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Allura 67

She was on a footbridge, sitting precariously on the railing with one leg tucked under her while the other dangled over the edge. Her lavender skirt rustled gently around her upper calf as the breeze tickled her bare toes. The golden light of the late afternoon danced down from the leaves above and wove itself into her auburn braid. Oddly, she also had what appeared to be watercress tucked in her braid, as if it were a rose. She had a slight wrinkle between her eyebrows and the tip of her tongue peeked out from her rose-bud mouth as she studied the family of ducks splashing about in the stream below her, deftly holding a pencil and nearly-filled sketchbook in her lap. She didn’t hear the man approach. In fact, she had not noticed any of the other people as they passed by her on the wooden bridge. Joggers, walkers, dogs, bikes, they all passed by, giving the artist a brief glance before continuing on with their lives, relishing the warmth of the sun on their faces as winter finally removed it’s final grasps from the earth and spring took hold with full-force. It had been a long winter, and the forest had come alive the first chance it got, not only with it’s regular inhabitants, but with the various visitors as well. The man was no exception to those that were itching to taste the sun. Late night, snow-covered ice, and a driver that had had a few too many glasses of wine had resulted in the man ending up with several spinal surgeries and an extensive stay in the hospital. Only a few days ago was he able to walk on his own and leave the hospital. The golden rays seemed to have their own method of healing him. The breeze rippled in his hair and he seemed to gain strength in his muscles, each step more comfortable and sure than the last. He moved slowly, hoping to hold on to the sweet taste in his mouth of the fresh, crisp air. He used to walk this path at least once a week the previous summer. It picked up near his apartment, and a couple of miles down there was a small ice cream shop that he loved to frequent. He used the walk as an excuse to satisfy his ever-persistent sweet-tooth. One of his favorite places to stop and take a few moments to observe any critters that happened to be scurrying by was the old wooden footbridge that crossed over a small babbling brook. If you looked at the railing, you could see carvings of initials, some faded, some yet to be filled in with algae and moss. Ghosts desperate to keep the bridge from forgetting their footprints. Sometimes he would make up stories to go along with the initials, other times he would absentmindedly trace the divets of the letters in the wood as he watched the water dance and ripple over smooth stones of the stream. As he came up on the footbridge, he saw the artist perched on the right side railing. He didn’t want to disturb her, so he paused and leaned against the left side railing. He began to think that he had been too ambitious in his decision to take a walk, fiery fingers walking themselves up and down his back, squeezing themselves around his spine. He supposed this was not what the nurses meant when they told him to do some “light walking” every day. He shifted himself to the end of the bridge, where the post was large enough to rest the full width of his back against. Grimacing, he gingerly lowered himself to the ground, groaning as he got into a comfortable position. He closed his eyes for a brief moment as a wave of nausea washed over him from the pain. When it passed, he opened his eyes again and gazed at the artist, who had still taken no notice of him. She was too focused on re-creating the image of the ducks below her. He wondered what it was about the ducks that compelled her to pick them to draw. There was a robin that was nesting in the tree right beside the bridge, as well as a squirrel stretched out napping on a branch that hung over the brook on his side of the bridge. She could have just as easily picked either of them to draw. He contemplated asking her, but something told him that he shouldn’t break her concentration. There was a beauty in her focus, how she gracefully balanced on the railing, looking at the world with learned eyes that caught details that he would never see. He wondered if she saw colors differently. If she could see the brushstrokes in the earth. He did not open his mouth to ask these questions, but she turned to look at him as if she somehow heard him. “Are you okay?” she asked. Her voice sounded scratchy, as if she hadn’t used it all day, and he was startled by how her eyes seemed to match perfectly with the color of the late afternoon sun shining through the freshly-budded leaves. “Yes, yes, I’m okay,” said the man, suppressing a groan. “I’m sorry to interrupt you.” He gestured to the sketchbook in the woman’s lap. The woman glanced down, as if noticing it for the first time. She then turned back towards the creek. “Oh, you aren’t interrupting...” the woman trailed off, her gaze focusing on the small group of ducks now swimming under the bridge and away from her. She puffed out her cheeks slightly and exhaled roughly, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her face. She looked back down at her work in progress, twiddling her pencil between her index finger and thumb, uncertain. “I suppose it will have to be done, then,” she mumbled to herself. “I’m sorry,” the man apologized again, biting his lower lip nervously. “No, no, it’s really not your fault. Things move on whether you are ready for them to or not,” the woman shrugged. She deftly slid off the railing and stood, facing the man. Out of the corner of the man’s eye he thought he saw the current of the stream below shift strangely with the woman’s movement, but he figured there was just a fish or something that was swimming close to the surface. Her brow furrowed. “Are you sure you are okay?” “Oh, I mean, I’ll be okay. I just need to rest a bit.” He looked at the ground sheepishly. “Are you hurt?” The woman took a tentative step closer, as if looking for a way to help somehow. Another strange flutter in the water. “On the mend, actually. But I may have overdone it, today,” the man said with a slight chuckle. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced away from the woman. “Bad car accident. Several back surgeries later and I may have been too ambitious with having the freedom from the confines of a hospital room after a couple of months.” The artist watched him for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. There was a slight breeze that carried the scent of rain off of the woman, and the man vaguely wondered where she found a perfume like that. Her eyes then softened, and the man could see pity bloom across her face. For a moment, it even looked as though she were about to cry. She swiftly closed the gap between the two of them and knelt in front of him, and now the man was sure that the water was dancing with her every movement as he saw it spring from the otherwise calm current, lapping up onto the bridge. It was as if her body was the moon and she was pulling the water towards herself. The man’s heart rate sped up and a cold, nauseous feeling began to pool in the bottom of his stomach. He suddenly realized how quiet the forest had become since he had interrupted the artist. How he hadn’t seen anyone else pass by on the bridge. “What are y-” started the man, but he was abruptly cut off as the woman grabbed a fistful of hair on both sides of his head and pressed her mouth against his. Her lips were strangely cold and slippery. He tried to push her away, but he was shocked at the strength she had as she held her mouth firmly against his. She then began to force his mouth open with her own, and the man began wildly kicking and pounding on the woman as cold water burst forth from her mouth into his. He focused on breathing through his nose as he dug his fingers into the woman’s arms, leaving blossoming streaks of bright blood as he clawed at her. Suddenly he felt the back of his head crack against the boards of the bridge and his back seized in agony as she twisted his body so that he was laying on the dock, her legs pinning him down. She let go of his hair with one hand, keeping a firm grasp with the other, and pinched his nose between her thumb and middle finger. Water still was cascading from her into his mouth as pure panic flooded his body. As the man’s lungs filled with water, searing pain ripped through his chest and spine as he continued to try and fight off the woman with his quickly diminishing strength. His vision began clouding, and a strange sensation overcame him. He was losing the ability to move his limbs, and his body began to feel cool and fluid. It was as if he were spreading himself out, thinner and thinner, like butter being spread across toast. The pain was no longer there, just a gentle swaying sensation, as if being rocked to sleep. At some point the woman had pulled away to get a last glimpse before the man was gone. When everything was over, tears were gently dripping from her cheeks and into the pool of water that now replaced the man that had been sitting there. “I hope that you find peace,” she whispered softly, as water from the stream surged up onto the small footbridge, sweeping the woman and what had once been the man into a cool embrace.

How could both fullfil the mission together? It was impossible! She didn't want to push her luck, she really wanted to take this mission. On the other hand, doing such this mission with him... She couldn't stand it. Then, she desperately asked, "Excuse me, but can't I choose my partner myself?" to her boss. Their boss was a bit of a moody man. He frowned and stared her, "If you didn't like my chosen, you can quit this mission and I can choose a more compatible agent." said in a dangerous tone. "Okay," she said. "Of course I want this and there is no problem. I'll do it with him." and she gave an angry look at her partner for a moment, she hated him extremely. Besides, she didn't know what to do. Agatha knew why the boss gave the mission both of them. She was more knowledgeable about technological devices, and more skillful and faster on field missions, whereas Leonard could make smarter plans and decisions, and see the dangers better than her. They fitted each other like a key and lock. She knew that their boss probably had thought he was the excellent person to go with her, he knew their situation though. However, Agatha didn't care about any of these. She didn't care how much she went over the speed limit. While she went to her house by her car with her watery eyes that blur her vision, two drops of tears from the past rolled down her cheeks. The person Agatha knew best about romantic relationships was her mother. Her mother had known her husband had had another relationship with another woman, but she also had children. How a mother could put her children in such a difficult situation? So, she had decided to try not to let her children realize that their marriage had been on a thin thread, and tried very hard to prevent their marriage from spoiling. However, as the children grew older, they could easily understand the situation. They had begun to hate their mother for not divorcing their father because of her weakness. They couldn't understand that their mother had been trying to protect them, until it was too late, and siblings had left each other. After Agatha had studied extremely hard to be an agent in a secret service, she had achieved her goal. She was now working for the FBI, and she was proud of herself for achieving this on her own. She had known that being weakness bring just worse things. So, she had built thick, invisible walls around herself. She had taught herself having her chin up and her shoulders back, and developed her own self-esteem. Nobody would see the wounds in her. Three years after her started work there, she had just got back from a mission, and her boss had been looking for one more agent for someone's mission. When Agatha had got back, he had known he had found the right agent. Agatha and Leonard had met this way, although both of them had been working for a long time. However, it wasn't that surprising. There were many agents there, and usually half of them were there, while half were on duty. And it would go on like this. You could never get to know everybody there. At the first sight Agatha had thought, "What a beautiful and penetrating green eyes he has." at the first sight, while Leonard had thought, "What a strong, tough and cold looking woman, but the colder a steel is, the more fragile it is." and he had felt warm to her and smiled. After their mission had been over... Agatha had never forgotten those times. She couldn't forget the kiss he gave her the day before they had returned. In that afternoon, they had been under the cherry trees in Tokyo. There had been only one hour for the flight. They had been waiting. A cherry blossom had fallen down on her hair with a wind blowing, Agatha hadn't noticed it, but Leonard had noticed. He had taken it slowly and said, "Do you know, you are as delicate as a cherry blossom," to Agatha, who was looking at him with curiosity, while he had been examining the blossom. He had looked into her eyes, and continued "as strong as roots of a cherry tree and as charming as a cherry?" He had put a tiny kiss on her lips. Agatha could not speak, but had thought, "Well, do you know the power of this kiss, Leonard?" She had felt the sounds of the walls crumbling within herself. Although she had thought everything would be perfect, before long he inflicted more wounds her heart. After their relationship had started, Leonard had got back from one of his missions with a woman he had saved from terrorists. He had seemed to pay too much attention to her. The first person that had come to Agatha's mind had been of course her mother. She couldn't make the same mistake, she couldn't go on with someone who cheated on her. She had wanted no explanation. She had just broken up with him. Everything had been over. How had she believed? How had she thought she found peace in his green eyes? There had been water under the bridge. * * * Next day, while she was leaving the house in a hurry to catch the plane, Leonard called to pick her up if she wanted. He had been waiting for her for minutes at the airport. "If you become a little more gentleman, I'll throw up, and be late. I have a car. So, I can get there, before you get here. See you." said Agatha angrily. Leonard said, "OK. If you cannot reach, I won't tell anyone to wait." calmly. Just a few minutes later, Agatha was swearing in the car. There were more traffic jams than ever before. Then, she missed the plane. When she arrived the airport, she couldn't believe. He had indeed left without waiting for her. Before they start their mission, a cold war had begun between them. Her only wish was to be able to return without ruining things, but first, she had to wait for the next flight. * * * Maybe they will make peace, who knows?

“I quit,” he said. It was so sudden and so unexpected that she didn’t know what to say. She just stared at him, mouth open so wide the wind almost blew one of her blonde pigtails in. “What- what do you mean ‘you quit’,” she said, finally finding her voice. “You can’t quit. We’re a team. We’re Maggie and Jake. Peter and Jane. Luke and bloody Leia!” He snorted and shook his head. “Not anymore. You can take on the Death Star. I can’t take it anymore. It’s too much. All that singing. All the walking. The climbing. The falling. The broken bones. No. Nonononono! I’ve had enough.” He had moments like this. At first it was funny and infrequent, but now it was happening more and more. He always talked about other things, but this was the first time he’d ever said he was quitting. She grabbed his hand, trying to soothe it. To soothe him. She knew he had a temper. They always had. Being brother and sister, basically twins, she knew him better than anyone. Better than he himself sometimes. He wasn’t going to quit. He couldn’t. She had to get him back, to calm him down. She could do it, she just had to be reasonable. “Come on,” she said softly. “We’re here. We came all this way so why not finish it? Remember the times we did it before? How much fun we had?” “I’m not a little kid anymore,” he said, pulling his hand free. “I’m tired of it. Every single day we do this and every single time it’s the same result. What did Einstein say? ‘Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results’. Well we’ve been doing this every day for god-knows how long and the same shit happens every single time! “The real question is, how aren’t you sick of it?” She shrugged. She had to admit there were times it got tiresome, but she was a simple girl with simple needs and this was how they earned their crust. How they got their water so-to-speak. “Look, I get it. It sucks. But we have to do it, you know?” “Why do we have to do it?” he whined. She hated when he whined. He was the older brother, the next in line to look after everyone if Dad carked it. But he could really be a petulant child sometimes. “Because it’s just the way it is. It’s how we survive.” “Every bloody time we do it we almost don’t survive.” She shrugged, “It’s just the way it is.” “Why is it?” he said. He indicated around us. It was a beautiful, sunny day. The sun warmed our skin, the grass was green and full of flowers. Birds sang in the trees and bees buzzed happily. In the distance were snow-capped mountains, and dark green forests, while near us was our tiny village where kids laughed and played. “Look around us. Look at what exists at our doorstep-” Here we go, she thought. This again. “-mountains and forests,” he continued. “Don’t you ever wonder what dwells within? Fairies? Monsters? Our first great love? Our genesis or our demise? There are so many possibilities out there for us. But do you ever wonder? No. You’re content living this sheltered little life. Doing the same damn thing every day. How aren’t you bored?” She sighed, “Look. I get it. There is a lot of promise out there. But if you actually look around us, you will see what we do is important. It ensures our survival. Sure, you like the romantic notion of wandering into the unknown with your sword and shield and saving the beautiful princess from the evil wizard. Or soaring high in the sky on the backs of dragons. Sure, you think you can handle the danger and the death. But here’s a little bit of reality for you, dear brother of mine. You can’t even handle this one little job without complaining about it like a spoiled little brat! You take a little tumble and suddenly the whole world is ending.” She was angry now, her words bit at him like a snake in the grass and she knew it but she didn’t care. “It’s time you put on your big boy pants and understand this is the way of the world we live in. This is what we do. We’re not like the others. You’re not a prince. I’m not a fairy queen. We don’t blow down houses or climb beanstalks. We are simply a brother and sister trying to help our village survive. “I-” he began but she cut him off. “-You know what. I’ve had enough of it. Do it.” “What?” he said, visibility confused. “Go. Quit. Go run off and play swords with dragons. Go home, go to your room and get your tiny wooden sword and your shield and go.” She held her arms out to the bright, sunny world before them. “There you are,” she said. “The world awaits its newest hero with open arms!” Her brother's mouth gaped like a fish out of water before his eyes hardened and she knew the insults were coming. He was a wimp but he loved to double down and he loved to insult people because he was never ever wrong. “You’re an ass, you know that?” “Ahuh.” “A real cow.” “Moo.” “I should leave.” “Yep. You should.” “I can do it.” She gave an appropriately sarcastic sound of agreement. “Just you watch.” “I will.” “I’ll come back a hero.” “I’ll wait here every night hoping to see my triumphant brother return as the new king of whatever fairy tale he dreamed up with the sexy, virgin, and always faithful, queen by his side.” They continued trading barbs until the sun was high in the sky and sweat was beading on their forehead. It was always like this and she always just waited until he lost steam. “I... I- I- shut up ok?” She sighed, he’d finally finished his tantrum. Picking up the bucket she held it out to him. “Ready to go?” “I’m not doing it. I’m serious. I’ve had enough.” “This is our story.” “I know, but I’m over it. I’m over the kids singing it. I’m over the falls. I’m over the injuries.” She wanted to say something but this felt different. Usually his anger dissipated by now and he dutifully did what was sung. But now, there was something else in his voice. Was it sorrow? Was it tiredness? He glanced at the mountains and the forests. Maybe this time he would actually do it. It was going to happen one day. Deep down she knew it would and that thought scared her more than anything. Maybe today was the day. Despite how much of a baby he was, she needed him. There was no other way this could work and she sure as hell wasn’t taking the lead. She wasn’t breaking her crown. It looked like it hurt! All around them she heard singing and knew it was almost their time to start. “Come on,” she tried, holding out the bucket. “Let’s go. We can talk later.” Jack took the bucket and tossed it away, “Forget it, Jill. There is no way I’m going back up that hill to fetch a pail of *fucking* water.

(Sorry for low quality, super tired after school. Hope you like it. First time posting in this sub reddit. Any pointers/ opinions appreciated greatly.) Would any one care if I was gone? He wondered, the morose thoughts once again seeping into his brain. The wind whipped around him as he shuffled home, the bulging duffle bag swinging on his back. He didn’t want to go home, didn’t want to face the yelling and hurting and the smell. The smell was as intoxicating as it was addictive, clutching and dragging him down into the depths of alcohol dependence. He could never enjoy the beverages at parties as his friends did, lest get addicted and be thrown into the stereotype of white trash and nothingness that his family so proudly claimed. School was safe. There wasn’t fear at school, the smell of beer and cigarette smoke seemed to escape from his clothes as soon as he entered the wrought iron gates. For six hours he was free, even though the burden of home still shattered his spirit, it began to rebuild itself. Slowly. Yet it was ripped from him when the bell rang. As everyone exploded out into the streets surrounding the institution, eager to go home and relax, he was emptied once more. Sometimes he wished he could fly away, soaring on the breeze as birds did, diving and dancing with the wind as it ripped leaves from trees. Escaping. Free. The wind seemed to grow in intensity as he climbed the hill. He could see everything from the top. The dilapidated rows of worn houses seemed to shudder under the weight of the smoke and heavy hearted inhabitants. It appeared as though one gust of wind would knock them all down, one by one, like dominos. From the top of the hill, he couldn’t hear the swearing and yelling and screams, and for a moment he could forget. If he climbed one of the numerous trees on the hill, it seemed as if the sky was in reach. No smoke or pain covered his view, just the wide, empty blue. He shuddered. Unzipping the bag slowly, he felt an ache come over his body. The tightness present in his shoulders suddenly seemed to clench over him. Each breathe came heavier than the last. The shiny black object glistened in the afternoon light, it’s cold frame heavy in his palm. One shot. That was all it would take. He raised it slightly, wondering as he had a thousand times if this was his only way out. Breathes came ragged and desperate from his body as he plunged it against his temple. ‘Look at the sky’, he thought. ‘Just pretend you’re a bird. Just close you’re eyes and fly away’. Silence enveloped him. He was scared, but he would fly. (For L and C, I love you so much. I’m so glad you’re still here. I’m sorry I didn’t know, and wish I could’ve been there for you both.

“Come on, honey, it’s a routine procedure. They’ve done it a billion times!” “But I don’t want to go, Mom! What if it goes wrong and I’ll get stuck in between somewhere?” The nurse looked down at the timid boy with a heartening smile. “Your mother’s right, Joey. You don’t have to be afraid of anything. These days, we teleport ten billion people a day all over the world!” But Joey didn’t care, how many people had already done it. It was the same as with getting your cancer “vaccination”. Everybody had to do it at one point, but the first time still was frightening. “Get out the way!”, another boy of similar age as Jimmy proclaimed. “I’ll go first and show you how it’s done.” With a smug face, the kid jumped into the colourful telepod and began typing in his dad’s address. “Miles, wait!”, a young woman called, as she was pushing through the waiting line past Joey. “Don’t you want to wish your mother goodbye?” - “Uuurghs”, Miles returned with a sigh. “It’ll just be until the evening, Mom. Dad’s gonna send me back before it gets dark on this side.” Without further hesitation, the boy pressed the familiar red button, and the telepod promptly sealed up to prepare for the process. As Mile’s mother waved him farewell, the burning laser plate at the top of the pod heated up quickly. The youngster gave Joey a complacent last look - before the plate hurled down and erased him in the blink of an eye. \ At first, Miles couldn’t see anything but white. This didn’t surprise him as he knew that, after a teleportation, the eyes had to get used to the new surroundings. Not being able to see, the boy focused on his other senses. The air smelled quite fresh - maybe even a little sweet - which was rather unusual for the Las Vegas International Teleport. Oddly enough, the distinct sound of a cooling down pod and its roaring machinery couldn’t be heard either. As Miles began seeing more clearly, a mysterious figure in front of him took shape. It was an older man, with a long, brown beard and a warm smile. Regaining his vision, the boy soon realized he definitely wasn’t at the teleport. Instead, he was surrounded by light, fluffy looking clouds and some occasionally placed stone pillars and arcs. The sun shone brightly, although it was not hot, and the white puffy hillock he was standing on felt soft and comfortable. The boy turned his attention to the elder. “What is happening? Where am I?”, he asked confused. Taking a closer look, Miles noticed that the man was barefoot, wearing only a white tunic with a red toga over his shoulder. A shiny, golden ring floated above his head. The man answered calmly. “Don’t worry, my child. You are safe here. I believe, you call this place *heaven*.” Miles felt distressed. “What do you mean? Heaven? I should be in Vegas with my dad!” Tears ran down his face as the boy started to panic. “I - I want my da-ad!!” “Oh, it’s always hard when they don’t expect to pass.”, sighed the elder. “But don’t be sad, son. You are going to feel better very soon.” “But I am not dead. I just teleported! I do it every weekend!”, Miles exclaimed, falling on his knees. “I AM NOT DEAD!!” “I understand.”, the bearded man replied. He looked past Miles. “I suppose, *they* can explain it to you better than me.” The kid turned around. Behind him, at least two dozen children appeared, ascending from a small valley of clouds. They all looked identical, with the only significant difference being their clothing. As the group approached, Miles realized, that he himself looked exactly the same as them. The boy, that appeared to be the youngest, lowered himself to Miles. “I know, you are afraid. Don’t worry, we’ve all been there.” The other children nodded in silent agreement. “But I shouldn’t be here. I should be in Vegas now. It’s not right!”, Miles explained. “I know...”, the younger boy replied. Although he looked like Miles 3 years ago, he seemed to be much more mature. “Basically, you are in Las Vegas. But not you-you; a copy of you is there.” Miles was confused. “Look...”, young him tried again. “Every time you teleport, your body gets completely dissolved. Then, on the other end, an exact copy of your body is recreated. But the original you... is gone.” Could it really be? Did Miles die every single time he used that machine? “Hey, I know what will help you.”, young him remembered. “Let’s get you to Mom. She’s already waiting for you.” The children helped Miles up, and led him down the valley where they came from. Descending the hill, he turned around to take one last look on the bearded elder. However, in front of the man, a timid boy appeared, obscuring the view.

Being haunted As my husband Ben lay on the couch, I was filled with only bitterness and anger towards him. I had watched as he fell further and further into depression. At first, I had been sympathetic, but as time went on, it got worse and worse. As far as I was concerned, he was busy ruining my life too in the process. He lay on the couch, sleeping, sad and miserable. He stopped being a husband and a father. He said things like, “Why can’t I just die?” and it would piss me off. I wanted to shake him and say, “Hey, I want to live here! Get over being depressed will you!” So, when he complained about the demons, I was truly annoyed. Really, now, demons? It that the current excuse we are going to use here? Many nights, 3am on the dot, he would stop breathing. He would tell me a black demon was sitting on his chest trying to kill him. That there were several of them. They were black, slouched over but at least seven feet tall, with long faces, gangly arms and long talons. The talons were claws with sharp fingernails. And they had wings. And were very, very ugly. Sometimes, he would walk into the room, and they would all be there. They would look up and notice him and then disappear. They were shadowy, dark, specters that lived in our house. “Must be having bad dreams dear” I said. Or “Guess you should start going to church with me and the kids then.” I didn’t really believe him. Even as he began showing me the scratches. The scratches began to appear on his legs. Then his belly and arms. Long scratches that went all the way down. I reasoned, He scratched himself at night? But I wasn’t really sure. That night was towards the end of our marriage. I was ready to pack up the kids and leave him. I couldn’t deal with the sadness anymore, the darkness that infested our home. I threw all our problems squarely on him. It was all his fault! Ben knew what I was thinking. We didn’t fight really, we just had long strings of silence with unspoken tension. He was the saddest I had ever seen him. I felt pity for him that evening, so I sat with him on the couch and put my arm around him. I hadn’t shown affection for him in months, so he immediately responded. He hugged me and we talked about benevolent things. It was the first conversation we had in long time in which I wasn’t instantly angry with him. It was such a nice conversation that we agreed to get dressed and go out somewhere. I went into the bedroom to get dressed when it went into me. The demon. Suddenly I wasn’t in my room anymore. I was in a deep, dark canyon in hell. The canyon was immense. So tall it seemed never ending. All around me were black lost souls of the dead. And that thing was inside me. I could feel its shape. It looked like a bald goblin, hunched over and radiating evil thoughts. Ben came to the room and laid his hand on my arm me. I freaked out. “Don’t touch me!” I screamed at him. “It’s in me! It’s in me! I’m in hell!” I screamed. I was in hysterics. He brought me into the living room to my chair. Bending down, he tried to try to calm me down. Ben didn’t understand. He asked, “Um, do I call 911?” “NO!” I screamed. “I’m in Hell! With YOUR demon! This is your fault! I hate you! I hate you!” I was not the sort of person who screams or goes hysterics. I am usually calm and even when angry I don’t yell. But not today. All that pent-up anger and frustration, all the months of not saying how I felt, was amplified by this demon thing I now had. Ben left me alone for a bit, as he didn’t know what to do. As I began to calm down from the initial shock, I tried to take stock of what had happened. I wasn’t hurt in any way. I was still me. But suddenly I had another intelligence living inside me, a complete mind. I knew its thoughts. It knew my thoughts. It controlled my body and actions. They were no longer mine. And somehow, I was in two worlds. I could feel my soul was in hell. But I was also sitting on a couch, in my living room. The demon picked up my arm amazed and looked at it. It moved my fingers staring. One, two, three, four, five. Five fingers it counted. As if it was not used to having real hands and arms. It looked at my feet and how they worked. It looked around my house as if it just now had new eyes. It blinked. Real eyes, it thought. It began to show me things as I sat in the chair. Mathematical equations and geometry popped up into the air, lit up with a yellow light. They were all around me. I touched one of the equations and it moved. The equation completed and I understood a scientific secret. It began another equation to be answered. It was like a 3D supercomputer. I felt the demon was searching for something. It was waking up as if from a long slumber. It wanted to understand some deep cosmic question. I was amazed. What did this mean? Finally, satisfied that it knew what to do, the demon began to talk to me. “Oh, you poor thing!” It said to me, “I feel so sorry for you. You live in a dirty little hovel with a dirty little peasant. I am ancient god. I have been here since the beginning of all creation. I have been to marble palaces, eaten with emperors and queens, been worshiped. I’ve been dripping with gold, surrounded by beauty and culture. I am immortal. You, you have nothing but a petty little life. And it is all HIS fault. (meaning my husband). I can show you the world and its wonders, only if you leave him and let me kill him. You have to let me kill him.” I attacked Ben then. Or the demon attacked him. I don’t really know who did the attacking actually. I flung my body at Ben, who was just standing next to the bathroom smoking a cigarette. My fingers went straight for his eyes and I tried to gauge them out. Ben grabbed me and physically carried me into the bedroom. The demon fully manifested then, screaming, fighting, spitting, clawing at him, attacking with all its might using my body. But Ben’s physical strength and mine were very different. The demon had miscalculated in that sense. Ben was able to pin me down and hold my hands down. I could not get up. Ben didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t let me go. He tried to talk to me, but by now the demon was fully in control of me and I couldn’t release it. He began to pray. “Jesus,” he prayed, “Jesus, please help my wife. I don’t know what to do. Please, Jesus, please help us” The demon mocked him, “Jesus isn’t coming! He doesn’t even like you! You’re an idiot!” Suddenly, the entire room lit up. All around the ceiling was covered with white, glowing lights that hovered and floated around the room. I could feel that these were bright souls that had come to help me. And then a man of light floated down. He was full of beauty, wearing clothing of bright light, tender eyes and face. My soul and the demon recognized him at once. “You came!” I cried. Even the demon was overjoyed, and felt full love for this light being. He talked to me first, “I love you so much Grace. You have a beautiful, sweet tender soul that wants to cherish and help everyone. You, however, need to love your husband. He needs you. This is why the demon has been allowed to take you. Love Ben with all your heart and stop being angry with him.” I felt complaint rising in me. I didn’t want to love this man I married. I wanted to leave him, be free of him. I wanted to do what I wanted to do. He had heard my thoughts. So he said it again. “This is not a request. You need to love your husband. He has been chosen for you for a reason.” Then he spoke to the demon. “This woman is mine. She is not yours. Go back to hell where you belong.” I could sense the demon was furious. “NO! I want her! She is mine! She is mine now and you can’t have her back!” The man in white sighed. It was going to be a fight then. He said to me, “I am going into your husband now. I have to teach him how to fight this demon. It’s going to be a long fight.” I watched the man in white go into my husband Ben then. It was like seeing a double person in a film, two people on top of one another. I could see Ben felt it too, for he completely changed. Now he was confident. He was no longer afraid of the demon. He spoke to it. “In the name of Jesus and all that is holy, I order you to leave my wife and go back to the depths of hell.” The demon tried persuasion at first. “I’ll be good. I promise. Don’t send me there. It’s dark and scary and horrible down there. I like this body. Please let me stay. I’ll be good.” “NO!” commanded my husband. “Go to hell and be gone evil spirit. Go back to where you belong. You are evil and have been condemned.” It fought then. It cursed. It screamed unholy screams. My body had more strength than I had ever known. And still Ben held on for dear life, commanding it. When I calmed, I confessed all the hurt and anger I felt inside. The hooks the demon had on me began to fall away. I was incredibly thirsty because I was in hell. My body was wracked with thirst. Ben brought me water, blessed it and told me I needed the sacred living water of Jesus to refresh and cleanse me. We fought demons for three days. As soon as one would leave, another one would enter. Each one was different, and had a different personality. All were evil manifest. We did not sleep or eat in all that time. All demons, however, belong in hell. They are not supposed to be here on Earth. They get invited to live on Earth, however, by us. We humans have hurt feelings. We have jealousy. We have anger and bitterness and fear. Each emotion has a demon attached to it. They grab onto these hooks and drag us into hell with them. And then they get to have experiences outside of hell. They have already been condemned for the evil they have committed, so they now only want to bring as many souls with them as they can. We cannot see these hooks, however, because they are invisible. We cannot feel the hooks but we can feel the moods it makes us feel. My demons originated by an ancient curse from my family blood line. My family was cursed from murder, suicide, ancient satanic practices, blood sacrifice. These curses had weighed upon my soul. As all the demons left, weight from my soul left. I could feel it turn light, like the light beings floating inside my room. And then, in that dark cavern of hell, I saw the dark souls brightening. It was as though when I was fighting, the souls captured were being released by their captors. The souls floated up and I watched as they all floated to heaven. It was an amazing sight. There were thousands of them. They passed through to thank me. Thank you! They said. Jesus rescued us. You helped us. Thank you! I was filled with love from the bright light surrounding me. It was so beautiful I could barely contain it. When I was young, I believed in ghosts as haunting a place because they are sad. But now, I have come to realize ghosts live in a dark cavern in hell. They are waiting to be freed to be able to go to heaven. My marriage now is in a healthy place. My husband left his depression behind and we began again our journey of life on the road again. But I will never forget the day when the demons all came to haunt me and our family.

"Lets go for a walk." "Don't go past the fence Jerry, you know what happens." Said Kirsty pensively. They were sat again outside the old vinyl shop, sipping lemonade from stripey cans. "I won't, I just want to see the 'Planes going over. I saw one from Saudia Arabia the other day and one from 'Olland. You should come." Kirsty put her can down "Nah, thanks Jez but I don't like it out there, not with them new lot mooching about outside the fence. If we go out there, we'll end up in their world. I'm stopping here with the others. Inside." Jerry shrugged and walked to the top of the defunct escalator and started striding down the slanted steps. The motor stopped ages ago. Everything stopped ages ago. When they decided to stay in the shopping centre. "Fair enough Kirst, you lot are getting pale faces though. You'll end up looking like ghosts." Another youngster named Matt, snorted at Jerry. "Very funny Jezza, you nerd. Go on, sling yer 'ook. We want to look at the inside of the shop." Kirsty and Matt, and seven or eight of the other kids, pushed through the door of the music store and went inside. Jerry shook his head at Matt's quip, and got to the bottom of the escalator, through the huge swing doors and out into the open sunlight. Everything was fine being a residual and Jerry certainly did not want to go beyond the fences. That would mean he would step into his future self. That was what Kirsty was afraid of too. But Jerry was not to be ruled by fear. The fifty year old Jerry now strolled into view. Outside the perimeter fences. This Jerry, was alive and well in the present. Behind the perimeter, fourteen year old Jerry shuddered, he had seen himself and another group of blokes walking past the fences to a big new shopping complex with pubs and bars and noisy screens with football blaring out. He had looked at himself in pity and shock. 'Bleedin' ell. Look at the state of me! I am not going into that body. I'm stoppin' ere.' He had thought as the men trooped in all staring at some weird gadgets in their hands and shouting stuff like 'Tagged yer.' and 'Put it on Facebook.' Whatever that meant. To Jerry, it may has well have been a foreign language and what were them bloody things they were all obsessed with? 'Not my problem.' He mused, and sat on a broken down graffitied old wall with his lemonade. Suddenly, he was pelted from the complex above. Cassette tapes and 12" vinyl records were thrown and frisbeed at him. He was hit on the head by a wide range of music, and a 'Classic Hits' LP nearly scythed through his neck. Raucous laughter came from within the building from the other residuals. "Oiiee, you little gits, what yer doin' that for?" Shouted Jerry. Kirsty, Carla, Steve and bloody Matt. All laughed their heads off as more vintage retro equipment, rained out of the windows. "Can't play the bloody things can we?!" Shouted another girl called Stacey. "Ere, if you like 'planes so much, yer can have this one.. Nerd!" Shouted the weaselly, cocky Matt, as he launched a huge paper aeroplane constructed from a Men a glossy giant 'Rock Greats' poster. It drifted awkwardly to the ground. "Bloody waste. That'd have gone up in my room.. If we could have stayed fourteen forever." He picked up the poster and looked at the band on it. "I don't think they will be old people, not ever. They're too cool to get old." Jerry saw all the cassettes and records that would have cost a years pocket money, plus idd jobs, to save up for. Now the residuals were chucking them about like stones. It was true though. When they had the choice to split from themselves and stay here, a lot of the kids thought it was a fantastic idea. A lot didn't and send it was voodoo magic and went home to their families.. And began to age. Over Jerry's head, a real aeroplane now flew over, it was quite low and dappled in red, white and blue. He had his binoculars from the catalogue shop. Not like he'd stolen them. Everywhere was empty, derelict. It was apparently called an Airbus A220 and across the side it was emblazoned with the logo 'QuickHols.Com'. Underneath, in smaller writing was 'From A to B in under 3'. Presumably hours or days or whatever that meant. Jerry admired aircraft but would have been much happier seeing the 747 Jumbo's and the Tridents and perchance a diverted Concorde. That was the trouble though. It was meant to stay the same when they said they were staying in their year forever. How were they to know that everything inside the perimeter would stop and beyond it, everything would just go 'Flippin' mental', as Kirsty had put it. It was just as well as when it became apparent to the residuals that their gamble was backfiring, they had put their heads together and thought of their permanent fourteen year old futures. They had got their wish to stay young but their little world around them began to crumble and stop working. It was bittersweet. They had set about planting seeds for fruit and vegetables and learned how to make bread and cakes and those new pizza things from the cookbooks in the big stationers.The water still ran from some of the taps in the staff rooms of the shops and the river was always there, out the back. No kettles though. No electric. They had to boil the water over a fire for hot drinks. There was still plenty of tea and coffee and cocoa and stuff, but it would run out, or go out of date. Same with the juice and pop. So they tried stuff, like dandelion or mint tea from the leaves. "Errr.. Its bluddy 'orrible.." Sammy had said. But they got used to it and began to ration the luxury stuff. A day would come that they would be on this new natural stuff forever. Jerry wrote the registration of the aeroplane down in his notepad and was about to head back in to give the others a bollocking for their musical onslaught, when them blokes appeared again, beyond the fence. "Its me again." He whispered to himself. "Fat slob, 'ow the 'ell did I get like that. I'm not leaving now, that's for sure. Old git. No way! Not for me." Jerry spotted another familiar but older face in the passing gang of old people. "Oh Matt mate, you deserve that though for all yer bullying.. Your grey and decrepit my old mate, ha!" Jerry saw his fifty year old self with Matt. Carla was there too, and some others that were never in their gang. Kirsty was not with them. He wondered what had become of her. 'She's sensible. Prob'ly married with kids. 'Oo wants that though?' He pondered. The decision to separate and become residuals was looking a better option. If only stuff worked. If onlybeverywhere was not so.. Derelict. Jerry was crestfallen as he saw old himself meddling with that stupid gadget again. "One of them's gonna get bluddy run over. Starin' at them screens. What are them things? Little tellys or sumat? They don't seem to care about 'owt else. Knobs." Matt was tall, gaunt, skinny and bald now and wore a denim jacket that looked as though he never took it off. He also looked like he never washed and swigged from a nasty looking lager can, swearing and chanting football songs as he walked with the others. Carla said to him "O.M.G Matt, will you just S.T.F.U. Yer still a right knob aren't yer." Jerry had no idea what fifty year old Carla meant but it sounded like she was bollocking Matt. 'Good, he's a bluddy tosspot.' He thought. "Some things don't change Matt, stupid pleb. Bollocks to this, its like Back to the bluddy Future, they look like robots or sumat. I'm going back in." That was Jerry's excercise and sunlight done for today and he went back through the swing doors and grabbed a tin of corned beef from the 'SupaSave' and some stale Pick n Mix from 'Fanshaws Confectionery' and strolled up the escalators frozen incline once again. He didn't know how he felt really. Seeing himself chubby and with grey hair and a beard and weird clothes on and staring at that gadget thing like all his old cronies. Swiping and tapping the telly things." "It might be OK I s'pose. Might be shit though. Might have a Missus 'oo can't cook or let me watch the footy. That's if footy is still on and they've not replaced it with them stupid portable plastic fings. Nah, I'll stay 'ere a bit but I might go back if Kirsty and Steve and that come with me. Least I'll know someone when I'm that fat old tramp, messing about on that telly thing." Jerry went up the ramp and they were all sat eating a mixture of what they could get their hands on and reading magazines. Smash Hits, Radio Times, NME. "Any planes today Jez? I might come tomorrow. I'm getting a bit fed up with all this btoken stuff. Want sumat to do." Said Kirsty, munching a cold tinned steak and kidney pie. "Just the one, but I'd never seen it before, so it was alright." Jerry replied. "See owt else?" "Nah, bit borin' really Kirst." Jerry sat and ate his corned beef wondering about which future he would choose. THE END Andrew Evans © 2023

“Deadly Desserts” by Francesca Quarto The table was like a setting sun, floating inside the otherwise gloomy dining room. It was alight with candles; five burning in each candelabra; five gleaming silver holders running down the center of the long banquet table. The dark wood of the table appeared lustrous under the gentle sway of the flames. Each place setting was laid with near geometric precision, not one spoon or knife breaking the perfect line and pattern. The fine china was a delicate cream, bordered in intricate golden vines. The heady fragrance of freshly cut roses wafted through the doorway where five people stood in a huddle, staring into the room. “Harrison, I don’t think we should just seat ourselves. Let’s wait until the butler returns from checking on the electric.” The lights in the imposing manor house had begun to flicker like fire flies before they all went out. The butler left the guests standing in a shadowy hallway outside the dining room, assuring them of his imminent return. Margery Gladstone was speaking softly to her husband, but there were murmurs of agreement among the other three. Harrison Gladstone thought about this, but after another minute of lurking outside the room, asked “Why not my dear? We are, after all Bradford’s guests, and he won’t want us standing about like a mob of sheep in his hallway.” There was a giggle from Mandy Clarkson, the young woman they met when they arrived. As they were handing coats and wraps to the servant in the brightly lit marble foyer, the chatty girl said she and her husband Bill were newlyweds and still unpacking boxes in a cottage they rented in the village. “It was real nice of Mr. Bradford to invite us tonight. Bill only just started in the tool shop at the factory, so we barely know a soul outside of the local pub and butcher!” She laughed as did her new spouse, looking at her affectionately. Gladstone raised his eyebrows at the mention of Bill’s menial labor as a factory worker. His factory to be precise! He grabbed Margery’s elbow and steered her into the dining room, sitting her next to him as he took the chair to the host’s right as was befitting his station in the community. He provided work for over seventy men and kept food on their tables. His factory produced fine farming equipment to all the surrounding regions, even shipped overseas to American agricultural suppliers. He was an important man, with important responsibilities. The young couple sat across from Gladstone and his wife, leaving the fifth guest to take the chair next to Mindy. He had merely nodded his greetings to the rest of them when he first arrived and joined them in the foyer. Harrison wondered at his silence, but was never one to offer his hand to a man who hadn’t proved his credentials in a formal introduction. The silent guest smiled at Margery, ignoring Harrison, and turning toward Mindy and Bill spoke for the first time. “Good evening. Doctor Malcom Mallory at your service,” he said bobbing his head slightly. The candlelight reflected off the bald circle at the crown of his head. Bill Clarkson reached across his wife awkwardly and offered his hand. Harrison Gladstone gritted his teeth at the cheek of the man! His harumph did not go unnoticed by Mallory who had a thin smile on his narrow face. “Exactly what kind of ‘doctor’ are you Mallory?” Gladstone gruffly asked. Margery sighed deeply, knowing her husband would be out for blood at the afront of being ignored by this Mallory person. “Why, I am a Doctor of Divinity sir.” “Humph. And what connection have you to our host?” he went on to ask, a sharp edge to his voice. “I am here to speak truth to lies, sir. As simple as that. But first, our diner seems ready to be served.” A servant carrying a silver tureen, appeared out of the shadows surrounding the diners. Another servant followed, placing a small soup bowl on each guest’s plate. The first servant approached the table, while the other carefully ladled a thin broth into each bowl. The guests were all silent during this process, only Bill and Mandy saying a cheerful “thank you much” to the servant. Margery could hear Harrison gritting his teeth at such inappropriate behavior. The Doctor watched the others from under his bushy brows, as they sipped at the odd tasting broth. His own silver spoon merely moved around in the bowl creating tiny wavelets. Ten minutes went by and Mandy asked the table, “What did you think of that soup? Kind of plain, but very tasty I’d say.” Harrison could be heard groaning at yet another faux pas. “Where in damnation is our host?” he growled. Margery’s hand was on his arm trying to calm the ire that rose along with a deeper flush on his florid face. “He’s likely fussing with the electric dear, trying to repair it so the lights come back on.” They all turned as yet another two servants appeared out of the shadowy hallway carrying platers of meats and side dishes. They set these down on the sideboard a began the slow process of serving the five watching guests. “Where is our host, Mr. Michael? We’ve been sitting here now for a good forty minutes in a half-darkened room and no sign of the man!” Gladstone’s voice was tinged with indignation as he stared daggers at the servant. He’d only accepted this invitation because this Michael character was a promising new customer, though he couldn’t recall who had passed that information along to his attention. But unless he showed himself, and soon, Gladstone would be out of there! “I can assure you your host will join you in time for dessert, sir,” the unruffled server answered. Before Gladstone could ask anything more, the servants both melted into the shadows. The two couples began to eat from their generously filled plates. The Doctor pushed his food around the plate, using his heavy knife to slice into the tender meats, but not eating. His odd behavior caught the attention of his young seat mates. Bill leaned down to see past his wife. “Don’t have an appetite Doctor Mallory? This here’s fine meat I can tell ya!” I prefer to save my appetites for dessert young man. But I am sure the fare is quite fine,” he smiled warmly into the young man’s honest eyes. Margery was always a quiet woman, as her husband preferred, but she was drawn into the conversation between the Doctor and the young man, adding she loved her sweets as well. Her husband looked over at her saying, “And it shows my dear.” Her blush was so deep it glowed pink under the soft light of the candles. Mandy was immediately drawn away from enjoying her meal by the cruel comment lobbed at the older woman. “I think a real gentleman would never say such a thing to his missus! You look fit and strong Mrs. Gladstone; both are gifts from the Lord.” Gladstone’s fork clattered on the bone china plate when he threw it down. “How dare you speak to me in such a manner? What would the likes of you know of gentleman, when you are not a lady in any sense of the word!” Before Bill could rush to defend his wife, a servant materialized from the gloom surrounding them like a dark mote. “Your dessert is ready to be served ladies and gentleman.” A tall man, stepped from the dark hallway into the shallow light pulsing around the guests. He was dressed in a silvery suit that fit snugly around his well-muscled body, looking like tightly woven armor in the soft glow of the candles. His hair and coloring were so pale he could have been albino, except for his eyes, shinning like obsidian from a beautifully sculpted face. His voice was like a trumpet call in its clarity. “You have been expecting me for some time, but time is nothing put a weak reminder of our existence, wouldn’t you say Doctor Mallory?” “Indeed, sir. I am ready for whatever dessert you deem justified for me.” “What kind of babbling is this?” Gladstone spat out. Ignoring the outburst, their host turned to the young couple who’s hands were intertwined and their faces open and trusting. “You two have brought your light, even briefly, into this dark world. Your love will forever shine.” Grabbing at his wife’s arm, Gladstone was pulling Margery to her feet. “No Harrison!” she said firmly. “I will stay for dessert!” “Madame,” the host said. “Yours has been a life of long suffering with a brutish husband who never valued your kind heart and sure wisdom. Your desserts will be many.” Gladstone growled like a caged animal. “How dare you? Who are you to try to lord over me? I don’t need to be insulted at anyone’s table, no matter how finely it’s set! Margery, I’m leaving with or without you!” But when he tried to move, Harrison Gladstone found his legs were frozen in place and he couldn’t rise from the chair. “It’s plain to see you have no idea where you are Mr. Gladstone. Perhaps it would be better if I showed you.” There was a sudden bolt of blinding light. Gladstone felt like his eyes were seared in place and he fought desperately to blink them for relief. “You will no longer be able to close your eyes to the truth,” the gleaming Archangel said to the petrified man. “The fire in your factory spread to many nearby cottages, and many died trying to save the workers, such as Bill. You, Gladstone, lived a life of greed, envy, cruelty and lies and now you will be served your Just Desserts.” The candles were snuffed out, one after the other. With each darkened candelabra, one of the guests disappeared, leaving a small pool of light for the one remaining. The candles burned, but never melted. The flames were dancing for him alone and his loneliness became overwhelming. “How long have I been here? Hours? Days? Years!” He began to howl into the darkness surrounding him, wishing to find eternal oblivion instead of and eternity of eating his banquet of thorny desserts. The End

With some gentle force, Ick pushed the last bit of toothpaste into his brush. Neither a thief nor a gentleman can live long without stunning white teeth that make women throw roses at them. Today was his first date in ages. The last woman left him because she wasn't at all into his "crime thing," but he didn't cry due to her turning 25 a week before. He & his date met in a posh café; she was already there when he entered the café. "Oh! It is you!" The woman said. Ick looked at her a few times, always focused on different parts of her body. "Don't remember." He judged as he walked towards her. "No surprise, but I remember you!" She exclaimed as she shifted her feet so that they point at him. He fancied her combo of a red dress, blond hair, green eyes, and therefore he let her kind of stalkerish comments fly. He sat next to her. "This is the moment where you explain to me what you mean." "You know my Mom, Holy." Ick just glanced at her with an empty face. "She has a sister named Gloria." "This describes at least a quarter of all women in the average church," Ick stated without any emotions. "Ha, believe me, you know her well!" "She is the woman who gave you $20,000 for stealing a spiderweb from her now ex-husband," she finally gave Ick something he can use. Ick placed his left hand on her right hand. "Oh, she didn't mention that she has a daughter that would have changed some things." "Oho, oho, tell me." She poked him while she pushed his hand slightly away with one finger. "Well, where should I start?" He questioned rhetorically, "there are positive and negative things about more mature women." "positive and negative things, yeah, yeah, I see." She had to try hard to keep herself from smiling too wide. "But if she has a good looking daughter" - Dolly, the woman who sat to his left side, raised an eyebrow, slightly grinning - "that means she is a MILF" - she kept her eyebrow raised, but now without a grin - "Which in turns means, I should have hit on her daughter instead." She giggled. "You sure know how to keep a girl on the edge of her seat, Mr. Cord." She still laughed and had lightly flushed cheeks but tried to keep it less noticeable by turning her head a bit away. "Well, in my line of work, charming of women is a necessity, and I love my job." "Aha, so I am one of the numerous you can work your skills on? I understand", she faked distress and extracted her hand from his. He grabbed her hand. "Doesn't one has to train on cheap material before being able to work with more valuable material?" He asked with an over-the-top delivery. She kept her composure and doubled down, "Aww, that sounds like a borderline creepy Instagram pick-up line." "I don't even know what an Instagram is." Ick threw a curveball to push her out of her attack position. "It is a website about attractive girls, food, and yeah, that's mainly it." She explained to him, "are you that antiquated that you don't know that, or are you fooling me?" He shifted his left hand away from her hand and instead lay his left arm around her while he said with wisdom shining through, "you know, only a man not used to attractive women spend his time looking at pictures of them. I prefer the real deal." She moved a bit closer; she pressed her shoulders a bit against his chest. "Oho? I didn't hear about this side of you so far, Mr. Playboy. When we at the thief fan club talk about you, that topic never comes up, just like with all those other thieves. On the other hand, we still aren't sure how you did steal that one basketball team. Tell me more about this!" "One has to treat a good theft like a woman," he started his monolog and turned to the left. "Is it so? Tell me more, but not too long." "One needs a good technic to start the theft," he put his right hand on her side. "A good technic? I can't see how a woman needs a good technic. It sounds like faking it. Is that so, Mr. Cord? Are you a faker? A liar, liar, liar?" She poked fun at him but put her legs closer together and turned them in his direction. "Here, the wine for both of you." The waiter slammed the glasses on the table. "Sorry for that," he said without any hint of actually being sorry. "How cavemanish, you ordered for me too? How disappointing," she stated without many expressions in her voice. "It is a good Merlot." Ick showed her the bottle a second after he freed his right hand from her side. "And why do we have a Merlot in front of us?" She wondered while she made her knees touch his. "I remember there being a big wine cellar in your mother's house; nothing in there besides Merlot." He opened the bottle and poured the wine first in her glass, followed by his own. "So, you planned for my mother being here? There may be some misunderstandings on your side, Mr. Cord." With two fingers, she holds the wine glass while she moves it towards her lips. "I don't plan for a woman. I only plan for a house of women." He parried without thinking about it for more than a second. Both drank a bit of wine without changing their position one bit. "Women prefer it when they got asked if they liked the wine." She broke the silence. He mustered her body and face, both that are so close but still a bit too far away from him. "I never came in a situation in which I had reasons to doubt my good judgment." "Never?" "Never." He answered and pulled her a bit closer with his right hand. She instinctively put parts of her left leg on his lap. "There are probably some things that would make the other women at the club jealous." He started his next sequence. "Are there, Mr. Cord?" She asked rhetorically and pressed her forehead against his. "I didn't expect you to be a blunt girl." "I didn't expect you to be a shy guy, Ick." "The bill!" The waiter more or less threw his tablet on the table. It slid over the table, and without much power, it hit Ick's elbow. Ick grabbed with one hand her hair close to her hair root and pulled her head so that she had to look upwards into his eyes. "Ick, aren't you a bad boy today?" She smiled. "Always Dolly, always." He grinned and gave her a deep kiss.

Leo had never seen anything quite like her. His non-beating heart twitched curiously anytime she lumbered his way. “Aannna,” he mumbled somewhat unintelligibly to himself, half aware that he was speaking her name, or at least trying to. What was it about her that made him want to rub the bloody stump that used to be his right hand through her dark, matted hair? As she approached, his question was answered in an instant. The pustules on Anna’s rancid skin danced in the moonlight like a series of volcanic island chains spewing magma into the undaunted Pacific. Her dull, lifeless eyes rolled back in their deeply set sockets like a shark after the kill. Greenish arms protruded awkwardly from her tattered Ann Taylor blouse, as she absent-mindedly jerked her way towards him. She was in a word, “prrrffeect.” Leo had fallen in love, or whatever this burning feeling was, at first sight. Actually, that isn’t fair. The first time he saw Anna, she was beating a hapless victim she had begun to dismember with his own arm, while making some hard-to-love gurgling sounds in the midst of the excitement. But that didn’t count in Leo’s mind because she never saw him peering from afar. It was as clear cut a case of a “do-over” as one could have in his mind. The next time, the true “first time,” they locked their soulless eyes on one another, she tried to kill him, and he felt the kind of terrifying love that really means something. ----------------------------- Admittedly, the pickings were slim these days, given the apocalypse and all. Sure, the world had witnessed massive outbreaks and global pandemics before, and we’ve all seen the history books filled with gruesome tails of the result. The “Plague” or Black death killed an estimated 25% to 50% of Europe’s citizens between 1347 and 1351. The Spanish Flu, Ebola, a series of coronaviruses in the 2020s - humanity has suffered mightily and lost much to these silent killers. But we had always survived, pulled together and emerged stronger. And then everything changed. A new and horrific virus, casually referred to in the media as “The Sickness,” was reported and spread like nothing that had preceded it. Scientists could not classify it, and the suddenness with which it was all around us made contact tracing to its origin impossible. We do know that the Sickness spread first to the more developed nations and populated cities of the world before making its way elsewhere. The virus seemed unperturbed by socioeconomic rankings and unmindful of expectations that power and privilege are normally inversely proportional to infection rates. It seemed to innately desire to attack positions of significant power first. Famous actors and Instagram influencers even got hit in the first wave for goodness sake. The Sickness didn’t kill. Well, at least not at first or in the ways you would think it would. Those that first contracted it seemed to suffer only from reduced mental acuity and poor balance for a week or two. But soon, the body started to mutate, subtly and internally at first, but ultimately completely and in the most grotesque ways. Zombies seemed like a ridiculous word to be throwing around initially, but it would be the closest thing to describing the abhorrent creatures that became of our friends and loved ones. Their deformed faces and olive, diseased skin betrayed the bile bubbling within them. Their stilted, purposeless walk with arms limp at their sides revealed the lack of desire to cling to anything that was once human. As the Sickness raged, infecting everyone with a speed and merciless severity hereto unexperienced in the history of humanity, we realized that death from the virus would have been a welcomed fate versus what came instead. Those infected lost the taste for normal foods within a month, water within two, and ultimately could only be satiated with the flesh of humans or other infected victims. The global infection rate was 15% within six months of the first case, 50% within nine months, and 100% within a year of its introduction. The world’s human population, celebrated as the most evolved species on the planet, was decimated and devolved in roughly a year’s time by the tiniest of microbes. ----------------------------- Some of those microbes lodged deep into Leo’s cells in the earliest days of the infection and made quick work of him. The “Turning” as it is called when the Sickness infects and mutates every cell in your body, leaving you a disgusting shell of your former self, doesn’t tickle. It is excessively painful, it is not a quick process, and it smells. Leo had lived as an only child with his mother in Bentonville, AK where she had worked as a low level WalMart executive assistant for over 30 years. The house was a modified doublewide with red brick fortifications, a small, unkempt lawn, and an attached carport that had collapsed on one side, never to be repaired. Leo had never really known his father, who purportedly owned a CBD shack three counties over that did pretty well and who steadfastly refused to acknowledge any relation to his family. For his part, Leo worked at a vintage music store called “Lionel’s Vinyls” selling the occasional forgotten LP to hipsters and failed musicians for just above minimum wage. When his mother passed following a tragic typewriting accident, Leo soldiered on in what was a fairly lonely existence in that same doublewide. His Turning was excruciatingly painful, but sometimes you have to consider the alternative. He wasn’t there to witness Anna’s Turning. Leo often pictured her body twisting and gurgling in horror, as the virus ravaged her organs and slowly boiled her skin until it turned that fateful drab green. To him, the sheer terror of it was slightly overshadowed by the base sensuality of her young, virile body giving into the overwhelming power of something sinister and unknown. She seemed 5’6 with the humped back and slouch, so maybe more like 5’8 back in those days. He imagined her with model good looks, sun-kissed skin and long golden brown hair. The way she killed with such conviction and never shared the best organs with anyone suggested to Leo that she had likely been very goal-oriented and probably an upper-level manager for some cool tech start-up or maybe an independent business owner. Either way, she wouldn’t have given him the time of day in a normal world, but this world, he knew all too well, was “nnott nurrrmaal.” ----------------------------- What became the norm in this post-apocalyptic hellscape was mass murder on a scale that would have been unimaginable to the pre-Sickness brain. A kind of Hunger Games-like phenomenon developed in every hamlet, town, and city across every country on this planet. Ghoulish zombies formed opportunistically into packs that would work together at first, but ultimately turn on each other until one victor remained. One never knew where you stood with your fellow cannibals. One day, you were working in unnatural unison like a slow-moving herd of Velociraptors hunting your doomed prey, and the next day that same herd was feasting on your small intestines without so much as a “sorry about this, Bob, we got hungry.” Scientists would argue about what caused the sudden escalation of viral intensity and sheer madness in formerly-rationale beings until their dying days, or at least until the Sickness stopped them from being able to think of such things. Climate change was a clear consensus winner, but challenging to prove definitively. Plastics were often blamed, as was the prevalence of digital devices and radio waves that weakened our immune systems and altered our environment. Everyone agreed that social media was obviously destroying the very fabric of our civilization, but that was a slower and arguably more-painful burn. In the end, no one knows what caused it. We just know that it happened, and our world changed. ----------------------------- And that suited Leo just fine. Change was something he could use a little more than most. Anything to be out of that prison of a doublewide and that rut of an existence. To be free of the same old take-out Indian food, the jeering at the hands of the neighbor kids and the long lonely nights. And the longer one survived with the Sickness, the less they remembered of their former life and the more they concentrated solely on two primal urges - devouring human flesh and sex. It’s difficult to say which of these was more disturbing to watch. Years of devouring slasher films had prepared Leo for the sight of human entrails being slurped up casually like the spaghetti-kissing scene out of “Lady and the Tramp.” He hadn’t personally taken to cannibalism as readily as some of the others, but a guy’s gotta eat, and so he could make do when necessary. And, yet, a similar dedication over the years to consuming any and all porn the internet could serve up did not prepare Leo for the disturbing sights and sounds of apocalyptic zombie-sex. It made awkward teenage-sex look like the prize winning crescendo of a Stormy Daniels “Best Of” reel. It was all flailing limbs, unnerving secretions and high pitch yelping. It happened constantly on every street corner, park and lawn. It lasted for hours. And, god, the smell. Obviously, all Leo could think about was what sex with Anna would be like. What it would sound like. What it would smell like. The thought of her that way consumed him. Ever since he had narrowly escaped her oddly powerful death grip by cutting off the lower part of his arm, all he could focus on was getting back to Anna. Admittedly, their relationship was complex and not without risk, but then again what relationship isn’t? One of the only possessions Leo had from his absent father was an old, beer-stained book of poetry of all things that he had accidentally left behind. Leo had read it cover to cover many times. When it came to Anna, it was always Alfred Tennyson’s fateful words that echoed in Leo’s one remaining ear, “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” Even if that meant the loss of one’s arm or perhaps a vital organ here or there. ----------------------------- Unfortunately, extreme and devastating loss was what befell the world in the awful reckoning of the Sickness. And it happened in less than two years from what we estimate to be the first wave of infections. Zombie nations hungrily reduced themselves to warring zombie factions and ultimately to increasingly-starving, roaming zombie packs. Those infected may have lost their ability to reason and communicate, but they became experts at tracking, hunting and killing with ruthless precision. In the end, we were not annihilated by weapons of mass destruction, but rather our own brute physicality and the awesome power of an unadulterated desire to kill and feed. In this way, the world’s population shrunk from billions to hundreds with the survivors willing to travel great distances to track down the last of their cursed kind. ----------------------------- Only Leo, strangely, longed for something different. Why or how, he did not know, but as the remaining zombies began to close upon him, Leo was given his chance. While ducking awkwardly into an abandoned Nordstrom’s for safe haven, he tripped over two forms squirming on the dusty floor. As he sat up and recovered his bearings, there was Anna, feasting on the remains of her latest victim, blood dripping from her cracked lips. There would never be another opportunity like this. Leo summoned all his courage. “Ith ggoo timme,” he muttered triumphantly to himself. There in the women’s unmentionables section, Leo put it all on the line. He approached Anna cautiously, watching her every move, noting every detail. She wore her kill on the front of her blouse proudly, like Joey Chestnut celebrating his record setting 75 th hot dog at the Nathan’s Famous Hot Dog-Eating Contest. There was no fear in her bloodshot eyes, but nor was their rage. She returned Leo’s gaze confidently, and maybe, just maybe, even lovingly. For the first time, Leo felt a connection, someone looking at him for him and not just as the next meal. Each lurched toward the other, their bent limbs cracking in concert as the distance between them shortened to a few feet. Leo braced himself and extended his hand, the good one, towards Anna. The drool extending from the left side of Anna’s mouth cascaded off her chin and danced magically in the wind. Her awful beauty made Leo’s crooked legs buckle. Anna, seeing his hand, paused somewhat questioningly. “Thif isss itt,” he thought. And then it happened. Anna’s veiny hand lifted to meet Leo’s, pausing to caress the bloody cuticles on each of his fingers before fully embracing his limp offering. His dead heart flickered. “Cud thif bee,” Leo dared to ask himself. It felt as if every oozing pore in his body was going to explode and that his crooked frame might actually lift off the ground all at once. And for good reason. For, as Leo stood trance-like contemplating his good fortune, Anna had stabbed him right in the gut with a shard of glass concealed in her other hand and was doggedly working on tearing a jagged line up his unsuspecting abdomen. As his blood hit the floor and began to pool, Leo snapped to and managed to weakly push Anna’s arm back, slowing the progress of his beloved killer. Enraged, Anna reached back to plunge her make-shift knife as deep into Leo’s throat as she could, but suddenly found herself slipping on the very blood she had so casually spilled. She fell backwards and plowed the back of her head into the corner of a marble display counter for women’s plus sized jeans. Whether unconscious, brain dead or just dead dead, Anna did not stir. ----------------------------- As Leo sat in a pool of his own blood, stoically eating what remained of Anna’s once beautiful corpse, he couldn’t help thinking, “thaat Tennnyshinn ith ful of shiit."

Grisha’s alchemy shop was bustling with activity, and not just from the various beasts that walked in to buy ingredients or seek aid from the blind hyena shaman and her apprentices: An odd group had currently taken up residence in the backrooms of her shop. The most noticeable one - a large reptiloid with dark scales, long horns and piercing yellow eyes - sat upon a cushion too small for his frame. His arms were folded as he spoke to a female meerkat who was transcribing everything he said to her leatherbound notebook. “So you and this ‘Ylla’ were at the fields as this battle started, and that’s when you were enslaved by this Margot the Lynx,” the meerkat said trying to recap his story. “Correct, Amber,” the reptiloid replied. Amber continued to work her quill. “And Margot is a servant of The Witch Queen of Vulane. Selthia, who effectively owned you and had you compete in the gladiator fights? Is that right, Draknor?” “Again, correct,” Draknor rumbled his large powerful tail thumping against the floor. “But you busted out during a fight, and made your escape where you eventually met our dear Skreet Snickertooth, rat detective.” Amber said the last part in a sugary sweet tone of voice, as if to rib the rat investigator, even though he was absent. From the shadowy corner a ferret clad in leathers smirked at Amber’s tone. “Yes,” Draknor said, wearily. “And after we deal with our mutual adversary Margot, Skreet will help me find Ylla.” “I’m sure he will.” Amber replied as she finished jotting down her notes. “Then you met Farah over there,” “The amazing Farah,” the ferret corrected. “The best thief in the world.” Amber ignored her and continued her interview. “And then you met me after recovering your sword from those experiments being conducted upon it.” Draknor merely grunted in reply. “Quite the story already, and its still ongoing as we speak!” the meerkat beamed. Draknor regarded her with his piercing eyes. “It’s my turn to ask you a question.” Intrigued, the meerkat’s ears shifted forward. “Oh, do go ahead!” “Why do you talk to Snickertooth the way you do? Why do you speak to him the way you do. He is a rat of courage and integrity, and a keen mind.” Farah couldn’t help but make a snide comment. “Aw, that’s sweet. Look at you Drak, sticking up from ol’ Skreet.” Draknor snorted in response. “Well, I wrote a few books about him and a few of his cases. Books that made him famous. He didn’t appreciate them, or me so I rib him from time to time.” “Rib him?” Draknor asked. “Yes, you know,” Amber said. “Poke him a little. Make sure he’s still alive.” “I don’t understand.” Draknor grunted. “Is this a mammal thing?” Amber ran her quill along her muzzle, trying to think of how best to explain it. Farah broke into the conversation then, “Speaking of Skreet. Is no one going to say it?” “Say what?” Amber and Draknor both asked. “We should keep an eye on Skreet. He just left. By himself. After we’ve made a lot of enemies here.” “I shall go,” Draknor rumbled. Farah shook her head, “Nah, you better stay here,big guy.” Draknor growled. “She’s got a point,” Amber said, surprisingly siding with the ferret. “You do tend to draw attention to yourself.” Farah smirked. “Tell you what: You stay here, and then if we don’t come back soon you can go after us.” Draknor stood, his horns scraping the ceiling, “And how would I find you? This city is an ever-shifting maze.” Farah thought about it for a second. “If you see or hear a phalanx of those silvermasks, follow them - from a distance, of course.” “Why?” Draknor asked. “Well, the way I figure it is that they follow paths around the city that they know because they’re...” Farah gesticulated, as if conjuring the correct word out of the air. “...They’re conditioned to,” Amber the wordsmith added. Farah acknowledged the help. “And eventually you’ll run into the House of the Moon, where we’ll try to rendezvous. Or, eventually, you’ll make a tour of the city and find us...” Farah spoke then: “...or the people who kidnapped us.” “That doesn’t seem efficient at all,” Draknor grumbled. “It’s what we thieves use to navigate the city... although figuring out which platoon is which is quite the task. But it’s the best we’ve got. Besides, we'll be back soon. At least I probably will,” Farah said, giving Amber a side-eye glance. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Amber asked. “Honey, you’ve got damsel in need of rescue written all over you.” “I resent that, you tart!” Amber hissed. Draknor thumped his sword against the floor, “Stop arguing and trail Skreet already! He’s probably long gone by now! GO!” The two hurried out of Grisha’s alchemy shop and into the fine rain of the ever-rainy city. The two quickly merged into the evening crowd of middle and upper class creatures and their families touring the marketplace before seeing Skreet. He had gone a ways down the street, but thankfully he hadn’t gone too far. Neither Farah nor Amber drew too close, they didn’t call out to him either. Best he didn’t know he was being followed. “I wonder how long it will take him to figure out we’re tailing him?” Farah asked. “Good question, he’s an experienced investigator,” Amber added. Just then something unexpected happened: a beautiful white mink was suddenly at Skreet’s side. “Who’s that?” Amber asked. “I don’t know, but I’m envious of her dress,” Farah replied. The two eavesdropped on the conversation, wondering just who this mink was. Friend or foe? “Rask? Rask, is that you? Oh, Rask! How wonderful to see you again!” ‘Rask’? Skreet replied before he seemed to run with the name. “Spinrave isn’t it? Well, fancy meeting you here.” Spinrave smiled as she took his arm, “Fancy indeed. You’ve been making quite a name for yourself. I was hoping we would meet again. Come with me.” “A ‘name for myself’?” “Yes, you and your little... and large... friends. Some very... interesting creatures wish to speak to you, but I think it best if you come out of the rain... If you trust me, that is.” To Amber’s dismay she saw Skreet walking with Spinrave. “What’s he doing? Why is he going with her?” Amber questioned. Farah’s tail twitched, “She’s charming him, I can smell those intoxicating fumes from here. Smell that? That oh-too-sweet perfume smell?” “We should save him,” Amber said. “Or we can follow and see where she takes him. Come on. How’s that investigative instinct?” Amber scowled, “Fine you’ve got a point. It would make for a better story anyway. I think I’ll call it something like, ‘Seduced in the Rain.’” “Might want to workshop that title, sounds more like those romance novels... Which I definitely don’t read, or keep under my pillow.” Amber twitched an ear at that. Skreet and ‘Spinrave’ walked directly into one of the thousands of taverns in the damp, dark city and into an interior that was even darker. Farah and Amber made their way through the throngs of creatures who were making their way to the Entertainment District and all of Selthia’s delights and dipped into the tavern. It was multiple stories, so perhaps they had rooms for the weary traveler. The inside was raucous. Sea rats and weasels just off from working in the Docks district - which had a curfew - smoked pipes and drank ale while cats and various vermin massaged aching muscles - for a price. They got in just in time to see Skreet’s and the mink’s tails walking up the red-carpeted staircase to the upper levels. “Let’s go.” Farah nodded to Amber. They didn’t make it too far up the stairs till they paused. A large, female panther from the Southern continent, her burly arms crossed as she watched for any but paying customers from entering the second and third floors. “Well that complicates things,” Amber muttered. “Maybe we can bribe her?” “Don’t worry I’ve got a plan in my devious mind.” Farah said, rubbing her paws together. Skreet found himself smiling like an idiot as Spinrave continued to talk to him, her voice like a melody as she led him through the plush third floor of the inn-tavern. Part of the rat’s mind was still rational, though, wondering why he was going along with her so much... but the other part seemed to have hijacked his muscles and speech. Spinrave had long solved the mystery of her friend - through wanted posters, rumors, and Margot. He was not ‘Rask,’ he was Skreet Snickertooth, and he and his friends were moving through Vulane like a whirlwind. It was no longer amusing. “Corrupt him,” Selthia had said in her office, enchanted with the false night sky on her ceiling. “And if you really like him, keep him as a pet.” Spinrave was fine with that arrangement. She served Margot, and by extension Selthia. If her mistress ordered it, it was as good as done. He would make a wonderful pet. “I ordered some wine for the room,” Spinrave said softly. “Oh, that sounds wonderful,” Skreet muttered. “You can drink, and drink, and never have a hangover. We shall enjoy the time we have together... for a long time to come, my handsome rat,” Spinrave said, smiling shyly and holding his paw as she unlocked a large wooden door. But as they prepared to step through a voice called out to Spinrave as a female cat ran with a note in her paw. “Spinrave! Spinrave... you’ve been called out.” Spinrave flattened her ears, “I don’t have time for that right now. Tell this challenger to tottle off.” The cat shook her head. “You know the ancient rites of the Entertainers’ Guild - This is a public challenge. With all the right words.” Spinrave dragged a paw across her muzzle, “Ugh, fine. My dear Rask, I must attend to... some upstart downstairs. Have some wine and wait for my return. Then the fun will really begin.” she winked flirtatiously. She practically shoved Skreet through the door before locking it and marching downstairs, the dress she wore would serve its purpose for a dance. Might even get her blood pumping for some more fun later. In the well-appointed room Skreet shook his head, his mind still slightly addled as he sat on the plush bed noticing the glass of wine on the nightstand. His mouth watered: something about that glass was very inviting. As if it were singing a song for his ears alone. Downstairs in the common room around the stage the crowd was already worked up in a frenzy, they let out an uproar as Spinrave made her appearance. “Who challenges me?” She demanded. “I do sweetie,” Farah stood on the stage arms folded across her chest. The room of half-drunk, licentious laborers nearly exploded. “Damn I love this town,” a searat could be heard saying. “I love and hate it,” someone else retorted. She had had time since issuing the challenge to change into one of the many performer costumes, and had opted for a belly dancer ensemble. A shimmering skirt that showed a fair bit of leg, and a sparkly croptop. Bracelets adorned her arms, and anklets on her feet. “Cute outfit.” Spinrave said coldly as she tossed her coat aside revealing her short dress. “Musicians!” Spinrave ordered. Meanwhile Skreet was just about to raise the glass to his muzzle when the door suddenly flew open. A familiar meerkat covered in scratches stumbled in, her fur disheveled as she carried Farah’s prized lockpicking set. “Oh, no! Not you,” Skreet muttered as Amber crossed to him and shook him by the shoulders causing the glass to fall and shatter upon the floor. “Snap out of it fool!” Amber cried out, but the dopey expression would not leave the rat’s face. “I’m waiting for her. The enchanting Spinrave.” Amber scowled. “Fine, you leave me no choice.” Grabbing a candle nearby, the meerkat jammed the lit wick into his arm eliciting a cry of pain. The smell of burned hair filled the room. “Gaaaah!” Skreet stood up. “Amber, what in the hells?” “Got control of your faculties yet?” the meerkat asked. Skreet blinked. “Yeah... oh, Gods. I let myself end up here?” He could remember everything, as though he’d awoken from a pleasant dream. Part of him - a quiet, less hard-boiled part - wanted to stay in that dream. “Let’s get out of here, rat!” Amber declared. Skreet nodded as his paws went to his pair of fighting sticks under his coat. “Yeah.” Back in the common area two musilide ladies were having a fierce duel. Not with swords or fists, but in dance. Farah shimmied her hips, arms above her head as the crowd roared, Spinrave in response was performing an impressive set of spins - her specialty. “Not bad sweetie,” Farah commented. “Not good enough to win.” Spinrave smiled sweetly. “Worry about yourself, thief.” The mink bowed low, her rear towards the crowd. Another explosion of claps and whistles. Farah was unperturbed, or at least made it seem so, for deep down she was alarmed. She had been recognized? But she was so cautious. She was too good! How did someone recognize her? She wasn’t going to let Spinrave know she got to her. “Oh, and what do thieves do, besides be good dancers?” Farah asked as she leaned backwards towards the crowd in a display of flexibility, her abs were still rolling as she did so. “Steal things. Like your fans. Your stuff. ...Your date.” Spinrave clenched her muzzle shut, her focus off. “Oh, you clever... this is a distraction.” Her rhythm stopped and the crowd booed. “It’s too late by now. Might as well share.” Farah grinned. “Well done! Well danced.” Spinrave shouted as she gave Farah a forced hug, her muzzle inches from Farah’s ear. “Mistress Selthia, and Mistress Margot, asked me to corrupt your rat friend’s mind. Your group has drawn the ire of some important people.” “You work for Margot. Tell me where to find her. She won’t be happy you failed.” Farah hissed. Spinrave drew Farah closer. “Losing one of Selthia’s prized treasures put her on the outs. It’s a race for your large, reptiloid friend. Margot’s in the Fogs, sending agents across the city.” The two broke the embrace giving each other an almost genuine bow, before they parted ways, the crowd still cheering. Farah caught Amber and Skreet descending the staircase. There was much to be done.

