mail he’d often receive-mail which certainly outnumbered the distant stars, and, to Rick, were of a similar significance-did not read the notice that detailed the addition of a new orbiting body, and was surprised when a blip on his radar, one he’d never seen before, traced an uncomfortably close trajectory. But all worry vanished when old John Barker flickered the lightswitch in his two-story classic, flashing a message of neighborly peace and good humor. The next pass, Rick waved from the seat of his ancient Cruber like a madman, and the rest was history. Nowadays, it wouldn’t feel like June without a wave from old John. The speck that was John’s farm grew into a fleck. After a moment, Rick could make out tiny patches of color from John’s exterior display. A few minutes later, there was their lawn, a fresh and rich green patch, and then the white siding and red roof of their house, and then the gaps of green in the spaces of their white picket fence. That’s where he’d always see John, both hands on a picket, at least until he spotted Rick, and then he’d lift an arm and wave a wave a lover would be jealous of. But John wasn’t there. Rick squinted at the fenceline surrounding the house, at the beautifully kept lawn, at the porch with two rocking chairs, at the windows, glowing with the light of a loving home. There, in one of the top windows, something obscured the warmth. A dark shape moved across in a flash as if a leak in the roof had allowed the emptiness of space to pour past the window and flood the top floor. But that wasn’t true. If there had been a breach, the dome would have made it clear. Rick had seen more than one breached dome in his time, and the brilliant lights reminded him of fireworks, only he could see them across a hundred thousand miles. Maybe more. Rick removed a terminal from his pocket, navigated to the display controls, then connected to the nearest panel. It meant he’d have to approach the Edge. Heebie-jeebies be damned, he’d been looking forward to showing old John his new Spyder. The section of display Rick had connected to broke from the pattern of its neighbors and magnified the view of John’s farm. Just as before, John was nowhere to be seen. He magnified further, zooming toward the window in which he’d seen movement. Another flash of black. This time, Rick could tell it was a person, though he’d assumed that from the start. This person, however, moved far too quickly. John and Linda were old, and this shadow moved with the quickness of youth. No, Rick was awfully sure, the person moving about John and Linda’s house was neither John nor Linda. In the five years they’d been waving to each other, Rick and John had only spoken a few times, and it had mostly been pleasantries. Rick would tell his wife that he’d be out by the Edge to see his old buddy, and Rose would roll her eyes, tell him to just give the man a call, for goodness sakes. Rick flipped his terminal to Communication and dialed John’s home phone. It rang a total of three times before John and Linda’s voices spoke in tandem, “We’re the barkers! Bark at the tone!” Rick pocketed the terminal and took in a deep, deep breath. The Barkers never mentioned any family, any friends, any common visitors. Drop-ins were as unlikely as a thunderstorm, save for the religious types that came calling now and again. There was only one thing to do: the neighborly thing. And he had to do it fast. Rick let out the breath all at once as he pulled the terminal back out of his pocket. He dialed Rose. “Howdy, sweetheart,” he said as he always would. “I’m headin’ out for a bit. Got a fritzy screen.” Rose sighed. “Be safe, Rick. Dinner’s in thirty.” Rick hung up and removed his suit from the barn, put it on, then keyed his intentions. The airlock door hissed as it opened, and Rick entered the tiny room. He ran the final suit diagnostic before initializing depressurization. There was another hiss, then silence took over. The opposite door opened and suddenly he was staring at the expanse of space as if it were the gullet of one of those space eldritches, or whatever they called them. He pushed out over the Edge. Floating came easy, mostly because Rick’s suit did all the work. He barely felt the vent chambers open on his back, the compressed gasses bursting out, the sudden increase in speed. The only indication that he was moving faster was his shrinking home and the slowing approach of John’s. His suit, unable to trust the dexterity of a human being, gripped a bar on the outside of John’s airlock and pulled him close. The airlock door opened on its own and Rick’s suit pulled them inside. After another series of hisses, Rick was standing on grass. He removed his suit and set it next to the airlock door. The air was fresh, clean; indistinguishable from his own, aside from the scent of rain-washed grass which, Rick knew, could be achieved via terminal command. For some reason, Rose had never been keen on the fragrance, instead insisting on Ocean Spray or Wooded Retreat. Rick unlatched the picket gate and made his way up the porch steps-three, as he’d always counted-passed the antique rockers with their floral cushions colored vibrantly as if they’d just been purchased, and approached the door. He pressed the doorbell and could hear the two-tone ding dong that had been popularized long, long ago, yet somehow persisted. Old John was old school. There was a shuffle inside. The deadbolt clicked and the knob turned. It was Linda. “Oh, hey, Rick. We didn’t see you come up.” Rick decided they must not have been near a terminal. Rose would sometimes set hers aside, too. To ‘escape’ she’d say. “Howdy, Linda. John home?” “Uh,” Linda said. “He’s inside, but he’s really busy.” “Oh,” Rick said. “Everything okay? I could’ve sworn I saw somethin’ movin’ around. I didn’t mean to interrupt your entertainin’.” “Nope!” Linda said, suddenly bright. “Just me and John. It was nice to see you. Give my love to the misses.” “You got it, ma’am.” Rick moved across the porch, past the two rockers, down the steps, one two three, and back to his suit. He put it on and sat in the grass, arms on his knees, chin on his arms, looking out at the sky. Sparkling stars widened into starbursts. Rick’s suit warned him of an irregular discharge within its helmet, then played a soothing, hopeful melody as he waited for the drone to carry him home.

The sun cast an eerie shadow through the windows that brisk autumn afternoon. The way the silhouettes of the leaves danced across the floor and scaled the walls, ascending to the ceiling as if weightless and carefree. The shadows offered a proper mood to the situation as Mr. Welch sat in his living room. The rhythmic tick echoing from the watch precisely fashioned around his wrist, 2:34pm. The conversation around him became nothing but white noise, the imagery from outside creating facades within his mind. The wind was consistent yet gentle, the trees and the wind seemed to peacefully coexist and become one. “Edgar, we need to figure out what happened here” as if ripped from his alternate reality by these words, they felt as if he’d been struck across the face. The man with the shiny black boots and that common pale skin tone were all that jumped out to Edgar, the contrast came across so different, but he relished in the similarities. Edgar had been known for such things, his pedigree in the fashion industry made life in a small town rather impossible. The man spoke again but he quickly became white noise, the details that scrawled across his uniform quickly flashed at Edgar, like the world’s least colorful fireworks show. The laces on the boots were tied to perfection, as if years of practice and most likely scrutiny from a nasty loved one lead to such execution. The thoughts ran a mile between the edges of Edgar’s mind, bouncing off the walls and crafting those dark and mysterious images he’d come to long for. “Edgar, your wife is missing and your story plants you at your home during the hours she would have gone missing. You have no information as to where they could be?” The question seemed to carry a supercilious tone, *quit playing dumb with us Welch, I’ll cuff and drag your sorry ass back to the station in a heartbeat*. These were the emotions Edgar imagined being tossed around underneath that tight cap of his. The badge read “M. Williams” which came as a surprise to Edgar, the officer was thin and scrawny but presumably fit underneath those increasingly bland clothes. He struck Edgar as a Samuel, or maybe even an Oliver “What does the M stand for Officer, if you don’t mind me asking” the question came across as inquisitive, but it seemed to anger Williams. He grabbed Edgar by the collar and hoisted him into the air with what felt like ease. “It’ll stand for my fucking foot in your ass if you don’t start answering my questions, where did your wife go!” This was no longer a game for Edgar, his shirt had been heaved from the waistband of his jeans and his neatly combed hair disheveled from the violent shaking. The pale face that once calmly stood before him was replaced with a bright red; his eyes quickly shifted to that of what you’d see on a wild animal. This wasn’t the behavior of your average uniform, Mr. Williams seemed to take what Edgar had done personally, as if he were the brother of his wife. “Officer, officer. All you had to do was ask. I can give you access to my wife’s office if you’d like but I simply have but a clue where she went.” This seemed to ease the aggression, his grip loosened, and Edgar’s now ruffled collar slipped from his grasp. They started down the dimly lit hallway, Janice was never one for the fancy lights and the fine hardwood flooring, she enjoyed the shadows that danced their halls in the later hours of the day. The mahogany door at the end of the hall was her office, where she met with clients and had those simply dreadful conference calls. Edgar always hated what she did, slipping out unexpectedly for hours, sometimes even days at a time to some place she never quite disclosed. He outstretched his hand for the golden doorknob, his face obscured in the spherical illusion. Edgar looked at the clock, 11:21am. The birds had finished their chirping and the frigid air seemed to reside from the trees. The coffee pot chimed those 3 wonderful beeps from the kitchen as Janice’s heels ticked across the hall. Edgar sat in his chair, placed perfectly in the corner of the living room, from this place he felt the tranquility and freedom of the outdoors while experiencing the safety and security of his home. Again, the noises around him fell to a silent hush as he focused on the world before him, the world spoke to him like nobody ever could. Amid this reposeful state, he neglected the sounds of his wife calling out to him. “Edgar, they need me to head out West for a few days again, something’s wrong with one of the clients.” She spoke so sure of her lies, but when she came to bid her final goodbye Edgar snapped from his state. *That* *scent, that familiar* *scent* he thought to himself as she started away from him. The perfume he’d bought for her months ago as a present for their 10-year anniversary. He smelt it when they made love that night and hadn’t smelt it since, unless she was leaving town. She started back towards her office to collect her things as Edgar rose from his chair. *That whore, all this time her clients* *have been nothing* *but a* *facade, an apparition to cloud me from the truth.* He knew what he had to do, there was no other way. Edgar turned the knob, but the door refused to give way. “My apologies, I left the keys on the counter in the kitchen. Would you mind grabbing them for me?” Officer Williams glanced at Edgar, confused as to how he could forget the door was locked, but feeling slightly guilty for the incident earlier he reluctantly started back to the kitchen. The keys glistened in the light cast through the windows as Williams took them in his hand. He turned to leave but something caught his eye as he walked out. The symmetry in the room was off, something felt wrong, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He looked to the window and found the issue, sitting below the ledge was a knife block with 3 empty places. The dishwasher was opened and empty, the sink was clear of any utensils. *Strange-* he thought as he started back to Ms. Welch’s office. “Sorry I got distracted, here’s the keys” Edgar slid the keys into the hole above the knob, the lock snapped back as he turned his hand. The door opened with a violent creak and the two men entered. Janice stepped from behind her office door and checked her watch, 11:24am. She knew her train left at 11:45am and she needed to hurry. She looked up to see Edgar leaning against the wall at the end of the corridor. “Sweetie is there something you need?” his face remained cold and emotionless, his eyes piercing hers and peering into what felt like her soul. “Where did you say you were going again, darling?” his question felt as cold as his gaze, with a hint of suspicion. He took a step towards her, brandishing one of her knives from the kitchen. “See, you never wear that perfume *Janice*” *He never uses my first name... somethings wrong* she thought as he continued towards her “you see, these little surprise business trips got me thinking *Janice.* You never come home during the day, you’re always a little out of place, and you always smell like that fucking perfume” he disclosed a second blade, a butchers knife opposed to the smaller steak knife he held in his other hand. “Honey please, you’re being ridiculous” He raised his arm and threw the butchers knife at her, it connected with her torso as she let out a blood curdling scream. She slumped to the floor, her screaming continuing as Edgar charged towards her. Williams covered his nose; the stench seemingly flew towards them from within the office. He began to panic and started towards the closet on the far end of the room, he unlatched the doors and drew them. He keeled over as he felt his insides churn, Ms. Welch’s lifeless and headless corpse was slumped in the floor of the closet. The insects flew about her wounds and the area surrounding her. He turned back towards Edgar and felt a rush of adrenaline course throughout his system. He glanced down to see the 15’ carving knife slammed into his stomach, his blood pouring from the bottom of the wound onto the floor. Edgar took a step back as Williams threw a hand in his direction, tumbling to his knees. The red tint quickly faded from his cheeks as his insides began spilling out. He looked up at Edgar, a crooked smile plastered seemingly ear-to-ear on his face. “Oh Marcus, you should’ve minded your own business.” He knelt to meet Marcus’ gaze. Blood began to spurt from his mouth as his attempted to cuss out Edgar. He felt icy hands run through his hair as his cap toppled to the floor. Edgar took a firm grip and leaned in to whisper in his ear. “And you shouldn’t have fucked my wife” Edgar grabbed the handle of the knife and ripped it from Marcus’ mid section, proceeding to slash it across his throat and letting his limp corpse collapse to the floor. Edgar glanced at his watch, 3:10pm. He lowered himself back into his chair and admired the birds positioned peacefully on the banister of his porch. They chirped and nestled together to escape the cool breeze. Edgar tilted his head back and took a deep breath, that same crooked smile growing from within him as a loud knock came from his front door. “Mr. Welch. Mr. Welch, it’s the police. Open up” He lifted himself from his seat and exhaled. One final thought graced the surface of his mind. *“And the game begins again.

My mother was always a bit odd. As a child each year near my birthday she would make trayfuls of gingerbread cookies and pass them out to my classmates with a handwritten card, thanking them for being my friend. And if you had stepped into our house you would find our walls adorned top to bottom with every piece of shitty school art I had ever done. It got to a point where I would just throw my creations away before I got home. The strangest thing though was she talked to our plants. She even named them. There was Daphne the lemon tree, Carl the pomegranate tree, and Joseph the Oak, bigger than a sapling but far from a mature tree. I would often find her in the backyard having full-blown one sided conversations with them. When I told her that that was more than a bit strange she would respond curtly. “They need to know they are loved Steven!” she’d say and then she would wait until I had gone back inside before picking up where she left off. Sometimes she would insist we dress up in our nicest clothing and pose by the trees for pictures taken by her timer operated camera. I knew she was far from a normal mother, but all we had was eachother and she did give me all the affection a mother could give. When I moved out for college I made sure to stay close, because I couldn’t bear to leave her alone. She kissed my forehead when I told her this and lovingly told me that it was okay, that she had Carl, Joseph and Daphne to keep her company but I could tell she was relieved to have me near. As I grew older I saw less and less of her. Work, friends, and a love-life took more of my time and I only got to see her once every two weeks. I was at the bar with my friend when I got the call. My mother was dead. Our neighbor spotted her through the fence sprawled on the ground in our garden, a stroke. Only a few family members and friends showed up to her funeral but that was fine, it was always just me and her. She was cremated shortly after the ceremony and I took her home with me. I was given the house and all her belongings, she only had one request of me in her will and that was that I continue to take care of and talk to the trees. I took care of them sure, but I couldn’t really bring myself to talk to plant-life. One day as I was finally going through her room, I found an envelope in her desk with a cache of papers inside. I looked through them and was shocked at what I found. Three stillborn-death certificates for a Joseph, Carl and Daphne. I had never known I had siblings and had never seen any urns, but I knew already where their remains were housed. Now I take her last wish seriously and everyday I talk to the trees. I even bought a new one for my mother.