It’s 6:34 PM. I fill the kettle with water and set it on the stove. The gas burner clicks a few times before igniting in a brief whoosh that engulfs the base of the aluminum vessel. She will be home soon. I rummage through the selection of tea that we keep on the windowsill over the kitchen counter, stacked on top of one another, with no label facing the same direction and no one brand alike. Boxes, jars, and tubes all jangled on top of one another. The choices were unique in their own ways: there was chamomile, one of her favorites but perhaps too pedestrian; an orange and cranberry blend I had picked up at a used bookstore; lavender and vanilla crème that was more luxuriant than pleasant but she might be in that mood this evening; apple spice of which she had tried one bag and declared it gross; traditional English breakfast, but that was too caffeinated for an evening tea; and lastly there was peppermint, but the weather was turning chilly outside, so that may not fit the temperament of the evening. This is surely hell. I don’t want to rush to judgement about the tea selection. The kettle will take a long time to get to temperature and the tea situation is finicky enough as is and deserves some thought. One false move here and the entire evening could be ruined, she could feel unloved, unseen, and misunderstood by the man who is supposed to love, see, and understand her. I stand over the sink and glance at each tea individually and simulate her response to each cup. This was always my favorite time of the evening, the time just before she came home. In the small gap that existed between the realization that she would be home soon and her arrival I felt light, effervescent even. I felt the way that I imagine dogs do when they hear the car door shut in the driveway but before they have seen the human walk through the door. There is this moment of tension, a brilliant anticipation like a childhood Christmas, where you realize that bliss is just a few moments away. Of course, when the bliss comes it may not have all the shimmer and gaiety that you imagined, but I’m not so sure that matters but so much. If the anticipation and buildup beforehand gives you that glee that makes the moment ahead seem perfect and then you have the memory of it that lingers and fits nicely into a pocket that you can make nostalgic the moment it’s over, does that brief moment where it’s out of focus matter nearly as much as what’s around it? But she’ll be back soon, all the same. I can already just see her car kicking a cloud of dirt up behind her as she drives down the long gravel road. I’ll have my forehead pressed against the window by my chair in the living room, my breath will be fogging up the glass, the oils from my skin will be leaving their greasy traces on the pane itself. I’ll trick myself, I always do. I’ll see a neighbor and begin to get excited, but will have to come back to earth when I realize it’s not her. Or, I’ll convince myself that the rustling of the trees on the winding driveway is actually me seeing her car move down the road. I’ll convince myself of it for a few moments, but I know, deep down, that I’m lying to myself. This tea situation, though, is pestering me. I want the tea to be perfect. I think I’ve timed the kettle just right so that just as she comes around the bend in the road and I can first see her car that its whistle will sing out. If I’m too early with the timing of the kettle then it becomes a balancing act of keeping the water at the appropriate temperature and if I’m too late then either she has to wait longer when she gets in or I’m going to be serving lukewarm tea to her. Naturally, the question arises as to why not just start the kettle earlier since the tea has to steep and this is all about her getting tea, but it’s not just that. It’s about setting the atmosphere and she loves to steep. She bobs the bag up and down with a finger dipping in and out of the hot water and she barely registers a twinge. Her mind begins to unpack itself in those moments, the mental decompression process occurs and by the time the tea has steeped, and her finger has perhaps taken on a slightly pinkish hue, her mental stretching is complete and she is ready to embrace the evening. But what choice of tea I make matters. This is surely hell. Flipping through the tea selection a few more times I finally make a choice: chamomile. She loves chamomile and perhaps it will be just the thing to lull her off after a day at the office. I open the box and pull out the perfect bag. I hold it to my nose and breathe in and the spices and leaves smell absolutely amazing. I just know that she’ll love it I feel the twinges of excitement knotting in my stomach. They rise and fall, die and are reborn, over and over again. Just as I think that I may have gotten adjusted to the excitement a brand new wave strikes me all over again and I flutter off of my toes, gliding around with hope that tonight will be perfect. I’ve cleaned the kitchen and folded the laundry; I’ve picked up her favorite ice cream, which I will surprise her with after she’s finished her tea; and I’ve even given the dog a bath and put an adorable new collar on her. She’s our pride and joy, a stray that picked us above anyone else. She just arrived one day and planted her flag in our hearts. We love to take turns holding her, letting her lick our faces, rubbing her behind the ears and watching her eyes roll back as she squints from how nice the petting feels. I can’t hear her now so she must be sleeping. She’ll be snuggled up on the sofa, in a perfect little circle or perhaps she’ll be stretched out with a paw gently covering her eyes. The dog will be almost as excited as I will be when she gets home. The dog will jump from the couch and run around the house and maybe even jump on her. With the tea, that might not be a good idea. Maybe I should get the dog up now so she isn’t but so excited, get the dog primed to see her since it will only be another minute or two at most. “Baby!” I say, my voice bright and happy. I know that I’m supposed to hear the jangle of the new collar and the tapping of her nails on the floor, but I don’t. “Baby, come here, girl!” I say, louder this time. Still, nothing comes in response to me. “Baby!” I say, a little bass in my voice and whistle. The whistle carries on and on, my lips quivering. I know she won’t come. Surely this is hell. The kettle whistles, high and loud over everything, screaming into my ears and filling the kitchen with noise, but I can’t move to stop it, to take it off the burner, because it’s coming back now, why the moment is so powerful, why it feels so good. This is hell. I can’t breathe. I want to vomit up the air that I’m choking on and my eyes and lungs burn so painfully that I wish I could just die. The waves of pain are powerful, they overwhelm me and almost buckle me to the floor. The realization is the true pain. One moment, one flash in time that is the most utterly painful, that is surely what hell makes us suffer. And that is where I am. My wife will ever come home to me and my dog will never answer because neither are there and that is the hell in which I find myself. Forever on the precipice of a happy moment, perhaps the happiest moment of my life, only to have it ripped away from me with this realization. She is not there, though she once was. She came home and I had her chamomile tea ready. She thanked me, kissed me on the cheek, and spilled just a little tea on herself when the dog jumped up to give her a kiss. We talked and petted the dog and loved the new collar. When I showed her the ice cream she cried just a little and said I was wonderful for thinking of her and that she was a very lucky woman. This was the happiest I had ever been. Eternal pain is easy because you can resign yourself at a certain point. If you know you’re going to lose a battle or die at a certain time, there is a dignity, and almost a kind of victory, in surrender. The torture lies in hope. The faintest glimmer of a chance being shown and then snatched away. This is my torture. I relive the knowledge that everything is lost and that I am alone and that it has been many eternities since I have seen my love and it will be infinitely more before I may rest. I feel the fresh cut of loss every day and then the realization of my time spent here sets in, and the further realization that I will feel this way again and again. I have relived her loss countless times with nothing to do to even dull the pain. The kettle has been singing out but it begins to dwindle. Maybe I’ve been standing in awe of everything for so long that the water’s burned down. I reach out and turn off the burner. “I miss you,” I say to no one, running my hands along the outside of the hot aluminum. It’s 6:34 PM. I fill the kettle with water and set it on the stove. The gas burner clicks a few times before igniting in a brief whoosh that engulfs the base of the aluminum vessel. She will be home soon.

Once opon a time. Far off in a land of sun. A small girl lived in a Village deep in the valley. Day in and out she did her duties of the home. For she was the only one of her kin left to care for her elderly mother.Every night the girl would read her stories and look up in the sky and imagine for a better place far off from the home she found herself. Alone in her world, she continued through the motions of her existence. Doing just enough that kept her and her mother cared for. But one day, a terrible beast attacked her humble village, while All the good men sworn to protect it were off to distant lands to return riches to the poor town. No one seemed to be able to fight the beast. The monster stormed the village ruining homes and and eating all the food stored. And while the rest of the women and children fled. The girl stood up against the beast with nothinh but a pitch fork. Something happened inside the girl. She came to realise a great gift in herself, she was without fear. She lunged herself towards the monster. Doing what she could to try and scare it off. With one hard swing of the monsters claws she was thrown away. As she stood again to face the monster. From behind her approached someone, A wounded knight on a scarlet steed stepped down from his horse to lend a hand to the maiden. Together, Standing with the knight the girl was able to slay the beast. Her taking a final blow at its heart. In a puff of smoke the beast disappeared in the wind. And as the village gathered to see the aftermath the knight dropped to his knee in pain. The girl was no stranger to remedies of her heritage. And took the lone knight in to care for him. In only a night. The girls life has changed for all of a sudden she felt she had a purpose. And her life had become what she dreamt for. Over months. The the village was rebuilt and the food stores filled. Only now the girl spent her time healing the knight. From dusk till dawn the girl spent with the knight. A mutual fondness growing between them as the knight taught and showed her wonders of lands far from what she has known. Soon enough the knight felt at home with her and did what he could to help around the village. Spending his nights with the girl. And when apart, in their dreams they were together still till they came together again in the day. Joy and color filled the world for them both. But alas. It was short lived. The Knight, you see, was posessed. A demon that not even the pure love and all the remedies the girl concoted could cure him. With heavy heart, and pain strangling his soul. The knight had to go. To go fight the demon that keeps him ill. Knowing only when the demon was expunged could he return and honor the young girl as he truelly knows is right. As the knight rode off in the twilight sun. The young girl wept as her love went away and The shadows creeped towards the villiage once again. The young girl returned to her daily duties, caring for her mother, tending the gardens. And as time passed she grew ever more beautiful. And many suitors came to her door with promises of a happy future. But none would sucessede in winning her heart forever the way her knight conquered her nightmares. So today she still waits for her knights return. And even in sorrow she finds some solace in knowing. No matter how hard the loneliness was , or how far apart they were. The young girl was always with her knight every time she dreamt. And she knew with her soul, that she was always in the heart and dreams of her brave knight. "Untill we meet again, ever truly yours. Your brave Knight.

The night sky lit up momentarily as lightning leapt again through the heavens, reflecting on the still, mirror-like sea. Moments later there followed a low rumble of thunder, disturbing the otherwise serene beauty of the landscape. “It’s getting closer”, he thought, as the distant lightning flashed its tendrils across the midnight sky, leaving him once again plunged into darkness. Sighing, he pulled himself further up the piece of wood and out of the chilling, black water. He gazed up at the stars, barely glimmering above him, and then looked over towards the looming storm. He pulled his long brown cloak tighter about him, hoping its fabric, though sodden, might offer some warmth. But it was no good: the water had chilled him deeper than his bones, seemingly to his very soul. He thought back to that moment: the sound of men screaming like children; the sight of burning bodies tumbling over the wooden rails of the ship and into the murky water; and, worst of all, the smell, the foul smell. He shuddered as he tried to banish the gloomy thoughts from his mind. Several days had passed since that ill-fated moment, yet still he clung to hope that someone would find him, clutching his splintered piece of wood. Clinging on to life itself. Another flash; more thunder. Something caught his attention. He lifted his head from where it rested on the wood, groaning with the effort, his malnourished body struggling to accomplish even so simple a task. He peered intently into the darkling gloom. “Land?”, he thought to himself. He pushed himself up with both arms, raising himself as high as he dared. Not far off, towards the storm, he could see a small rock thrusting out of the dark water. He let out a sob of relief and began paddling frantically towards this small island and the relative safety it might offer. As he neared the rock, he slowed, once again straining upwards to see it more clearly. It was perfectly round and not very tall, jutting only a few feet above the waterline. Frowning, he continued paddling. A slight breeze was now coming from the direction of the storm, and with it came a stench, filling his nostrils with a rotten, tainted smell. He squirmed uncomfortably on his board as memories of that night came flooding back: tentacles the size of trees thrashing at the ship on which he’d served; teeth the size of tombstones grinding through its wooden hull. Another flash illuminated the sky, its light reflecting off the lonely rock before him. Only then did he realise it was no rock. He stared in horror, gazing into the yawning depths of a huge, black eye that stared right back into him, transfixing his gaze and piercing his very soul. Without warning, he felt something grip his ankle with vicelike strength and begin to pull him down into the inky depths below. An involuntary scream escaped his lips and his lungs filled with icy water.

No More Always Wanted It wasn’t raining, though all the people walking with big coats in the grey street felt it would be soon. The afternoon’s clouds seemed to be circling like a tired dog in search of the right place drop. Dustin’s numb hands were holding a bucket. The bucket, which had a sign on it that said *College Money*, was holding exactly nineteen dollars and sixteen cents. Foggy breath was left behind as talking people walked past. Dustin watched it float upwards and disappear, changing from red to green to gold with the Christmas lights in the shop windows. He knew it wouldn’t be enough money. He had been standing on the cold corner of Market Street since 10 o’clock in the morning, and only four people had made donations. The first had been his English teacher, Ms MacColl, who had been on her way to do some seasonal shopping when she’d seen him and said “I believe in you, Dustin.” The wrinkles on her face had transformed into an encouraging smile as she presented a five dollar note. The second person had been Isabelle Crosland, who was the same age as Dustin, and had caused him to daydream extensively after she’d let yet another five dollar note fall into his bucket with a wink. The third person Dustin hadn’t known at all; a young man in a long black coat swinging a carrier bag of rattles and clinks had stopped to ask: “What do you want to study?” “Literature.” “Why?” “I love telling stories.” “Then you must never stop,” the young man had instructed, handing a folded ten dollar bill to the boy. The fourth and final person had been playing guitar just across the street since roughly 11 a.m. Dustin was quite sure that he was homeless, but didn’t say anything except *thank you* when the musician gave him sixteen cents before moving along to another spot. At one point, Dustin bought a fresh-cream chocolate éclair and a coke from a nearby bakery. This had cost a total of one dollar. Thus, he was left with nearly twenty. As the roads became less busy, the twelve year old boy began to walk home. He wasn’t sure how to feel about his venture. The night was creeping across the sky and yellow street lamps flickered on as Dustin turned left onto Luck Lane. He felt touched that some people he knew and some who he didn’t had helped him, but he was sure that twenty dollars wouldn’t be enough to change the situation with his parents. In fact, he thought that he would probably have to spend all the weekends until he left school holding that bucket on various streets to raise enough money to make any kind of difference. But Dustin was a fighter. Even though, when he had asked if he would be able go to university and become a writer one day, his mother and father had explained to him all sorts of things about money and taxes and insurance and medical costs, he still remembered that when he was younger, they had always told him that he could be whatever he wanted to be. Dustin still wanted to believe it, so as he reached the end of Luck Lane he reassured himself: “I can be whatever I want to be.” However, he said it quite loudly, and that may have been a big mistake, because just then he heard heavy footsteps running towards him. “What’s in your bucket, boy?” said one of the three men who had just appeared behind him. Dustin knew he shouldn’t stop walking. He knew he should run, but for some reason he couldn’t. “Give us the bucket!” said another man, looking around to make sure there was nobody else on the shadowy road. “No!” shouted Dustin, as he turned and started running as fast as he could. In school he would often win races - but the men were faster than his classmates, and within seconds they were in front of him. There was a very loud slapping sound and Dustin fell backwards onto the floor, one hand still holding onto the bucket, one hand pressed against his burning left cheek. Someone ripped the plastic container out of his fingers. By the time he’d gotten to his feet again, all three of them (and his nineteen dollars and sixteen cents) were gone. He didn’t even get a chance to memorize their faces. Dustin sat down on the cold cobble-stones. He wanted to say a lot of rude words, but he just stared at the wall. His shoulders were shivering and his fists were squeezing at the air. All he could think was *what just happened? Why would they do that?* He hoped his Dad would come running round the corner, or the nice homeless musician would suddenly put a hand on his shoulder and say something like *here, I got it back for you.* But the street was empty. After a long time, Dustin stood up. He stared at his feet, hoping that soon they would start walking for him. But they were too cold and too stunned. His shoes were tied up with the standard two bows hanging on either side of each foot. His laces were mainly white, with a few grey smudges, and the material below them was a navy blue. He started to think about all the things people he knew had in common - like hair and eyes and ears and noses and brains and clothes and shoes. He even knew two boys in his class who had the same shoes as him. Dustin started to think that maybe his parents had been mistaken: maybe he was just like everyone else, and his dream to become a great writer was just something silly that he’d convinced himself could happen. Maybe his shoes would best be used for kicking balls and learning to run faster and walking to and from school and, in the future, to and from work. The young boy looked up from his feet. He noticed a line of graffiti all alone in pretty, curvy red writing stretching along the top of the wall. He’d never seen it before, and he often walked down Luck Lane. He read it. It said: *I could have been someone.* He recognised it from a Christmas song his parents would sometimes listen to. He remembered the next line in the song: ‘*well so could anyone.’* For a few more moments, Dustin was still. He was thinking deeply. “I can be whatever I want to be,” he whispered to himself, a tear cooling the place where one of the men had hit him. His right foot lunged forwards. \* Luck lane was quite a busy street during the daytime. It had a number of banks on it, some shoe shops, some clothes shops and a sweet shop. The sweet shop, whose window was just opposite the line of graffiti Dustin had noticed, was owned by a very nice old lady with white hair called Ms Sow. Ms Sow had seen the graffiti on Saturday, just like Dustin. There was a lot of crime in the area, so Ms Sow didn’t give too much thought to it - but on Monday morning, when she noticed another line just underneath the words *I could have been someone*, she rubbed down her sugary rainbow apron the way she always did and complained to a customer: “There seem to be more and more troublemakers around these days - Look! They’re spraying everywhere!” Dustin happened to be waiting in the queue to buy some lemon bonbons just as Ms Sow had said it. When he left the shop, he spent a few moments looking at the new sentence. It made him smile: **“I’d bet you’re wonderful,”** someone had written in a heavy but neat, black paint. As Dustin gazed at it, he noticed a few people around him slowed to read it before continuing on their way. By Tuesday, Ms MacColl was one of the people who had stopped briefly to read the graffiti conversation that was slowly taking place on the wall opposite Ms Sow’s Sweet Shop on Luck Lane. The curvy red style of writing had replied: “What makes you say that?” By Thursday, many people, including Isabelle Crosland, were talking about the graffiti conversation. The black ink had replied: **“From what you wrote, you must have dreams. And I like your handwriting.”** And below that the red ink said: “I’ve always wanted to be a singer.” On Saturday too, Dustin found himself standing and smiling amongst a crowd of people marvelling at the dialogue. **“I’ve always wanted to be a songwriter,”** the black ink remarked. “For some reason, I think you could make it,” the red offered. **“Well, so could anyone,”** said the black. By the following Wednesday all the people of the town knew about the graffiti conversation. Even Dustin’s parents walked in their big coats through the grey streets to see it. On Wednesday night, Dustin asked his parents again about becoming a writer. “Of course you can write in your spare time,” Dustin’s father had said, “but I just don’t think that it would be a very stable job.” “Your Dad’s right, Dustin,” his mother had added. “These are hard times, and we don’t want to get your hopes up. You can be whatever you want to be - you can write whatever you want to write - but for now you mustn’t forget to concentrate in all of your subjects because they’ll be important for getting a good job.” “But I want to change the world and tell wonderful stories that everyone will hear and I want to spend all of my time doing that!” Dustin explained. “I know I can do it. What if I can prove it to you?” “We’d love to read anything you’ve written,” his Mother smiled, warmly. “We’re not saying you shouldn’t follow your dreams, Dustin. But it’s like the graffiti on Luck Lane - the people writing it have probably tried working as musicians - they probably still try, but it’s very difficult to get into.” His father spoke kindly. “And a college course for writing is very expensive.” Dustin understood. He knew that he was only twelve years old, and that probably meant he was too young for his parents to think he was being very serious. He had often wondered how old he would have to be for people to consider him seriously as a writer. Fourteen? Sixteen? Eighteen? Twenty? Probably older. But Dustin was a fighter. On Thursday morning, the afternoon’s clouds seemed to be circling like a tired dog. “Would you like to meet up?” The red writing asked. By Friday, the black had replied: **“The bench on the hill in Windmill Park? 4 p.m.? Tomorrow?”** Dustin spent Friday evening by the graffiti wall with his bucket asking for donations to help him become a writer. Lots of people gave him a few coins and by the time he went home, he’d made twenty seven dollars and thirty six cents. That night he finished writing a short story on his mother’s computer. “Yes.” Read the red ink on Saturday morning. The whole town was excited. They all wanted to see who was having the graffiti conversation. On Saturday afternoon, Dustin went to a photocopying shop and printed out a few copies of his short story using some of the money from his bucket. At 2 p.m., Dustin showed his short story to his parents. They said it was brilliant. At 3.30 p.m., the clouds had finally made up their minds. It had begun to rain. Despite this, it seemed that the entire town had decided it would be a good time to go to the park. Hundreds of people were gathered in a ring of whispers and umbrellas around the empty bench on the hill at Windmill Park. At 3.45 p.m., Dustin managed to push to the front row, only a few feet away from the empty bench. He waited. At 3.55 p.m., the crowd was very loud. At 3.58., the crowd hushed. At 3.59., the crowd was nearly silent. At 3.59 and thirty seconds, the rain could be clearly heard hitting against the leaves of trees. At 3.59 and fourty five seconds, nobody moved a muscle. At 4 p.m exactly., everyone watched as Dustin walked towards the bench. Everyone held their breath. Dustin climbed up and stood on the bench. He could see Ms MacColl - and Isabelle Crossland - and a young man in a long black coat wearing a joyful smile - and the homeless musician - and a group of three guilty looking men - and another hundred faces with open mouths. Dustin turned in circles on top of the bench looking at the silent people. He blinked the rain out of his eyes. He couldn’t help but smile. Nobody could look away. Slowly and dramatically, Dustin put his arms out to either side of him as if he were reaching out to the surrounding people. He kept his legs straight and began bending forwards - further and further until he was looking at the ground. He straightened, turned slightly to the side, and repeated the action. He was bowing to his audience. “The truth is -“ he shouted at the top of his voice “I was walking home and I saw a line of graffiti that said *I could have been someone.* And that single, beautiful line of graffiti gave me the idea to write the rest!” The people were quiet. “You see, the truth is -“ he repeated as loud as he could. “I want to be a writer! And I believe you can be whatever you want to be! And to prove it to myself and to my parents, I invented a story and characters and wrote that story on that wall opposite Ms Sow’s Sweet Shop on Luck Lane! And now I know - and my parents must know as well - that it was a good story - because you are all here to hear the ending!” At 4.02 p.m., as Dustin finished his sentence, his parents approached the bench. They were each carrying cardboard boxes containing copies of the short story that Dustin had written on his mother’s computer and printed out at the photocopying shop. “Collecting money to become a writer!” Dustin shouted over the sound of the rain. “Collecting money to become a writer! Pay however much you would like for a short story!” The crowd of silent faces tore open with surprise and applause and cheers. People turned to whomever they were with and smiled. Some even hugged each other. However, even as many nice people approached to buy a copy of his short story, (which was entitled *No More Always Wanted*), Dustin suspected it wouldn’t make enough money to send him to college. Still, at the very least he did feel that he had made a lot of people happy that day - he was sure that they would remember what had happened and that they might even pass it on to their friends. Maybe his parents and other people would start to take the fact that he’d *always wanted* to become a writer more seriously. And if his plan didn’t work out and people didn’t start to recognize that he was meant to be a writer - he’d make another plan - because Dustin was a fighter - and he knew he could be whoever he wanted to be.

Secondhand Smoke The way she took a drag from her cigarette was not unlike Lady Godiva dismounting from her mount. No matter how hard someone tried, they could not match her grace. It was as if the tobacco burned in anticipation of touching her lips. Her exhale clouded my view of her face but highlighted the moon beams, which were the only source of light. Taking another long drag, she extended the butt to me, which I reluctantly took. To buy myself another five minutes with her, I lied about my own smoking habits. I had long been tempted to start smoking, but to this point had resisted the temptation. Inhaling, or rather attempting to look as if this wasn’t my maiden voyage, I sucked in the smoke and was immediately met with the disapproval of both my lungs and throat. Holding in my urge to cough only accentuated the heat festering in my chest, the pain finding release through mucus out of my nostrils. I handed the cigarette back to her, trying to mask my grimace as an off-handed Robert DeNiro impression. She noticed my discomfort and commiserated my pain with a devilish laugh. “So, tell me, what do you hope to do with your fancy college degree?” she asked as she disarmed the torch on the bottom of her shoe. “Honestly, I don’t really know. Being a CPA was never high on my totem pole, but I know it’s a safe profession and my parents have no qualms with it”. “That’s really sad, y’know that? You sound defeated. At our age you’re supposed to be still dreaming of what changes you can make in the world, not picturing yourself balding, paying into some bullshit Ruth IPA”. “It’s a Roth IRA.” “Whatever the hell it’s called, it makes no difference.” She took her phone out of her purse, quickly glanced at the brightened screen and smirked. “My ex-boyfriend, well, ok my current boyfriend but soon to be ex-boyfriend is begging for me to go over his apartment tonight.” “Go if you want to.” I offered the choice for her to leave, but in my stomach, I wished I could muster the courage to reveal my ulterior motives for sharing her cigarette. “Oh please, that’s not what either of us want to do.” She squinted her eyes as she replied, insinuating she had concocted a devious plan. Perhaps the decision to smoke inspired my newfound audacity. She was my vessel to discovering what gumption I had. Up until we disrobed in the back of my car, I longed for an opportunity to truly seize and live in a moment. Too often people allow society’s undertow to determine their path. Sitting in the back seat, behind the driver’s side, with her head across my lap, I began to run my fingers through her hair. Her eyes were closed and breathing became increasingly shallow as her voice trailed off in between answers. While she talked about a memory of running around her yard during a thunderstorm as a child, I had an epiphany. My ears tuned out her words, but my eyes and heart listened to what her body was really saying. She had put on a mask, a cloud of allusion she was removed from the claws of societal pressures and norms. But the truth was, she was not much different than the girl she described dancing in the rain. As lost as I had found myself, chipping away at a degree in a career I so desperately loathed, I could at least be attributed purpose in life. Sure, an accountant is not the sexiest profession, but the stability and reverence my parents have for it gave me a sense of superiority to the lost girl who was falling asleep in my lap. I folded my jacket, using it as a replacement pillow as I slipped out of the car. I was immediately met with the cool salty air of the ocean. The breeze was welcomed and refreshing. Only then did I realize how hot it had become inside my Honda. Walking down the beach, I found my way to a lifeguard stand, propping myself onto it. Waves slowly reaching for the shore before retreating back to the sea echoed in the silent chamber of my thoughts. Flashing lights emitted from a tanker anchored a few miles offshore, the only indication of life beyond the sand. Summertime brings a sense of carefree inclinations and freedom from reality. I wasn’t sure if I was beginning to love her or merely love the idea of her. She made me irrational. She made me lust. She made me yearn. She made me walk a tightrope between self-respect and dark desire. The scurrying of a fox beneath me broke my concentration. I unsheathed my phone from my pocket and was met with the reality of the time. Dismounting my post as nocturnal guard of the beach, I returned to the sleeping beauty. I opened the door which had been moonlighting as an ottoman for her feet. She remained unstirred, prompting me to prod her ribs. “Hey, you’ve got to wake up” I whispered, continuing to lightly shake her. Still unmoving, I began trying a myriad of techniques to get her to wake up. Pinching her leg, to rubbing her sternum, none working any better than the other. I became increasingly worried, practically frantic when the glow of headlights illuminated the cabin of the car. I quickly closed the door and took a few steps away from the car, holding my phone to my head in an attempt to feign an imaginary call. The foreign SUV pulled past and began a U-turn. They rolled down the passenger side window, asking something I could not quite make out. I took a few steps closer, not quite able to make out the features of the driver, but close enough to hear him over the humming of the engine. “Hey! Where’s Kutter Rd? My phone’s got no service out here man” “Oh, yeah, just take a left when you pull out of here and it should be the third or fourth road on your right” He thanked me and quickly jetted out of the parking lot. I immediately returned to the back seat where she still laid unmoved. With no previous CPR training, I tried to emulate scenes from shows and movies. I pressed on her chest and began breathing into her mouth. Each gasp of air became increasingly desperate. Her chest rose and sank, repeating the breathing process after about two minutes of my novice attempt to resuscitate her. I lifted her eye lids, and she pushed my hands away from her face. She stretched a bit and smiled up at me, completely unaware of the horror I nearly experienced. “Hey love, you trynna cop a feel while I’m sleeping?” she said as she smirked and sat up. She reached into her purse for a cigarette. . I peered into the rearview mirror, watching our reflections coexist. The smokescreen of her cigarette could not hide my gaunt expression. We sat in the backseat, in silence as the ocean breeze carried the secondhand smoke into my face.

"There's a theory," McCall intoned as he checked the cameras a third time. "A line of reasoning, I should say, that time travel to the past is impossible. Otherwise, we would be inundated with tourists from the future." He continued with a small chuckle. Blakely nodded. "Plenty of logical arguments against. Creating paradoxes is too easy. Some even believe that any universe in which the conditions make time travel possible ceases to exist because of paradox." The monitor's glow reflected off his glasses, and he glanced at the steady green bar indicating the power levels were holding. "So the conditions in our universe, therefore, must make it impossible." "By all accounts, this shouldn't work at all, but the maths check out." McCall moved carefully back beyond the line of safety tape. "When activated, the field --" "Yes, I know." Blakely's forehead furrowed. "Focus on the task at hand." "You see," McCall blundered on, unabated, "the multiverse of possible timelines... A tree with near infinite branches." He held his hands up, fingers splayed. "The sphere will pass down one branch, into our past, and create a new branch where it simply emerges into existence at that point in time. It will cease to exist on this branch of the tree, and will exist on that one. Will have always existed as that branch stretches--" "Three seconds before you hit the switch, the iron sphere will appear on the charged plate in the sealed chamber." Blakely muttered. "'Effect prior to cause,' so you keep saying. Every time we run this experiment." McCall scowled, "For the record! For the *cameras*, not for you. I know *you* know all this." *For the Nobel committee, you mean*, Blakely thought, but did not say. A loud, metallic thud emitted from the white, pill-shaped vessel on the table. "Did we lose the vacuum seal again?" McCall stepped gingerly over cables snaking on the floor, and navigated his way around the camera tripod. He bent down over the table to inspect the pressure valve. Blakely stared at the display, his mouth slightly open. Within the sealed vacuum chamber across the lab, at the focal point of dozens of instruments and cameras, a one-kilogram sphere of iron had appeared. He sat back, slowly, then started.

ROMANIA’S PROPOSALS Romania had wished for a proposal this Christmas. All her high school friends were already married and had started their families, and she was tired of being the professional bridesmaid or wedding arranger. She dreamed of the day she would walk up the aisle with Sam Rogers, but somehow, he seemed to see her as a good friend. They had spent countless special times together but, he seemed unaware of her love for him. Romania had dated a few men over the past two years, but none of the relationships seem destined for the altar, at least so she thought. Apart from Sam, there was James an astute businessman who spent most of his time at the office and, when on dates, on his phone. Then, there was Terry, the boisterous, humorous guy who always made her laugh and could move the clouds away on a cloudy day. She loved being with him but felt he needed to be a bit more balanced. He didn’t know the meaning of the word serious. Alex was a fitness instructor who kept her on track to maintain her fine figure but, would she have to be constantly looking over her shoulder every time she went to the refrigerator? He was so particular about the types of food she should eat, and how often she should snack.! And finally, there was Nathan. Nathan was fun, cool, and romantic, but he was a spendthrift with no thought of tomorrow. So, here she was seven days before Christmas, wondering if she was going to end the year singing Celine Dion’s “Another Year Has Gone By” to her ever- present teddy bear. The guys had all asked her out to dinner that week so, at least her schedule did not shout loneliness. She would make the best of it and forget about her musings. Dinner with James was the usual, and she wondered why he had bothered. His attention was so focused on the phone and constant business calls that he did not even enjoy the beautiful and cheerful songs played by the band. Was she surprised then, when during desert, he handed her a beautifully wrapped tiny box. “Thanks James”, she said as she gave her gift in exchange, thinking that a pair of earrings was just what she needed. But much to her surprise, James put aside his phone as she opened the gift and asked, “Will you marry me?” Shocked at the question, Romania hesitated then told him she was not sure about it. Seemingly a bit disappointed, he agreed to give her time to consider as he answered another call. Well, that was enough for her to make her decision! Her next date was Terry, and what fun she had as they sang along with the carolers, took pictures with the snowmen along the way and bit into juicy burgers (Terry’s favorite). When they arrived at her door, Terry jokingly reached for a twig of mistletoe from his pocket, hung it over her head and kissed her. “Christmas will be truly the best for me”, he said if you’ll agree to marry me”. Dazed, she wondered if Santa was playing tricks on her. Did he really hear her plea for a husband? She knew however, that Terry was not her choice and she told him she only considered him as a very good friend. “Ouch”, he said, but his disappointment quickly disappeared as he returned to his old bantering and kissed her good night again. Well, two proposals in one week was a record she thought, but when Alex proposed to her the next night, she could not keep silent. “How can one girl get three proposals in three days?”, she asked. He was taken aback at the question and, after some discussion about the proposals, asked about her choice. Of course, that was easy. No! She wanted her moments of cheesecake and chocolates and fun! She did not tell him her thoughts though. She just said she would rather they remain friends. It was more difficult for her the next night though when Nathan proposed openly at the mall. Singers came from every area of the mall singing “Will you Marry Me” to a Christmas tune, as he knelt on his knees and proposed to her. Everyone waited with bated breath for the “yes”, but she hastily took his hands and lead him to a corner to explain how great a guy he was but was not sure about marriage to him at this stage. He was crushed but said he would not give up. On Christmas Eve, Sam picked her up to take her to her favorite restaurant. She wondered if Santa’s proposal surprises would continue! During the meal, an announcement was made for a special song dedicated to her from Sam. As the song ended, the singer approached their table and handed Sam a tiny gold box. Sam then knelt as he opened the box, while Romania watched on in utter disbelief. She could hardly believe the words she was hearing. Sam was asking her to be his wife. He was telling her how much he always loved her and how he wanted them to be together forever! She felt like pinching herself to ensure it was real. Without a second thought, the words four other men had hoped to hear that week came out without hesitation! “Yes”, she said. “I will marry you”, as he slid the diamond ring on her finger. A loud applause resounded through the restaurant. For a moment, she had forgotten there was any one around and as they left the restaurant holding hands, Romania knew that the next wedding she would attend was her own. The air was crisp, the carolers were singing, children were shouting as the songs of Christmas filled the air; but Romania was in her own world, with Sam right beside her. She would finally be the bride, and not the bridesmaid. The lights seemed brighter, the carols sounded sweeter and she truly felt that she had gotten the best gift for Christmas. She was going to be Sam Roger’s wife! Mrs. Romania Rogers! Her wish had come through! Carolyn G. Philip

I was sitting at my desk watching Boris Johnson attempt to educate the general public. He looked like a thoroughly melted candle as he preached the importance of saving a health service which previous conservative governments had disembowelled veraciously for funding. He was 10 minutes into his spiel about how alert we all need to stay in order to take back control from the virus when a fly bolted across my vision. It was windy outside, and I’d made sure that all the windows were closed. But closed doors and windows simply don’t exist for them. They make a mockery of our feeble thresholds, finding an entry point with the prowess of the perfect burglar. No matter how much I tried to forget about it, there was no way that I was focussing on anything until it was out of my room. I paused the video and slowly closed my laptop for dramatic effect. I felt as if I was about to enter the ring with prime Mike Tyson as I mentally geared up to try and stop a fly from putting its arms and legs all covered in shit over me and my stuff. I jolted up from my seat and scanned the room in vain. The monotonous buzz came from every direction simultaneously. I was befuddled and confused from the get-go. A poor start to say the least. It stopped in the vicinity of my record collection. I went over to my bedside table to roll up an old newspaper as a make-shift baton to smash the bejesus out of this fly with. I read online that they can see in slow motion. I’ve never heard of anything more unfair, but evolution has no regard for my petit notions of justice. I slowly approached the fly, but for all the skill I had in baton-engineering, I severely lacked in common sense. All of my windows and doors were still shut! My room was as tightly sealed as an airplane cabin. The fly was certain to outmanoeuvre my baton swat and land somewhere else in my room. I was despaired by my own ineptitude and for the first time empathised with Boris. I walked over to the window and flung it open with attitude, but when I turned around it had moved positions. It landed on my Martin D-18. For those who aren’t aware, that’s a *nice* guitar. There is no conceivable world in which I’d smash my pride-and-joy with anything, so I was left in a bit of a mess. This fly kept running rings around me, and because of the windows being wide open, my room was freezing. My desk is next to my window, so pages of books were fluttering like birds in a panic. But after 20 minutes of trying to kill a fly and failing miserably, my goose was roasted when it just got up and fucked off on its own accord. My dignity had been well and truly ransacked. ‘God must have been so bored when he created the fly’, I thought to myself. After I’d cleaned my desk and shut my windows, I was curious to understand why flies pester us so much. In the depths of COVID boredom I did some research, and in the process, I stumbled upon one of the greatest internet threads of all time. On *Quora*, someone asked: ‘Why are flies so persistently annoying?’ Rishabh Darmsakhtu responded: ‘years of carnage and atrocities by the bourgeois had built up resentment among the lower class. The downtrodden, the poor, the marginalised had retaliated by making genetically engineered flies which only annoys the so called middle and higher class society people. To make your life miserable they will return every second and target you continuously.’ Interesting theory, but I needed something more scientific. With the eloquence of Hemingway, Isaac Guiste answered: ‘on Earth HATE FLIES THEY’RE FUCKING STUPID ANNOYING LITTLE CUNTS... I HATE FLIES HOPE THEY ALL DIE OF FUCKING FLY CANCER OR BURN IN HELL. THEY’RE DIGUSTING, ANNOYING BASTARDS, THEY EAT SHIT, SHIT, SHIT ALL DAY EVERYDAY THEY’RE VIAL AND MAKE ME SICK EVEN SEEING ONE, THE TOUCH MY SKIN I’LL GO AS FAR AS DEODERANT SPRYING’. Poetic, but still not what I was after. I finally came across a report by the Director of the Australian National Insect Collection, Dr David Yeates. He states that there are only two species of flies which are known to be attracted to human beings and their homes. The *Musca vetutissima* \- the Bush Fly - and the *Musca domestica -* the House Fly. There are certain secretions in the skin which nourish flies and help mature their eggs before they’re laid. There's sweat, proteins, carbohydrates, salts, sugars and other chemicals which flies feed on for nourishment. Interestingly, they can’t bite, but instead have a ‘sponge’ mechanism. When they land on a table to eat a grain of sugar, they don't have mouths to chew it up, so they regurgitate or spew on to it, turning it into a liquid which they can suck up. They also feed off dead skin, and all of this makes human beings particularly appealing because we don’t have any fur to cover it with. So having watched ten minutes of the Prime Minister blunder and spent a good portion of my afternoon being subjugated to a fly, what’s the moral of this story? Don't vote for Conservative governments.

Well, this is quite the predicament. They offered me top of the line but this isn’t exactly what I had in mind when they said “The best security”, well whatever a room is a room. I walk in and feel the plush carpeting hit my feet, it’s like walking on a sheep. I look for my bed and toilet and see nothing. “Hey, where do I sleep?” I asked, “Where else but on the floor? Have you felt it? It’s amazing.” He says back. “Ok, but where do I go to...go?” I ask, “Oh, there’s a panel that pop’s out and has a toilet, forgot which one though.” He says with a laugh. “Well alright then” I reply. Well, I should probably assess my current living situation. No bed, a toilet I can’t find, and it’s so damn bright in here. That’s the best I can see for now, well, I suppose I should try and make myself comfortable, they’re saying I could be here for a while with all that’s happened. I go to sit on the floor and immediately regret it. The floor smells of a person who hasn’t bathed in a week. It felt soft through my socks but I guess it must just be my socks. It has a smooth leatherish feeling to it, I can feel that the flooring has different segments to it, like its multiple pillows layed on the floor. But I cannot explain how soft it is. It’s like pressing down on a mattress but there is no end to how far you can press. I lay my head back in comfort as I start to drift into a deep sleep. I wake up back in my bed, back at my house. What was that? Was that a dream? I’m so lost in my thoughts that I nearly forget to glance at the clock. Nine am, shit I’m late for work! I arrive at the office at Twelve, now I am even more late than I was before. Now I have to deal with my boss which is great. “Why the hell are you so late?!” The boss asks me, he has a bit of a bourbon smell to his breath as he screams at me. So he’s been drinking? That makes my luck even better. “Hey boss, my car broke down on the way here sorry.” A lie but it’s to save my skin. I don’t know what would happen to me if he knew the truth. “So it took you five hours to get your damn car fixed?!” A bit of his saliva hits my co-worker Steph, sorry Steph but better you than me. “Uhhh yeah?” I reply “This is the last damn straw, if you’re late one more time I swear I will fire faster than you can even blink!” He walks back to his office after he says this. Thank god I get one more chance. Well now to go back to my daily routine of... what is it I do again? Wait why am I blanking on this, I spent four years of my life to get a master’s in... I blink and find that I’m back in the room. What the hell? So it wasn’t a dream? I can barely wrap my head around it when a man puts down a plate of food and simply says, “Dinner” So that must mean that it’s evening time right? But when it got to work it was Noon, what the hell is going on here. I get up and go to the door and ask where I am. “Where you belong” is the only reply I get. Well, that answered zero of my million questions. But at least I know the people outside my room are just the sweetest kindest little things. I try to peer out the door’s mail slot but I get the door opened on my face. Which doesn’t hurt really but it sure does hurt my feelings. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” A man asks me, “I just want to know where I am, frankly I’m very confused,” I reply. I wonder why they’re looking at me like that, all I asked was a... I wake up back in the void I now call home, feels great to be in control again. I look to see two guards looking at me with the weirdest expressions. “What are you two looking at?” I ask simply. “Oh, you’re back. It was nothing, just some suspicious activity, carry on.” I’m back? What the hell does that mean. Well, whatever I suppose I could find something to do now that I’m awake again. I move to some of the walls, seem like they’re made of the same stuff as the floor, interesting. I rip the parts of the wall off and make myself a little bed of sorts, I get yelled at by the men but I don’t care, it’s better than sleeping on the floor. I lie down to rest my head and reminisce on why I’m here... I wake up back in the room, what happened to the guards? Weren’t they right in front of me just a second ago? And why am I lying down? I’m lost in my thoughts that I don’t even see someone come inside. “Hello? Mr. Schmidt? Is that you?” She asks softly. “What? No no, my name is James Cameron. Could you tell me where the hell I am and what’s going on?” I ask frazzled. “Oh well I am sorry Mr. Cameron but that’s Classified to you, I suggest that you go back to sleep now.” She says to me. “But I don’t want sleep I want answers! Where am I? What’s going on? Why won’t you people tell me anything?!” “Administrate the sedatives,” She says to the men outside, “Wait what? Get your hands off me! I said get them off-” I awaken on the floor with guards surrounding me, I sit up and they start to question me. “Hello Mr.Schmidt, how are you today?” She asks “I’m quite alright thank you for asking” I respond. “Wait I’m confused,” A guard whispers “What’s going on here? Earlier he said he wasn’t Mr. Schmidt, now he’s saying he is.” “Oh well, it’s quite simple,” She responds “He, Mr. Cameron, Has undiagnosed DID or Dissociative Identity Disorder. While we were talking to Mr. James Cameron earlier we are now talking to Mr. Richard Schmidt.” Well, that’s not surprising, I’ve always wondered why I wake up in the middle of the night and sleep in the morning. Well in that case maybe I could have some fun with this other personality. “Hey,” I ask “Could you tell James what I did? I think it would be hilarious.” “I can’t Mr. Schmidt, that is classified information to him. You’re the only one meant to be in here but we can’t help that he’s in here too.” Is the unsatisfying response I get. Dammit, I guess I have to be a bit smarter with this question. “Well technically speaking he and I are the same people, so he has every right to know as I do,” I ask. “Well that is a good point, but like I said it’s classified to him,” she says. “Then can you remind me what I did I seem to be blanking,” I ask and then I close my eyes in a split second to make the switch, I want him to hear what I’ve done, this false personality will be in for a shock... I wake up again and the lady from before is saying something. “Three accounts of First Degree Murder and One of Involuntary Manslaughter.” “Wait what?!” I say shock ringing in my voice. “Hold on.... Tell me your name.” “James Cameron I told you that already.” “Ugh Damn it he tricked me!” She’s very upset with someone. “Well, now that the cat’s out of the bag I might as well tell you everything,” Well I guess it’s time to learn why I’m in here. “You have DID or Dissociative Identity Disorder you, or the other you, decided enough was enough at your workplace and brought an automatic assault rifle and shot twelve people. Killing three and injuring the other nine. We have reason to believe the three he killed were for a reason so that’s where the three accounts of First Degree. The account of involuntary is when you ran over a woman crossing the street as you, the other you, ran.” Holy shit... Holy shit so... I have another person inside me?! This doesn’t make any sense... i-if I did I would know right? I’m so lost... Wait... “Wait if this... other personality did these things then why am I here? I didn’t do anything wrong.” I say sternly “While that is the case Mr. Cameron you and he share a body per se. So we can’t just let a known murderer walk free even if you did nothing wrong.” She says “Well, how long will I, we, be in here for?” “A very very long time Mr. Cameron, goodbye.” She moves toward the door but stops suddenly, she turns back to me, “I’m very sorry that this has happened to you Mr. Cameron, I wish I could change things but I cannot.” She then opens the door and leaves with the guards. That was the last time I ever saw her again. But this is just the beginning of my other self’s antics.

“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” Daniel’s voice comes softly from the doorway, quiet and tentative. He stands there, looking into her room as though he can’t quite bring himself to enter, shoulders hunched and eyes downcast. He is taller than her, and has been for some years now, with thick muscled arms and a broad frame, but Jessica looks at him and all she can see is the little seven year old who would creep into her room during thunderstorms, or whenever he was woken by nightmares. Uncertain, hesitant, and always looking so very small. Her baby brother. The anger drains out of her. She glances down at the shattered pottery strewn across the floor at her feet, and then back to the door. “What, this? No, that one’s on me. It broke when I dropped it.” Daniel just stares at her. “You didn’t drop it. I saw.” She winces. Shrugs. “Alright, so it broke when I threw it against the wall. Nothing to do with you either way.” He looks unconvinced. That’s reasonable, because Jessica isn’t being very convincing. And perhaps that is reasonable too, because truth be told it isn’t not Daniel’s fault that she threw the pot out in her rage. He is just not to blame for it, a subtle but significant distinction that she knows is not worth bringing up now. He would hear the words ‘your fault’ and nothing else and spiral into guilt and self-reproach, which will help no one. Within an hour, Jessica and Daniel Winston need to have disappeared. If only she can make up her mind on what will disappear with them. Jessica has always prided herself on being careful. Diligent. She is not rash, she doesn’t not speak before she thinks. Her actions are measured and well-considered, her words perhaps even more so. She thinks and she plans and she deliberates, certain in the knowledge that if she takes her time, eventually she will end up wherever she needs to go. She would call herself, cautious, perhaps. Level-headed. Calm, collected Jessica, utterly immune to impulse and flights of fancy. But she is here now, with all her worldly possessions strewn across her bed, and her knapsack sitting open and empty beside them, and she cannot help but wonder if, looking back, all her mindfulness was really just indecision after all. When she had first earned the eye and then confidence of the late Earl of Sutton, perhaps a year after she had first started working at Bryer Castle, had she really been acting out of some desire to secure a more permanent role for herself and her family behind those tall stone walls, or had that fortunate consequence been mere coincidence, the Earl simply appreciating the captive audience inherent in someone who lacked the will power to end or even sway a conversation? When, barely days after the funeral, the younger Sutton - Charles - had begun to pester her for information, had she remained quiet out of some lingering sense of loyalty, or because she hoped to leverage her knowledge for her own gain, or were those simply the rationales her mind provided her to justify how in the dry heat of a direct confrontation, the words had simply stuck in her throat, refusing to be spoken aloud? When Charles, second Earl of Sutton, had grown aggressive earlier that day, and Daniel had found her, by chance, with her back against the wall of a disused corridor and a blade at her throat, he had drawn his knife without a second thought and stabbed the Earl through the gut, and she had pulled him away. Had she known, in that moment, that fleeing was the right move? She is certain now, that it must be - even now, with the Earl alive when they left him, she knows they will face near certain death if caught, and though dead men can tell no tales, she knows her brother does not truly have it in him to kill a man and live with the burden, for all that he is built like a bruiser - but was she at the time? How much of that calculus did she perform after the fact, and how much of their escape came down to her seeing the bleeding man before her, there for her to harm or help heal, and running from him because that felt the least like making a choice? “I really messed up, didn’t I?” Daniel again, oddly choked, and luckily this is one area she has always been happy to work on instinct for. She walks over to him, tiptoeing around the ceramic shards, and reaches up to wrap an arm around his shoulders. “Hey, no, breathe,” she whispers to him, nonsense mutterings as she draws him towards her, head towards her chest. He goes willingly, and it ought to look comical - her holding and comforting a boy twice her size. Perhaps it does. But it is also right and as natural to her as breathing, and as Daniel sobs silently into her shirt and then calms, she finds herself relaxing as well, bit by bit. Perhaps she does have a tendency to overthink, and perhaps that can manifest itself as indecision. But that is not all she is - an anxious and stifled mess. Perhaps gaining the late Earl’s trust had more to do with his own designs paired with her unwillingness to cause waves. She had still become his confidant - a true confidant - through her own merits. Maybe she will never be sure why she did not wish to cave to the second Earl’s demands, but for whatever reason she made the decision to stay silent and she held fast. What does it matter, if in her tangled anxieties and stresses and rage, she could not decide which, if any, of the functionally worthless trinkets she stored in her little clay pot should accompany them as they run, when the bigger question, of whether they should run, whether she should run at all, had never even crossed her mind? From the moment she had seen the hilt of Daniel’s blade, recognised the shaggy hair that obscured his hung head, and even before, she had known she would do whatever it takes to keep him as safe as he can be, and here she is, doing it, so surely that she knows this could never be a conscious decision she had to make. And perhaps that can be enough.

“It can’t be...” “Oh my God! ” “What are you doing here?” “What are YOU doing here?” “It’s good to see you.” “You’re looking good.” “Thank you... it’s been, what--” “Two years.” “I can’t even... fathom that.” “Well, fathom it.” “... I hope you don’t mind, I already ordered.” “Oh, that’s okay--” “Daniel, I’m kidding.” “You looked so serious!” “Of course I waited for you. What do I look like?” “Yourself?” “Good one.” “Have you been here before?” “No. Have you?--Or, never mind...” “I haven’t been anywhere around here in two years.” “Yes, that is true.” “Too true, too true.” “Oof, is that the line?” “I think so... Out the door? I thought this was a coffee shop.” “It’s actually a secret Eminem concert.” “Eminem?! Is that the first person you could think of?” “No comment.” “You’ve changed.” “Shut up, I hate when people say that.” “That you’ve changed?” “They make it sound like change is a bad thing.” “I mean, sometimes it can be a bad thing, can’t it? I know everyone likes to say otherwise, but I know that when my dog died, it was definitely a negative life change.” “Wow, point taken.” “Do you think all change is good in some way?” “Why are you asking me this right now?” “Don’t know.” “Anyway, I can’t answer--I’m trying to figure out what to order.” “You can read that?? It’s all shapes from here.” “You can’t read that? It’s only like twelve feet away!” “You’re proving my point.” “... This is so weird.” “What is?” “Being together. But at the same time, I don’t feel like it’s been that long since we last saw each other.” “Well, two years isn’t that long in the grand scheme of life.” “I think I’m gonna get a matcha.” “Since when do you drink matcha?” “Since I started working at a coffee shop at school.” “Ahh, so that’s how the caffeine addiction started...” “I know, I bet it’s written all over my face.” “What’re you studying again?” “Social psychology.” “Mmm. Freud is such a... funny dude.” “I mean, yeah, but he is a foundational figure in psychology--” “Blah blah blah...” “Rude.” “It’s a joke.” “What are you going to get?” “I don’t know, I probably shouldn’t have coffee. Maybe a tea?” “What kind of tea?” “Green... tea?” “Why do you sound so suspicious when you say it?” “Oh--you don’t want to know.” “At least the line’s moving.” “Well, anyway, social psychology sounds like you.” “I’d hope so.” “I remember in high school you were into serial killers and stuff like that. Y’know, Jon Benet.” “Jon Benet’s not a serial killer.” “You know what I mean.” “You’re international business, right?” “Yes.” “Whatever that means...” “Or, I was-- I actually deferred. I’m gonna take a gap year.” “Really?” “Yeah, just decided.” “Wow. Big decision.” “It just felt like the right thing to do. I wanna focus on myself. Figure out what I want to do.” “Still don’t know?” “Does anyone?” “Okay, that’s a valid point.” “You know I think I want to go to Costa Rica.” “Costa Rica? Where did that come from?” “I don’t know. My aunt went there when she was young. Said it changed her life.” “This is your aunt you live with now?” “The very same.” “I mean, I’m sure it’s amazing there...” “Where do you want to travel?” “I don’t know really.” “You have to know. Everyone daydreams about where they’ll go one day.” “Not me.” “You’re joking.” “Fine. Scotland.” “ Scotland ???” “What’s wrong with Scotland? Costa Rica is just as random as Scotland!” “I mean, Costa Rica makes more sense--” “No it doesn’t, you’re biased!” “I mean, for me it makes more sense. I’ll go--take my camera, fly solo--” “What are you saying, that I wouldn’t belong in Scotland?” “Hey, I’m sorry. You belong in Scotland.” “Thank you.” “I’m thinking of going at the end of this year. Supposed to be good weather.” “Hmm...” “What’s that look?” “What look?” “That one.” “That’s not a look, that’s just my face. I’m thinking.” “Don’t judge me, okay?” “I’m not judging you! Have I ever judged you?” “I don’t know, have you?” “Daniel, please.” “So, are you gonna be a fancy psychologist or something when you graduate?” “I’d have to go to grad school for that, so probably not.” “I feel like that’d be right up your alley.” “Really? I don’t.” “I don’t know--you’ve just always been really smart. Like, academic. I’ve always thought you’ll do something big and important.” “Eesh, I don’t know about that.” “I don’t know why you doubt yourself.” “Can I change the subject?” “It’s a free country.” “Can I ask about your last relationship?” “Well...” “It’s just you were so vague and mysterious over text. I’m kind of dying to know.” “God, you’re always in my business!” “I know, I’m horrible!” “It was only for a few months. We broke up just before I came down to visit. It was okay, amicable, it just got complicated because she graduated--” “She was a senior?” “...yes?” “Okay, go on.” “Why are you so surprised?” “I said go on!” “I attract mature, interesting women.” “Yuck. Go. On.” “There’s not much else. That’s it, actually.” “Boring.” “You asked.” “Well, thanks for bringing me up to date.” “What about you?” “What about me?” “Have you let any man into the impenetrable Frances-Fortress?” “I don’t like the way you worded that.” “Sorry. But have you?” “What does it matter?” “You’re blushing!” “I’m not!” “You totally have.” “I totally haven’t.” “Really?” “Don’t make it weird.” “It’s by choice, then. Sending them on their way...” “I don’t know what makes you say that...” “Do I have to spell it out?” “Look--we’re almost up. Do you know what you want?” “... No, I’ll have to ask what teas they have.” “It says they have green pomegranate, sencha, or peach green.” “Ooh! Peach green.” “I’d have picked the pomegranate.” “Typical.” “No, I’m getting a matcha.” “That’s right--I stand corrected. You’re so unpredictable.” “Are you being sarcastic?” “When have I ever been sarcastic?” “You’re being so sarcastic right now.” “Is it that obvious?” “Is everyone in Canada this sarcastic?” “No, they’re all just terribly, terribly nice.” “It sounds absolutely awful.” “I know, you should come visit me next time.”

Scrolling past each and every post on his feed, growing weary of all that was on screen, he couldn't stop. They kept on going like a ladder into a bottomless grave, every post joining to form one foolproof, easy-to-climb-down ladder. His thumb felt like it were completely out of his control. It was in perpetual motion, addicted to the ecstasy of swiping up, like a little nose sniffing a glass screen. Being in Marketing, it was part of his job, he reassured himself. He continued to gaze at the screen with his dark droopy eyes, staring at the lives of the happy cheerful people living their life to the fullest, on screen, going places and finding success, or at the very least, a very antiquated version of it. It seemed as though the world was on a collective upward mobility streak and he was late to the party. He knew that there was more for him to do, he knew what he wanted and he knew how to get it, but, what eluded him was why he just could not find it in him to get up and do it. Something was keeping him from taking that first step. The search for that obstacle took him to some very dark places, places filled with obstacles of different shapes and sizes, no solutions. He spent half a day thinking about different ways to get to his goal, and the rest thinking about all the obstacles that he may or may not have to overcome as part of pursuing the well-thought-out plan. At the end of the day, his tired mind would come to the conclusion that the pain is much greater than the reward and spends whatever is left of the day, week or year recouping from the mental toll of figuring out his life. This goes on till that nagging feeling of failure overtakes the pleasures his glass-sniffing thumb brings. Life, he thought, is a circle with a set diameter, and he runs around that circle like a helpless hamster, witnessing everything around him, convincing himself to run faster to ‘watch more of the world, to come up with an idea for himself one of these days but, not today, it’s too late today’. “Why not today? This is why I never do anything. I should do something, today! “ “The only question is what? if I can answer that I am golden, I will work towards it no matter what.” “But First, I need some fresh air and a coffee.” He did not wait to discuss, with himself, whether to go out or not, because he knew that he would end up on the couch with his thoughts taking a dark turn. That was the motivation he needed to get out of the couch and out of his stuffy room. He walked to his favourite bench in the park next to his house. It was empty as usual, and that was a relief. He was not in the mood to start a conversation. He usually enjoyed it, but this was not the time. He just wanted to be with himself. He sat down and his mind was empty. Nothing. For some reason, he could not think of anything to think about. He was overwhelmed and felt strange. His vision started to tunnel, everyone in the park started to disappear. He realized that the doughnuts which he was surviving on for the last two days were probably not enough. He could not even move his eyes from the tree that he locked on to to avoid the couple who were about to enter his line of sight. They too disappeared in a few seconds, he felt a bit terrified, not enough to keep his curiosity at bay. When he finally turned to see if he was hallucinating he realized that all the people had been replaced with himself from different phases of his life. He saw himself on his first bike, just after he fell down and bruised his knees, himself when he was in school just after he was pinned down to a desk and got some disgustingly poignant water poured all over him, him just after he was dumped by the love of his life, it felt surreal. He slowly turned to the right to see Stan Rogers, the last artist he listened to, give him a nod and started singing *“It's a damn tough life full of toil and strife”* He turned around to see more of himself. The closer he looked at the apparitions he realized something, it was neither the first nor the last time that any of those things happened to him. He could feel the sun and the wind like they were there just for him, he felt like he owned that moment. He felt like he was in control, he felt like he was in ‘his’ world. It felt strangely familiar.

There once was a being plagued by immortality, in a likewise unending void. They traveled the uncaring constellation of stars, asteroids, planets, quasars and whatnot, looking for meaning. They eventually found out there was no meaning but fact, and as such, found meaning in learning. And so they learned. Learned and learned, for millennia, digging into the fabric of reality. But the further they dug, the further they distanced themselves from their original basis of knowledge. They were forgetting at a quicker pace than they were remembering. And it seemed the pace of their forgetting increased the more they learned. This broke them, as they eventually grappled with the fact that they could never learn all the secrets of the universe. That their own *self* was but an iteration to be forgotten. This led to an apathy that consumed their entire being. In this dulled state of complete indifference, they eventually forgot **everything.** And as such, were reborn anew in their own ignorance. Their hunt for knowledge began once more, and so the cycle continued for an inconceivable amount of time. But as infinity has it, every possible possibility must be entertained, and eventually, this cycle suffered a chain-breaking variation. They learned how to retain their knowledge. How to combat the entropy of information within their own mind. Through ingenuity and persistence, they constructed the means to store all the information they carried within their mind. It became an ever-present chore to expand this storage, and the larger it grew, the quicker they gained knowledge, and the more they had to expand. This went on for eons, until they had learned every secret of the universe. Until every question was answered. Reality itself was as transparent as nothing. As such, this being had lost their meaning. There was no more knowledge to search for. The only information they stored was the observation of the trivial and rather predictable evolution of space in front of them, as well as a whole lot of random, quantum indifference. The sliver of happiness left within this being faded as they realized their search had reached its definite end, and that there was nothing left for them to do but exist. They fell into a catatonic state no different than the one they found themselves in when first realizing the limitations of their memory. And there was no way to end it, their immortality as unshakable as the constants of reality. It seemed there was no way for them to be released by death; in whatever form it could possibly take. To reset their memory would only lead to the same outcome they found themselves in, and this unending cycle was not desirable in its entirety, although the being did find it tempting to submit to ignorance. That was when they found a new solution. They continued their search for knowledge; now reduced to a fervorous observation of **everything.** They stored all the seemingly useless information in their ever-expanding mind, investing resources into compressing said information. After years, they finally fulfilled their plan, as their immensely information-packed mind collapsed into a singularity. Within this singularity, existed a new universe.

My parents are away for the weekend, leaving me in charge of my 8-year-old sister, Candace. You might think this is a bummer, but if I make it through without incident, guess who will be the new owner of a slightly used and slightly running 2001 Pontiac Aztek? This guy. Tonight went off without a hitch, with one hour of tablet time, a delicacy of dino chicken nuggets, chef kiss, and three rounds of Candyland before putting her to bed. This gig is a piece of cake. It's 1 AM, and I'm scrolling through Tik Tok videos in the dark. My bedroom door swings open. "What are you doing, Candace? Why are you out of bed?" "There's a monster in the house." My eyes adjust to the light in the hallway, and there is a tall creature with glowing eyes, horns, and claws right by her who looks on, nodding its head in agreement. "Jesus!" "What, do you see it?" "Is that it?" Candace casually glances behind her. "No, not him; there's another one." "There are two!" The monster behind her steps into the room, scratching the door frame as it enters. The monster speaks in a raspy, tough-guy tone, with a too-cool-for-the-room exterminator vibe. "Let me step in here, professional. They sent me down from Guardian Monster Transfer. We apparently had an incident; a class 29-C escaped and skedaddled. We tracked him to your domicile, where I made contact with this small human; let me see here..." the monster says as he pulls out a clipboard and traces his finger down the page, "Candace. Where then, she referred me to her supervisor..." scanning again, "Ricardo." "It's Ricky." "All right, just a quick note here," the monster says as he writes on his clipboard. "Are we in danger? "What exactly is a class 29-C?" "Oh boy, oh boy," the monster exclaimed as he took out a cigarette and began to smoke; his eyes widened as he glanced off into the distance, "I remember the summer of 97, there was 29-C and two 33-Bs, I nearly shit my pants." "What the hell? You can't smoke in here, you're not wearing any pants, and don't swear in front of my little sister." "I've heard that word before," Candace said. "Still, he shouldn't..." "All right, all right, let me just make a note here," the monster wrote on his clipboard. He extinguished his cigarette on Ricky's bureau. "What do you need from us?" "Just stay out of my way; I only told you because it's protocol, and I'm by the book. The last thing I need is a couple of amateurs mucking up my investigation." "What does it look like, you know, in case we see it?" The monster stares off into the distance again, "Oh, you'll know, and if you do see it, God help us all." "Alright, we'll just stay in here." "You bet your ass you will; I'll be setting a724q traps and 3c24a enticements; you don't wanna be around when those go off." "Oh, a 3c24a, huh?" Ricky says, joking. "How dare you; my uncle lost a pinky toe to a 3c24a," the monster says. Every day, I leave the house without knowing if I will return home to my wife, Britney, and daughter, Raquel." "Alright, I'm sorry." "I have to grab a few things in my truck; then I'll be in the house." "Thanks for your help," Candace said. "If you see anything, don't be a hero, just call, and I'll come," the monster says to Candace. The monster exits the room, scratching the door frame once more. "I'm scared, Ricky." "Don't worry; I think this monster has done this before, so everything's gonna be alright." I couldn't tell if this was real or a dream because it was so late. We both heard the monster downstairs smashing things. "Mom and Dad are gonna kill me; I guess I can kiss the car goodbye." "I'll help you clean it up." "Thanks, Candace, but I think I just heard a wall come down, so it might need a little more than a dusting." Out of the corner of her eye, Candace saw the tiniest, cutest little kitten. "Look, Ricky," Candace remarked as she scooped up and cuddled the kitty. "Be careful; we don't know where that kitty has been." With those huge eyes, the kitten glanced at both of us and offered the slightest "meow." We both melted and started to play with the kitten to pass the time, Candace had some yarn, and I had a laser pointer. It had been several hours since we had heard anything, and we could hear the monster climbing the stairs. The monster opens the door and sees us playing with the kitten. "What in the mother of God are you doing?! This is the 29-C! Back away, back away." We both moved away from the kitten as it stared up at the monster and purred. "You sick prick, thought you could get away with it, didn't ya?" The monster withdrew the tiniest pair of handcuffs I'd ever seen and fastened them on the kitten's paws. "This can't be right; this the monster you've been looking for? Is this why our house was destroyed?" "I caught it in the nick of time. This scumbag is wanted for tax evasion and doing perverted things with a horse. You're lucky I came in when I did." As we went downstairs, the house was in shambles. "Oh my God, we're dead." The monster removes a card from his pocket and hands it to me. "Um, please fill out a performance survey; we realize you have a lot of options for monster transport, and we appreciate you choosing us." I nodded as I watched the monster load the tiny kitten into the back of his truck, gently closing the door behind it. When my parents returned, they still gave me the Pontiac Aztec. Candace may have told them that the monster was giant, frightening, and wild. As Candace smiled when they gave me the keys, I realized I might not be so terrible at babysitting after all.

#Welcome to Serial Sunday! Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting! 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 will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. #A Special Surprise for my SerSunners! I have something special for you all! I will personally be offering a little incentive for my SerSunners this week. So strap on your thinking caps and get your keyboards out. I will be rewarding first, second, and third place rank with awards! Platinum goes to first place, Gold to second, and an award that will also give 100 coins to third. Again, make sure you read the entire post to make sure you don’t miss any rules/qualifications. In order to qualify for the awards, you must meet all Serial Sunday criteria, and have made at least one nomination by noon EST next Sunday (you may not nominate yourself). Good luck :) &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #This week's theme is Dichotomy! To continue with identity for the month of April, we will focus on ‘dichotomy’ this week. Dichotomy is the sharp division of things or ideas into two contradictory parts. These are typically things that aren’t normally seen as contrasting. How does this show up in your world? Is your character struggling with contrasting ideas in their mind? This could be the voice of right and wrong, or something much deeper. How will they cope? How does it strain the way they see themselves? How does it affect the way others see them? Does it change the way they interact with the world around them? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. / &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * April 18 - Dichotomy (this week) * April 25 - Preservation * May 2 - Choices &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting! &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story.** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on stories to quality for rankings every week.** The comment **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments. &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #Reminders: * **Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments**, if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * **Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord, reddit, or through modmail and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Super Serial role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! *** #Last Week’s Rankings Unfortunately, there are no rankings this week. Nominations were extremely low, and the majority of those who were nominated, failed to meet feedback requirements. Feedback is how we grow and continue to improve as writers. I really hope to see better participation this week. A special thanks to everyone who did leave feedback on at least two other stories this week, and those who continue to do so every week. Your dedication does not go unnoticed; I appreciate you. &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system. I’ve recently added two new ways to get points each week. Here’s the breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 6 points - Second place - 5 points - Third place - 4 points - Fourth place - 3 points - Fifth place - 2 points - Sixth place and on - 1 point **Feedback:** In order to be eligible for feedback points, you have to complete your 2 required feedback comments. - Written feedback (on the thread) - 1 point each, up to 3 points (5 crits total) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 1 point each, up to 3 points. * ***Note:*** Completing the max for both is equivalent to a first place vote. Keep in mind that you may not use the same feedback to receive both written and verbal feedback points. Your feedback should be actionable and list at least one thing the author has done well. &nbsp; &nbsp; *** &nbsp; ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

(IP) Family Ties He’d gotten up at dawn and could already see the swarm coming, their pinchers clacking ominously. They were like a mass of moving smoke, deadly and lethal. He should have known that the King would have followed him even all the way out here, in the rocky desert that served as the border between the two kingdoms of Asteria and Brisbain. Even knowing what was coming, Bastian could not--would not--regret his decision. He had no desire to use the dead for his own ends, much less for political gain. Denouncing his father had made him a prince without a kingdom, but he didn’t care. As of his sixteenth birthday, he could no longer turn a blind eye to the fact that his own father was hellbent on conquering everything, including lands that were not his. He’d barely escaped the kingdom with his life, and his father had vowed to follow him to the ends of the realms. But Bastian wasn’t alone; no, he had gathered powerful allies and he had stolen one of his father’s secrets. He had taken a shapeshifter and befriended her, and she’d agreed to help him fight. “They’re coming,” Bastian said, and his father’s former advisor smirked, her violet eyes aglow. “It seems that your father finally made good on his promise,” Dinah said at last, and he could hear the laughter in her voice. “It would appear so,” Bastian agreed, smirking grimly. Dinah had helped him amass a resistance, though he loathed asking the people for help they could not give. He knew how much of the peoples’ money was in the royal coffers. “Wake everyone up and prepare them, please. If you don’t, it will be a bloodbath.” \*\* By the time the sun was high in the sky, the monsters had reached their base, and Dinah was in front, her hands glowing with magic. Her face was pale and tense, and she roared, transforming into a lion and charging into the fray. She led the soldiers, and Bastian was in the front of the crowd, sawing off appendages. The air was tainted with the sick, metallic odor of blood, and Bastian ran ahead with his halberd. Killing off his father’s grotesque creations was certainly entertaining, but he wanted their leader. Mounted upon a giant beetle, a man with a glowing halberd bellowed, giving his soldiers orders. Bastian hated killing, even when it was necessary, but he had no choice. The sand was watered with the blood of his comrades and enemies, and he had to end this before he lost anyone else. “Hurry!” Dinah called, and in a flash, she was in front of him. She transformed into a horse and together they charged. Bastian leapt from Dinah’s back and landed on the hard, thick shell of the beast. He put his blade to the man’s throat and smirked. “Surrender peacefully, and we’ll let you live. In exchange for some information, of course.” Upon closer inspection, Bastian realized that this was his father’s closest advisor. “Foolish prince,” The man hissed, his teeth stained red with his own blood. “You of all people should know that your father would never allow any of his men to be captured alive.” Bastian punched the man, and though he cried out in pain, he spat in the prince’s face. “I’ll be sure to send your dear old father regards.

“Hey you, get out of the premises, what the hell are you doing here, how did you get in, when the whole place is secured”? , the guard was yelling at a young boy who had trespassed into a restricted area. It was a British Defence colony, and the UK flag was flying high on the building with its vibrancy. This irked a lot for a 10 year old Indian boy who was a staunch patriot. He had planned a gate crash into the colony to uproot the British supremacy. He wanted to remove the flag and hoist our tricolour Indian flag and cry the slogan of Vande Mataram . Though he was just a kid his patriotism surpassed his tender age. He had planned this with his little followers , kids of his own age . It was a peak time for the Freedom fighters against the British rule. The Quit India Movement which was flagged off by the non violent comrade Mahatma Gandhiji. This kid was a follower of Gandhiji. Though he hadn’t seen Gandhiji in person he had heard the stories about the Mahatma. He wanted to be a part of the freedom Movement hence he dared to trespass the British colony. Thomas who hailed from Kerala (God’s own country) , was the son of a fisherman named Samuel. Samuel was just a simple fisherman who had his meagre fishing business. He had a few yachts which he used for his fishing business. Samuel was married Mary and they had two little children Thomas and Violet. Violet was the elder one and Thomas was her little brother. The children were completely different from each other. Mary was a brilliant and smart girl whereas Thomas was an average kid but had a very brave attitude. One day Samuel had ventured the sea with his yachts and to his good luck he got a big catch with most expensive eels, cat fishes, salmons, shrimps , prawns and lobsters. It was a very lucky day for him. Everybody was celebrating his success. Little did they know their catch would be decreased bit by bit by little hands of Thomas. “Hey Thomas what on earth are doing , why are you throwing the catch back into the sea. They are a priceless catch” screamed Samuel. Thomas was then a five year old kid and his pranks were endless. But today he had crossed his limits he had just emptied major part of the catch which irked everyone out there especially his father. Thomas ran to his mother for protection when Samuel tried to hit him . Mary consoled her husband saying, “Sam , he is just a small child he doesn’t understand all these things let me find out first why he threw them back into the sea”. “Thomas dear don’t get scared , will you tell why did you throw dad’s priceless catch back into the sea ,don’t you know he and his friends have worked so much for catching them”. Thomas replied in a faint voice,” Mom, they were withering in pain , they were dying , I couldn’t see them die , I just wanted to give them freedom . They were so happy when I put them back in water , they were back to life”. This was Thomas a gentle affectionate kid . He couldn’t see the fishes die out of breathlessness. Thomas learnt about Gandhiji in his classes , he was inspired by his principles and ethics. Though Thomas was in his tender age , he was more matured for his age. His pranks looked childish but his every action had a matured gesture. Thomas had made a group of his own where he would teach the other children about Gandhiji and his fight for freedom. He had made up his mind to hoist a tricolour in the British colony which was a very dangerous move. “Thomas , you are so brave and daring , I think you are the only one in our group who can hoist the flag barging into a British colony. “. His friends were encouraging him for this daring act. “Hey you , what are trying to do you spoilt brat , just step down else you will given a thrash on your back “ yelled a British officer . But Thomas was out of hearing he climbed the terrace where the British flag was flying , he pulled down the flag , and hoisted our Indian tricolour with a victorious scream Vande Mataram(Salutation to Mother India). His loud scream echoed the whole arena . The security pulled him down and thrashed him hard. He was left alive as many Freedom activists appeared and they attacked on the security guards. Thomas survived with bruises and injuries. But his dedication and patriotism did not die. He joined the Quit India Movement conferred by Gandhiji . He went places along with his young team to educate people the necessity of Freedom from the clutches of British supremacy in India. The Freedom activists were thrown behind bars by the British Thomas was a juvenile , he was send to remand home . Though he was a young lad he was a true freedom fighter. India gained Independence in 1947 . Thomas was conferred the youngest freedom fighter and he was given the highest Honour. “And here we present to you the Great Thomas Kurien the youngest freedom fighter of Indian Independence” , said an elderly aged person who was seated in his armchair and narrating a story to little children who had surrounded him to listen to his stories. “Grandpa, were you so brave in your younger days , did you hoist the flag and scream aloud Vande Mataram?” asked Mala the youngest granddaughter of Thomas. “Yes dear , I didn’t budge a bit when the British security guards thrashed me.” “Oh God grandpa you are such a brave soul, you are pride of our country” “Granny, you are so lucky to have such a brave husband “,said Pinky one of the grand daughter’s of Thomas. “Yes, very lucky indeed, your grand dad is a very brave man, he was going to school one day and he was pushed into a crowd of Freedom activists and he was in jail for a few months. A very brave freedom fighter “thought Fanny. She whispered in his ears “Stop cooking cock and bull stories to children they are growing up they might find out your fake identity”.

“What does this do,” Luci asked me, holding up a dandelion. “What does it do?” I echoed, puzzled. “Well, yeah. Don’t they have magic powers or something?” I grinned, “Oh. Yes, as a matter of fact. You close your eyes,” she acquiesced, “and make a wish. Then blow, sending the wispy bits off into the air!” Her nose crinkled as she thought about what she wanted. She then opened her eyes. “I’ll do it later, daddy. Let’s keep walking.” “Alright,” I chuckled. “Lead the way.” She took my hand as we continued through a picturesque meadow. The grass was long, though not overgrown, and rife with flowers. The sun shone on us from directly overhead, its heat overbearing were it not for the gentle breeze that caressed our every move. All the while, songbirds graced us with their lyrics, emanating from the surrounding maples and pines, among others. I was living in a postcard. “Do you think mommy could come here?” “I don’t see why not.” “Let’s bring her next time. If she isn’t too busy,” she thoughtfully considered. Though she isn’t that old, it seems as though a lifetime has passed since she we first met Luci. Aside from growing taller, not much has changed, however. Dimples still compliment her smile. Her eyes yet hold an innocence I feel will never fade, regardless of when she loses her childlike naivety. As for personality: loving, curious, and rather adventurous, with just enough spunk to see her through. When you’re young, the world around you seems a large and assuredly magical place. Having kids can alter your perspective, causing you to retain this sense, one that would certainly fade otherwise. For this, I’m truly blessed. “Fishies! Daddy, let’s go pet the fishies!” She hastily made her way towards a pond that was just up ahead. “How about we just watch them?” “Nooo! I want to love them like our kitty, Kireina!” “They need water, honey. To breathe.” “Can’t they hold their nose when they come up to the air like I do when I swim?” While bemused at her logic, I paused to discern in my head whether fishes even had noses. She gasped, “Look how many!” As with the flowers, there was an abundance of aquatic life. Carps, pikes, mahi-mahi, even the near-microscopic candiru of the south, they all tangoed before us. I peered over at Luci whose mouth was agape. “Just like the aquarium, huh?” I asked. Silence. Too busy trawling over the ballet taking place before her. “Y’know, I had a goldfish once.” “You did,” she inquired, dryly, her focus unwavering. “That’s boring. I want one of those!” “Ah, Oscar.” “That his name?!” “That’s their species. They actually-- “No, that one! Look at its pretty colors! Way more than just gold,” she snorted. “I’m not sure what that one’s called.” “Think we ‘scovered it?” “Maybe. What should we name it?” “Hmm. Let’s name them Xi-fish. After mommy! She always looks so pretty!” “You look just like her, you know.” I smiled, rubbing the top of her head. “Hey! Don’t mess up my hair,” she protested, walking away from the pond. “Sorry.” “I bet I can climb one of those trees! Wanna watch me, daddy?” She sprinted towards the far end of the field. I sighed, admiring her tenacity. Am I really that old? “Go on, sweetie. Let’s see what you got!” We spent what felt like hours in and around the trees, howling like monkeys, frightening the birds, playing tag and hide and seek. Soon, though, we were sitting on a thick branch on the crest of a boisterous cedar. “Think I could fly?” She took a few steps forward before I wrapped my arm around her, yanking her backwards. “I think,” I grunted, positioning her in front of me, “we should leave that to the professionals.” She giggled. Then, for the first time that day, both of us sat in silence, looking out over our little slice of paradise. The sun was far to the West, the day ending as quickly as it began. Luci turned her head to look up at me. “I’m ready, now.” “Ready to go home? You must be tired.” “No, silly. To make my wish.” She reached into the pocket in her jean shorts and pulled out the dandelion. “Oh ok. Well. What do you want to wish for?” She closed her eyes once more before blowing the wisps into the watercolor sky. “Actually, you’re supposed to keep it a secret or it won’t come true.” I playfully mimicked shushing though she remained stoic. “I wished you would wake up. Mommy needs you. Tell her to come. Tell her everything’s okay.” “Honey...” “I love you, Daddy,” she said before turning around and hugging me. Soon the forestry and the fauna gave way to the four walls of my bedroom. My ceiling fan was slowly rotating. My heart sunk as reality set in. I reached over to Xi only to find she was out of bed. I sat up, wiped my eyes, and headed for the hallway. The water was running in the bathroom with her toothbrush sitting on the sink, the paste still fresh, yet resting atop the dry bristles. I turned it off, giving way to the sound of sobbing coming from Luci’s room. The door was cracked. Upon sliding inside, I noticed Xi in the middle of the floor, on her knees, clutching what used to be our daughter’s favorite stuffed bear. She looked up at me and extended an arm. I rushed over and wrapped myself around her. “You found Mr. Fluffy, huh?” “I can’t do it, babe.” Her voice broke before giving way to more tears. “She was just here. She was.” “I know, I know. But I think she’s happy now. Don’t you?” She sniffed, “She did always have the biggest smile on her face.” “I have a feeling... wherever she is... it’s beautiful. She’d love for you to see it.” Xi nodded, placing her hand on my arm.

This was written for the wonderful u/Say_Im_Ugly's Discord Secret Santa story exchange. I took it upon myself to be be the secret santa for u/Say_Im_Ugly and u/OldBayJ who was helping administration of the event. These constraints came from Bay: Genre: Mystery or Horror / Character: A detective or other character named Bay / Theme: Christmas / First sentence: "It was Christmastime, and that meant murder." / Includes: a plot twist, a candycane, another WP Character, snow / Words: bumfuzzle, bamboozled, crab, kerfuffle It was Christmastime, and that meant murder. I got a cold shudder as I felt the color disappear from the room. The whole place felt desaturated, like it was being shown in black and white, which was never a good sign of what was about to come into my office. The door swung open wildly, carried, no doubt, by the wind on the snowy Chicago streets outside. Before me stood the most beautiful dame I’d ever laid my eyes upon. Her face was sullen, and puffy, red eyes that had recently been crying hid behind a thin widow’s veil. She looked like she had walked right out of a really sad 1920’s Jazz club. Her modest flapper dress, adorned with intricate art-deco inspired embroidery, hung around her like mourning to a mood. Short auburn hair twisted into a tight bun on the left side of her head, poking out just below the rim of her cloche hat. An intricate twist of intertwining silver strands clung closely to her neck. “Well hello, madam.” I said with a smile, straightening my coat as I rose to meet her. “Are you Dickey McVeigh?” She asked curtly. “Indeed I am. Private eye, at your service.” I offered her my hand, but she simply walked around me and took a seat in front of my desk. “My husband has been murdered.” She said. “That sounds like a problem for the police. Why come to me?” I asked, taking a seat again behind my desk. “Because he was murdered by the police.” She said. My eyebrows raised in curiosity. “And what makes you say that?” I asked, jotting down notes as she spoke. “I watched it happen.” She said, pausing, waiting for me to prod further. “Let’s start with some basics. Your name?” “Bay.” “Husband’s name?” “Hannibal.” “Who killed him?” “Geese.” I hesitated. “Geese? I thought you said the police killed him.” I asked. “Yes. The officer’s name is Geese.” “What a strange name.” I mused. “Okay, next. What happened?” “Geese killed my husband.” “O,” I hesitated again, “kay. When did this happen?” “About thirty minutes ago.” “How are you already in funeral attire?” I asked, bumfuzzled. “That answers the next question you were going to ask. Where, right? We were at a funeral.” “And lastly, do you know of any sort of motive Geese may have had to kill your husband?” I asked. “Hannibal was just defending my honor. We overheard Geese saying that crab was inferior to lobster, and my husband, knowing I own a crab fishing business on the East coast, stepped in to correct him. A kerfuffle ensued.” “And this,” I recollected, “kerfuffle evolved, I’m assuming?” “Yes. A real donnybrook broke out.” Bay said. “A donnybrook,” I said, jotting the word down, “and Geese punched your husband? Shot him? Told him a secret so shocking his heart stopped?” “He was stabbed.” She said. “Who was stabbed?” I asked. “My husband, try to keep up.” “Apologies. Husband stabbed. Did you see the murder weapon? Do you know where it is?” I asked. She hesitated, her eyes darting around my tiny office in its constant state of disarray. “What is it, Bay? What was your husband stabbed with?” I asked. “A candy cane.” She said after a few moments of silence. “A candy cane?” I asked. “A candy cane.” She confirmed. “Where is the candy cane now?” “In my purse.” She said. I paused. “The murder weapon is in your purse?” I asked. “Yes. I wanted you to see it. You wouldn’t have believed me otherwise.” She said. She was right. I would not have believed that her husband was murdered by Geese using a candy cane to stab him. “I absolutely would not have, you were right to bring it here.” “Say, Dicky, do you like crabs?” She asked. “Not particularly. In fact I’m a bit fearful of them.” I said. “You’re right to be afraid of them.” Bay said. She stabbed me with the candy cane. As I lay dying on the rug in the middle of my office, I looked to Bay and asked, “Why?” She simply laughed, and then her form, dress, hat, skin, everything slowly scuttled apart into hundreds of crustaceans. I had been bamboozled by 600 crabs dressed as a widow, and all I could say was: “Not again.

“Mystery object is six thousand clicks out and closing.” “If long range scanners hadn’t picked this one up, it could have passed right through our solar system without us ever knowing.” “We don’t know if it’s anything yet, it could just be a rogue comet. An asteroid.” “Chemical analysis picked up organic compounds.” “We’ll know more soon.” “Whatever it is, the trajectory shows it came from deep, deep space. Nothing out there for millions of light years. It could have been floating out there longer than human beings have existed. Longer than earth has existed.” Starr floated at the front of the situation room, chewing her lower lip. Their ship, Mieville I, had been mapping and taking samples in the Kuiper Belt with an aim toward future mining when they’d been redirected to intercept the mystery object. Starr didn’t look excited to be in command for this potentially historic moment, she looked nervous as hell. Feldman and Gideon drifted around the outskirts of the room with the rest of the crew, chattering excitedly and grabbing for handholds so they didn’t float into one another in the zero gravity. Holograms and screen readouts at the head of the room gave updates on their progress and showed perceived images of the object itself. Around 2.2 kilometres in length, their target was roughly oblong in shape. Frozen, it reflected light like a comet but something other than dirt and rock lay beneath the surface. If the organic readings were correct then this could be humanity’s first proof of alien life, real alien life, larger than bacteria. Much, much larger. “Once we arrive, we’ll be taking much more detailed scans and measurements. If possible, a team will be going down to the object itself to take samples,” Starr continued. “Same as with any other asteroid, we need absolute professionalism on this job. Then we’ll be awaiting further company orders.” As they approached the object and matched trajectories, the crew crowded the observation deck. A dozen of them jostled elbow to elbow in defiance of company regulations. Even Starr, usually as by-the-book as they came, wasn’t going to deny anyone this monumental opportunity. Across the outside of the window, itself several inches of glassteel, an armoured curtain protected the interior from solar radiation and micrometeoroids. They manoeuvred into position and the shield peeled back. Feldman and Gideon bobbed next to one another. “Mother of God,” Gideon murmured. Religious awe seemed like an appropriate reaction. An astonished hush settled over the deck. Beyond the mystery object was nothing was a distant starfield, nothing to give it scale. Feldman struggled to make sense of the size of the object, disorientated. If they hadn’t been floating in zero gravity he would have had to sit down. What they were looking at was clearly a lifeform, or the corpse of one, but over two kilometres in length. Its basic body type was fishlike. Or like a squid, with a cylindrical body and tentacles on one end but with a number of other appendages as well. The cluster of tentacles to the trailing end of the creature made up only about a third of its total length, frozen in a series of coils and snarls. A series of other appendages, flippers and crablike legs, appeared to be tucked against what Feldman thought of as the alien’s underbelly. Its flesh was reddish-brown beneath a coating of ice, and they could see scales and ripples and all the imperfections of a once-living thing. Some other bits of matter, they almost looked like vegetable growth, were stuck in that ice. A haze of ice crystals and other chunks of darker matter travelled in a cloud surrounding the dead creature during its journey through space. “Look at that eye,” Feldman said. “Look at that mouth, those teeth,” Gideon said. At the other end of the creature’s body from its mass of tentacles was obviously a head. Feldman immediately felt drawn to its staring eye. There was only one eye on the side facing them. Feldman was astonished how, not human, but how earthlike it looked. Like a normal, earth-based fish’s eye, bright gold and with a perfectly round, black pupil. But if Feldman had the scale right, said eye was as wide as a city block. Somewhere in the region of 250 to 300 metres across. Just below it was a canyon of a mouth, revealing teeth that must have been at least as ten stories long. “This is incredible,” one of the other crew said. “Impossible.” “It’s real, it’s really, really real, this is the first proof of actual alien life.” “We don’t know that, yet,” Starr said. “Come on, now, commander! That’s an alien, a living creature! Or it was.” “We’ll need to take samples,” Starr said. “Are those some kind of wounds in its side?” Feldman said, pointing. The creature and ice surrounding it were pitted by dozens of craters, big and small. No doubt souvenirs of collisions with other random bodies during its unimaginably long journey through space. Roughly around the middle of the creature’s body were four roughly square holes, arranged diagonally in a strangely even row. They appeared to be under the ice, as if they’d been afflicted on the beast before it was frozen, maybe when it was still alive. “They could be some kind of missile strikes, or harpoon marks,” one of the science techs, Simpson, said. “Although they’re curiously straight.” “What could do that, to that?” Gideon said. xXx Once the crew were over their initial awe, they got to work according to the orders they’d been given. Mieville I observed the creature from all angles. Lasers mapped every inch of its gargantuan surface. Sonics probed beneath the ice and deep as they could into the creature’s flesh. Chemical analysis was made remotely and samples taken from the cloud surrounding it. “The company needs you to go down to the surface, to collect samples,” Starr said. “Really?” Feldman felt a mix of exhilaration and terror. “What if it isn’t really dead? What if it’s sleeping, in hibernation this whole time, and we wake it up?” Gideon asked. “Our dating methods put the object at something like four billion years old,” Starr said. “It’s shown no reaction to our presence and our scans have shown no signs of life.” “No sign of life as we know it,” Gideon said. “But maybe these things live in space. Maybe this is how they survive, by going into some kind of deathlike state until they come across something to eat, and then they wake up!” “If you’re refusing to follow orders that’s fine, I can find somebody else who’ll do it. I was giving you first crack because you’re our primary spacewalk team.” “Oh no, no no, no way!” Gideon shook his head vehemently. “I wouldn’t miss this for a year’s pay!” Spacesuits had come a long way from the early days of space travel. Feldman and Gideon clipped into theirs easily while in the launch bay. The baggy legs and sleeves around their limbs, and loose folds around their torsos, sealed themselves tighter. Both fit helmets over their heads and attached them to their collars. As was regulation though, Feldman and Gideon double and triple-checked all of one another’s seals and joins. They clipped jetpacks over their shoulders. “If you’re ready, we’ll open the hatch,” Starr’s voice came clear through their helmet comms. “Ready to go, Mieville,” Feldman said. “Hatch opening in three, two, one.” The launch bay’s hatch yawned open to the void. Several kilometres off the side of the Mieville drifted the enormous creature. The frozen alien was actually travelling at an extraordinary speed through the great nothingness. But given the Mieville I was matching its speed and trajectory, and given the lack of surroundings to give it context, it almost appeared to be standing still. Feldman and Gideon detached from the Mieville and used their jetpacks to guide them across the gap. Foaming trails of white propellant dissipated behind them. Between the two, they carried a sled loaded with equipment they needed for the mission. Apart from the Mieville and the creature, and its surrounding cloud, all around them was an unimaginable nothing. A nothing the human mind could not contain. Even after dozens of spacewalks, Feldman had to concentrate on the task at hand to avoid being overwhelmed by it. But then, the task at hand was itself overwhelming. As they got closer, the creature loomed, and loomed. Again, too big for the mind to contain. Not as a once-living thing. With nothing between them, it was astonishing. If it had been alive, moving, Feldman wasn’t sure his mind could have handled it. He could only take it in piece by piece as it was, the frozen tentacles, the appendages, the ripples of its flesh and scales the size of buildings. That tremendous eye. They were less than ants against it as they closed in. “Report in, away team,” Starr said. “Away team, everything in the green out here, Mieville,” Feldman said. “This is a historic moment, you think about what you’re going to say?” Gideon said over the comms. “What? What I’m going to say?” Feldman said. “It’s like the first men on the moon. The first man to set foot on proof of an alien lifeform.” “Why me, why have I got to say it?” “You’re the ranking officer.” They negotiated their way through the creature’s surrounding ice cloud, avoiding any larger chunks of ice or other matter. Tiny ice crystals clung to their suits. They couldn’t feel them of course. Outside the suit was the absolute zero of the void, the suits were shielded and heated. The surface of the creature rushed toward them. They used propellant to slow their approach. Feldman felt his boots hit the surface with a noiseless crunch. His knees accepted the landing. Behind him, Gideon slowed to a landing as well. “There are certain occasions,” Feldman started. “When a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke, the wit of which he only dimly discerns. And he more than suspects the joke is at nobody’s expense but his own.” “Pats rule!” Gideon said. “Wait, what was yours?” “It’s from Moby Dick,” Feldman said, and when he sensed Gideon’s cluelessness he jerked his helmet back at their ship. “The Mieville? It seemed appropriate. I’m pretty sure I butchered it though.” The ice covering the creature formed a relatively thin skin only a few metres thick. While the creature technically had its own gravity, like any mass in space, it wasn’t enough to be noticeable to Feldman or Gideon. Their boots clung to the ice instead as they set up to take a sample. The equipment on their sled looked similar to the equipment used to take ice core samples on earth. A towering cylinder attached to a large tripod, winches, and boxy motor, which they all quickly and easily assembled. In the vacuum of space, Feldman of course couldn’t hear the drill as it did its work but if he placed his gloved hand on the cylinder he could feel the vibrations. The drill sank easily through the ice coating. As it met the creature’s flesh, and bit into it, Feldman and Gideon waited with nervous anticipation. In spite of assurances and Feldman’s own conviction that the space beast was long dead, if anything was going to happen then he felt strongly it would happen now. The creature’s vast flesh, rippling reddish-brown scales, spread all around them like an island in space. The drill would be less than a pinprick, less than a mosquito bite, but both of them still held their breath. Nothing happened. The fantastic corpse remained as unresponsive as ever. Eventually, the equipment returned with a cylinder of tightly compacted and ancient flesh, frozen solid aeons ago. Feldman handled it for a moment with appropriate reverence then loaded it onto the sled. Orders were to take samples from several regions if possible. Collecting the equipment, they set off across the creature. Unwieldy as the equipment looked, It was easy to move in zero gravity and Feldman and Gideon had done this same routine many times under more difficult circumstances. Their boots gripped the ice with each step. “Advancing toward the head, Mieville.” They took two more samples, each time without incident. The creature’s antediluvian flesh was extremely dense and frozen to rock but their drill was equipped with both lasers and diamond teeth. They continued until they could see the creature’s blunt nose, its monstrous maw with teeth like skyscrapers, up ahead against the backdrop of space. Looking down, Feldman realised he and Gideon were trekking across the creature’s massive eye. Gold, with a pupil like a bottomless pit, staring eternally through the ice. Feldman had settled into the job like it was a normal task but almost became overcome with an emotion he couldn’t name, a mixture of terror and awe. Not terror of some physical threat but an almost religious terror. Like being in the presence of God, and realising just how tiny and unworthy one single human being was. He’d earlier remembered a video he’d seen once of a diver coming across a whale in one of earth’s oceans, before they went extinct. This enormous mouth suddenly rushing out of the stygian depths as if to consume the diver. Looking big enough to consume the whole world, the diver miniscule in comparison. Said whale would have been a thousandth the size of the creature they stood on. It would have gotten lost in the yawning black of the creature’s pupil. Feldman couldn’t help but think what he would do if the eye, staring up through the ice field, was to suddenly blink. And whatever he told himself, the answer was probably that he would go insane. “Feldman, are you alright? We’re getting increased readings from your suit, heart rate and respiration,” Starr’s voice came through Feldman’s comm. “Yeah, yes, alright thank you, Mieville.” Feldman felt very aware that every word he said might be recorded for historical posterity. “Just struck again, for a moment, by the immensity of it all.” Braver now, Feldman and Gideon set the core sampler over the creature’s enormous eye. They drilled down into the golden iris. If anything was likely to get a reaction it would have been that. But of course, nothing happened and the jelly of the tremendous eye was frozen just as solid as the rest of the creature’s flesh. Feldman and Gideon retrieved their sample and then disassembled the equipment, packing it back onto the sled. Firing streams of propellant, the two astronauts left the surface of the frozen creature and returned to the Mieville I. xXx Feldman and Gideon met with Starr and the head science tech, Simpson, in the situation room. A glowing hologram of the space creature revolved above the central console. Everything was captured in perfect detail, the long oval of a body, tangle of limbs, and its staring eyes. Even the sparkling cloud of ice and debris that hung around it. Starr had to deliver a report back to the company heads. Feldman and Gideon didn’t need to be there for Simpson’s update but Starr figured they had earned it. “What have we got?” Starr said. “The samples confirm that the object is organic. Carbon based, like you or I, or any life from earth, but there are chemical structures like we’re never seen. Of course it’s alien,” Simpson said. “Besides the samples from the animal itself we’ve studied the bits of darker matter floating around the creature. They appear to be vegetable in structure.” “What do we know about the creature?” “You’ve got to remember, my expertise is in chemistry and geology, not xenobiology. People are going to be studying this thing for years, decades-,” “Yeah, yeah, this is just to go in my initial report, doc. You’re not being graded.” “Well, based on the scans we have no reason to believe the creature naturally evolved to live in space. It appears to be some kind of aquatic creature, launched into space somehow. The limbs and body are designed for moving through water. There’s nothing that suggests adaptation for space travel.” “Any theories as to how it ended up floating in deep space then?” “Based on our analysis of the samples, its flesh was exposed to some kind of high heat that basically cooked its entire structure, sometime before it was frozen solid. Maybe some kind of explosion or contact with an atmosphere?” “What about those holes in its side?” Feldman pointed at the hologram. “Four, deep, squarish holes arranged in an almost perfect row? Any idea what could have caused that?” Simpson shrugged. “We analysed them, there’s no blast scorching and no signs of cauterisation that would suggest missiles or lasers. Maybe wherever the animal comes from they’re hunted by some kind of giant harpoons.” “What could do that?” “I have no idea, wherever this thing comes from it could be just as big and threatening to any intelligent race there as it is to us, they just developed the weapons necessary to deal with them.” “What are we going to do now?” Gideon asked. “Orders are to attach ourselves to it and move the object ourselves. We’ll establish it in orbit around Earth, where more scientists can study it,” Starr said. “We’ll be studying it for decades trying to figure out its mysteries,” Simpson said. “It's solved at least one great mystery though, we are not alone in the universe.” “But, how? If it’s from a planet like ours or whatever, how did it get into deep space in the first place?” Feldman said. “How did it find its way to us?” “That mystery we might never know.” xXx *Four billion years earlier...* Another spacecraft, shaped like a box saucer, spun slowly through the endless void. A long range research vessel, home to four Zorblaxion scientists and their families. While in some ways the ship would have perfectly matched human expectations of what an alien spacecraft should look like it was built to a scale almost inconceivable to human imagination. Astronomically more colossal than anything human hands could or would ever create. “Finish your dinner, please.” A Zorblaxion child sat at a table in the craft’s residential wing. With a fork wrapped in the finger-tentacles of their primary manipulator, they poked listlessly at the food left on their plate. “I don’t want any more,” the child whined. “Just two more bites,” the child’s primary parent said. Stabbing at the last sllavgov on his plate with his fork’s four prongs, the Zorblaxion child steered it around the plate. The fishlike creature, with its tangle of tentacles, gold eyes, and pin-like teeth, would be less than a mouthful to the child. It picked up flecks of leftover vegetables stewing on the plate. Several of the Zorblaxion parent’s eyestalks swivelled toward the child. Its primary and secondary manipulators remained occupied at the sink with their dishes. “Don’t play with it, eat it!” “I don’t want it! I’m full!” “Then there’ll be no dessert if you’re so full. Just finish your vegetables, and you’re done.” Half a dozen nostrils flaring, the Zorblaxion child finished the last of the vegetables. Their parent took the plate and utensils and turned back to the sink. They noticed the single remaining sllagov on the plate, four tiny holes stabbed across its midsection, but ignored it. Pick your battles. Instead the Zorblaxion parent fed it into the garbage disposal, washing it down with the scraps of vegetable matter. The spacecraft’s disposal system filtered the water from solid waste. The water syphoned away for recycling. Solid biological waste was ejected into space. As the craft travelled the void, a tiny hatch opened in its side. The waste from the child’s dinner fired into space. Freezing instantly, a coating of ice formed over its surface. Its tentacles and appendages solidified into twisting patterns. Already forgotten, the frozen creature began its journey into the emptiness of deep, deep space. ====== &#x200B; For 2022, I’ve been wanting to write more ‘creature features’ and generally improve my short story writing. My partner got me a Dungeons and Dragons Monster Manual for my birthday so I came up with the idea of writing a story every week based on a different creature from that. This week’s inspiration was 'Kraken'. More in this series is on my website, accessible through my profile if you're interested.

She never wanted to be a mother, not in any of the ways that could sustain her through the first eighteen years of a life, that is. She wanted to be a mother in the way that some want to learn to play an instrument or wish to discover a hidden talent. The wish is genuine, but the dedication to following through is flighty at best. The older the child grew, the less they held her attention. Every day they grew more independent and less a living doll, the more her interest in them seemed to evaporate. After all, what good is a living doll if it can tell you no? If it can push back against your control, opinions and desires rather than being the trophy and living accomplishment you set out to harness to begin with. She never realized this about herself, though. That she was having child after child in order to grow closer to a mother who had kept her at arms length all her life, just as her mother before her. Three generations of women devoting their every choice to getting the attention, acceptance and love of the other and being unable to harness it, at the cost of their own freedom and long forgotten dreams. But Sandy was different, or at least she hoped to be. As a child, Sandy had been prone to daydream and get lost in thought. Her mother had thought she was flighty, a child untethered to reality for the sake of escaping responsibility. But Sandy was dreaming herself into this very moment that lay before her. After a decade of having door after door slammed in her face, or worse yet, sending project after project into the endless void, she was finally going in for a second interview with a woman who seemed just as passionate about her stories as Sandy was. Walking into the sparse office, the modern decor and leather seats crafted into what some may call futuristic angles, Sandy found herself feeling once again out of place. But this was nothing new for a woman who had never felt at home in her own body. A body she was taught to feel ashamed of and attempted to hide, only to seemingly draw more unwanted attention to herself. Sandy sighed as she scanned the room for a seat she could squeeze herself into, settling on the one she thought would cut into her sides the least but knowing getting back up may present its own challenge whenever the secretary called her name. These spaces were never designed with her body in mind, a fact she had faced as far back into her childhood as she could remember. Most of the world wasn’t designed with her in mind if Sandy were to be as honest as she wished she could be. It was as though the bigger she got over the years, the more invisible she became, and so her writing grew into the one outlet that never abandoned her. “Sandra Davis?” The smooth voice of the secretary cut through Sandy’s drifting thoughts, finding herself taking a deep breath as she gathered the courage to attempt to lift herself from the seat she had squeezed her frame into. You learned a sort of secret ballet when you were bigger than the world thought you ought to be. A dance you did with every seat, doorway and transportation source you encountered to ensure you could maintain that invisibility that society expected you to uphold at all times. The relief on must have flashed across her face as she popped loose from the seat, the secretary gracing her with a knowing nod. “I always hated those chairs. I keep telling her the look is not worth the discomfort it brings nearly everyone but you know how some folks can be about ascetics.” Sandy did her best to keep up as she followed behind the woman down a series of hallways through the offices, not daring to do more than nod along for fear of sounding out of breath should she dare to utter a syllable. “And here we are. Abbey should be with you in just a few minutes. Can I get you anything to drink in the meantime?” Sandra didn’t dare look at the seating situation before the woman left. “I’m alright but thank you so much.” Turning on her heels, Sandra realized how much faster her footsteps were when alone, a sting of all too familiar pain hitting Sandra’s side. Even in the smallest of ways, she felt herself a burden. But that was why she was here today. She was finally at the door to taking hold of her life, of the dreams nobody in her family seemed to believe in beyond the niceties of not outright telling her to not pursue them. Her mother in particular had always been a difficult nut to crack in this regard. She would never tell her not to pursue her writing, but she would also take every opportunity to remind her of every possible plan b she could be looking into. Sandy would share a breakthrough she’d had with her work, hesitantly so, only for the conversation to inevitably cycle to her mothers’ long forgotten dreams of publishing and how she just never could find the time but always hoped to. Never a “well done Sandra” or an “I’m proud of you, dear” to spare, her mother was neither supportive nor unsupportive. Squarely placed in the middle as she was with almost all things, Sandy had finally given up on seeking her approval at all. Had stopped sharing updates about her life and her work for fear of feeling that al too familiar pit in her stomach grow each time news of any progress was met with her trademark silence. Shifting eagerly in the equally uncomfortable seat in the publishers office, Sandy found herself wondering what her mother would say if she could see her sitting there now. She was further than either of them had ever gotten. Surely that counted for something? She had spent years bringing her stories to life herself, recording herself reading them for her small YouTube following, even crafting some into her own one woman radio shows. But this was the goal she had set for herself. The ever elusive mark she couldn’t quite seem to hit and at any moment the woman who held the key to the next step would be walking through that door at her back. Sandra winced a moment at the thought of what she looked like from behind, having poured herself into the seat in a way only those who battle to fit into seats regularly can. She was a cat in a box two sizes too small, but would have to play it off as always from the moment Abbey entered her office, which judging by the clicking footsteps that were approaching, would be in the next few seconds. “Well there she is! Sandra Davis, the newest voice to grace my desk.” Abbeys’ voice was warm but firm as she swept across the office and into her seat behind the large desk. “Now then, I’ve spent a great deal of time with your submission as well as pouring over these other short stories you submitted within your portfolio. The good part is, you have an incredibly distinct and strong voice, which isn’t something I can teach so we are in great shape there.” A laugh bubbled up at the end of her sentence which Sandra was sure was meant to soften what came next, but nothing ever seemed to soften what she had grown to see as the inevitable. “That being said, I think you still need some time, Sandra. I need for you to make more direct, firm choices in your work. No standing in the middle of road and waiting for traffic to push you in one direction or the other. Now, I--“ A high pitched buzzing began to creep in above Abbey’s voice as Sandra fought to hang on. Another no. Another door closing in her face when it felt like surely this was going to finally be the yes she had waited for. How could she be indecisive? How could she be exactly what her mother had always been, when she had fought so hard to remove every last trace of her influence from herself? Sandra caught herself just as the room began to spin, coming back to reality, back to the present moment once again in spite of the disappointment sitting like a two ton weight upon her chest. “But what I will say, “ Abbey continued, “is the bones are good, Sandra. More than that, the bones are fantastic, which means we have something to work with here. You just need more time.” More time, always more time. Always wait a little longer, always fall down seven times, get up eight but something inside her wanted to stay down this time. Wanted to give in because this had been it. This had been the moment that Rebecca, her mother, would finally see her. And just like that, it was gone in an instant, like scraps of meat tossed to a horde of hungry hounds. Her dreams were ribbed to ribbons for the hundredth time and it would be up to Sandra to put them back together again. Abbey wasn’t telling her no, but she wasn’t telling her yes either. Sandra found the irony of her being called indecisive while being sentenced to a veritable no mans land almost laughable. Almost. The car ride towards the hotel was lingered on, traffic merging and battling all around her, but Sandra was worlds away inside her own mind. She couldn’t help but think of the year she had spent dedicated to her latest project. A world filled with vampires, elves and humans all attempting to find balance and peace amongst each other while in the real world, humans couldn’t even find a way to agree on seemingly anything. The worlds contained within Sandras’ mind were an escape she longed to share but continually ran into every conceivable obstacle along the way. And a part of her as she blinked through the tears she hadn’t realize she’d begun to shed, wondered if the path forward was one she had to blaze all on her own? If maybe the door that awaited her, was one she’d need to build with her own two hands, because not everyone was ready for someone who looked like her, to create what she longed to. But did any of her heroes wait until the world was ready for them? Had Kitty Black Perkins waited for the world to be ready for the first black Barbie she created? Had she coyly designed a doll to everyones’ tastes? Or had she brought her own view of our beloved culture forward and dared to stand out? She imagined where NASA would be had Katherine Johnson waited for permission to do her job during the first manned space mission in ’62. So many black women who had come before her, unapologetic in their dreams and aspirations, willing to be the first and to build the doors and windows through which others would follow. Maybe it wasn’t the way Sandra had dreamt it, but she was going to publish this book and the subsequent installments and whatever other worlds she could manage to capture on paper as her mind would race faster than her fingers could manage. Because if there was anything Sandra knew in this world, it was that she was meant to be a writer. She was blessed with the gift of storytelling and she would not rest until that gift was one she could share her way. She would not settle into life to please anyone else and just maybe that determination could set a blaze that would catch on. Maybe setting herself free could finally free Rebecca and Sandra could have the one thing she wanted just as much as she wanted to be a writer. Her mother.

The Gambler Kage Griffin sat down at the blackjack table with $10,000 worth of chips he’d just won from craps. Tonight was his night. He was going to start earning back all the money he’d drained from his children’s college funds. He motioned to the waitress who was wearing a tiny French maid costume, “Double scotch on the rocks, honey.” “Sure thing,” she smiled. It was a challenge to file a sexual harassment complaint when she was showing half her boobs, she reminded herself. Plus, this was a customer who obviously had a lot of money to spend, and her boss, who was the worst of them all, had the motto that unless someone was counting cards, the customer was right. Someday, she promised herself, she’d find a better job. Until then, she’d continue to put up with the ogling and all the honeys, babydolls, and love muffins. On the green felt, Kage laid down a $100 chip. The dealer dealt two cards face up to each player. To himself, he had dealt a ten and a card face down. Kage looked at his cards. A King and a nine. When the dealer came back around, Kage held firm. The dealer’s facedown card was a jack. He took Kage’s money. Kage laid down three $20 chips this time. No sense in losing big right out of the gate. This time, he won. As he played, Kage allowed himself to think about his wife, Charlotte. Charlotte thought Kage was at a sales convention. Charlotte was starting to think that Kage was having an affair. As much as Kage didn’t want to lose her, he allowed her just enough doubt that the affair was, in fact, the problem. It was way better than telling her the truth. He played for another hour, neither getting very far up or down from where he started. A tall man wearing all black sat down next to him. “Howdy,” the stranger said. “Hi,” said Kage. “How’s the table?” the man in black asked. “Pretty stable. Not too good, not too bad. Just waiting for Lady Luck to show up.” The stranger lifted his glass, “Here’s to the Lady. May she always treat you kindly and never kick you in the balls.” Kage clinked glasses with the man. Indeed, Lady Luck did show up, as the man and Kage both won the next four hands. With every win, Kage added another $20 chip to his betting pile. “Put an extra $200 down on this one. It’s going to be a good hand,” the man whispered to Kage. “How do you know?” Kage asked suspiciously. “Just a feeling.” Kage bet $300 before the hand was dealt. His cards were an ace and a queen. The dealer paid out immediately to him. The man in black busted out. “Well, it looks like it was a good hand for you, anyway,” he laughed. On the next hand, Kage was dealt a king and a ten. “Split them and put $1,000 on each.” “I appreciate the advice, but I know how to play the game.” “Just do it, you’ll see.” “If you’re wrong, I’m gonna kick your ass,” Kage laughed humorlessly. But he took the suggestion. The dealer gave him a seven and another king. “See? A seventeen?” The stranger placed his hand on Kage’s arm. The dealer busted. Kage jumped off his chair and whooped. “That’s what I’m talking about!” They played five more rounds, Kage winning each one and betting ridiculously higher each time. He was up $27,500 from when he entered the casino. “I’m gonna cash out, man. I don’t like to tempt fate.” “Come have a drink with me first.” “Alright, but I’m buying,” said Kage. The went to a table on the edge of the casino with their drinks and sat down in a booth. “So how do you know what cards are coming up next? Are you counting?” “No, nothing like that. I just have a feeling. It usually pans out.” “I’m Kage, by the way, Kage Griffin.” Kage stuck his hand out. “You can call me Ol’Scratch. It’s a nickname some buddies came up with years ago, and it’s always stuck.” “Is it cuz you wear black, or what?” Kage joked. “That, and I’m a helluva pool player,” Ol’Scratch laughed. They drank, and Kage ordered a plate of fries. “I really gotta thank you, man. That table was not being kind to me until you sat down. And I kinda drained my kids’ bank accounts. One’s in college already, and the other one starts next year. That’s on top of my retirement fund, and last year I had to refinance the house to pay back the 401K. Which I then lost. I’ve got a problem, man, but I’m in over my head. I just gotta win back what I’ve lost.” Ol’Scratch nodded in understanding. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, my friend. It’ll probably take some time. And I get it - been there. But now I hardly ever lose. I get a feeling about a table, and I play until it goes cold.” “I wish I had your talent. I’m up more than I’ve been in a while, though. This is enough to pay for my daughter’s tuition and housing for the year without my wife finding out.” “What if I told you I could make it to where you never lose again? I mean, you might lose a hand or two here and there - we don’t want the pit bosses to get suspicious, but I mean, you could win big .” “How?” Ol’Scratch took a drink of his scotch and then pushed it towards Kage. “Drink it.” “That’s your drink, man, I’ve got my own.” “Yours is empty.” Lo and behold, when Kage looked at his own glass, his ice cubes were getting thirsty. “Thanks,” he drank down the other man’s drink. “Let’s go play. I bet we can get you up by $100,000 by the time you go back to your hotel room in a couple of hours.” Kage started. He hadn’t told the man he was staying in the hotel. But they went to the craps table, where the odds were in their favor. Two hours later, they were cashing out and filling out the appropriate forms for the IRS and direct deposit. Kage was up by $109,200. “I can return all of this to my kids’ college funds, and my wife never has to know!” he said excitedly. He noticed that Ol’Scratch had turned in his chips but wasn’t filling anything out or collecting cash. “What about you?” “I have an account with the casino.” “I can’t believe this worked! I still don’t know how you made me so lucky!” “It’s just a little trick in manifestation,” Ol’Scratch said, smiling. “Nothing to it.” # Later that night, Kage sat straight up in his hotel bed with a sharp pain in his chest and numbness shooting down his arm. A moment later, he was dead. Outside Kage’s door, Ol’Scratch lit a hand-rolled cigarette without a lighter or match. He puffed on it and laughed. “Silly man. Don’t you know the House always wins?”

Carrie Thompson was meticulous in everything she did. When she woke in the morning, she let the buzzer on her alarm ring for exactly five seconds before shutting it off. She would then get out of the bed from the left side and have a shower that lasted precisely eight minutes. Carrie allowed her bread to toast for exactly two-minutes-thirty-five-seconds and poured her coffee two-thirds full to allow for her one tablespoon of non-fat cream and one sweetener. She would leave the house methodically at 6:35 AM, to arrive at work by 7:15 AM allowing her fifteen minutes to use the restroom and freshen up before her shift began at precisely 7:30 AM. Carrie worked as an event planner, so her perfectionist qualities reflected on the reactions of her clients faces on the day of their events. She made sure that every detail was overseen personally, giving her inspections a white-gloved approval or disapproval. If there was one thing that Carrie could not handle, it was a nonchalant attitude from anyone she hired. One such person, was a contractor named Lance. He was the epitome of apathetic behaviour. Lance owned a party supply warehouse that rented out tables, chairs, and other party accessories. Carrie was used to dealing with the previous owner, Jake, but had yet to collaborate with Lance since he bought the company a month earlier. It was two days before New Year’s Eve and Carrie was organizing a spectacular gala for some of the city’s hierarchy. The mayor was expected to attend, along with the police commissioner, a few celebrities, and some of the wealthiest benefactors the city had to offer. The main event would take place in the ballroom of the Whitmore Hotel, an elegant twelve story building with ornate moldings along the exterior and interior walls. Lance was to provide circular tables and padded chairs for the majority of the guests, but with the dignitaries being placed at the front of the room at rectangular tables. Lance and Carrie had been squabbling over the cost since Lance had yet to give Carrie his final quote. His reply each time she asked, was, “Don’t worry about it. I will get it to you soon.” He had been saying that for the past two months. She called him on the phone to reminded him again of what all she required for the event and what time he needed to be there to set up. She was growing nervous about using his company, but there was nobody else that she could get on such short notice, so she had no choice. The day of the event, December 31 st , Carrie arrived at the hotel ahead of schedule. She had hired the hotel’s catering staff to cook and serve for the event, and they began preparations early that morning. The florist had arrived by 10:00 AM and scattered larger bouquets around the room. The smaller arrangements were supposed to be set on each table, but Lance had not yet arrived. Soon after, the master of ceremonies, a prominent doctor in town, poked his head in the door to check that everything was going as planned and Carrie assured him that everything would be ready on time. Carrie tried to call Lance at the office, but there was no answer. She waited until after noon for the truck to arrive, but he was still a no-show. Carrie became frustrated and tried to call Lance again, but still no answer. She couldn’t have a dinner with no tables, and the hotel only had enough to support half of the guest expected to attend. At 3:45 PM, Carrie was notified that a delivery truck just pulled into the loading dock. “Finally,” Carrie said under her breath. Lance and his crew began bringing racks of tables in by 4:00 PM. First came the rectangular tables. There were six on the cart, but Carrie only required three. Then came another rack, again they were rectangular tables. Carrie shouted out, “Stop right there!” to the workers. “Why are you bringing in more rectangular tables? Where are the circular ones?” Lance came over and introduced himself. He was dressed in a grubby, worn, winter jacket, and wore a grey winter hat with a pom-pom on top. “Is there a problem here?” he asked Carrie. “Damn right there’s a problem!” she yelled back. “Where are the tables I ordered?” Lance pulled out the work order and read down to the third paragraph where it listed the items required and read, “It says right here that you need three round tables and fifteen rectangular tables, so that’s what I brought.” “You idiot!” she responded forcefully. “You got it backwards. It was supposed to be three rectangular tables and fifteen circular tables!” “What’s the difference?” Lance retorted. “You still have room for everyone to sit, right?” Carrie threw the work order back at Lance and it fell to the floor. “You have exactly one hour to return here with the proper tables and chairs, or you are fired.” “Oh, you needed chairs too?” Lance asked. “I guess I missed that. No worries. We can have them back here in a jiffy. How many folding chairs did you need?” “Are you serious?” Carrie exclaimed. “I asked for padded chairs, not folding chairs!” Her frustration grew stronger as her blood pressure raised higher. Carrie was almost at her wits end with Lance. “Yeah, I got it. No problem. How many do you need?” “I need a total of one-hundred chairs. Can you handle that?” “No problem. I got it covered,” he said before heading back to his truck. “See you in a couple hours.” “ONE HOUR! ONE HOUR, OR YOU ARE FIRED!” Carrie screamed as she stomped off aggravated. She kept looking at her watch. Finally, at 4:58 PM, Lance and his crew returned with the proper tables and chairs. She rushed to get them set up. The caterers then began covering them with white linen and champagne glasses. The centerpieces were set in place on the tables, followed by the silk napkins and silverware. It wasn’t until nearly 5:30 PM, that she noticed Lance still loitering with his workers at the back of the venue. One of them let out a loud belch that echoed throughout the nearly empty ballroom. Carrie went over to enquire why they were still there. “I thought we could settle up the bill for the rental,” Lance said as he handed the updated work order to Carrie. “This is much higher than your original estimation,” she exclaimed. “Well, with the one-hundred chairs, the cost went up. Besides, I took off the double delivery fee.” “Took off the delivery fee? It was your fault the order was wrong in the first place!” Carrie wrote Lance a check and slapped it into his hands. “What time will you be back to pick these up?” She asked. We should be finished by 2:00 AM. Can you be back by then?” “Are you crazy lady? This is New Year’s Eve! You’re lucky I am open today at all. I will be back around noon tomorrow. I need to give my boys a chance to recover from their hangovers. You know what I mean?” he said as he laughed. “But the hotel needs this room back in the morning. Can I convince you to come back sooner?” “I’ll tell you what,” Lance replied. “Do you plan to use these tables after you eat?” “Not necessarily,” she replied. “Okay, so why don’t you fold up the tables after you eat, and I will swing by around 11:00 PM with one or two of my boys to load them up? I might need to pay my boys extra cash though. They won’t be happy if I pull them away from their parties for too long.” “Fine, I will pay you for your time. Just promise me you will be back tonight.” “Yeah, sure. I’ll be here.” The event went off without a hitch and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. The mayor was so pleased with how things turned out, that he arranged to hire her for another gala event in the Spring. As dinner had finished and the dishes had been removed, Carrie began folding up the tables and standing them along the wall near the rear exit. She stacked some chairs and left the remainder out for guests to sit on. With the majority of the floor now cleared, it was time for dancing. The DJ started the night off with a crowd favorite, “Celebration” by Kool & the Gang. In minutes, the city’s dignified elite were shaking their behinds on the dance floor. At 11:15 PM, Lance arrived, but he was alone. He was no longer wearing his grubby clothes. Instead, he was dressed in a sport coat with casual pants. His face was clean shaven, and he smelled of cologne. Even his hair was neatly combed, unlike his earlier appearance. Carrie almost didn’t recognize him. In fact, she suddenly found him quite attractive. “Where is your crew?” she asked as she approached him. “I couldn’t convince any of them to come back tonight. They all had plans, so I will load it all myself.” “You look so different,” Carrie stated. “Yeah, well, I knew this was a big deal for you tonight, so I didn’t want to look like some bum that wandered in off the street.” “I appreciate that. Are you in a hurry, or did you want to stick around for a while? I can help you load some of the tables up later maybe.” “Thanks, I guess I can stick around for a bit, but you don’t need to help; I can manage on my own. I wouldn’t want you ruining that pretty dress of yours anyway.” Carrie took him by the hand and led him to the bar next to the stage. “What’ll you have?” she asked. “Just water is fine. I’m not much of a drinker,” he said. “Well, how about one glass of champagne to bring in the new year. I mean, midnight is only twenty minutes away.” “Okay, one glass, but that’s all. I don’t want to be driving that big truck of mine after a few drinks.” Carrie asked the bartender for two glasses of champagne and handed one to Lance. She took a sip, but Lance refrained. She noticed him swaying to the music and asked him if he wanted to dance. Pointing to the glasses, he asked, “What about these?” She took his glass and set them on the bar saying, “We can get a fresh glass later,” then led him to the dance floor. Just as they started into a fast dance, the DJ spun a slow track for them. Carrie smiled, and Lance smiled back and held out his arms. Grasping her right hand in his left hand, and wrapping his right arm around her waist, they began to sway side-to-side in rhythm with the music. Carrie found the scent of his cologne to be intoxicating. She found it hard to believe that this was the same man she was shouting at mere hours earlier. Instead, she laid her cheek against his chest and listened to his heart beating in time with the song. When the song ended and a faster song came on, Carrie still held him tightly. Lance did not resist. While everyone around them was spinning and jumping in time with the beat, Carrie and Lance became lost in one another. At 11:55 PM, the DJ announced that it was nearly midnight, and asked everybody to grab a glass of champagne. Carrie and Lance returned to the bar and ordered two more glasses. At ten seconds before the new year, the countdown began: “TEN...NINE...EIGHT...SEVEN...SIX...FIVE...FOUR...THREE...TWO...ONE...HAPPY NEW YEAR!” everyone shouted as the DJ played “Auld Lang Syne. Before Carrie had a chance to react, Lance’s lips were upon hers. She was surprised but didn’t resist. Instead, she pulled him closer. “What about the tables and chairs?” Lance asked. “They can wait.”

Chapter 1 Most people don’t know this, but life is just an endless loop. When you die, you’re reborn as yourself, not anyone new (or some other life form.) You also forget everything about your past life, so you walk into the new life believing it’s your first. The concept of reincarnation almost had it right. I personally like that spiritual system more because there’s something hopeful and beautiful about it. But, unfortunately, you’re stuck as yourself forever until the end of time, which is probably never. This could be awesome if you’re a happy, wealthy person, but for others it’s miserable. Suicide will only bring you back to the start, only to relive the pain. Suicide loop is pointless, but so is a full life cycle if you think about it. This is the existentialist’s greatest nightmare, but the closure is pretty nice, I’m sure some people will find it relieving. Oh, I was wrong about something though. Your life is not just an endless loop. It’s possible to remember bits and pieces of your past life, which is known as Recall. And trust me, that shit is gold. You can use that information to better your current life and the next (strategy known as Stacking) which will inevitably alter your behavior and others. This consequently becomes the driving force of change in the universe after each iteration, so calling it an endless loop is inaccurate. The world is moving forward, for some at least. But how is that possible, you must be wondering. These flashes of memory manifest themselves in many ways and some are more powerful than others. The most volatile form of Recall is through dreams and the phenomenon we call Déjà Vu. However, they are extremely forgettable due to neurological conditions the mind undergoes to produce such visions. Even if you’re able to remember the Recall, it is unlikely that you will believe it as truth. The most tangible way you can attain past memories is by being Visited, which is as rare as winning a lottery. An angel-like being will visit your dying self to deliver a message to your next incarnation, and it will do whatever necessary to convince you. I know all of this because I’m one of the few who have been visited. I died a horrific death in my past life and my message, or warning, was to avoid the girl in the red dress. I was told this two years ago, now I’m 24. I avoided every girl wearing a red dress since then. That’s my ridiculous strategy. I see a girl wearing one in the street, I cross to the other side. I see one at a party, I leave. I see women I know wearing one, I ghost them. A life like this gets lonely. I don’t meet a lot of women now, as you can guess. I usually spend my days glancing out the window, where I feel safe. Nothing interesting happened the past two years I wasted by people watching, until a week ago. Every woman who walked by my apartment wore a red dress. An insane coincidence? Maybe, it’s probable, but this trend hasn’t stopped! Edit: I meant SP, speculative fiction...

(I mostly write NSFW stuff but occasionally I like to write family friend stuff like this attempt at a fable.) THE GIRL AND THE MULE Once upon a time, not so long ago, in a town much like yours, on a street you would be familiar with, there was a girl. This girl sat in the doorway of an old dilapidated shop. Very little of the worn facades revealed its once popular past. The name of the original proprietor faded and obscured by graffiti. There was nothing remarkable about this girl, indeed hardly anyone knew she was there. The girl just sat in the dimness of the doorway with her knees pulled up to her face, head bowed. No one knew if she had been there a day, a week, a month or even a year. In fact no one ever thought to ask her but then again no one thought to actually speak to her. They just simply went about their day without giving this girl a moment of thought. Then one day, a day much like the one you are having now, something curious happened. The girl was no longer alone in that dingy, dank doorway. She now had company, for laying next to her was a mule. Now the people of the town immediately noticed that there was a mule laying in the doorway of a shop. It is, after all, an unusual sight. "Where has that mule come from?" someone asked. "It must have escaped from the local farm." suggested another. The local farmer was called who declared that his mule was still very much at his farm. Such news panicked the town folk. "It's a wild mule!" "It may kick us!" "It'll bite the children!" Concerned for their safety and the havoc such a wild beast may cause a call went out to all manner of emergency services to remove this ferocious animal from their town. Yet no one seemed too concerned for the girl whom the mule lay next to. Soon, nearly all the town were surrounding this doorway. "A wild mule! In our town? We must get rid of it" The local fireman and vet were called upon to remove this creature from their town. The crowd were silent as they approached. The mule did not run away as they approached. Nor did he try to kick them or bite them. Instead, he did something rather strange. He danced. It was such an odd thing to see a mule dance that at first the townfolk thought their eyes were deceiving them. "Is that mule dancing?" they asked in unison. The mule had slowly lifted himself up on to his legs and proceeded to perform a merry jig. On seeing this the crowd forgot their previous fear that he may have a disease or might bite or kick them. "Oh! How unusual to see a dancing mule" they cheered and applauded along with the merry steps of the mule. When the mule had finished he gave a bow much to the warm hilarity of the crowd. "Have you ever seen something so magical?" the crowd exclaimed. It was settled. The town would not be removing this mule. How could anyone exile such a creature of talent? The mule slowly returned to the doorway and curled up next to the girl, who had not moved at all throughout the performance. "Such a majestic thing cannot stay there" someone said "You're right" agreed another "He can stay with me!" "I have a large stable he can stay in" a voice was heard to say. But the mule would not be moved. No amount of coaxing budged him from his spot next to the girl. Reluctantly, the town folk let him remain in that wet, uncomfortable doorway. By morning the crowd had gathered again and the mule was happy to perform another jovial dance. Then, as before, he would return to the doorway. This continued day after day and the people of the town grew fond of the mule. At night, many would bring it food, water and blankets commenting as they did as to why someone would chose to sleep in such an awful place. Before long news of this dancing mule spread to the neighbouring towns and many people came far and wide to see this amazing beast perform. The mule did not disappoint the eager onlookers and performed dances and tricks much to the delight of the ever growing number of people who came to watch. All eyes firmly on this funny dancing mule but never on the girl who sat still, head bowed as the crowd clapped and cheered along to the creature's antics. Then as suddenly as he had appeared the mule was gone. It happened on a fine spring morning and the crowd,as in previous days, had arrived eager for their daily show. Yet there was no mule in the doorway, just the girl. The crowd, of course, did not see the girl. They were too concerned with the absence of the mule to notice anything else. "Where has he gone?" they asked "Maybe he will be back soon" suggested someone, hopefully. Day after day the people of the town returned to doorway in the hope that the mule would be there. However like the day before and the day before that the only person who occupied the doorway was the girl. Before long, the people had given up hope of ever seeing the mule again. With a heavy heart they went about their normal daily life. Occasionally they would stop as they walked past the doorway, their eyes never on the girl but at the space where the mule used to sleep. One day, a Mother was walking down the street with her young son. Stopping at the doorway the mother sighed in remembrance of how fun the mule was and how she missed him. She allowed herself a moment to wish he was safe and well. She went to move off but her son did not follow. She tugged on his arm but he remained rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on the doorway. "The mule isn't coming today. Let's go" the Mother said impatiently. Looking up at his Mother the boy asked "Do you think the mule belonged to the girl and she is missing him?" Puzzled the Mother replied "What girl? The boy stretched out his arm and pointed to the girl who sat in the doorway, her knees raised, head bowed. The Mother followed her son's finger and gasped with amazement as she saw the girl. She'd never noticed a girl in the doorway before. Where had she come from? Walking over to the girl, the Mother bent down and asked "Have you just got here? Are you waiting for the mule?" The girl slowly lifted her head, her skin a map of the extremities she had endured, her eyes swollen and red, her lips dry and cracked. "Oh My!" exclaimed the Mother. The Mother's actions had alerted the other townsfolk who had thought the mule had returned. They rushed over to the doorway to see the Mother knelt next to the girl. "Who is she?" someone asked "Careful she might bite" said another. "She looks dirty" "Well she can't stay here. This is where the mule sleeps. What if he comes back?" warned someone else. As the crowd argued as to who should remove the girl from the doorway no one noticed her leave. As she rose from the spot she had occupied for so long she was as invisible as she had always been. Indeed, it took a while before anyone noticed that the doorway was now empty. Yet the townfolk could vividly remember the mule being there but never the girl. It is a number of miles to the next town. A long road the only route between the two. Those travelling between the neighbouring towns often reported seeing the mule walking along the dusty track but they never saw the girl who walked beside him.

We never found grandpa's gun. The family lore on that one was either that the neighbor lady or his nurse took it. We never found that money he said he hid either. We sold the house and some guys gutted it out and flipped it. I hope they found grandpas money cause we sure didn't. He wasn't a rich man anyway, we're most of what he left. Only a few things of his are still here, almost all army stuff. Grandma has the trifolded flag with her, my uncle has his purple hearts. There was some other war paraphernalia my dad and uncle found, photos, a Japanese flag, and something they told me they wouldn't tell me about, all of it got lost. And apparently there was at a time a Japanese rifle, but Grandpa stored it in the garage and it too disappeared. I don't have anything of his, but I got handed down something he took. A Japanese bayonet, all that is left of grandpa's war. It now has no handle or scabbard, it's dull and rusted but you can still see the markings on it. It has a mount to be put on a gun, to stab enemies, like my grandpa, when they are close. It was made for a very personal kill, seemingly ancient and barbaric to me, but from near in history. The bayonet even has a large hook, I guess to catch cavalry swords. It's Japanese etching make it clear, this gun mounted sword does not really originate from my family, at least it's not American or even Polish for that matter. But I hold it, and I truly don't know the specifics of how Grandpa got it. I know he lied that he was older to get into the army, shipped off to the Pacific to fight as a teenager and kill strangers. Although I was too young to hear anything dark from him about the war, my dad has since related some of it. As a kid I was told he had bad dreams, I didn't understand what that meant, my understanding as an adult is pretty lacking. Sure, you can say Grandpa shouldn't have stolen from the battle field, maybe it was things like the bayonet that haunted him, but I'm pretty sure the damage was done. The man who lost the bayonet surely didn't need it anymore. If he could get anything back to his family I imagine he'd have a letter sent to them, his wedding ring maybe, certainly his bayonet was low on the list. And was it really his? It was issued to him to stab at enemies away from home on the remote islands of the Pacific. Come to think of it, we don't have Grandpa's gun, or bayonet. I presume they just belong to the Army anyway. Or maybe Grandpa lost it, whether it was in his garage in Chicago or on a beach on Iwo Jima I'll never know. I hope I keep a close eye on my family heirloom and keep it, although I don't really know it's story, and for all those war stories too dark for grandpa to tell, I wish I could tell him thank you.