Deliver, scan 06:05. Deliver, scan 08:17. Deliver, scan 09:10. Deliver, scan 09:54. Deliver, scan 13:12. Deliver, scan 18:34. 18:52 Six newborns today to six sets of parents; a clean day, no twins would need to be separated. The last child, a boy, was delivered at 18:34 today, just making the final cut of the day before the clock struck 19:00. These six infants will wake up tomorrow out of the hospital and in new homes to their new parents. Some will be reunited with their biological parents; others will end up in completely new homes. That decision will fall on the lottery now. Once the baby is delivered, it is out of our hands, it is out of the parents’ hands; fate guides all. It has worked this way since the machines were introduced in 2025. The baby is delivered and immediately taken from the parents into an isolation room. The newborn is scanned, receives two options, and is put to be fed, cleaned, and laid down with all the other newborns of that day until the lottery begins. The newborn will always receive two options. There is ‘option A’ the good news, the option we all hope will become the truth. And of course, there is ‘option B’ the bad news, the ultimate worst. At first they were called ‘positive’ and ‘negative’, but too many parents were leaving their children in the care of the hospital, placing too heavy a connotation on the ‘negative’ aspect. We have found that providing parents ‘options’ allows them the illusion of choice. In the last thirty-nine years not a single child has procured himself an adulthood that has not proved one of the options true. The machines are foolproof in the sense that one of two will be fulfilled. However, with every machine comes a unique disparity. Our machine predicts ‘option A’ correctly 82% of the time. Not as good as other area hospitals with 90% success rates, but better than the others that can only guarantee a 64% chance. It is those lucky ones that hit ‘option A’ who run the world as we know it today. If an infant is unfortunate enough to hit their ‘option B’, well... we’re lucky enough to be operating at 82% “Doctor” the nurse called from the hallway as she walked towards the shut office door, “It is after 19:00, the parents need to be informed and the lottery must begin.” Getting up out of this chair and walking those fifty feet to where the parents await could feel as if you were walking for days. This walk that feels like days is one that takes place every day in hospitals around the world. We are always walking, always. 19:09 “Parents, thank you for your patience. You are all well aware of how we are going to be managing this system.” The speech is always the same, learned as a code, an oath, by every Doctor whom this task is given to. “A lottery has already taken place, and you know whether you are number one, number six, or any number in between. You know that we cannot inform you how the lottery system works, or which child is your offspring.” The words fall off my tongue flawlessly as my mind drifts to what is on the dinner menu tonight. “We can only inform you of what their options entail, and it is up to you make your decision. Remember, this hospital runs at an 82% success rate, so please keep that in mind. You have the choice of selecting a child, or passing, and we will not leave this room until all the parents have taken their choice. If a child is left in the care of the hospital by the end, the parents will have a chance to claim this child along with the one they have already chosen.” “Let us begin.” 21:20 The lottery always takes longer than it should. Two future professional athletes, a future diplomat, a police chief, and a successful entrepreneur were all given new homes. ‘option B’ scenarios tend to blur together as the days go by. Murders, war criminals, even those who will suffer from psychosis. We encourage the families not to hang their heads on these 18%, yet most days we end up with a child who will not have a home, and parents who will have to wait another year to try. Today was no different. Five adopted children, and one that will remain in the care of the hospital. ‘option A’ Olympian. ‘option B’ child molester, 18%. This newborn, the one who was delivered at 08:17 is now in the care of the hospital, and his options will not pan out. Those who are left in the care of the hospital are trained to become a Doctor. There is no glamour in this job as there is no pain. The ultimate neutral, the middle ground between ‘option A’ and ‘option B.’ Going through life knowing you were left there by all potential parents, the unwanted. Growing up knowing your ‘option B’ was so bad it turned everyone away. Pain. One bright side to this life of a neutral comes on your 25th birthday when you finish your training, and are introduced to the system, how the lottery works, and why the machines were brought in. The Doctors are the only ones who know, the only ones who will ever know. In twenty-five years the baby delivered at 08:17 this morning will know. He will know how the system works, and he will learn what his options were to get a feel of what potential parents choose not to select. He will have to live from age twenty-five on knowing what his life could have been, and what it became instead. We are given no names, only the title of ‘Doctor’ and enough knowledge to keep the system moving. My title is Doctor. I know how the system works. I was born with two options, as was everyone else who was born on this planet since 2025, in a hospital that guaranteed an 86% ‘option A’ success rate. All eight parents that day passed on me, and I was left in the care of the hospital. My fates were unique in the sense that they were identical. Had I not been left at the hospital, today I would be the leader of the world. My title is Doctor.

**I dedicate this story to my boy Guilou, a dog that only knows love.** Frank was special, unique and unnoticed. And Spork was it, the only one who witnessed the magic. But all Spork wanted was a scratch he always wanted a scratch. He waited; waited for Frank’s eyes to match his then he’d roll over. Frank hated this, especially when he was onto something and he was on to something tonight. “Well you know how it is, when you smell roses, you love the smell but it’s never permanent. People always dream of being permanent, I just got lucky.. lucky to smell like the roses only I’m much longer lasting. And I guess you could say that maybe winning this medal, it could possibly make me permanent.” Frank said. Frank was pacing erratically back and forth. Spork would watch from the floor, as Frank neared, he’d roll over and move his paws in a downward fashion. Frank usually would pass right by and head the other direction, but every once in a while Spork got lucky. Frank this time was near the kitchen getting ready to sit in a chair for five seconds. And then he was off to the bathroom, to stand in front of the mirror. He was talking to himself. “Being a man who worked his whole life I was lucky I got to bloom. I took an interest in skiing when I was young, very young and dedicated my life to it. It’s humbling to know that my work paid off.” He said while watering his hands and pushing his dirty hair off his forehead. It was unusual that Frank discovered his magic before eating especially on Friday, he usually was worn out. His days were long today no different, but he knew it was a mindset, and a possibility. And today that possibility was a reality. He was in the bathroom for a while, mumbling and when he finally did exit; he did so with the biggest smile. After all he was a successful Olympian gold medalist and right now he was giving his interview. It was a methodical interview, one he considered to be of fine taste, being that it was Valentine’s Day. And of course he was talking to none other than Amy Pogger, a sports reporter. She was blushing and sexually aroused. Spork was now by the front door lying in front of the glass that was on the side. He was on his back moving his paws towards his belly. He had his eyes on the kid outside, and was hoping for a scratch. The kid just so happened to be delivering food, Chinese, but hadn’t made his presence known yet. He was watching Spork, though with great amusement, until of course, he noticed Frank. “Hey honey will you be mine? How about if I win another Gold?” Frank said while pacing at an ever increasing speed. He laughed, made faces and moved about in an unpredictable fashion. He was like a Turkey walking through the forest. The man outside tried to remain discreet, and continue to observe the magic that unfolded. Frank didn’t know it but this was his first spectator. He began dancing, lifting his legs and moving them side to side, swinging his hips. He was spinning in circles and came to a sudden stop; his head was facing the door. He looked at Spork and just like that... the magic was gone. His face was now blank and he was staring right at Spork, then out the window. He couldn’t see well from where he was standing. It was dark outside. After a few seconds he turned and ran into his room. “ Awww Fuck Fuck fuck fuck god damn it, stupid fucking Olympics!” He said while stomping his feet into the ground. Frank was upset and panicked; he knew there was a possibility someone was watching him especially since he ordered food. Frank didn’t have his money ready and was weeping in the corner of his room. He couldn’t remember what he ordered pizza or Chinese. He very rarely remembered anything that was routine, it was more habit necessary for his survival. Frank’s life revolved around routine, routine was his crutch without it Frank was a loss. He was easily distracted. And today he deviated from this routine. His Fridays always started the same way he got up, ate shit, and went to work. It was physical work, work that needed little attention to detail. Then he drove home and ordered pizza or Chinese, depending which he was in the mood for. After that he'd turn on the T.V., smoke a cigar and wait to pay for his food. He always had his cash, in hand straight to the dollar which was one of two numbers $14.50 or $23.47. Once he ate he showered, fantasized about women and would go to sleep. Spork was oblivious to Frank, and hoping a hand would come through the glass and hit his underbelly. He braced himself with excitement as a hand neared the glass above him. “Ding Dong Ding dong” Frank heard the noise and slowly excited his room, and casually walked to the door and answered it. “Hey Boris you're late, you usually get here 10 min earlier.” He was looking at Boris with suspicion. Boris was half grinning trying to keep the whole grin from surfacing. “Hey man nah I was just running late you know how it is, sometimes we're busy.” “Oh” Frank said doubtingly and gave Boris the money, $23.47 to be exact. “Wow thanks man why so much this time, I guess I’ll be late more often.” Boris was smiling; he almost thought and pictured this as Frank maybe bribing him. “Just get outta here alright.” Frank said, grabbing his food. “Don’t worry man I getcha your secret’s safe with me daugg.” Boris said walking away, the door slams. \ That night was long but Frank slept well, Spork slept well too, he had a belly full of rice and toilet water. It wasn’t uncommon for Frank to forget to feed him, but when he did Spork would take matters into his own hands. The next morning Frank woke to his practically empty house. It had one chair, a bed , a dresser a table a T.V. , all the standard appliances and a tipped over trash can. He saw the trash can, looked at it and went to his recliner. Grabbed his computer, lit a cigar and started his day. Spork followed and would lie on the floor next to him. After Frank and Spork were done inhaling the smoke from Frank’s cigar. Frank got to business. He started with the internet and would read the reviews. Any review about anything would work as long as it was considered great. Today he was reading about one of the greatest books of all time. When he was younger he read some supposedly great books, and was disappointed. They were no longer great books. He learned fast however and noted that if the book was to remain great he must not read it, so that is what he did. He did this with anything and everything great. He was a man who loved the mere possibility of something being great. He loved to imagine it, he loved the hype and used these reviews to prepare himself. He was a magician or an artist waiting for inspiration to strike. The book he was reading about happened to be a book about spirituality or enlightenment. And that’s when Frank became the next prophet. He quickly put his computer on the floor and slammed his recliner shut and jumped to his feet. “You fucking aren’t good at anything you’re a gay piece of shit with a flabby ass.” Linda said to Frank. Frank really did have a flabby ass. Linda just so happened to be one of Frank’s characters, part of his imagination, she was fat and nervous. But in this instance she was saying everything to Frank that she was too afraid to say. Frank was open and unintimidating. “That is ok my dear I can be whatever you like me to be.” Frank said composed and calm while turning his left butt cheek. He was smiling and pacing again and almost laughing. “How clever, how clever.” He said to himself. “You think that’ll stop me and everybody else who hates you. You act like your better than us.” There wasn’t an “us” a minute ago, but now there was, a whole army of people. They were all displeased with Frank. “Why cant you see the truth, look to the light my friends, and you too will not be afraid.” Frank said, trying to calm this crowd down. The crowd didn’t care, they tied him up with ropes. And drug him around a campfire. “I love you all, each and every one of you and I too am not displeased.” “If you loved me why am I fat perform a miracle, perform a miracle come on perform a fucking Miracle!!” Linda yelled. Frank loved curse words; he loved them so much, he felt it added something to his thoughts, a flavor maybe, a style. Linda and her posse were furious. They continued to drag Frank around the dirt till he looked like fudge-sickle. Then Linda had the crowd pick Frank up and drop him into the fire pit. Frank was burning and cringing and all dirty. He was covered with soy sauce as he rolled around the trash in the kitchen. He looked up and saw Spork lying next to him on his back and... the magic was gone. “Nope, Spork you sick son of a bitch. Look what you did you made a fucking mess.” Frank had yet to punish Spork for his trash digging and actually hadn’t said a word about it till now. Spork though was carefree as always and got off easy. Frank was looking at Spork and on closer inspection noticed a dried Lo mein noodle stuck to his chest. He reached for it. Spork’s body oozed excitement, he was expecting a scratch. Frank grasped the noodle with the tips of his fingers and peeled it off. Spork's attention shifted to Frank's hand then the noodle, he smelled and tried to eat it. That Saturday was a good Saturday, it was a productive Saturday even if Frank didn’t clean the trash in the kitchen or feed the dog. If it wasn’t a part of his routine it didn’t happen and on Saturdays he didn’t have a routine, except for feeding Spork which usually Spork took into his own hands. However Frank slept with four girls all beautiful, was enlightened, became the president and fixed our government, only caught 2 diseases they were terrible and he was pitied, wrote six award winning books, created the new tastiest restaurant, beat up a few guys he knew for pissing him off, had more money than the pope, killed a rapist, survived in the wilderness for 30 days in the harshest of winters, fought in a war won the medal of honor, taught kids the meaning of life and parented them to be successful, and sat in his chair and enjoyed 3 cigars. He never once scratched Spork. \ Now it was Sunday Frank's worst day of the week. He woke up with a frown knowing that Saturday which had a possibility of being the greatest day ever wasn’t and therefore it was disappointing. And of course work was around the corner. He would refuse to get outta bed, in retaliation but always after an hour or two he’d get up. Spork would too. Frank would begin his day with Routine, which already made this day not the greatest day ever. He’d start by cleaning the trash. Then not forgetting the humiliation he faced on Friday. He grabbed a blanket and created a crude blind for the glass on the side of the front door. He did so by taping the blanket to the wall with some duct tape. “I hate you Spork your fucking worthless.” Frank said. When Frank talked Spork would get excited and roll over. It was still early so Frank had yet to concentrate on his upcoming work, but when he did it was not unexpected that he’d have a meltdown. His Sundays sometimes were like that, especially when he couldn’t accurately predict what would happen on Monday. Once he finished the two chores Frank sat down in his recliner, lit a cigar and turned on the T.V. He saw an ad that showed a man in poor health all due to cigarettes, so he thought to as why he smoked in the first place. And came to the conclusion it was because of peer pressure and not being in control. He saw guys at work do it, they said it was good for stress. And that’s when it hit his magic. He quickly stood once again this time uneasy. “Hey Frank, how was your weekend man?” “Well Joey my weekend was fabulous I... I ...... I god dammit no no no fuck you fuck you Joey go touch yourself!” Frank yelled. Frank was upset. He was combining his magic with his routine or rather the routine he’d face in the future. He did this from time to time and he knew it was taboo and yet still a possibility. Frank was a control freak. His magic was special and worked because he controlled the outcome but today he mixed it with an unpredictable outcome, a mere possibility. “So you mean again you’ve done nothing you’re a loser boy.” Joey said. Joey was the new guy at work who always asked Frank if he had a good weekend. They worked the assembly lines together bolting wheels onto cars. Frank hated Joey but Frank hated a lot of things. And Joey would always ask Frank these questions in front of everyone else. “Joey you’re a fucking variable a fucking variable but today im ma... gonna come up with something great I did this weekend youll see.” He thought for a second and for another, hours passed. He was angry and wanted to say he did things around the house. But he said that last week. “Why can’t he just leave me alone?” He was crying, and on the floor in the fetal position. He’d been there for a while trying to sleep the day away. He rolled over and felt a lick on his nose. Spork was lying there on his back with his face next to Franks. Frank opened his eyes and just like that.... the magic was gone.