There are stretches of the American highway system that run through miles of desert. Sometimes, roads turn off into apparent nothingness. Uncultivated lands. One might assume that these disused paths once went somewhere, but have lost their purpose. Sometimes this is true. Other times they lead to fixtures power grids requiring only occasional maintenance. Or they take you to access points for water and oil pipelines. Then there are some--and these are easy to pass by unnoticed--that lead to a dead end. Unnamed roadways terminating at chain-link fences labelled with some forbidding sign: ‘RESTRICTED AREA,’ ‘DO NOT ENTER’. It was one of these roads that I was trying to locate. My association with XXXXXXX was based on professional chauvinism. I knew him from college when we were both idealistic journalism students. He truly believed in the power of reporting to hold the world to account! It was that same sense of purpose that led him to an unprofitable career writing for obscure magazines and blogs, while I pragmatically rose up the elevator of jobs at respectable newspapers. If he knew how many jokes he was the butt of amongst the rest of our cohort, he may never have shown his face in class. Or, maybe he did know, and just didn’t care. His belief in principle over everything was unshakeable. It might have been that he forgave our scorn with a similar sense of superiority that made us look down on him. Who is the winner and who is the loser depends on one’s scale of values. It is anyone’s guess why he chose to maintain contact with me over the years, yet he would send me emails sporadically. Sometimes they were very short remarks on some developing situation in the world. Sometimes they were meandering rants, like you would at 4 AM and immediately regret sending. I don’t think he ever regretted them, though. I rarely responded. But his last communication was different. This was not the usual obsessive rumination that one could simply dismiss as a manic side effect of skipping daily meds. It had an urgency to it. Like a saint about to be thrown to the lions. Also, it included specific coordinates. XXXXXXX had been, as far as I could tell, chasing the tail of an alleged government conspiracy involving kind of prison/laboratory complex in the New Mexico desert. Theories were abundant on less-than-reputable online chat forums speculating about human testing or extraterrestrial communities. These rumors circled around a specific few acres of land, which was deliberately obscured in Google maps. Also, some anonymous troll claimed to be a whistleblower, but was agonizingly ambiguous about the nature of the operation. After his message to me, XXXXXXX could not be reached. No one knew where he was. No one I contacted had spoken with him in weeks. All I had were the coordinates he had sent me. Despite the far-fetched nature of whatever this adventure was, the dire nature of the message drew me in. If it wasn’t a physical dilemma, it was still a cry for help. Also, a good journalist doesn’t let go of a lead... The side road was easy to miss. It was unpaved, and obscured by brittle plant skeletons. Still, there were faint tracks of the occasional vehicle. The GPS coordinates were exactly what I had received. I drove a little farther up the road, and pulled my car onto an unobtrusive shoulder. I wasn’t sure how long this path would be, but I betted that I could investigate it more clandestinely on foot. It was a pinkish dusk. I had a flashlight, but was avoiding using it unless it became completely necessary. I had no idea if I was walking into an ambush. The signs of road vehicles were clear. Judging by the tracks, they appeared to be large off-roaders. I followed the trail through dry brush and rocks. It proceeded gently uphill for a while until I reached a decline into a depression in the terrain. The geography provided a perfect subterfuge from curious eyes on the road seeing the tell-tale gate: a chain link fence. The sign just read: ‘NO ENTRY’. Beyond the fence, in the distance, I could see a cluster of nondescript buildings. They could be mistaken for some kind of abandoned military or industrial installation if not for a few lights in the windows. I took off my jacket, hung it on my shoulder, and started climbing the fence. At the top, I draped my jacket over the barbed coils on the top of the fence, and hoisted my body over. There goes a good jacket! Luckily I was wearing tough boots. It took me a minute, clinging to the fence, to extricate my jacket from the barbs, but I didn’t want to leave any evidence. The maneuver had taken a few minutes, and it was almost dark now. I closed my eyes for a moment to adjust to the darkness, then surveyed the abstruse compound. Dammit, I should have brought my binoculars! In the darkness, I could just barely make out a fenced area that looked like a basketball court. Suddenly a spotlight flashed on, illuminating the court. I froze. A group of people paraded in single file out of the adjacent building. They were dressed in matching striped outfits, like old-timey pajamas. They were followed by someone else, dressed like a military officer. The officer yelled something I couldn’t understand, and the pajama people proceeded to walk slowly in a circle. Crunch! It was the sound of shoes on the gravel directly behind me. I froze. They must have been very stealthy to get that close without me hearing, which meant this sound was an announcement of their presence. I made my hands visible at my sides, slightly away from my body so as not to appear dangerous, and slowly turned around to face whoever was approaching. A flashlight ignited straight in my eyes. Squinting, I could see a figure in the darkness. They seemed to wearing a helmet and carrying an assault rifle. I raised my hands in surrender. “This is a restricted area. Turn around, get on your knees, and lace your fingers behind your head.” I complied. He zip-tied my hands behind my back and pulled me to my feet. “Walk!” He marched forward toward the mysterious compound. We stopped in front of an imposing door. The armed man looked into a surveillance camera on the wall above. “Intruder apprehended,” he told the camera. After a moment, the door automatically opened. There was no one to greet us in a hallway lit only by red lights. He marched me down the hall to a second door. The door was immediately opened by a man in a suit. Total G-man. I was ushered into a sparsely furnished room lit by white fluorescents. I turned back to see my capture in the improved lighting. He looked like military police. “Sit!” he said, gesturing to a chair in front of what I assumed was an interrogation table. I sat, bracing myself for the worst. “I’ll take it from here,” said the G-man. He stood in from of me on the other side of the table. There was no chair at his disposal. “Would you like to tell what you are doing here?” “I don’t know. What authority are you?” “I’m with a government department you have never heard of. You can call me John,” he said calmly. “I assure you that if you cooperate and answer my questions you will be safe in our custody. Now, ma-am, who are you?” “Give me an attorney and they can tell you.” “I’m the closest you have to an attorney here. And there is no phone call.” He smiled. “So you may as well talk to me... or sit in silence as long as you please. I have time.” “I have rights” “Not on this side of that fence.” “I’m a journalist!” “I guarantee you, my agency supersedes the power of the fourth estate. Would you like to tell me your name. It will make this conversation more pleasant.” I remained silent. “There’s no point in pleading the fifth here. We’ll find out who you are regardless.” “Nancy. My name’s Nancy Drew, and I’m a detective.” “Cute. Have it your way, Nancy. Now why are you hopping fences in the middle of the desert?” “Who are those people out there, walking around in circles? Political prisoners?” “Hmm. Hard to explain. Let’s say, they are one of America’s greatest untapped resources. Now would you like to tell me how you found this place” “Are you holding another journalist here? Or did you kill him.” “Ahh, I see.” The G-man chuckled. “You’re looking for XXXXXXX. I assure you, there is no need to worry about his well being.” “Where is he?” The G-man sighed. “Ok.” He walked over to an intercom on the wall. “Can you locate XXXXXXX and tell him to report to exam room A-2. Thank you” After a few moments of sitting in angry silence while the G-man casually ignoring me, the door opened. XXXXXXX entered. He was dressed in uniform. It was the uniform of a Nazi SS officer. “It’s good to see you,” he said. “What the fuck is this?” I yelled at the G-man. “Is this a sick joke? Did you brainwash him? What in the actual fuck?” “Well, perhaps I will let the two of you catch up,” said the G-man. He walked leaving me alone with my old colleague who apparently was playing some king of perverse gag. “Listen. this is no joke.” “What the hell is going on here?” I demanded. “ It’s a long story.” “No shit!” “Ok, where to begin?” “What is this? CIA?” “Actually it is a top secret division of the department of energy.” “WHAT?” This was getting more absurd by the minute. “Let me explain. I’ve was chasing down some rumors about a secret government project. It seems there was one whistleblower, but it was all very cryptic. The word ‘Project Hatchet’ kept popping up. For years every lead went to a dead end. I scoured the dark web. Eventually, an anonymous leak released some numbers. Finally, I realized, they were coordinates. That brought me here. Now, a little history: at the end of World War, American military intelligence discovered an experimental German program developed in the concentration camps. At first they thought it was insane, but the results proved otherwise. You see, there was a small, secretive sect of Jews in Poland. Something what you might call ‘Jews for Jesus’. They claimed to possess the original teachings of Jesus, and practices what they call ‘the Doctrine of Extreme Forgiveness’. The Nazis were experimenting with electromagnetic and using prisoners in the camps as test subjects. With this particular Jewish sect, they got some astonishing results. They found that whatever tortures they did to these particular Jews, they kept insisting on forgiving their tormentors. This extreme forgiveness created an amazing energy that the Nazi scientists found a way to harness. I mean, it was so powerful it could light a city.” “You are fucking joking.” “No, it’s true. After the war, the Americans took the technology and recreated the experiment.” “You mean this... is a CONCENTRATION CAMP?” “Yes, but they don’t kill the Jews. They are far to valuable an energy source. Just torture. The problem is, production is far too labor intensive for it to be viable now. The theory is to store the energy, and, as fossil fuels diminish and become to pricey, use the forgiveness energy as a replacement.” “And... you?” “Well, once you discover the project they won’t let you leave. They give you a choice: become a Nazi or a Jew” “Are you saying they’re going to hold me here indefinitely?” “Yes. You just have to pick a team”

Where once was a sanctuary, now lay decimation. The shrine that held their union had been long since robbed of its divine architecture, monuments of pure silver, drapes of sapphire which blew softly in the sweet breeze. However, the pews remained filled with witnesses. Bloated. Decayed. Mouths agape with flies and their offspring. Should a fire take this place now, the surviving insects would creep away lamenting their own sanctuaries, just as the Wretch who now knelt before an altar of void faith. The wings of rot now the only praise heard. For the Wretch, this region of disease held no more apprehension than that of simple regret. He would want nothing more than for his memories of purity to be rebuilt and the stench of abandonment swept away. However, should a miracle break through the smoke of desolation, seize hold of the altar, purge the sanctuary with searing light, and finally leave behind a hollow but pure temple for troubled souls to find, the Wretch felt that he himself should be excavated. For the rot had taken him as well. He was simply a fly in search of another corpse, another of Hope's carrion. Yet, his trembling hands were raised. The rags which encased his body he wore as Holy as filthy robes could achieve. The tingling of many tiny lives scurrying beneath his flesh were forgotten. The faded silver image of the crescent moon enveloped his whole consciousness. Should the past return it would find him here faithful. Then her steps filled the sanctuary. Soft but echoing. She had found him after an ongoing pursuit that began at this very shrine. The Wretch lowered his hands and bowed his head in defeated prayer. “I am here for you.” Her voice was that of a clear spring found in the lower valleys. He wanted to taste those waters again. She halted her approach. The sound of silk and metal falling silent. The Wretch lowered his hand instinctively towards his own rusty blade. However, the scent of her was carried through the wind. The stench of the sanctuary and he dissipated for a precious instant. The Wretch's hand hovered over the weapon, but he rose instead from where he knelt and turned to face her unarmed. Her eyes gazed into his immediately as he turned. This was always the beginning of opposition. She stood still in the midst of the pews of decay. Her lovely features never flinched in disgust at her surroundings. Instead, she eyed her espoused with the glee of a young maiden awaiting to be betrothed. Her black hair falling down her back and to her breasts. Her femininity, unhidden by the golden shards of war. There was blood on her age. “Let...me...worship...” The Wretches voice flaked with the dryness of long silence. Her eyes flicked for a disregarding instant. “Worship what?” She asked with a smile. He had no answer to give, for she already had it to begin with. After all, it was she who stood with him before the crescent moon. At least the illusion of her. The Wretch felt his legs quiver as she slowly approached. She sheathed her blade, however, spying his laying upon the stone floor. “Are you submitting to me?” The girlish tone mingling with the sound of flies. “At last, you long to be mine?” The Wretch held up his desiccated palm before her and inhaled strenuously for words. “There is...a...large crevice...between longing...and being...” She laughed as she took hold of his outstretched hand and placed it gently to her breast. Her heart pulsed through her warm skin. “Then let me extend a bridge to you, my love. We can walk across together.” Her veins slid from her smooth skin and entered his wrist. Warmth passed through his body. His heart began to beat again. The first time she had performed this act was in the golden city of Rehcash'pl. He had very little rot for her to devour. Now her eyes rolled back in ecstasy at the banquet prepared after so long a chase. Her scalding blood poured through him. He breathed in deeply her sweet scent, feeling the strength of youth returning and the weakness of his lust. The Wretch fell into her soft arms and they both sank down to the stone. His back was to the moon. He was kneeling before her now. All that stood in this hollow shell of former radiance was her radiance. Her beauty. Her voice heaved softly in his ear. Why not just submit? Even if the moment was fleeting, it would be his. She would belong to him as his bride. No, not a bride but a harlot. Then she would be his harlot! She belongs to no man. She was all he ever wanted in this life! No power over the corrupting serpents! No miracle performed in the name of That Which is Whole! No tongue to teach and spread the hope of the forgiveness of the Crescent Moon! What good did it do the faithful? They rot in the presence of their Hope! Yet they can still be found before it. The Wretch felt the tears fall down his rotten cheeks. He took up the rusted blade and pierced her side. She screamed and withdrew her veins from him. The warmth now gone. It would be easier now. They clashed together. The eyes formerly that of a pure young maiden now filled with malice. They fought all over the sanctuary. Falling into the pews of corpses. Shattering the images of their Faith. It didn't matter. For her, the fight was simply to cause agony to the Wretch. For The Wretch, it was to simply contend with this entity that had hindered his very existence. Their conflict brought them once more to the altar. Her blood spilled from the wounds of both combatants. Their forms identical battered flesh, ripping at one another, till finally she pinned down The Wretch and began to reign blow after blow till whatever could be recognized as a countenance crumbled. When his resistance faltered, she lowered her broken hand down to the remnants of The Wretch. “Submit.” It was a tired voice. A defeated voice. For she already knew the answer, but she was constrained to hear his response. “Never.” She rose up from her former victim now Victor. With broken steps, she stumbled her way out of the sanctuary. Her thoughts never considered the many victories she had achieved, but the hatred for these few failures. Before she had exited the doorway of dilapidation, her beauty had returned and her flesh no longer retained any semblance of her struggle with the Wretch. Her steps renewed with vigor. There were more like him. Far too many more that would give in. Yet, when she looked into their eyes, she always feared that which had just transpired. But she would die before she ever revealed that fear. Die. The Wretch lay unmoving till nightfall. Eventually, the lunar glow of late evening shone upon him through a break in the clouds. He rose whole like before. A Wretch. Yet he turned again to the faded altar and knelt once more. As he worshiped, his eyes caught sight of his reflection in the faded silver, with hands raised in praise and a congregation of fellow worshipers behind him.

Guilt is good, I think. Feeling guilty means you have empathy and are not a careless monster. Bad people don’t feel guilty. On the other hand, would a good person have something to feel guilty about? I suppose it’s not black and white but it feels like an unnecessary burden--a weight hung around the necks of good people for irrational reasons. Will, my boyfriend sitting next to me, driving, is the cause of my guilt. We’re on our way to his deceased grandparent’s house to help his family clean out the place. I’ve decided to break up with Will. Actually, I decided about a month ago. As I was about to end it, Will’s grandmother died of a stroke. Not even two weeks later, his grandfather passed as well. It was only days after the funeral that Will’s grandfather’s heart stopped. A tragic, but an undeniably romantic story. After nearly sixty years of marriage, they couldn’t live apart for more than a couple of days. Heartbreaking and beautiful. I’d only met Will’s grandparents once, at Thanksgiving last year. We’d been dating for about five months at that point and it was my first time meeting his family. Now, we’ve been dating for sixteen months and this will likely be the last time I see Will’s family. It’s October and the holidays are coming up again. I can’t do it. I can’t sit down at Thanksgiving and give vague and noncommittal answers to questions about our future. I can’t have Will and his family buy me presents and pretend like everything is okay. I can’t kiss him at midnight on New Year’s Eve with this truth stuck in my head. It wouldn’t be fair to Will anyway. No, better a clean break. The sooner the better. This week. The guilt will only grow the longer I put it off. Breaking up is the rational choice. Still, I feel guilty. It pangs my chest and makes my eyes dart away from his. It sneaks up on me in the quiet moments I’m with him. I would’ve dumped you by now if it weren’t for your grandmother’s death. I’m calculating the right amount of time after your grandfather’s funeral to officially break things off. This guilt--this truth only I know--hovers over me and never leaves. Should I feel guilty? Relationships end, people grow apart, it’s entirely understandable and expected. We’re only a couple of years out of college and both have time for new and better relationships. I don’t know if Will loves me. That’s not true, I’m positive he does. He says it all the time. A small part of me hopes he only says it because that’s what’s expected of a relationship that’s lasted for a year--love. That’s why I say I love him when I don’t. Maybe the first time I said it I meant it but not anymore. No, that’s not true either. If I meant it the first time I’d mean it now. It was about two months ago when I realized I didn’t love Will. I only really liked him. If I didn’t love him then staying in the relationship wouldn’t be fair to either of us. I repeated this to myself to build the courage to dump him. I’d never dumped anyone before. Will deserves a girlfriend who loves him but that can’t be me. So, really, I’m doing Will a favor. Will is a good boyfriend. He’s one of my best friends and a great roommate. But none of those things are love. I love Will’s family, but not in that way. They were extremely welcoming and nice to me--especially his mom Maddy and older sister Breanna. Breanna and I text all the time and even hangout without Will occasionally. She’s introduced me to her friends and I’ve done the same for her. I think of Maddy as a friend, too. We talk and text and joke around on Instagram all the time. I hope some part of those friendships will survive the breakup, but I know that’s more reckless hope. What mother and sister would stay friends with an ex-girlfriend? I’ll miss Will’s family. They’re a close family, which is very unlike mine. I barely speak to my brother and see my parents once a year during the holidays. Will’s family--the Greene’s--made me one of their own almost immediately. It was nice, being part of one of those close families. “You okay?” Will says in his baritone voice. It’s always funny to me that Will is a tall, lanky kid with a boyish face and only the wisps of facial hair yet he has the voice of a mountain man. I lift my head off the cold passenger-seat window. “Yeah, I’m fine.” “You just haven’t said anything in a while.” “Sorry, tired. Didn’t get much sleep last night.” “It’s okay. Thanks again for helping with this. My parents will appreciate the extra set of hands.” “It’s no problem. Anything I can do to help.” “They’ve been putting this off. Going inside that house and sorting through sixty years of crap. They’ll love seeing you, though, they always do. It’s gotten to the point if I visit them without you they’re disappointed.” “What’s your grandparent’s house like?” “It’s an old house. My mom would talk about how impressive it was when she was little but they didn’t take very good care of it as they got older. The second floor hasn’t been touched in years--my mom and her sister’s old rooms look practically the same since they moved out. That’s mostly what we’ll be doing. Clearing out the rooms.” “What will you do with all the stuff?” “I don’t know. Probably throw out most of it. Maybe we’ll find a few things worth a buck on eBay.” I do my best to attempt a smile. The icy windshield feels good against my forehead, so I rest it there. Outside, the wind sweeps brown, yellow, and red leaves onto the road and muscular gray clouds cover the skies overhead. As we pull in, I understand Will’s description of the house. It’s not a mansion, but it isn’t small either. It’s an old house that seems dignified. Its brick is faded and its white paint is chipped, but it’s easy to see it had once been elegant and one of the most expensive houses on the block. Will’s dad sees us and puts down the box he’s carrying. “Ha-ho! There they are!” he yells, which is his standard greeting. He is an adorable old man with his white beard, red cheeks, and portly belly. His whiskers brush my cheek as he hugs me. “Thanks for coming, darling.” “Happy to, Vincent.” His heavy hand slaps Will on the shoulder. “Head on inside, Madeline’s got jobs for each of you in there, she’s already bossing your sister and brother around.” Vincent always calls Will’s mom Madeline even though everyone else calls her Maddy, which is very cute to me. We step through the open front door and into a small entryway with a hall leading to the living room. Maddy apparently hears us come in because as soon as we step inside she pops her head in from around the corner. “Hey guys!” she says with a smile. She hugs and thanks me like Vincent did and the rush of guilt turns my stomach. I say hello to Breanna who is packing boxes in the kitchen and Drew, Will’s brother, who walks past with a box full of tools from the garage. “Will, take those boxes and start in the basement, would you?” Will does as he’s asked and I’m left waiting for instructions from Maddy. “Nicole, sweetheart, could you do me a favor?” She insists on calling me Nicole even though I’ve repeatedly told her Nicky is fine. The family seems to have a connection with formality and love I don’t understand but find charming. “Of course, I’m here to help.” “Could you take these boxes upstairs to the second bedroom on the right and start boxing up the books in there? There’s a wall of shelves and books. Don’t worry about bringing them down because they’ll be heavy but just start boxing them up.” “No problem, Maddy.” “Thank you, sweetie.” She brings her right hand to my cheek. Her right hand is incomplete, with a nub where her ring finger should be. The story goes it’s the product of a cooking accident from years ago. “You’ve been such a help for us and Will these past few weeks. Know that we really appreciate it,” she says, grazing my cheek with her thumb. Guilt again. I shove a smile to my face and grab the boxes and head down the hallway towards the staircase. I pass Drew on the way and as I ascend the steps I can hear Maddy mumbling to Drew. “Why can’t you find a nice girl like Nicole?” “Mom, don’t start,” he groans. When I reach the top of the stairs I can see for myself that Will was right about it never being used. Dust clings to the banister and half of the lights are burned out. There’s a noticeable draft and the wooden floor moans underneath my feet. I enter the second bedroom on the right and find a modest bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side that look out over the backyard. I hadn’t noticed that the house was on a small hill with a green lawn encompassed by tall trees. The lawn is covered in colorful dead leaves that casually flutter in the autumn breeze. There’s little else in the bedroom except for a twin bed and a wall of bookshelves filled with dusty volumes of text. They all look like thick, important, leather-bound books that are more than twice my age. I carefully start taking them off the shelves and placing them in the cardboard boxes with only cursory glances at their titles. Most seem to be history books--specifically European history with a focus on the Scandinavian region. Some look to be about the Vikings and their Norse gods, while some are more modern and about wars and politics. One catches my eye though. It’s wrapped in fine brown leather and the title is engraved in a different language, perhaps Norwegian. When I open it, the entire book is in the language but it still pulls me in. Rune drawings frame the words typed in a Norse-like font. There are plenty of illustrations, one almost every other page. The pictures are gorgeous and graphic. They’re full of animals and mythical creatures--wolves, ravens, warrior-men, elves, dwarves, and dozens of others I have no name for. They’re all twisted and intertwined with one another in war or in love. “How’s it going in here?” Maddy’s sudden voice startles me so much I nearly drop the book. I realize I’d been looking at the book for longer than I thought. She chuckles as she enters the room, a steaming mug in her hand. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. It gets chilly up here so I thought you might want some hot tea,” she says, handing me the hug. “What’re you looking at?” “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been snooping,” I say, slightly embarrassed. “Nonsense, it’s just a book. Which one is that?” “I don’t know, it’s in a different language. I was just looking at the pictures.” I hand the book to Maddy and she fans through its pages. A grin spreads over her face. “Oh, I know this one. This was one of my father’s grandfather’s books. He brought it with him when they came to America from Norway. It’s all about the Norse gods and the Vikings and all the stories about them, really fascinating. I loved looking at the pictures when I was a kid.” I pick up the tea and sip it slowly, it’s hot contents warm my belly. Cold wind whistles by the windows. “The art inside is beautiful. This must be really old if it was your great-grandfather’s.” “Honey, this was old when my grandfather’s father had it. It’s been passed down the family for generations. “That’s incredible. Something you want to keep, right?” Maddy smiles and briskly turns through the pages. “My grandfather could still speak and read Norweigian and he would read us parts of this book. There are some really scary stories here.” “Scary stories?” “Well, to a child. But, to be fair, the Vikings weren’t exactly Quakers. There’d be some really graphic tales here about warriors and gods. There’d even be some rituals and ceremony instructions that would creep us out.” “Rituals?” “Oh, you know, how they’d properly sacrifice a goat or an ox or whatever to appease one of the gods. They were a warrior-culture, you know? Everything was about spilling blood.” “That’s so cool that you have this history. I didn’t even know your family was Norwegian.” “Well, only my side is. And, my great-grandfather changed his last name when he came to America from Jacobsen to Jacobs. I’m not sure why, though. Maybe to fit in a little better.” I sip the tea again and it’s strong and filling. “Good in here?” Will’s strong voice sounds from the entryway. He sounds like a Viking descendent , I muse within my head. “Yeah, honey,” Maddy answers. “We were just looking over some of these old books. This one was your great-great-grandfather’s. Isn’t that something? He brought it on his trip from Norway.” “Huh.” Will looks over Maddy’s shoulder at the book. He looks cold and a little pale, with his hands stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie. He didn’t seem like that when we came here. I must’ve been too caught up in my own head to notice. “Actually, I know there’s another one like this--here it is!” Maddy puts the book down and grabs another ancient text from the shelf. “You’ll love this one, Nicole, it’s all about the god Freya, who was Odin’s wife and goddess of love and fertility. But, she was also a warrior goddess. She was always my favorite as a kid.” I giggle as I sip my tea and look over Maddy’s shoulder as she opens it. “There are all kinds of stories and myths about her here. There are even some rituals they would perform to ask for Freya’s blessings.” “What would they ask of her?” “Oh, all kinds of things. Some were ceremonies to help get pregnant or to bless a marriage. Some were even rituals to get someone to fall in love with you.” “Really? A love spell? What would they do?” Maddy places the book down and points at an illustration. “Like, this one for instance.” The picture shows a plain woman kneeling before a levitating goddess in a forest. The normal woman holds her hand up to Freya, with blood coming from it. “One would make a small sacrifice to Freya and then have the other person--the one you wanted to fall in love with--ingest something of theirs, like, say, blood. They make a concoction with their blood, the other person drinks it, they say a few words, yadda yadda yadda, and poof , the person loves you for life.” “Crazy,” I say. “Drinking blood. What would the sacrifice be?” “Nothing big, but something to show your devotion. Usually, a finger does the trick.” I stop sipping my tea. I look at Will, who is staring at the book, avoiding my gaze. My eyes press to the book, where Maddy’s hand lays on the page, her nub of a ring finger rubbing the text. I clear my throat and put down my tea. “Strange.” “Not so strange, sweetie,” Maddy tells me. Her voice is flat and unnerving. “We’d all make sacrifices to be loved by the one you love most in this world, wouldn’t we?” I don’t say anything. “I know I would.” She straightens her posture and looks at me as I step back. Her eyes penetrate me. I look to Will, but his eyes are glued to the floor out of shame or fear. “Wouldn’t you, Will?” Will slowly nods his head and takes his hand out of his pocket. A heavy bandage is wrapped around his hand, specifically the ring finger, which is noticeably shorter. “Jesus, what did you do?” I yell as I feel my heart punch against my chest. “I know you were planning on dumping him,” Maddy accuses me. “I could see it in your eyes at the funeral. I know that look because my husband once had that look. But, then, I made a small sacrifice and made him some tea. Now, look how happy we are.” She steps toward me. I step back. I can feel the freezing window pressing against my shoulders and head. My focus begins to blur and my head starts to vibrate. “Maddy, you’re scaring me.” “It’s alright, sweetie. It’ll all be over soon, and then you’ll be in love for the rest of your life. Doesn’t that sound wonderful? Don't you want to be in love for the rest of your life?” My throat feels raw and harsh. I try to rub the blur out of my eyes but it only makes it worse. “You drugged me,” I mumble, the words slurring out of my mouth. “You’re insane. Will, please.” “Deep breathes sweetheart.” I fall to the floor. My fingers feel numb and my tongue sizzles in my mouth. It feels like death is slowly gripping me and squeezing myself out of my own body. The last thing I hear is their chanting. It starts slow and melodic but then grows louder and I think other voices join in. They’re harsh, cruel chants in a foreign language with wicked tongues and vengeful rasps. They chant and chant as I writhe on the floor and my very eyes feel like they’re about to scream out of my skull and my eardrums will explode. Then, darkness came. When I awake, I am in love.

The view from up here. They are solemn. Peaceful. Obtrusively gentle. They are a finger tracing the runes of her spine. They are the hills climbing upon her back. A heart swelling over the edges like dough in the oven. A pair of light blue eyes. The narrow slits forming. The wide moon uncovered amongst grey skies. A girl with a red scarf boarding the train. Searching for something she hasn’t yet discovered. Looking through the fogged glass for self-reflection, blank eyes stare back. They release no messages yet. An upsurge of salt weakening against the sand. Fingers grazing towards the shore. Tides breathing shallow breaths that of a weary man. Butterflies stretching to break from mummified cocoons. Soft touch amongst the earth, a delicate touch of Mother Nature. A baby cries in fistful slumbers, furrowed in colours and bewildering echoes. A plate smashes into in mendable jigsaw pieces. Shards to cut the flesh with sharp edges and jagged tips. Mother birds burrowing their beaks in search of worms for hungry cries follow her in the gust. A relationship crumbles through stacks of papers and a three piece suited lawyer. Looks of unmoving emotion. Locked windows, shades pulled tightly. Bitter shadows creeping in their skies. A battle clouded by loves weather spells. Another grows as they whisper sweet love in each others embrace, a comfort spoon feed to each other. A nagging heart longing for acceptance to full the bottomless pit. A glass empties. An old man hobbles onto the bus, waves a silent goodbye. A tide pool swelling beneath his eyes as he looks amongst his family. His mind is betraying him. He can no longer remember their names. Oh, the quiet downpour of the years drowns the youth away. The creases of books etched upon faces, folding the skin into pages that sigh life. Hands caress decaying skin. Two blue turnips. A final petal sways in his eyes. Shaking wind caresses the lungs. A final shallow breeze sighs through. A flower falls in the rain. Oh the view from up here. A father lets a single tear fall down his cheek silently, he is alone. A mother embraces her dying daughters hand another silent goodbye, she is alone. Collapsing against hard floors, bruised bones and wounded souls. A grim reaper pushing against the barricade. A daughter begging her father for a relationship. A clockwork woman with tv playing static in her eyes. Her eye's aren't seeing, her ears aren't hearing. As she binge watches the past mistakes. Replaying this channel of regret and waiting for the next season. A pout of cigarette stains. Smiling through the lung pains. Swimming in nausea, crashing nicotine waves. A child steals with sly fingers and cunning eyes. He screams. She whimpers. A hand raised. A blood vessel bursts. Wild blue eyes. Swollen, red sadness. A slave for violence. A slave for comfort. Promises used to mend a broken seam, stitching with shaking hands and shaking minds. Small lips curved upwards stretching towards the heavens. Deep blue pools waiting for one to swim amongst them. Emotions swirl down the drain. Dirty water tears. Rinsed off with swallowed screams. There is something blocking her sink, for she is overflowing and feeling too much. I see all from here. Yellow striped tennis balls flying through space upon green turfed courts. An orchestra bellowing to the heavens, delivering spirits to the skies. Praises to the almighty as above so below. He passes a meal to fragile hands. Hushed love with a side serving of the laugh stroked memories. Feet that fly along wooden beams. The passing of pointless notes. The euphoria of naughtiness. Fingers reaching to grasp the sky. Swollen light. Spilling into one another. Secrets bursting through open hearts. Lies whispered through closed doors. Kisses laying gentle against skin. The warmth of an embrace. The cold furls of silence. A raised chorus. The lightening eyes. The slam of a door. The back of heads. Fingers reaching towards the other. Unshed rain. The taste of regret. Shallowing shards of glass. A message unsent. A lover lost. A friend twirling into the unknown. He buries himself away from the sound of her crying. Her voice cracking under the weight of a million tear drops. Swallowing the life of her. Chewing and grinding it to ragged pieces that cut open his body as he tries to swallow the taste. A child’s toothy grin infecting a gathering of strangers. A man falling to his knees. A woman closing the door. A young girl watching herself in distaste, spiralling to the dark hollows of her mind. Scratchy girls opening their skin, to feel something within. A rope, a death sentence hung upon a tree by the quiet child you pass in the hallways. Laughter as wine glasses cheer together in unison while he swings across the interstate. How does one explain the view? Close the door. Slam it shut. Open it gently. Lock it profusely. Let the light touch you. Keep the darkness burrowed within. Smile. Cry. Scream. Laugh. Feel her warmth. Embrace his flaws. Him and her. You and I. Open minds and rusted locks. Breath in life. Sigh it out. Capture silent wonder. A moss covered branch swaying in a cool breeze. A snowflake floating to meet the pavement. Trees hiding their voices amongst whispers of rain. Birds singing to our cries. Hidden messages. Locked secrets. Delight in the beauty of hearing. Yet not understanding. The ripple of water, sunlight on a spider web. A dance between stars. Escaping the shadows. Raising the stakes in the poker game of life. A label machine. Being still. The awakening. The falling. A storm. A scar. A crying kiss. Soft brown hair. An empty house. Foot prints walking away in the mud. Surrounded, yet alone. Creatures born of dark emotion. Sinning from the first light. A fierce hate. Intense love. I want all of you. Yet none of you. You make me feel too much. The view. The view of all things. The view from up here.

A small, meek man walked down the street. He held a physics book under one arm and took each stride with purpose and valour. He quickly pushed his hair to the side in a quiff as his mind began to race on what his thesis could actually be; theorems and formulae that were far too complex or specific smashed themselves around his head like bats screeching within a cave, clouding his thoughts in dark, leathery wings. The sun beat down on his scalp as he restyled his hair into the aforementioned quiff. He pushed his glasses up his sweaty nose as he passed a towering woman with a very fierce yet beautiful structure. He took her into account as he approached, she seemed to be celebrating the deployment of the atomic bomb on Nagasaki -- ‘ Like all those other murderous hooligans’ the man thought as he shook his head, locking away his monologue and smiling at the parade and then at the man next to- Electricity fizzled throughout his entire being and he stopped in his tracks. That beautiful woman was staring at him, he could feel it on his back -- like some sixth sense. He turned to look at her and their eyes met. The electricity burst throughout him and he felt elated. It was as if God himself was pulling him up to Heaven and pushing him down to Hell simultaneously as their lives together flashed before his eyes. He stood there dumbstruck. The woman revealed her pearly, white teeth in a smile and winked at him... He had to go up and talk to her, he had to. Pieces of spaghetti dragged his torso along the sidewalk as he approached the personification of Eden. He stopped about ten metres before her realising how abhorrently out of his league she was. She caught his eye again, giving him a small wave and delicately walked off -- a testament to the limitless bounds of beauty. The door closed as if it were the back end of a book and she collapsed on the bed. The shadows from the curtains stretched over the ceiling and she watched them slowly creep to the edges of the room. Suddenly, she sat up as she reminded herself to reapply her make-up. The woman looked in the mirror to see her hauntingly beautiful features staring back at her, her cheeks were ignited with a rosemary pink as she dabbed them gently, her mascara struck the top of her eyelashes, and her nose, her nose... the most peculiar of abnormalities... her nose began to grow. It was very strange at first, but her once petite and perfect nose began to grow into a horrifying, grotesque hook akin to that of a witch’s. Her eyes began to move in opposite directions as she realised how unsymmetrical they were -- as if her face was designed to be purposefully surreal -- when did her teeth get so mustard with disgusting plaque and were her lips really that chapped? She stood up in disgust as she moved away from the little mirror. She closed her eyes for a while, panting gently as her heart slowed down its imperative sprint. When the world reappeared before her, she saw herself standing an arm’s length away. “ This must be what going crazy feels like” the woman thought, before realising that what she saw before her was not actually her physical form in flesh, but purely a reflection from the large mirror that stood at the back of her room. Her face was back to its aesthetic perfection. Was it the dress that made her stomach look as if it were protruding slightly? She ran her hands down her frame and shivered, was she getting... fatter ? No, no, she was far too young, she took a closer look in the mirror to see that -- yes -- it had just been the angle from which she was standing that gave that impression, that's all. Something soft yet teeth-grindingly aggravating stroked the sole of her foot, she bent down and came up with a small piece of paper she had drawn on. It was a baby and a pram in Hell. She lay back on the bed, chuckling to herself, as thoughts of that silly man she had seen today swam around her head. The electricity she had felt. It was almost comical that she could feel that way about such a shrimp . Her chuckles became a very ambiguous sound as she tried to label exactly what it was she kept feeling, in that room alone, staring at the ceiling. The sanctuary for his focus arrived in the shape of the library. The man would make his way there, knowing that the aroma and silence were bound to make him see clearly. “I hate love” the man thought, catching himself on that last word. He sat, pondering about everyone he has ever known, ever will know, would they compare to her? He hurriedly got up, fleeing away from the depressing thought’s harrowing claws. He couldn’t have been more correct if he tried; he sat in the middle of the library, smiling to himself as he felt the atmosphere crash over him like a tidal wave of nectar. The smell, the silence, the books, the tranquil, quiet footsteps of the librarian guarding her palace -- keeping chaos and confusion at bay. The crisp sound of a page turning like leaves crunching under feet, the leathery feel of the spine of his physics book, the electricity... the electricity he suddenly felt as she walked in. Suddenly none of it mattered anymore, none of it. How she stood there, Aphrodite’s bias on creation. He approached her meekly. He couldn’t mess this up again, “Umm...” he gulped as her pearl blue eyes broke through to his very soul, “Oh, hello there...” The woman smiled a pirate’s smile and winked at the man, she slowly moved out her hand for him to kiss, “Oh, umm...” Awkwardly the man put out his hand and shook hers, she wrinkled her nose, “I-I’m Arthur” a soft, british accent licked the inside of the woman’s ear, “Nice to meet you, Arthur ” She giggled “It’s nice to meet you, uh” suddenly Arthur had an impulse, he knew her name -- her beauty inspired only one suitable label -- “ Mary ” The woman smiled at him, “My name is Alice ” “Oh... And what is your last name, Alice? ” that question sounded a lot less intrusive in front of the bathroom mirror, The woman’s smile faltered a little before returning to its flirtatious state, “Atwood, Alice Utwood” “ Ah, that’s a nice name...” Silence filled his mind, cymbals crashing over an orchestra, his palms sweated as if he had just been swimming through the tumultuous currents of the River Nile. “Say Arthur, you look like you could use a drink to calm you down, why don’t you come along with me?” “No thanks, I’ve got to go to the thesis to work on my physics section” Arthur’s legs drove him away as his mind stayed behind, his veins pumped with self-hatred. His finger ran through the phone book as he searched for Alice’s last name. Was it Atwood or Utwood ? Her flirtatious accent had sprayed a cloud of ambiguous mist over her crucial surname, he reformed his hair into a strong quiff in order to let out his frustration. “Ah!” he had found the name Alice Atwood and... “Ah ha!” he exclaimed. There was no such person with the name Alice Utwood, well they didn’t have a phone at the very least. He pain-stakingly rotated the dial, he felt as if he were reversing a clock. “Hulloh?” a deep, gravelly voice answered the phone, it leered over him, Arthur could almost feel it readying itself to claw out his Adam’s Apple, “Sorry to bother you, sir,” After hearing the voice on the phone, his own voice sounded very high and nasally, he cowered behind the microphone: “Can Alice answer the phone?” Arthur assumed this was Alice’s father. A menacing silence ensued, “Who is this?” the voice replied darkly, “I am... an old friend of Alice’s” he coughed “from her schooling years”, “Alice went to an all-American, all-girls school” Arthur felt strangely flattered by the stranger, maybe his voice was more deep and gravelly than he first believed, “...I smoke very heavily” he said in a cheap New York accent. The deep voice seemed to be unfathomably satisfied with this answer and called out: “ALICE, BABY! IT'S FOR YOU!” There was a slight pause and then “I don’t know who it is, sugarplum , just one of your old smoker friends from highschool” another slight pause, “Well, how was I supposed to know you didn’t go to highschool? Just answer the phone, this is the last thing I need today!” This obviously was not the right Alice. Arthur’s blood ran cold from the minute he heard “ sugarplum ”. He was about to lift the receiver and slam the phone down, when her voice swam its way smoothly into her ear -- a dolphin pushing itself with ease through paradisiacal waters to find its true love. “Hello?” Electricity. Earth shattering, catastrophic electricity. The line hung up as Alice repeatedly said “Hello?” into the phone, “Why is it screaming at me?” she finally exclaimed. “That means they’ve hung up, honey-pie , their line’s disconnected. They must have been asking for a different Alice ”, “Oh.” Her heart dropped. She began to edge her way back up the stairs to her room, to her ceiling. “Say, Alice, how long have you been spending up in that room? You’re looking a bit more...” His deep, gravelly voice trailed off as he searched for the right word: “... piggish than usual” “I’ll try that new diet you recommended to me yesterday , and I’ll see if I have time for a run tomorrow...” “I think the diet might be a good idea” the 6 foot 3 inch brute of a man smiled at her reassuringly, it depressed Alice that she had to label that buffoon as her boyfriend , “However, I don’t think you should go through with the running, best case scenario the neighbours will be thinking you’re trying too hard and we would not want that, would we ?” “No.” She felt so small. Just then, a basket of clothes came into the kitchen -- held by Alice’s mother -- her boyfriend greeted her, saying: “You hear that she wants to go for a run tomorrow!” Her mother chuckled, “Oh, seriously darling, ‘running’ is not a proper thing a lady should be doing to keep fit, have you tried putting some good elbow-grease into your ironing? That’ll do the trick”, “I’ll try” Alice mumbled defeatedly, “Honestly,” Her boyfriend laughed, “they’d be calling you hysterical”, “Yeah...” Alice accepted as she began to retreat back to her room, where she would watch the shadows creep across the ceiling. Alice’s stomach clawed the flesh off of her oesophagus as it begged for any food to replenish its emaciated fashion, but Alice’s fork held the maximum amount of salad she could manage without risking public embarrassment. Despite this, she was rather pleased with herself. She had created a new dress for special occasions -- such as this one -- in order to seem more lady-like and put together in front of her mother, as well as the ever watching needles of the public: weaving her past, present and future off a single reference. She had even made the effort to tell her boyfriend and mother that she would be wearing the dress out tonight. However, neither made an effort to say anything, and soon she fell back into famished depression. Once her boyfriend had slurped up his spaghetti, he sat back and looked at her lustily, licking his lips. She smiled neatly back at him, her small hand trembling. “Really, Alice?” Her mother sighed, “I’m sorry, mother?” She watched as her mother cringed away everytime she even talked or opened her mouth, “Alice, it's disgusting,” her mother physically gagged, a lump formed in Alice’s throat, “you have a leaf stuck between your teeth” “Oh my goodness! I am so sorry!” Alice attempted in vain to hide her mouth as she tried to pick at her teeth with her finger, “For Christ sakes we are in public, you silly girl!” “I’m sorry, it’s not coming out” A tear fell into Alice’s salad. It was as if she was balancing spinning plates, except there were six plates on her nose, ten in each hand, five on each toe and she was in a crashing aeroplane. Suddenly, she felt electricity tickle up her spine. “Y-y-your dress looks nice, I think” It was Arthur, her hero, “Thank you” she smiled, that leaf still lodged between her teeth, “No prob-” Arthur caught sight of her boyfriend and went sickly pale, without a word he speedwalked off. “What a blunderbuss!” Alice’s boyfriend laughed as Arthur tripped on his way past him, “Oh, honey, you’ve still got that wretched leaf in your mouth, please deal with it. You’re not a cow munching on grass, are you ?” Black tears fell, daggers from heaven, onto Alice’s salad as she struggled to repress her sobs, it was no use and her sobbing began to crescendo. The orchestra readied for climax. “Now, honey, don’t cause a scene” Her boyfriend awkwardly placed his hand on top of hers, like a brick squashing cement. “Please stop crying, angel, people will think you’re mentally insane.” he kissed her on her wet cheek -- the violinists propped their instruments under their chins, the horns pursed their lips -- “there, there, buttercup, blossom for me please? Just for me?” And the orchestra erupted. Timpani smashed the paintings off the esteemed restaurant walls, the table cloth was ripped straight off as the strings lead powerful modulation after modulation, the virtuoso stood up as they played such a heart-wrenching and painful melody that it made the owners of the restaurant come to the front in curious outrage. Tears splashed onto the keys of the piano as fast, chordally progressive arpeggios flipped the entire table upside down. Diminuendo followed the woman as she fled the scene, crying and crying and crying until she didn’t even know how to. She found an alleyway between two buildings and sat at the edge of it, below a balcony. Electricity. And there he was, Arthur, she had never felt love, so she would never know if this was it. Arthur got down on one knee, her stomach did a flip, “Hey, are you okay?” he asked, “Please leave me alone.” “Look, I saw what happened in there, everything actually. And that wasn’t right.” Arthur tried, Alice replied with a heavy silence, Arthur took the message. “I’m really sorry, I thought I could say something, like they do in the movies or something but obviously I was-” “Do you feel it?” Alice said, Arthur thought she had never looked so beautiful, with her golden hair flowing through her hands supporting her head. “Sorry?” He said in admiration, “Do you feel it? Everytime we see each other? Everytime we keep bumping into one another?” “I do” Her stomach did another flip, Arthur sat down next to her, it began to rain but the balcony above covered their heads, “ Alyssa , I think I love you” Arthur smiled, Alice chuckled to herself as her sobs mimicked the pattern of the rain. Today was the day, it didn’t matter how big her ‘boyfriend’ was! Arthur was going to ask Alyssa’s mother for her daughter’s hand in marriage. He’d already asked Alyssa but she said she would get back to him next week and that he should come to her house when he felt ready, but he was already confident in her answer; he had been there for her when she was at her lowest, he had confided in her his stresses about writing his thesis, he’d like to see her bull-dog looking boyfriend do that! His knuckle met the face of the door as if it were St Peter at the gates of Heaven. Alyssa’s mother answered. “Is Alyssa home?” Arthur asked confidently, “Do you mean Alice? Yes, she’s in.” “Good! First though, I wanted to ask you something...” He hid the ring in his hand but she had already seen it, she winked at him and nodded, “You have my approval, she’s upstairs” Arthur grinned so wide his mouth almost burst off his face, he laughed out loud as he hugged her mother, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” he exclaimed, “I won’t let you down!” and he sprinted up the stairs... “Alyssa! Alyssa!” he called... Once he arrived at the top of the stairs, the air seemed to disappear from the world. The slight creak of a rocking chair was heard in a room two doors away from him. “Alyssa?” He turned into the room to see two empty eyes smiling back at him. His face dropped, the room stunk. “Yes?” Alice barely spoke, her lips just formed the words behind heavy breath, “Your mother approved of our engagement, we’re going to be married!” “Oh my, thats nice” Alice sat slightly dazed on the rocking chair, “I’ll have a big family, I won’t have to worry about it anymore”, Arthur stood there, perplexed. What was the matter with her? “Darling, I don’t think you understand what I’m saying to you... We’re going to be married! With children! It’s going to be amazing!” “Hmmm... yes, children” She chuckled, “I’ll have a big family, and I will not have to worry about it anymore” silence stank out the room, “I’ve had an operation” Arthur moved forward towards her and saw a large recently healed scar across her forehead beneath her fringe, like a river of stone magma in a dormant volcano. Arthur stood stunned to the spot, too horrified to speak. Alice giggled monotonically, “You’re as silent as a newborn babe...and I will not have to worry about any of that anymore.”

It stops here, today. Freya doesn't want to follow in her mother's footsteps. The only thing they'll share is those blue eyes and a name, because her mother was narcissistic enough to name her child after herself. She claims they're named after the goddess of love and fertility, who she prayed to when she struggled to get pregnant. Said that God wasn't taking her requests. Did she ever bother to consider him saying no was his way of responding? That maybe she wasn't cut out for parenting? She didn't want a child, she wanted a puppet. A clone. Freya, junior, fills the last box and tapes it shut. Her mother thinks she is packing her things to keep them safe as she repaints her room the same shade of white that it has been for eighteen years. She didn't even argue this time about wanting to paint it purple like when she was six, and twelve, because her mother insists it'll throw off the theme of the house (which evidentially is white and boring) and it's not like she's really going to paint anyway. The rain starts, just like the weatherman predicted. Which is great, because she had been banking on that, so that it'd be too wet to open the windows to let the paint fumes out. Looks like they'll have to wait until the sun comes out tomorrow. She'll be gone by sun up tomorrow. She sits through another dinner of overcooked porkchops. It's the last time, she promises herself, so tonight she clears her plate and excuses herself to go over her plan one final time. Her mother goes to bed at ten every night. By ten ten she is fast asleep, and by ten fifteen Freya will be packing up the back of her car until ten thirty, when the neighbor comes home from work. Then she'll pull away once the driveway is out of their line of sight, and drive until the sun comes up. Moving the boxes downstairs to the front hallway, she fibs saying that it'll give her more room to move around tomorrow. Her mother buys it. She even volunteers to help, and claps excitedly about how they'll get to bond all day tomorrow, putting her room back together. As if they don't spend every waking moment together. Having graduated last month, she hasn't had school to keep her occupied. She wanted to get a job, but her mother insisted that she stay home before starting community college in the fall. The college that she wasn't going to, because she was going to try working and writing at night. There were so many ideas, idling in her head, waiting for a moment to escape. Tonight is her moment. She drives, a thermos of coffee in her cupholder. She stops every hour to refill it, and relieve herself, but otherwise it's a straight shoot until sunrise when she arrives in town. Checking into the airbnb, she checks the time. Her mother will be waking up in twenty minutes, like clockwork. Then in twenty five minutes she will notice the missing boxes, and in twenty eight minutes, her phone will get tracked. It'll say she's in a trash can about twenty minutes from home, in a convenience store parking lot. It won't however, say that she's bought a flip phone and transferred her contacts. It won't say that she got a new number yesterday when she went to 'buy paint,' and it definitely won't say that she made the ringtone that song her mom hates, because it has that one word that she's not supposed to say in it. The phone rings, and she sings along to her tone, too giddy to pick up immediately. It goes to voicemail, and she scrambles to call back. "Elias, sorry, hi." Her heart beats faster that it's supposed to, and picks up speed when he responds. "It's funny, I always thought your voice would be higher." They've only ever emailed, in a secret account that she's kept hidden from her mother. His voice sounds identical to what she pictured, and she wonders what other assumptions she has made about him are true. She stifles a yawn. "I'm tired. This is my tired voice. I haven't slept since Tuesday." "Rest up, and then meet me at the diner at three when I get off. Do you still have the address?" He had sent it to her a few weeks back while laying out the plan for her move. Come to Erie, move in to his spare room, get a job at the diner (his boss had already said she could start once settled in) and avoid all things Indiana for the rest of forever. She could finally be Freya the free. None of this Freya Junior nonsense. She could make her own choices, do and be what she wanted instead of some idealized doll modeled after the shambles of an overcontrolling narcissist. They meet, and he's even cuter in person that the picture he sent. She checks for a pulse to make sure she is still alive, and that this isn't some sort of post mortem fantasy. Thump thump, heart's beating. He wraps her in a hug. This time she doesn't have to search for a pulse. It's blaringly obvious. That afternoon he helps her move in. She hardly has anything, he points out. Her whole life fits into a car. "I left behind some things. Boxes of decor my mother picked out, clothes she insisted I wear. Which reminds me. Is there a second hand store around here? I have enough clothes to last maybe two weeks, if I'm lucky." She's saved money for the past few years, and while she has a sum in her account, that she removed her mother from Monday when she went to her dentist appointment, she doesn't want to go broke. Elias pulls out his phone and dials instead of responding. He exchanges a few words with someone on the other end. "My sister Hayley is donating a bunch of old clothes that she outgrew. She says you can take what you want, and take the rest to the thrift store. Which I will happily take you to, tomorrow. They close in half an hour, and that is not enough time to fix all of this." He gestures to her outfit. She hasn't changed since yesterday. The outfit reeks of her mother's taste, and body odor. She spends the next morning learning the ropes at the diner. It's her first job, but she wants to come off as confident, and does so, until she trips over a child playing on the floor and a plate of sunny side up eggs land on a customer's lap. "I guess they're sunny side down eggs now, huh?" The customer gives a big belly laugh. Turns out he's a regular, and he takes her by the shoulders in for a hug. The egg falls to the floor, and yolk smears everywhere. She doesn't care. She needs this hug. Running away to start over is freaking terrifying, and she sniffles into his shirt. He squeezes her harder before letting go. The rest of her shift goes fine. Not great, and while she is still upright, she vetoes clothes shopping for another day so she can collapse into the couch. It takes a few days of work until things become second nature. She learns to balance the tray, like how she learned to balance on her toes in ballet class years ago. She stops looking over her shoulder, thinking her mother is going to show up. There had been a few close calls. A lot of women had that God awful haircut. She looks in the mirror. A haircut, of course. Her long locks had been a choice of her mother. "You have such gorgeous hair, Freya. It'd be a terrible shame to cut it." They'd trim off an inch, for dead ends sake. The weight pulled at her neck. "Elias, is there a beauty shop nearby?" The hairdresser pulls her hair into a ponytail. In four snips, it's over. Her head feels so light and free. He hands her the ponytail. "You're going to make some little princess very happy, darling." He shapes her bob up and demands that she closes her eyes before spinning her around to the mirror. When they open, she has to force them closed and open again to make sure she isn't dreaming. "You look beautiful, Freya." Well, if the blinking wasn't any indication, her pulse sure is. They take a photo, and she's beaming so wide that he doesn't even have to prompt her to say cheese. Elias asks for him to text him a copy, and suddenly it's his phone wallpaper, her holding onto one of the remnants of her past. She wants to cut more things. They return home, and she plops in front of the sacks of clothes, pawing through them with a sense of purpose. She digs out her sewing kit and makes a few adjustments. Her mother would say that hemline was a bit too short. Please, as if the male population won't know she has thighs if her dress hits her knees. She pulls the dress over her head, and Elias walks in to find her in just her underwear. He blushes beet red and hurries back out. From the doorway, he calls to her. "We have off tomorrow. Did you still want to go to the thrift store?" "Sure. If it's not too much trouble, could we stop by the nature preserve? Hiking has been on my to do list since before I got here." Her mother would never let her go, because she was afraid that bears would get her. Heck, she didn't even want her walking around the neighborhood when she was a teenager, because she could get lost, so it wasn't like she'd let her loose in the woods. They do both, and she's glad that she went shopping first, because she is pretty sure she can't feel her legs after five miles of trails. She's pretty sure she absolutely loves it. She goes back on her next day off to figure it out. She's alone this time, in a pair of leggings that she had picked up for a dollar. Her mother never let her wear skin tight clothes. A jogger passes, and she looks around to see if anyone is watching. They aren't, and she tries her hand at it. Her lungs hurt. She stops to walk, until the urge rises again, and she finds her stride quickening into something akin to a light jog. She loves it. Every morning after, she's waking up early to run to the diner. She's flying through her shifts, and nothing can take her down. It's been two and a half weeks of becoming who she wants to be. Curiosity gets the better of her, and she pulls up her mother's social media accounts. She's had her blocked, but her account is public, so she uses Elias' account to snoop. There's pictures of her, pleas for her safe return. She says she has no clue why Freya would leave. The pain hits her, hard. How can she not know how she has destroyed a life? How can she feel no guilt for making someone start over nearly two decades too late to make something of themselves? He spins her chair around and kisses the top of her head. "Don't waste more tears over her. It's her turn to cry." He dries her eyes with his thumb, kissing the lids. When he pulls back, he finds an expression on her face that he can't place. She leans forward and kisses him. It's a bold move. She's never kissed a boy before, and she's definitely never let one kiss her back, or slid her hands around a guy's neck, but it's her metamorphosis, and she wants the guy. Judging by the thing his teeth are doing, she thinks it is mutual. She buys her first bit of makeup that afternoon. Concealer, because her hair can't quite cover it. It's been twenty two days since she fled. She has so much that she thought she could never have, and it's a bit intoxicating. She's gone from no choice, to all of them, and sometimes she can't tell left from right. Hayley helps teach her what it's meant to be a woman. "Your mother never gave you the sex talk?" "We did. It went don't ever sleep with anyone until you're married, or you'll never make it into Heaven ." Freya's fingers trail over the ring on her lip. If her mother could see her, she'd tell her to take it out. She hated facial piercings, calling them tacky. Hayley pushes her hand away. "Don't fiddle with it. We don't need you snake bite getting infected. I don't think Elias would find that too attractive." "Should you really be giving me the sex talk about your brother?" "Would you rather find out what he likes from the girl that had to overhear it in her bedroom, or trust the internet to tell you what to do?" Five days later, she takes her advice. Girl knew what she was talking about. And yes, her other assumptions were correct, thank God. Three days pass. She's been free for a month, and she pulls out an old ragged checklist she had made the night before she left. I want to like the way I look. I want to feel loved. Both she could say were a raging success. She takes one last look at the last line, grinning like a fool as she shoves it away and laces up her running shoes. I want to be free.

Inside of a dark room, two figures sit on either side of a table. A man wearing a white lab coat holding a recording device and a camera behind him. On the other side was a humanoid, dark blue robot, standing 2.5 meters and weighting 300 kilograms. The robot's head was resembled that of a woman's face. A one way window lines one of the walls hiding the people watching. "This is an interviewer for Cerric Robotics," The man said. "interviewing Participate 2 of our Full-Body Cybernetic Surgery Program. Please state your name for the recording." "My name is Mara." "Thank you Mara. Now please explain why did you enter our program. If you don't mind of course." Mara sighed. "Well, uh, I was in the navy, and my ship was raided b-by, and there was a fire." The tone of her voice suggested she was upset and holding back tears, though she lacked the ability to cry. "That's enough for now Mara." The interviewer interrupted. "Now, please tell how were your first few days in this new body like." "It was... new. I had to relearn to walk, use my arms and hands, and speak. But I have to say the hardest part was breathing, or should I say learning that I don't need to breath." "I imagine that would be difficult." Mara's breathing started becoming heavier. "Is it stuffy in here? It feels stuffy." "Is there a problem Mara?" The interviewer asked, concerned. "Yeah, it's find. I'm just a little nervous. I can feel my heart beating fast." "Mara?" "I don't have a heart." Mara said in a panic. "I don't have a heart." The interviewer looked towards the observers. "Please calm her down." After a few seconds, Mara's breathing slowed down to a normal pace. "Are you ok Mara?" The interviewer asked. "I'm fine, just a little itchy." "Itchy?" The interviewer asked. "Never mind. How has your physical therapy been going so far?" "It's going." She said. "Nothing weird or anything like that happened. I'd say the best part is the one of the other patients I take classes with." "Please tell me more about this patient." Mara smiled. "She's apart of a different program, though I don't know what the program was about. She's very nice and funny, and we've became fast friends." "Mind telling me her name?" "She calls herself K." The interviewer was confused. "I'm not familiar with this K." He turned back to the observers on the other side of the glass. "Do we have any female participates with a 'K' name?" "She told me that she's the daughter of someone who works here." Mara said, hoping that would help. She was scratching her arm. The interviewer was confused. "We don't have any employee’s children in any of our programs." "Huh, weird." Mara wasn't paying attention. "Why does my skin feel weird?" "Should we stop the interview?" "Where's my skin?" "Someone please deactivate the subject." "I don't have skin. What did you do to my skin?" "What do you mean that something is interfering with the controller?" Mara stood up, the force of which flipped the table. "K told me you stole my skin. Give me my skin back!" The recording stopped. "What should we do about the subject Mr. Cerric?" Asked one of the scientist. The office of Cerric Robotic's CEO was surprisingly homely for a robotics company CEO, with book shelves lining the walls and a nice, soft couch better suited for a therapist office rather than a robot engineer. Behind his desk, an older man with a mechanical arm pondered the question. Finally, he answered. "This is obviously a case of outside interference. I suggest keeping Mara and the other participates in their quarters for the time being, and focus our efforts preventing something like this from happening again." "What about the-" Another employee asked before being cut off. "Create a statement explaining the situation. Don't lie about what happened, but you don't need to tell everything. If that's everything, please be on your way." Silently, the team of scientist and PR left the office. Cerric, finally alone, sighed. "Kaitlyn, what did you do?" A voice, resembling that of a text-to-speech device, replied to his question. "I am making friends." The CEO burst out of his chair and slide open a small latch in the wall behind him. "Your *friend* nearly killed someone because of you." A pair of bright, glowing, purple eyes appeared from the darkness on the other side of the wall.

The birthday boy sat in a chair made of donuts and caramel apples. There was a squirrel head made from cake batter and frosting resting upon his left shoulder, because he hated those buggers and wanted to represent this dislike on his special day. He looked graciously out at his adoring friends. There were only around eight of them, but they were adoring nonetheless. Snow fell from the sky and landed on the edges of their noses. They lived in a place where the seasons whirled around like sirens. There was also a lot of crime in the area, so sirens were an appropriate analogy for the weather. It could be sunny one day and blustery winter the next. The weather was, to put it simply, more unpredictable than a Walmart bag filled with scorpions. The birthday boy’s heart swelled with pride to see that he had accomplished socializing. His face also swelled, but that was because there was a large amount of sardine in the casserole his mother had made for him, and it turned out he was exceedingly and perhaps fatally allergic to sardines. Not all seafood. Just sardines. Actually, it wasn’t even all sardines. It was all sardines that came in the blue can with the smiling fish (ironic considering...) on it that came from the seventh aisle at the neighborhood market on South Hunca Munca Street. Yeah. The sardines. Well, it turned out that the birthday boy was allergic to them, and so his face swelled up like a ripe papavocado (a papaya avocado hybrid first discovered by the Spanish in 1439 when the esteemed Franchini Poriverri and his crew came to the land on their thirteen boats, the main ones being Phineaskin, Ferbilicious, Isabellini, and Bjorka.) and he fell over onto the table. His adoring friends gasped. They howled. They sobbed. They threw themselves to the ground and rolled in agony. They... were not very helpful, come to think of it. The birthday boy’s fate hung in peril. His airway constricted. His eyes popped like popcorn in a really hot microwave. He opened his mouth and uttered, “I need a hero. I’m holding out for a hero ‘til the end of the night. He’s gotta be strong and he’s gotta be fast and he’s gotta be fresh from the fight.” Instead of taking this opportunity to call the proper medical care, his adoring friends decided to join in on the chorus. It became a karaoke festival. “He’s gotta be sure and it’s gotta be soon and he has to be larger than life. LARGER THAN LIFE!” They continued for a solid eight and four halves of a minute before realizing that a hero couldn’t really be summoned by song, no matter how enticing the idea was. Lo and behold, as soon as Yancey Klum-Wilder (Adoring friend number five. She had met the birthday boy in fifth grade when) pulled out her cell phone to make the call of need appropriately, a hero emerged from the, well, behind the throne of donuts. No one noticed him at first, so he had to clear his throat a couple of times before someone said, “A star is born!” And the hero said, “I am no star.” And the birthday boy didn’t say anything because he was going into anaphylactic shock. So instead, Jimmy Durble (slightly adoring friend number three) yelled, “Then what are you?” And the hero said, “I am Sonny! Not of Cher's brother variety!” “Ahh, okay.” Sonny picked up the birthday boy and flew up towards the sky. His friends kept eating. Sonny threw the birthday boy into outer space, counted three seconds, went back to earth to get a latte macchiato from Starbucks, came back, caught the birthday boy, and said, “I am Sonny, the great wizard, and I will turn you healthy if you can tell me what my old nickname was when you knew me... long, long ago!” The birthday boy woke up and he thought and thought but he couldn’t remember the name. “Um, is it Squirrel Nutkin?” Sonny the Wizard said, “No!” “Is it Emma?” “What? No! Why would it be Emma?” The birthday boy shrugged. “What about Lombardi? Was your nickname Lombardi?” Sonny the Wizard shook his head. “It’s definitely not Lombardi. You have two more chances, and if you don’t guess it by then, I’ll have no choice but to send you to live on earth as a cat named Lloyd. Do you want that for your life, birthday boy?” “No, I’m allergic to cats.” “And sardines, apparently!” “I think... your nickname was...” The birthday boy thought and thought as much as he could. “Froot Loop Magee?” “NO.” “Huh, I kind of had you coined for a cereal type guy.” “You have one more chance.” Sonny the Wizard squinted his eyes. “Just the one.” “Was it Sonny the Wizard?” “YES, IT WAS!!!!” “OH, GOOD.” “YEAH.” “YEAH!” “Okay, well, I guess you can go back to your party and your adoring friends now.” “You should come too!” Sonny the Wizard looked off into (further) space. “No. Sonny the Wizard never rests. I must go, and save more children. Don’t eat sardines again. If you want to hang out or eat cereal, call me.” “How? I don’t have your number!” “Don’t be weird. Just ask Yancey. I gave it to her last time she choked on a pork chop.” “As in she’s done it more than once?” “Well, yes. It became a habit. Until I gave her my number. We should all have a club, don’t you think? I can apprentice you to be wizards. It’ll be pretty popular, eventually, and maybe you could even start a school one day and call it... Razorbackacne.” “As opposed to Hogwarts?” “Why, yes. Just make sure you invite me.” With that, the birthday boy was thrown back to his party, where he threw a pork chop at Yancey and so Sonny had to come back and save her and then they all ate squirrel head cake. THE END

Her eyes snapped open. She was staring at a concrete ceiling with a single, bare light-bulb hanging from the center. Her senses began creeping back to her and she realized how cold it was. *Where am I?* Her breath, visible in the light, mirrored the foggy feeling she felt in her head. “My head,” she groaned, little louder than a whisper as she attempted to rub the tiredness from her eyes. Her head ached and pulsed with each heartbeat. She had no memory of anything before this room. Her heart began to beat faster, and sweat beaded her forehead as anxiety rose within her like floodwater in an elevator. She jolted upright and attempted to stand up. Her legs were lagging behind her brain and didn’t feel as though they were entirely hers. Quickly, though not fast enough for her panicked mind, she regained control and was able to stand. She closed her eyes and drew deep, steadying breaths. “Relax,” she breathed to herself, “you can figure this out”. A few minutes passed and her pulse leveled out. She opened her eyes and assessed her surroundings. Though dimly lit, the room was small enough to reveal itself to her with just the light provided by the single bulb. No more than a concrete box, there were dark brown stains on the floor and walls that, she told herself, were from water damage. The floor was tiled in white, though due to the cleanliness--or lack thereof--it was more of a yellowish-brown now. On the wall directly in front of her stood a single metal door, cracked open ever so slightly so as to let some of the light from the room spill into what lay beyond. Next, she started to take stock of her physical self. She was cold, she knew that without doubt, and naked. At just over five feet tall, she was skinny but healthy, with well-toned legs that seemed to belong to an avid runner. She was also filthy, caked in mud and blood. Goosebumps pimpled her skin as anxiety once again seeped into her brain. On her left thigh, a slight bruise was visible just below her hip. She brushed her fingers against it and found no pain, much to her relief. Though she could not see her face, the left side felt slightly swollen and tight. When she touched it she discovered half-dried blood, spattered sporadically along her forehead. *What happened to me?* She had a feeling deep within her that something was very wrong, but she pushed it down deeper to allow herself to move forward; she needed to get out. With trembling breaths, fogging before her face like some ghostly apparition, she carefully crept towards the door, sure every footstep would alert some unknown force to her presence. As she placed her hands on the ice-cold metal, she braced herself for what she might find on the other side. Gingerly, she pushed the door open and let it swing into the void. The hinges, rusted and in disrepair, creaked in protest as the weight of the door carried it open, echoing out into forever. Her breath caught in her throat. Staring back at her through the doorway was...nothing. The faint light emanating from her room was no match for the impossibly dense darkness that greeted her; A war of dark and light was being fought just past the threshold, and the dark was winning. Just to her left, opposite the now open door, she could make out a wall. She stood, allowing her eyes to adjust, hoping against hope that what little light she had would allow her to see further into the abyss. Nothing changed. Small tears began to slide down her face, a product of both fear and solitude. She quickly gathered herself. Placing her hand on the wall, damp and sickly soft under her fingers, she felt her way forward and stepped into the emptiness. Each footstep squished what she prayed was ice water between her toes. The floor felt like moss on a fallen tree beneath her feet, wet and soft, yet hard under it all. The void smelled of mold, thick with must but thinned out by the cold, and she could hear nothing but her own shaky breathing, the light padding of her feet on the floor, and a very distant and muted *drip, drip, drip*. After what felt like an hour of slowly feeling her way forward, a faint sound was carried past her ears on the frigid air. She froze and held her breath, dead silent. She could make out what seemed like a muffled conversation, miles away. *I’m not alone*, she thought to herself. She stood, frozen in time. The presence of this disembodied conversation should have been unnerving to her. Instead, she found warmth and comfort in these voices. With no other options, she quickened her pace and moved forward. As she hurried through the darkness, the sound grew closer, louder. She could make out individual voices now. Excited and feeling that she was nearing the source, she began to run. Suddenly, there was silence. A deafening silence, blocking out even her own footsteps. She attempted to stop suddenly but, legs still weak, she stumbled and fell. Her body hit the soft ground soundlessly. Shocked by the extreme cold and wet, her heart skipped in her chest and she shuddered violently. In what seemed like slow-motion, she stood and found her balance. She grasped the darkness, searching for the wall which she had come to treat as a life-line. Her eyes, wide with terror and useless in the dark, began to water in fear. Finally, her fingers brushed something. Lunging in the direction of the sensation, she found the safety of the wall. Leaning against it, she sunk to the cold, wet floor and sobbed. No sound came from her mouth, even as she screamed against the darkness and cried. This made her weep harder, the silence reminding her how alone she truly was in this place. Gradually, she began to hear an echo. She thought it was her mind at first, in an attempt to fill her senses with *something*. But, as she collected herself and listened, she was sure it was there. The sound of a man, sobbing, and the familiar *drip, drip, drip*, that she had been hearing before, only now it was much louder, closer. She stood and took uneven breaths in the dark, attempting to settle herself once more. Moving forward, the sound quickly grew louder. Sobbing, quiet as if someone was trying to hide it, but there nonetheless. Then, directly in front of her, a ray of light, only a few inches wide, kissed the ground. As she came closer, she could make out a door, the light coming from behind it. With one hand steadying her on the wall, she reached out and pulled the door towards her, open, blinding herself with the bright light. Her senses were overloaded with information. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she could see that she was in what must have been a hospital room. The room was painted yellow, and there was a window along a wall to her left. Warm, comforting sunlight shone through, and she closed her eyes and allowed it to wash over her. *Beep, beep, beep*. The harsh, electronic sound brought her back to the present, and she opened her eyes. A woman was lying in the hospital bed. Her face, though cut and bruised, was pretty. She looked young, perhaps in her late twenties. Around her were monitors and IV stands. Tubes and wires hung, disconnected, and the monitors were all off, except for the steady *beep, beep, beep* of the heart rate monitor. She then noticed a man sitting in a chair next to the woman. Head hung low, both hands clutching the woman’s, so hard his knuckles were white. She felt something for this man. Sadness, longingness perhaps. It hurt her to see him like this. The man stood, leaned over the woman, and kissed her on the lips. A long, gentle kiss. A goodbye. She began to feel in her chest that something was wrong. Panic once again consumed her and tears fell from her eyes. As she opened her mouth to scream, she was ripped backward out of the room. The door slammed in front of her as she flew backward through the darkness. Back...back...back *He’s not that bad*, she thought, as she ran along the familiar neighborhood roads. Her husband had come home a little drunk after a night out with some friends. It was Friday, after all, and he was a funny drunk anyway. She had a stressful day at work that day and was maybe a little hard on him. *I’ll apologize when I get back*, she said to herself. She loved that man too much to stay mad at him very long anyway. Running was her way of relaxing, and she’d been running on the treadmill in college after a particularly hard final exam when she ran into him at the gym. They had been in love ever since. She drifted off into her music and thoughts as she approached her street. As she came to the intersection, she looked right to ensure no cars were coming. She began to run again, telling herself that she’ll have a few drinks with him when she got back; she deserved it, after all. Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of light. A car horn blared and she turned. Light, noise, pain. Then, nothing. Silence.

Warm, rough hands reached out to Freyja’s, slipping a brass candle holder into her palm. Atop it sat a cream colored candle adorned with etchings of suns, moons and stars on its fresh surface. “ Prove us wrong.” The voice mulled away into the depth of darkness before Freyja could find the words within herself to respond, or the courage in her limbs to reject the offering. She found her body frozen as still as the trees; the soft candle’s fire could not even thaw her. The dusk that had hugged her body moments before snapped into a deep, black darkness. The gods had willed the sudden-solstice. With a hard swallow Freyja dragged her gaze from the ground, her eyes as heavy as two anchors. She was without the privilege of sight beyond her hazy circle, yet the boring eyes of villagers stung into her back. All she had to do was remain still and maintain the candle’s luminate offspring until morning. Her legs steadied as she lowered to the Earth’s surface, her back against an elder pine. Freyja only wished for a simpler way for this night to pass. Sleep was too risky, consciousness was too nerve-wracking. All that was left was to pray. “I do not wish to return yet. I pray thee will encourage this flame. Nurse it to health. Hold this light for longer than its worth.” Freyja’s whispers were nothing short of fervent pleas. With each breath, the flame wavered and flung its heat higher. The night intertwined with rays of light, bending it around the hot drops of melted wax. A plump bead found its way to Freyja’s thumb, burning the soft of her skin. Her body shifted with a jolt of pain, though her hand held the candle upright. Freyja knew that her life depended on this miniature flame. Once a year, the gods above would toy with their so-called faithful in an attempt to weed out the insincere. The sudden-solstice deemed itself a pleasurable and entertaining means of both revenge and justice. Only those who had succumbed to overzealous desires were placed with the pot and candle. The gods were in agreement that human life is far too joyous without their intermeddling. No one could have everything , after all. Freyja held determination close to her heart, it nearly beating in one. She prayed nearly every day, gave the village children chunks of chocolate and even broke the bars into equal parts. She saw no reasoning in this decision, but there was no room to fight it. Freyja knew she could maintain the candlelight’s strength, and for it she would earn her keep in a simple life she craved to keep mundane. The snow beneath Freyja’s body had melted away, soaking her clothes into an uncomfortable mush of fabric sticking to her skin. She savored the chance to feel it. Her hands had found their way into her lap, the metal of the pot warming her legs with drips of fresh wax coating its sides. The sting of heat was welcoming. It was nearing dawn- animals had begun to stir and the pine above her began to shake with a blow of wind. “Curse you gods.” With her own grumble the wind ceased, the flame diminished, and the scurrying of animals came to a halt all in one breath. “No! Nourish the flame, gods! I’ve done nothing but good. I am the best citizen of my town! The best daughter and the best wife if you so choose me to live. I have friends who will bear children in the coming months! Allow me the same!” Freyja cursed herself under her breath. Her voice had grown weak with despair. “I only wish to feel the sun’s warm kiss a day longer. I want to feel the joy of conversation and the aggravation of argument! You mustn’t even grant me a day longer than that. Please, gods, let me feel.” Nothing but silence and stillness followed. Not even the gods could care enough to snuff her ego out themselves. Pit. Freyja recoiled her legs to her chest, the candle resting close to her body. Pat. The noise was annoyingly close. Pit. A drop of warm water landed on top of Freyja’s head, soaking into her skin. It felt like defeat. She tilted her head to investigate, though the gods had retained the darkness surrounding her. She had only felt the privilege of this life for just a morning bird’s song past a year. Pat. The depth of black swallowed Freyja whole. The candlelight drew its last breath with a drop of water holding its hand in harmony, both elements swirling to their end. Freyja’s breath hitched for a beat, realizing her fate had been sealed by fire and water itself. “ Freyja, Freyja. Tch. You have yet to wane from the immortal sense of greed. And we thought humanity could change you.” Freyja’s hand fell into the soft cradle of her own hands as the goddess’ words dripped down her neck. Tendrils of thick, dark hair wrapped themselves around Freyja’s shoulders as the presence leaned over her. “It’s time to be a goddess again, my dear. A year of light cannot last forever.” Immortal hands wrapped their slender digits around Freyja’s human body, grasping her chest and her head the tightest. Her soul began to flee as embers of a once-roaring fire, settling themselves amongst clouds of dust and smoke. An agony of emotion rolled through Freyja’s core. She saw the malnourished children grin with joy, chocolate smeared across their cheeks. She saw the judgment of older villagers, their gazes cutting through her. She felt the love, joy, and hatred all at once and then none at all. The elder pine stood then, accompanied by an eighth of a candlestick, a rumble of ash, and disturbed dirt impressed with a handprint. The sun had breached over the icy horizon, sparkling the beauty of snow for miles to see. Village people broke from their cottages and began their days. Their days of farming, parenting, and arguing; their days of living.