"What's your favourite colour, Amelia?" "Pink!" "Your favourite fruit?" "Strawberry!" "What do you want to be when you grow up?" "A scientist!" They asked the same boring questions, and Amelia would answer them with the same prepared answers along with her naive enthusiasm. The girls would fight her over liking pink more. Her servants would bring her baskets of strawberries, and the grown-ups always praised her for choosing to be a scientist in their abundant gatherings. "What is a scientist?" that was what nobody asked her, a good thing though because if they did this would be her answer. The scientist is that wizard wearing a long, purple robe inside a villa adorned with posters that makes one dizzy. They have the freedom to spend days teleporting to space, jumping from planet to planet, one star to the other and greeting the aliens. In longing to be there again, the scientist spends their evenings watching the aliens through their long enchanted invention as their foreign friends wave at them. “Why strawberry?” was another question, Amelia wasn’t inquired. The answer would be because they look pretty, the prettiest thing she had ever seen. She dreamt of a world in which people lived under the sky with strawberries floating above them... The little Amelia had asked her father, the King to foist people to eat nothing but strawberries for one day. Certainly, they wouldn't like the idea, but what choice did the people of Tribida have except to "enjoy" having nothing but strawberries on the first day of spring. After eighteen years this had evolved into a crucial tradition and the other ritual the people of this town had was that once the child of the King, on the line for the throne attained the age of eighteen, they shall be taken to a separate mansion for one month. Letting go of Amelia, the only child of the King was his nightmare, but rules were rules and the fanatic King would rather lose his head than his word. He kissed her farewell. She left clenching her deceased mother's bracelet onto the carriage with the white horses that led her to the pink castle, cast away. After their long conveyance, the young knight sitting behind the horsemen stepped down and opened the door for the Princess and the two maids. Amelia picked a pink rose from the flower bed on their way to the castle. She was led upstairs to the tower that was her rosy room with a view so beautiful, Amelia couldn't wait for the night to fall so she could begin stargazing. There was no need to keep the candles burning since the stars were gleaming and the moonlight fell on the wooden floor. She stood across the window, and now it gleamed her freckled face. Amelia closed her eyes, inhaled the flower she had picked and twirled it between her fingers. The rose fell from the window, exactly across the knight's feet. Amelia gasped. She looked down and yelled. "Sir! Umm... Mr knight!" He didn't move a muscle. "I'm talking to you!" the birds who were in sound sleep flew away from the rooftops. Amelia grabbed her robe and stomped to the knight. She took the rose from the ground. A few of its petals torn apart and fell in subtle motion. "Can't you hear me?" she raised her voice. His head was pointed right over her head, but was he even looking at her? "I'm going to tell my father about this reckless behaviour of yours." "I'm a knight. Princess, I'm on duty." at last, the statue spoke, softly. "I was asking you to bring me my flower." "I can't, I shouldn't even be talking to you. Please go." "Why?" "Have you ever talked to a knight before?" "No, I--" "See, it's the order of the King. We aren't supposed to talk with the princess, or with anyone at all." "But why? Don't you have thoughts? Don't you have words?" There was a pause then he said, "No one wants to hear a knight’s thoughts or a knight’s words." "I want to." "Please, leave." he lowered his voice, looking at the entrance of the castle. Amelia couldn't sleep that night. She imagined being a knight...to have thoughts but, no freedom to share, to have a tongue, but no voice to speak, to have a heart, no right to feel... "Are you alright, dear?" Asked the woman pouring Amelia simmering, green tea. "Yes, yes." Amelia twitched and averted her gaze from the window. "Martha?" "Yes?" "Why aren't knights supposed to talk to us?" "Well, they serve for the King, and it's best to keep their priority to serve." she raised her chin. "You serve for the king too, he doesn't have problems with you talking?" "No, I'm a woman. And I'm only allowed to talk to you." "Aren't men supposed to have things to say? Or feel?" "Oh, Amelia, what has got into you today? Anyway, I and Linda are taking off to the town. Is there anything you need?" "No," she muttered. The night fell, and the eccentric Amelia had an idea. "Oh, silly me, I keep losing grasp of my flowers." Amelia picked the fallen flower across the knight's feet. She sighed after looking at him standing motionless. "Aren't you going to utter anything? I'm doing you a favour. Don't you feel like talking?" Seemed like she was looking at a knight’s armour, with no soul inside it. It was difficult to see his face. He was nothing but a silhouette. Hopelessly, she went back. A single flower kept being plucked from the garden each day. This continued for ten days until he lost it. "What do you want?" "Aha, I knew you weren't dead in there!" "Princess Amelia, this is not right." "Oh, so you know my name too? Impressive..." "They will kill me!" "Who? My father? Please, he's the kindest King Tribida has ever had." "You don't know anything, do you?" he mumbled. "What was that?" "Nothing." "No, no I heard it. What do I not know?" "That I have nothing to say, I lied. I have no thoughts, nothing, really, now please, leave." "Your head armour trembles more when you fib, like now. I will leave, but only if you answer my question. One question." "Alright, go on." "What's it like to be you?" "I...it's I--" "Good, think about it. We'll continue tomorrow. Good ni... Oh," she smacked on her forehead. "Knights don't sleep too?" she fell asleep with the thought. The next morning Amelia left for the woods, without informing Martha or Linda. While singing a lullaby with her high-pitched voice, she pushed aside the bushes that came along and looked at the sky to see the crowns of the towering trees. “Just a few more minutes...” she kept ambling and lost the track of time. A strange whimper ceased her walking. The bushes beside her twitched and heavy footsteps were following her from behind. Amelia screamed after a hyena leapt from behind the bushes. She fell on her back and hopelessly crawled herself backwards. Her palms scratched with the damp rubble merged with thorns. She shielded herself with her seeping hands. The sound of its whiffs was getting closer. Amelia closed her eyes and opened them promptly after the rough thump. “Princess!” the knight put back his seeping sword. “Mr knight!” He helped the Princess to stand on her feet. “Thank you,” Amelia said, teary-eyed. “It was my duty, Princess.” On their way back to the castle, Amelia succeeded in compelling the guarded knight not only to tell about his life story, of how he was an orphan who spent his childhood napping on the streets and labouring in a bakery but she also left him chuckling more than the young knight wanted to admit. The red rose fell across his feet. After a minute, she was there, unhurriedly picking it. Amelia stood for a while. “You don’t want to answer?” his silence gave her the response. She turned around. "It's like nothing but limitations. Watching the world in four lines only, wishing for its spaces to become wider one day. It's the thirsty watching the river across him drying, it's the lover yearning and dying. Serving for the one unaware of my existence, but if I break a rule, he will order my death by calling my name he just learned. It's gleaming under the moonlight, but I'm called a knight, I'm dark and faceless. Gawking at the abyss. Still in here, dancing in my little world. It's admiring all the beautiful things, in pieces. Speaking to a weary mind, even then in hesitation, I'm nothing but limitations." Amelia wiped her tears away. "Hey, tomorrow, it's your turn. You have to answer me. What’s it like to be you?" Amelia could hear his smile through his softening voice. She nodded and ran to her tower, then cried herself to sleep. Her pillow clasped her falling tears. "Martha, we need to go to the castle today. I need to see my father." "But we can't Amelia. It's not been a month yet." "I don't care!" The basket of bread fell from Martha's hands. "Is it because of that knight?" "What?" "Too late." Amelia ran outside. He wasn't there. "What did you do to him?" She wailed. "The horseman saw him talking to you. The rest is history." "No! Where is he?" "By now, dead. We have received orders to keep you safe. The gate will be locked for the remaining days." Her teardrops splashed as they fell on the table. The girl who thought she’d found her soulmate, had found another lesson. For the next ten days, Amelia lied bedridden in her room. The moon was in hiding, so were the stars for the misty nights. Stimulated by darkness, yet she couldn't get enough of it. After ten days of silence, she whispered to his ghost, answering his question. "Dear knight, I'm anything but free, I'm a wingless bird in a roofless cage, and I'm stitching my wings just to have them torn again. My naivety has brought me to this day. I didn't even know my own father, I'm a murderer's daughter. I'm a Princess, a curse on its own. They've branded my fate, and I can't change it. Not by hopes, nor by prays. Dear knight, I'm sorry I brought you to this day. But now I see you living in your free, little world. In our ephemeral, wish I could know your name. I'm sane for my hallucinations, I'm nothing but limitations..." She spent days gardening and singing to pretty flowers, and her nights reading about stars as she embraced the gloom, clothed in a black robe. She was the goth living in a pink castle. Her favourite tale was the Chinese celebrated story regarding two stars, Vega and Altair. Vega was a weaver who made pretty clothes using the milky way. As every day passed by, a fear expanded in her fragile heart, lest she will spend her life lonely. One day, she met Altair, a farmer across the milky way and they fell in love which made Vega's father furious since both neglected their obligations. But to not break Vega's heart, her father made a decision. They were allowed to meet only once a year, which falls on the seventh day of the seventh month. When the awaited day arrived, they fathomed they couldn't cross the milky way to finally reunite. Seeing the sadness in Vega's eyes a flock of magpies build a bridge between the separated. And when it rains on that day, it is believed to be Vega's tears, since, for some reason, they have to wait for another year... Amelia's father’s great companion inquired her like he would in the past. “What’s your favourite colour?” “When tragedy strikes you, it hides you.” “Your favourite fruit?” “The acceptance reaped after sowing patients.” “What do you want to be when you grow older?” “A child.” After the demise of the King. Amelia the Queen was now responsible for her people. In her first days of taking the throne, she rewrote the entire decrees. No more sending off the about to be emperors far away. No more seizing a lofty amount of taxes from the farmers. The knights and servers were allowed to communicate as much as they liked. They would be replaced with the second shift workers during nights. Amelia was known for her uprising ruling. Her name prevailed as the most loving Queen Tribida had ever had.

The florescent light shined oppressively bright. The room was sterile, not a single speck of dirt or dust can be found. There's hardly any furniture, only two metal folding chairs and a cold, metal desk populate this small room. I've been in this room before, it never gets easier. For hours I've stared at the walls, the silent sea of white made me want to scream. There was a clock, but I chose to stop counting the time a long time ago. The ticking, it made my teeth hurt. I tapped my fingers on the desk, waiting for the interviewer to arrive. He's normally early, but today it seems he's late. Not that I cared, I wasn't leaving any time soon. After all, I was born in this lab. The interviewer finally came in. He was a short, stocky, bald man with wire frame glasses. He flashed me a cheesy smile and sat down in the adjacent chair. He was drinking a coffee, he offered me some but I declined. He was also holding a file of my profile. "Sorry I'm late, I was getting a coffee." The man said. "No problem. Can we get this moving please?" I asked impatiently. The man grimaced, but it was so fast you would miss it if you blinked. He cleared his throat. "Well, Subject 3250." "Birdy! Call me Birdy!" I interrupted, slamming my fist on the table. His coffee shook, spilling a little bit. The man sighed and moved on with his speech. "Well, Birdy, I'm here to say that you are no longer needed for Project Hellhound." I smiled. This was the first piece of good news I heard in, all my life! Since I was a hatchling, I've been poked on proded for Project Hellhound, but now I'm free. "That's great news! Finally I can leave." I said, not trying to hide my joy. Instead of being happy, the man just sighed and shook my head. I was confused. I'm free to go, right? "We're done testing for Project Hellhound, but we still need you here. Further testing is needed. I shook my head. This had to be some practical joke. "But I completely all my tests! Maybe you eggheads made a mistake with the paperwork?" I said, confused. The man continued, not even addressing my complaint. "We understand that you're upset, but we simply can't let you leave. Scientific breakthroughs are about to be discovered, we can't afford to let you leave." I started to get upset. My feathers became rigid with rage. "You can't do this to me! Project Anubis is done, what the hell do you need me for?" I asked exasperated. "You can't leave, deal with it!" The man said, frustrated. I was furious. All my life I waited for this moment, and for what? To be told no? I was silent for a moment, then I spoke again. "I'm leaving." I muttered. "What?" The man asked. "I'm leaving!" I shouted. The man's face grew red. "You listen to me, bird boy. You're aren't leaving, and that's final. What, you think you can walk outside? A disgusting abomination like you? You were born in here and you're gonna die in here. So get your bird ass back to your room!" The man shouted. I had enough. I got up, like he wanted. I grabbed the cup of coffee and threw it in the man's face, catching him off guard. He screamed in extreme pain, rubbing and wiping his face in vain. I reached down and grabbed the key from his key rack. He grabbed my hand, not letting go. In his other hand, he had a walkie-talkie. "3250 has breeched containment! 3250 has breeched containment!" He said over and over. I had no other choice. He held onto my arm and was calling in the Regulators. I reached down and bit him in the neck. He screamed loudly as I bit, breaking the skin. I was aiming for a vein, and I found one. Blood stained the sterile room, mixing red with white like an unholy fourth of July. Blood stained the hospital gown I was wearing. I let go, the man dropping to the floor dead. A puddle formed, allowing me to see myself for the first time. I had the face of a Raven, eyes, nose, and body to go with it. Instead of a beak, I have human teeth, yellow and straight. Blood covered my mouth, like I ate chocolate cake. I opened the door and walked out, the lights of the hallway greeted me as I walked. Down the hall was a guards nest. Only one guard was stationed because until this moment, I was one of the more cooperative subjects. The guard was on his phone, away from me. I walked back into the room with the dead interviewer and broke the coffee cup. I grabbed the sharp piece of porcelain and made my way to the guard. I raised the sharp piece, waiting to strike. My foot made the floorboards creek. The guard turned around, seeing me. Panicked, I stuck the piece of porcelain into his neck, causing him to bleed intensely. Before he dropped dead, he pressed the alarm. "Shit!" I yelled, closing the door. Once the alarm was on, only a senior Regulator could shut it off. I took his utility belt, including his pistiol. As I wrapped the belt around my waist, I couldn't help but notice how funny this was. All I wanted to was to be free, and no I'm actually doing it. I took off my shirt and replaced it with the guards. I took the guards keychain, using it to open the storage locker behind him. Inside was a flashlight, a box of pistiol ammo, and an MP5. I took the rifle and placed it on my back. I had a feeling I was going to need it. I pressed the button leading out of the hallway, leading into the dorm room. The lights were out because of the alarm. An errie red bathed the hallway. The other hybrids were locked in there rooms until further notice. Pounding and scratching filled the hall. I walked down for a bit until I got a cut on my foot. I was barefoot going in. I investigated the ground, discovering broken glass. They path ahead was covered in broken glass. I turned right, into another hallway. I saw blood splattered to the walls. Dead hybrids littered the floor. Apon further investigation, it appeared that someone, or something, bit a chunk out of all there heads! I heard disgusting chewing sounds. Flesh being tore, the cracking of bones. It made me sick. I shined my light ahead of me, at the end of the hallway. On the other end of the hallway was a wolf man eating the body of a dead deer girl. Shit, I thought. They brought out the pure breds! The pure breds were successful experiments conducted by Project Hellhound. They're used to police the hybrids. It looked at me, blood and drool dripped from its mouth. "Back to your room!" It shouted, throwing the deer girl aside. I didn't move, instead I pulled out my pistol and shot it in the head. It didn't work, because the wolf man charged at me. In a split second I ran into the the closet room I could find. Which so happened to lead to the children's wing. I ran through the double doors, locking them with a mop. The wolf thrashed wildly against it, applying stress to the broom. I was certain it was going to give way, allowing the wolf to rip me apart. In a stroke of luck, a half rat half man caught the wolf's attention. "Please! Help me, I've been stabbed!" He said. The wolf tackled him, mauling him. I took off, running down the hall. I entered a gym like area, but it was dark so I couldn't tell. No one was there, so I took time to breath. All of this was insane, I felt like I was in a nightmare. An endless nightmare, but no matter how many times I pinch myself I can't wake up. I heard crying behind me, I spun around ready to shoot. To my surprise I saw a little girl. She looked like a piglet. "Don't hurt me, please!" She pleaded. I put my pistol back into my holster. I shushed her. "Don't worry honey, I'm one of you." I said. The girl looked at me, calming down. "Who are you?" She asked. "I'm Brian, Brian Thatcher." I replied. "I'm Hallie." The girl said. "Where's your parents, Hallie?" I asked. Hallie started to sniffle. "The bad people killed them." Guilt ate away at my insides. I didn't know I would cause all this pain and suffering. I looked at Hallie, her innocent face looking back at me. "Hallie, I'm leaving this place." I blurted out. "C-can I go with you?" Hallie asked. A voice inside me told me to leave her, but I couldn't live with myself if I did that. "Sure Hallie." I replied. Hallie smiled widely. "Thank you, Mr Thatcher! I can't wait to see the sun for the first time!" "Just call me Birdy, ok?" I said. "Ok, Birdy." Hallie replied. This was serious now. Not only did I have to leave for myself, but I have someone to protect. I would never leave her alone. I am the feathered soldier.