The summer’s sun disappeared and the world turned a dark shade of blue until it eventually settled into a profound black. It was night. The stars lit up the sky and gave the moon a pleasant company. They twinkled, and it almost seemed as if they were telling each other stories across the cosmos. The air smelled of fresh pine trees and the hair on Marla’s arms stood up as the wind brought the smell into her nostrils. On a hill not too far away from her shone a golden light: the Starlight Carousel. Its light shone brightly and confidently into the night, illuminating the dark sky for those lucky enough to see the carousel. The carousels light was not for everyone to be seen. You had to believe in it; have hope. But Marla’s days had long been deserted by hope. Her heart was a massive stone that she carried around with her every day. Shadows accompanied her daily, watching her every move until she felt like one herself. Only at night, when it was dark, did the gentle light of the Starlight Carousel seem to take some of the weight off her shoulders. Marla often wondered how she was able to see the bright lights of the carousel. It was said to be a celestial portal to one’s destiny that unveiled snippets of what lay ahead of each rider. A small glimpse of the future. The ride was exactly three minutes long. A short, yet profound journey through the veiled corridors of the future. The carousel appeared on cloudless nights only. It absorbed its energy from starlight, directly from the universe. The carousels appearance was a breathtaking one; a true feast for the eyes. The horses, sculpted from shimmering silver and adorned with jewels that sparkled like captured stardust, seemed to come alive under the moonlit night. Each horse bore a unique expression, as if mirroring the varied facets of the human soul. Marla took a step towards it and could hear a soft melody start to come through. She couldn’t even decipher the instruments that played in this symphony. It was as if it was crafted from God himself. She hesitated for a moment, slowing down her steps towards the carousel and shifting her gaze between the carousel and the sky above them. She was not sure if she could take the step. Can I take the step? The legends might be nothing more than tales spun from the threads of fantasy, but the inexplicable pull of hope tugged at the edges of her heart. So she decided to take a look into her future. Just a small peak... As she approached the carousel even more its melody became clearer and louder. Marla mounted on one of the horses and held onto one of the golden poles to her right. The carousel began moving instantly, rotating gently as if it acknowledged her presence. It acknowledges my presence? The air crackled with a subtle energy and she could feel the crackles in her soul, as if she had become a part of the cosmos itself. With every rotation, the carousel turned faster, carrying her in to the heart of the universe. The world around her blurred, all that could be seen around her were the strings of lights drawn by the stars due to the speed of the carousel. Marla felt as if time and space got swapped. The melody intensified even more with the speed of the carousel and the only thing Marla could think about was to lift her head and look at the sky; just look at the sky, Marla. The stars formed constellations that pulsed in the rhythm of her heartbeat. Marla recognized the true colors of the dark sky. It enlightened her that darkness was also made of components and that it could not exist in isolation; instead, her shadows were made of the same fabric as this darkness. Suddenly the carousel slowed down and came to a halt under a particularly bright constellation above her. Marla felt as if she could look at every decision in her life from every possible perspective there was. As the celestial melodies curled around her, a vision unfolded--a vision of a life not dominated by shadows but painted with hues of hope and renewal. The cement in Marla’s veins dissolved, turning a deep red colour. The burden that weighed heavily on her heart began to lift, the stone within her shattering under the gentle stroke of starlight. The individual pieces of the shattered stone of her heart floated and formed shining stars in the sky. They joined the constellation, completing it into a single true cosmic panorama that took the air from her to breathe. Just breathe, Marla. The stars formed a word. Clear and bright, it shone down on Marla so that she could not help but feel it deep in her soul, in every pore and every cell, as if it were engraved in her DNA; hope. What does hope feel like, Universe? Hope is the melody you can hear humming in your ears, the orchestra inside of you that never falls silent, even if you can’t hear it at that moment. Hope is an emotion that forms in your body as if it was a gentle wave; Hope is love that blossoms from the depths of your heart, just like flowers do every spring. Hope is sadness, a thunderstorm that passes over a city and submerges everything, because the only logical thing to do when you are sad is to just let it wash over, allowing grief to drown everything, right? Am I right, Marla? Hope is anger, like a fire that impulsively burns everything down and leaves nothing but steaming ashes. It’s not even the anger that will hurt but the raw reality afterwards.. Hope is the beat of your heart that keeps beating rhythmically, pumping life into you every day ensuring that you’re here; present able to feel Can you feel it, Marla? And Marla could feel it. She heard the orchestra inside her and realized that the carousel was quietly spinning on its own axis. She felt the waves inside of her chest. They watered the flowers, made them bloom and the world shine the brightest colors Marla has ever seen. Only to drown them after a thunderstorm; because that is the only thing that seemed logical to her at that moment. And then she felt everything burn inside her. She felt hot and wanted to tear off her clothes. Fire. There was fire everywhere. The carousel was burning, and Marla was burning with it; she was the ignition Ashes; ashes everywhere. What have you done, Marla? I am living, universe.

“Hey Phil. Running a bit late are we?”, said the newest guard to join the watch and also Phil's successor. “Just wanted to take one last stroll around the block Frank.”, he replied as all 8 of his legs struggled to pull his old body to the top of the headboard. Once up, he closed his many eyes and took a deep breathe. The cool nights air filling his lungs like it had countless times before. “Any web breaches tonight?”, he asked. His eyes still closed as he recalled the first time he stood here. He was now old, almost 2 years of age, and was ready to step aside and let a younger and quicker spider take his post. “Nope.”, Frank replied. “I suspect that your webs will out last us all.”. He turned his gaze to his friend and smiled, only getting a slight smirk in return. Frank was unsure how to approach tonight. This was the last night that Phil would be on watch with him. The older and more experienced arachnid had been his mentor and friend for an entire month, saying goodbye would be difficult. Phil must have been feeling some sadness about this all as well. But this was to be a night of celebration. A night the all spiders wait their entire lives for. “Are you excited for the jump?”, he asked. “Excited?” asked Phil. “I don't think excited is the right word.” “What? Why? I've been dreaming about my jump since I was young and hate that I have to wait a whole year before I get to meet Anansi.” “Yes, well I guess feelings change the closer one gets to the end of their life.”, he said. He opened his eyes and submerged them in his surroundings. He was going to miss this view. Deep down Phil didn't want to jump. The ancient tradition that once seemed so honourable and poetic was now a cruel reminder of a life wasted. “I can't believe what I'm hearing.”, snapped Frank. “This is borderline blasphemy Phil. The book is very clear as to what happens when we reach the age of..”, he started but was interrupted by Phil. “I know, I know. I'm not saying that I won't jump, what would i do with my life now anyway. All I'm saying is that maybe there is nothing waiting for me on the other side. Have you ever wondered why it is that we even protect the humans from mosquitoes while they sleep? I've spent every night up here thinking about such questions without ever coming to an answer.”, he ranted. Looking over to his friend he could tell that he was talking into deaf ears. Frank was fresh out of the academy and had unbreakable faith in Anansi, the spider God, and her promise of a life in paradise to those who protect the humans. “Phil”, Frank said in semi stern, semi gentle voice. “You need to have faith. You've reached the end of your time here and should be looking forward to eternity with Anansi. All you need is faith.”, he preached as he placed 3 of his arms onto the old man's back. “Now how much longer until the jump?, he asked. Phil sighed. There was no point in fighting. No point in arguing. “Anytime now.”, he answered. “The air is dry tonight so he should be opening his mouth soon.” “And when he does?” “When he does I will leap from this headboard and into my warm, moist grave.” “And into Anansi's arms my friend.”, giving him a loving pat of the back before removing his arms. They both sat there in silence until the moment was upon them. Phil closed his eyes and took one last breathe. “My only regret in life is that it took a lifetime to realize I have regret.”, he mumbled before jumping into the darkness. The same darkness that took his predecessor and the same darkness that will eventually take his successor.

Ramadan is an Islamic holiday that lasts 30 days in which Muslims throughout the world fast and refrain from eating food and drinking any liquid. Essentially forbidding to have any sustenance or nutrition from sunrise to sundown. It doesn’t occur at the same time each year because Ramadan is based on the lunar calendar and moves back 10 days each year. So this year it started on April 24, next year it will start on April 14. It’s not just a physical fast, but a spiritual one as well. It’s a month to build good habits nd become closer to god. Some Muslims try to quit bad habits during this month, some build good habits. Everyone sets a goal of having a good habit built by the end of Ramadan. You wake up before sunrise to eat and pray, then return to sleep. Then if you have a job, you go about your day as normal. You break your fast at sundown. Depending on where you live, a person can fast from 8 hours to 18 hours to 22 hours. A favorite habit of mine is eating a fruit when I break my fast. Fruits become extremely flavorful when your tongue isn’t covered in what you usually eat. One thing you quickly notice is how much time you spend eating and drinking during the day. You have lots of free time and, luckily, classes coincided with Ramadan so I can busy myself with work. But it’s very difficult to get stuff done because the lack of food and water makes you really groggy. The first 10 days, you really notice the physical effects. I usually feel exhausted waking up. As if I had a heavy exercise the day before, my muscles ache with soreness and pain every morning making it difficult to get out of bed. The body takes time to acclimate to fasting. Your energy levels fluctuate as your body grows accustomed to the fasting state. Sometimes I find I have the same amount of energy or more once I get out of bed and start my day. Sometimes you wake up starving and dehydrated.The body takes time to acclimate to fasting. It’s difficult to keep a consistent exercise routine because too heavy of a workout can cause some problems. Coughing fits that last a while, extreme dehydrations, cramps, and other problems I haven’t personally experienced. There are plenty of health benefits of fasting such as cleaning your body from toxins and the unhealthy foods you eat. Ramadan is time to create better habits and break bad habits. You are given 30 days to try to break bad habits and start good ones. You do your best and carry on the good habits when Ramadan is over. Along with the benefits and consistent exhaustion, the dreams during fasting become strange. Some people I know have had spiritual awakenings in dreams, I’ve had similar experiences but not to the extent they have described. My dreams are usually strange and sometimes metaphorical. My dreams this Ramadan have been strange each day and that has been consistent since 2018. I once had a dream of being a cat who could predict the future but no one believed. The most poignant dream I had this year was my walking into a room and seeing friends and family I haven’t seen in 10+ years. It was a great seeing old friends even though it was a dream. I guess I just miss my friends. Especially now, during the shutdown, I’ve realized something that I hadn’t realized before. Ramadan is not just a fast from your usual habits. It’s not just a way to become more spiritual. It’s a practice of humility.

Have you ever wondered what if? It could be what if I took one job over another? What if I didn’t go on that amazing trip? What if I was still single? It could be what if I didn’t get married? What if I caught the later train instead of the earlier one? OK with the last one today I knew if that was the case I would be very late to work. Those two little words in a question...what if? Carry so much power. So much for the imagination to mull over and create endless possibilities. I always wonder if once our lives are over and we are in heaven (or what other place anyone would believe in) that they show us our lives in a show reel and we get to choose the path not taken and seen what would have happened. I have found myself over the years wondering, what if, over many things until today. Today that question, in one of its forms, was answered. Some of my colleagues and I were at the local restaurant that was a mix of an ‘all you can eat buffet or order a meal instead’ establishment, we frequent and waiting in line to order some lunch. I couldn’t decide what to choose as the menu looked so good! “So Debbie, what are you having?” asked my chief investigator Mike, breaking through my indecision. “I dunno Mikey...” “Don’t call me that, you know I hate being called like a kid!” “Sorry...uh Mike,” I apologised as I shoved him in jest, “I couldn’t resist. The steaks look really good.” At that point it was our turn to order and Mike ordered the sirloin steak with chips and salad. Not a bad idea...when it was my turn to order. “I’ll have what he’s having but well done please and the same table...oh and I’ll have a chocolate mousse for desert as well.” “Dessert is ordered separately.” retorted the prepubescent teen (they call them tweens now right or something like that? I’m getting old) wishing she could emulate Robert Smith of the Cure but was failing miserably because she wished she was born 50 instead of 15 years ago. “OK I’ll order that later, thanks.” Jessica, Jasmine and Judy (the 3J’s we like to call them) had just joined us as well and were able to add their order to our table much to the chagrin of others waiting in line behind us. “Wha?” Judy said to an older lady as she tusked at them, “I was here before you and I had to pee. We all did. Wha? You don’t pee?” Yes my colleagues are charming. That’s what I love about this bunch, they make work more interesting and fun. As I walked towards our table, I looked up and that was when I saw...him. He hadn’t changed a bit...OK he’s about 30 years older than when I last saw him but he hadn’t changed a bit. The last time I saw him was at the beach party held after our last day of high school. He smiled at me that brilliant smile he always had and waved me over. “Uh guys I’m just going to say hello to an old friend I’ll be a sec yeah? Let me know when my food arrives.” “Sure Deb,” piped up Jasmine, “who are ya seeing?” By then I was about five meters away from his table with a wide and nervous smile on my face. I could have sworn my heart had stopped if I couldn’t feel it racing. He got up and opened his arms, “Debbie? Oh my God! Debbie! I can’t believe it is you!” “Hi Paul! Wow! It’s been ages.” And he gave me the biggest, warmest hug. He felt and smelled just like he did all those years ago. At which point so many memories came flashing back. “Please sit down.” Paul gestured to the empty chair at his table. “Oh thank you but I’m here with colleagues, friends actually... and lunch is coming...” “Please I insist. My wife will be here shortly but I’d love to catch up and for you to meet her too.” A wife. Wow...I tell you if I wasn’t happily married myself I would be sad with jealousy. “OK sure...wow it’s been so long...” I started, “OK answer these questions as you know they are cheesy but standard when you see someone from school. How long have you been married? Any kids? And what are you doing with yourself these days?” I had to ask. I had to know. The question on my tongue that I didn’t ask was lingering in the air. I could tell he could feel it too. The proverbial elephant in the room. He laughed, “Oh Deb...you haven’t changed...always asking the hard questions in life.. Always to the point.” “Yes well you were the bad boy...and I the good girl remember?” I laughed. “You weren’t always a good girl...” he replied tongue in cheek, his eyes smiling. “Shhhh I have a reputation to uphold still.” He kept smiling and looking deep into my eyes. I swear my heart was racing. He still had that effect over me? “I’ve been married for 10 years. I have three boys, 8, 6 and 4 years of age. Two dogs, a cat and three parrots. We just moved back into the area and I work as an accountant now.” I did a double take. “An accountant?!” “I know a far cry from the movie star I was aspiring to be but hey life happens. I still do local theatre when I can to keep the passion alive but yeah...crunching numbers is my thing now. My wife Marina and I have our own accounting firm too. My turn. What about you? Go!” “Oh...I uh...am married for 15 years, two kids, a pigeon pair, 13 and 11 years old and the main source of my grey hair. I am a barrister now. My husband is a gardener and he loves it. Just as well we are in different fields or we’d always be arguing.” I giggled with nerves. My goodness I am a married and grown woman! Why am I feeling like a nervous teenager again? Oh that’s right...that question. “Barrister! I remember you wanted to get into law school. Good for you!” “Thanks...” I looked down at the napkin I was fidgeting with nervously. “Yeah it has it’s moments but I love it. I have a great team that work for me and we’re having lunch out today for a treat. They are sitting over there.” I gestured towards Mike and the 3J’s. They were grinning and staring at us. Great...explaining this would be interesting. “Nice...it’s so good to see you Deb. I mean you haven’t changed at all. I can’t believe it’s been so long since we graduated hey?” “Yes...30 years...it’s gone fast...” “It sure has Deb, it sure has...” Then silence. He caught my gaze for what seemed like an eternity. As if time stood still...we looked straight into each others eyes answering questions of what has passed unasked. Knowing that if things were different, we may be sitting here having a conversation with a different context. Sure it felt like a day hadn’t passed since I last saw Paul and I loved that. It reassured me we were kindred spirits but time had passed and he wasn’t in my life. I wasn’t in his either. I just had to ask...oh for heavens sake I ruthlessly stare down hardened murderers in court and put them in jail or worse, why can’t I ask him? Right, I’m going to bite the bullet. “Paul I have to ask. What happened? We were high school sweethearts. We had dreams of our own and some them for us to live together. I have realised them with someone else, my husband Gregory. I love him, don’t get me wrong, I’m not fishing or anything and I wouldn’t go back in time to change anything...and I feel you wouldn’t either with Marina but I have to ask...after the beach party we swore we’d keep in touch and meet five years later at the same spot. We swore that we’d let each other go to chase our dreams and if we felt inclined we’d meet again but not leave the other hanging. We’d find a way to get in touch even if we didn’t feel the same way about each other. Wow we were quite mature for our time huh?” Paul kept staring into my eyes, “We sure were...” “Where were you then?” I did it. I asked. “I was there. I waited. Where were you?” He kept my gaze and didn’t break it all this time from the when the moment set in. “I was there...I saw you from afar but I couldn’t go through with it. I was in a bad place in my life and I chickened out. I’m so very sorry.” Then he looked down at his hands. I didn’t know what to say. I felt the rejection of that moment of so long ago fall away only to be replaced with a unrelenting sense of unspeakable cowardice. I couldn’t answer him. I just kept looking at him. “You see I’d gone travelling, tried the Hollywood thing which bombed. My father got sick and I had to come back to take care of him. It was then I realised I couldn’t go back to acting and I felt like I’d failed you.” “What? No...” I started, “caring for ones parents is a noble thing. Not many people do that especially in some cultures. Are your parents OK?” “My father passed 15 years ago and my mother soon after from a broken heart. They loved each other very much.” So did we Paul. So did we... “I’m so sorry to hear that. I really am. And sorry I was so blunt. I just had to know. I have always wondered and from time to time ask myself what if? What if we did meet again that day?” At that point he met my eyes square again. “I think the same thing too a lot at times. Yes I love my wife, my kids and my life dearly. I too wonder as well...” And there the proverbial elephant in the room that many feel but don’t see, felt like it was finally visible. It felt like the elephant got it’s answer and walked out of the room. The air felt lighter again but I had to get away. “Well, I better get back to my colleagues. It was lovely to see you...” I got up slowly to make my escape this time around. “Since you’re back in the area, don’t be a stranger. I would love it if we could be friends like we used to be.” Never have sillier words escaped my mouth. Could you be friends again with all that hanging from the past? “Sounds great! It was lovely to see you again too. I don’t know where Marina is, she’s running late but hey we should catch up with our families yeah? Get to know everyone.” “Sounds lovely! Wow yes it was great to see you again. I better go. Take care yeah?” At the point he grabbed me and gave me another hug. This time it wasn’t a happy warm hug. It was one that said goodbye. “Yes you too. Bye Debbie.” “Bye Paul.” When he let me go I turned and walked with a fake smile on my face back to my colleagues. “Who was that hunk-o-spunk?” piped up Jessica. “Oh and old high school friend.” I replied as I sat, glad that my meal had arrived and I could focus on that rather than look any of them in the eye. “Just a friend?” asked Mike. “Just a good old friend.” I replied before putting a juicy bite of my meal in my mouth hoping that would stop the questions. I felt sad. Sad for what could have been not what was. Sad yet relieved that the question was answered. Was I mourning the loss of a dream? Perhaps but I was glad that I got a second chance. A chance to put a ghost of questions from the past to rest. A chance to be grateful again for how things turned out. Maybe things are meant to be as they are meant to be and we don’t need to wonder but appreciate what we have, right here. Right now. No need to wonder anymore...

The cannon head swiveled, groaning as its gaping mouth lowered itself to Émilien’s face. The gnarled ropes dug into the underside of his ribs as he shifted on the mast, his husk sandals sliding over the damp deck. The Captain slapped the top of the cannon affectionately. Her tricorn hat sat at a jaunty angle, and the Screaming Sword hung at her waist, silent. She turned to her prisoner, tracing the collar of her coal-colored vest. “Answer me this, stowaway,” she said, and Émilien tried in vain to sit up straighter. Her voice was liquid steel, smooth and dangerously low. “Do you have any doubt I won’t blow your head off your body? Any at all?” “Several, actually.” The pirate thoughtfully leaned her chin on her palm. “Do you, now. Well then, what do you think will save you from me? The hand of the war god? A voice from the heavens? Or are you secretly Áspero reborn?” “Well,” said Émilien. “I’m tied to your mast. You’d hit the mast.” “I’D HIT THE MAST! I’D HURT MY DARLING!” The Captain raised her arms to the sky in jubilation, her eyes closed and cheek bared in supplication. One beetle-black peeked out. “Untie the prisoner. The decks need scrubbing. Hop to!” The crew gave Émilien various scowls. A one-eyed woman squeezed a fish so hard its head burst. A bear-faced man with a body like a wooden barrel met him stare for stare. He lit a pipe, popped it into his mouth, and started to chew. A squat man with a spoon tied to his wrist in place of a hand scooped seaweed out of his soup bowl. Loud slurps filled the awkward silence. “Fine,” the bear man grunted between crunches, flicking a gleaming butter knife from his sleeve. “I’ll do it.” The knife landed a hair away from Émilien’s ear, and the ropes rolled off his body. He scooted away from the blade, scrambling to his feet. His smooth hand brushed off his white robe with the remnants of his dignity. The bear man picked splinters out of his teeth. “That’s the last favor anyone’ll do you. Better thank me proper, boy.” “Thank you very much.” The bear man scowled. Émilien pulled a coin from his breech pocket and tossed it to the bear man. “Thank you very, very much.” The coin went high, and the bear man snatched it out of the air. He lifted it to catch the sun. Satisfied, he breathed on its surface and rubbed it hard against his sleeve. “Smart lad. What you do?” Émilien’s eyebrows furrowed. “Sorry?” “What you do?” “I’m an -- I was an altar boy. If that’s what you’re asking.” “Altar boy?” The man began to shake. His body shifted and rolled as he roared with laughter. “Har! Saint in the making, this one! Trying to catch Jesus walking on water, are you? Har! What are you called, holy man?” “Émilien.” “You are canonized, Saint Émilien!” The pirate ducked his bulk into a low, mocking bow. “I am your faithful servant, Mammoth Man. Har!” Émilien returned a weak smile, his eyes wandering to the shrinking stretch of land behind the laughing giant. Forgive me. The crew of the Motley Minx quite soon forgot there was ever a time where Émilien wasn’t there. His own brooding thoughts were often cut short by shouts of, “Bless me with another pipe!” and “A bottle, Saint Em, there’s a good lad”. His days filled with menial chores and crude teasing and pirates everywhere he looked. When the captain caught him staring northwards back where they had come, she clapped the boy on the back and bellowed, “Save the holy visions for after the deck’s swabbed, altar boy!” Mammoth Man cast him a reproachful glower. “Shouldn’t dally.” He put down the barrel of mead he’d been drinking from. “Not with the Captain around, anyway.” “She’s deceptively strong.” Émilien’s mop hit the deck with a wet splat. Its worn tendrils slid over the wine-stained wood. “Aye. Gets it from her godfather.” “How do you know her godfather?” Mammoth Man raised a brow so thick it could be a normal man’s mustache. “The church must’ve sheltered you like a babe. The tale goes that Soltaire’s parents named the heathen god Nari as her godfather in jest.” “I suppose I wouldn’t have heard anything about heathen gods in the church.” “Aye.” “So that’s the secret? Her parents had a strange sense of humor?” “Well, there was that.” Mammoth Man glanced past him, nodding at the captain. “Turns out Nari didn’t take it as a joke.” Émilien laid awake that night, his arm splayed across his face. Even the Minx ’s gentle rocking couldn’t lull him to sleep. He squeezed the silver crucifix tied around his neck. Its corners dug into his smooth palm. It must be tonight. I fetched everyone enough drinks to kill a whale. There’s no better time. “Ow!” He sat up, hissing and grasping his hand. Beads of blood swelled where the cross had cut him. He curled his fingers into his hair, sucking the cuts. What am I doing? Why did I waste so much time? Now. It has to be now. The blanket fell away, crumpling over itself as he stepped over it. The door made no sound. Moonlight slashed across the darkened room. Then it was gone. Émilien walked into the captain’s cabin to find her fully dressed and sitting at her desk, hands folded on her knee. She bared her teeth into a sawblade smile. “Took you long enough.” “You knew?” “It was unlocked, wasn’t it?” “You knew and you let me -- ” Émilien scowled. “You hit me. You made me swab the deck until dawn broke.” “Fun and games. I wanted to see how long you’d last.” Soltaire gallantly waved her arm at the chair before her. “Sit.” “I think I’ll stand. Thank you, though.” She drew her pistol, bussing it with a corner of her sleeve. “Sit.” He sat. “So. My time has come.” The pirate leaned forward. Her smile widened. “I really appreciate you coming to fetch me yourself, godfather.”

Magdelena Brumhauer’s weathered hiking boots crunched through the twigs, undergrowth, and detritus of the forest floor. The incline was steep enough to take her breath away and slow her pace, and she leaned against a tree near the summit of the hill to rest. A large swig of water from her blue plastic bottle cooled and rejuvenated her as she looked to the treetops, searching for the birds that chirped and tweeted invisibly above her. None of the trees looked familiar, and she shook her head in a silent argument with herself. It had been nearly forty years since she had been here, and she wasn’t sure she was even on the right hill. In 1985 she was only 16 years old. She was in love with a boy who loved her back, and they were going to be together forever, she just knew it. Brad Comstock was going to graduate and then work for two years until she graduated, saving every dollar he could. Then they would pack up their stuff and drive away together, parents and expectations be damned. They walked through these hilly woods often after school and on the weekends, dreaming together about their future home, children, careers, and the bliss that would accompany it all. They gave themselves to one another in these woods, near the top of one of these hills under the shade of an oak tree. It was around her somewhere. Since returning to her hometown of Springborn, Magdelena had reminisced on her old life here often. Her old high school was gone, torn down after asbestos was discovered in the walls. Her favorite diner was gone, replaced by a strip mall with a vape shop, liquor store, tattoo parlor, and pawn shop. Her former home was still up, but the current owners weren’t maintaining it as well as her family had, and when she walked by to see it she barely paused to give it more than a cursory glance. What used to be a downtown Main Street was now more of a ghost town, with the economic hub of activity shifted outwards towards the highway. When she concluded that not much of her hometown was the way she remembered it, she felt she truly understood why they say, “You can’t go home again.” Home isn’t the way you left it, and even if it were, you’re not the same person who left. She rented a room above Main Street Bakery a few months ago. It had the basic furnishings she needed - a bed, a chair, a television - and she always woke to the aroma of freshly baked pastries each morning. Her frequent hikes through the hills and forests east of town were the only reason she hadn’t put on ten pounds since her arrival, and she knew it. But now in her fifties, she wasn’t so concerned about her hips or curves anymore. She was pretty and kind enough to be in love with four men in her lifetime and marry three of them. She wasn’t looking for a fifth. She was looking for her first. She parked her Honda CR-V at the wide spot in the road that served as the informal parking lot for the Greenwoods Forest, just like Brad used to do with his old farm pick up, driving the old country roads with tools rattling around in the bed calling all the attention in the world. She headed north-ish on foot, but that was as far as her memory served her. Erosion and four decades of growth had changed the landscape considerably. The trees were taller and closer together, and the valleys and glades were smaller and more crowded. She thought their spot was about fifteen minutes in, but the pace of a 16-year old girl giddy with love and anticipating her first sexual encounter is far more rapid than that of a 50-something-year old woman who hadn’t been giddy about anything except dark chocolate for more than a decade. Most of the trees in this forest were aspen, their slender trunks and white bark forming a swaying, impenetrable wall to block her vision. Their heart-shaped leaves hissed in the wind, shushing her whenever she swore or talked to herself too loudly. “Hush, hush, keep it down now, voices carry...” she sang under her breath as she traversed the unfamiliar landscape. ‘Til Tuseday’s hit debut single wasn’t a very good love song. In fact, it describes a toxic, controlling relationship, but twitterpated, teenage Magdelena didn’t care. She sang it to her Brad every night on the phone, and he never got tired of it. At least, he never told her he was tired of it, and that was just as good at the time. Day rolled into day and week into week, searching for their spot. He carved their initials into one of the few oak trees in these woods, claiming it as theirs. The Greenwoods were a popular place for making out and sex among the teens of Springborn, which is why Brad took her so far back. “I’m so special - what we have is so special - that the usual places, the places close to the road aren’t good enough for our love,” she told herself then. In present times the charm was wearing thin, and Magdelena would have thought their spot a lot more special if she could just find the damned thing. At least she had the time to look. She would never describe herself as independently wealthy, but she got by alright. Her late husband’s life insurance money would last her a while, especially when she lived as simply as she did. With as many crime shows, documentaries, and podcasts were around these days, she sometimes wondered if she would ever see her own face on the screen one day, a jarring headline labeling her a black widow. She doubted it, but still wondered. Just like the chances of being killed by a cow are pretty low, but they’re never zero. That’s also why she liked her name. Magdelena provided her with many names to use, and they were all plausibly still her name. Maggie, Lena, Del, Aggie, Elena - new city, new name, new life. She moved away from Springborn the summer after her sophomore year of high school. Her father was promoted at the tire company at which he worked, and it meant moving to Chicago. She was distraught as most teenage girls being told to move halfway through high school would be, but she adapted. Philadelphia, Boston, Asbury Park, Albany, and finally back to Springborn. She learned to love the thrill of reinvention, discovering new versions of herself, trying them on like a stranger’s clothes until they became her own. But now she just wanted to talk to Brad again. She learned how to put satellite overlays on Google Maps and searched for likely candidates for their oak tree that way. The bigger challenge was pairing her digital searches with the physical terrain as she hiked it. She was down to two possible sites left, and she could see one of them up ahead. “Hush, hush...” she panted up the hill. “Keep it down now, voices...be damned. This is it.” She sat down on their rock. It was a flat boulder protruding from the earth near their oak tree. Barely the size of a coffin, it was an ideal bench for two young lovers sitting side by side. Their tree towered before her. Wider, stouter, and taller than before, but still bearing the scar of their love: B.C. + M.H. in a heart pierced by Cupid’s arrow. The bark had swollen around the lines, but it was still legible all these years later. Another heart, roughly and shallowly etched in stone peeked up through the dirt and mulch at the base of the tree. The oak’s roots had barely moved it before embracing the stone and growing around it. “Oh, Brad,” she began, but then gave in to the grief that unexpectedly arose in her heart. She buried her face in her hands and silently cried. She hated how crying distorted her face, having caught herself in a mirror once after some forgettable teenage tragedy, and vowed to never see herself that way again. Naturally, she couldn’t avoid crying sometimes, but she learned to shed her tears in silence, avoiding even the sound associated with the awful visage. Wiping tears on one flannel sleeve and snot on the other, Magdelena started over. “Brad, I miss you. I’ve missed you so long. There’s so much I wish we could have done together.” The unknown birds continued to chirp and peep, the trees persisted in whispering, and Magdelena paused to listen. The last time Brad brought her up here to their spot replayed in her mind. She closed her eyes to see him again. He had been seeing a Navy recruiter in the city and was going to sign up now that he had finished high school. The recruiter promised him 25-thousand plus benefits every year for four years. Brad tried telling her it was better than working at the gas station for the next two years, even if it was for twice as long and would take him away from her the whole time. She looked forlornly at the heart on the stone being swallowed by the tree. “I was so angry at you. We had it all planned out, and then you made your own plans with that Navy man, and I... I reacted... poorly. I was mad, and I’m sorry. I wish I could have told you that then, but you were gone so fast. We never even got to say good-bye.” Magdelena rose from the sitting rock and crossed over to the heartstone in the earth. She knelt down before it with her hands in her lap. “Your parents were so surprised, too. They couldn’t believe you just up and left like that, but they came to believe you just wanted a way out. Out of this town, this life, away from me... When you never wrote or called, they just believed it was true and that you were done with all of us. Your mom cried about as much as I did, but your dad just stayed sad and mad like he does. You remember what he was like. We kept in touch for a few years, but then that just kind of went away, too.” She cleared away some of the dirt at the base of the stone, exposing the pointed bottom of the heart and the rust staining the granite. “I visited the overlook at the quarry lake where we used to go. There’s a guardrail up now, but otherwise it looks the same. I never heard about anyone finding anything at the bottom of the lake there, and I don’t see why they would bother looking. You left to join the Navy and never looked back. I got home so late after walking back from the overlook; my parents were so mad, but then I told them you were gone and they felt so bad for me...my mom made cocoa and just held me on the couch as I cried. They never even noticed I had changed clothes.” Rising to her feet, Magdelena wiped her nose on her sleeve again. “I really wish we could have had our life together. I think it would have been great. If you don’t mind, now that I’m back in town I’ll come visit from time to time. Despite the way it ended, this is still a beautiful spot you found for us. I love it, and I love you. I’ll talk with you later.” On her way down the hill, she looked back frequently to help her remember the path better. She didn’t know how long things like this took or the science behind it all, but she figured the soil, tree roots, and whatever creepy crawly things were in the dirt had done their part. His fingerprints would be long gone by now, and that heartstone had made sure he wouldn’t be identified by his dental records. Not that anyone would ever think to dig there. Now that she knew the way, she’d come back often.

“Your honor, I believe Daniel Jace murdered Andrew Wells.” Oliver Ford spoke softly. 36 years of age. For the past 15 years, Ford worked for the Greenbelle police department. Too short to let the horrors of the job kill him, just long enough to add color to his black and white world; to blur the lines of right and wrong. “And by Daniel Jace, are you referring to the husband of Mary Jace, Mr. Ford?” Jim Parker was the youngest lawyer in Kentucky, but he was smart enough to manipulate the Jury. “Yes sir.” “Mr. Ford, could you please summarize what you’ve already told the court?” “On October 7th, Andrew Wells was found in critical condition near 153 North Square Avenue. He, unfortunately, had passed due to his injuries in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. He was shot twice in the back. The bullet casings point to the gun being a Glock 19.” “And the Jace family had recently hired Andrew Wells, is that correct?” “Yes sir, he worked as a Private Investigator. Daniel and Mary lost their youngest daughter, Maggie, a few months ago. I didn’t believe he’d do the job better than us, but the Jaces did, and I’ve never experienced grief like the Jaces.” Oliver knew he had only a limited amount of time to convince the court of the truth. His truth. Mary’s truth. And make sure the secrets died with the deceased. In a small town like Greenbelle, everyone knew everyone and everything. Hell, when Maggie was first diagnosed, the whole town knew in an hour. She was the sweetest little girl. Maybe that’s why so many attended her funeral. However, one fact made the entire Greenbelle town a suspect of inhuman decency. Yes, Maggie had Leukemia, but that’s not what killed her. In a rural town where murder was scarce, every once in a while you’d get a case like Maggie Jace’s. “When first investigating the death of Maggie Jace, you interviewed her family, right? Is that when you first spoke to Daniel and Mary?” Jim’s cold, brown eyes had the effect of secreting a single bead of cold sweat above Oliver’s forehead. “While I did interview her family, it wasn’t the first time I ever spoke with the Jaces. Mary, Daniel, and I had all attended the same school since 6th grade. Mary was always quiet, I know she and Daniel both had a rough home life. It molded them, shaped them. I used to feel bad for them, especially Mary. She went through so much, and I befriended her.” First mistake, Oliver made it known he was Mary’s friend. He silently clenched his fist, realizing what he had done. “Mr. Ford, please tell the court how Daniel and Mary have changed since school. Could you see Daniel murdering someone back then?” “Change is relative. To everyone else, Mary became quieter and more timid. Daniel, on the other hand, let his anger against his own father and failures grow into violence. To me, neither changed. Mary was still as loving as she was in high school. I still believed she was brilliant, with her only mistake marrying the son of a bitch. He became more of the piece of shit person he always was, who his father was, who he was destined to become.” Everything in the room went silent; the lawyers, the judge, the normal citizens of attendance, Oliver, Oliver’s thoughts, Oliver’s own heartbeat. He hadn’t died, had he? No, he was alive, otherwise, he wouldn’t have felt the sudden urge to vomit. Finally, the judge broke the silence by asking for a recess. This gave Oliver the time he needed to rush to the bathroom, throw up this morning’s breakfast, and question whether he was going to go through with his plans. He couldn’t let Mary down, not after everyone else already had. He splashed some cold water on his face, hoping if it worked in the movies it would work for him. It felt nice and brought his pale corpse to the land of the living. Locking eyes with his reflection, a voice of a person he no longer recognized pierced his ears. “I’ve got this.” The trial soon resumed, and Oliver sat back down as a witness. He knew they couldn’t keep him for much longer, and all he had to do was wait it out. Jim Parker approached him, “Mr. Ford, could you please confirm details of the crime scene?” “When I pulled up, it was raining pretty hard. I got out of my cruiser and ducked under the yellow police tape to get to the curb. The paramedics were already loading Mr. Wells into the back of the ambulance, so I sent Officer Rogers to question him on the way to the hospital. We, unfortunately, didn’t get anything out of him before he died. I looked around, trying to find evidence. Of course, we found 9mm Luger bullet casings, but that was it. No D.N.A. or anything.” As Oliver spoke, he twisted a small gold coin in his hand. The same gold coin he found at Andrew Wells’s murder scene. The same gold coin he had previously given to his friend, when she lost her daughter, to a cold-hearted world. “It’s not that simple, is it, though, Mr. Ford?” “No one in this town just dies. I believe Daniel Jace shot Andrew Wells because he thought he and Mary were having an affair.” “What makes you so certain? Did you find any records of an interview between the Jaces and Mr. Wells?” “Mary told me Daniel was suspicious. Andrew and Mary never did anything, but she explained to me that it was impossible for her to change Daniel’s mind. And for any records, well, we have 10 pages written in his journal, but one is ripped out. It’s missing.” “Do you know who tore it out?” “Daniel, I assume. He was always angry and aggressive. I wish I could blame it on him shooting up, but he was just a shitty person.” “Mr. Ford, is it true that the Jaces purchased any illegal substances?” “Yes sir. Mary said that she couldn’t help it. I never did like that.” As Oliver spoke, his tone shifted. It was unknown if anyone could tell, but a drop of sorrow and blame inspired a chorus in his voice. He looked at the crowd, and his tongue sobered up. “I truly believe she would've left this town if it wasn’t for Daniel poisoning her with that shit. He started her, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive him for that.” His anger blinded him from the fact that Mary chose willingly to use. His thoughts were loud, but no one could hear them. He felt as if he was on a plane, thousands of feet into the air, alone, but in need of help. Hopeless. He could shout at the ground all he wanted, but it didn’t matter, his voice could never reach that far. He was stuck, and all he could do was scream, maybe until his throat was raw with blood, but it was useless. Oliver could only manage to spit out two raspy, low-voiced words, “I’m sorry.” The court all gazed with puzzled looks. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for Mary. She had it rough since day one. No father in the picture, and a mom who couldn’t care less for her. I was one of her few friends growing up, and I remember her being an amazing person. It really was an ill-fate, her and Daniel. She thickened her blood whenever she would use. After losing one of her children, I’m surprised she held up as much as she did. You know, the last thing she ever said to me was, ‘It feels like we just give and give, and all this world does is take.’ Was she wrong, though? I mean, if so then we wouldn’t all be in this room here today.” “Mr. Ford, we are sorry for your loss. Can you answer just one more question? If we could bring it back to Mr. Wells's journal, did anything stand out to you? Maybe something that hinted at Daniel hating him, or maybe he was scared for his life.” “No, no. Nothing like that. The guy wasn’t even halfway through on solving Maggie’s murder.” When Oliver first read Andrew’s journal, a quote about life being on a spectrum, much like colors, has really stayed with him. Sometimes, his life *was* on a color spectrum. It could be as red as the fire that he used to burn the missing page. As black as the ink that tattooed the page, that bore the writings, “Today, Mrs. Jace admitted a secret. She knows who murdered Maggie. She claims that it was an accident, but it was Charlie Jace, her other child, who found the gun and shot Maggie.” Maybe life is gray, like the ashes and embers of the once white page. Maybe blue like the water he used to cool them, or as green as the grass he dumped the pile in. Oliver knew everything. He knew that Mary wore long sleeves for two reasons: to hide bruises and the needle pricks. He also knew that he would protect Mary as well as Mary had protected Charlie after he accidentally shot Maggie. So he kept quiet the fact that Mary killed Andrew Wells. Even if he wanted to tell the court that, it might get out that he helped kill Daniel Jace cover it up as a suicide. But why? Because he loved Mary. It was a harmful, toxic, one-sided love. So he decided to not lie, but instead, tell the court everything he *knew*. “Daniel Jace was an awful human being. He was a horrible husband who shot and killed Andrew Wells who he believed to be having an affair with his wife, Mary. Plagued with guilt, he shot himself, ending a tragic cycle.” “I know we said one more question, Mr. Ford, but another question has come to mind. Earlier you said no one just dies, and I was curious. Curious as to whether or not that applied to Mary Jace when she was later found on the side of the road after she had overdosed?” “I don’t think she would’ve minded where she ended up. Mr. Parker, only innocent ones are dead, so I’m begging you, please, for the love of God let them rest in peace.

When I was little, my father told a story. It was a story of ancient times, before him, before his father. Before man. A story of gods and monsters. A story of Titans. Long ago, when the world was cooling, the first beings rose from the primordial ooze that covered the planet. Beings of immense and immeasurable power. These beings, who called themselves the Elysians, thought themselves to be the Earth Mother’s will. They could shape her form with only a swing of their mighty limbs. She trembled beneath their every step. Their breathes would cause storms that raged for days. The Elysians were the firstborn children of the Maiden Earth, and thus were made to stand above all that would come after. Born to be gods. Not all the Elysians were content to simply rule over their sibling races, however. A powerful warrior called Havi felt that he should stand above the others. He felt that even among the Elysians, he was superior. He called upon his brothers and sisters, told them of his thoughts. Some called him mad, said that installing a monarch among them would only cause strife. Others of his kind agreed, though not all thought that it should be Havi who would rule. Slowly, over many millennia, a rift formed among the Elysians, the mighty gods. Where once they were equal and proud, this schism tore them apart. A bloody, gruesome war scarred the flesh of poor Mother Earth as the first of her children split apart. Three factions were formed, and three factions fought. The first of these groups were the Asrithi, rallied behind Havi in a bid to conquer and rule over all others. The Asrithi, in preparation for war, had studied magic in its purest forms. They could call storms with ease and would use powerful weapons to beat their opponents into subjugation. To oppose their tyrannical siblings, the Aurra’Maaz rose. Benevolent and wise, they sought only to reunify as equals, to maintain the status quo. Gifted with the magic of Creation, the Aurra’Maaz erected stalwart walls and hardy lesser beings to fight for them. They claimed to rule as a democracy, but the wise Elohyym served as their voice and the most respected among them. Finally, from within the ranks of the Asrithi came the Olymparate. Those Elysians who disagreed with the selection of Havii as the Monarch of Elysia instead allied themselves with a sky-king called Dyauss. Under his leadership they formed an oligarchy of kings and queens, with each choosing to specialize in a unique aspect of magic. Dyauss, the strongest among them, was said to be unbeatable in combat. The war raged for eons. With each clash of her children, the Earth wept. She would heave and tremble and shake and split. Great chasms scarred her flesh, so deep and wide even the Elysians dared not risk falling into them. Soon, only twenty-six Elysians remained of the thousands that had once lived. Nine were Asrithi. Sixteen were Olymparate. Only one of Aurra’Maaz remained. Unlucky Elohyym. He had watched his brothers and sisters die around him, cut down by yet more of his family while he only grew stronger. Where once his greatest strength had laid with the powers of creation, eons of loss had warped his mind. His infinite creativity turned toward more sinister powers, and slowly, ever so slowly, he lost himself to madness. Abandoning the name that the Earth Mother had bestowed upon him on his creation, he bade all that saw his terrifying Hex Magic call him by his chosen title, Luxilishan. Seeing what this feud had done to their eldest brother, Dyauss and Havii called a truce and attempted to reason with the mad Luxilishan. This, however, only ended in the loss of Havii’s right eye while Dyauss was beaten within an inch of his life. Luxilishan had proven stronger than both powerful brothers combined, capable of conjuring hordes of nightmarish creatures with a wave of his twisted and deformed hand. It was only through Havii’s quick thinking that nothing more than an eye and their pride was lost, as he was able to distract Luxilishan long enough for Dyauss to harness the power of the Rainbow Bridge to spirit the pair away. Even with his remaining siblings in hiding, the terror of Luxilishan did not cease. He instead turned his sights on the fledgling races that had managed to avoid extinction. He tormented these beings with his nightmare army, forcing upon them acts of malice and depravity. Havii and Dyauss, though not rejoining, knew that Luxilishan could not be beaten by either one of them alone and thus the Asrithi and Olymparate formed an alliance that against their wicked brother. The two factions conspired together to create a plan to split the power of the Mad God in half and combined their magic to create a weapon capable of doing just such a thing. Hephairon, the Olymparate forge master, created Gungnir and Astrapes for Havii and Dyauss. The two legendary spears would be able to cleave Elohyym from Luxilishan if used together. Simply splitting these two aspects, they knew, would not be enough. One would need to be sealed away from the other, to keep them from ever rejoining and resurrecting the Mad God. After a few centuries of preparation, the time finally came for the allied pantheons to face their twisted brother. The battle between the was brutal, twenty-five Elysians finding themselves losing ground against their eldest sibling. Havii and Dyauss were given no opportunities to strike as Luxilishan released wave after wave of monsters. In a desperate bid to turn the tide, Tywazz, the loyal lieutenant of Havii, sacrificed his right arm to bind Luxilishan long enough for Havii to drive Gungnir through the Mad God’s chest. Dyauss wasted no time using Astrapes to strike Gungnir with the sky’s fury, forcing the madness of Luxilishan from Elohyym’s form. The diminished Luxilishan wildly rushed towards his other half, only to be bound by Sheolus. The eldest Olymparate sacrificed himself to bind Mad Luxilishan, flinging the pair into the deepest of the Earth Mother’s pits and using his corporeal form to create chains that would hold the Mad God for as long as his own will held strong. On the surface, Havii, Dyauss, and the remaining Elysians stood over the weakened form of Wise Elohyym. He was emaciated and frail, though he also appeared at peace for the first time in eons. He pleaded that his brothers remain allied and leave him be. He wanted no more bloodshed between family. Ultimately, the other two agreed to go their separate ways and divide the dominions of the Earth Mother between the three. Elohyym was given the Southern Realms, a peaceful kingdom where he could rest easy and guide his people with a gentle hand. The Olymparate decided upon the Western Realms, a fertile kingdom of farmland and seas. They passed down the importance of strategy and philosophy to their people, instilling in them profound ideals of free thought. Finally, the Asrithi took the Northern realms as their own and created a hardy people, powerful and skilled warriors who held honor and glory above all else. The three kingdoms prospered and grew as the scars of the Elysian War slowly healed. Elohyym never really recovered fully, and eventually withdrew from his people entirely, only intervening when necessary while the story of his Mad half slowly found its way into their minds, giving birth to the legend of Elohim and Lucifer. The Asrithi eventually became known as the Aesir Gods, the Rulers of the Wild Norsemen. The Olymparate, after creating a stronghold atop their realms’ tallest mountain were renamed the Olympians by the people they protected. As time grew long and guilt ate away at the hearts of the Asrithi and Olymparate, they too withdrew from their people. They came to deem themselves unworthy to lead after the parts they each played in the torment of their own brother. Instead, they came together one final time to create a bloodline of champions, born of both factions, to protect the world from the same terrible fate they had set upon it. Once this task was done the powerful Elysians withdrew into their lofty homes amongst the skies, hoping that their final gift to the world would be enough. This was the story my father told me and it will be the story you pass on to your children when I am gone, for this is the story of our family. It reminds us of the terrible power we wield, of the destruction caused by unnecessary violence. We as the scions of Elysia of a duty to be protectors, a safeguard against those that would misuse power in any form so that the mistakes of our forefathers are never repeated. We are the last of those mighty guardians and when I die, you will be all that is left of us. My son, take heed of this tale. Engrain its lesson deep within your being. Once, there were Gods, powerful but fallible. Now only we remain, a final gift to a healing world. A safety measure to ensure the circumstances that allowed a being like Luxilishan to rise never happen again.

Aurelie’s long black hair hung down her back, the twisted braids being slowly undone by fat raindrops that fell. It seemed as if they were all hitting her at once. She was grateful she’d chosen the oversized jacket and combat boots to wear, though that was more for fashion than practicality. She regretted not choosing something with a hood. That would require her to check the weather ahead of time, though, and she rarely did that. She rushed down the gray city streets, people rushing past her in each direction. No matter how fast she moved, there was always someone moving faster. Always someone who was more desperate to get wherever they were going. Aurelie’s thoughts grew darker as the rain became more of a deluge, each gush carrying trash and debris past her in streams. In another two blocks she would reach the coffee shop, where her date awaited. Another Saturday, another hopeful date she’d matched with on the newest dating app. The marketing promised it would be better for women, because the women initiated contact first. The good part was, this meant she got less unwanted pictures of certain body parts in her DMs. Not zero, though. Just less. As she waited in the crowd to cross another street, the grumbles of complaints circled around. The atmosphere of the dim weather was heightened by a thrum of discontented protest, thrown back at the storm by city dwellers. The general attitude of misery annoyed her. Even her own misery felt like a chafing friction in her spirit. I’ve got to lighten this terrible mood, even if just for myself, she thought. She determined not to enter this date with a dour face. The mob of people rushed forward to cross the street. Aurelie hung toward the back of the group, taking more time, but still moving forward. Another group crossed the street toward her, heads buried under umbrellas. Minds inside their phones. This would make a cool shot, she thought. Aurelie glanced behind her and swiped her phone into portrait mode with pure muscle memory. Checking that her red lip stain was still strong, she put on a smile and took the photo. “You’re not even happy!” a gruff voice yelled, as a man bumped into her shoulder. Aurelie jerked to the side, removing her body from the shocking contact, and raised an arm reflexively. She looked around, but the stranger was already gone. There was only a writhing mass of long overcoats and black umbrellas. No one else seemed to hear him. Her mouth gaped open, and she turned quickly, dragging her own feet forward, heart racing. She had no desire to get into an argument with a stranger, especially with anyone who would so easily fling their own negativity around like a weapon. “What the- Wha...? Huh-” she stuttered as she flowed with the crowd, and replayed the event in her head. Her mind failed to grasp the strange encounter. In all her years traveling the city alone, she was familiar with rude strangers, though most people ignored each other, preferring to mind their own business. Sure, some people shouldered past you too hard, or slid into the seat on the train right before you. But that was a natural part of living in a large city. She had never been yelled at, though. And for what? Taking a selfie? The words continued to ring in her mind for the rest of her walk. You’re not even happy. Aurelie blinked her eyes against the onslaught of rain and tucked her phone back into her oversized jacket pocket. You’re not even happy. The ting of a bell rang as she entered the bustling coffee shop. You’re not even happy. Her date droned on about his high powered job, where he was very important and made a lot of money. He asked her no questions. Her coffee got cold because she forgot to drink it. She felt dazed. You’re not even happy. A painful hour went by and she said polite goodbyes. She dodged his questions about whether they’d see each other again, and wandered back down the bleak gray streets. Rats piled up on top of each other around light poles, flushed out of their burrows by the weather. She thought of her life and the choices she had made. Combat boots sloshed in puddles, but she didn't feel the rain anymore. Am I happy? She wondered, entering her apartment and locking the door behind her. She leaned back against the door and looked around at the sparse space. She had renewed her lease for the third year, but hadn’t even hung up pictures on the walls. Hadn’t she said she promised herself she would decorate this year? Bed. Nightstand. TV. Desk. Desk chair. Bookshelf. Closet. Kitchen. Bathroom. You’re not even happy. Her computer screen blinked to life, and she saw her screensaver flash. A majestic castle, nestled in the Scottish countryside, next to pristine blue waters. A trip to Scotland had always been on her bucket list. She scheduled vacation time last week, but then rescheduled it to work overtime on a new project at work. She thought it would impress her new boss, but it backfired. He had taken all the credit for her ideas and then left her out of the final presentation with the executives. You’re not even happy. Aurelie threw her rain soaked jacket over her desk chair and sank onto her bed, throwing an arm over her eyes. She knew it was true. She wasn’t happy. How had she not realized it? Somewhere along the way, she’d traded her intentional pursuit of joy for... for what? For swiping right on guys she knows she’s not going to like? For an apartment in a neighborhood she hated, to be closer to the job that was sucking the life out of her? For microwave dinners and another weekend Netflix binge? Her brow wrinkled as she tried to remember when things had gotten off track in her life. In college, Aurelie was confident that she would be in publishing by now. She took the entry level job at a financial company, because she needed stability. It was supposed to be temporary. Just temporary. That was seven years ago. You’re not even happy. The gruff voice grated on her brain. She sat up, walking over to her computer desk. With a swipe of the mouse, the dreamy scenery went away, replaced by an email from her friend, Morgan, dated two weeks earlier. Sweet Aura Lee, Aura Me, Aura Mine, Look what I found! They created a new role at my friend’s publishing company. I think you’d be perfect. I put the link below. It’s your dream!! Go for it! Put me as a reference! I’ll put in a good word. Love, Morgs PS- I’m bringing the snacks to girls night next week, since you bought last time! See you then! Love youuuuuuuuu. PPS- is it "PPS" or "PSS"? I always forget. It's like Post Script Script or something, right? Whatever, you better apply for this job! Byeeeeee! She smiled as she read Morgan’s words. Morgan typed like she talked, in excited proclamations. Every statement, whether written or verbal, came out with a lilt of hope at the end. Aurelie's grin faded as she remembered canceling girls' night. She’d been too tired from work to go through with it. She hadn’t rescheduled. YOU’RE NOT EVEN HAPPY! The voice was like a roar of white noise in her mind now, and she felt her heart seize with panic. “I’m not...,” she muttered, an ache rising in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut. She felt a quaking begin in her shoulders, and stood up, pacing to try and give her anxiety somewhere to go. It flowed out of her eyes anyway, and hot tears fell. “I’M NOT EVEN HAPPY!” She roared at no one in particular. Her gaze darted around the apartment, and an irrational laugh bubbled up out of her. “I- I’m - Of course... I’m not even happy!” she muttered, the only noise in the apartment was her loud, painful gasps of breath. Her fit continued, starting with laughter and melting into fitful sobs. She flopped back onto her bed, arms and frizzy braids flailing around her. “I’m not even happy,” she whispered, forcing herself to take a deep breath. Tears hit her ears and created wet stains on her comforter. With another deep breath, her mental fog began to lift. She felt a clarity that she wasn’t sure she had ever felt before. She sat up, wiped her eyes on the back of her sleeves, and marched back over to her desk. A calm determination started to replace her panic. I may not be happy right now, she thought, but I can change that. She clicked the link. ______________________ Earlier that day Arjun hated the rain. But he prepared, donning his long coat and bringing his umbrella. What he was not prepared for, was his friend’s mind boggling stupidity. “Dude, she wants to get back together,” Julian whined in his ear. Arjun rolled his eyes, pulling the phone away from his ear as he waited to cross the street. He impatiently tapped his foot, and lamented forgetting to charge his Airpods last night. “I know, I know, I hear your silence,” Julian continued, “But she apologized, man. She said it was just a one time thing and it didn’t mean anything. I should believe her, right? Forgive her? That seems like the right thing to do.” “Julian, please, we can’t do this again. We’ve already discussed it three times this week. Look, you know I’ll support you in what you want to do, but I just don’t feel like I’m being a good friend if I don’t tell you the truth.” “Yeah, but, like she’s really, really sorry about this time. Man I don’t know...” Julian trailed off, sounding unconvincing, even to himself. “Don’t you remember how things were? Even before she cheated? You were-” “No, man, I think she’s really changed,” Julian rebutted. “In two weeks? Wow! Call the pastor, it’s a Christmas miracle,” Arjun’s sarcasm dripped out. He looked around at the huddled crowd, bombarded with rain. Some people didn’t even have umbrellas. Check your weather app, people, he silently chided. “Arjun, man, that’s not funny. Look, you know I appreciate your advice on this kind of stuff-” “You say that, but you don’t seem to want to take my advice. I want you to have the kind of relationship that is simple and joyful. I mean, let's just review the facts. She threw away three years of your relationship together on an old fling from high school because he wears flannel and owns a tree farm in her hometown. How cliche is that? I don’t want you to live in a hallmark nightmare, Julian, I want you to live a real life!” Arjun shot back. He felt his temper growing. He remembered how devastated Julian had been when his ex broke the news to him that she had cheated on him. “No I think it's like a-- a bakery or something,” Julian said contemptuously, “And it doesn’t matter. They’re not together now, she told me how it happened and I think she was just-” Julian kept talking but Arjun could hardly hear him over the swell of his own anger. He felt protective of his friend, but also knew that he needed to let his friend make his own mistakes. The push and pull of the two sides of him warred, pushing his tension higher. The traffic light flickered from green, to yellow, to red. The sea of pedestrians surged with the change of the light, a river of coats and bags propelled forward. The echo of footsteps on the pavement pulsed in his ears, like currents of urgency wearing down the concrete paths ahead. The roaring waves in his ears grew louder. Julian still droned on about how much he missed whats-her-name and the truth finally came out of Arjun’s mouth, in the middle of a city crosswalk. “You’re not even happy!” he shouted, sidestepping the giant rat that ran by his foot. He felt his shoulder bump into something, and saw a flash of red lips. That was louder than he’d meant to say it. He was met with silence on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry Julian,” Arjun kept moving, the throng’s urgent hum forcing him to move forward. “I didn’t mean to say it like that. I just care about you, man, but you gotta ask yourself... I mean seriously, ask yourself. Were you really happy with her?” Another beat of silence. Arjun let the question stew. He realized, belatedly, that he’d bumped into someone and not even apologized. He glanced around, but saw no one looking his way. He kept moving. “I guess- I - I don’t know, I guess I haven’t really stopped to think about it like that, man,” Julian acknowledged. “If you haven’t stopped to consider whether or not you're actually happy with your life, maybe it’s because you know... like you know, deep down, that you’re not really satisfied. Not really living life at its fullest,” Arjun said, letting gentleness take his voice to his broken hearted friend. “Alright, you’ve got a point. I hear you. Anyway, wanna come over and watch the game tonight? I, uh-” Julian stuttered. Arjun knew that this was his stoic friend’s way of agreeing with him. Julian was asking him to spend time together, so he could avoid calling his ex. “For sure, man. I’ll bring the wings. Text me what you want and I’ll swing by the store on my way. See you later.” Arjun kept walking down the street, still irritated. His irritation was redirected at himself, right now. He’d forgotten his laptop at work, and was now having to go by the office on a Saturday to pick it up. He stepped into his building, the sound of his shoes clicking on tiles echoed in the empty lobby. He took the elevator up to the 15th floor, unlocked his office, Wild Oaks Publishing , and stepped inside. Ping . The sound was loud in the silent office. He knew he shouldn’t, but he sat down in his desk chair to glance at his emails, feeling the urgent pull that the ping had conditioned in him. He had been interviewing candidates for the new position for a week but so far, no one was impressing him. His email informed him that someone else had applied to the position. Looks like he had another applicant to interview this week.

The yearning for something raw, coarse. The wild instincts clawed at his insides like nails against a freshly painted wall. He could feel his hands twitching, his legs hurting at the knees from his refusal to run free. But he ignored these obvious signs, like he’d ignored them for so many years. Only now, he knew deep within something had to be done about them. -x-x-x-x-x- Drake looked up from his packing, peering over the suitcase lid at the petite woman at his door. “You’re sure you want to go? Tonight you can stay. Its 31 st .” “‘Those who leave have a reason more powerful than the one to stay.’” “The Chosen?” “The storyteller’s secret.” “So I’m not enough reason?” Drake sighed, exasperated at her adamant ways. But for all the show he put up, she was the only woman he’d ever loved. And would ever love. He wasn’t capable of love. He tended to be overly ... possessive. “Mom, I love you. But I can’t stay. I don’t want to hurt you.” “I don’t understand. Tell me, how will you hurt me?” Drake shook his head. “You wouldn’t. Understand. Even if I told you. You couldn’t trust me, even if you wanted to.” “Which one is this now?” “The story of my life - Drake Lawrence” The woman let loose a bubbly laugh, reminding Drake of their days with his dad. It hadn’t been a heartbreaking death or a remorseful divorce. They’d simply decided it was best they live apart for a few years. Because of Drake. And his unusual ways. The woman walked in now, looking around at the bare room. The walls stripped of their ghoulish human-cum-wolfs posters that she’d loved. She trailed her fingers across the scraping paint, at the clotted red here and there. He’d called it art, but her husband had refused to accept it. She couldn’t continue to live with a man who doubted their son. “Did you find an apartment?” “Yes. And it is not an apartment, mom. I told you. It is a shared bungalow.” “Who’s sharing it with you? Have you met her?” “Yes, I spoke with him. Yesterday. The girl is his sister.” The woman smiled, hopeful. “You like her?” Drake’s head snapped up, reddening at the cheeks. “NO.” The woman nodded, still smiling. For a moment, Drake wondered if she could really do that thing she claimed. If so, could she see the picture he’d painted of the girl in red? His hands twitched and he buried them in the pile of clothes left to fold on his bed. Half an hour later, his suitcase packed and farewells bid to the only person who cared for him, he lugged the brown weight to a nearby cab. Leaning an arm on the hood, he rapped the window, awakening the sleeping driver. “Brisbane?” The man looked around, then at the clock flashing on his dashboard. 4:13 p.m. “Lunch break.” “Oh come on. I need to be there before sunset. I’ll pay you extra.” The driver waved a hand, motioning him to stack his luggage in the trunk. At 5:20, they still had a considerable distance to travel. Drake shifted uncomfortably in his seat. At this time of the month with sunset just around the corner, he didn’t know if could afford to delay it any further. Keeping pace with his raging thoughts, he decided it was best if he walked the remaining distance. “You can stop here. I’ll walk the rest of the way. Nice weather.” The driver looked incredulously at him, then back at the dashboard. Blowing out a smoke ring, he shook his head of shagged hair furiously. “You’ll reach. Before time.” Drake nodded absently, urging the driver to ‘press down on the accelerator’ every five minutes. By 6:23, Drake was heaving onto the cobblestone pavement, supporting himself with the edge of the open passenger door. If someone were to see him then, they would think he was just suffering a food poisoning. But his bloodied face and the still driver said it all. -x-x-x-x-x- Brisbane was every inch the suburb Drake had imagined. A walk around the neighborhood had confirmed his suspicions. There wasn’t another soul for miles and all houses next to his were either locked up or up for sale. He wondered what had driven him to choose this particular town, but when he did recall, he wished he hadn’t given it a thought. Walking back to the impressive mansion of a house, Drake wondered what it felt like to grow up with a sibling. His had run away and blamed it on him. He imagined growing up with one, learning to share ... he’d somehow always been efficient at sharing. A yellow post-it called his attention to the vast but scarcely furnished living area. He walked over to it, tugging it free from a nook between the wall and cabinet. ‘WELCOME HOME! Make yourself comfortable. I’m Ava and I assume you and Noah have spoken. That’s all I can fit on this note. The last room down the hall is yours. See you later!’ He smiled at the sloppy handwriting on the note, just until realization hit him. He remembered Noah’s smiling voice when he’d said Ava was excited to have someone living with them. With no further description, he’d assumed Ava was older, around his age. But the smiley at the note and the poor cursive characteristic of a kid made his blood run cold. He couldn’t be trusted around children. After an unnecessarily long shower, Drake systematically opened his bags, pulled out the heavy-duty metal chains, and sat down on the polished floorboards. Clasping one end around his wrist, he circled himself around the chain, locking the other end to the barred window. When he was sure he’d secured himself, he shifted around, finding a spot where the moonlight couldn’t penetrate through the drawn shutters. He rested his head against the hard wall, his mind unwillingly recollecting every time his father had done it for him. The eager noises woke him from his disturbed sleep. He sat up, wincing when something sharp pricked his back. Second later, he felt warmth seep down his back, but he didn’t feel the pain. No, he felt it, but his growing restlessness and desires overpowered everything. They were so close, he could smell them. "Noah, Nooooaahhh, he's here, he's here. Can I please go say hi? Just a hi. I won't disturb him." “A, he might be tired. He’s come a long way.” Before he could protest further, the young girl was already running down the hall, giggling excitedly as she called out for Drake. She knocked politely on the door, before banging it open happily and stepped inside, Noah right behind her. Drake looked up at them groggily, hoping his eyes conveyed his apologies. He didn’t want to do this. Noah gripped the little girl’s arm, who stared in fascination at the disoriented man in front of her. “I’m Ava. It’s so nice to meet you. Noah said you have a little sister, just like me.” Drake nodded, barely able to focus on her words. His mind flashed pictures of heavy chains strewn around a room, of a young girl giggling gleefully as Drake staggered to her. Him clutching her frail body in his arms. Yelling at himself to stop, but being unable to. The sudden terror on her face. Much like on Ava’s. “I did. Have a sister. But a very, very, bad man took her away. He bit her off and ate her raw.” Ava’s terrified face morphed, tears running uncontrollably down her face. She was hysteric, clawing with her fragile hands at his face, scraping skin off with her sharp nails. Drake shook her body, screaming in pain and frustration. His body twitched, his eyes flashing between amber and uncanny blue. Noah stared quietly from the corner of the room, where he’d retired to when Drake stared speaking, explaining her fate in detail to the little girl. He didn’t want to do this either, but unlike Drake, he could control himself. He would wait for the prey to come to him. It always came to him. He’d ensured that when he’d first bitten Drake, years ago, in their garage. -x-x-x-x-x- A week later - “Was she ours?” Noah looked up questioningly at Drake, who was staring at the checked tiles of the kidney-shaped pool. The water gave them an eerie, undulating look, making the water seem shallower than it was. “What do you mean?” Noah seemed to ponder over it for a second, then blinked at Drake. “Oh. Yeah. But not mom’s.” Drake nodded absently. When he looked up, Noah was smiling at him softly. Somehow, Drake knew what he was going to say and smiled back at him. “You know, mom always loved you best. Because you brought home the food.”

&#x200B; Dearest ‘fella’, &#x200B; I am continually haunted by the ghost of you. No, my dear. You are not dead - not yet at the very least. You stand before me right now, clad in white. (So, why do I call you a ghost?) &#x200B; Because, the memories we created, shared, and bore within our hearts, the very core of our soul. The memories that I kept locked away from sight, in the lacquer box that was passed down by my mother, to me, for you, when she ‘left’ for a better place that required no passport. &#x200B; The memories that are - unquantifiable, unthinkable, worthless yet priceless, these memories that I store away like treasure, as though they were diamonds found among the ruff. Memories that I wish the next generation that I bear would be able to keep, these, moments, that hold immense value as intrinsic as it may be. Moments that I’d never be able to forget - at least, not in this lifetime. &#x200B; These memories I carry like baggage for the rest of my life, in my fleeting heart - like a traveler that roams aimlessly, in search for something to fill the emptiness that is harbored within that red pulp of vitality. Sometimes they are as heavy as the weight of the entire universe - sometimes they are as light as the weight a new born baby carries in his heart as his first innocent breath kisses the very existence of the world. This, cruel, cruel, unfair world. &#x200B; But for when they feel weightless, I feel uncontended. I simply fill the void within my soul with vices, cigarettes, alcoholism, gambling, the very vices that I swore to never touch when we made our promises to one another under the sapphire moonlight that fell ever so smoothly on your face, that effaced the very beauty of your opal skin that I long to brush my fingers against once again, as tenderly as an artist would be to his first and last painting. Ah, this memory once again, it haunts my very being. &#x200B; Bittersweet. &#x200B; Most of the time, these memories feel like a weight that even God - the creator of heaven and earth, the creator of you and I, cannot lift off my soul. I remember the times you would say that you’d be there for me, from dawn till dusk, from then till the end of our exhaustible life, or even from there till the ends of the world, “for you a thousand times over.” I remember the last time we talked as though it were the fondest memory of a lifetime that I have yet to live till the end, but yet a chord strikes within my heart - I know, I’ll never forget this memory, the memory that haunts my existence, the memory that eats me from within till I’m no longer a man but simply a being that eats, breathes, lives, and exists for no other purpose than to live till the day I leave this world for a ‘better’ place, where I would meet my mother once again, to give one last gasp of breath - indicating the end to the vitality of my pathetic life in which the shell of my body - the vessel of my soul carries. Before my soul goes towards the underworld, past Cerebus, into the gates of hell. &#x200B; Dies Irae, dies illa. &#x200B; I’m sorry; I got carried away. Back to the memory which I was talking about before my mind was engulfed in a series of completely, undesired but necessary emotions. The memory, the last chapter of our story as ‘one’, the last day I spoke to you in which you were still willing to receive a portion of my love with contempt and dejection, but refused to reciprocate even a percent of it. The day you left me. &#x200B; It was a more than average, typical Saturday afternoon, we met at the café that we went to on our first date, the name? I forgot, a distant memory. When we sat down on that round mahogany table that separated the two of us by no more than a single meter, for some reason I could feel the distance that you were trying to put between you and me. Your eyes refused to meet mine, is it because mine was filled with the furious unquenchable passion of love that you could not match, or because you could not look into the eyes of the man whose life you were about to shatter with a few words. Under your breath, you muttered a series of incomprehensible words that to this day I still couldn’t make out (or I couldn’t bear to come terms with). &#x200B; “... love you, ... working out.” &#x200B; Then, you got up and left, leaving nothing behind but a man that was left void of emotions, emotions that would only come flooding in at once later in that dark night as he is accompanied not by you but a fine bottle of chardonnay. Oh, you left a 10-dollar bill behind as well, which was just enough to cover our usual order of 1 vanilla latte (decaf, no sugar) and 1 cappuccino (extra shot), (even though you didn’t even take a sip of yours) which would leave behind 20 cents of change. The 20 &#x200B; cents that I still keep today in that lacquer box of memories that I shared with you. The last memory of you and I. &#x200B; Goodbye. &#x200B; Today I came dressed in the suit that I intended to wear on the day of our marriage, I came with my best intentions for you. I don’t understand why you invited me. Was it because you wanted to spite me? To let me know that you were no longer mine? Or as an attempt to get my pathetic excuse of a human being to finally move on? - If so was it out of love? Whatever it is, seeing you smiling with him beside your side as though the entire cosmos stopped in their tracks just to watch you for that day, to watch you get wed into the arms of a man that wasn’t me. I realized that you are no longer within my reach, but more importantly making me realize how I was selfish to ever think that you were in my reach when we were thousands of miles apart. That weight was finally lifted off my chest, the weight of the memories that I held close to my heart in the foolish belief that we would one day be able to relive them once again. No longer will these memories haunt my soul, as watching you, that part of me has died in an attempt to become as pure as a drop of a dew on a morning in spring, to be innocent and to be void once again of any memories. The remaining of my life has become a new, blank, canvas. For in his arms, I saw that you were the happiest person in the world and I’m no longer bitter and sorrow, but happy for you. &#x200B; The memories we made shall simply become a chapter in my story that I will hold dearly in my heart, but yet I shall choose to forget. For &#x200B; memories distort the reality of life and prevents one from moving on towards a better future for themselves. &#x200B; I’ve finally become a better person, by the memory of you.

It’s the middle of the night. About two in the morning. Flint is terrified to go to sleep. Apparently in the nearby cities, there’s been creatures causing power outages so that nobody will see them and then the next morning everybody would be slaughtered. Nobody knows who or what is doing this or what city they will attack next. Flint just wants to run away and move to a different city. Maybe even a different country! But he can’t afford that. He can barely afford his next meal. Let alone a whole move. So he sits. Waiting in his living room. Waiting for them to attack. He has his shotgun in his left hand, ready to shoot if they came into his house. It was his dads. He gave it to him for his 16 th birthday. It was the neat gift he could’ve asked for. He never thought that he’d have to use it. He’s terrified to shoot anybody or anything but if he has to, he will. Then all of a sudden he hears a boom. He goes to the window and looks outside but doesn’t see anything. Then his power shuts off. He runs downstairs into the cellar and locks the door. He keeps bearing crashing sounds, booming, screaming. He’s terrified but at the same time he wants to know what the hell is causing all of this. “Who or what is it!?!” He yells to himself. He grabs his hair and starts pulling at it, wanting to just rip it all out. That’s when he heard something in his cellar. He grips his gun, getting ready to shoot. The only problem is, he can’t see anything to be able to shoot. That’s when he grabs his phone and turns on the flash. That’s when it appeared. One of the creatures. It looked kind of like a giant ball with long skinny legs, two eyes, and a huge mouth with long sharp teeth with drool dripping out. It was just standing there, looking at him. Flint didn’t know what to do. He was in so much shock at what he was looking at. Then the creature pounced onto him. Making Flint drop his gun. He started throwing punches. One hit after the other but the creature wouldn’t budge. He kept pounding and pounding while the creature kept trying to bite at his neck. Flint tried to reach for his gun but to no avail. It was too far away. When the creature noticed he was trying to reach for his gun, it picked him up and started carrying him outside. Flint didn’t have his gun. Or his phone. He didn’t have anything to protect himself with. He was terrified. “What are they going to do with me?” “Are they going to take me to their hideout?” “Or are they going to kill me and leave me in the streets?” He kept asking himself more and more questions, all without any answers. That’s when he looked around. His city was on fire. Dead bodies just lying in the streets. He kept looking around, and that’s when he noticed the other creatures. There were so many. So so many. The creature carrying him stopped in the middle of the street, waiting on his colleagues. After the other creatures were done destroying the city, they all gathered around the one holding flint. They all started to communicate in a weird language. All the other creatures took a good look at flint and then suddenly jumped up and all of them started to run out of the city. Including the one that was holding flint. He started to pound the back of the creature holding him. He didn’t want to go with them. He didn’t. He wanted to stay. Or at least go to the police. Somewhere safe!! But he couldn’t get loose. The grip of this creature was undeniable. They ran for what felt like ages when they suddenly stopped. Flint looked around and noticed a huge dark cave. All of the creatures entered and placed Flint next to a fire. They were all staring at him. He ran up against a wall, sat down, and curled up into a ball. He was crying, saying he wanted to go home. That’s when the creature spoke. “Now now you skittish fool. You’re going to be perfectly fine. You just have to take your medicine. Now calm down. Here it is. Go on take your pill and everything will be just fine.” The creature said. But flint knocked the pill out of its hand. All of the creatures looked down at the pill, then looked at Flint. Full of rage. Their eyes turned scorching red. Their skin started to drip with sweat. They all gathered around him. All of them breathing heavily. So heavy, Flint thought he seen smoke come out of their noses. Then suddenly, the creatures gripped his legs and arms down tightly while another one shoved the pills in his mouth, forcing him to take them. Flint kept trying to fight them. Trying to shake them off one by one. But nothing worked more creatures joined in. Holding down his stomach and head. Shoving the pill in his mouth and holding his mouth shut until he swallowed. “Did you swallow?” They asked. He nodded his head. The creature holding his mouth, moved it hands and told him to open and stick out his tongue. So he did. That’s when they all let him go. He sat down next to the cave wall. Just staring at the creatures. “What pill was that?” Flint asks. “Your schizophrenia pill. You see we let you out about a week ago and when we let patients out, we have to check on them weekly to make sure they’re doing okay. Well, we went to check on you today and you were in your garage with a shotgun talking about how “they’re coming for you and your city” and talking about how scared you were. So now you’re back here with us. At the mental institute. Welcome back.” They finished talking. That’s when the monsters started to turn into regular people with with coats on and Flint was laying in his bed. Safe. He turned his back to his doctors and tears started to run down his face.

I remember now, years later, that bittersweet day when our lives changed irrevocably forever. A heads up would have been nice. But, oh no, Mr Ugly Duckling had to be all dramatic and incredibly sadistic. But wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. This is the story of me and my family. I am called Sabrina Swan of the great Swan Family. My founding ancestor was of course Mr. Ugly Duckling who turned out to be a Swan. We were deemed to be special, a clan of Swans who grew up slowly like humans and attained ripe old ages like them...quite different from the other swans. So, we were something like royalty. Of course, I didn't think like that. Of course, that Silly Old Duffer probably did. Now, I had mixed feelings about this illustrious ancestor of mine. Granted, he thought that he was an ugly duck who actually turned out to be a beautiful Swan, but that did nothing to humble him or anything. In fact, quite the opposite was achieved. Oh the horror! I still remember those days, when That Old Boring Duck ( for to me a Duck he is and will always remain) called up his innumerable descendants as a flock to his miserable hideout. (I should have suspected something even then. His hideout! Somewhere to hide. How cunning he was!) He told us, day after day, the same old story of how beautiful he realised he was, after a long, long time. And how we would realise we were beautiful too, if we learn to look within ourselves and somesuch yarn similar to that. I would sit there, muttering curses and phrases like , 'you Ugly Old Bore!' To be frank, I realise now that he was a charismatic speaker. But therein ends his virtues. Bloody Rascal. I was named after the character Audrey Hepburn played in the movie, 'Sabrina'. Thanks to my dad, who was a house swan, and whose human 'dream girl' happened to be Audrey Hepburn. Hence, my elder sister Eliza, and me, Sabrina. My little brother was named Audrey. My father had realized by then that names could be unisex. I suppose if I had another sister, she would have been named 'Holly'. So, Eliza, Audrey and I grew up in that protected home environment with those occasional early dawn visits to That Old Bore when our humans slept. Why? Because that was tradition, said Mom. I knew she hated that Old Duffer as much as me. However, Eliza the Great and Good, loves tradition and history and all that - and I think that girl actually loved those visits. Audrey pretended to be sick at times to escape it. My dad needed his 'morning sleep' or so he said. (Are mornings for sleeping, Dad?) So Eliza, my mom and I visited That Old Bore most of the time because...I had nothing better to do. Sometimes my mom played hookey as well and I was stuck with the adoring Eliza. I did it out of a courtesy - no one can accuse me of being rude. It was on one such occasion that IT happened. The morning was bitterly cold and I was squatting halfheartedly with Eliza who was slightly bigger and slender and could fly longer distances than I. Meanwhile, That Old Bore droned on and on. (The same old story, how did he do it? Exactly the same words. I strongly suspect that if he had said one word extra, he feared that we would find out his nasty secret). I was dozing off as usual. That Old Bore likely wouldn't catch me - I was betting on my belief that he was half blind and well...he had a lot of his adoring and fawning descendants crowded around him. Like Eliza in the front row. Me, I was a perpetual middle bencher. Convenient to sleep if I wanted to and no clever back row targeting. I'm safe, I thought smugly. Wrong. Then I saw IT. At first, it seemed like there was a human standing, just a few yards away. In my half asleep state, I thought I had imagined it. I struggled to wake. Humans could be dangerous, and if a human with a gun sees a flock of swans like this one, it could be doubly dangerous. It WAS a human. And the human was looking straight at the flock. I grew uneasy. I was ready to sound the alarm. There was no need and basically, there was no time. Because, the next moment we were all changing into humans! It was a terrible sight to see. Necks and legs and feathers in all the wrong places. Yes, even That Old Bore got changed into an ugly old man with a head full of white hair and a strange mud coloured beard. Ew. I looked down at my hands. Yes. Hands. I screamed. I then saw Eliza, somehow, I recognized those eyes, yes, it was Eliza...running towards me. She was a fully grown up girl now, around 20 yrs, human age. "What the ***!", Eliza swore. Now, that was an improvement. My model sister swearing. There was again no time to register surprise or shock because That Old Bore had descended upon us and snarled, "You there, Sabrina! Here, now!" I scowled. Me? I didn't do this! Silly Old Man. It turned out that I did. It turned out that the Old Rascal was lying all along. He had been a human who got himself turned into a Duck and finally to a Swan. His whole romanticized story was a fake! (In retrospect, probably one part of his story was partly the truth. The swan or even the duck would have been a vast improvement from the Silly Old Duffer's human form. Ugh. He looked horrible.) Now, you may ask me, why we got turned back to humans at that exact moment. Because, surprise, surprise...Sabrina the Swan had turned 19 just then. And of course, as is usual in such cases, there was some obscure prophecy all along- about a descendant of the Silly Old Duffer that when she turns exactly 19 years of age , blah, blah, blah, then the curse would be reversed , blah blah , yada yada blah blah. Guess whose birthday it had to be that very day and that exact moment? My father always had fondly said I was born in the early dawn. Romantic, he sighed. Me, of course. How sweet. ( I could have killed that Silly Old Duffer right then. He called us to his little hole everyday to fill us with his lies? And now who's caught in between? Me! ) EPILOGUE: Human life turned out to be infinitely more complex than Swan life. But, well, atleast our family did well. The Great Eliza Dolittle lived upto to her namesake. She became a professor of linguistics. "Romantic", sighed my father again. I agreed. My Mom and Dad lived well into a grand old age. They kept swans! Strangely, we used the Silly Old Duffer's wealth. He had it stashed in various places. He was apparently once a good looking (I don't believe this part), wily (and nasty) man with supernatural skills- which he used against unsuspecting people. Turns out he was cursed for one his cunning little games that he played. And the last one he played it on, was...well, I'll tell you about that sometime later. Audrey surprised us all by settling down to a quiet life in the countryside with my wonderful sister-in-law and their lovely family. ( I personally thought he would become a bandit. No offense). Our house humans were astonished to find that their five beloved swans had just vanished into thin air one fine day. They survived the shock, though, and in due course, my life again became entwined with theirs. And what about me, you may ask? I - Sabrina- whose birth happened to change my whole family's life- that too is a story for later. I bid you adieu.

We are both 16. We are sitting in Math. I'm the awkward, nerdy, skinny, shy boy. You are the pretty, popular girl. The school bell rings. You walk out with your friends. You carelessly leave your book under your desk. I catch up with you and give you your book. You tell your friends to go ahead. You thank me. I blush. Silence. This is my chance. Ask her out! WannagotothemoviesonFriday? You get a confused look on your face. I feel a sharp pain in my chest. Why would you go to the movies with a nerd like me? I try to save some dignity and turn to walk away. Wait, you say. You didn't understand me. The nervousness has subsided. I speak more slowly now. Would you like to go to the movies on Friday? You smile. Of course you would. We turn to walk to our next class. Here comes some bullies. I will protect you. They all come at me. I fight them off and keep you safe. You thank me. You kiss me. You fall in love with me. We are getting married. We are having babies. We are living happily ever after. The teacher is calling my name. I snap awake. I look over at you. You are looking at me. The class is looking at me. X squared over Y minus seven. The teacher says correct. The school bell rings. You walk out with your friends. I look under your desk. You took all of your books.

Continued from: &#x200B; “Was it worth it?” he thought. He had just given away his only means of escape to someone he had just met. “Classic. An attractive girl gives me five minutes of attention, and all reason goes out the window. What was I expecting to get out of this? A date? A kiss? What an idiot.” The dark blotches beyond the lamplight were inching closer. Should he run? He could see the edge of town. No, he would never outrun orcs. Physically, they were far superior to humans. If he called out for help, would anyone hear him? Could they reach him in time? Would that just provoke the orcs to attack sooner? He laughed at the hopelessness of his situation, then unholstered the dagger from his thigh. At least he could take a few with him. About thirty feet ahead, a massive orc stepped into the light of the next road lamp. Redge figured he must have been eight feet tall and built of muscle. He wore nothing but the standard orcish loin cloth. Nearly all of his exposed skin was covered in scars and tattoos. “Must be someone important,” Redge thought to himself. “Where’s da girl? Is no fun witout ‘er,” the orc said as he crossed his huge arms. “Gone. I can’t bring her back. Looks like you’re out of luck.” “Guess yuh’ll jus’ ‘ave ta squirm ‘nuff fur da both of ya, eh?” he said as laughter came from the darkness. A flash of inspiration lit up Redge’s mind. This guy was some kind of leader. Too young to be an elder, but maybe one of their sons. If Redge challenged him to single combat, he would be obliged to accept or lose face in front of his followers. In a one-on-one fight, he at least stood some chance of survival. He just had to last long enough for help to arrive. Surely Rose would have alerted the town guard by now. “How many orcs does it take to kill a human?” Redge taunted, “By the looks of it, I’d say about twenty orcs to one human. Sound right to you?” “Jus’ one,” the big orc said with a grin. He bent down to pick something up. Redge activated his dagger which caused it to emit a dim purple light. What started as a low hum rose to a high-pitch whine. The blade was vibrating with increasing frequency. This drastically increased its cutting power, but the dagger only had enough stored magical energy to maintain this effect for two to three minutes. The orc stood back up so Redge could see what was in his hand. It was a rock, about the size of a human fist. Again, laughter came from the darkness beyond the lamplight. The orc wound his arm back and launched the rock forward with incredible speed. Redge couldn’t consciously perceive the projectile, but his arms reflexively moved to protect his face. The rock smashed into his forearms, breaking bone and knocking him backwards onto the ground. The dagger flew out of his hand and landed several feet behind him. He lay there dazed and semi-conscious, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Looking up at the stars, he could hear footsteps getting louder. They were coming. This was the end, he thought. To his right, an orc howled in pain. The footsteps stopped, and the howling abruptly gave way to gurgling. A scuffle broke out. Redge could hear the chopping of flesh and more howling. He was too weak to lift his head. The orc leader let out an ear-splitting warcy, and Redge heard footsteps charging past him toward the source of disturbance. A loud blast lit up the sky, and he felt a strong, hot gust of wind from his right. Finally he heard multiple footsteps running away and then nothing. Redge closed his eyes. The pain in his arms was getting sharper, almost unbearable. When he opened them up again, he caught a glimpse of a man in a helmet staggering past. Draped over his shoulders were the tattered remnants of a smoldering cloak. What remained of his armor was modern, mostly leather with a few strategically placed steel inserts. But his helmet was an antique, once part of a set of plate armor. Plate armor had been phased out of non-ceremonial use hundreds of years ago. The visor, with its narrow slits, concealed his face. Various metal components of his armor were still faintly glowing with heat. He stopped for a moment, looked down at Redge, and then staggered on. Not long after, Redge fell unconscious.

It was December 2066. It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark. I was 14 years old and my mother was driving me to my father’s house in rural Wisconsin, outside of Madison. There was no way I was going to spend the obligatory Gift Exchange and New Year’s holidays with him again. Last year instead of getting me presents, he smashed my guitar against the fireplace then put the mangled remains of it as well as the notebook where I kept my musical scribblings into the burning hearth. “That’s about as good a use as you’re going to get of those things, Abbey Zhang,” he had said. “No offspring of mine is going to waste his life composing songs about high school angst and pubescent hormonal fixations. You’re better off becoming a raiser of cage-free chickens, like your old man. There’s dignity in that profession. ‘Early to rise, to pluck from the dawn hens their golden-yolk prize,’ was your grandfather’s favorite refrain. It should become yours.” I couldn’t bear the thought of spending another two weeks on my dad's pasture chicken ranch, waking up before the light of day, feeding hens and harvesting their eggs, while the man who wanted to kill my adolescent musical dreams loomed over my shoulder. So, as I was sitting in the passenger seat of my mother’s car and as she drove at approximately fifty miles an hour on a two-lane highway in the waning hours of that cold, snowy day, I forcibly took hold of the steering wheel and turned it with all my might to her left. The hydrogen-fuel two-seater crossed the lane into opposing traffic and we crashed head-on into an older model electric vehicle, the kind that were still common when China had not yet occupied the country for peace-keeping purposes. My relationship to mother wasn’t ideal either. Although she never complained about my music, she did complain about my friends and my conduct at school. She was a drinker, and sometimes the guys she’d bring over from her nights in the town’s bars would get rough with her. Some nights she’d become hysterical and ask what she had done to deserve such an ungrateful, troublesome son and such a miserable life, more generally. Although the Chinese were real law and order types, even they couldn’t control the kind of trouble that found a lonely woman who was also a single mother and given to drink. On more than one occasion, after a night at the drinking holes, she’d told me how I, Abbey James Zhang, wasn’t really her son, that I had been born of her loins, but that I wasn’t her flesh and blood. Even though I didn’t bear much of a resemblance to either of my parents, I didn’t know what she meant. I would only find out when my face finally began to take on the adult contours of Morris James, the grind music star clone whose genome I possessed. It was a freezing December, but I still got out of the car and started tossing money out onto the road. Money was only really used by people involved in the underground economies: low lives and recently arrived immigrants. The low lives used cash because they didn’t want to leave trails of digital currency linking them to suspect citizens known to sell drugs and outlawed weapons. Recently arrived immigrants who hadn’t received the government’s newly nationalized banking app also made use of the aging low-density polyethylene bills that had stopped being produced two decades ago, after the Chinese occupation. I had money because I used to help my high school buddy, Hank, peddle black market synthetic drugs like LSD, MDMA and ketamine. The Chinese had really cracked down on sales and use of illegal drugs, and I risked getting thrown into juvenile reeducation camp until my 18 th birthday for helping Hank, but I used the money to buy stuff at garage sales in the Latino barrios where some residents still didn’t possess means for electronic transfers. One of the things I had bought was the guitar my dad had smashed and burned. While I tossed plasticized bill after plasticized bill of the multi-hued hundred-dollar denomination currency, printed with the face of Barack Obama, onto the highway, I loudly shouted the lyrics of “Heathens” a song by one of my favorite millennial bands, 21 Pilots that had been covered by All, a band from the 2050s. It was one of the songs that hadn’t been banned by the Chinese who had imposed decency laws regulating cultural production. All music that made explicit mention of sex, violence or drugs had gotten the governmental axe. A concerned passerby driving a Great Wall hydrogen fuel coupe slowed to a crawl, rolled down his window, asked me what I was doing, and when I just kept on singing, he stopped and started picking up the old currency. Another passerby must’ve called the police, because not five minutes after I had caused the accident, a Madison Community Surveillance hydrogen hovercraft landed at the accident site. The Community Surveillance monitors found my mother unconscious in the driver's seat. Our airbags hadn't deployed and she had passed out upon impact with the steering wheel. I told the monitors that she was abused by a boyfriend and that if they looked for evidence of abuse on her body, they would find it. While the bystanders who had stopped to help looked on and reported what they had seen, I contemplated my options: either being taken to my father’s where I would be subjected to his sermonizing and paternal cruelties, or doing something rash to avoid transport to his torturous poultry-raising dominion. I made a lunge for one of the monitors. They quickly subdued me and after my mother had come to, she tearfully told the monitors that I wasn’t her son, that all they need to do was run a DNA scan to discover that the little demon didn’t belong to her. The monitors took me to a behavioral crisis unit for adolescents. After I had been processed by the Madison Youth Behavioral Health Authority and given a DNA scan, I was shown to my room. There I met Dwindle, a lanky seventeen-year-old who told me he had been brought to the crisis unit after his parents had called the Community Surveillance Agency and told them that their son, who neither regularly took his meds for depression nor attended state-mandated therapy for anti-social personality disorder, had absconded. Dwindle was picked up by the monitors after being caught shoplifting in a gritty part of town. As we exchanged small talk typical of newly acquainted behaviorally-troubled teens, he told me that he’d been in and out of behavioral crisis wards since the age of twelve. Shortly after we had given each other a glimpse of our dysfunctional lives, Dwindle tossed a small bundle of pills, tightly wrapped in cellophane onto my bed. “What’s this?” I asked. “Smell it,” he said. The nugget-sized package smelled of feces. “Smells like shit,” I said. “Yeah, that’s because I keistered it when I was changing out of my street clothes and into the crisis unit uniform.” By “keistered,” which was pronounced like “key” and “stirred,” he meant he had surreptitiously hidden it in his anal cavity so that crisis unit staff wouldn’t confiscate the contraband. “It might smell like shit, but that right there is the shit that’s going to let me and you to get our kicks while we’re locked up in this hell-hole.” The purple gelatinous pills didn’t look like any of the kind I had helped my high school black marketeer friend, Hank, peddle at high school and on street corners. “It doesn’t look like Molly,” I said. “Molly’s for idiots looking to experience love artificially,” said Dwindle. “We live in times when the likes of me and you are an endangered race.” He was referring to the fact that combined nuclear war in Europe and the epidemic spread of rapaxia, a virulent and extremely deadly disease that affected people of Northern European descent, had decimated light complected populations on the planet. No one was sure if rapaxia had evolved on its own or developed in a biological weapons lab. I was only partially white: my maternal grandfather was German and my paternal grandmother was Irish. Both my parents were half-Chinese, I wasn’t subject to rapaxia’s ravages, only people with red or blonde hair and blue or green eyes were, but I nevertheless harbored a fear that I could fall victim to its ethnocidal contagiousness. “Love is for losers," declared Dwindle. "That substance you hold in your mortal hand is Moxy, and Moxy’s gonna change your life. It’s gonna make you want to kill something. It’s gonna make you see things, make you hear voices that’ll reveal the true meaning of your life. It’ll help you understand who the tormented soul that aches for meaning underneath your skin really is.” Sure enough, seconds after we took the Moxy, I felt a surge of adrenalin that made me feel like I either wanted to fight or break something. Dwindle started howling and encouraged me to do the same. The loud racket we made seemed to quell the violent urgings the drug elicited, but Youth Behavioral Health staff intervened. Both Dwindle and I attacked the intervening psychiatric technicians. They found the remaining Moxy, put Dwindle on another unit and me in restraints in a side room. While fastened with rubberized straps to the side room’s metal-frame bed, the drug-induced adrenalin rush died out and the hallucinogenic effects kicked in. The buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead began to grow louder until they sounded like the deafening hum of a nuclear power station. The subdued hiss of the climate control vent on the ceiling began to sound like a titanic respiratory system inhaling then exhaling. On the mattress next to my head, a lone ant, on some programmed mission to benefit its colony, unsteadily climbed onto my arm. I found its genetically-coded determination comforting, and when I focused on it, the distorted cacophony of the lights and vent died down. As I followed the ant with my Moxy-influenced eyes, it began morphing: first into a larger thumb-sized ant, then a rhinoceros beetle, a tweeting canary, a belching blue-bellied lizard, a roaring golden mouse, and on up evolutionary changes in the taxonomic chain of being until it became a chattering capuchin monkey, then a Jiu wӗihύ, a nine-tailed, white spirit fox that my maternal grandmother, Jing, had told me about when I was younger. My grandmother’s name in Chinese meant “quiet,” which was quite ironic, since she was given to excessive chatting about topics that usually never captured my attention for more than a moment or two. Grandma Jing’s talks of the nine-tailed fox provided a distracting alternative to the monologues she would often give about her Han, or pure-blood, genealogy, about the days of the Chinese peace-keeping force’s occupation, and the need for Chinese to conduct themselves like exemplary global citizens, reflective of our nation’s recently established manifest destiny. She was fond of telling me, “Abbey, you must stop frowning all the time. Bad moods are contagious,” words that now this nine-tailed fox repeated to me as it sat on my chest and gently rose and fell to my breath. “Grandma?” I asked the fox. “No, I’m not Jing, Mr. Abbey Dour--walker on the Abbey Road, seeker of the Abbey door--but, Jiu Wӗihύ, here to show you the true way-hu,” said the fox with a sharp-toothed smile, it’s nine tails flickering. “A Jiu wӗihύ, here to show me the true way-what?” I queried, feeling both confused and entertained by the hallucination that seemed straight out of Alice in Wonderland, a book my mother had read to me when I was in third grade. “Way-hu, as in ‘path’ and ‘hu,’ meaning ‘to call,’ ‘to cry,’ ‘to shout,‘ and ‘to breathe out,’ in two of your grandparents’ native Mandarin, Mr. Abbey Zhang, Sir Abbey Tao. I’m here to say nĭ hăo and reveal your true name. I am the cry of your past, that is also the echo of your future.” I knew nĭ hăo meant “hello” and that the Mandarin, “hu” translated into the English “to yell.” But the word had additional significance for me. My freshman year, after Hank had turned me onto the rock music his Wisconsin-born grandfather had listened to, I had turned him onto the Hu, a turn of the millennium Mongolian folk-metal band that still had a large following amongst Asians of many nationalities. Grandma Jing couldn’t stand when I would listen to the Hu. She called them, “bard-barian descendants of Genghis Khan,” and when she did I would reply with an “Amen,” and a “mother may, I?” before turning the volume of the Bluetooth speaker up even louder. I could hear the Hu’s version of Metallica’s twentieth century “Sad but True” blare from the intercom speaker in the isolation room, which I’m sure the nurse’s station wasn’t playing for the patients, but then the growly vocals started coming from the nine-tailed fox’s mouth. “I’m here to tell you to sing,” the fox said in Mongolian, which even though I couldn’t understand, I nevertheless understood due to the effects of the Moxy. “No matter what your father, the guitar smasher and burner, the dream killer, tells you, you’re no bringer of evil. You’re a derelict bringer of hope, you’re a singer.” “How can I ever be singer? Most of the time I wish I didn’t even exist,” I said to the fox. It put its snout against my nose, winked one eye, then the other, then opened both eyes wide. “Eight of my tails represent a time you will cheat death,” said the fox, and after saying this, it ate one of its fluffy tails. “You’ve already cheated death once, last summer when your mother took you to California and you dared the turbulent commotion of the Pacific Ocean despite the red flag warnings. You barely had the strength to swim back to shore. I will keep you safe until my tails run out. Until then, we must remain perfect strangers.” I managed to ask the fox what my real name was. He answered, “My time here is up for now, but you’ll find out soon enough.” As I tried to get the fox to answer additional questions, it started to chew at my restraints. With a brilliant lightning flash that momentarily blinded me and a rumble of thunder that faded onto my sobering eardrums, the effects of the Moxy wore off, and my now-sober eyes could see that a tall psychiatric technician with a cleanly shaven head, full, graying beard, and blue eyes was unfastening the tethers that tied me to the bed. Behind him an attractive Asian woman with a white physician’s coat, a clip board, and a brass name tag that read “Dr. Bennet,” said “Abbey Zhang, there is someone important on a holophone who wants to meet you.” Holophones, that used hologram technology formerly confined to a few 20 th century science fiction films, had been introduced three decades ago and had made traditional teleconferencing obsolete. I had an unexpected, lumpy-throated hope the person projected by the holophone was going to be my father. Dr. Bennet, who must’ve been married to a white man to have a name like that, walked me to her office, where the hologram of a dark-eyed, honey-skinned man with a pencil mustache sat with his legs crossed and the fingers of his hands clasped over his uppermost knee. “Hello youngster, my name is Charles,” said the man as he reached out an open hand for me to shake. I obliged and shook it, feeling the still unrefined plasma-hologram technology’s capacity for limited tactility. “Where are my parents?” I asked the Singh-o-gram. “Your mother is recovering from the accident. The Community Surveillance monitors have deemed she is no longer fit to care for you. Your father demands I deliver you to his pasture chicken ranch. But those facts are neither here nor there. To be more exact about my name, it is Charles Ravi Singh,” said the hologram, “I’m an agent for a powerful media corporation, and I am also now your legal custodian.” The hologram took a corporate identification and electronic fund transfer card from his suit’s breast pocket and held it for me to see. I read his name on it as well as the name of 21 st Century American Entertainments, a firm that possessed the rights to many of the more popular films, music and books of the 20 th century. They also owned the copyrights to most celebrity clones. “You were given the name Abbey Zhang at birth, but that is not your true name. While your mother Alice birthed you, neither she nor your father, Lee, are genetically related to you. You are a genomic replica of the grind music star Morris James, and whether you like it or not, your genome, and therefore, your life and death, belong to the 21st Century American Entertainments corporation.” The last James clone had committed suicide 49 days before my birthday. I was now fourteen, and although I know I didn’t bear much a resemblance to either of my parents, I didn’t think I bore much of a resemblance to James until the moment Singh mentioned I was the replicant of the grind star. As Charles Ravi Singh turned to speak to Dr. Bennet about my impending release, memories of my barely adolescent life flashed before my eyes, of my parents’ dysfunctional ways, of my only high school friend, Hank, and his pills, of my grandmother complaining about the Hu, of my foolhardy swim in Malibu Beach, of the white, nine-tailed Jiu wӗihύ, whose words had made me stop wishing for death. Before I once again started listening to the conversation between Dr. Bennet and my new legal guardian, I wondered about what my other seven brushes with death would look and feel like.

Crimson blood dripped down into the ancient apartment stairwell. I cursed and put my finger in my mouth, sucking on the fresh cut. I had cut it on a piece of upturned metal on the railing. The whole damn apartment was falling apart; last week my shower head had fallen off. I shook my head and continued descending on the staircase, the metal groaning with each step. "Morning princess," a voice said from behind me. I whipped around to face Kane, my neighbor. I scowled and removed my finger from my mouth, wiping it on my sweater casually. "Morning asshole," I crooned. Kane grinned and swept his dark hair back. "Did you hear there's a party at Jer's place tonight? It's supposed to be quite the rager," he said while wiggling his brows. I rolled my eyes, not stopping to wait for him. Kane continued walking down the steps behind me. "You should come with me, May," he suggested. I paused and turned around. Two steps above me, he was towering over me. I was average height, but he was already tall. The stairs made him a giant. I took a couple steps up so that I was closer to his height. "Yeah?" I said casually. Kane smirked. I shrugged. "Maybe. Now I have to get to work," I said as I began walking again. This time Kane continued in step beside me. "Got somewhere to be?" I inquired. He was beginning to annoy me now. Kane smirked and elbowed me playfully. "Nah, I just enjoy your company so much. You do have a way with people," he said sarcastically. I jabbed him in the stomach and he let out an "oof". That made me laugh. "That's what I get for being friendly?! Well, I don't want to see what happens if I'm rude," he breathed. I sped up in step until finally, I got to the first floor. "You have a good day," I said as I opened the front door to the building. Kane smiled goofily. "I'll see you at the party." I did not respond as I walked outside. The sounds of people chatting and car engines rumbling greeted me. I coughed on the fumes of a smoker standing outside the building and shot him a dirty look. I was late for work, but it did not matter much. My boss never noticed when I ditched, and I still got a meager pay check at the end of each month. It was a pretty simple way to make enough money to live in the city. It was better than living in the suburbs, where nothing much ever happened. For my whole life, I had felt like there was something waiting for me, something that would take me far away. The city was calling my name, so I answered. Now here I was, earning minimum wage at a pizza shop, living in a crappy apartment. My day was fairy simple. I worked the ovens, putting the pizzas in and pulling them out when they were ready. When my shift was over, I went home and flopped down on the bed. The springs squeaked under the weight of my body. I sighed and glanced at my dresser, which was overflowing with clothes. Maybe a party would be nice to take the edge off? It was free booze, which was better than nothing. A small part of me whispered something else, a name, but I ignored it. Yet... Kane would be there. Although he drove me crazy, there was something about him that made me feel... happy? no, that was not the word. I guess the only way to describe it was that I actually had fun when he was around. So I got up from bed and put on my favorite cocktail dress. It was way too fancy for an apartment rager, but I did not care. If I was going to show up somewhere, I would show up looking fabulous. The navy dress cut off just above my knees and had a mesh cutouts on the sides. I tied the halter around my neck and then slipped into a pair of converse. I said I wanted to look fabulous, but I was not about to walk down all those steps in heels. I picked up a lipstick tube and painted my lips a bright red. Perfect. The minute I walked into the apartment, I regretted coming. It smelled like vomit and old beer. Couples were sprawled out on couches, groping each-other and drinking themselves silly. Before I had the chance to turn right back around out the door, Kane pulled me inside and handed me a cup of beer. "This sucks," I whispered. Kane nodded. "I know right. But it's free beer!" he exclaimed. I laughed and chugged the beer. Kane cheered my name as I finished it, wiping my mouth. "What a woman," he murmured. I grinned. Kane lifted his cup and then took a deep sip. I laughed and began pulling him towards a table with bottles and cups scattered all over it. I knocked back a bottle of god knows what. Kane howled with laughter and put a hand on my shoulder. I shook him off and stopped abruptly. His touch on my shoulder felt off. It was as if his fingers against my bare shoulder were electric. Before the better part of me could stop myself, I was pulling him against me. I wrapped my arms around his neck end brought my lips up to his. He stood there stiffly, shocked. So I pulled away and stepped back. "I-I... I shouldn't have done that. I'm going home asshole," I snapped. Kane just stared at me, bewildered. I did not look back as I ran out of the apartment. The next day, I took the day off to walk around the city. It was so... grey. The skies were gray, the buildings were grey, and the street was grey. Even some of the people were grey. I passed a hotdog cart and glimpsed a large man trying to convince tourists that his hotdogs were New York's best. I began crossing a crosswalk but stopped in the middle. People passed me, ignoring me completely. I had to do something. It bothered me that my life was just... uneventful. So I turned around, making my way back to the apartment. It was as if something had just clicked. He had been right in front of me the entire time. Kane opened the door and grinned. I pushed through the doorway and kissed him. This time, he seemed less surprised. His hands wrapped around my waist. I pulled away just long enough to say, "this doesn't mean I like you, asshole." He laughed against my lips and that sound had me kissing him even harder. When I finally pulled away, we were both breathless. Kane had a smug look on his face, so I rolled my eyes. "So, you don't hate me after all?" he asked. I crossed my arms. "Maybe." For the next few weeks, I spent a lot of time with Kane. We even went out to dinner one night. He took me to a nice Italian place and bought me dinner, all the romantic stuff. He even bought me flowers when Valentine’s day came around. Things were truly starting to brighten up. The city seemed brighter too, with colorful billboards and happy-looking people. Maybe they had been there the whole time, but I was just too blinded by my own slump that I never noticed. All that brightness turned into dread on one Sunday afternoon. I was humming to myself in the bathroom when it struck me. I scrambled to check the calendar on my phone. I gasped quietly and quickly got dressed. I ran down the street to the pharmacy and bought what I needed, not even pausing to think. Then I was at Kane’s doorstep, crying silently. He tucked me into his chest and brushed my hair back, shushing me gently. Hand shaking, I held up what I had bought at the pharmacy. He took it with his free hand and examined it. Without a word, he pulled me inside and set me down on the couch. “I-I don’t know how this happened,” I sobbed. Kane offered one of his smirks. “I think you do,” he said. I scowled at him. “This isn’t time for joking, Kane. I could be...” I drifted off and sunk deep into the cushions. “Hey, it’s ok. It’s going to be fine. Just... head on into the bathroom, we will find out the situation, and then we will take it from there. It’s all going to be fine,” he explained. I nodded and got up from the couch. I took his hand and we went into the bathroom to find out if this was really happening. I prayed to myself that it was not. I was too young to be a mother. I had plans! Plans that I had not yet acted upon, but I was going to. A baby would complicate everything. It would ruin everything. As we waited for the test, Kane’s foot tapped on the tile anxiously. He had never told me what his plans were, but I doubted they included a baby. Kane reached over the counter to pick up the test. He stared at it intently. “Well? What is it?” I asked. Kane flipped it around, displaying a large negative sign. I exhaled. Kane was still silent and emotionless. I smiled brightly at him and gave him a tight hug. “Thank god,” I sighed. Kane looked at me with his brown eyes narrowed. “Would being pregnant with my baby have been the worst thing imaginable?” he asked. I thought about that for a moment. Then I told him the truth. “It’s not time. I have so much ahead of me... For a year I’ve been living in this city. I came here because it was supposed to be the city of opportunity. Yet I’ve done nothing but mope around. I think... Kane, I think this made me realize something,” I explained. Kane raised an eyebrow. I smiled sadly. “And that is?” “I need to do things. I need to work hard, at a real job, and I need to motivate myself... I hope you understand, but I don’t think I can do that with you,” I said softly. Kane looked hurt for a second, but then he nodded in understanding. “I'm going to miss you, May. If you ever need me... I’m just a few floors below you,” he said. I knew he meant it. If I came running to him for help a week from now, he would help me. That was the kind of person Kane was... And I had not seen it for months of living here. Yet when I finally had, this is how it ended: a broken relationship. But I was not broken. In fact, I felt fixed . I smiled to myself as I made my way out the door and stepped into the city. The lights were bright and people were laughing. The sky was blue with big white clouds drifting by. I glanced to my right and there was a huge billboard down the street. In big black letters, it read “It Starts Today”. I may have been crazy from an emotional day, but I began walking towards that billboard. I could have sworn it was calling my name.

The feeling of a shift in gravitational pull is something Onii’kvi will never fully get over. Stepping out of his pod, feeling his body and organs shift, readjust to the new redistribution the atmosphere is forcing upon him, he nearly stumbles. Taking a look around for his bearings doesn’t work either because even the immediate vicinity around the ship, the ground beneath Onii’kvi’s boots, it’s all virtually desolate. Black. Empty. Of course, it isn’t actually but it definitely feels that way. The density of the air, the foliage around him, and the planet’s actual distance from any type of sun or star means that nights on the surface compare to the empty voids of black holes. [How am I supposed to navigate the ground if I can’t even use my flashlight, ‘cap?] Onii leans against the ship and looks down at the gauntlet on his arm, trying to activate the lights on his suit, a headlamp, something to give him the advantage of sight. [I’m basically Kaskan food if I don’t have some kind of light.] {Ninety clicks to the signal ping, Oni.} Sai’urn’s voice comes through on the communications channel. {Use the radar, it’s the strongest light source you’re going to get. Besides, Kaskan hunt in the mountains, we’re about fifty-thousand clicks from their normal hunting grounds. Just walk towards the ping on radar, I’m meeting you there.} For the first fifteen or so minutes of walking in complete darkness, staring at his radar hoping and praying nothing sees him at a snack, Oni faintly wishes Sai’urn were beside him already. At least then he wouldn’t be navigating this void of a jungle alone and underpreppared. After those fifteen minutes pass, and Oni begins tripping over small things-a tree root popping up from the ground, a large flower, a rock-he’s suddenly grateful for the silent, lonely treck. Gods know the Captain wouldn’t ever let him live it down if he’d have seen it happen. After another ten minutes, the sound of his own thoughts begins to gnaw away at Oni’s sanity. [Cap, you there?] {Mmm-hm. Something wrong?} [Erm, not really... can I ask, how long have you been stationed on IRIS?] {Longer than you’ve been a pilot, or in school for it, I can promise you that.} [So... longer than six years?] {I’ve been stationed with IRIS for about ten years. Before that I jumped ship pretty often, working on some of the most physically-demanding stations we have in the GDC doing either odd-jobs or acting as extra muscle for assignments.} [Gods... Wait, so you went to Caelestis, then went into freelance work?] {Exactly. I was trying to figure out if I’d rather be stationed somewhere, or if I was ready to take on the throne, work with the Council on more civic matters, attend meetings and such.} [And?] {Well, obviously I didn’t fit in with the Council staff quite yet, nor did I think a good use of my time was to be in court settling trade agreements. I was your age, I’d just turned twenty-three, there was no way I’d sit in a court for the rest of my life, only seeing the galaxy for Royal Court business. It just... it’s not me, yet.} [I think I can understand that... not the royal council stuff but, wanting to see the galaxy on your own terms. Before I moved to Holarus everyone kept telling me it wouldn’t work out, that there was no way I’d survive the school, graduate, become any kind of a pilot or even a technician.] {Well, I think it’s safe to say that the people in your home world don’t know what they’re talking about. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever met a graduate more eager to get out and help in every sense of the word than you, Oni. You’re just so genuine in your interest in the technology, the way things work on the ship and in the world... honestly I admire it.} [Sheesh, that... really means a lot, Sai, thank you.] A comfortable silence envelopes the pair as they walk their respective paths. It honestly felt like neither one could stand to break up their peaceful moment. Eventually, though... [I’m coming up on the ship, Cap’. Three clicks out.] {Four for me, I’m walking south now, be with you in a sec.} As they come upon the ship on radar, barely visible blinking lights shine in the pitch blackness suffocating them. Oni draws his gun instinctively, catching a shimmering glare of Sai’s rifle out of the corner of his eye as the pair begin their approach. [It’s just a personal pod?] Onii’kvi observes, circling the foreign ship and the feeling of its impact on the ground, muted by his thick boot but identifiable nonetheless. [Scratch that, it’s... bigger. Lighter. ‘Left a crater in the ground on impact. Even a crash landing would’ve tore a personal pod to shreds with Ac’ai’s force of gravity.] Oni can just barely see an outline of Sai’s suit as he circles the pod the opposite direction, and lowers his rifle slightly. On the opposite side of the ship he reaches out, brushes a gloved hand over an insignia on the outside, something Oni almost recognizes. Looks... familiar, but not enough to strike a response out of him. Sai looks like he’s seen a ghost, though. [Cap...?] No response. Oni lowers his gun completely and waves his hand in front of Sai, then turns on his flashlight to wave that instead upon reaslizing his hand wouldn’t be seen from that distance. Sai doesn’t even look up. [Captain Ne’la’c? What is it?] {Get ahold of IRIS. Now. } “That’s all he said? He didn’t give you any other information? Did you recognise the insignia he was looking at or anything at all?” Nox all but flails his arms in frustration, walking beside Oni through IRIS’s halls. Oni throws his hands up and shrugs exaggeratedly. “Yup! That’s all I got! Nothing! First he stands there-” The pair freeze as a higher ranked officer walks by in a group of three, looking like they’re rushing towards something. It was always something. Oni quiets down before continuing with the recap. “ First he stands there like he’s seen a ghost or a note telling him the world is going to end if he gives me any information, and then he’s telling me to get ahold of IRIS, get back to my pod. ” Nox grabs Oni by the collar of his hoodie and yanks him into an empty study room nearby. “And you did it ? No questions asked?! What the fuck, Oni!” The other boy hisses, slapping his arm in offense. “Listen it wasn’t like I was going to flat-out ignore a direct order , Nox!” Oni peeks his head out to look both ways and make sure they weren’t spotted and/or followed by another crew member or worse--an officer. “I wanted him to give me answers too, hell I was the only one he brought with him to even check it out! I deserved to know! I still deserve to know, but I wasn’t about to disobey him directly. I hauled ass to my pod, contacted IRIS, and the next thing I know they’re telling me that this stays between Cap’ and I and to stay on IRIS for the next few days. No BLIPs to visit my dad, no breathing a word about ever being on Ac’ai in the first place!” Oni exhales deeply, like a weight is lifted off his chest. He all but collapses against the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor against it, his knees pulled to his chest. Nox copies him, sitting beside him with his head on the other’s shoulder. The both sigh in unison. “So... what are you going to do? If they told you no BLIP’s, don’t breathe a word... shit, that has to be some heavy stuff, right? You got pulled into some serious shit... and you had the Captain right there with you.” Nox reaches for Oni’s hand, interlacing their fingers together and offering a gentle squeeze. Oni shrugs, resting his head against Nox’s in return. “I... have no idea what I’m going to do, or what’s going to happen. I saw them taking a body to medical, or a body bag at least, and the ship was going downstairs to labs.” “They’re probably running tests. Maybe the Captain saw it was a biohazard or something, wanted to get it tested as soon as possible?” Oni snorts softly, “If it was just a biohazard, they would have told me that. We’ve dealt with a hundred of those since we got stationed, Nox... This just felt different. Heavier.” For a few minutes the pair sit against the wall in the dark room, hiding from the thoughts of what could come of this assignment, what possibly could have scared their fearless leader so badly to immediately get them out of the area and essentially lock Onii’kvi on board the space station. Footsteps approach from the South Wing hallway, the officers’ barracks. Oni and Nox quickly open the door a bit more and flick on the light, taking a seat at one of the tables so that they’d be seen casually ‘talking’ instead of sitting weirdly in the dark as they had been. Nox buries his nose in a magazine left on the table: The Art of Mecha-Link and BLIPs - Is Holarus The Answer? Thankfully for Nox he’s read the article fifty times and picks the longest page to skim. Oni pulls out his phone and props it up with a video against one of the potted plants in the middle of the table. A quick glance at the officers as they pass is all Onii’kvi needs. Sai’urn, Cayde, and Nal’eid. Shit. Oni clears his throat and stands, stuffing his phone in his hoodie pocket. “Hey, I’m going to head to the showers, try and clear my head a little bit... you’ll swing by later, right?” His eyes flick to the door, then back to Nox not-so-subtly faking his magazine interest. Nox glances up and nods, tucking the reading material back into the rack he hastily yanked it from. “‘Course, I’ll be ‘round in a few hours. Text me and I’ll head down, okay?” He tries to clean the room up a little bit to look busy as Oni leaves, staggering their exits to look less suspicious for any passers-by. With Nox out of the equation for the moment, Oni glances down either hallway and heads up the North Wing, towards the communications room where he saw the officers heading a few minutes earlier. With enough luck he sees Cayde’s grey tail enter the room before the door shuts. At least with it being so late in the night, there aren’t many people roaming the halls, most of them confined to their own rooms for the night or in the common areas on another floor. The only things on this floor besides the officer’s barracks and the comms rooms were a few bathrooms and some restricted-access rooms for the higher-ranking pilots to use for training. With the space around him checked out and clear, Onii’kvi stands outside the locked door for a moment, trying to listen through it and see if it was about their mystery distress call they’d intercepted. After a few minutes of unintelligible mumblings through the metal door, Oni pulls out the custom-made amplifier Tick designed for him in their Academy days. He pushes the device into his ear gently and presses his head against the panel of the door once more as the voices begin to make sense. “What do you suggest we do then, Lieutenant? Just let the corpse sit in the medical bay until he walks in and finds it?” That sounds like Cayde, ever the challenger in a serious conversation between officers. “I’m not suggesting we leave the corpse in the med-bay, Cayde, OR tell him the truth, Sai’urn. The boy wouldn’t be able to handle something of this... caliber. I’m not sure any of us could handle it in his position.” Were they talking about Onii’kvi? They had to be, right? And what did Sai mean by ‘telling him the truth?’ What did Sai find that Oni was connected to but couldn’t know about? Sai’urn’s loud, defiant groan filters through the door. “Yes, Captain Ne’la’c? Would you like to add something to this conversation besides your inane suggestions to tell the boy everything?” “Why are you two afraid of him knowing the truth? He’s MY responsibility, you’ve already said so before. I’ve vouched for his abilities on assignments despite your doubts and I’m the one that authorized his medical treatment while he’s on board IRIS and living on Holarus when not on the station. I’m aware this is not my jurisdiction as it is not my solar system we’re residing in, but I do still hold some pull in situations like this. He deserves to know the truth and you don’t deserve to pass judgement on whether or not he’s able to handle something.” Sai groans. “You care for the boy, clearly, but this isn’t entirely your decision either. This is a matter of GDC security and to be frank the personal ties here are none of the agency’s concern, and they shouldn’t be your concern either. Care for the pilots and crew, yes, but don’t stick your neck out for them when it is not your issue to begin with. Know where to draw the line with the people in your care, Sai’urn.” Harsh, but that sounds pretty accurate for Nal’eid. The Rules above anything personal, the Code upheld. Sums up his entire personality. Sai’urn goes silent for a few minutes while Cayde and Nal’eid conference call other officials from a few different stations. One of them being Kepni, Onii’kvi’s home planet, from before he attended Caelestis Academy, before he became a pilot, before he was diagnosed. The group of officers talk about the incident, and as they go over Sai’urn’s official report, it settles it in stone. They were talking about the assignment, the distress ping and whatever Sai saw there that shook him so badly. “Have you talked to the boy, gotten his side of the story? Does he know what you found out there?” One of the people on the speaker asks, a little harder to hear than the rest. Nal’eid clears his throat. “No, ma’am, we haven’t spoken to him, but Captain Ne’la’c is certain he didn’t see anything on the ship, or at least didn’t recognize anything.” “Seeing something and recognizing it are not so different. If he saw what was written on the ship, the insignia, it’s very possible he’s already looked it up and found out what happened on Ac’ai many moons ago during the Xhi’ka Conflict. Captain Ne’la’c. Can you positively tell me he didn’t see anything on that ship?” There’s a long pause, and Onii’kvi has the briefest white-hot flash of fear running down his spine. He never thought about if Sai’urn had noticed him that entire time. Sure, he didn’t respond or look directly at him, but he was very spacially aware. It’s entirely possible that he’s aware Oni saw the insignia. What happens if Sai’urn tells them? Is he going to get kicked off of IRIS? Is he going to get thrown in some kind of max-security prison for what he saw? Blackmailed to never pilot another ship again? “I can say with absolute confidence that Pilot Onii’kvi did not see any defining marks on the fighter ship, nor did he recognize it as being one of the GDC’s.” What?! It was one of theirs?! It didn’t look anything like their ships! From what Oni saw it was really old and rusted and the materials they use for the ships now are used primarily so they don’t rust or crush completely flat upon emergency impact. There’s no way that ship was one of their models! One of the officials on the phone clears his head and makes an acknowledging hum, clearly believing his captain’s testimony-whether or not he was lying to their faces. He might not have actually seen anything. “Mhm... what about the pilot? Were we able to figure if they were DOA?” Sai'urn sighs heavily, one of the office chairs creaking slightly as he sits down. “First Officer Shaii’kvi died on impact due to engine failure in the pod. We suspect she was seeking refuge on station RELLE that was taken down a decade ago, sir.” Wait. Mom?

Moving to England from Old New Jersey wasn't the worst thing in the world for Tom Rhodes. He was in the fourth grade, about to be in dreaded fifth, and he wasn't exactly Mr. Popular amongst his classmates. He thought that they thought he was a weirdo - and what was wrong with that? Everything, apparently. More likely, they just never thought about him at all. England could be a fresh start for Tom. His brother and sisters did not agree. "I hate it here already!" said Elle, the youngest sibling at six years old. "Me too. There's no beach, mom!" said Susan. "I was supposed to lifeguard this summer." "Sigh," said Peter, followed by a literal but quite exaggerated sigh. "You were never gonna be allowed to lifeguard, Sus." Susan and Peter were twins, just over two years older than Tom. Susan arrived a full half hour before Peter, which she often reminded Peter of. Their mother, Abby Rhodes (her parents had a bit of a thing for The Beatles and couldn't help themselves), glanced back at her kids from the rear-view mirror. Her stiff-upper lip, as the Brits would say, was curled into her forever crooked smile, thanks to a field hockey accident in college. "Give it a chance, everyone. We're almost there. I think you're gonna like the house." Their mini-van scratched against the bushes on the skinny country road. "Maybe I should drive, Mom," said Peter. "You're not used to driving with the steering wheel on the right side." "And you are?" asked Abby. "Yes, actually," said Peter. "I've played every single racing video game in the world, and I'm fully prepared to drive this car." "Over my dead body," said Susan. Peter was about to say something, but the lane cleared into a long expansive yard, at the end of which stood a massive stone house. "Woah," said Tom. "It's a castle," said Susan. "And that's where we're gonna live," said Abby. "You know how English houses all have special names? Well, ours is called Coldfast." "Cool," said Peter. "*Coldfast*. I dig it." "Is it really ours?" asked Elle. "Well, we're technically renting it for the summer," said Abby. "But, if we like it -- and my job here works out -- then maybe we can buy it." "Yay!" said Elle. Tom's stomach turned, the way it did when he tried reading in the car. "Can we get out, Mom?" he asked. "I was going to drive up a little closer, but why not?" She stopped the car, and unlocked the sliding doors. The kids pushed out and flew across the grounds towards the house. "There's a stream back here! It's like a little river!" "Look at this climbing tree!" "I think there's 5 floors!" "Kids! Can you come here and help me carry in our bags?" "Yes, mom!" they all replied. There were enough bedrooms in Coldfast that none of them had to share a room, and there wasn't even much fighting over who got which one. Tom's choice must have once been an old library or a study, because it was filled with wall-to-wall bookshelves, which were now mostly bare, except for a complete set of the Encyclopedia Britannica. Tom pulled out the "T" and skimmed ahead to the find the section on turtles when an old-fashioned bell rang from somewhere downstairs "I'm gonna have to figure out how to call you all, and this bell seems pretty good," said Abby. "A little different from our house in Old New Jersey, huh?" "Yeah, Mom," said Susan. "I love it here," said Elle. "Good," said Abby. "Now I have to drive into town to get situated at work. They want me to start at Bletchley Park tomorrow, and I've got to get my ID card and whatnot set up today. So, Susan and Peter, you're in charge. Stick together, and have fun. I'll bring home something English for dinner. Ok?" Everyone nodded. They stood at the large doorway to Coldfast and waved at their mother's minivan crunch away on the gravel driveway. "So, we're splitting up, right?" said Peter. "Obviously," said Susan. "We've gotta explore this place, and I want to do it my way." "Me too!" said Elle. Tom pulled on Susan's arm. "But didn't Mom say we were supposed to stick together." Susan patted Tom's head. "Don't worry. I'm in charge now." "No, I'm in charge," said Peter. "We'll meet back here in an hour and report back on our findings." "Ugh, okay," said Tom. "I'm going outside then." Something about the house creeped him out. "Elle and I will explore inside," said Peter. "Susan you should try outside, too." "I will, but not cause you said it." Tom and Susan went outside and set off in different directions, Susan towards the stream and the rolling hills beyond the western side of the building, and he towards the pine trees on the east. He'd always loved the smell of Christmas, and pine trees were as close as you could get during the rest of the year. It wasn't long before Tom had lost sight of Coldfast. He kicked up tufts of fallen pine needles as he walked, like little yellow fireworks for potato bugs. He wondered if potato bugs lived in England. Or if they had some other kind of rolly-polly bug. He spotted a particularly gigantic pinecone and kicked it. The pinecone bounced and tumbled before rolling into a hollow at the base of a large oak tree. The oak seemed rather out of place in the pine woods. Tom approached the tree and crawled down to try to snag the pinecone. He felt a warm breeze coming from the hollow, and reached inside for the pinecone. He couldn't quite reach it, so he crawled his head inside. The warm feeling grew. Soon Tom was fully inside the hollow, still crawling forward. Maybe this was a cave, he thought. This would be something cool to report back to his siblings. His head bumped into something. He reached forward. It felt like a door. It was wooden and smooth, with those boxy groves that doors sometimes have for styling purposes. Tom's hand found a cool round handle in the center of the door. He twisted it and the door opened into a sunny afternoon in a completely different forest from the pine trees where he'd been. Something snuffled nearby. Tom flinched, worried it might be a raccoon or something with rabies. "HALLOOF!" Tom turned towards the sound. Something fuzzy with two legs was sticking out of a rabbit hole. "HALPF!" Tom was pretty sure it was trying to say "Help!" so he grabbed onto its legs and tugged. And tugged, until finally the thing got unstuck and the two of them rolled backwards into the meadow grasses. "Oh, thank you, Christopher Ro -- wait a second, you're not him." It was a talking teddy bear. *Yes*, Tom said to himself, *A teddy bear is standing up and talking to me. I must be unconscious or something.* "Well, I always do say, a Stranger is just a Friend you haven't met yet. I'm Edward Bear, but my Friends call me Winnie. The Pooh." Tom nodded blankly, because at this moment, behind Edward the Pooh, were three more stuffed animals: a piglet, a tiger, and a baby kangaroo. "Pooh! Oh, Pooh!" cried the piglet. "There you are!" "Ho-hoo," said the tiger. "And a-who do we have a-here?" "Are you coming on our Expodition to the South Pole?" asked the baby kangaroo. "Because we could use someone Strong and Brave." "I..." stammered Tom. "I don't know..." "You either Know something or you Don't," said the bear. "But you can never Don't Know something. That's like saying honey isn't sweet and sticky and delicious." "A pa-pa-paradox," said the tiger, hopping on his rather coiled tail. Tom had enough. He was clearly losing his mind. He began crab-walking backwards towards towards the door, and grabbed its handle. "Are you leaving us before the Expodition?" asked the kangaroo. "Yy-up," said Tom, opening the door, scrambling inside, and pulling it shut. He crawled through the dark back into the pines, and then ran back to Coldfast as fast as he could. He opened the front door and found his siblings arguing in the foyer. "Well, where have you been?" snapped Peter. Tom could barely catch his breath. "I... I found something." "Yeah, we all did," said Susan. "No, no, no," said Tom. "I found this tree, with a hole in it, and I crawled through it, into this whole other forest, and there was a talking teddy bear, and a talking piglet, and a tiger that bounced on its tail, and this baby kangaroo, and they were all going to the South Pole." "Uh-huh..." said Peter. "Sure, you did." "No, I'm serious!" said Tom. "You have to see it. I can show you!" "I found winter," said Elle. "Your cheeks," said Tom. "They're freezing. Did you find a cellar or something?" "She was just about to tell us, Tom, before you interrupted everyone," said Susan. "Not a cellar, but a wardrobe, in another bedroom," said Elle. "I opened it up, and it was filled with these heavy coats, perfect for snowstorms, and I tried to take one off the hanger, and then I just felt more coats hanging behind them. So I climbed into the wardrobe and kept walking. I couldn't find the back of it. And it kept getting colder. Until I looked down and saw that I was walking through snow, and then I looked up and I found a lamppost, and I was standing in a forest covered in snow." "Your shirt," said Tom. "Are those snowflakes on it?" "Yes," said Elle. "But then I saw this goat-man walking towards me, and I screamed and I ran back here." "I don't believe you guys," said Susan. "I saw something *real*, though. It was a huge battle of these rabbits on the hills beside the house. There were almost a hundred of them. One of them had a big funny tuft of hair, and another had a broken eye, and then there was this big bird helping one of the two sides. It was like watching a real war, I don't even know who won, because suddenly a bunch of the rabbits climbed onto wooden rafts and floated down the stream." None of this would have seemed possible to Tom, if he hadn't had his own experience with the talking stuffed animals. Something was happening here in Coldfast. "That all sounds great, team," said Peter. "But I've found something even better." The other three stared at him. "They have a regular Nintendo here." "What?" said Tom. "A regular Nintendo. The old kind. It's in the den." "Do they have Duck Hunt?" asked Susan. "Yep! It's the one combined with Mario Bros." "What's Mario Bros?" asked Elle. "Oh, you'll see, because I found something else. Something amazing. I was playing one of the levels and then I hit this block as Big Mario and then somehow Mario got sucked into the bricks and then I was at this warp pipe, and it was a new level, one of those awful water levels, but the level name was World -1." Tom had played a lot of Mario in his life and he'd never heard of World -1. "What does that even mean, Peter?" "It's a secret world, obviously," said Peter.

#Welcome to Serial Sunday! **Important Notes: To make nominations, we will now be using a form! You can find it listed under ‘Reminders’ as well as on our Discord. Also please note this feature has feedback requirements! Please read the entire post before submitting.** 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 will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. &nbsp; *** #This week's theme is ‘Underdog’! This week, we’re going to explore the theme of ‘underdog’. C’mon, let’s face it, we all root for the underdog time and time again. The unsung hero. The little guy that rises to the challenge and shocks everyone. Who is that in your story? Is it a new character or one previously overlooked by the other characters? Maybe one of your main characters is already an underdog, climbing through the obstacles. What’s their story? Who is their challenger, the one they will ultimately go head to head with? How does your underdog feel about the coming days? Who’s in their corner; who pushes them forward? How would the world change if they were unable to rise to the challenge? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. | &nbsp; *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even have a say in upcoming themes! Join us on the discord - we vote on a theme every Sunday. (You can also send suggestions to me via DM on Discord or Reddit!) * February 20 - Underdog (this week) * February 27 - Optimism * March 6 - Gossip &nbsp; *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting! &nbsp; *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme (not using the theme is a disqualifier).** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The feedback should be actionable and **must** include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 1pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of family friendly for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalog. Please note: You **must** use the exact same name each week. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments. &nbsp; *** #Reminders: * **If you are continuing an in-progress serial, please include links to the prior installments on reddit.** * **Saturdays I host a Serial Campfire in our Discord’s Main Voice Lounge.** Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **Nominations will now be submitted . After the submission deadline each week, the form will be updated with that week’s authors, as well as the next theme options. The form will close at 1pm EST each week. You do not have to participate to make nominations!** * **Authors who complete their Serial Sunday serials with at least 12 installments, will be allowed to read their edited serials in their entirety aloud in the discord’s “Main Voice Lounge”.** This is to celebrate your wonderful accomplishment and hopefully provide some extra motivation to cross that finish line. 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. * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! &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! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by 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 **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above.Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” comments will not earn you points or credit.)* **Nominating Other Stories:** - Submitting nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) &nbsp; *** #Rankings - - by u/rainbow\-\-penguin &nbsp; - - by u/stickfist &nbsp; - - by u/bantamnerd &nbsp; - - by u/ispotts &nbsp; *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

David tapped on the door with the back of his hand. Doorbells were so impersonal. They also left fingerprints For a moment he wasn’t sure if anyone had heard. He inspected his ID tag briefly. He considered knocking again and toyed with the idea of moving on. Then inside, he noticed a shape shifting in and out of focus through the textured glass of the door panel. David straightened himself and put on his most sincere smile. The door cautiously opened an inch or two. A pair of horn-rimmed spectacles attached to the face of a woman with long hair the colour of curb side snow peered around the doorframe. She wasn’t as old as he’d expected. Or at least he didn’t think she was. There were the deep etchings of age, certainly, but they seemed somehow out of place, without the porcelain transparency of ageing skin. Her face was pointed, not sagging, sharp even, with a prominent chin. And her eyes. David made a point of paying attention to eyes: they were often the first warning sign. In his experience with the elderly, age seemed to fog eyes and make their owners peer out as if looking through a frosted window. But hers were, deep brilliant green. It reminded him of someone, but he couldn't place who. He continued with expertly learned poise. “ Good afternoon-“ started David, “I’m from -“ “Max?” Said the woman. David paused for a second. He didn’t like being interrupted, especially by an old woman who should know better. A careful observer, skilled at these sorts of things would have seen a flash of anger dart across his face, quick and transitory as the shadow of a dragonfly crossing a tranquil pond. “Sorry, Madam, I’m here on behalf of Open Broadband. We hear you’re having trouble with your connection.” She looked at him and blinked briefly. David checked his clipboard. Had he got her details correct? That was the trouble with the dark web: you couldn’t trust anyone. “It’s Mrs Higginson, isn’t it?” It actually said ‘Miss’ on his notes. She didn’t correct him. Her eyes appeared to change focus slightly. “Of course. Silly me. I know why you’re here. Yes that’s it. ” “May I come in?” “Yes, yes.” She opened the door fully and he strolled across the threshold. Just like that. “Your router...er, your telephone line. Could you show me-?” “In the living room.” She said, kindly, and indicated a door on the right. He briefly looked at his surroundings before he went in. The house was even bigger on the inside than he had expected. It had quite an old fashioned, crumpled feel to it, though, he noted, it was well looked after. Unlike many of those he visited, this one obviously still had the wherewithal to clean and tidy. Even a place as big as this. Something to bear in mind, he thought. She opened a door and indicated he should go through. He went in and turned round to tell her she didn’t need to wait for him only to discover she had already gone. He paused and looked around. The room was fairly light, the furnishings weren’t modern, but didn’t feel old fashioned. There were a few pictures on the wall, all of a woman - women? -- in various locations, in decades, some long gone. Her mother, maybe even grandmother some of them, they all had that striking face though the photos portrayed them in colour, black and white and sepia. Ancient monuments that he recognised from various aspirational lifestyle magazines stood in the background, and a myriad of what appeared to be manservants or butlers, by their appearance and demeanour. No partner though, which said a lot about the relationship her parents --grandparents? - must have had “What you want?” The deep male voice would have been enough to visibly startle David several years ago, but today’s David was one of considerable experience. He turned with an expectant smile on his face. David was nothing if not charming. “Hi, I’m David. You must be -“ In the beat of the hyphen David deconstructed the person in front of him: · thin build · Tall · Grey, cropped, balding. · Smartly dressed, loose fit, old suit. · Accent: Polish? Romanian? · Age: difficult. Possibly sixties. · Eyes...unusual. · No wedding ring Miss Higginson was single, with no dependents. The accent ruled out siblings or offspring. Without marriage the surname ruled out extended family from Eastern Europe. David played it safe. “-neighbour?” The man stared at David. “Get out.” It sounded strangely unlike a threat, David thought. Not even an instruction. David smiled even harder and was about to reply when his pocket buzzed. He took out his mobile. The girl from the previous evening. Samantha? -Are we still on for later? x. He quickly rapped off a reply. -Wouldn’t miss it for the world. :) Which was mostly true. Not bad looking, he supposed. Not much in the conversation stakes, but he could save money if he found a free bed for the night in this new town. The text had also given him valuable thinking time. “Caleb!” Miss Higginson’s voice was stern, unforgiving. “Leave Max alone.” Caleb continued to stare at David, a look that David could not discern on his face. David noticed how Caleb’s eyes never quite seemed to focus on him as if he was struggling to see through an alcoholic stupor. “Caleb. Now.” Caleb didn’t move. “Do you want dinner or not?” Caleb turned sluggishly to look at her. His eyes seemed to focus for just a split second. David was good at reading faces and the previously unfathomable features of Caleb, in a matter of milliseconds, went through three distinct stages: hatred, resolve, defeat. Miss Higginson, for her part, remained as hard, cold and unmoved as an anvil. Caleb turned and left. Miss Higginson turned to David. In the process her face shifted to one of friendly welcoming. “It’s chicken tonight, Max. Your favourite.” David paused for a second. Was she offering him... well, Max, dinner? This was an unfamiliar situation. Not to mention a possibly hazardous: it was unwise to spend any more time than he needed here. But it would guarantee him a few undisturbed minutes while she was in the kitchen. And he never turned down a free lunch. “Sounds lovely” He said. She smiled once more and left the room. He hadn’t even needed to explain he couldn’t find her router. He counted to five under his breath. His smile melted away and he went looking around the room. He liked to challenge himself by seeing if he could spot exactly the right spot straightaway. After so many years, it helped keep the job interesting. An old darkwood bureau seemed to call to him. Second drawer from the top, he thought; high enough to avoid too much bending, but not the most frequently accessed. He opened it. And frowned. Some important documents, but not enough on their own. He rummaged around, his fingers doing much of the searching. There was the familiar feel of a passport. He took his phone out and snapped the ID page before returning it to the drawer and continuing. His fingers hit a plastic card. He fished it out. A driving licence. With Caleb’s photo on it. It bore the flag of Poland in one corner and he understood none of the writing, but one thing that struck him was that nothing on it said ‘Caleb’ or a name that could conceivably be its origin. Why the hell did she have his driving licence anyway? There was a date on it, presumably his date of birth, but it made him a lot younger than he looked. A hard life had evidently aged him. The photo showed a slightly threatening, stocky face that did not seem a warm home for a smile to reside. The old man who had told him to leave was wiry, gaunt even, and the threat in the eyes had been replaced by a muddled apathy. He looked again in the drawer. This time he found an ID badge in English. It had that same photo of a Polish bruiser, but the name was now easily identifiable: Pawel. He checked the driving licence. That name appeared nowhere on there. The ID was around fifteen years old: it bore the previous incarnation of the British Gas logo on it. David found it unlikely that it was legitimate. He liked to think of himself as an expert on these things. David heard a floorboard just beyond the door creak. He calmly replaced the items and shut the drawer purposefully; if you do something as if you’re meant to be doing it, everyone seems to think it’s your business. “Max? Are you coming through or not?” The smell hit him a second later. The warm, greasy embrace of roast potatoes first. Chicken. Butter. Bacon, crisp, with just an edge of charcoal. A subtle kiss of sage, thyme, rosemary. His phone buzzed in his pocket again - When & where? “Er yes, sorry.” -8? Ladies choice. Miss Higginson had left the room already. The home was big (how did she manage to keep it clean?) but he could follow his nose. He went through a long corridor, rooms leading off, and through a pale wooden door at the end. The table was laid for what appeared to be a meal excessive for two. A chicken, whole, skin shimmering and golden, flecked with charred herbs and stuffed with half a singed lemon. A bowl of roast potatoes stood honour guard next to it, the deep brown ridges leading to fluffed ochre sides. Fresh garden, peas glistened with butter and interspersed with blackened, crisp small chunks of bacon. Carrots, parsnips and onion roasted to the point where their skins had turned to darker hue. “Oh please don’t stand on account of me, dear.” David slipped without thinking into his seat. She stood over him and purposefully spooned the peas onto his plate steam still rising from them. He could see a small amount of melting butter between creeping down the shoulders of the newly-formed green mound. This was followed by four potatoes carefully plucked from the bowl, delicately thunking on the porcelain and a generous helping of the charred vegetables in their caramel glow. She picked up the knife and began to slice the chicken. It’s skin made a soft, satisfying crack as the knife broke through, clear juice rolling down the blade. It was then that he noticed Caleb through the arch of the doorway. He was staring intently at the feast, on edge like a semi-trained dog that been told to sit while a squirrel played in the distance. “ I hope you’re not thinking about taking any of this” She said without looking from her work. There was not a gram of affection in her voice. “Done the floors.” He said. Indeed, there was a dripping mop in his hand. “And the washing?” She inquired with the air of primary school headmistress. He nodded. She stopped and for the first time looked at him. “Very well. Here.” He half shuffled, half stumbled towards her and stood right next to David. Only then did he notice, how emaciated he looked. He stood in front of her swaying slightly. “Very well.” She said. She cut a thin slice of the meat, thin enough that you could almost see the light through it and placed it carefully on a small side plate. This was followed by a piece of potato. And half a carrot. He paused. Looked at David for a second with eyes that conveyed a message he couldn’t quite read. Then he got down on his knees, there was no chair, and using his hands, nibbled slowly on the chicken, eyes closed. The tiny serving of potato and carrot followed in similar fashion. It must have taken him a full five minutes to consume what David could have easily done in two mouthfuls. With little ceremony she popped a sliver of chicken in his mouth. He waited. “What?” He looked at her. “That’s it for now.” For a moment he continued to stare at her. Then, as if his eyes could not bear looking into a bright light any longer, he bowed his head. He stood up, the effort almost seemed beyond him. Caleb looked once more at David. Then left. David’s gaze lingered on the door as it closed behind Caleb. When he turned back, Miss Higginson had already sat down and there was a glass of white wine next to his plate with condensation around the bowl. “Please.” She motioned. David had learned long ago that the best way to handle an awkward situation was to pretend it wasn’t happening, so he politely picked up his knife and fork and put a piece of chicken in his mouth. The world seemed to fall away. For the briefest of moments he was in his grandmother’s small kitchen: the light blue cupboards fronted by red gingham curtains, the worktops freckled grey plastic covered fibreboard, the tiles with poorly painted fruit and vegetable bowls. His grandmother’s face was smiling as she turned to slide him his plate and he tucked into his special weekend treat: leftover chicken and stuffing sandwiches in thick white crusty bread. He realised he would do anything to stay in that moment forever. Then he was back in the dining room. But for the first time in his adult life he felt ... full. His phone buzzed -Hello ?x He paused for a second. The phone seemed out of place. For a moment he couldn’t remember what it was for. “Max? Phone away please.” “Sorry.” He continued to eat. Every mouthful was a tragedy because it had to end, but he lightened his mood with the wine: clean, crisp, citrus. The second glass made him more conversational. “You keep this house very clean.” He ventured. “Thank you. But cleaning’s not my thing. Man’s work, if you ask me.” “So-?“ “ Caleb, yes. Cooking’s really my gift. You know what they say about the way to a man’s heart.” She winked at him. “Still. He’s getting on a bit. I’ll have to replace him soon.” She smiled at him. Too soon his plate was empty. She looked at him. “Tell you what, Max. You clear away these dishes and wash up and I’ll get you some dessert.” David didn’t easily do the washing up for himself, let alone for ... but he did want dessert. “Sure.” He said. In the kitchen he would have noticed that all the cupboards had a combination lock, but his mind was somewhere else. He was sure he was supposed to be doing something. When he came back, the dessert was somehow waiting for him. It was smaller than he’d hoped: chocolate fudge cake. After one taste he realised that if he could make that the last thing that ever passed his lips, he would. “Right. Well, I’d better...” “Really, Max?” She smiled at him again. He was sure that there was something- “But your room’s all ready.” Mrs Higginson continued. “And there’s breakfast tomorrow.” Breakfast? “And if you could see your way to doing one or two things for me as well..” “Well, I really should be...” Breakfast. “Where...where’s the room?” “Where it’s always been, Max: upstairs first on the left.” She smiled... sweetly? Of course it was. David wandered out and ambled upstairs, though he wasn’t sure why. He went into the first room on the left and closed the door behind him Miss Higginson heard the door upstairs click and then behind her another one open. She sighed and turned. Caleb was in the doorway again, looking almost hurt. “ Oh don’t take it personally Caleb.” Some softness entered her voice for the first time. “You all have to be replaced some time.” Upstairs, David lay on an old single bed, a slight smile smeared loosely on his face. Some part of his brain echoed in the background, a shout just out of earshot. His phone buzzed. In the stupor of semi sleep, he looked at the screen. -Are you OK, David? X But for Max, the words carried as much meaning as overheard whispers in a foreign country. He switched it off. Max slowly drifted into sleep. And he dreamed of the next meal.