Despite our advances since the first successful interstellar flight, there are still many protocols designed to steer you clear of the many dangers in space. If not followed, you risk severe consequences for you and your crew. The rules are as follows: Rule 1: Do not attempt to cross voids more than 100000 light-years across unless your ship is specially designed for such voyages. Faster-Than-Light ships or light speed ships will run out of fuel and become stranded, sub-light ships would break down long before they reached their destinations. 800 ships have been lost to the great nothing this year alone. Rule 2: do not travel within 500,000 kilometres of a world with the potential to harbour life. If you crash on such a world, detonate the built-in thermonuclear warhead when you are rescued. This will ensure that any contamination from from you or your ship is destroyed. If you have no hope of rescue, connect the warhead to a dead man's switch, which will detonate the warhead in the event of your death. If the warhead was irreparably damaged in the crash, overload the ship's reactor, this will cause a similar explosion. If the reactor is not a nuclear one, mix the Uranium plating on your ship's hull with the liquid Plutonium in the warhead. This will cause a chemical reaction that will result in massive release of ionising radiation, causing the death of even the hardiest microbes and also you. Rule 3: Do not chart interstellar courses that pass within 5 Astronomical Units of a neutron star or a black hole. Their gravity may pull your ship off course or even into the stellar remnant itself. Rule 4: In the event that you encounter alien life, contact the Department of Extraterrestrial Life and the relevant authorities at your destination so that quarantine procedures may be undertaken on your arrival. If the life is intelligent, also contact the Extraterrestrial Diplomatic Corps. If the life is hostile, also contact the Department for Galactic Security and attempt to contain the threat. If all efforts fail, attempt to neutralize the threat. If this is also unsuccessful, enable the "do not board" beacon and set the ship to self destruct. Only attempt to use escape pods if you are confident that you and the escape pod are not contaminated by the organism(s). If you break any part of this rule, you, your ship, and any escape pods will be incinerated. Rule 5: Do not set courses that pass within 3000 light years of a star that is within 100 years of going supernova. If you do, you risk acute radiation poisoning. That is, you'd be cooked alive. Rule 6: black holes and neutron stars may only be approached within 0.25 Astronomical Units for purposes of research, performing gravitational slingshots, or neutronium mining. Please see rule 3 for the consequences of ignoring this rule. Rule 7: Do not attempt to pass through an uncharted natural wormhole unless in a relevant emergency situation. Not only do you risk reappearing in normal space on the other side of the universe, you also risk getting ripped apart if the wormhole is unstable. Do not attempt to pass through a wormhole that is not at least 100 kilometres wider than your ship, as you risk spaghettification otherwise. Rule 8: Do not attempt to pass through an artificially created wormhole that has been deprived of exotic matter for longer than 10 years. The wormhole risks collapsing into a black hole if deprived for any longer. Rule 9: do not attempt intergalactic voyages unless you are piloting a ship specially designed for such a journey. Due to the vast distances between galaxies, rescue cannot be attempted, and you would be facing certain death. Rule 10: Only approach within 100 light years of a strange star if your ship is fitted with special sensors designed to detect strange quarks, for research purposes, or for emergency gravitational slingshots. If you get too close, you risk making physical contact with a strangelet, which would convert your whole ship and you into strange matter. Rule 11: Do not, under any circumstances, approach abandoned Dyson Spheres or Penrose Spheres. If a sudden emergency discharge of the building energy being held inside the structure is performed by the deteriorating maintenance computer, your ship will very likely be caught in the blast. Rule 12: Do not dive any deeper than 2 kilometers into the atmosphere of a gas giant unless your ship's hull is capable of withstanding pressures above 10000 Kilo pascals and temperatures above 100 degrees Celsius and temperatures at absolute zero. You risk being crushed by the atmosphere, melting, or freezing to death if your ship cannot withstand these conditions. Rule 13: Do not dive deeper than 2 kilometers into the atmosphere of a brown dwarf star unless your ship's hull can withstand temperatures above 1000 degrees Celsius and pressures above 10000 Kilo pascals. If your ship cannot withstand these conditions, you will either be melted or crushed. Rule 14: Do not pass through nebulae unless for purposes of research, resource extraction, or if your destination is within the nebula. By entering a nebula, you have a much higher risk of hypersonic collisions with cosmic dust, which will penetrate all but the strongest of hulls, resulting in decompression and a very likely death. Rule 15: Do not use generation ships for voyages longer than 10000 years in length, as the gene pool of even the largest ships would deplete and the entire population would die out before it reached its destination. Do not use cryogenic pods continuously for voyages longer than 200000 years in length, as our current technology cannot revive someone who has been in cryogenic suspension for longer. By following these simple rules alongside other rules which may be introduced at the ship captain's discretion, you can ensure that traversing the dark void of space is as safe for everyone as can be.

Toro gazed upon the icy lake that lay before him. It was unlike anything he had ever seen. Its waves appeared from seemingly nowhere, each rising and crashing down without any semblance of order. It stretched out far beyond any sensical measure of space, reaching out to touch the surrounding forest and weave through the ancient stones of the valley. Toro understood that this was not a lake, and yet, that is exactly how the elders had described it to him. To him he saw an enigma of a supernatural element, something that defied rationality. This marked Toro with an unmistakable sense of discomfort and a burning desire to return back through the forest and up the mountain to where he could find familiarity and the reality he knew. But despite the permanence of this feeling, he repressed it and hardened his exterior with metaphorical armour, however transparent. Toro was a boy of instinct. He never understood why this made him so different to the other children, he only knew this made him stronger. A guiding light existed within him, something that lit a path ahead that he could only dare to follow. Since when he could remember he allowed this light to take control and make his decisions. He found comfort in listening to its assertiveness. It was right. It was true. The unnerving task that Toro had been set by his elders was clear; to strip himself of his clothes, follow an abandoned stone pathway through a heavily wooded forest before finally coming to a lake some three kilometres in. The commands seemed strange to a young boy, but considering his surreal circumstances, Toro thought it best to heed the elders’ advice diligently - for otherwise he feared putting his training in peril. He especially did not understand how his clothes had any bearing on the task, but his internal thoughts deemed them unfit for further questioning. Observing the lake, Toro’s brain struggled to compute and properly receive what his eyes met, this almost induced a state of psychosis. The lake that lay before him could not possibly be real. Could it? Through the extreme cold and sheer immensity of such a body of water, Toro’s senses cried out in pain at the warning signs elicited by the water. He could only stand there in disorder. As crisis management, he looked internally. He searched for the light within but instead found a void, empty of purpose or answers. Toro - through some surge of pain - knew he needed to compel a certain aspect of his body to edge closer to the bank alongside the water. A chilling wind bit away at his exposed body, heightening his sense of vulnerability, but it was this feeling he thought better than to dwell upon. It was his training now he knew needed to prove itself. At this moment, he took a few steps forward. Careful not to physically contact the lake, Toro’s feet were now firmly planted right on the edge of the water. Chilling daggers swirled in the water, making it obvious what was now required from this point. His life felt in grave danger, yet the stars above aligned themselves in perfect formation. He closed his eyes and tried to picture strength, but instead his mind reflected images bearing fear and uncertainty. What was taking place? Where was the eternal light he usually found within? He realised this could not possibly matter now. None of it could. He was here at this moment. Something about this seemed likely destiny. With no further deliberation - Toro spread his arms like an eagle and plunged into the deep abyss. Vanquished from this earth, he began to soar. A dark ice summoned his Being and Toro finally observed the guiding light he had always followed. He thought about its meaning and about his past and future. Did the light belong to him? Or did he belong to the light? Whatever the case, it did not matter now. The two were separate Beings, but yet they had never been more at One. This was his abstraction, Toro thought. This could only be his destiny.

Jim Roberts thought about the Church. He thought of when he and his wife had joined. That had been many years ago, when their children were small. He remembered that she had always been more active than him, "She seemed to change from being a teacher in Relief Society to being a teacher in Primary nearly every year." He wondered why he had never been as active, just a Home Teacher, who did not always visit his families, and sometimes a class president or librarian. He thought, "My job often kept me busy, but I made sure I always took my family to Church each week, and the children to Primary." He remembered having a car full of excited children, going on some outing or other. "Perhaps if I had been more active, things would have turned out differently for our children. Perhaps Mark would have gone on a mission, instead of joining the merchant navy, and as for Laura..." He did not want to think about Laura. He tried to think what he liked best about the Church. They had lived in London then. "Well, whenever there was a choir, I was always there. I always went to the practices, whatever time they decided to have them, and I enjoyed singing in Sacrament. Yes, I think that is what I liked best, and I was more active in the choir than my wife." Then he thought about her. Again he remembered when he and his wife were baptised. "I was so keen then, we both were. A Golden Couple the missionaries called us. It was so exciting. We kept discovering new things, and finding answers to all our questions. All those questions we used to ask ! But there was always such a logical answer, and each answer made us think of a new question. Eventually we ran out of questions, and then the excitement faded. I suppose that was when I started to become inactive. I never found that excitement again. I suppose when you have asked all the questions, and you have all the answers, there is nothing more to learn. But my wife had the same questions, so how did she keep active ? Was it because she was always a teacher ? Perhaps she liked answering other people's questions. Maybe I would have stayed active if I had been a teacher too. Ah well, it is too late, I am inactive now. It has taken a long time, five, ten, maybe twenty years, and it is only when you stop going to Church that it shows." He thought about his wife again. "She never complained. She said it was God's will. I knew she was in a lot of pain, especially at the end, but she always smiled. She still had that smile when I saw her face for the last time." Now he lived in Manchester with his daughter, Laura. "Oh, Laura," he thought, "how I wished, how I hoped and prayed for you. I saw you growing up, and I saw those little choices of yours, each one so innocent, but each one leading you a little farther from the Church. I knew the Church was the best thing for you, but what could I do ? As you grew older I could no longer make you do things, I could only try to advise you, and then at last there was nothing I could do to change your mind. A woman in love listens to no one. Your husband is a good man and I am grateful that you both want me to live with you. He has a good job, he treats you well, and you have two very nice girls, but there is nothing spiritual in your lives. You need the Church, and your children need the Church, they both need Primary and Ruth ought to be starting in Young Women soon." He thought for a while and then decided, "I need a plan to get Laura and her children going to Church." That night Jim had an idea. He had often seen the missionaries with a stall in the centre of Manchester. He had always taken a good look at what they were doing, but he had always made sure he kept far enough away so that none of them would speak to him. He heard the missionaries asking people the Golden Question. "I know the answers," he thought. "I could give those young missionaries a hard time if I really wanted to." He saw people writing things in their diaries, "Appointments for missionary discussions," he guessed. He remembered the excitement of having the missionaries visiting him. Next time he saw the missionaries in town, he asked them what they were doing. He pretended he had not heard of the Church, and asked if they could tell him sonmething about it. After a few minutes the missionaries had arranged a teaching appointment. When Jim got home he told Laura that the missionaries would come, and he thought, "I do not want Laura to tell the missionaries that I was a member in London." He knew that Laura and her husband had an argument recently, so he suggested that the missionaries did not meet Laura, in case this made things worse with her husband. The missionaries came and taught the first discussion. They were very impressed with Jim. "You are so good," they said. The missionaries invited Jim to Church, and Jim thought, "Perhaps I will get the old excitement back." Jim was careful to hide his feelings as he went to Church for the first time in several years, and he was careful to make some mistakes so that no one would guess he had been a member before. He thought, "It has been too long. I should have continued to go to Church after my wife died. That was no excuse to stay away." The missionaries said, "We noticed that you like our hymns." Jim said that he liked singing, and he asked why there was no choir. The missionaries arranged to have the ward choir re-started. After a few weeks Jim was baptized, but he was disappointed that he did not feel the excitement of his first baptism. However, it was good to be called "Brother Roberts" again, and he was pleased that Laura's husband let him take the girls to Primary. He was called to lead the music in Priesthood. There was no piano to set the pitch, so he took his harmonica. He became popular with his harmonica, and was always asked to play something at firesides. One evening he went to a Stake meeting with Brother and Sister Jones. It was late as they drove home, so Jim played some hymn tunes on his harmonica to keep them all awake. When Brother and Sister Jones got home, they talked about Brother Roberts. "It's amazing," said Brother Jones. "sometimes new members take ages to really get used to Church ways, but Brother Roberts has picked things up so quickly. You heard all those hymns he was playing on his harmonica. We ought to sing those hymns more often." "Yes," said Sister Jones, and then she shouted, "I've got it ! He's not a new member. Don't you realise ? Some of those tunes were from the old Hymn Book."

Brad broke up with me today. I can’t say that I’m surprised after the disastrous dinner that we had at his mother’s where everything that could go wrong did go wrong. I was hoping that we’d be able to talk it through and perhaps see the funny side but the conversation we had was so brief we never got that far. Although I have to admit that he had the decency to look a little pained and sorry about it. A small consolation. When he suggested “The Little Cup”, a rather twee tearoom in the high street, I knew something was wrong. Do you know why I think he suggested there? Because he knew that no-one that mattered would be there, other than his mother’s cronies maybe and all they’d do is report back what she probably wanted to hear: that her lovely son was having to let a girl down gently...again. You know, maybe I’ve had a lucky escape. I didn’t think that earlier in “The Little Cup” although I held myself together well. I was already there when Brad came in, drinking hot tea from a delicate china cup and saucer and sitting at a round table with a lace tablecloth. Boy, did I feel out of place! I was sat there, looking at my phone, trying to look less self conscious but quite clearly not achieving it. Two old dears were on the table next to me, having a toasted teacake and a pot of tea between them, a generic pair of geriatrics, floral and pale. They looked up when Brad walked in and he nodded a greeting and smiled at them and you could see them preen a little at the attention. And then, inevitably, he saw me. There was a moment where he glanced away and I saw him take a deep breath and then head towards the table. He didn’t even take his coat off, just unbuttoned it before sitting down. “Hi,” I said. “Hello,” he replied, a little stiffly. “How are you?” I asked, thinking that this was all a bit stilted. I mean, we were a couple at that point but neither of us hugged or reached for the other. The mood was set. “Fine. Fine, thanks for asking,” he said. I mean, how formal is that? It’s like he’s meeting an aunt in a drawing room, not his middle-aged girlfriend and lover. “So, what’s up? Why the period tearoom? Are you going all Mr Darcy on me?” My attempt at humour was ill-advised, I realise that now. Nerves always make me inappropriately humorous. He was flustered, I could see that as he said a bit too quickly and sharply, “No! I mean, no. This place just seemed neutral, that’s all. And convenient.” I remember raising an eyebrow and looking about me. “Neutral? That’s a strange way to describe this place. Do you mean like a no-man’s land in a war zone?” He flinched at my analogy and rallied. “Not at all, no. Just a nice place and not too far for you to come, I thought.” How considerate of him , I thought sarcastically. I was feeling increasingly uncomfortable now and Brad was very much starting to squirm in his seat, looking around him. I think I knew what was coming and I wanted him to get on with it but a contrary part of me wanted to make it difficult for him, even if it was excruciating for me. “Are you looking for a waitress? Because there isn’t one. You have to order at the counter.” I nodded in the direction of the lady idling behind the cake display. “Ah, no. I mean, I know but I won’t be ordering anything.” This must have given him some resolve, admitting this because he took a deep breath and said, “I may as well just say it.” Another breath. “I think that we should break up.” Silence. I said absolutely nothing, knowing that he hated silences and would do anything to fill it. “You see, after the dinner on Saturday, I just think that, erm, we probably aren’t best suited and, er, it might be better to just end it now rather than continue and find out later.” Again, silence. I could feel my emotions mounting: sadness, hurt and anger. It took an effort, I can tell you to keep control but I did. I thought that I was falling in love with this man, you see, but right then, I didn’t like him at all. The two pensioners on the table next to us were whispering quietly to themselves, having dropped the tone of their conversation considerably once they could see what was happening. There was no doubt that they were earwigging. So, how to react? I wanted to cry. I wanted to rage. I wanted to punch him. But I’m not sure that even I could act so uninhibitedly in such a delicate and quaint location especially with such a gossip hungry audience. Should I stomp out? Plead with him? Ask him why? I could have done all of these things but instead, I simply said, “Okay.” This was obviously not the response he was expecting but it was one that offered him a modicum of relief as his shoulders released their tension and his face, which had been taut, relaxed somewhat into a less serious expression. I saw something akin to tenderness then enter his expression and quickly looked away from him, before my eyes betrayed the fact that they were filling despite my efforts to the contrary. “Okay,” he repeated and then looked lost, having no idea how to end such an awkward meeting. I remained silent. I had already made my concession to the easing of this break-up. He was getting nothing more from me. He stood, clumsily, his chair scraping the floor. I was just sat, waiting for him to leave so that I could go too. It seemed symbolic of what he was doing, for him to walk away from me rather than me walk out ahead of him. And besides, I was contained while I was still but I felt like any movement might cause my emotions to slosh over, like water in a bowl. “Okay,” he said again, running his hand through his hair. “Well, I guess this is goodbye, then.” Pause. “Goodbye, Tilly.” I’d like to say I politely responded but I didn’t and as the little bell on the door signalled his departure, I gathered up my things as calmly as I could muster and once I knew it was safe, headed out. I heard the two ladies let out a sympathetic “Ah” as my hand touched the door handle and I left Brad and his break-up behind. I’m not a great one for self-analysis as sometimes you can tie yourself in knots trying to decipher why this happened or that didn’t work or how someone feels about you but you know, it had to have been that dinner. I can’t think of anything else that could have made him feel differently. If I hadn’t stained the rug in the hallway with dog turd; if I had been able to eat the food; if I hadn’t accidentally kicked his mother’s dog; if I hadn’t put almond milk in the coffee instead of real milk - so many ifs. But sometimes, it just isn’t your day and sometimes, a series of unfortunate mishaps can lead to the end of a relationship. Bye, Brad. There’s only one thing that can help me now. Or two, if you think about it. Ben and Jerry. *** I had to break up with Tilly today, which went rather well, all things considered. Mother suggested that I choose somewhere neutral and convenient for Tilly like “The Little Cup” and it seemed as good a place as any although it always smells slightly of musty lavender which is a bit off-putting. Must be the odour of its older patrons. The older odour! Ha! Eau de Older Odour! Chanel should bottle that for the olds! Mother’s friends Mabel and Doris were there when I got there. I’d just come back from visiting Mother at home, still in bed after the almond milk incident of the weekend. Poor Mother. She tried so hard to impress Tilly, pulling out all the stops but it was just a disaster from start to finish. I mean, it could have been quite comical really if Mother had let herself see it that way. I am sure that Tilly would have seen the funny side of it; in fact, I know that she would have. I can just imagine us over morning coffee, laughing at when she realised that the awful stench was coming from her! Or when she felt something on her foot and kicked out only for it to be Petal, Mother’s Pekinese! The almond milk was a little more serious as Mother could have died if not for her Epipen but still. Such a catalogue of errors is Shakespearean in its farcicalness. I’ll miss Tilly though. I really thought that she was the one. Funny, attractive, caring. It was always going to be a hurdle bringing her to meet Mother but I felt sure this time that they’d get along. I mean, it’s very difficult not to like Tilly, you know? But I suppose with all of the “catastrophic events” of Saturday, as Mother termed them, it was inevitable that Mother would feel badly. I wish that it had gone better. Tilly felt like she was made for me in some ways. We complemented each other so much, had shared interests and she had such a sexy smile... Oh well, plenty more fish and all that, I suppose. But I was sad today. Tilly looked so lost in “The Little Cup”, I almost changed my mind. I really wanted to hold her, make her feel better. But Mother was adamant and told me, “The best way to do it is like removing a Band-Aid - with determination and the right amount of force. One firm pull and away!” I followed her advice and I have to say that it went smoothly and there was no embarrassing flood of emotions from either of us but I can’t help but feel regret, like something has been left unfulfilled. Perhaps Tilly and I can be friends. I’m bound to see her around and we didn’t leave on bad terms - it was just a little distant. You know, I love Mother but I’m a grown man in his fifties and really, I need something more than my job and my hobbies and my mother. Mother has suggested that I get a dog for companionship when I am away from her, but it’s not the same. I’m not sure why she can’t see that. And a man has appetites, you know... Perhaps I’ll drop Tilly a text and see if she wants to have a walk or something in a week or so. There’s no harm in us being friends and I’d like to see how she’s doing. Who am I kidding? She makes me feel good, like no-one I’ve ever met before and I care about her, despite how Mother feels. I mean, Mother doesn’t have to know, does she? *** When Bradley told me that he was bringing someone home, I wasn’t surprised. There had been signs for weeks of someone new being on the scene, so to speak and he was devoting a lot of the time that he would normally spend with me elsewhere so it was no great surprise when he asked if he could bring Tilly to dinner. Tilly ! What sort of name is that for a grown woman? Really! Bradley has the most awful taste in women. I mean, she looked nice enough but you can never really tell by the way someone looks what they’re going to be like, can you? For example, look at Ted Bundy. Well presented and intelligent by all accounts; a caring family man and a loving husband but also a blooming sociopath. No, I had made up my mind before she had even reached the house - she was not the girl for my Bradley. He had to see it for himself. But there was no harm in helping him along a little, was there? I always think that the measure of a couple is when they encounter difficulty, don’t you? How they master an obstacle or two, say, is where you really know what sort of partnership they’ll make. The fact that those obstacles are less than accidental and concentrated into one ill-fated evening is neither here nor there, in my opinion. Petal, my darling Pekinese is always doing her business in the same part of the front lawn next to the driveway. I’m not sure why. It must be a favourite spot for some reason. Normally, I am quite fastidious in the disposal of her deposits but on hearing of Tilly’s imminent visit, I may have become a little lax in my vigilance at disposing of those little turds. I may have parked badly, leaving only a very small space for Bradley to park, with inadequate room for a passenger to get out on the tarmac. Dinner was at 8pm, just dark enough to allow twilight to distort small lumps on the lawn. It was a shame that the Persian runner in the hallway had to be the recipient of such a tawdry coating but sacrifices are always made for the greater good and it had become a little threadbare in patches. Tilly was very apologetic, of course, but the damage was done and the scent of squashed dog turd and disinfectant was a heady reminder of her wrongdoing all evening. Bradley had already told me that Tilly had a low tolerance for salt after she couldn’t finish a delicious salt encrusted bagel that he had very kindly bought her for a lunch date one day, even with her favourite toppings so it was simple enough to slip an extra spoonful or two into her meal. I had toyed with having finger foods but when I knew that I could easily salinate Tilly’s portion in the kitchen before bringing it out, well, it was perfect. She struggled admirably trying to eat it, I’ll give her that but the salt won out. Obviously, after the poo incident, Tilly’s shoes were in need of some cleansing and I wouldn’t hear of her doing it herself, despite her protestations. I had just the thing to clean them up so that they would be as good as new and off to the utility room I went to do just that. It was the least I could do really, wasn’t it? I have to say that they were a really nice pair of shoes, if a little masculine. I could have done without such deep treads but an old toothbrush and plenty of hot water and they were pristine once more. It did aggravate my tennis elbow though and I did a lot of cursing under my breath. But I needed them to be super clean so that Tilly would feel comfortable putting them back on her feet and that spurred me on. The things we do for love! Anyway, once they were sparkling, it was only right that I applied a little polish to them and a certain special preparation of liquidised dog food, Petal’s favourite which I was able to smear in small amounts over the shoe, knowing that the smell of it under the table would drive poor Petal mad. I didn’t want to make my darling dog my accomplice and I did so hate it when she let out that awful yelp of pain when Tilly’s foot connected with her midriff. Poor little Petal Pekinese. I didn’t think that it would work so well especially when, as a compliment to my cleaning prowess, Tilly put the shoe to her nose and gave it a deep exaggerated sniff, probably in a jocular attempt to lighten the mood. I looked at her aghast and I think that she thought that it was a look of disgust as a result of what she was doing but I was actually more concerned that I was about to be rumbled. Luckily, she didn’t suspect a thing and her thinking that I was disgusted by her only made her even more ingratiating. The almond milk was a little risky, I have to admit, as I do have quite a nasty allergic response to nuts. Without the swift delivery of the jab from an Epipen, there would have been a real danger of me losing my life. My friend Mabel likes to have almond milk in her chai latte coffee when she comes around. It’s a disgusting drink but she seems to like these fancy fragrant tastes - too much for my palate. Anyway, I have a jug of it in the fridge for her regular visits marked “Mabel’s Milk” and it’s always kept on the right. Tilly, in a grand gesture, insisted on making the coffee and I thought that here was the opportunity that would surely seal Bradley’s removal of her from his life. If life has taught me anything it is to never miss an opportunity when presented. So whilst she nipped to the bathroom, I took the label off the jug that said “Mabel’s milk” and quickly switched the jugs and advised Tilly on her return to only use the jug on the left. Mayhem ensued as you can imagine but dear Bradley knew exactly what to do as I knew he would. I couldn’t bear to lose him. Anyway, Tilly is out of the picture. Mabel is my witness to that at “The Little Cup”. She reported that it had all gone rather well for Bradley but do you know that Tilly didn’t shed a tear? No emotion at all. See? Remember what I said about Ted Bundy?