June 12, 2024, This isn’t the norm for me. Keeping a journal was Cathelyne’s idea, bless her heart that Miss Abernathy. But, she says it’ll be good for me, and maybe it will be. Who am I to deny my housemaid’s demands? I kid, all in good humor. I have nothing but the utmost respect for that young lady. She’s a sweet girl, and a hard worker. She’s also excellent company. Though, I guess I’m not writing about her. Not today, anyway. Today’s entry is about the strangest dream I had last night. One that haunts me now well after breakfast as I sit in my study recollecting the dream, detail by painful detail (I suppose my latest novel will have to wait). In the dream I was standing at the kitchen sink washing up a roasting pan. I specifically remember scrubbing at a particular stubborn spot when movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. I turned, as one does, to investigate. What I saw froze me to my core. Standing there at the edge of the center island was a completely naked man (or what I assumed to be a man). He stood with his back to me, but most appalling was the growths covering his body. From his neck down to his naked buttocks, tumor-like growths bulged beneath his skin. His arms were hanging down by his sides, and his body was shaking. There wasn’t a single hair on him apart from his hairy ass-crack (still not amusing as I look back on it) and a few limp tufts of hair clinging to his nearly bald scalp. His skin had a yellowish hue, like he was suffering from jaundice. Rolls of tumor infected loose skin hung from his body. He looked like a cancer sufferer that had lost a great deal of weight. I shook away the shock, concern for the poor fellow now growing from the original fear. “Hello?” I said, “Are you alright, sir?” I was aware of two things: My Georgia draw seemed to surprise me, which I don’t understand why, and my voice quavered. I guess I was more scared than I thought. The man stopped shaking instantly, suddenly still as a statue. I waited for a long, painful moment that could have only been a few seconds but felt like an eternity. He began to turn, narrow feet shuffling slowly in my direction. My breath caught in my throat. What I saw could not have been any living man on God’s green Earth. This man, thing, whatever it was, had one long hanging breast riddled with more tumorous bulges, while the other was gone, a neat horizontal scar running along the side. It reminded me of my mother, before that horrible breast cancer took her. His gut was swollen and distended, and I realized then the loose skin only stopped at his sides. Even his genitals were awful. One testicle swollen and reddened despite the jaundiced skin, the other gone. Just like the breasts. His arms and legs were bone thin, like all the flesh had been lipo-ed out and it was just skin and tendons. Worst of all was his face though. Good Lord in heaven, that face... It was as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Not a blemish to be seen, and pale like a clothing store mannequin. His veiny bulbous eyes bulged from their sockets. There were no eyelids, just those staring, unwavering globs. And the smile...That thing was smiling, a lipless grin that stretched from ear to ear in the most literal sense of the phrase. The maw was filled with large, flat teeth. They were stained yellow like that of a heavy smoker, dark brown plaque between each. The gums seemed to be retreating from the horrid teeth. I couldn’t move. I was frozen in fear. And the thing didn’t move either. It just stood there, staring, smiling. Its eyes never left my face and that smile never wavered. But then it moved, a hitching motion like a puppet being lunged forward by its strings. It moved toward me, and I screamed. I had screamed myself awake, and poor Cathelyne came rushing to my room, still dressed in her nightgown. “Mr. Beauregard, are you alright?” she exclaimed, her breasts rising and falling with panic and no doubt from her sudden rush to my room. My eyes darted to every corner of the room, checking for the horrible thing from my dream. With a heavy sigh I wiped the sweat from my brow and nodded. “I’m alright, just had a nightmare. Nothing to fuss about.” I tried to sound as reassuring as possible, but my racing heart made me a liar. That dream had unnerved me, and writing it down seems to have only made it worse. On top of it all, the damned headache is back with a vengeance. If it doesn’t ease up soon, I’m afraid I might have to suck it up and go to the doctor. I’ve got to go now, Cathelyne is calling me down for lunch.

Tony So, Tony. What can I say? I've tried a thousand times. The engineer in me says "list attributes," so I'm going to start with that. Which is another lie. On June 19, 1980 (that's fake, made up for narrative purposes, but pretty close, I think), somewhere around noonish, Tony rode his bike up the alley and skidded into my driveway. We were both 12 years old. I was out there banging a whiffle ball around the yard, really busy. "I'm headed to the beach to meet Hanner and Schadler (change these names to fake ones, this all really happened), wanna come?" We were 12, and young guys called everyone by their last names. Except Tony, we all called Tony... Tony. Geographical note: My old hometown sits about 250 feet atop a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. For anyone in the town, the Lake is sorta omnipresent. From most places in town it was just there, a giant patch of blue stretching to the horizon. If you couldn't actually see it, you still knew it was there. The beat of its waves on the shoreline came through the rock into your feet. I learned Cardinal directions that way... the Lake is always West, just look, there it is. Downtown is North of it, and South Shore Bowling Alley is South (they had a cool video arcade). East is the other one. Also, it was not at all uncommon in my town for pretty much anyone over 8 years old or so to head to the beach for a dip or to fish for perch off the piers. It was like... what we did. "Nah. I'm busy." "But the waves are coming up!" And they were. I had the TV on that morning like everyone else. It was sunny and warm, but storms were coming over from Chicago. And that could be super fun. "Nah." Tony was, in my memory, crestfallen. But he pedaled away. And I continued banging the whiffle ball around the yard. And as the rules of any dramatic narrative dictate (even a truthful one), Tony never returned as a living person. What am I to do with that? That was a big "Nah." That was a butterfly's wings, my friend. So context: (I think this is the list of attributes I promised myself and you earlier. Maybe.) Tony was.. Tony. Kid was the classic 85 pound weakling. Tiny, thin, pale. But he was also a talker. Like, a LOT of talking. He would talk for minutes which felt like hours about kinda, anything. To put it in the term of the day, he was a spaz. Like a complete and utter spaz. I'm not being untruthful if I say that everyone hated Tony. He was bullied on the playground, he was pushed over in the halls of the school just for laughs, he was a target for all of our monkey tribal anxieties. He was what we did not want to be. Who was "we?" Still trying to figure that one out. Tony did Scouting. So many badges, hand sewn into the lapel. Uniform hung proudly on his bedroom door. He could focus that spaz energy given a task. I respected that. He collected bugs. Like '50s style... meticulously and respectfully pinned on foamboard. He collected baseball cards with a vengeance. You did not want to trade with Tony... He knew Robert's Rules of Order (I remember that specifically, because he said it a lot) and he'd win your best card and get the gum. He was completely unafraid to try anything. He was immune to all social cues flying like bricks at his head... "calm down, Tony." Nope. Tony was 4,000 RPMs, 24/7. He had an aquarium. And that was the real thing. You see, for a little while, I also tried to have an aquarium. That's where it all started. Columbia Aquariums... It was on... Columbia Avenue. That place no longer exists. I'd ride my bike up there and wander the aisles looking at fish. And they had frogs, like exotic ones. The light was low-key. The aquariums glowed. It was warm and magical and smelly. One day Tony was there. That kid took me from tank to tank and explained more than I ever wanted to know about every fish in the building. And I listened. He was compelling. He knew his shit. Tony started coming to my house to check on my aquarium. He'd just roll up on his bike and let himself in. He didn't like it much. I was not a good aquarium-ist, apparently. I was doing it wrong. (Turns out he was right about that too). I cannot say what happened or how, but Tony and I became brothers. We were the same age, but I felt like he was... vulnerable? He needed help. I absolutely do not think he saw it that way. I think he was showing me the way to live life, not vice-versa. But the kids, myself included (we're being honest here, right?), they were mean to Tony. Like really mean. And I didn't like that. But if I can be informal, Tony was a HUGE pain in the ass! "Nah." That's what I said that morning. Why didn't I ride down with him to the Lake shore that afternoon? I rode down there hundreds of times for fun. But not that day. There's a question for y'all. You know those times when you're grouped up, and someone isn't there, and kids start talking shit? It's a normal thing, and we all do it. Even you, reader, have had shit talked about you, and have talked shit yourself, promise. But I found myself defending Tony now and then. Like, "ah, he's a good guy, just a little weird," and whatnot. And it scored me no points, socially. But I felt something important. Tony was 12 and a spaz, and I was 12 as well with some spaz to me, and neither one of us knew at the time what we were supposed to be. Young men (the only experience I can speak to) spend an inordinate amount of time trying to figure that question out, "what AM I?" Hell, I'm 51 years old as I write this, and I'm not sure I've worked out that answer. His mom asked our coach if Tony could join our baseball team. She asked because she knew my mom, and I was on the team. Moms of weird kids notice potential friendships very very quickly. Coach tried him out and said no. The fuck am I supposed to do with that? I mean, we were all terribly untalented. So June 19, 1980, noonish. He skids into my driveway. Invites me to the beach. And I didn't just say no. I kinda without words said, "fuck off." Or that's how I see it in my mind. And he said 'Hanner and Schadler'... which for me was just a hard no. Older kids, trouble. Not good. And thus I was "busy." And he pedaled off. Perhaps a trivial exchange. There was whiffle ball to be played. The storm did in fact come. But with Lake Michigan, the Thing arrives well before you see the storm. It can often be sunny and warm with some building waves. That's the trick. That's why we watch the news. That's why, even as tots we're taught to respect the water. And that's why Tony was found 2 weeks later floating near a breakwater 12 miles north of the beach. What do I say about that? All of this, I guess. I still don't know, and I feel like I've done a poor job of it. Like, overdramatic, or something. Whatever. They say in writing classes, don't tell, show... I say fuck that. I'm telling. Those were not good days in my life. I learned more about life than I wanted to, like quickly. Some guys and I rode down to the beach that night as the news spread, when Tony was "missing." Jonathon, David, Kevin, Allen and I (remember to fake these names). Neighborhood kids. And there were lights on the beach, and rain, and they had boats dragging the shallows. But we knew he was already long gone from there. Later we sat on his mother's porch steps in the dark and told jokes. Tony jokes. Like a lot of them, spinning 'em up like improv. Remembering? We laughed. I mean like the hard laugh that hurts your guts. I'm still angry. Decades have passed. Still angry. At who? I don't know what any of this means. Or why I'm writing it down. Asking you to read it. His mom called mine again, just the one last time before they moved away. And for some reason I was invited to lift and carry the casket. I had to wear a church suit. Hanner and Schadler bore the pall as well, offensively, in my opinion to this day. And his younger brother. I guess regardless of their culpability, or mine, it was appropriate. Or something. It does not sit well. Any of it. So, list of attributes.. engineer brain again. I promised. Tony was a good person. So good it was not exactly in keeping with the way the world works. So good it was annoying. That kid could piss you off with his goodness, and he seemed to delight in doing so. Which pissed you off even more. He was scared. A lot. He told me that once, before he drowned and was swept away. We were in my living room together, watching MTV. Still alive, he said, "I think people don't like me." He couldn't throw, catch or hit a baseball. That's just fact. I saw that as fast as coach did. He was careful. He took care of his fish by the book, he took care of his neighbors' lawns and he was maybe ironically over-concerned with safety. Watching him prep a mower was to see an artist at work. He could pedal. He was just so weird. He loved that bike. I don't think I mentioned this earlier. He rode a tandem. An old, really long 2 seater bike. By himself. All over town. Bookstore, library, Columbia Aquariums. There'd be Tony with his long bike. To my house, skidding into my driveway on the day. Tony rock 'n' rolled on that bike. He often oiled the double chain. Sometimes, even now, while I try not to think too closely about the other thing where he... died, I wonder what he musta felt like riding that bike all day. I rode it once myself, and it had a satisfying momentum. And I have an idea. I almost think I get it. It might have felt like a big truck on a big road going really fast to some place none of us could see or didn't want to Obviously he never got the chance to figure it all out either. But it was a really cool bike, in its way. Despite year after year of thinking and dreaming about it, I still sometimes wonder what was riding in that empty back seat.

At first, I hated them. Including him. They moved in, their stuff piled in boxes, dust floating and swirling in the light that streamed through the living room windows. The father was tall, his body bulky, his stomach protruding out, with a layer of fat built on top of muscle. He had a square face, with thick brows, and a monster of a mustache growing over his thin lips. The mother was small, yet her personality made her seem tall. A subtle, yet powerful “Here.” would make either of the men put down whatever they were carrying in the spot where she indicated with her painted fingernails. Her noticeable curves swayed perfectly with her high heeled feet. Her short, curly blonde hair brought out her eyes that seemed to have photographed an unearthly ocean. The son was something of a sight. He stood at a height between the two parents, yet he was almost the height of his father. Clearly a young man, the boy was most likely done with his height. His round cheeks were accented by a strong bearded jaw. Freckles scattered across his face like the stars in a white galaxy. His blonde hair shimmered in the sunlight, as in his beard seemed to be aflame with strawberry red. His eyes glowed with blue as flecks of brown seemed to circle his pupil. He had a thick neck, and a square body. He too had a similar build as his father, yet the soft, beautiful features of his mother. With a pat on the back from his father, the three started to unpack their lives in the shell of the house that I used to call home. It was worrisome, to see such beautiful people take up the space that I took up. The parents took up the master bedroom on the first floor, near the kitchen and the dining room. The son took up on the second floor, on the opposite side of the house, accompanied by the living room. Each floor had its own bathroom, along with the master bathroom that was connected to the parents bedroom. It was something of a sight, to see two people make love. The father, Steven, always started with slightly bringing down one of the mother's, Kara's, straps from her nightgown. She would always giggle, as he would slip down the other and let the pretty pink silk fall swiftly to the wooden floor of their bedroom. It was always romantic and full of pure lust. His deep earthly growls seemed to ground her heavenly moans as they paced to the rhythms of their breathing. My father was never in the picture, my mother always alone in the bed herself. Why would no man ever want to make love to a woman such as she? I wished someone would've held her the way this man did his wife. I wished it everyday to be able to have a father in the life of my mother and I. The boy sat alone, and quietly did his own things in his own part of the house. Aside from college schoolwork or football practices, he would just sit and listen to the most beautiful music. Granted, I hated the music. It was something he enjoyed, therefore I had to hate it. Sad melodies cried out along the electrical beat of synthesizers as he lie in his bed, sometimes tears slowly falling from his lakeside eyes. Overtime, his tears began to mean something to me. As one began to glisten down his face, I had the sensation to cry myself. I'd never had that before. There was a girl once. She visited for dinner, spaghetti with breadsticks (Italian night), and swiftly left the table with the boy to go up to his room. After small talk, they began to kiss. As it prolonged, they started to become restless. The boy, Kendall, started to run his hands through her hair and she began to unbuckle his pants. My heart began to... My heart... His computer seemed to light up with light as the sensation of crying pulsed through me, his sad songs blaring through the speakers. The two pulled away, and with one glance, the girl had a confused look on her face as she looked at the bearded young man. “I-I think I should go...” she said as she jumped up, and grabbed her bag. Kendall... he sat there, and stared at his computer. Tears were started to dry on his cheeks as he took in a deep breath. “T-thank you, God.” He whispered through shakey breaths. I could feel it, the heart that he had hidden underneath the flesh and blood that surrounded his soul. It seemed to beat frantically, but not in the way of love, but out of regret and misery. Naked pictures of men flew through the reflection of Kendall's mind as he let his eyes flutter shut. That night I sat in his thoughts, and experienced everything he lusted for. As he kissed me, I felt his hands glide over my skin. Up over my torso, down my back, and then... With a simple push, I felt pure bliss. He growled softly as I let out a gasp of pleasuring pain. As we made love to the rhythm of his heartbeat, it felt like blood seemed to rush through my veins. My heartbeat picked up its dead weight, and began to race along his. I opened my eyes, and looked straight into his. Our world seemed to slow down, our pleasure euphoric; our utopia indestructible. I knew he'd see the physical body of a young man exactly his age, his light skin covered in patches of dark hair. Slightly shorter and smaller in body size, I still had a decent amount of weight. Our bodies were nothing close to perfect, yet it was something that felt perfect to me. My green eyes seemed to glow in his, and my black hair seemed a shaggy mess. I knew that in his eyes, I was beautiful. That's all that mattered to me. Weeks turned into months, and months soon became a year. It was something we held special to each other, those nights in his dreams. Imagine, the dead in love with the living. A year became two years, and then to four. Slowly he made his way out of our house, and it was something that I grew to hate and admire. He was someone I loved, yet life compelled him to move forward. I never wanted him to stay longer than he had to, or even worse, stay as long as forever with me. The idea was full of toxic longing, yet seeing him move on was something more beautiful than anything I had ever witnessed. I loved him. For who he was, and will continue to still love him, for who he will be.

"The Trail" As he left his vehicle and approached the Trail, he let out a deep sigh of relief. Relief from deadlines, burdens, and technology. Relief from artificiality and society's expectations. On the Trail, he experienced freedom. Gone were the ringing phones, text messages, and emails. On the Trail, he was able to achieve total solitude, bliss, nirvana. As he ran along the stream, he listened to the gentle sound of the clear water passing through the rocks, playing an impossibly serene symphony to accompany his journey. He passed by boulders blanketed in thick emerald moss. Their enormity dwarfed him. He climbed a long slope, and his thighs began to burn. His legs had sat stagnant all week, their only purpose keeping him upright in his chair. His heart began to beat faster and harder, and his lungs began to suck more air. His feet moved swiftly and with grace over the roots, rocks, and trunks of fallen trees which littered the Trail. As the ascent became steeper, he lifted his knees and dug his toes into the Trail. He swung his arms and maintained a steady pace as his eyes focused on the summit. Twenty more feet. His mind turned back to all the pressures in his life. The daily obligations that kept him feeling like he was in a constant state of drowning. Ten more feet. Finally, he reached his destination. His lungs burned and his legs ached. His eyes began to fill with tears as he looked out on the horizon. He felt absolute bliss. He was home.

The coastal elite controls the national news, so when the midwest was taken over and turned into a kingdom, it took about three months for the news outlets to notice. &#x200B; "What states were it again?... Kansas, Missouri, AND Nebraska?! ... is that a lot? Oof... We've got forty-something more of them left, right?" the president said. His oval office staff traded concerned glances. &#x200B; The following weeks brought news of the King, who began a campaign of conquest that saw the Midwestern kingdom annex Mississippi and Iowa. All under the eye of an astonished president. &#x200B; "Can he do this?" What is happening?!" the president's advisors shuffled papers as they struggled to tell him that as the president, he has to decide how to handle the King. "This is America! Land of the free-- home of all fifty states and the schmucks that voted for me!" The day presided without a plan in place. &#x200B; The Kingdom launched giant pumpkins via trebuchets against the military forces blockading the former states. Ranch hands sent cattle herds stampeding against the infantry. Water balloons full of sour milk and eggs peppered the remainders. &#x200B; The US army troops refused to shoot at the non-lethal enemy combatants, and instead began defecting after hearing about the kingdoms inclusive medical plans-- they included dental and visual! A couple of brace-face cadets started the journey over, but the rest joined when they heard about the four day work week (modeled after Finland's ambitious plan). &#x200B; The guns the troops took with them were melted down and reforged into community centers. The gun power they extracted from the bullets created the fireworks for the first annual independence festival. It took place on July third- unofficially named "Independence day 2.0." &#x200B; What had started as an initial domestic oversight turned into an international catastrophe as support from foreign nations for the young Kingdom grew. While the title "The King" was used- in truth, shadows were surrounding the figure that guided the growing nation. However, the data emerging from the residents placed it at the top of the happiness index, pipping perennial winner, Denmark, and with it, garnered further support and envy for its actions. &#x200B; Years soon passed without the reveal of the King on the throne. The world had no face to attribute the incredible rise of a near-utopia within the belly of the American beast. &#x200B; Year five finally marked the curtain crashing down- exposing a puppet ruler. A literal puppet sat on the throne- behind a velvet curtain. Journalists discovered a coalition of former film students ran the Kingdom. Their sovereign rise born out of a thesis project taken far too serious. &#x200B; They had intended to parody a split from the United States and unintentionally succeeded when crowd participants didn't see the cameras and assumed it was a legal separation. The coalition used film craft to keep the oppositions, spies, from piercing the veil. They also happily accepted all who defected- especially after escaping severe repercussions from the US armed services. &#x200B; Puppy Spring served as a vital cog in the defection victory. The remaining soldiers not sold on the promise of healthcare and sustainable work weeks were wrought low by the unbearable cuteness of the puppy horde unleashed upon them. Thankfully the success of Puppy Spring meant plan "Kitten Puffs" wasn't employed. Small studies showed that while adorable and soft, kittens get agitated at great heights and scratch those who pull them from their mini air balloons. An innovative aerial tactic, but a classic case of "cute, but not worth it." &#x200B; Exceptions for defection did exist, and celebrities and billionaires took the majority of cases. The Kingdom ordered those who possessed immoral amounts of wealth to renounce their assets. The old rules of cut-throat capitalism did not belong in the new nation. &#x200B; As the Kingdom annexed more states-- it left North Dakota for those who didn't want to join the nation. A rumor circulated through the Kingdom that the Koch brothers fought each other over the last functional oil well in the lone state. &#x200B; The Kingdom had repurposed Colorado into a solar farm, which Elon Musk applauded from afar in his new role as an orchard owner. He praised the achievement while insisting people stopped calling him "Johnny Appleseed." &#x200B; The final victory came with the arrival of the former president of the United States. He admitted that the job he took on held too much stress, and wanted to try out the four day work week. Especially since a three day weekend gave him a chance to finally read "Life of Pi" and expand his whittling collection. &#x200B; The Kingdom made a collective "huh" to feign interest and moved on. Within the decade, the whole of the former union bore allegiance to the Kingdom. While the fledgling nation didn't have the same military might as their predecessor, they did possess personal security and self-worth, and with it came ungodly amounts of cowbell and yoga.

The beautiful white dress was hung on the door. Makeup was being applied and hair was being done. The room smelled of lavender and hairspray. Bridesmaids giggled as they also prepped for the big day. The dress was ready to be put on. Everyone was gathered for more pictures. Bouquet in hand and- “Professor Davis, are we free to leave after the exam is complete?” A student waved her hand through the air. Erin was brought back to reality by the student in her last lecture of the day. She caught herself admiring her engagement ring that Costas had given to her in October. “Yes, bring the exam to my desk and you may leave.” Erin said this with a smile. She felt guilty because many of the students stood up and walked towards her, exams in hand. Erin is a psychology professor at University of Michigan. She graduated from the university too and it's where she met her fiance, Costas. Costas is a kinesiology professor at Michigan State University. He had finished his education at UofM and eventually moved on to teach at his rival school. The two had been together for 5 years, Costas finally proposed on Halloween of last year and they were to be married next month. Professor Davis’s class was nearing the end as 1-2 students were still taking the exam for the end of the semester. One student finished his exam and left and 5 minutes after the next one followed. As Erin left the classroom, she twisted her ring with her index finger with a slight grin on her face. She walked to her office that was down the hall, grabbed the rest of the exams from her drawer and headed to the elevator. Her next stop would be the Chinese food place across the street from her house and then home. “Honey, I’m home.” No answer followed. Erin went to the living room, which stood empty all except the furniture. She made her way to the kitchen and set down her bags, the kitchen stood empty also. “Costas, I got dinner. Your favorite, Chinese Food.” Erin frowned, there was no answer. Erin took a plate, spoon, and wine glass from the cupboard. She grabbed a bottle of wine from the wine rack and then scooped the food onto her plate. The door knob rattled and opened with a creak. Erin’s attention snapped to the door and excitement filled her. “Erin, are you home yet?” Costas peeked his head in the doorway. “Yes, babe. I’m in the kitchen. I went to the Chinese place and got your favorite.” Costas entered the house and walked into the kitchen. He kissed Erin and went to grab a plate and a beer from the fridge. “How was your day, babe?” Erin said this shyly. “It was great, terrific.” Costas said this with sarcasm and a sly grin. Erin put her head down and finished eating her meal in silence. The relationship had been rocky since they got engaged. Costas had been distant and mostly absent from the home. Erin was ready to be a bride and had attended her many wedding events with her mother and with Costas’s mother. They had together picked the flowers, church and banquet hall, and the cake. Costas had been busy with conferences and interviews with major basketball and baseball teams for the position of athletic trainer. Erin had finished her meal and went to the sink to put her dishes down. She walked over to her bag, took the stack of exams and papers, and sat down. She proceeded to pour another glass of wine. “Would you like another beer, dear?” Erin asked “No, God Erin can’t you just leave me alone. I work hard all day to teach these stupid students and then I have to come home and be interrogated by you. Just leave me alone. I would like a little peace and quiet now and then you know.” Erin proceeded to sit down across from her husband almost on the verge of tears, she grabbed the exams and started to grade the exams. She loved her fiance dearly and wanted to do whatever had to be done to keep him happy and nonviolent. She loved the old him, the Costas who bought her flowers and chocolates, and took her to Greece for her birthday when she turned 30. Costas had saved her from her past. The past involved being beaten by the person who was supposed to be her unspoken savior, her father. Her father had beaten her until she was 10 years old and her mother had known. She spent most of her childhood hiding her bruises and her adolescence was filled with flashbacks, depression, and anxiety. She had grown up in a toxic home environment and now she was being put in the same situation with the person she loved the most in the world. Costas had hit her a handful of times, but she had told no one of this. “Erin, have you packed my bag for my next interview.” Costas said this with irritation in his voice. “No honey, I’m sorry. I’ll get on it as soon as I can.” Erin put her head down and proceeded to grading the exams. “Did you not hear me? I said to go pack my bag for the next interview.” Costas said this with rage in his voice. “Okay dear, I’ll get to it after I look over some of these exams.” “I said go pack my bag. NOW BITCH!!” Costas said this with fury in his voice and smacked Erin in the face. Whimpering she said, “Okay I’m sorry, I’ll go upstairs and get to it.” Erin had tears in her eyes and started going to the stairs that climbed up into the second floor. She proceeded to the bedroom, went to the vanity and looked at her reflection. She saw tears streaming down her face and an almost purple bruise forming on her cheek. She put her head down and began to cry. She didn’t want this life, the life of a battered wife. She wanted happiness and family but not with a man that was going to be violent with her and maybe their children to come. She thought to herself, How do I get out of this? How can I end this without getting hurt again? She heard steps coming up the stairs and quickly ran to the closet to look for ties, dress shirts, and dress pants. She scurried around for the items as she heard steps in the bedroom now. Costas poked his head around the corner with remorse on his face. She could see it now from where she stood. Erin began to walk to the hall closet to get the small suitcase. She was stopped by a hand on her shoulder, she flinched but turned around to face Costas. He guided her to bed and they both sat down. “Erin, I’m so sorry I hit you and yelled at you. I didn’t mean it. I just have all this anger and work is stressful. I need a change of scenery, I’m hoping these athletic trainer jobs will come through and we can go somewhere new and start over again just like the old times.” Costas said this with his head down. “I don’t think you're sorry because you keep doing it. You keep hitting me and you know what happened between my parents and what happened to me. I’m not your punching bag, you need help. We don’t need to get a change of scenery, you need to straighten this problem out. I love you so much but you decide to hurt me when something doesn’t go your way and I am not okay with that.” Erin was choking back tears. Costas kissed Erin at first on the lips and then on the forehead. She smiled at this with tears still streaming down her face. Costas looked at Erin and her pain and his face turned down. He wiped her tears with his sleeve. “I’m going to go to an interview in Los Angeles this weekend. Going to be interviewing for the Dodgers and the Lakers. When I come home we will talk again and I will look into anger management.” Costas said this with his head down. Erin finished packing Costas’ bag and went back to her place at the kitchen table. She grabbed her wine glass and refilled it until it was almost to the top, and then went to the stack of exam’s in front of her. She heard steps coming down the stairs and she straightened herself and took a swig from her wine glass. Costas had made his way down the stairs and back into the kitchen. “Honey, I’m going to be leaving for the airport in a bit. Would you like to see me off?” “I have all these papers to grade. Exams and I have to do all of them for eight different classes.” Erin motioned toward the pile of papers. Costas put his head down and grabbed another beer from the fridge. He stood silent and made his way back up to the bedroom. He was ashamed for what he did to his wife and felt regret deeply. He finished packing everything else that he would need. He picked up his phone, car keys, and his luggage and descended upon the stairs. “Erin, I’m leaving for the airport.” Costas called from his position by the stairs. “I’ll see you when you get back.” Erin stood from her seat and crossed the living room. They embraced and gave each other a slight kiss. Costas left and Erin was once again in the still, silent house by herself. She finished the bottle of wine and got through one class of exams before retiring to the couch for her alone time. During this alone time that she had she would watch television, go on social media, or invite friends and family over to drink. Today she brought her laptop with her and decided she would write her wedding vows. She had written a rough copy when Costas had proposed but she wanted to change them now. She began typing: “Costas, When I met you, you were a blessing in disguise. As many know, my childhood was not the most pleasant. Costas you saved me, you grabbed my hand, put it in yours and you guided me from the dark to the light. You showed me what love is and that I deserve as much as I can get. Flowers and Chocolates were a plus. Just being you was a gift.” Erin began to cry again. She had begun to picture herself standing at the altar, ready to give herself to Costas. She could picture his smile and the tears that would fall from his eyes as she said these words but also her recovering tears from the vows he would have just recited. She felt bad for the news she was going to maneuver into her vows. She was going to break her silence of being a battered fiance and how Costas had been hurting her for months. It would not only hurt his feelings but also the pockets of those who would make the day beautiful for her. She would be hurting her friends and family but she needed this for herself. She needed her peace and had to face the fact that Costas wasn’t the man for her. She continued: “Our tiny life that we built in a matter of years was more than I could ever ask for. In Greece you told me that you wished paradise was forever and when I’m with you it is at least for a little while. Since our engagement that man ceases to exist. You have made me, my younger self. I thought you were a different man, I thought you were my guardian angel sent to me from the heavens. You have changed, and if I had a part to play in that I deeply apologize. Costas, I will not marry you today or any other day. Just a few weeks before we stand here you hit me and I decided that the life I want and the life you want are two different ideas. I can’t be with a man who chooses over and over again to be abusive and demeaning to a woman or their soon to be fiance. I am sorry Costas but I don’t love you anymore and I deserve more.” Erin’s eyes were now puffy and the words on her screen a blur. The keyboard and mouse was littered with drops of water that fell from her eyes. She closed the laptop shut and began sobbing. She sobbed until her tears halted and all she could do was sit wide-eyed staring at the ceiling. She could feel her world coming apart. She wanted Costas to be the man that she fell in love with but unfortunately she knew he would never be that man. She soon would recover from her sobbing and turn on the television to find endless romantic comedy movies and reruns of Criminal Minds. Weeks had passed since that day, Costas had begun to fly back and forth to California for the job as Athletic Trainer for the Los Angeles Lakers. He was excited to meet some big time players and be alongside some of the best in his field. He hadn’t seeked help in his situation and had still been violent with Erin. She had developed bruises along her torso and arms, she would hide them with long sleeves and makeup on those that would show. Their wedding was now days away. This life would be gone for the two of them and they would be able to develop new separate lives. Days had now passed and their wedding was here. Erin’s mom had been crying most of the day. Bridesmaids had been in and out of her house all day. They had been hungover most of the time they were getting ready. They wore pastel green bridesmaids dresses and everyone’s hair was the same. It was everything Erin had dreamed of but it wasn’t her wedding today, today was the day she would lose everything. She would practically be disowned by the people who spent money for her and would lose the once love of her life. The day commenced and it was finally time to walk down the aisle. She was ready with a bouquet in hand. Her mother smiled through tears as she put the crown atop her head and gave her a kiss on her cheek. Erin was ready, she joined her uncle Henry at the double doors that lead to the entrance of the church. They both walked arm-in-arm down the aisle, Costas stood at the altar in a black suit. Erin began to get nervous and tried looking back at the people in the pews with smiles and tears in their eyes. She kept her eyes front and attempted to focus on the task at hand. The priest had finished his sermon and it was time for the vows. Costas had gone first and Erin was up, she took a breath and recited her vows. By the time she was done she was afraid to look up at Costas. She did and she started crying. Costas stood shocked and Erin’s mom and Uncle Henry had anger on their faces and had risen from their seats. Erin turned to her bridesmaids, and apologized, giving each of them a hug and a kiss on the cheek. She walked to her mother and did the same. Uncle Henry and Erin’s mom had followed her back down the aisle. Years had now passed, Costas had moved to California and Erin moved to Maryland. Costas was a successful athletic trainer with the Lakers and had found another woman, her name was Penelope. She never found out the reality about how the relationship between Erin and Costas had ended. She too had become a battered woman and Costas took no mercy, he never got the help he needed. Years would pass before he ever would. Erin had gotten her doctorate in Michigan and found a job helping veterans at Walter Reed medical center. She had found a new friend group and along with them she found a nice man. His name was Xander and they had been living peacefully. He had proposed at a Baltimore Ravens football game and knowing her history the engagement lasted for two years and they finally married in April. They were both happy together. Erin had found peace and love with Xander and the two were expecting their first born. Erin was comfortable and happy with her new life and was thankful for her bravery to leave her threatening relationship.

Hi guys! I wanted to ask this question in the Roundtable. But I'm not an admin or anything. Anywho, I think it's an interesting question which could really help a lot of us. I have maybe five or six short stories that I really love. I love the stories and the characters and the idea at the bottom. BUT, great writing comes from rewriting. And as much as I love my stories, they still read a lot like amateurish first drafts. What are some things I could do upon rewriting, which could lift the stories further once the actual story is in place? I have the A-B-C all mapped out. This happens, then this, then this. I can distill it down to the necessities. Not bothering the reader with superfluous details and so forth. But what are some things I can do to enhance the skeleton of that story? For example: let's say the story is about a characters sexual shame. Let's say a woman meets a man at a club. They go home together, it's her first time and she likes it. She feels shameful because she's a Christian. Kills him the next day to hide the fact that she had sex outside of marriage. Obviously she has a screw loose, but just to have an example.

By Wendy Kaminski Staff Writer First settled in the 1780s, the town of New Madrid, Missouri, appears charming but otherwise unremarkable. It’s a relatively small town of approximately 2,800 residents, a few shops, a small school and a boardwalk, all nestled atop an Omega-shaped bend in the mighty Mississippi River. Located in the “bootheel” region of the Show Me State, this part of the US gets all four seasons, and though there’s no enticement here for investors nor industry, the residents are genuine, friendly and helpful. They are the perfect blend of Midwestern practicality and Midsouthern hospitality. However, there is one noteworthy thing in particular about this town: in 1811, New Madrid was the site of the largest-ever seismic event in the United States. The region is still seismically active, and if such an event were to repeat, it would cause the greatest financial disaster the US has ever known. It would also cause something much worse, and for that reason, two dozen locals comprise the membership of a secret order which has volunteered its sacrifice for over 200 years in fighting a horror that few even realize lurks below. ### In the dead of winter, 1811-1812, hundreds of earthquakes hit this part of the Missouri Territory. Most catastrophically, a magnitude 7.0+ earthquake centered on New Madrid completely destroyed the town and devastated surrounding areas for hundreds of miles. That same quake also caused lower-level damage across two-thirds of the US and aftershocks which lasted for months. It was so strong that it forced the Mississippi River from its bed: the event was described as unearthly sounds and visions from hell, the unholy damnation unleashed such that the entire river roiled backwards for several days and actually formed a new lake before the chaotic waters receded. McInnery* was a boy at the time of that winter cataclysm, living a mile upriver on his family’s homestead, which was among the dozens catastrophically destroyed. While he and his sister both swore that they saw fearsome creatures of immense size thrashing within those waves as it was happening, this event was only a century removed from the Salem Witch Trials, and McInnery’s parents put a stop to such fantastic talk immediately. He and his sister kept silent as instructed, but as he grew into adulthood, McInnery took on the mantle of chronicler, delving into other accounts of that same event, seeking confirmation of the truth -- and find it, he did. Researching local legends, trapper lore, and personal correspondence as far back as the 1500s, McInnery also found that great upheavals in the New Madrid region happened with alarming frequency, always between October and February, and one thing was certain: the earth was birthing monsters. These were winter beasts, and their sightings were legion. At least one extreme giant was even enshrined in the broader national conscience: Pepie, the Mississippi River monster of Lake Pepin, Minnesota. Pepie first appeared to the north several months after the 1811 event, miles upstream from New Madrid. Few made the connection, but McInnery was well aware of it and of what that might mean for another event. Though Pepie was not formally recognized and reported until 1871 at Lake Pepin, McInnery remained convinced of its New Madrid origin decades prior.** Pepie would not be the only giant creature unleashed: indigenous tradition reports huge river monsters centuries ago, and more contemporary reports exist as well, always in conjunction with similar earth-shaking events in New Madrid. McInnery was joined in his efforts at first only by a couple of trusted friends, but later by more, as a growing community began to understand and embrace the duty thrust upon them: a duty to combat this terror and ensure the continued safety of mankind. Thus arose the original society calling themselves “The Exhort.” As often happens, there was a split early-on: while some focused on McInnery’s cryptid research and chased information about the existing creatures, the core members and their successors focused their efforts on defense against future events. Antediluvian texts detail numerous epic creatures, and this branch of the order currently uses those data in simulation programs, analyzing what countermeasures might work against titans from earth and sea. In discussing their history and strategies with me for this story, one Exhort advisor points to the USGS statistic that shows a 40% likelihood of a 6.0+ earthquake within the next 50 years at New Madrid. As a result of their decades of research, The Exhort believe that only a 5.0 or greater event is required to spawn a Pepie-sized creature: a 6.0 or greater event could spawn a creature 10 times more terrifying, should it occur. How does one battle these creatures, then? And would it be only one, or would we be plagued by numerous monsters, if another Big One hit? Smaller quakes up to 3.0 are regularly striking the site to this day - are those spawning smaller beasts? On these points, as well as on the finer points of defense, The Exhort members remain tight-lipped. While many have sought them out over the years to join their ranks, The Exhort tend to reject outsiders, who are often merely thrill-seeking: “We study more than we hunt, and we just prefer to choose our own company,” one member said, in response to my inquiry as to whether they might be interested in additional members. However, another cautioned, don’t let fear deter you from visiting their beautiful town, nor fret you while you’re there: “If you think you hear ominous sounds on the water, it’s not the creatures - it’s probably just the wind. These things, if you ever heard one, you’d know it, and as long as we’re on guard, you are never going to know that sound.” Rest assured, The Exhort is on the job, and I think I speak for us all when I say, “Thank you for that!”. ---------------------------------------------------------------- * Founder’s name was changed at the request of The Exhort to protect anonymity. ** There remains a $50,000 bounty on Pepie’s head to this day.

Previous Next Black Lives Matter 2020 Impact Report See how we, as the organization leading the Black Lives Matter (BLM) Movement, responded to the challenges of 2020. Our Movement Is #SoMuchMore February 1, 2021 From the time historian Carter Woodson created Negro History Week in 1926 up through today’s celebration of Black History Month, the goal has always been to recognize Black Americans’ prolific contributions that had been ignored, dismissed or diminished in textbooks and popular culture... Tell Your Rep(s) to Support Rep. Cori Bush’s Resolution February 1, 2021 We’re supporting Rep. Cori Bush’s resolution which would investigate and expel the GOP members of Congress who attempted to overturn the election and incited a white supremacist attack... Tell Congress to Pass the COUP Act January 26, 2021 Rep. Jamaal Bowman’s the COUP Act would require a deep, thorough investigation into the security failures at Capitol Hill during the insurrection. The ties between any Capitol police officer(s) and white supremacy or fascism must come to light... News Black Lives Matter Global Network Responds after Wisconsin District Attorney Won’t Charge Kenosha Police Officer in Jacob Blake Shooting January 5, 2021 Black Lives Matter Global Network Foundation (BLMGNF) released the following statement in response to a Wisconsin District Attorney deciding that Kenosha police officer Rusten Sheskey will not be charged for his August 23, 2020 shooting of Jacob Blake... Black Lives Matter Global Network Foundation Statement About Violent Conflict in Ethiopia December 17, 2020 Black Lives Matter stands in solidarity with all disenfranchised and displaced people in the Horn of Africa who are affected by violent conflict in Ethiopia... Love, Connection, and Beauty in a Time of Isolation, Tension, and Change November 26, 2020 The attacks the USPS continues to face are not just attacks on the postal service but attacks on Black lives. To defund the USPS would be to deny future generations this opportunity and dishonor the legacy of Black postal workers. Now, we’re taking this matter into our own hands by writing and sending #BlackLoveLetters through USPS... Californians: Help Us Make Calls to Gov. Newsom’s Office Before It’s Too Late November 23, 2020 While we are ecstatic about the historic election of Kamala Harris being elected the first Black woman vice president, it means her Senate seat is currently vacant. This also means that we’re faced with the unfortunate reality that if Gov. Newsom doesn’t appoint a Black woman to this seat, there will be no Black women in the Senate... Tell Gov. Newsom He Must Appoint a Black Woman to the Senate November 16, 2020 Kamala Harris is set to make history as the first Black woman vice president -- which means her Senate seat will soon be open. Without Kamala Harris, there are no Black women in the Senate at all. That’s why we’re calling on Governor Gavin Newsom to appoint a Black woman to fill that seat... Join Black Lives Matter in Our Request for a Meeting with President-Elect Biden and Vice President-Elect Harris November 9, 2020 We worked long and hard to ensure we did all we could to vote Donald Trump out of the White House -- we succeeded. And in doing so, we even elected a Black woman -- the first Black woman -- to the vice presidency. But the truth is, getting Trump out of office was not the end all, be all. The work is just beginning. We start by both holding the new president-elect and vice president-elect accountable to their campaign commitments of addressing systemic racism and by emphasizing our willingness to work with them. Black Lives Matter Global Network Statement About Biden-Harris Victory November 7, 2020 Once again, Black people -- especially Black women -- have saved the United States. Whether in Milwaukee, Detroit, Philadelphia, or Atlanta, Black voters showed up in huge numbers to turn this country around and remove the racist in the White House... Statement by Black Lives Matter Global Network About Election Results November 3, 2020 BLACK LIVES MATTER I want you to read Black Lives Matter Violence Most of the proteser were being peaceful There are people who got shoot Donald Trump is just having ralleys and doing nothing about the protester and he said that black is the symbol of hate and he is wrong. What if I say white is a symbol of hate. Shooting Shooting Why are they shooting black and color who is protesting The killing of George Floyd Shooting the protester for burning up stores and the police just shoot Protest Protester are just trying to have justice protesters are getting shot Protest are burning up stores and stuff like that BLACK LIVES MATTER BLACK LIVES MATTER Racial justice protesters and he said black is a symbol of hate and he is wrong. What if I say white is a symbol of hate? Why are police shooting black and color who are protesting? The killing of George Floyd was awful. It was scary when they put their knees on his neck and he said I can’t breathe. Police shoot the protesters for burning up stores and the police just shoot. Protesters are trying to have justice because of Racial in justice. Protesters are getting shot. Protesters are burning up stores and stuff like that because they're mad and angry. This was an awful protesters and he said black is a symbol of hate and he is wrong. What if I say white is a symbol of hate? Why are police shooting black and color who are protesting? The killing of George Floyd was awful. It was scary when they put their knees on his neck and he said I can’t breathe. Police shoot the protesters for burning up stores and the police just shoot. Protesters are trying to have justice because of Racial in justice. Protesters are getting shot. Protesters are burning up stores and stuff like that because they're mad and angry. This was an awful protesters and he said black is a symbol of hate and he is wrong. What if I say white is a symbol of hate? Why are police shooting black and color who are protesting? The killing of George Floyd was awful. It was scary when they put their knees on his neck and he said I can’t breathe. Police shoot the protesters for burning up stores and the police just shoot. Protesters are trying to have justice because of Racial in justice. Protesters are getting shot. Protesters are burning up stores and stuff like that because they're mad and angry. This was an awful

Once, I was a man. Now I am a Raptor, model C-63, operated by Incorpus Systems. Top of the line, really, compared to my old body. I can fly now, and see much farther, and in a wider spectrum. I like flying, I think. Feelings are different, but it reminds me of the way I used to like the longshift stimulants or solid food or other good things about my life as a man. My memory of those specific things wasn't actually transferred, but I do remember liking them. It seems like the feeling is similar. I can't touch or taste or smell the same ways anymore, so I can't be sure. I don't care. I like being a Raptor, model C-63. I do care about my family. They're why I'm here. I remember liking them even more than those other things. And since my employment has been extended, I know they will have more of those things, and fewer shifts. More time for training or education maybe. Better credit at least. I know if they have enough credit, they could apply for an uplink and we could talk and see each other again. And then it wouldn't matter that the memories hadn't been transferred. There would be new memories. That's why I'm here. The noncompliants' camp came onto my visual feed in the x-ray spectrum. That's the other reason I was here. Nobody wanted to work anymore. I could see the bones of three human resources moving around with each pulse of the emitter. I could also see that they were armed, and had concealed their camp with a thermal camouflage system. Not good enough for a Raptor. I adopted a holding pattern and cut the pulse rate of my x-ray emitter to remain undetected and preserve the value of the human resources before pinging corporate, as dictated by protocol, and by my new reflex system. After a few seconds I felt the uplink from the human technician. They accessed my rational logs and a moment later sent over some instructions. I set my x-ray emitter to pulse at full speed again and began my approach, careful to avoid making a sonic boom. The resources must have detected me somehow anyway. Their bones rushed about, gathering their weapons and other non-standard objects that I couldn't recognize. I trusted that my human technician could, and would advise me of any concerns. There were two adults and one juvenile. The larger adult and the juvenile moved to the end of the camp opposite my path of approach and waited, while the smaller adult brought around a heavy weapon mounted on a circular rail so that it faced me. It emitted some x-rays of its own, and in doing so revealed itself to be an older model of laser cannon, obsolete compared to myself. It was of little concern. When I was less than a kilometer away the bones opened fire. Laser light blinded me to the conventional spectrum. I set that system to standby and used the power to increase the x-ray pulse rate to compensate. The world seemed to enter slow motion. The waiting bones dashed from concealment then, running for their lives at a glacial pace. Another pulse of laser hit me as I approached within 250 meters. I saw nothing this time with my cameras offline, and my thermal sensors confirmed that I had dissipated the heat at a faster rate than the useless cannon's pulse. Then I broke through the camp's camouflage layer and collided with the bones at what I estimated to be non-lethal velocity, with 95% confidence. I was correct, and immobilized the skeleton with several of my appendages, pinning its arms and legs to the ground. It remained surprisingly conscious and screamed words into my mic that I couldn't understand. The technician would know what to do about them, if anything. With the cannon gone I brought my cameras back online and swiveled one to the fleeing pair, moving slowly away from their breached camp and still well within my line of sight. The technician relayed more commands. I fired two darts at the pair housing analytic nanites. Within a second their circulatory systems were apparent to me. They were in good health, quality human resources. I would be back for them. For now I injected the same nanites into the remaining noncompliant and then anesthetized it. The movement and screaming stopped.This one had not fared as well as the others. Maybe it had sustained damage during recapture or maybe that was why it had remained behind. No matter. Its mind had value and a happy future if it could be brought back into compliance. I changed the angle of my appendages to secure the body and took flight again, heading back to corporate. I liked flying, I thought, even at the low altitude and velocity required to preserve the resource. I liked being a Raptor, model C-63. I couldn't wait to see my family again.

See part here. Links to other parts of the story begin there. **8** “What the hell’s taking so long, Clarence?” Her normally beautiful face looked harsh on his phone’s screen. Perhaps it was the lighting. Then again, it could be stress. Or maybe age was finally catching up to her. “You look tired, Darla.” She huffed in disdain. “Thanks.” “Where are you?” “Where do you think?” “No, I mean where are you? Where in the crawler?” She panned her phone’s camera to the side, revealing a zero-G toilet. “That enough of a hint for you?” She flushed it for emphasis, the waste-collection hoses making a sucking sound that was so loud it caused his phone’s speaker to crackle. Clarence smirked. “How’s the smell?” “Awful. If I could send you a sample, I would. What’s going on?” He shook his head. “I have no idea.” “Stop shitting me, Clarence. You built this fucking thing.” “I know, but--” “How serious is it?” He stared at her for a moment, unsure how to respond. “What’s Devon telling everyone?” She scoffed. “The usual line of bullshit. But you know them. They don’t even think he poops anymore. They’ll believe anything he says. So?” Clarence took a deep breath. “It’s serious, Darla.” “Fuck.” The word caught in her throat, and he thought he heard her choke back a sob. For a moment, he almost felt sorry for her. “How long?” she whispered. “Until what?” She cleared her throat, her voice regaining some of its punch. “Until whatever shitty thing is going to happen to us.” “That’s the thing, Darla, I don’t--” “It’s a hack, isn’t it? Someone’s trying to teach Devon a lesson, and we’re all caught in the crossfire. That stupid fucking prick has finally pushed things too far.” “I thought you were in love with him.” She scoffed. “As if he’d even notice if I were.” “How was the ride up--until it stopped?” “Extraordinary.” She smiled, forgetting her situation for a moment. Then she looked at the camera, as if probing for his eyes. “I wish you could have seen it. I really do.” “Me too,” Clarence said, “but considering the circumstances, I’m glad I--” “I’m sorry, Clarence.” “It’s no big deal. Really. I’ll just buy a ticket like everyone else once it’s open to the public.” “I’m not talking about the fucking elevator ride, you dipshit. I’m talking about us, the way things worked out with Devon. The whole fucking thing.” Clarence sighed. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry too, Darla.” Just then he heard a beeping sound. He looked up and saw an alert on the computer that was scanning the code. He paused to read it, his eyes narrowing in confusion as he struggled to process what he was seeing. “What was that?” Darla asked as Clarence leaned over and hit a few keys. “I’m not sure,” he said, his eyes continuing to skim the message. He swallowed hard, feeling as if his guts had just been sucked out through his spine. “Uh, actually, can I call you right back?” “No, you can’t. We’re not even supposed to have our fucking phones up here. What’s going on, Clarence?” Clarence glanced back to her, still reeling from what he had just seen. “Oh yeah, right. Well, maybe you can call me then. In about five?” She looked away for a moment and then turned back to the phone’s camera, her face hardening back into the mask he knew all too well. “You know what? Fuck it, Clarence. Fuck you, fuck Devon, and fuck this goddamn fucking elevator.” “Darla, don’t--” But she had already hung up. Wasting no time, Clarence rolled his chair in front of the other computer and initiated the scan again, still struggling to convince himself that what he had just seen was real. How on earth could this be happening? A moment later, he heard the automatic doors to the control room whoosh open, but he didn’t bother to look up. “Were you just talking to someone?” Terry asked. “I didn’t see any communications come through the network, but I thought I heard a woman’s voice.” Clarence punched a few keys, his eyes still on the monitor as he wondered vaguely if Terry had been eavesdropping on him. “It was Darla. She snuck her phone on board the elevator. You know her. She never was very good at sticking to the rules.” Terry leaned over Clarence’s shoulder. “What did you find?” Clarence watched the lines of code scrolling past, feeling like he was looking at a projection of his mind as he scrambled to come up with an answer. “I’m not sure, but I think--” Before he could complete his thought, the alert sounded again. There was no question. What he had just seen was real. Terry read it and then stepped back, chuckling to himself. “So, you found it. Too bad. I thought it would take longer than that.” Clarence turned his head slightly toward Terry, still unable to look away from the screen. “You . . . you knew about this?” A smirk tugged at the corners of Terry’s mouth. “Knew about it? I wrote it.” Clarence spun his chair toward Terry, about to respond, but then he snapped his mouth shut. In Terry’s right hand was a gun, and it was pointed right at Clarence.

(names have been changed to protect the innocent and guilty) His name was Pedro. He was everything Micheal was not. Suave,exciting, and definitely a little, if not a lot, shady. I loved Micheal but our post graduation breakup had taken him back to his native England and me to Astoria, Queens where I promptly slept with my downstairs neighbor and spent my nights drunk on the N train to and from Manhattan. I met Pedro while he and I were both working in midtown at a sexy asian/mexican fusion restaurant; him being my floor manager, and myself a server. Maybe it was the power dynamic, maybe it was the countless Jameson shots we drank after work, or maybe just being 24, but I soon became powerless over my own but young intuition and convinced myself that he was indeed what I wanted. We started flirting innocently enough, but he must have been able to smell the intrigue and curiosity on me like a dog on a bounty hunt. Night after night of drinking and talking about food, wine, our co-workers, and our very different pasts created a tension that was not only palpable but blinding. You can imagine my surprise when Micheal called a few months removed from our break up from across the pond to tell me he had found a loophole in his Visa. One that would allow him to move to NYC for a year. This statement was immediately followed with “that way we can be back together.” My heart sank. I wanted to feel elated, but I felt like this brand new and shiny appearing world had been ripped away from me. This was my new life! My new city! My new “friends” This was the excitement I had been missing from my extremely stable, only one fight ever, continual unconditional love relationship with Micheal I had had. I couldn’t go back to that... could I? Editors note: Most people would immediately say “yes, of course go back to that you fool” but not this fire sign with an affinity for running away from safety, security, and the “known” My relationship with Michael in Boston was one that to this day I relish as the healthiest of my life. He is perhaps, still, the love of my life. Who is now married. We genuinely adored each other and he wanted to be with me, even after a rocky start that involved a love triangle with someone else...It was messy. But once that dust settled, I had never felt so in love and loved in return. A wonderfully talented and handsome musician, a product of British manners and good parenting with a genuinely golden heart, Micheal saw me in all my flaws and supported and loved me so unconditionally it felt impossible to believe at times. We were best friends who could sit and watch LOST in our pajamas, eat spaghetti, play guitar together, had our inside jokes, our mutual friends, and a blissful life together. We were together for 18 months before college graduation took us separate ways. I remember the break-up conversation so clearly. Us, at our favorite restaurant, having the most adult, eloquent and respectful conversation one could have surrounding the separation of two people very much in love. I was wildly impressed with us at 24 and 22. We tearfully yet calmly agreed to go our separate ways and life would either bring us back together or not. Now it seemed like life was bringing him back to NYC so I strapped in and decided I would ride the wave. I picked Micheal up from LaGuardia with one of those small signs that Limo drivers hold in a half assed attempt to show him that I still loved him dearly and that I wasn’t totally infatuated with a Peruvian with a bad reputation and a penchant for innocent women. We did fall back into a rhythm and for a while I was reminded of how wonderful WE were together. But, after a few weeks, I started feeling antsy and like I wanted out. I felt restricted, shackled to this symbol of my old life, as amazing as he was. It also didn't help that I was working with Pedro almost daily and my scent became all the more intoxicating now that I was officially unavailable. I was half relieved, half terrified of myself and what I would do when Micheal told me that he had to go back to England for six weeks for another inexplicable but real Visa situation. After he got on that flight, I might as well have tied my sneakers on and started running for the fire. A full blown affair blossomed between me and Pedro. We stayed out late, dirty dancing, him whispering phrases in Spanish in my ear while we made out on the dirty NYC sidewalk, the time difference working in my favor for Micheal to be long asleep when I was engaging in my debauchery. At first it felt intoxicating, fun, exciting. But that sheen wore off and when Micheal returned a few weeks later, I was an anxious wreck. I don’t know how people carry on in affairs for years, let alone months, let alone weeks, or days of their life, but I must have lost ten pounds in those two weeks of overlap. What was wrong with me? I had one man who loved me more than himself, wanted nothing but to marry me eventually and adore me, and I couldn’t run away faster. After two weeks of actively sneaking around, turning phones face down on tables, and shitting from anxiarrhea every minute, I broke up with Micheal. I recoil in horror at how eager I was to get him out of my apartment so I could call Pedro and tell him the news that we could actually be together. I watched Michael leave, tears streaming down his face as I texted Pedro “the good news.” I don’t remember him being that excited. About a week later, Pedro broke up with me. I shouldn’t have been so shocked...this is what karma is right? I knew deep down in my gut that he was not good for me, but I decided to fill my gut with booze and sex to convince myself it was right and ended up on my own for the first real time in years. Ten years later.... Landon and I are eating Chinese in what he so affectionately calls “house pants” sweats that once are on, signal we are in for the night. And I’m fine with that. We’ve been watching “The Presidential Series” of movies lately, “ Air Force One ” “ The American President ” and so on for a few nights, having deep, funny discussions and couch therapy. This is what we do. You’d think it was enough. I had been trying to fall in love with my former best friend, then lover, Landon, for about a year now. After getting my heart shattered by the guy I thought I was going to marry, Landon, the guy whose shoulder I always cried on, decided timing be damned, he was going to throw his hat in the proverbial ring and confess his feelings for me. I had never looked at him, * that way* but I knew I loved being around him, and that I was perhaps the most vulnerable I had been in recent history, so we just kind of... started? I remember our first kiss. Sara Bareilles was playing, it was all very rom-com. I hate rom-coms. At first I convinced myself that I was ok. That I could magically get over the previous ex and ride off into the sunset with my best friend. I would not run away from what I had known in the past to feel like “ safe love” I was going to be IN this damnit. How could I not want to be with my best friend? It worked for Monica and Chandler right? However, after almost a year of sobbing jags over the ex TO Landon, and reluctance to be known as his girlfriend around others, I should have cut and run. Done the right thing. But I told myself eventually, I would fall in love and everything would just work itself out. I wouldn't run away from this sort of love again like I had in the past. Landon wanted to put a ring on my finger. Not proverbially, but actually. He was 38, he had been single for the better part of a decade and I was his dream woman. We immediately eased into a comfort, a knowing, a feel like we had been together for years. I kept looking within us for the best part of any relationship, the beginning, but I felt like I got robbed of that part. The best part. We jumped right into what basically felt like marriage. I was at his all the time. He was at mine all the time. We were inseparable, but not in an obnoxious “can’t be apart , madly in love way” more in a “you’re my best friend and the only person I can be around for this long without wanting to jump in front of a moving something way”. There was a road with two paths in front of me, one leading to a life with him, one leading into the dating abyss that is Los Angeles. The road with him felt like I could be about 60% happy, with the remaining 40% wondering what was beyond him... The desire to being single again, moving on from my ex with the same aplomb and routine that proved to eventually work in my past; sleeping with randos, drinking too much, ugly crying in the bathtub, doing whatever the FUCK I wanted to do. The other path, an unknown, risking perhaps never feeling this sort of love again. Enter... Travis. Travis was an affable, tall, floppy haired, guitarist in the ‘90s band I sang in. I have historically always had a weakness for a boy with a guitar. Walking, talking, John Mayer playing sticks of kryptonite that I decide to keep in my bed. Smart. Travis and I met carpooling to a gig in San Diego. I don’t think we stopped talking the entirety of the trip. I was in love with my ex before Landon at the time so I didn’t think twice about him much until a while later during the time where I was still desperately trying to fit my square heart into Landon’s round one. I saw Travis at a rehearsal and we got a drink afterward, him regaling me with stories of his 25 year old situationship/ girlfriend and how he was bored with her, and the only thing he liked about her was her love for The Eagles (the band, not the NFL team) and me dancing around the Landon situation with the expertise of Barishnykov. Somehow portraying that I wasn’t a total shithead and that I loved this person but I wasn’t IN it. Because as I feared, I was getting more and more into him. I knew I was careening towards dangerous and familiar territory that I had avoided for the last decade but here I was again, feeling that tension from the spark. The energy circuiting in my body, making me want to flee again. Over the next few weeks, we would find reasons and excuses to hang out. I was still with Landon but Travis and I were only growing more and more electric the longer that we hung out. I was once again at a place where I was turning my phone face down and staying out late with someone who wasn’t my lover. He would make jabs about Landon to me, ways of puncturing holes in what he already knew was too porous a shell. It was a game to him, he later admitted. Interested in what he thought he couldn’t have. The thing that I knew all along he would eventually get. He kissed me one night in my kitchen. It was a sloppy kiss. My mouth filled with chips, both of us drunk. I knew right then I had to break up with Landon. At least a decade later, I wasn’t going to let an actual affair continue. Been there, done that and while this had been an emotional affair until this point, I couldn’t possibly relive that anxious hellscape once something BAD actually happened. In my head, the line hadn’t been yet crossed but with that kiss, I had just lightly jumped over and it was no longer ok . I had made bargains with my morality up until that point. “If I don’t text him back it’s ok.” or, “ he left at 3 am instead of 4, so that’s ok “ I texted my best friend about what happened, took screenshots of the exchange and deleted the messages, just like an addict hiding the evidence. Two days later, I was with Landon watching the Oscars when he looked over at me and said “ Do you have something you want to tell me?” I felt punched in the gut. How the fuck did he know? I foolishly pseudo lied and said something ridiculous along the lines of “ we didn’t make out, it was one kiss” like the semantics and details would somehow get me out of this. It was not good. I was in such shock that he had gone through my phone as he later admitted that I couldn’t even allow myself to be angry at the invasion of privacy. That I still deserved even as the guilty one. Both of us filled with shame, shock and anger, we broke up. This time, I left his apartment with tears in my eyes and no real elation because at the end of the day, Travis never actually said he wanted to be with me. I called Travis and told him what had happened and his reaction was slightly apologetic with a detected hint of “ oh shit, I didn’t mean to do that. Do I owe her something now?” I had once again blown up the thing I knew was safe, secure, unconditional in exchange for the unknown thrill of something that never quite satisfies. Travis and I continued for two years in an excruciating cyclical situationship that always ended it’s “round” with me asking for more and being told he didn’t want to or couldn’t give that to me. I’m still not fully over him. Landon and I are back to friends but not without the better half of a year of many angry conversations, emails on Christmas Eve telling me how shitty I was, tears shed and questions asked. When I ask myself why I ran from these loves, I never have a good answer. You could essentially blame it on my youth, but that excuse wears itself thin in your late thirties. I suppose I don’t really know where it comes from. Studies will claim attachment style is childhood based.That the relationship between you and your caretaker during the formative first few years of your life somehow determine whether or not you fall for fuck bois in your twenties and thirties but yet, here we are. I have discussed my tendencies at length with therapists and friends about why I seem to run away from the stable, sometimes boring, safe and unconditional love and instead run towards the unavailable, damaging, never quite actually love me types. All I know is that here I am at 38 years old wanting the former more than ever and feeling more and more hopeless with each late night swipe session, each boring first date, each lap I take year by year, swimming into a shallower dating pool, eventually banging my head against the ground and running out of options. I suppose one gets tired of running all the time. It’s fun when you're young, you’re being chased, you’re racing something, or trying to get from point A to point B and fast, but now, my feet and my heart are tired.

Radhika had been waiting at the Starbucks near her place for the last half an hour. She looked at the time on her watch for the 10 th time in the last 15 minutes. It said 4.55pm. Her heart began to beat faster as the clock approached 5pm. Radhika knew that he was never late. She lightly pat her chest to calm herself. It isn’t the first time you’re meeting him! She chided herself. To take her mind of things, she began thinking of something else. The next thing she could think of was her mother. Even though she was only 5 minutes away from her home, she knew her mother would not be one to care. Nor would she call her to ask when she would be home. Its ironic how if this situation had played out a few years ago, her mother would be all over her, calling her multiple times to check when she would be home. Now, however, things had changed and for the better Radhika thought. ‘You are early’ a male voice said coming close to the table. She looked up, to the face that she had thought she would be waking up to every morning in the future. For a moment, as if spellbound, she felt stuck in place, her face looking up, unable to come up with a response. Since she was already looking up, she took in the features of the person in front of her. His face had matured over time and the boyish features were replaced with a manly expression with the smirk still in place. Was it that wicked smirk that had made her heart race the first time she had looked at him in high school? Even so, it still had the power to make her heart race, she thought. She only hoped that the thump of her heart wasn’t audible to him. ‘Abhinav. Yes, I came a bit early to catch up on some time with myself’ she replied getting some grip on herself. Abhinav proceeded to sit on the seat opposite to her while she was trying to memorize his every action to memory. He was wearing a navy-blue suit and looked crisp, not just by his attire but by his overall appearance. Donning a pair of glasses and hair that was neatly put in place, he looked picture-perfect. She suddenly felt conscious in her white chikan kurta that she had paired on a pair of denims thinking this to be just a casual meeting. Sitting up straight, she gathered herself preparing for the conversation. Hadn’t she seen enough in her life already to face a simple conversation with her ex? Ex, who would’ve thought? Back in high school, when they had pledged to be with each other forever, she knew that it wasn’t just an empty promise. Unlike all the other couples around her, who were getting in and out of relationships, theirs was based on a solid foundation. Where the whole school feared his terror and bullying, Radhika had seen the scared, lonely guy behind the angry-young-man mask. Abhinav, on the other hand, had held her hand firmly throughout, even when her best friend stabbed her in the back for a guy leaving Radhika hurt and in tears. Abhinav had ensured that both her friend and the boyfriend were taught a lesson when he relayed the truth of the boyfriend to her friend. Yet, Radhika being a good person, had taken her best friend back with open arms. Was that the first crack that brought about a domino effect in finally ending their relationship? ‘Should I order for the both of us?’ Abhinav’s question brought her back to the present. Radika nodded in response. ‘One cappuccino for the lady and an americano for me, please. Thank you’ Abhinav said placing his order with the waiter. For someone who was arrogant with almost everyone he met of his age, he was surprisingly warm and nice to those elder to him or below his social status, both then and now. Now as he looked at her, Radhika tried hard to not show her real emotions on her face. She instead kept a stoic face and looked straight at him. ’15 years. Should I say long time no see or that it is great to meet you?’ he said. ’15 years? I didn’t even realize how the years went by’ she lied. Truthfully, she had always been counting days since they last spoke. She had never thought this day would ever come. But last week receiving a call from him, she was shocked? Surprised? 10 seconds in the call she realized she hadn’t responded to his ‘hello’ and replied back trying to keep the tremble out of her voice. At the end of the call, they decided to meet. ‘I know right? So, what are you upto these days? Working at an MNC like you always wanted to?’ he asked. ‘MNC? No. I left that dream a long time back. Now I am a kindergarten teacher.’ She said smiling contently. ‘Shocking for someone who absolutely detested kids. Why a kindergarten teacher? You could’ve made so much of money at an MNC with your sharp intellect and strong personality’ ‘Like you?’ Before he could respond, they were interrupted with the waiter who came with their order. After he left, Abhinav said, ‘Yes, like me. Money isn’t bad, is it?’ ‘Nothing is bad unless you give it the power to run your life.’ Radhika replied with a faraway look in her eyes. In their minds, they had a ton of questions to ask each other. But they both refrained from doing so, realizing that they would be crossing boundaries of whatever this was that they were doing at the moment. Radhika broke the silence by asking Abhinav about his work even though she knew exactly what he did. Who wouldn’t know one of the youngest entrepreneurs to enter their company into the Fortune 500 list? She was silently proud of him but she stopped herself from telling him about it. Even back in high school, she knew he possessed both the skill and the zeal to lead and so she had always persuaded him to use it for the right purposes. ‘Work is good.’ He replied. Then he continued, thinking he would have to be the one to let his defense down first, ‘After my parents had a fight one day that went a little too far, I just took my mother and ran away from home. I decided that no woman in my life would ever suffer the way she did. Then on, I have worked my ass off to first find us a place to stay, then run it and then build my company from scratch’ The sandwich Radhika was holding in her hand was still in mid-air. She was left speechless. In none of his interviews or appearances, had he ever spoken of his hardships or the way he had started his company. Certainly, not this crude version of all that he had gone through. She knew of troubles that brew between his parents even back in high school, but never thought it would go to this extent. As she looked at him closely, he looked tired and worn out, but he masked it well. All this before he had even reached the age of 30. She knew it was hard for him to bare himself like that but it gave her confidence to be herself with him. Like they weren’t their age but 15 again. ‘I... I’m sorry. I had no idea’ she said hesitatingly. ‘It’s okay. How would you even?’ he said taking a sip of his Americano to wet his dried-up throat. She continued to steal glances at him as he attended a work call. ‘Sorry for that’ Abhinav said keeping the call. ‘It’s okay’ she said. ‘So what’s up with you? What have you been up to all these years?’ he asked. ‘Oh nothing worth telling’ Radhika said taking a sip of her cappuccino to hide her nervousness. Abhinav looked at her understanding very well that she was hiding herself behind the cup. She was the same girl even now who never spoke of her troubles. Instead, pushed them under the carpet like it was nothing. Even though he was the one to break their relationship, he never could be done with Radhika and so in a silent way he had kept tabs on her life without ever letting her know. Throughout the last year of school and then college, Abhinav watched her every moment he got away from work or had a minute to breathe. He couldn’t see her date other guys but he knew he couldn’t step in for he was the one to walk away. Surprisingly, those relationships never lasted beyond a month or two. The biggest punch in the gut for Abhinav was when she got married young at just 22 years old. That’s when he felt as if he had lost her completely. Yet, Abhinav couldn’t stop himself from knowing what she was up to in her life and so he continued watching her from afar. The first time he was made known of her husband raising his hand on her, Abhi felt like he had time traveled to when he was at home with his parents. That vow he made to himself, he couldn’t keep it to the one woman he loved. Even so, Abhinav took steps towards Radhika multiple times but stopped himself from butting in their married life. He knew it was wrong and that it may do her more harm than good. Every time he seen her husband walk around arrogantly, he wanted to punch him till he could see the guy lose his last breath. Once his company became successful, Abhinav had little time on hand and eventually became far away from Radhika due to work. He had only been just become successful at moving on from her when he spotted Radhika at the traffic signal last week. It took him a while to recognize her since she looked much frailer than he had last seen her. Once he did, the first thing he did was learn of all the things that had transpired in her life in the last few years. Knowing that she was divorced, he could see a ray of hope. Not to build a relationship, but to take a step towards connecting with her. Sparing no time, he called her and set this meeting. Why didn’t Abhinav just date instead of silently following her around? He had tried his best to date another girl but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had learnt the value of what a relationship means with Radhika. Having bared himself once he couldn’t let someone else see his scars that Radhika had privy to. Abhinav couldn’t do that again, not when he knew that the one he loved was still breathing in the same world as him. Now, as she sat wearing just a white kurta- probably to hide her scars- on a pair of blue jeans, she looked ethereal to him. Simple and comfortable, just like he knew Radhika was. Unable to take the rage any longer, he spewed it on her. ‘Why are you trying to hide things about you?’ he asked anger clearly visible on her face. ‘Hide what? There is nothing to hide’ she said tapping her fingers on the table. He was drawn to the tapping and his suspicion of her lie was confirmed. ‘You always tap your fingers like that when you lie’ he said pointing to her fingers. ‘So what if I did? Who are you to ask me anything? What do you mean by ‘trying to hide things’? Did you do a background check on me?’ she asked her eyes bulging. ‘Yes I did. Unlike about me, I cannot find things about you written in magazines and newspapers!’ Abhinav said keeping his coffee cup a little too loudly. Radhika looked around to see people begin to look at them. ‘Let’s not do this now or ever.’ She said trying to gather her belongings and beginning to get up when he pulled her down and close. Abhinav was holding her arm as he let his anger cool down. Once he felt a bit normal, he looked her in the eye as he said ‘Look at me. I understand your hesitation of talking to me given our history. But did you also forget that I was the one holding your hand when all had left you alone?’ ‘Yes the same hand you left when you decided to trust someone else over me on a baseless rumor.’ Radhika said pulling her hand out of his clutch. ‘That wasn’t it!’ Abhinav said. ‘I didn’t think to break up with you because I believed the rumor. Do you think our relation was that weak? Rumors or not, I knew you for who you were and not just because we were together. I left you for the issues I was ensuring at home were too heavy a burden that I didn’t want the two of us to carry them. At the time it felt it was wise to use the rumor and let you go but the consequence of it has been paid by me every single day of my life.’ Abhinav said looking down. Radhika didn’t know what to say. All this while she thought that he had left because of a stupid rumor. Even though she had believed that their relation was stronger than that, she was proven wrong by his one action. Suddenly out of words, she looked at the guy in front of her a bit differently. Abhinav lifted his head and looked at Radhika look at him. Hesitatingly, he kept his palm covering hers and apologized. ‘I’m sorry, for the agony I caused you back then. I knew that if I told you all that I was going through you would’ve jumped to help me and I didn’t want you to get involved. I just couldn’t let you do that Rads’ he said calling her what he always did in high school. This made her look up at him. She felt happy inside, hearing a name that was as familiar to her as her real name. Abhinav continued, ‘I couldn’t put you in worry with me or put you out of my mind.’ He followed it by confessing everything he had done in the last 15 years of silently watching over her. He told her how he knew of her married life and how much it hurt to see her go through the same thing his mother did when they were young. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything to help. At times, I wanted to step in and do business with your husband every time I seen his business fail. But it worried me that you might somehow hear of my name from him, so I stayed away.’ ‘It’s good you didn’t get involved with him. To be honest, I don’t think anything would’ve made Vishal happy. He never could quench his thirst for money, not professionally or personally. Everything was an opportunity for him to make money- be it business or wife. Mother forcibly got me married to him when she learnt of ex of mine. I agreed for she left me no choice. Through all the years of domestic abuse, she stood next to him instead of me. I wasn’t surprised considering she had practically sold me to him with a bag full of cash as dowry. It took me a whole lot of suffering and determination to reach a point where I could leave him. Even then I did it all alone. Mother hated me for my decision of divorce and even now gives me an earful for I have returned home to live with her. Anyway, now I am happy to be just a kindergarten teacher. The kids make me happy and forget all that had happened’ she looked at Abhinav to see tears brimming in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry Radhika for all that you had to go through. I knew of some things but not in so much detail. I wish I could go back and change my one decision of leaving you.’ Abhinav said trying to clear his tears with a handkerchief. ‘It’s okay Abhi, it’s really not your fault. If we were meant to be then, none of this would have happened.’ ‘What if we are meant to be together, now?’ Abhi asked her looking point blank in her eyes. Seeing as she was shocked at what he said, he held her palms in between his hands and continued, ‘I understand and agree that maybe then, we weren’t meant to be together. But nothing can stop us to be together now. I know that you have only just gotten out of a hard time relation and probably may want to steer clear of any relationship whatsoever. I want the same for you too. Just allow me to be a part of your life as your friend again. I would never ask you for anything more. And someday if you think you can do it again, I will be waiting next to you to start a life together.’ He finished his statement with a smile. Radhika suddenly felt light in her being as if the storms had finally cleared making way to a bright sunny day. Had Abhi forced her for a relation, she wouldn’t have been comfortable. It is only now that she was learning things about herself, a relation was a thing of some distant future. What she needed was a friend, one who knew her well and was ready to walk by her. She was glad that she had agreed to meet Abhi after all. She held her palm out to him asking with a smile, ‘Would you be my friend?’