I gaze around the room and sigh. It’s full of old cardboard boxes, both big and little, that seem to make the tiny room even smaller. I walk over to the mattress beside me and plop down on it, sending a cloud of dust up into the air. It’s lumpy and covered with an unsafe amount of dust. Probably a victim from Andrews’s college years, which he claims was not that long ago but we all know different. Andrew is my new stepfather, he’s... fine. He is a middle-aged man with a semi-large bald head and a tall body, six-foot-three to be exact. He’s obsessed with adult cartoons and even has the whole action figure set of the Simpsons, plus posters, clothing, and even three toilet paper holders, one for each of the bathrooms. There is something odd about Andrew, other than his weird obsession, something that I can't quite but my finger on. It might be the fact that he reminds me a bit of my dad, and maybe it's just a feeling of loss and sadness. I don't know for sure but there is definitely something up with him. Andrew has three kids, Emma, Brinley, and Noah. Emma is a 6-year-old girl, with not much to say about her other than she loves unicorns, the color pink, and pretty much anything else a typical 6 year old would like. She also has a way of being super persuasive by simply looking up at her parents (and any other adult in fact) and smiling her missing-tooth smile to get whatever she wants or get away with anything. She has extra long blonde hair and dark blue eyes, paired with whatever wild outfit she chooses to dress in that day. Noah is a 16-year-old boy with a love for skateboarding and surfing. He will be outside from dawn to dusk, just skating up and down the street if you would let him. We live only a mile away from the nearest beach, so on most weekends Noah will skate to the ocean with his closest friends and hang there for a few hours before riding back to our house, completely covered in sand. Brinley is 14, the closest out of all of Andrews’s kids to my age. She has short brown hair cut into a simple pixie cut and can be found wearing the trendiest and up-to-date clothing, and is the most popular girl in ninth grade. She has a snarky, sassy, and arrogant attitude, but only around people her age. To any adult, she seems like a princess, to any kids she seems like a queen, but to any of us, she is a monster. When she found out her dad was dating my mom, she told the entire school that my mom used adult diapers, which is definitely not true. She refused to go to any of the dinners with my family, gossiped about them behind my back, and continued to make my life worse and worse. When she got told that our parents were engaged, she waited until I was walking home from school to bring out a pair of scissors and cut off all of my hair, the hair I had grown out for 7 years, saving to donate to the cancer center my dad was in, the one he was in before he passed away. When I told my mom and we confronted Brinley about it, she broke down bawling and said that the ‘mean’ girl in school, Lilian, actually did it and she ‘tried to save me but it was too late’. My mom believed her, and instead of feeling sorry for me, felt bad for her. Luckily, she didn’t do anything when she found out our parents were getting married because she was away on a vacation with her mom, which she only sees a few times a year, and when she got back it was almost time for the wedding. The wedding was fine also, but it was super weird to see my mom kissing, and being so happy, with someone that wasn’t my dad. Brinley and I were bridesmaids, along with Julia, Cristina, and Lou, my mom’s best friends, Reagan and Angela, Andrew’s two sisters, and Colette and Ariya, my mom’s closest cousins. Emma and Darcy, my 7-year-old sister, were flower girls. They were adorable walking down the aisle in matching fluffy white dresses and their hair piled up in little buns on top of their heads. Rylan, my 17-year-old brother, and Noah were part of Andrew’s groomsman. They wore long black tuxedos and their hair slicked over to the side, the proper groomsman attire according to my mom. The wedding was huge, there were tons of people watching my mom and new stepfather getting married. It was so crowded and felt like hundreds of people were staring at me as I walked down the aisle in front of my mom. I wonder what my mom felt like, as she was the star of the show that day. “Jade! Hurry up sweetheart, we’re just getting ready to do the Thanksgiving prayer!” My mom calls from downstairs, snapping me out of my daydream. “And don’t forget to wear the dress my mother made for you,” Andrew shouts after her, his hoarse voice hurting my sensitive ears. I wince, not just from his voice but from the thought of the hideous dress. For my birthday, which was only a month ago, Andrew's parents gave me a dress, a homemade one. It is made of cloth and yarn, alternating red, pink and purple. It is tightly fitted around the upper part but flairs out into a poofy skirt around and past my hips. There is a reason that it has been stashed in my closet for the entire time I’ve owned it, it looks absolutely revolting on me. It is bunched up in certain places and ultra-tight in others, it simply does not fit me. Yet, I am forced to wear it to dinner the makers of the dress aren't even attending. It doesn't make any sense, yet I shove it over my head in order to keep my mom from yelling at me. I look into the mirror and sigh, for the tenth time today. It looks as bad as I imagine it, wrinkly, clumpy, and horrible. “Jade! Hurry up,” My mother yells from the dining room, “Andrew is about to say the prayer!” “I’m coming,” I reply grudgingly, walking out of my room and down the long unfamiliar hallway of the new house. After my mom married Andrew, we all moved into his house, located a few miles away from my house, or my old house now. I begged my mom to not make us move but she claimed that our house was too small for 4 extra people. I guess that's true, our previous house was a 3 bedroom, 1 bathroom place. Each of us kids got our own room while my mom took the pull out couch in the living room. Andrew’s house or I guess my house now, is a 6 bedroom, 3 bathroom house, with a huge backyard. Other than Emma and Darcy, who wanted to share, we all got our own rooms, which I am definitely thankful for. Sharing a room with Brinley? That would be a complete nightmare. Even though I have been in the house for a few weeks now, it still doesn't feel like home. As I walk down the unfamiliar curving stairs and into the large dining room, I smell a strong whiff of pumpkin pie. Pumpkin pie was my dad’s favorite Thanksgiving food. He loved the rich spices, crispy crust and the overall delicious pumpkin taste of the desert. He always made a homemade pie and added special ingredients that nobody knew about, he called it his secret recipe. He claimed he would never share it with anybody and take it to his deathbed. I didn't know it would be so soon that he would be laying there. I choke down a tear and continue my way over to the dining room table. Everybody is sitting there, talking loudly with one another and staring hungrily at the feast laid out in front of them. I silently slip into the only empty spot, in between Emma and Rylan, and start to unfold the napkin and carefully set it on my lap. “Alright everybody,” Andrew booms over the noisy chatter in the room, “Let’s pray before we eat this amazing feast!” We all grab our glasses, champagne for the adults, and water for the kids, and hold them up towards the middle of the table. As the noise settles down Andrew clears his throat and begins, “Dear Lord, thank you for this amazing feast in front of us. Thank you for blessing me with my beautiful new wife” - he opens his eyes and looks over at mom, smiling broadly - “and the amazing new family that comes with her. I wish that we can combine families well, which we seem to be doing great already, and hopefully continue to live the amazing life we are graced with. Thank you, Lord, for all you have given us, Amen.” We all murmur an ‘amen’ and start to dig into the food. I get my share of mashed potatoes, gravy, bread rolls, cranberry sauce, and my personal favorite, the turkey. We eat and talk for a while until each and every one of us is stuffed full, like the turkey that was devoured within minutes of being brought onto the table. “Okay, guys! It's time for the annual binge-watching of the Simpsons!” Andrew declares, getting up from his seat and taking his plate over to the dishwasher. “Annual binge-watching of the Simpsons?” I repeat after him, confused. The tradition for my family is to eat dinner and then head over to the local apple orchard and pick apples for pies. We would stay out there way past dark, picking apples, laughing, and having the time of our lives. “Yes!” He replies, looking back at me, “That is the annual tradition in this household. Didn't your mother tell you?” “No,” I respond looking at my mom who was purposefully looking away from me, “We always go apple picking, that’s our tradition.” “Well, I don’t like apples.” Well, not everything is about you, I hold back my tongue in order to not shout back. “Well, I-” “Plus,” he interrupts me, “it’s our family tradition.” The anger bubbles up inside of me, I feel it boiling over, over like an active volcano. A volcano about to erup- “No, it’s not!” I yell at him with full rage, “ Our family tradition is to go apple picking. We have done that for 10 years and are not stopping now. I am so sick and tired of you intruding-” “Jade Marissa Lemington,” My mom yells, even louder than I did. Her face is a fire hydrant, bright red. And her eyes are no different, blazing into mine, anger fully showing, “You are being so disrespectful to Andrew who has done nothing but being kind and caring to you. This is not okay behavior.” I look around the room and see every single person with their heads looking down at their plates, either that or up at us, and their faces flushed as well. I look over at Andrew, he’s looking down as well. He was embarrassed at my outburst, and Moms. “Go up to your room right now.” She says, her eyes still blazing. “Fine, it’s not like I wanted to be with you anyways,” I spat, turning and running upstairs. I try to get to my room before my eyes burst but I’m not so lucky. Halfway up the stairs, the waterworks turn on and I am bawling before I even reach my room. This is so unfair, I think, I didn't do anything wrong. He started it all, it's all his fault, if he went along with our family tradition then we would be fine. But then the good side, the more logical side of my brain starts thinking, Well it kinda was my fault. I did get mad at him instead of just calmly asking. And if we combine families we have to combine traditions, take some and leave some. I sit there for a few minutes, too embarrassed to go downstairs, before finally grabbing a blanket from one of the boxes and lying down on the lumpy mattress. Within minutes I’m dead asleep. ****** A few hours later I hear a small knock on the door. I ignore it, turning over on the bed and trying to go back to sleep. But the sound doesn’t go away, instead, it grows louder. “Can I come in? It’s Andrew. As much as I don’t want him to come in... well it is his house. “I guess,” I reply propping myself up on the bed. He walks in slowly, as if he is not wanted, which I guess is kind of true, and makes his way over to one of the larger cardboard boxes. He carefully sits down and turns to look at me, with a hint of guilt, sorrow, and anger in his eyes. “Hi.” Hi? He came all the way up here to say one word? “Hello?” I respond, a questioning touch in my voice. He takes a deep breath, “I just wanted to say I’m sorry, I should’ve checked with all of you, not just your mother, to see if it was okay changing your traditions. I know it is hard,” - he stops for a moment, looking at the ground before taking another deep breath and continuing - “My parents got divorced when I was around your age, they only had one kid, me, and I had no other siblings until my mom married another person, then bam! I went from being an only child to being the second oldest of six. It sure was hard, getting used to all their family traditions and trying to fit in, but I did it and now I love them all like they’re my own blood siblings. I had to learn to let some things go, the ones that really didn't matter, and stand by the ones that did” He looks at me, “And I think that is something you need to learn as well. Something all the kids here need to learn.” I nod and look down at the faded blanket on my lap, my cheeks and ears both red. “But it's okay,” he says softly, “I know it's hard,” - he sits there for a minute before beginning once again - “especially since you lost your dad so soon.” I look up at him and smile, maybe he won't be so bad. Maybe I will learn to like him, “Thank you Andrew. Thank you for giving me another chance.” “Of course. I know I won’t be like your re-” “My real dad?” I say, “I know, and thank you for not trying to replace him.” “Well actually-” He starts, taking a deep breath. He reaches up to his head, probably going to scratch it but instead rips his hair off to reveal a longer cut. I gasp. He extends his hand over to his pocket and pulls out a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and sets them on his face. I know those glasses and haircut. Suddenly everything slides into place, like a puzzle, I begin to understand. He turns and looks at me, “I am your real father.”

Once upon a time, there was a slice of bread that had its own empire. It was a very big empire, bigger than the holy roman empire. As a matter of fact, it was the holy roman empire of sliced bread. It was the Holy Bread Empire. The emperor of this empire was Bread The Great. Just like many emperors, Bread the Great was very corrupt. One example was the Flour Famine of 1223. During the flour famine, there was a shortage of...flour. The bread population couldn’t repopulate themselves using regular flour so they had to recreate flour using fine wood shavings. Since the texture of fine wood shavings had a texture similar to flour, the bread people thought, “Hey, we don’t need flour. As long as we have our yeast and wood we’re good.” For the next five years, well, the bread people chopped down all the trees that surrounded their empire. Even though bread made from wood shavings was crumbly and had a stench of pine, the bread population went through the roof. The problem was The Holy Bread Empire couldn’t sustain the population growth so Bread The Great, instead of addressing the flour famine and deforestation around his empire, when the empire reached its maximum capacity, he got rid of excess population. He fed the excess slices of bread to his human servants. Eventually, the excess bread became so much that not even his human servants couldn’t handle it. They were fed bread and only bread. They are so much bread that the human servants died thanks to severe malnutrition. The trees on the other hand acted as a barrier to keep the nearby enemies from finding the bread empire easily. Since all the trees that surrounded and even protected them were gone, the nearby enemies could spot them from many many miles away. That meant more wars. Especially wars against the potatoes. For many centuries, there have been many conflicts between the bread and the potatoes. The bread people were on potato land. The potato emperor kindly asked the bread emperor to buzz off but Bread the Great ignored him. The increased bread population and bread activity affected the potato people. They couldn’t grow and raise healthy and happy potatoes and build a thriving potato community without those dumb slices of bread taking up their space. The conflict escalated and turned into many wars that led nowhere for the potato people but they continue to start wars against the bread people anyways. After the bread people chopped down all the surrounding trees, the potato emperor saw that as the perfect moment to take down the bread empire. The potatoes gathered in thousands around the bread empire’s fortification. Bread the Great ordered his army to throw fiery cannons at the potatoes. Some of the flames from the cannon cooked the potatoes. Sometimes the bread army would take the injured potatoes to Bread the Great’s palace where he would consume them for dinner. Since his servants were dead, he had the potatoes all to himself to make fries. But there was a problem. There was still a shortage of flour and since every slice of bread in his empire (including his army) was made of wood shavings, they were a walking fire hazard. When the potato army started throwing fiery cannons back at the empire, all the bread people easily ignited into flames. The entire empire was doomed. The flames spread and spread. Bread the great was the only slice of bread made of genuine flour and not wood. When over 85% of his population (and his empire) turned into charcoal, Bread the Great had to save his empire. What did he do? He fled. He left to create another empire thousands of miles away. He left his old empire and the remaining bread people to sit in flames while the potatoes invaded and took over everything. Since the Flour Famine of 1223 and the Potato War of 1225, the bread population slowly returned to normal and with normal flour instead of wood shavings. As for Bread the Great, he continued to rule the empire until 1295. On September 23, 1295, Bread the Great made his usual biannual speech to all of the empire. He spoke about how amazing he was and how the empire was in great care. Completely ignoring everything about the flour famine, the trees, the burning bread people, and an army of invading angry potatoes. In the middle of his speech, a group of moldy wheat bread men sprayed hot water at him. Bread the Great was soggy and greatly injured. The blast was so hot and strong, it knocked him off his high podium. When he landed, all of the bread citizens ran to him and tore him to pieces. It was a gory sight, but since Bread the Great never married and had bread children, there was no one to take his place and rule the empire. Following his assassination, the empire was in much worse shape. There was more chaos, more famines, and more wars from more angry potatoes. The bread people weren’t prepared. They thought they could operate the empire as a collective but everyone was greedy, stubborn, and never listened to each other. No one could agree with anyone about anything. The Holy Bread Empire eventually collapsed. As for the bread people, they were either captured by the potato army and were used to make potato flour bread rolls for the potato people or they fled the empire and were never heard from again. And that is the tale of Bread the Great and the fall of the Holy Bread Empire.

Marie awoke to the sound of the front door closing. Through blurred vision she looked at the clock on her nightstand and saw that it was almost four in the morning. She reached out across the bed seeking the comfort of her husband's body, but only found a chill as her hand emerged empty from under the covers. Anxiety filled her mind while despair filled her heart. It was unlike Kyle to leave this late without saying a thing. Eyes still closed she slid her feet down to the cold wood floor and stood up to walk to the bathroom. The chill of the floorboards and sudden glaring light from the bathroom brought Marie out of her dazed state, which made her worry more as she turned to look at the lonely bed she had just abandoned. She sat on the rim of the tub and looked down at her toes, chipped purple nail polish and a bit long, she reached under the sink and got some nail clippers and polish. Marie always did tedious work when she was on the brink of a panic attack, the repetition and mindlessness closes out the world around her for at least a little while. Nails finished she looked into the mirror, she found peace in her own eyes that she didn't feel in herself. She left the bathroom losing the battle to stay awake, ready to forget about her anxieties and sadness for a few hours, but the moment she stepped foot back on the cold bedroom floor a noise alerted her downstairs. Her heart began to race, every single possibility of what could be down there flashed through her brain, but she knew it was just Kyle. She rushed to the bed and under the not so safe security of the covers, but she knew it was just Kyle. Heat started to build as her breathing got heavier and heavier under the covers, time kept going to matter how much she wanted it to stop and get her mind straight, it had to be just Kyle. The bedroom door opened and Kyle walked in. Relief flew over her, but questions she would never ask him arose in her mind, where had he been all those hours, when he left her behind.

Music Junction was a music streaming service that launched in 2020. They had all of the features of Spotify and Apple Music but were completely free, whereas other platforms charged an average of $9 per month. Music Junction recently ran into financial difficulties when musicians began charging .05 cents for each song streamed rather than .02 cents. Drake earned roughly $10 million from the streaming service alone. Ad sales from DiaperJeams, a jean short diaper company for babies; TaxingTemptation, a dating website for accountants; and Cannibitty, a company that allows you to experience small bites of cannibalism without going full Hannibal Lector, just weren't cutting it anymore. As a result, Music Junction began charging $2.99 a month, and 80% of its subscribers canceled their memberships. This is a snippet of Music Junction's quarterly meeting with employees in January 2023 Bryson Hodges, CEO, took the stage in front of the entire company. "What ungrateful jerks! Our monthly charge was three times less than that of our competitors, yet it was still too much! So, Apple Music has the whole Taylor Swift Album, and we have a third of a recent concert recorded from the back row. So, Spotify has "New Music Friday," and we have "Rappers on the Subway Tuesday." So, Pandora has unlimited skips? We also have unlimited skips, like the ones you get from a scratched 1997 CD we recently uploaded to the site." "In any case, I'm here to announce that we will resume offering a free option." There is an air of discomfort and uncertainty; does this signal mass layoffs? "Now let me clarify, we're not giving away the cow for free here, not in the slightest." "First, the free tier will have a listening quality akin to trying to tape a song off the radio; I recorded the DJ intros myself. Second, our free support line will now be a 1-900 number, and customers will be charged per minute as a woman seductively informs them on how to use the app. Finally, we will take advantage of unique opportunities to earn extra money." The employees stare at each other perplexed. Bryson projected a photo of a student in the back row using AirPods to listen to music. "This is Miguel Thomas from Kalamazoo, Michigan, and everyone at school thinks he's cool and tough. He is secretly listening to Carly Rae Jepson's Call Me Maybe, which he's streamed 597 times this month. We just informed him that if he did not provide us $2.99, we would switch off his Bluetooth, and all the other students would hear the song he was vibing to." Miguel ignored the message. Bryson shrugged and pressed a button. The song began to play on his phone instead of AirPods. Everyone laughed and pointed. Miguel grabbed his phone and paid the $2.99 immediately. Bryson then showed a video of a professional woman driving her car while singing along to a song. "This is Sara Furtado of Casper, Wyoming. She's now singing along to: I Don't Want to Miss a Thing by Aerosmith." Bryson pressed a button, and everyone could hear how horrible she was at singing. Some employees cover their ears in agony. "We'll just email Sara a little recording of this and threaten to post it online and send it to Brandon, a guy she's trying to impress." Sara later received the message, panicked, and immediately sent the $2.99. "There are millions of examples like this. Since creating his account last summer, Roger McPhail of Atlanta, Georgia, has listened to "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion 2,353 times. The audience gasped. "We've also got cell phone footage; here's Peter Abberton, a married construction worker from Denver, Colorado, dancing to WHAM's Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go!" One of the employees in the front row appeared to be ill. "Celebrities aren't immune either; here's Curtis Jackson of New York, New York, also known as "50 Cent," grooving out to Vanilla Ice's Ice Ice Baby, and Justin Timberlake of Nashville, Tennessee singing along to The Backstreet Boys' I Want It That Way." The audience was taken aback. "The possibilities are limitless, Mmm Bop, Lil Bow Wow, Nickleback; people still love their old songs, even though it's cringeworthy now. All we have to do is track when these songs are played and cha-ching!" Employees appeared hesitant. "Don't forget about the cancel culture. Are you still listening to R-Kelly as a professional or a politician? I'm sure there's someone you don't want to know." The employees started to come along reluctantly when a man in a suit came up on stage and whispered something to Bryson. Bryson nodded and turned to face the audience. "We just ran out of money and declared bankruptcy.

Waves of hot and cold fought for dominance of Erika’s skin. Her suit worked tirelessly to protect her from the harsh temperatures, but a little still trickled in. The little fan connected to a chilled tank whirred loudly in protest, but the hardest part was yet to come. It was only hours ago that Erika and her husband had left their home. Now, they were heading toward a shuttle that would take her to the first experimental space station. The thought sent butterflies through her stomach. “Ready?” Russell asked. He flung his own suit’s backpack over his shoulders. Erika took one last look around the crashed vehicle they’d entered the desert in. It hadn’t been long before disaster struck. The engine had overheated, sending the driver into a frenzy. The vehicle had rolled at least a mile before landing. Erika sighed at the small mound of sand that now housed several casualties. She grabbed Russell’s hand and the two set out into the night. ___ It wasn’t until a few days in that they first encountered what the news had deemed “Zombies.” There was a hoard gathered around an unmoving object. Erika couldn’t make out what it was, but knowing that they tended to go after humans she came to her own conclusion. Russell turned around and put his index finger to his helmet with one hand and reached for the small knife in his boot with the other. Erika nodded and followed as Russell started to move to the left. The zombies moaned and groaned, stumbling around their prey. Though the sky was dark, the moonlight was enough to illuminate everything as if it were day. She could clearly see the sagging, deformed flesh of the zombies' bodies. Their skin was yellow tinted with dark spots that gave it the appearance of burnt string cheese.. The pair managed to quietly slip down the dune and make their way around the hoard. Erika placed her hands on the sides of her helmet. Their sickening moans rang through her ear canals, settling in the pit of her stomach. It was an hour, or a few minutes, but they finally lost sight of the hoard. Russell slid the knife back into his boot. The sky was turning a bright pink, danger disguised with pretty colors. Russell's fingers laced through hers, sending a warmth through her arm and into her chest. Soon, she thought. We’ll be safe and we’ll be together. All she had left was hope. ___ Outside of the cave was like a mirage. Wavy lines blurred the horizon with sand dunes as far as the eye could see. Erika’s eyes squinted as she observed the outside world. The small rock formation was a nice break in the shade. Their suits’ whirring slowed in the shadows, getting a break from the open air. Even still, it was dangerously hot. “I’m glad you said we should travel at night,” Russell said, sitting with his back against the cliff. Erika was glad she’d thought to travel at night, too. The thought of being out in the sun made her shudder. “Russ, do you think we’ll make it?” she asked, her voice trembling as she sat down next to him. She leaned her head on his shoulder and he wrapped an arm around her. “I think we can make it,” he deducted. “We’re prepared. We have water, defenses, food. The cooling tanks will last at least another week.” “Yeah, but do you feel like we’ll make it?” Silence filled the air, but different than the last time. This one felt like an impassable void had been ripped between them, even though they couldn’t physically be any closer. Erika could feel the sense of dread radiating off of her husband. It was like the heat waves bouncing off of the Earth. Deadly in its own way. She turned her eyes to the sky. Millions of billions of bright lights flooded the sky, each one a night light guiding someone home. She knew that bright white was creeping up from behind as the sun made its morning preparations. “What a waste of a night sky,” Erika muttered. “Do you remember,” a cheeky grin etched onto her face. “That one night that we went down to the parking lot of our apartment building and just danced under the stars?” “Of course,” Russell responded. He chuckled, a sweet sound that hadn’t been sung in too long. “It was the night I knew I wanted to marry you.” “The stars looked as bright as they do tonight.” “It was a blackout, of course they did.” Erika sighed, “Do you think, when we get to space, we’ll be able to dance with no gravity?” She laughed, imagining what it would be like to dance on air. Russell didn’t join her, and the dreadful silence crept back between them. “You can sleep first,” Russell said. “I’ll watch out.” And just like that, the discussion was over. ___ They started just before sundown. The land was flatter farther into the desert, closer to how it was where they started.. A paper map in hand, he navigated through the sea of sand, avoiding zombies whenever possible. The zombies had become the least of their worries, with food and water topping them. However, it would be a problem if one managed to rip open one of their suits. Erika shuddered. Thoughts of her skin boiling in the intense temperatures made her stomach do loops, but they didn’t seem to want to go away. However, they were still at least three days away from the shuttle. Russell had reassured her that the shuttle wasn’t leaving until after they’d get there, but things always changed. With the way the world was, it seemed like they wouldn’t hesitate to send off their first test group. “They need a few days to train people,” Russell had said. “Not everyone is as familiar with space travel as us.” Every time he said that, Erika felt something poke into the back of her mind. Suddenly, Erika stepped her foot down but it fell a lot more than she’d anticipated. The rest of her body propelled forward, throwing her onto her hands. She whipped her head around to see what she stepped in to find that her feet were completely buried in sand that pulsated every second. “Erika!” Russell exclaimed, trying to keep his voice down. He was already almost knee deep. The two made eye contact with each other before hastily tossing their backpacks to the side. The tanks were connected to their suits, so they couldn’t toss them to be lighter. Erika watched as her backpack landed on what was obviously solid sand before turning her attention to her sinking feet. Quicksand wasn’t deadly if dealt with correctly, but even still she felt panic rising within her. Slowly, but surely, she directed Russell on how to step up with his feet. She did her best to roll over onto her back and make it so that she could be upright. It felt like hours. Maybe it was. The task was brutal, made worse by her instincts screaming at her to go as fast as possible. Finally, they made it over to solid sand again. Out of breath, the two shared an embrace. Erika went to grab her backpack and put it back on. When she looked back at Russell, he still didn’t have his backpack, and his face had gone a pale shade of it’s normal hue. “Honey,” Erika began, keeping her tone as calm as possible. “Where’s your backpack?” Russell didn’t answer, but turned his head back towards the quicksand pit, illuminated now in the moon’s pale glow. Erika felt a tremor through her body. There was at least another week’s worth of food provisions in that backpack, but worse, the map was now lost. If they used her food they could make it through the three days, but what if they got lost? There had only been one map and Russell had taken it off the body of their driver. Erika’s hands were shaking. Her throat felt as if she had swallowed a mouthful of sand. There was nothing left but hope. Hope they were going in the right direction. Hope that the food would last. Hope that their suits wouldn’t malfunction. Hope that they would make it out alive. ___ So far, the food had been lasting, but the zombies seemed to be more aggressive as the temperatures increased. The stars had served as a decent map, but they weren’t a guarantee. With each passing day, the void of silence grew greater between them. They went almost whole days without speaking. It worked to preserve water, but Erika could feel the distance. Russell walked several feet ahead of her, his eyes darting around.. Always watching. Erika didn’t even try to keep up with him anymore. Whenever they hit a sand dune, they’d redirect to the main path. One time, they reached so far up a dune that they couldn’t see the path anymore. That was when Russell had said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know if I can get you there.” Erika scoffed, “That’s silly. We’re doing fine, and it’s not like they’ll leave, right?” “If our truck didn’t make it they’ll assume we’re dead,” he shot back. She tried to keep herself composed, but her own doubts clung to her like a child to its mother’s leg. “We’ve done everything right,” Erika said. “Maybe they’ll even send out a search party for the truck. They have our identifications. They gave us the tickets!” Russell went silent. “They do know what we look like, right? They know who we are.” Erika was struck with a sudden realization that hurt worse than the heat and the hills. “How did you really get these tickets?” she demanded. Russell then reluctantly told her a story different than the one he’d told her originally. That he’d lied about getting them in a raffle, but stole them from a coworker. “He left them lying around in the locker room after we were training in our suits,” Russell explained, his voice quiet. “He has a wife, but I know he hasn’t been a good husband to her. He’s not even that great of a guy at work! You know. You saw what he was like at the Christmas party.” “So I know him?” “He didn’t deserve it!” Russell exclaimed, gesturing with his hands. “Of all of the people on Earth he did not deserve to go.” “But what right did you have to choose that, Russell?!” Erika screamed, she could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. “What makes us deserve it more than anyone else?” Silence. Erika sighed. “It’s not like it matters that much, right?” Her voice had returned to normal. “It’s just a test after all.”” Russell didn’t respond. A sob escaped from Erika’s mouth as all of the stress she felt boiled over, worsened because she knew. She knew that this couldn’t be just a test run. The way everyone rushed the process along- Ugh! That’s why they packed up and left the very day after Russell had supposedly “won” the tickets! As each piece of the puzzle came together Erika sobbed harder and harder.. She didn’t care how many zombies heard her. She didn’t care how dehydrated the taste of her tears would make her. There was an absent presence inside of her soul that made it hard to stand up and keep walking. Hope had been lost. ___ They’d lost time during the fight, but not too much. Erika’s feet dragged deep gashes into the sand, the weight of the only task pushing her forward. “We should get there within a few days,” Russell said, his voice warm. His eyes drooped, with exhaustion or a looming sadness Erika couldn’t tell. She didn’t care anymore. The man she knew would never hurt a soul to get ahead. Why did he do it? The sun began to peek it’s head above the horizon, bringing greater heat with it. Erika welcomed the pain as long as it kept her distracted. Soon, they would need to take shelter. Her eyelids grew heavier as they marched on. A large mass suddenly stopped Erika in her tracks. She stumbled backward to find that Russell had stopped moving, and was standing cold and frozen. The road dipped down into a valley, one that was cluttered with zombies packed together like sardines. They could make it around, just like all of the other hoards. Just... Bigger. Inch by inch, the pair made their way to the left, staying as far away as they could. Minutes felt like hours as the sun climbed higher and higher into the sky. Beads of sweat beat down Erika’s forehead, though her suit sounded like it was a dying cat as it worked to keep her cool. A quarter around. Halfway around. Three quarters around. Inches from a straight shot away from the zombies. Then, it happened. One tank, or both, let out a sound so loud that the moon could hear it. In an instant, Russell snatched her hand and dragged her after him. Erika didn’t dare look back out of fear for what she would find. Even after days of walking they could outrun the stumbling gait of a zombie. At least, that’s what Erika told herself. It was impossible to know who stumbled first, but one of them tripped. Russell snatched the knife from his boot and pushed Erika ahead of them. Erika couldn’t hear the moans behind her anymore, but they kept running. Erika turned her head to look back at Russell as they made their way up a dune. She got to see the horror in his face as she tripped and rolled all the way down the hill. When she finally stopped, her head ached, and she could hear a hissing noise from her back. That was the least of her worries as a moan sounded out to her right. Her heart stopped and in an instant she was tangled up on the ground with a zombie. Her body writhed as she struggled against the slender figure. It stared at her with pupils so dilated they were barely visible. Its mouth hung open as it let out a snarl, flinging saliva onto her helmet. With a mighty heave, she flung the zombie off of her just in time for Russell to finish it off. The relief was short lived as another zombie came up behind Russell. He sliced and kicked at it, but it seemed like it was stronger than the others. Erika managed to get up on her feet, but her head spun as soon as she stood up straight. Her vision blurred and her stomach heaved. She could barely make out Russell struggling against the zombie. She stumbled towards him, moving slower than the zombies. Her heart plummeted when she watched the zombie push Russell over, throwing itself on top of him. Panic vibrated through Erika’s body. She mustered all the strength she had left and launched herself at the zombie. They rolled off away from Russell, Erika managing to stay on top, holding down the writhing, disgusting being. Erika caught a glint of something in the sand. Russell’s knife. Without hesitation, she grabbed for the knife, digging her knee deep into the zombie’s hip. She raised her arm, knife in hand and, her heart thumping loudly in her chest, did what she had to do to survive. ___ Erika threw herself off of the body as soon as it stopped moving. Out of breath, she scurried across the sand to Russell. His chest moved in quick breaths as he lay motionless in the sand. Her heart sank. He stared straight ahead, not showing that he’d even seen her. Beads of sweat ran down his face as he panted. Erika looked down at the suit despite already knowing what she’d find. Three large gashes had been torn through the front of the fabric, even going through his undershirt. His skin was flushed and turning pinker by the second. She could feel his body beginning to shiver as she clutched to him. She struggled to reach her water tank. If she could maybe douse him in water it would help. When she unhooked the tank, her stomach sank at how light it felt. In the side were several little holes, likely from her fall down the dune. “No, no, no,” she chanted over and over. Her hands were placed on the sides of her husband’s helmet, staring deep into his eyes, silently begging him to pull off a miracle. Tears flooded down her cheeks, dripping onto the inside of her helmet. The man she loved would be dead in minutes. No, worse than dead. Turned. And there was nothing she could do about it. As she sat there, watching in shiver in the sand, she saw one last thing. “I love you,” he mouthed, but it was the next word that struck her hardest. “Go.” ___ Erika arrived at the space center, panting and almost depleted of the resources she got from her husband. Her pain was quenched by her determination only to survive. She gave her ticket, and her fake name. They let her in without question.. As the sun came up, Erika stared out the circular window at the desert she’d traversed. All the miles she’d walked. The blood, sweat, and tears. The losses greater than she could have imagined when she started. She wanted to stay on that dune where her heart had broken once, but she really wanted to stay where it was broken the second time. It was those words echoing in her mind. “I love you,” she whispered into the nothing, the sound drowned out by the firing up of the shuttle’s engines. The shuttled propelled into space, leaving Earth behind, a shriveled up version of her former self.

He awoke in the forest, though this was the limit of his knowledge. As the ragged looking man woke up in the middle of the far stretching wilderness, he found himself amiss in the falling leaves and trees of the stretching landscape. When he came to, he realized he had no memory of who he was or how he had gotten here. With any kind of memories blank, he soon came upon seeing if he was alone. “Hello!” he shouted, hearing his voice echo off throughout the forest. After a few more times, he grew content that he was truly alone. He soon noticed that he seemed to be exhausted despite lying asleep for what he felt was quite awhile. He turned and looked to find a table with various supplies on it. The table had a lighter, binoculars, duffle bag, survival knife, a pistol that he recognized as a .45 caliber M1911, a note, and some tight string and spears. He checked the clip in the gun, noticing it had no bullets in it. The note said “ Enjoy your desolace” it what appeared to be black ink. Confused by the note, he decided to save his questions and pack up what was apparently his equipment. In the miss of the chirping birds and swaying tree leaves feeling his ears, he heard the gentle hum of a stream. He decided to investigate this surprise. Despite not having a memory of who he was, where he was, or how he got there, for some reason survival came naturally to him. He quickly used his spears to catch fish at the stream with enough ease that it surprised him. He found a suitable campsite between two boulders just next to the roaring currents of the stream. He gathered logs from within the forest, and made a fire with some of his excess spears. As he ate as twilight set into the sky, he tried to piece together the fragments of memories in his mind. One memory he remembered was walking down the bustling street of a city, though he did not know what city. He would cross the heavy traffic, making his way to large a building. This is where he assumed he worked. There was also the memory of a woman. While the relationship he had to this woman as well as her basic information were unknown to him, his memory of her was vivid. Long black hair, deep green eyes. Whenever he imaged her in his head he felt sadness. The last memory he had was walking in a dark and small apartment. As he approached the counter in the living room, his hands trembled as he reached out for a small brown jewelry box. Any memory beyond that was lost to him. As he lingered around the rocky area near the river, he took time to admire this odd location. The stretching trees that seemed to never end, the whisping birds overhead, the desolace of it all. Despite how lost he was in his mind, he wasn’t scared or worried at all. Perhaps not having any memories of who he was made his mind numb. It was if he came here on his own accord, a thought which intrigued him. However, to him the whole place felt disconnected, in a way that seemed like it wasn’t real. You could go to the Himalayas or Mount Everest and admire its scope and beauty, but he felt that you could still feel like it was grounded in reality. But with this place, with the lack of any people, made him feel uneasy. The silence of anything but the river and the wind brought him peace yet also worried him. Was any of this real? A dream perhaps? Even though he had knowledge of the world, he felt like he was a fragment. He had no memories, no life. A shell. As he finished his meal, he looked up to the sky and discovered something odd. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed it until now, though we was quite out of it. The sky still seemed to be in twilight. After all the time had gone by, at least three hours from his estimate, it stilled seemed that the time was still around six to seven o’clock. It should have been dark out by now. He decided that the only way to discover what this place is was was to venture out. As he gathered up his duffel bag on his shoulder and the rest of his gear, he looked at his reflection in the water of the river. It was the first time he had saw himself since he awoke. Long and mossy black hair, slight beard, it wasn’t like looking at himself. It was like looking at a stranger. It didn’t seem to matter how far he walked, the forest seemed to never end. He was hoping to see something but trees, anything at all, but it seemed like it was never ending. After walking for about an hour, he caught his breath and sat by a nearby log. It still wasn’t dark, and the longer he wandered in this limitless expanse of land the more weary and lonely he became. Was there anyway out? He wanted to hear someone's voice, to know he wasn’t completely alone. He closed his eyes, thinking to himself this had to be a dream, hoping to wake from it. Suddenly, the coo of the cicadas and all the other creatures of the forest ceased, and his eyes snapped open. He could hear a voice whispering in his ears, a gentle yet mysterious wisp echoing silently. “Come” it said. That much he could make out. He began running and shouting towards where he heard it. “Wait!” he yelled desperately. “I’m here!”. He ran and ran, as if finding who it was would free him from this lonely and monotonous world. As he ran, the voice boomed louder. “Come!” it said. As he ran, he soon came across a clearing, as if the trees had made a way for him. The voice now seemed to cease, though this didn’t hasten his pursuit. Once he ran through it, what was on the other side caused him to stare in disbelief. He found himself on a great cliff, and before him was a seemingly never ending ocean. The stretching water reached out far beyond the cliff, and beyond in the distance was a great veil of fog. Small lights popped in out and mingled within the fog. He could hear roaring waves crashing against the cliff. He came dangerously close to the edge, his body flirting with falling off. He saw a small rock chip off and fall, watching as it slowly made its way to the bottom, until it was consumed. He closed his eyes again. “Should I jump” he thought. To him, this world surely couldn't be real. As he reached his foot out, he suddenly stopped himself and backtracked. Gasping, he realized how close he came to falling. As he looked on at the fog, the distant lights suddenly began spinning wildly. They then consumed the sky with their light, so much that he had to close his eyes. When he opened them, he found that it was daylight once again. The sun shined, and seagulls flew above. He was astonished, but it did nothing but confirm his suspicions. This did not take him off in the least. Now accepting the lack of reality, he went on his way, fearing what could lie ahead. For now he knew anything could happen now. The cliff may have ended where he stood, but when he wandered off to the left he found a clearing that lead him back into the forest. The ocean was a breathtaking sight, and he was saddened to find himself back within the never ending expanse of trees. The world around him now seemed to be more ever changing than solid truth. After seeing the lights change the very sky, he came to the conclusion that not everything was absolute. It could change within an instant. Walking down the path, he realized he had been here for at least eight hours. He was no longer hungry, tired, and was devoid of any physical feeling of pain (he had scraped his knee on a jagged rock earlier, though he felt nothing). Could it be that basic necessities were unneeded here? That pain and human frailty meant nothing? He was curious, and so he bravely took one of the spears from his duffel bag and put the point of it on the top of his hand. He closed his eyes, human instinct telling him to brace for pain. Though when he did it, he once again felt nothing. No blood was drawn. He did it a few more times, even trying to pierce his gut with the spear. When he did, no matter how hard he pushed, it wouldn't budge. It was as if his skin was made of stone. “To bad the pistol doesn’t have any ammo” he thought darkly. “That would really put it to the test”. After a long trek, he eventually made it to another stream. A small water fall lied at the end, connected and dotted with large and jagged rocks. Since he no longer felt hunger for some reason, he assumed he had no need to eat. Though his sense of taste was still intact, as far as he could tell. He found a small rock to sit on, admiring the clear water as the sun reflected off of it. He watched as the bass swam under its surface, actually smiling as he admired the beauty of nature. He saw his smiling self in the crystal clear water, wondering just what type of person he was in, well, the world. Could it be this was all he has ever known? All he will know? Perhaps he was sent here, though for how long? In his pondering, he saw something that caught his eye. A large wooden door..... engraved on the largest rock. “That wasn’t there when I got here” he thought curiously. “Couldn't have been”. While he was caught off guard, after what he saw with the lights in the sky it didn’t throw him off. He had grown, even in his short time here, to accept the strange and questionable nature of this land. It had become almost like mirage of random and strange events, and anything happening now he would just grow to accept. He approached the door, realizing how silly all this was. He was about to enter a room within a rock, which was only about three feet wide and nine feet tall. When he opened it, he wasn’t even surprised to find a large and sprawling cave. Impossible, of course, but that was the nature of the neverending forest. The absurd was the norm. He closed the door, wiggling the knob to make sure he would not be locked within. The cave itself wasn’t big as he previously, perhaps a little bigger than the average living room. There was a small puddle in the middle of the cave, with dripping water from the top of the cave the only notable sound. The victorian era looking door at the end of the cave caught his eye, aswell as the figure lying on the floor. He gasped, and rushed over to help who ever this may be. For since the daylight returned, he had all but given hope on meeting any person here. He was glad his doubts had been proven wrong. When he approached, he noticed he was wearing the same clothes as him, and had a burlap sack over his face. “Hey, you alright?” he asked swiftly. Noticing no response, he removed the burlap sack. What he saw took the breath out of him. It was him, same face and all. He noticed he had blood coming from his mouth. He let out a rough cough, enough to wake him out of his shock and shake him. “Enjoying your stay?” he asked ruggedly. “I..... I don’t understand” he asked. “Are we one in the same?”. The man laid his head to the ground. “I.... am you.... and you.... are me” he said struggling. “Though who we are.... inside..... differs greatly”. “You.... sent yourself here, this world is you’res”. “This is what you wanted, not what.... I wanted” he struggled to breath as he forced out his final words. “Had... had to see.... the world you choose for yourself...... who you were.” He sighed, and coughed up more blood, his life fading. “I’m sorry.... but there is no escape from this world” “You are its sole occupant, forest has....... mind of its own.” “Will keep you here, path never ends, just makes more.” “He told me to tell you.... this... is your... damnation” “For taking away most precious gift”. “Who!” he yelled in dispiration. “Please, I have more to ask. “Sorry.... but...”, and in a slow but steady pace, the mans duplicate died. He didn’t know much of what to think at this point, he had saw himself die right before his eyes. Not wanting to linger for longer, he went through the door to exit the cave. When he opened it, he was in the living room he remembered from his memories. He saw himself reaching for the jewelry box, just like in his memory. “Hey!” he shouted at himself. He yelled more, but he did not seem to be able to hear him. He reached out to touch him, but this seemed to have no effect either. His duplicate reached into the box and pulled out a gun, the same M1911 he carried in his duffle bag. He put the gun to his head, and, after some delay, pulled the trigger. Blood sprayed all over the floor, and the gun shot somehow produced a shockwave that tore apart the room. Frightened, he ducked under a table in front of the tv. Once the bustling tore apart the framework, he found himself at the river he first discovered, or at least thats where he seemed to be. Shaking and distraught, he quickly pulled out the M1911 in his duffle bag. “Its.... the same” he thought.