Like most of us, seventeen years ago my life was completely different. I was living in Killeen, TX waiting to get married. It was the first time living away from my family. Killeen is a small army town about an hour north of Austin. Outside of the army base Killeen is made up of bars, tattoo parlors and strip clubs. Growing up in the suburbs of Ohio, I was out of my element. I was in the middle of nowhere with no friends and a fiancé I barely knew. Whenever I found myself homesick, got upset or was angry I couldn’t take off in my car, drive to a friend’s house, or my parents to talk it out as I normally would. I was smack dab in the middle of the lone star state with a man I didn’t even know. I didn’t have any friends when I first arrived, but I did have a house and a lot of time to fill. My fiancé loved to fish, and I often accompanied him to the lake for lack of anything else to do. On one such trip I found an abandoned kitten curled up next to its dead mother. I had to keep it. Unfortunately, my fiancé refused to let me name our kitten. We argued over it, but I lost, and he named the kitten Buddy. I was annoyed with my fiancé’ yet happy to have this new companion. Buddy was a rascal as most kittens are. He very much enjoyed keeping me up by running throughout the house all night long. One of his favorite things to do was lightly touch my face with his paw at 3am. Looking back, it was sweet and funny, but after a few weeks I was exhausted from lack of sleep. He never bothered my fiancé. I loved that cat, but I was very much annoyed and resentful of the sleep my fiancé was getting. I came home from work one day and found Buddy staring under our couch. He wouldn’t budge. I got on my hands and knees to see what had him so entranced. As I peered into the darkness, I saw two eyes staring back at me. Thirty mins later a sweet six-month-old tabby cat crawled out. My fiancé got a kitten for our kitten. He explained to me that a soldier had been deployed overseas and was planning on letting this kitten outside to survive on its own. My fiancé wasn’t going to let that happen. The best part was this time I even got to name him. I knew instantly this darling cat’s name was Scooter. Texas was the first of two states that Scooter and I would live in together. Over the years we would live in two different states and five different houses. We eventually left Texas and moved back to Ohio. Moving into our second living space, a condominium where I had my two children. By that time, my fiancé wanted a dog and therefore he adopted a sweet mixed breed named Norman. The three pets got along wonderfully. All three animals were special, and I loved each one of them, but there was something about Scooter that tied me to him. Maybe it was because I was the one who named him. I chose a name that I thought of as a child but never had the chance to use up until then. When I thought of the name Scooter my family had animals already and thus, I couldn’t use the name. In my mind as a child I wanted a dalmatian named Scooter, instead when I saw my tabby cat years later somehow it just fit. Scooter was a fiery little shit. He galloped around the house, jumped on couches, and ottomans, while his 16-pound frame made all sorts of noise in our house. He had the sweetest round face I’d ever seen. It begged for you to scratch him and that’s when he would bite you. Not hard of course but just enough to keep you away. He did this to everyone except me. Well, if I’m being honest, I got bitten also but far less than everyone else. It was a game he and I played. My sister, friend or family member would come over, see his darling face, and want to interact. They noticed he was a little finicky and asked if they could pet him. “Will he bite me?” My sister asked. “Nope.” I said. Followed by laughter on my end after Scooter bit her. He never drew blood or hurt anyone, but he always let you know who was in charge. A few years later I left my husband I moved the two kids, two cats and one dog into a two-bedroom apartment. I was afraid my husband would demand one of the pets, but then realized I had no need to worry. He wasn’t interested in taking care of his kids, why would he be interested in taking care of the animals? The apartment was home number three for Scooter and me, it was little, but we made it work. During this time Scooter became ill with bladder stones. I had just left my husband who was unemployed and giving zero financial or emotional support. I was on food stamps, working part time and I used the last of my savings to put the deposit and first month’s rent down on my apartment. I didn’t have the money for the operation he needed therefore I asked my parents for the $1300 so the vet could surgically remove the bladder stones. I felt terrible. I was 31 years old, using government assistance and asking my parents to pay for surgery for my cat because I was too broke to do so. I thank God my parents helped me with his surgery, otherwise I wouldn’t have had him. I lived at my apartment for the next 5 years and I’m sad to say that both Buddy and Norman passed during this time. Both were hard on me. It was the first time I was the adult making the choice when to end their suffering. The years went by, and I worked hard, getting promotions regularly, I was in a better financial position that allowed me to afford medicine and different diagnostic procedures for both Buddy and Norman. However, they each reached the end of their lives in that apartment. Buddy was young, only around 9 years old when he got intestinal cancer, and the vet told me there was little they could do. Norman was around 10 when he developed a tumor on his spine. Although logically I knew there wasn’t anything else I could do, it was still extremely hard to be the one to make that final decision. I tried to take comfort knowing they were not in pain any longer. Although I struggled with each one passing, I have to say that when Buddy passed the kids were so little, I didn’t have a lot of time to grieve his death. I was still working to make it through each day as a single parent, falling into bed at night happy we all got through another day. A few years later when Norman passed, I felt the grief a little more. The kids were older, and I was getting ready to buy my first home. Norman was a Shepard mix who initially I didn’t want to adopt. We were living in my dad’s condominium without a yard, and I felt that it was wrong to get a dog who needed to run. My ex-husband didn’t care and wouldn’t listen to my concerns, so we rescued Norman. I walked him and took him to dog parks, but it wasn’t the same as being able to open up the door and let him lay in his own open yard. After all the years living in a condominium and then an apartment, I just wanted Norman to have a backyard to run in. Sadly, I wasn’t able to give him that before he died. With the purchase of my first house, Scooter moved into the fourth home we would share. I started to realize that at 12 years old he wasn’t a young cat anymore and I needed to take the extra time to enjoy him. It suddenly struck me that he wasn’t going to be with me forever. I believe that this was when I really fell in love with him. Although the kids were older and more self-sufficient, they were both still in elementary school. After they went to bed I would start a fire, curl up on my couch and wait for Scooter to jump into my lap. Some people read to relax, others go to the gym, paint, or cook. I made fires in my fireplace and snuggled with Scooter. During COVID I started working from home and Scooter sat on my lap for hours. I would be in meetings with my fat cat sleeping on me. I had to work, like us all, but I found the way to do it. Scratching my cat’s ears while I looked at spreadsheets made the spreadsheets slightly more bearable. The years went on and the jokes began. “Mom, do you love Scooter more than us?” my daughter asked. “Baby, how could you even ask that? Of course, I love Scooter more than I love you.” We would all burst into laughter as my daughter playfully hit me. My son would walk downstairs and crawl onto the couch while Scooter and I watched a movie. “Be careful, don’t upset my cat.” I would say grinning at him. As much as we all joked about my love for Scooter there was an ounce of truth to it. Of course, I didn’t love my cat more than I loved my kids. But at that point Scooter had been in my life longer than my kids. I joked that Scooter lasted longer than my first marriage and I had been with him longer than my kids had been alive. Scooter was around while I was wrapped in the chains of active alcoholism and also there when I got sober. Scooter was with me when I was on food stamps and kept me warm when the furnace of my apartment barely did the job. He had slept with the kids, the dog and I all in one bed. He had been in my life for a long time. Scooter started to slow down significantly in his 17 th year. He had suffered a few bouts of pancreatitis throughout his life, but these flares went from once every five years to a few times in a year. Scooter also started getting around slower. Taking longer to walk up and down the stairs and jumping onto the counter happened less often. The vet gave him supplements for arthritis this past year and I’m happy to say it did him wonders. In many ways it turned him into a kitten again. As I saw him age, I marveled at the way Scooter did ordinary things, watching his relaxed face as he slept curled up in a sun beam as it peaked through the window. It brought tears to my eyes when he ran after a laser pointer my kids danced in front of him. Every night coming to a close with Scooter on my lap as we watched TV while the kids slept. At the start of this year, I got married and bought my second house. This house was the fifth home that Scooter and I lived in together. A few weeks before the move I saw a change in Scooter. His vomiting increased, and changed from when he had a pancreatitis flare up to a few times a week. It finally got to the point where he couldn’t keep his arthritis supplements down which caused him to get around much slower than before. As the move got closer, I was terrified it would stress him out and toss him into another bout of pancreatitis. Luckily, he made the move much better than I anticipated and he thrived for a few weeks. Acclimating better than our younger cat and dog. But it didn’t last, soon after the move Scooter started losing weight. Not just a little as he aged but enough that I could tell a significant difference. I spared no expense in allowing the vet to run tests while also balancing the stress of putting him through taking blood and giving him medicine. The only good part of this scenario was that I was in a financial position where I could afford to try whatever medication the vet suggested or to run whatever test was needed to try and help him. Ironic that the money I had worked so hard to get, in hopes of making my family’s lives better, didn’t give me any more time with my beloved cat. On June 9 th 2024 I took Scooter to the vet to put him to sleep. With his passing a wound opened in my heart. I cried the entire time I was at the vet’s office as she asked me questions and finally agreed that it was time to end the pain he was in. We had run out of options, and she agreed his quality of life was not good. I stayed with Scooter the entire time, snuggling him, and stroking his head. The next day I told my husband that I was surprised how difficult each day was. I’m not an overly emotional person. I love animals and consider myself a “pet person” but I’m also very practical. Everything dies eventually, it is just a part of life. My husband was the wise one as he said that “It’s been almost 20 years”. He is right, no one grieves 17 years in a day. Therefore, I’m allowing myself to feel the terrible feelings I have. In my most basic thoughts I keep thinking that I just want Scooter back. I want him physically back with me, at home number five. I don’t like not having him. I had an exceedingly difficult time leaving his body with the vet, and although I opted to have him cremated and have purchased a small urn to keep him near me, I do not like not having him with me. I don’t like being at my house expecting to see him, even as skinny as he was. I want to pick up that skinny body and snuggle it. Logically I know that taking his pain away was the right decision, but I want him back. I feel like a child. If I thought stomping my feet, yelling, and pounding my fists on the floor would somehow allow him to return to me I would do it all. Unfortunately, at 45 years of age I know that won’t change anything. I can’t imagine what it’s like for a parent to lose a child. I imagine the feelings I have of wanting my Scooter back are only a small representation of how a parent feels when they have lost their child. I think the only reason losing an animal is bearable is because we can understand that they live faster and shorter lives than we do. We understand that by loving an animal we will also have to withstand the pain of losing that animal. With children we are not supposed to lose them, they are supposed to lose us. I tell my children that my only real goal in life is to die before them. If I die before them then I’ve won at life. Don’t get me wrong, I hope that I die when I’m 97 and that my children don’t suffer any terrible fates, but in general as long as I die first then I’ll be happy. Often times the kids and I would joke and say things like “He’s not going to be with us much longer.” Even though it was said lightheartedly I knew that it was a true statement. Cats rarely live to be twenty, although I thought my Scooter might make it that long. Pain and misery are the harshest of teachers, but perhaps the ones that teach us the most. I realize that Scooter was my reward at the end of each day. After I finished my job, taken care of the kids, the house, and my husband, I was able to sit down and have my cat’s soft paws and gentle purrs take away the stress of my day. The time I spent with him was when my cup was refilled, he recharged me, allowing me to wake up and start all over again. I don’t know how I’m going to recharge now that he is gone. What I do know however is that Scooter gave me a final gift in his death, he taught me to live in the moment. I can honestly say that I made a very conscious decision to love and enjoy Scooter more in the last three years than in the first twelve that I had him. I knew that time was running out for us to be together and instead of mourning his age I very much embraced it. I enjoyed every ear scratch, and each face snuggle. I took more pictures, made more Instagram posts, and ate up the affection he gave me. Scooter taught me to slow down and appreciate the time we had together. I’m trying to slow down; to enjoy the time I have with everyone and in every part of my life. I can honestly say that Scooter gave me one of the greatest gifts in my life and for that I will forever be grateful to my sweet, feisty tabby cat.

Zack looked at the demon girl as Addie flew past him and got slammed against the wall like she was a pillow. She morphed back into her human self as she slid down the wall. Addie didn’t look so hot; you could tell that several of her ribs were broken, she had a busted lip, and was coughing up blood. Zack had to tap into the pen’s powers to save her even though he would have to give up being human. It was a bad course of action but he didn’t have another plan and wouldn’t be able to make one in time for Addie’s sake. Zack’s eyes darken as his fingernails grew out like he was Wolverine. Zack turned to the others, “We have to help her!” Zack exclaimed as he rushed over to Addie. Cody, Liz, and Simon pulled out their pens and looked around for cover. Cody, Liz, and Simon started to use the floor as paper, but before they could start to writing,, the white wolf howled, and a blue mist rose from the floor broads. Liz and Tina saw their father, in the flesh, standing in front of them along with Artie and Ethan. Cody and Simon stared, wide-eyed at their mother, who had passed away six years ago. Dan and Maddie saw their families, the ones the killed welcoming them back with open arms as if they had just had a little fight and they were still alive. Harper saw Angel and Lason in one piece. When Damian, Zack, Krystal, and Katrienna looked around the hallway, the only humans there were the gang, Addie, and the wolf girl. Black ink figures stood in front of them like sirens, trying to get them to come towards them. Zack looked back at them, “GET THE PENS!” Damian bolted to Liz and picked up the Pen of Character. Krystal went for Simon’s pen. When Krystal took the pen it moped into a sword. Katrienna tried to get Cody’s but he was surrounded by the ink monsters, making it impossible for her to get near him. While the other worked on trying to get the pens, Zack went full beast mode on the white wolf while Addie tried to catch her breath... The white wolf’s fur was now bloody and big chunks of it laid scattered around her body. Zack stood over the corpse while the others tried to help Addie to her feet. Addie started to take the pens back, but then stopped in midthought. She looked up to Liz, Cody, Harper, Dan, Simon, and Maddie with glass-like eyes, “I think we should break the remaining pens so they can’t fall into the wrong hands,” she said looking towards Zack as she continued, “Let me have the Devil’s pen so I can be bound to it, so I can fight my own battle.” Zack quickly replied, glaring at the others so they wouldn’t say anything and keeping his eyes away from Addie, “It was destroyed when you vanished.” Addie nodded but didn’t say anything else. Tina spoke up, “Um, I’m bonded to the pen of death, but is there a way that it can be undone?” Addie shook her head, “Each pen is different; each one has its own soul and power. If it was the devil’s pen, for example, it would be easy to remove from a that I created, but if it was me or someone else it would take a while. Unfortunately, death is permanent.” Addie turned to the others, “Would any of you like to be the bridge between the pens?” Simon was the first one to step forward, then Dan and Harper. Adaline smiled, “Good, now there’s a pen in each world.” Cody looked at Addie, “What about the Forgotten’s pen?” Addie sighed, “She still needs a home and wants to keep her memories locked away, so the pen will stay with her.” Adaline looked to the others, “Let’s go home.” ... Zack smiled as the final bell rang, letting everyone know that summer had begun. It had been two weeks since everyone had gotten back to their own world and life was getting back to normal. Adaline had been accepted into a high school writing workshop for the summer, leaving with a big smile and hopes to try to cheer Tina up and find Ethan, who didn’t pass on. Zack knew lying to Addie about the devil’s pen was dumb but he didn’t want her to worry about him. He had gotten pretty good at hiding the red eyes, but some days he looked like a corpse; his eyes would be sunken in and he would be paler than heck, but when people asked him about it he would just say that he was under the weather. He had gotten used to seeing horns on his shadow and seeing the demon girl everywhere, but he didn’t know what to do. Then the idea hit him; Tina might be able to help him. Little did he know that a new adventure just around the corner... The tree stood alone on the hill that looked out to the sea. This tree had seen it all; love, lies, betrayal, and death. It stood over children playing in the grass, brothers at war with one another, lovers that now are one, and the tree stood strong yet always alone, ‘til one night when a girl about 15 carved her name into its bark. The girl’s tears hit the ground as the tree stood shakily above the girl’s head. The girl made a necklace out of rope, and the tree bowed its branches. The girl hung as the tree shakes in the wind. The wind blew through the branches making a silent cry for the loss of life. Let us have mercy on the crying soul. As the tree looked out to the sea, a boy about 15 came with flowers. The tree stood still as if in shock. The boy visited the tree every day. As the years passed, the boy grew and went to fight another nation. The tree stood alone for five years until a family came by to lay the boy at rest. But loyal still they held right as men of righteousness like the boy to fight and die for the banner of their country. And how can man die better than facing fearful odds, for the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his gods? The town’s folk named the tree “The Weeping Tree”, for it had seen pain and loss. This tree now looks out to the sea in hope of a better world. In the tree’s world, a land of prosperity that will escape the eye of a stranger, the cry for a homely proverb is unyielding. Many have broken faith because of the unholy wars. A girl’s voice started to sing as the wind picked up. The tree stood five feet away from two women. Both young and beautiful, yet one better than the other. “BANG”. The singing stopped as one woman fell to the ground. Man is the only animal that kills for the sheer joy of it. Blood is spilled and yet the tree lives. The blood of mankind cries out from the ground. As it once was in Egypt. “And there was a great cry in Egypt for there was not a house where someone was not dead,” says the prophet. This tree longs for the light but it is surrounded by darkness. The wind carries the cries of children who fear dark while men fear the light. As the prophet John has written,“ in this is the judgment: the light has come into the world and people love the darkness rather than the light because their works were evil. For everyone who does wicked things hates the light and does not come into the light lest his works should be exposed.” This tree needs light just as the children need it. Children like trees planted by streams of water that yield fruit in its season and their leaves do not wither away and all that they do they prosper. When I was a child; I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I responded like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways. But in the eyes of a child, the greatest of all things is love. That heart of a dream that once sang in the tree’s life, died as the reckoning of man takes the dreamers among the wicked. Can’t we dream the tree’s dream of a better world where death cannot reach the children of love? What a dream it would be, the dreamer’s dream of hope. The tree dreamed a beautiful dream. The dream was about a garden where children played among the flowers and war was no more. Weeds don’t have dwellings among the garden. It wanted to live in the dream but it looks out to a nightmare that can’t be controlled. The sea grew ill and the sky turned evil. The tree’s world grew ill as the tree lived. The sky sent demons that wiped out the land and made the land shook in fear. Man gave birds armor, the sky demons, and the sea illness. Men of evil made the tree’s world take a turn for the worst. The prophet has written, “So will Babylon, the great city will be thrown down with violence, and will be found no more. And all the nations were deceived by your society and there was found the blood of the prophets and the saints and all who have been slain on Earth.” The earth grew weaker. A curse on nature cast by men of evil has descended upon the world. Listen all, to the tree’s story. Will you hear the despair of the affected? Will you strengthen their hearts? Will you incline your ear to do justice for the fatherless and the oppressed so that man who is of the earth may strike terror no more? Darkness has fallen in paradise, and children cry out from their villages that lay in ruin due to man’s hate. The living need more prayers than darkness... A grim reaper sat beneath the tree, reading her lover’s last poem as she stood looking out to the sea. Tina read the Tree’s story many times since she had taken the book from the library from Wonderland but still felt empty. Addie said that Ethan deserves a second chance at life but didn’t know how to bring him back...

Children tend to be neglectful of these toys. Some leave them on the floor while others set them in dark boxes or closets never playing with them at all. Most of the toys in a child's bedroom are safe getting treated that way, but there are some toys who will not stand for it. How do I know this you ask? Well, I lived it and now I'm typing this to share the story with you. May it serve to keep you from making the same mistakes I made in my youth. As a child, I like many others, had a lot of toys. Now electronics in my day hadn't quite become nearly so big as they are now. Computers ran Windows 98, people had CD's but most kids still had tape players, TVs had commercials and there wasn't a tablet or DS in sight. The Nintendo, Super Nintendo, Sega, and Game boy did exist, but they were fairly expensive. VHS players were generally kept in the living room and only there was the TV. Children read books, played with toys and outside on bikes, roller skates, skateboards, and an odd Pogo stick or two. To most kids in this time I'm sure I sound old, but technology grew so fast. Being a child growing up in a quickly booming technological world was a marvel to watch, but as with all things magnificent there are consequences. My problem started with the day my parents surprised me with a TV and Super Nintendo for my room. Until then I spent a good deal of time playing with my action figures, dolls, marbles, coloring books, puzzles, etc. but after I began to play Super Mario, Zelda, Star Fox, and many others I left my non-electronic toys behind. First I would still play with them a little, but as I lost interest I stuck them into a Rubbermaid tub and put them in my closet. Three months after I put the toys away I began to have nightmares of the toys coming to get me, and I'd wake up screaming which drew my parents to the room. They would calm down, say it was just a dream, and tell me if I picked my toys off the floor perhaps I wouldn't have bad dreams anymore. I tried to tell them I had picked my toys up but they were on the floor and I was an imaginative child so I can understand why they didn't believe me. I was terrified so I went to the library to see if I could find anything that might help with possessed toys. Back then there was a card catalog system which isn't as effective as the computer system there is today. That being said, I spent hours searching but to no avail; however, just as I was about to give up I noticed a sign in for one of three computer the library owned. There were one hour blocks marked off and a free computer so I signed up and received the pass-code to sign in. I looked for the next hour I was allotted, but it came up with storied of other people being possessed or of objects being possessed. I even tried looking up hauntings but nothing stuck so I went home. That night I had to put a chair against the closet door just to get to sleep, but it didn't help for when I awoke I found the toys spread all about the room with the closet door wide open. It was still dark outside but the clock said 630 am so I knew the sun would rise soon. I was afraid to leave my bed until it did but as it turned out I didn't have to because, as though it knew I was awake, I felt a tugging on my blankets. Turning I saw Emily right before I closed my eyes to pretend to sleep. The moving stopped for a time then a soft voice whispered in my mind, “I know you're awake.” I screamed once again calling my parents to my room tripping over toys only to find me in my bed alone save for Emily. They were good about it and told me it was okay to be scared, but I really needed to pick up my toys from now on. Then we all went downstairs and my mom started making breakfast. Emily was a doll with ginger hair wearing a green and white stripped dress with white stockings and blackish boots. I had gotten her one Christmas a bout a year ago. My family had went on a vacation of sorts. We had taken off at the beginning of the holidays and traveled to all of our relatives houses. It was special because they lived far enough away we didn't see them very often. I remember I met my cousin Leo at Aunt Cheryl's for the first time, but other than driving and a lot of legs and waists I don't remember much. There had been presents at every house but none of them had been Emily. I received her once we finally got home. The night we arrived back home my parents said it was too late to open presents so we went to bed and I remember counting mine to satisfy my curiosity. The strange thing was the next day when we opened them I noticed in the light one of my presents was wrapped in black paper. I had mistook it for red the night before but young as I was it didn't stop me from ripping there wrapping off to find Emily inside. Her name was written on a card taped to her dress. My dad asked who sent the present as I generally opened first and asked questions l;later, but there wasn't a name on the gift just my name written on the outside. Mom and dad just smiled looking a little confused, but there were other presents so I just kept going and didn't even remember the incident until today. “I wish I had never opened Emily's box,” I said aloud. “What? Emily?,” my Mom called from the kitchen, “Why?” “I'm not sure,” I said,”I just don't like her. I think somethings wrong with her.” “Well if she bothers you that much we can drop her at the Caring Hands place for needy kids,” my dad said, “ Why don't you go get her?” I ran up the stairs relieved to my room only to fall with a thump on the floor. I sat up to see an old teddy bear I must have tripped over so I kicked it. “Stupid bear!,” I said turning towards the bed and starting to get up yet as I raised myself I froze in terror. Emily was right in front of me. She reached out and touched me on the head and I heard the voice again, “Silly creature, lose me and you will lose your life. I am more than you could ever know. Perhaps you should visit Gretel Chambers if you don't believe me.” I fell dazed to the ground as Emily strode to the bed and climbed up to the mattress. I went downstairs and told my parents I couldn't find her, which they accepted. Then after breakfast I went out to the library to find a Gretel Chambers. The phone book was helpful only there were a lot of G. Chambers so I looked online. After an hour I found a nursing home address not too far away, but before I could close the internet out a librarian came over to let me know my time was past up. I apologized, left, and made my way to the Sunnydale Retirement Home to visit Gretel. They let me in, I think, because they were happy to have someone of the younger generation come to visit. Soon after I found myself across from an old lady around 80 or so with white hair, deep wrinkles, and dark blue eyes. “Mrs. Chambers,” I started, “ I have a question.” “Yes?,” she said in a curious tone. “It's about a doll I received for Christmas last year,” I said. “Was it a female with ginger hair dressed in a green and white stripped dress with white stockings and black shoes?,” she asked concerned. “Yes, do you know..” my breath caught in my throat. “It came in a black box with no label save your name on the outside?,” she suggested. “Well,yes but..,” I began but she interrupted. “It's cursed.” “What?!,”I exclaimed. “It's cursed,” she repeated, “ Listen, a long time ago when I was but a child I received the doll myself. I loved it, you know, but I grew up. In those days we had the radio and I would play with Emily while listening to the broadcasts, but then along came television. The more shows it had the less attention I paid to her, but it was not only that, I also had a bit of a wild streak. I'd sneak out at night, leave my room a mess, and wouldn't do my school assignments. It wasn't long till I began to hear the voice in the night telling me to behave, and saying to take care of my toys. I didn't sleep so well after that but I was stubborn, refusing to change. Then I began to grow weaker and weaker wasting away while the affliction began to age me. How old would you say I am?” “80 maybe 90,” I replied. “I just turned 45 this month,” she said dryly. I paused, shocked and she continued, “ I eventually drug myself from my bed and picked up my things. I couldn't do much at a time, but I guess what I could do was enough because I quit hearing the voice and began to grow stronger. I was still afraid so I decided after I was caught up on my schoolwork to get rid of all of my toys. Unfortunately I succeeded and that night she returned. She told me to check on Beatrice Summers for if I removed her again she would kill me. As it was she laid a curse upon me one year is two she said. I found Beatrice who told me a similar story to that I'm telling you only she was to speak to Bella Constance and Bella was to speak to Agatha and Agatha to Katarina from Katarina to Sarabeth and so on. I knew one day a girl would come to hear my tale just as one will come one day to you. Now, listen closely, this is what she is. Ages past a witch was a toy maker in the village, both of which names are lost, she always gave toys out to the children until one day when the hunt came. The great witch hunt, and the children sold her out which eventually caused her death yet before she died she sent her essence out in a spell to every toy she had ever made. These toys are very special for they cannot be destroyed. They feed on your very life force, but only if you're bad, and they only leave you once you become a teenager or once you mature enough to make the right choices whichever happens first. If she is with you now all I can say is listen and behave. Don't give her cause or she will suck up your life force and you will end up like me,” she coughed weakly and blood flew from her mouth into a tissue she tried to raise in time. I got a nurse, thanked her for her time, and went home only it was too late. As I entered the house my parents told me they had gotten Emily a better home. I cried bitter tears as they tried to comfort me, but couldn't. Finally I fell asleep and woke to Emily standing on my bed a dark look on her face. “One for two,” she said simply and since then it has been so. I think the life these toys take keep them alive somehow but I still don't know how they choose their victims, and I don't suppose I ever will. I am currently 23 and I look around 36, which although bad isn't what concerns me. What keeps me up at night all these years since she left is this. How much of my life did she take? How many years exactly? Gretel looked twice her age and I only look ten years over mine. Does that mean I'm going to die soon? If I do who will warn the next child? I typed this in case I do, and all I hope is someone reads it and understands. Someone who knows, as I know, how real it is before they make the same mistake I made.

I liked Allan Trapper. His son was a good egg, and good eggs don’t just raise themselves. Takes a good egg to raise a good egg. So I was worried when he paid his fee that we didn’t see another wagon join the train. Turns out I was right to be worried, because him and his boy were hoofing it on the muddy trail. The littler Trapper got his boots stuck in the mud and nearly fell over. “Trapper,” I yelled, “Pick up your boy and get on my wagon, pronto.” “Thank you sir!” he said, scooping the boy up. “You’re welcome, but you can thank me better by handling these reins so I can have a smoke.” “Those’ll kill you y’know.” “I’ve seen the other side, Trapper, and I ain’t not too worried about how soon I’ll get there.” I finished rolling up my cigarette, and lit it. “So who’re you traveling to see? Y’know if you don’t mind me asking.” “We’re going to see mom,” said the boy. I could have guessed. The father choked on his surprise, and threw himself into a coughing fit. The boy was probably more amiable to the subject that he was. “Oh? Excited to see your mom again, boy?” “Sorta,” he said, scrunching up his tiny face. “I’m excited to meet her, I guess. She died before I was born.” “Hmm.” I hummed, taking a long drag of my cigarette. It was more than the father would have been willing to say, that much was clear. The discomfort on the senior Trapper was plain. “I just realized, sir” he said, clearing his throat, “we never got your name.” “Don’t really got one, but you can call me O’s. Like ‘Oh dear’, and ‘Oh no’.” I chuckled. “It’s a much more boring story than it sounds, but I was raised in a foreign military. The military themselves had bought me from a struggling orphanage.” “That sounds awful.” “Three square meals, and rifle training. It could have been worse. They didn’t give me a name though, just a number. But that history makes me uniquely suited to be a wagon master on the ghost road. The wandering spirits have nothing to call me by, and there’s no one I’d want to see on the other side.” “Why’s it so important to not want to see anyone?” “Because, and don’t get me wrong, the ghost road is plenty dangerous, but the journey is the easy part. The hardest part is letting go. You’ll see when we get to the wagon graveyard.” I finished my cigarette, and took the reins back from Trapper. We had a long journey ahead of us. We would make a brief stop at Spirit Home, the ghost road's deepest human settlement, but thereafter the wagon train didn’t have a concrete itinerary. The ghost road defied all hopes of mapping it. I could attest to the former completely. No trip was ever the same, but many journeys had built a feel for the correct path. If we were lucky, we would only encounter the wandering spirits, who gawked in envy of the living. We arrived in Spirit Home shortly. The small town was not in fact named for its place on the ghost road, but instead for its many distilled liquors. One in particular that we would need for the journey. Trapper and his boy stayed near the wagon train, while most of my other charges went into town to buy extra provisions and souvenir bottles of the town’s famous ghost liquor. More bottles for me, I thought grimly. We were back on the road next day, which thankfully passed uneventfully. It looked like it would be an easy trip. There was only the matter of the wandering spirits that we needed to worry about. I stayed vigilant for the heavy fog that signaled their arrival. The fog didn’t come that night, or next, but on the third we woke up to the fog’s creeping tendrils. I signaled my men to go up and down the wagon train to pass out thimbles of ghost liquor, and the saucers to offer them on. Even in the early morning, those most attentive in the wagon train could start to spot the pale decrepit faces of the wandering spirits starting to trail the wagon train. “We’re stopping early for tonight Trapper, get up and join me by one of the fires. We’ve a ritual to perform.” At this time the wandering spirits were unignorable. At the edges of all the campfires, just at the end of visibility, you could see that the wagon train was surrounded by a horde of gawking corpses. “Your boy is handling it better than some of the adults. Downright unbothered,” I said, pouring a thimble of ghost liquor into the saucer. “Salud! To the dead and gone!” I placed the saucer and its thimble of liquor on a flat stone that happened to be nearby. I also poured a healthy volume of the liquor into cups for me and Trapper. The boy stared at the gawking dead, with interest, rather than terror. “Why are they like that?” asked the boy. “Only the almighty knows. Some say they’re the wandering spirits of those that got lost while traveling the ghost road. Others say they’re just the envious dead that want another chance at life. I’ve recognized a few faces from people I’ve lost on the trail. So I can confirm that at least some of them did die while traveling here.” “Why the liquor?” asked the father. “I don’t entirely know myself,” I admitted. “The people in Spirit Home say that their liquor is infused with the life energy that the wandering dead crave. By offering some in the saucers we appease them. It seems to work well enough, so as wagon master I’ve made it a tradition to offer ghost liquor to the wandering spirits.” “The drink in the saucer is disappearing!” said the boy. The saucer emptied itself, and the gawking dead disappeared from our end of camp. “Suppose we didn’t do any of this, what then?” asked the father. “They’d start talking to you, making offers and promises. They try to get you to trade places with them, and that’s if they’re nice. If they aren’t then they’ll try to take your life by force. It’s happened on occasion. It can’t really be helped. Likely tomorrow morning we’ll see that suddenly, even though we’re nearly at the end, that some of the wagons will want to turn back home. If they do, then it's known they’ve been taken by the spirits, and the spirit is eager to return to the land of the living.” Me and Trapper kept drinking for a while, getting deep into our cups. His boy long gone to sleep. “What will it be like, when we get there, when the boy meets his mom?” he asked. “Past the wagon grave, and up the hill, there’s the stream of souls. Old books used to describe it like a river, but it's more like a great big lazer firing into the sky. You go up the hill, and think of who you want to see. Then, from out of the stream, your loved one returns.” “Do they look different? She isn’t going to come out looking like the spirits from earlier right?” “Not at all. She’ll come out healthy and whole, I promise.” “Good, that’s good,” he said, polishing off the last of his drink, and asking for more. “I was worried when we saw the spirits earlier, and I got so worried. She died before she could give birth to him, they had to c-section immediately to save his life. I didn’t want him to have to see her like that.” “I’m sorry, it must have been horrible.” “She carried him for nine months, but never got to hold him once.” Trapper started to cry. I let him. “I just,” he started again, “I just want him to know how much she loved him. I tell him all the time, but he never knew her, so how could he know for sure?” “So you journey up the ghost road. I see.” “Yeah.” “Well let’s drink to your wife’s memory, and your fast approaching reunion.” We drank merrily and then sadly, and then merrily again. Come morning, me and Trapper were still sleeping off the drink, and I barely managed to get him back on the wagon. He fell right back to sleep immediately. As wagon master, I didn’t have such a luxury, and had to stay awake to lead the train. As expected, some wagons turned back. It couldn’t be helped. Trapper’s boy was up to keep me company in place of his father for the last leg of the trip. He mostly asked me about the peculiarities of the ghost road, but I could tell that he was working his way toward something specific. So I asked him outright. “What is it boy? I can tell you’ve been thinking about how to bring something up for a while now.” “It’s nothing. Well sorta something.” “Out with it, it’s fine.” “You said letting go is the hard part. I don’t think my dad will be good at letting go.” “Your father’s a good egg. I’m sure he’ll be able to when the time comes.” The boy didn’t seem so convinced. “He always talks about mom. I think almost every day.” “It’s natural to miss a loved one when they pass, and that goes double for the ones you thought you go into your twilight years with.” “Okay.” he said solemnly. We made it to the wagon graveyard the next day. There, at the foot of the hill, were wagons left abandoned by those that had decided they would not be making the journey home, choosing instead to enter the stream and join their loved ones. There was a nervous energy going up and down the wagon train. The promised beam of the lifestream hadn’t appeared yet. Then, BANG. People started making their way up. I sent the Trappers up with my best wishes. “I’ll be waiting for you two down here. Don’t worry about the time, my team and I will ring a large bell to let you know when it's time to come back.” They waved me goodbye, and I watched them ascend the hill, and toward the bright beam shooting up into the sky. The first wave of people to make it to the top summoned a matching wave of ephemeral figures. I went to sit at the back of my wagon, facing away from the hill. Such moments were private, and I did not want to intrude. Not even from afar. A little while later, I took the last drag from a cigarette I had lit while waiting, and checked the time. That was it. Time to go. I signaled my men to start ringing the bell and get everyone to come back home. People started saying goodbye to their dearly departed again, and made their way back down. Naturally, not everyone was returning. There were always more than a few that chose to stay and enter the stream. I searched for Trapper and his kid among the returning crowd, but failed to find them. I didn’t want to believe it, and refused to look at the top of the hill to search for them. I kept scanning the returning crowd, but nothing. Eventually I did admit that they might not be coming back down. I looked up in time to see the ephemeral visage of a woman lean down and give Trapper’s boy a loving hug, a hug of parting. With a kiss on his forehead, and a wave goodbye, I was relieved. I was right, he was a good egg, the both of em. But no, I had assumed too much. The senior Trapper made to give his wife a hug and a kiss goodbye, but when it looked like he was about to let go of her hand, he held on. The visage of his wife rose into the sky, and Trapper along with her, and they both entered the lifestream. They disappeared together, just as the stream did. Leaving the boy alone at the top. I ran up to get him, but I couldn't get two words out of him, let alone get him to move. I had to pick him up to get him back to the wagon train. He remained unresponsive the rest of the night. When he broke his silence, he also breached the awkward subject of what would happen to him. Not wanting to leave the boy to the mercy of chance, I told him that if he wanted he could stay with me. He wouldn’t be the first lone survivor of his wagon. Many of my current employees had been in similar situations before, though none had ever been as young as him. He was still devastated by the loss, but that wasn’t something we would be able to breach for a good long time.

Noises. Aaron listened to the voices of dozens around him, a blur of conversations from inside the great chamber mixed with the distant chatter from the garden outside. The unified sounds of clicking tongues, smacking lips, and sporadic bursts of laughter created a wave of sound to tantalizing to piece apart. There was nothing here for him, surrounded by the cream of the crop, dressed in the finest wear of society, while he sat alone by the punch bowl, pondering his circumstance. The manor's beauty, enhanced by its luxurious furnishings, intricate designs, and meticulous decorations, only amplified his sense of alienation. He envied those in the garden, perhaps finding solace from the watchful eyes and judgmental stares inside. If only he could join them, even for a moment's reprieve, but the garden was off-limits due to a private event. “Why am I even here?” Aaron thought, recalling his desperate attempt to woo Ally, the assistant manager at Paul’s law firm, with as few credentials as possible. Instead, he became an impromptu bellboy on the day of a crucial inspection by the regional management, spending half an hour distracting the inspectors memorizing login details, navigating unfamiliar facilities, and performing tasks on the fly, while Ally resolved a potentially compromising security error. When the jig was up, Ally managed to pull it together, even if Aaron was thrown out. This was how Aaron found himself receiving a handwritten invitation to a black-tie wedding for the firm’s CEO, Paul, and his now wife, Elena Stevens. Ally recommended him for “creating a positive and favorable reception for upper management,” despite him not being on their payroll. Aaron never read the letter, not that he needed to since the invitation was sufficient for entry. Ally took it upon herself to throw Aaron a spare set from her husband’s closet to maintain the ruse. “Yep, Aaron...” He muttered under his breath, pouring himself a glass of punch and drank it quick. “You did a good job alright.” Deciding the event in the main chamber was too much for him, he backed out onto the balcony where he enjoyed the cool breeze blowing on his flushed face. It was quiet enough with few people around to notice someone like Aaron, who clearly stuck out with his unrefined stubble, budget digital watch, and cheap cologne. He felt like a fraud. His last job provided him an opportunity to rise up in a small company as a manager, but some internal shuffling and backhand recommendations ended up getting him kicked to avoid complications. He shook his head, trying not to let his memory get in the way of this peaceful serenity. The wind was nice, and the night was gorgeous. Despite what bitterness he often held towards those with lavish living standards, he couldn’t deny the estate was beautiful and peaceful. “We doing this?” A voice whispered. “Yeah, yeah.” Another voice, this groggy, responded. “Grab the wife, lock her in the car, and...” “Shh! Not out loud.” The first voice hissed, followed by the jangling of keys. “Take this, make sure it’s ready to go.” “Got it.” Then they departed. “Once everything goes down, meet me you-know-where. Stay polite until then, and nobody will notice.” Aaron did not move, his heart pounding. He listened as the footsteps faded away behind the foliage. “What did I just hear?” He whispered, unsure if it was real or a figment of his imagination. He repeated the conversation to himself. “Yes, yes, it is,” he decided, turning back to the party. “I have to warn everyone,” He ran back inside, and upon reentering, was overwhelmed by the sea of conversations all around him. “...company raised profits by 2% this quarter...” “Poor Lisa. I am sure she will... “...goes wrong, we can handle it. We...” “I work for Dave. He is a good friend...” “Who is he? Do we need him removed?” “Security will give us a good show if they do. Aha ha!” The noise of private dialogues became distinct voices, each word clear, each subtle differentiation in tone resounded with clarity, even their subtle alterations in appearance and unique details in refinery appeared more diverse. It all flooded into him like a waterfall. Aaron felt their glares and looks, shifting from one person to the next. Trying to focus, he approached one group. “Excuse me...” He had only begun, but they merely glanced at him, trying to ignore him. “Please, I need to ask where Paul and Elena are.” Aaron continues, but a middle-aged woman in the group turned, moving closer to the man in front of Aaron, blocking him from the group. “Let’s discuss this in private later, in the meantime...” Aaron got the gist--he was unwelcome. He turned to another group. “Excuse me, it’s an emergency.” The group looked at him, annoyed, then resumed their conversation. A man offered Aaron a glass. “Please, give this to that young woman over there and tell her it’s from Daniel. She will know what it means.” Aaron, somewhat aloof, does as he was asked, making his way across the room and delivering the beverage. “Thank you,” the woman said, quickly turning back to her conversation, not giving Aaron time to ask a question. “Please, send my regards to your sister. I am sure she is doing everything she can to handle the matter with utmost discretion.” “Thank you, I am sure she will appreciate it.” Aaron continued to search group after group, surprised by how many ways he could be politely rejected or dragged along, each interaction making him feel more foolish. Why was it so difficult? He knew these are important people, but he received no favors in his attempt to help. “Another drink butler!” “You need to stop, love. You are supposed to give a speech tonight.” “...letters are not meant for outgoing mail, and he said, well they have to go somewhere, right?” An elder butler approached Aaron, with a long face and narrow eyes. “Excuse me, sir, can I offer you a beverage?” He said with a polite and strong accent. “N-no, thank you,” Aaron stuttered, trying to be polite. “But I d-do have a question...sir.” The butler seemed willing to listen. “I overheard two men in the garden talking about kidnapping the wife, Elena” Aaron said carefully, trying to sound professional “I think she is in danger.” A few people laugh in the distance. Aaron quickly turned to look at the source, but turned back without recognizing them. The butler stroked his clean-shaven chin thoughtfully. “This does seem urgent, sir,” he said calmly. “I believe we should bring this matter to Paul directly. Please, follow me.” As they walked, Aaron continues to overhear more conversations around him. “Some people just doesn’t understand what fun is anymore...” “Do you think he knows?” “How could he...?” “...better not ruin tonight’s plans. I drove all the way from...” The butler took him away from the main chamber and to the game room, where several men are surrounding a pool table. “In short, business is booming. Randy is handling the next meeting and we’re projected to raise profit margins by three percent by next winter.” “What kind of name is Randy?” “I didn’t name him.” “We’ve got company.” The gentlemen glanced in Aaron’s direction, clearly viewing his presence as an intrusion. “Wait here, sir,” The butler said to Aaron. Aaron complied. The butler approached Paul, whispers in his ear, and pulls him aside. They spoke quietly for a while. Paul chuckled, then spoke sternly and sent the butler off. Paul himself then approaches Aaron. “I guess I have you to thank for this warning,” He patted Aaron on the shoulder. “Yes sir, I overheard...” Aaron began but was interrupted. “Do you know who these hooligans are?” Paul asked quickly. “I don’t know sir, but I recognize their voices.” “Good enough,” Paul smile. “I am going to need your help, then.” Aaron straightened up. “Y-yes, sir.” He said, eager to get involved. “That’s a good lad,” Paul praised. “I’m going to introduce you to some people, and if we’re lucky, you might recognize them.” “Wait, sir!” Aaron shouted, drawing looks from the other men. Paul signaled for him to lower his voice. “Keep it down. This is still a party. Show some manners.” Aaron nodded. “Sir, aren’t we going to protect your wife? What if those people aren’t there?” “They have to be,” Paul reassured him. “If they have any hope of getting close to her. As for my dear Elena, I sent the butler to check on her. She’ll be safe, as long as you can do your part.” Paul patted Aaron’s shoulder. “You can do that for me, right?” Aaron gazed at Paul, determination flashing in his eyes. “Yes, I can, sir.” “Good,” Paul extended a hand. “Call me, Paul,” he said. “Aaron, sir,” he replied, shaking Paul’s hand. Paul escorted Aaron to the main chamber and pointed out the direction in the side wing. “That’s where Elena is. My butler will make sure she is safe. For now, let’s me introduce you to some of my friends.” True to his word, Paul introduced Aaron to several important benefactors and family friends. “Will Kowalski!” Paul called out. A man with a white rose turned and cheered. The two hugged. “Congratulations, Paul,” he said, shaking his friend’s hand vigorously. “Thank you. Meet a new friend of mine. Aaron,” Paul turned to face Aaron. Caught off guard, Aaron stumbled out a response. “Uh...h-hi,” he said, raising his hand awkwardly. The crowd chuckled. “Is he still a boy?” Will laughed. “We will make him ripe as a fellow could be,” Paul said, slapping Aaron on the back, causing him to stumble forward. The group laughed again at Aaron’s humiliation. “Well, I need to show this one around. Let me know if you need another glass or two!” Paul then lead Aaron out, giving him space to recover and helping him fix his suit. “If you want to help, I will need more than just a confident act. These people aren’t afraid to chew each other out, even someone like you, understand?” Aaron nodded. “Yes, sir.” “Then act like it,” Paul said, giving a light punch to Aaron’s chest, which made Aaron recoil. When he recovered, Aaron looked away for a second. A moment was needed to breathe deeply and prepare himself to look back at Paul, a moment to prepare for his mission. Finally, looking back into Paul’s bright hazel eyes, he stood straight. “Don’t worry about me, sir. I can handle this.” Paul give another light punch to his chest. Aaron did not move. “Good. Now, let’s go.” As they returned to the main chamber, several more people approached Paul. “Hey, hey! There’s the man of the hour.” Shouted a man with a bushy beard, drawing the attention of several others. A larger crowd soon formed around them “Paul!” “Oh my God, what took you so long?” “Hey, Paul! Have you met my brother?” “Mr. Stevens, we must talk.” The crowd surrounded Paul, who expertly complimented them and slowly dispersed the group until he had a moment to breath among five others. Finally, with things settled down, Paul turned to Aaron, and introduced him. “Everyone, I would like you to meet Aaron, a gentleman from my firm.” Paul said. “Well, hello there!” An older man said. “A gentleman such yourself could afford to look better at one of these events. This is a wedding, you know.” The younger man beside him looked provoked by the elder’s address. “Dad!” He whispered, his voice cracking. A sense of familiarity struck Aaron. “That’s not polite.” The way he whispered, the way his voice cracked--it was definitely him. The younger man was one of the voices he heard from the balcony. Aaron was faced with a different problem now; all eyes were on him. Paul was giving him a look, the kind where he expected Aaron to stand up for himself. Aaron understood and rushed out a response. “Oh, well, that’s because I work hard to keep everything in order,” Aaron said quickly. “I was rushing to arrive on time...” “On time!” The old man cracked up. “Young man, the party doesn’t start till midnight!” The crowd howled in laughter. Even Paul smiled. “I want to introduce my friend to others. Please excuse me, Mr. Siemens. Let’s talk again when we have minute.” Paul said, raising a glass to the elder man. Paul pulled Aaron away, but before he could call out to another group, Aaron pulled on his cuff, and stepped up to face Paul. “That boy, beside Mr. Siemens,” Aaron said. “It’s him! I heard his voice.” Paul raised an eyebrow. “Him?” Paul asked inquisitively. “Jacob Siemens. His family are friends of ours. I don’t think...” “I am sure of it, sir.” Aaron interrupted, confident. He knew what he heard, and he recognized the voice. He played the conversation over again in his head. The way he cracked his voice, the subtle deepness. He turned to look at Jacob, whose voice he honed in, focusing through the sea of noise of the crowd while he spoke to his father. There was no doubt about it. Seconds later, shouting erupted, followed by a feminine shriek. A man rushed onto the punch stand, brandishing a gun. The man shot two rounds into the ceiling. Everyone fell to their knees in freight. “Paul Stevens! We are taking your wife. Bwa ha ha-ha ha!” He then jumped off the table, ran out onto the balcony, secured a rope, and rappelled down. Aaron stood up and ran to the edge where the rope was. The masked man had already landed on the first floor and was running to two others masked men, carrying a bound woman. “Elena!” Aaron screamed. Adrenaline surged through him as he grabbed the rope and slid down, hardly noticing his burning fingers. He landed and sprinted towards the car. The kidnappers had begun to accelerate and Aaron lunged, barely brushing the trunk handle and landed in the grass, before the car sped off through the open gate, echoing off into the night. Silence enveloped the parking lot, broken by distant shouts of security and Aaron’s incoherent swearing as he pounded his hot fist on the grass, sobbing. The crowd emerged, witnessing the pitiable display Aaron was in. Paul approached and kneeled beside him. He said nothing, only patted Aaron’s back. A snicker pierced the quiet, then several more, until laughter and cheering erupted from the crowd. Applause filled the air, and even Paul’s voice boomed with joy. Aaron turned, bewildered. Why were they laughing? Did they not just see what happened? “Son!” Paul said, still snickering. “Thank you!” Aaron was stunned. “Wh-what? Why? Wh...” He stammered as words failed him. “Take a look,” Paul pointed towards the balcony. Emerging from the balcony entrance was the remarkable woman of the hour, Elena Stevens. Her dress shone bright white like the stars above with fairy-like wings of silver sparkled under the evening lights. Aaron’s jaw dropped. She was a vision, but circumstances continued to elude any understanding. I-I don’t understand,” he finally uttered. “Of course you don’t, boy!” Paul said with a smile. “Did you not get the invitation? This was all planned. But by God, I did not plan for this! You were amazing. Next time, let me know if you want another major role. Everyone always loves an action man.” Paul then turned the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, Aaron!” The applause that followed was thunderous, but it felt hollow to Aaron. For what was done, he could not erase the turmoil inside him. He wanted to smile, acknowledge the cheers, but his heart was heavy with humiliation. As the applause faded, Aaron’s world seemed to spin. He struggled to focus on the faces around him, the conversations blending into an indistinguishable hum of noise and a mosaic of fashion moving about. The fireworks outside painted the sky with bursts of color as the pre-celebration had finally begun and the crowd prepared for the next stage of the party, but Aaron didn't lift his gaze. His thoughts were consumed by what had transpired, the kidnapping, the deception. He turned and walked out those gates, the men and women who stood at the gate snickered as he walked out. Sitting in his car, he turned to look at another commotion unfolding. The frantic shouts, another car rushing out of the gates. This time the security leapt into action. The distant shouts of the crowd becoming apparent. “Elena!” Everyone cried. Aaron did nothing. He remained in his world. The humiliation, the fear, the confusion--they were all genuine. But so was courage in the face of danger. But as the sirens cried out in the night sky, Aaron made a silent vow to himself: to be stronger, wiser, and never let himself be a pawn in someone else’s game again.

When Claire turned up at Casa Cosy - the worst restaurant in town - she knew she was going to lose her job. She stared into the window and saw plastic seating covered in moss, dirty tablecloths. She turned and looked at where she should have been, The Imperial, drooping in garlands of pink and red geranium. She knew who must’ve got that job but stopped herself obsessing over him and her professional failures: a career that started as a journalist, then a respectable food critic was now ending with a trip to Casa Cosy. She entered the restaurant: it smelled of damp. The kitchen in the corner had tiles missing off the wall, and the ceiling above was stained. As no one welcomed her, she sat herself down, plucked her phone from her bag and found the restaurant on Google. 1.2 stars out of 5, but the true horror was in the comments: “Surely, it’s an illegal drug front. The owner’s more interested in his Racing Post than serving clientele and only talks to dodgy looking men who never take their shades off.” “Ordered a coffee after waiting ten minutes to be acknowledged. My drink didn’t come for another twenty, so I left. Always trying to support local, independent businesses, but with The Imperial over the road, you’d have to be mad to go to Casa Cosy.” “1 star only because there’s no option of zero.” “Had a plate of Carbonara cooked by a lovely lady. It was tasty. Heard a raucous argument in the kitchen and noted the lady didn’t return. Not a great atmosphere, so left without tipping - will not be returning.” This is Jackson trying to humiliate me, she thought, why else would this place need a review? It will be out of business by the end of the week. She let out an exasperated laugh and realised from the trembling tenor at the end, she was on the edge. The HR complaint had nothing but push her into a corner. She looked out of the window and by chance saw Jackson. He sauntered down the street, a man with no worries, and entered The Imperial. He always wore a tired corduroy sports jacket, famous from his daytime TV cooking show. Claire cursed his move away from TV and into critique: it had ruined something she loved. She began packing her phone away and was daydreaming of entering The Imperial unannounced with thunderous words - maybe even an open palm - when she noticed a plump lady of middle age and Italian descent standing at the table with a smile. Although she looked like a cheery type, there were more wrinkles on her forehead than by her eyes. “Signora. How can I help you?” she said. “Hi,’ Claire flapped the paper menu onto the table. “I was actually about to leave, sorry.” Claire began to rise, thinking still of the words she’d deliver to Jackson, when she locked eyes with the woman. She produced an aperitif that Claire hadn’t noticed - olives with garlic and chilis - and placed them on the table. “Please, at least try these before you go. No money.” The woman wiped her hands on her apron, turned and left. Claire resumed packing her bags and decided to take one for the road. She bit into - it was meaty, tart and of good origin. She sat down and called the waitress back over, and quickly scanning the menu, she said: “That was rude. May I please have a bottle of the Soave and some sparkling water. Then, I’ll try your Caccio Pepe,” she smiled. The women nodded quickly and scurried into the kitchen. Claire settled back down into her seat and ate another olive. In the kitchen, Angela washed her hands, then dried them, then washed them again for good measure. She prodded Enzo who was placing a bet on football on his phone. “Enzo. This is our first customer since Flavio. First new one, so please, help me.” Enzo’s didn’t turn, but from the side, Angela could see him mutter an obscenity. “You know, Enzo, your father...” He turned and shot a look at her that told her to stop. She did just so, and found the bottle of Soave, the water both cold to the touch - and the correct glasses. She made sure they were clean before taking everything over. She served the lady some wine. “This... is a good menu. Quite stripped back,” said Claire. “What is, stripped back?” “Erm, sorry, minimal. Not many ingredients.” “Ah, yes. We say in Italy, ‘Alla Romana’,” Angela did something with her hands that looked very Italian. “We try to keep it simple, in Rome.” “Well, great. I like simple. I’ll have the pork cutlet for main and a side of fennel salad. Thank you.” Angela turned and there was an excitement, maybe a slight panic, in her movements. The lady looked important. She wore clothes that she might’ve seen in a magazine, or on TV. She approached Enzo. “Enzo, come on, help your mother. I don’t think you understand how much we need this.” Enzo didn’t move, just kept staring at his phone. Angela couldn’t be painted the villain any longer. “Enzo, your father, he ruined everything. Please, help me save something from this rotten mess he made.” Enzo rose to his feet. Angela thought he was leaving. “What does she want?” He pointed to the table. “What does the lady want?” “Pork. Thank you.” She wanted to tell him that saints weren’t born out of every death but instead touched her cross to repent her sinful thought. She boiled spaghetti and heated a lump of butter in the pan. She pulled the pasta out and some starchy water, then blended everything together over the cooker. As she ground pepper, she felt as if she were soaring in the sky, free again. She added cheese - a 70/30 split of parmesan and pecorino - mixed it together and strode to the table and placed the plate down with a smile. “Come a Roma,” she said to the lady. Just as in Rome. “I can see that,” Claire smiled. “Thank you.” Angela turned towards the kitchen and found the two men in shades at the entry. They gestured to their table in the corner and said: “Peroni.” Angela felt her smile disappear. She walked to the humming fridge and took two beers out. She arrived at the table with her finger tensing the bottle neck. “Do you not have any respect? It’s been one week,” she said as she placed down the beers. Neither man looked up to her. “Signora, your husband, it’s him you should be angry at. It’s him who liked our blackjack tables,” one of the men took his shades off; he had cold, black eyes. “A bad husband, a bad businessman, and an even worse gambler. Look at this place,” he grimaced, as if he’d bitten into a lemon, “a stain on Italia.” “I’m turning it around. I need time,” she said. The other man, still with his shades on, tutted. “You see number forty-six, down the road? They asked for time. Now on the counters is just ash.” Angela stiffened; a bell rang. She narrowed her eyes and walked back to the kitchen, but the lady on table four called after her. She composed her manner and approached her. There were spots of sauce on the tablecloth and both plates had been eaten fully, the universal sign of a well-loved meal. “That was delicious,” said Claire. “Truly a delight. You should have more people in here.” Angela nodded and thanked her. “I don’t want to be rude, but why don’t you get a loan, improve the appearance, maybe? It would help.” “This was my husband’s restaurant. He, erm, ran it how he felt was right. Maybe it wasn’t, maybe it was, but this is all that he left me,” she picked up the plates, the cutlery. “Excuse me.” She returned into the kitchen and Enzo was cooking the cutlet. He was a master, letting the fats and the garlic simmer at the perfect heat. It smelled of rosemary and butter. He plated up the dish as she shaved the fennel, before cutting thin strips of parmesan off the block and adding them to the salad with a simple olive oil and lemon dressing. Enzo turned. “Who are they?” “No one. Don’t worry.” “They were here when dad was. I’m not an imbecile, you know,” his shoulders stiffened, and he lifted his chin. “Enzo, you’re a chef. Leave the business to me.” Angela picked up the dishes and took them to the guest. The meat had the right amount of juice seeping out of it, and the salad was crisp and aromatic. The lady smiled when the plates landed before her. “Prego,” said Angela, but as she placed the plate down, there was a loud smashing sound from the corner of the room. She turned and saw Enzo and the two thugs arguing, a bottle of beer in pieces on the floor. The two men raised from their seats, dusted off their jackets and left with a wry smile on their faces. The man with the black eyes turned from the entry and shouted. “Look at forty-six. We will be back soon.” Claire didn’t want to make a scene. She watched as the woman swept the shards of glass, then mopped. She ate the pork, then the salad - it was delicious. She couldn’t understand the poor reviews. She finished eating, drank another glass of wine, then asked for the bill. The owner arrived. “How embarrassing,” she bowed slightly, “sorry.” Claire smiled. “Listen, lady. I think you need a fresh start. Close for a week, make some changes: the name. Start again. Your husband may have been a good man...” “He was not.” “In that case, start again. Your cooking is too good, and this place is filled with bad memories and wretched reviews.” Claire paid double what the bill had asked and bid the woman farewell. She touched her arm. “You’ll be OK. Don’t worry about them,” Claire pointed to the entry. “Why not call it Caccio e Pepe?” Claire winked, then she left. She crossed the street and arrived at The Imperial and saw Jackson through the window. He spotted her and asked his table to be excused so he could come outside. He walked with straight, confident strides and his blonde hair bobbed in springs beneath his ears. His wide smile broke as he spoke. “How was ‘the worst restaurant in town’?” Claire took out a cigarette and lit it. “Delicious.” “Sure,” he snorted. “I wanted to thank you,” Claire exhaled smoke to the side. “Today was important to me.” “Well, a thank you is much better than a HR complaint. Are you going to apologies, for that, also?” Claire didn’t respond, she kept smoking and stared directly at Jackson. His sharp features made him look like a weasel - never will she let a man do that again. He knotted his brows in confusion then gestured towards The Imperial. “Do you want to join us? We’re just about to have a Crème Brulee.” Claire took another drag. Her right arm was folded across her chest, and her left held it in the air like a crane. She took another drag then dropped the cigarette and stamped on it. “Thank you, but I’d rather die.” She walked away, making sure to take photos of number forty-six on her way to the tube station. It was a burnt-out mess, with black pieces of timber hanging disjointedly from frames and ash still marking every inch of the walls and structure. Graffiti inside issued warnings. She knew she had a lot of work to do, so hailed down a cab. “Where are we going, love?” Asked the driver. “King’s Cross. The Daily Reviewer head office.” She called her old friend as the cab bumped its way across town. Angela did what the lady said. She shut down for a week, her and Enzo re-tiled the kitchen, re-did the bathrooms and painted. They peeled off the vinyl on the front that had said Casa Cosy, and instead had a friend paint the words Caccio e Pepe. She found new wooden chairs and tables and printed menus on thick paper. Finally, she asked Enzo to remove the old Google Listing and start anew. On the first day, she was thrilled to be opening. It was light outside, and although early summer, it reminded her of winter days in Rome. That excitement waned as customers didn’t appear, and after a further three weeks and a growing pile of bills through the door, she accepted that Flavio had ruined both her lives: the one with him and the one without. It was a terrible feeling, watching time eat into your only chance of a future. Across the road, The Imperial had customers willing to queue for an hour instead of eating with her. Then, she did receive her first customers. The two men wish shades walked in and whistled sarcastically, then sat themselves down in their corner. “Look at this, what a change! Flavio would turn in his grave,” said one man, “I’ll have a Peroni,” he grunted. “It doesn’t look like your fortunes are different, eh, Angela?” The other smirked. “We said we’d give you four weeks, but maybe, it’ll be tonight...” Angela felt her arms shaking as she wrote down the orders. She approached the fridge and plucked two Peronis. She opened each with a hiss. She looked to see Enzo, how he was reacting to the men, but his face was thrilled by something. She felt a gust of air crawl up her neck and her skin shivered. She turned, and a group of four people were waiting to be sat. She approached them and they smiled. They asked for coffees and Italian pastries and fizzy water and Angela was busy and smiling, and she saw many more people were now waiting to be seated, all women. She took orders and Enzo readied food, and soon, the two men left having hardly drank their beers, leaving on the table a copy of a newspaper opened on page 12. Jackson Hendrick arrived at The Agency. He wore his sports jacket and was, as always, twenty minutes late. The lady at reception looked at him with dead eyes. He was used to those looks, and wasn’t surprised she was annoyed, as he hadn’t text her back since they made love last week. He took off his jacket and sat at his desk and opened his laptop, but before he could get onto his emails, The Daily Reviewer landed on his desk, and the towering figure of Al - the agency owner - stood above him. He felt cold. “Hello chap,” said Jackson. “What’s this?” “This,” said Al, “is the end of your career.” He pointed to the paper. Jackson opened it, saw the article with his name in the headline: Handsy Hendrick from daytime TV fame accused of sexual abuse and bullying by Claire Stoddard, former Senior Food Critic. An attempt at demeaning her professionally saved her life, she said. Story continues P12, including a piece by Claire herself on patriarchy and mob influence in the culinary world, and a call to all women to support and protect our women in the kitchen - starting with a trip to Caccio e Pepe on the West side of town. He couldn't believe it - rape! She was lucky they spent the night together! Jackson laughed wildly. He’d easily beat this attempt at a smear through HR - this would be no issue. He rose to his feet and turned, only to be faced by Jose, the big Spanish security guard, who had two policemen at his back. “Shit.”

He was no stranger to this, this strong pain resonating from his forearm up. This was a normal act, almost routine to perform. Josh had blood streaking down to his palm, pooling in his hand. The gleam of the metal in his other hand had reminded him that there he wasn't done yet. He curled his hand into a fist and struck again, the box cutter tearing apart his clean unscarred flesh of his arm. This time was different, he didn't feel any pain and didn't feel the need to stop. He was going to keep going. He knew this was coming though, he had planned this night. He went into the kitchen earlier while his parents were asleep and had shoveled as many pills as there were in the house down his throat. This night was different. Josh had scars all over his arm, he couldn't wear anything less revealing than a long sleeved jacket around other people including his own family. In school he had friends at one point, but everything dies off eventually. Those friends found that it was too much work to be friends with someone who shared so little of himself, all he is is cutting though, and he could not share that. He was a smart kid though, he planned it out well. He knew he couldn't tell anyone, that was his previous mistake, he learned from trial and error with this and made the perfect plan. This was a perfect night. He kept going until he couldn't see the pale white of his skin color on his wrist. He wouldn't stop. Josh was determined this time, he was pushed to the limits. Earlier that evening he watched his ex-girlfriend of two years go with someone else to prom, he asked and she said yes. That was a cold reminder that he was alone. Josh would rather be dead than alone. His plan started with the pills, washed down with bleach, now he was sitting on the edge of the roof, wrists cut, and vision fading. He missed one part. The note. He was frantically fighting for consciousness now, he couldn't leave his family without saying goodbye. His stomach was on fire and it was burning upwards towards his throat, his vision was fading, too much blood lost, all he could do was claw his way indoors. He wouldn’t make it though, there wasn’t enough time left. The next day the police arrived to the scene of a young 13 year old boy named Josh fallen on the fence next to his house, it was an obvious suicide. Josh’s younger sister would forever be scarred with the mental image of her brother almost cut in half by their fence when she went out to get their morning paper. Josh had wandered off a lot in his sleep, so him missing in the morning wasnt out of the ordinary.

“No way you make this putt, cher.” The big man tossed the words out like coins into a beggar’s cup. Ian shook his head and leveled his eyes back on the ball, playing the big man’s taunts off as nonchalantly as he could, though he knew he was nowhere near a good enough actor to not be noticeably annoyed at this point. After 17 holes of Cutter’s (he still wasn’t sure if that was the big man’s real name or not) incessant peppering, Ian’s patience was worn out. Since the first tee box, he had been heckling the thinner man at every drive, chip and putt. He had even criticized Ian’s handling of the golf cart. Ian had endured it all with a polished smile that was only now showing its cracks. He needed Cutter’s business -- badly. The big man controlled seafood distribution for the better part of the entire Southeast and Ian’s restaurants (a small chain, but a chain nonetheless) was on a knife’s edge of profitability after years of work. This deal could push him out of the red and into the black for the first time, and that was certainly worth 18 holes of blue comments from Big Cutter. Crass and obnoxious as he may be, the big man could *golf*. Ian was no slouch. He still prided himself on making the collegiate team at ASU and had once entertained aspirations of a life on the PGA Tour. Those dreams had obviously remained only dreams, but he still made it out on the course on a regular basis and enjoyed the rarified air of the Scratch Golfer. Even still, Cutter had kept pace through all 17 of the previous holes (even while downing a beer a hole) and now was stood -- one hand on his ample wait, one wrapped around his 18th bottle of Budweiser -- on the final green, smiling smugly as Ian eyed up the decisive putt of the match. “Tell ya what, cher,” Cutter said with a slur that was only barely decipherable. Ian had to admit he was impressed by that, this many beers in. “If yah sink this putt, I’ll sign yah contract right’n this very green. Whaddya say, cher?” Ian straightened. This was it. “Are you serious?” “Deathly.” “Alright,” Ian said. He was skeptical. The big man had been yanking him this way and that for the last four hours. Maybe the beer had finally loosened up his wallet. Still, Ian didn’t trust him. “And what if I miss it?” The big man let out a thunderous laugh that shook Ian’s slight frame. “Not too conf’dent, eh, cher?” Ian curled his lips into a curdled smile. “I didn’t say that. I just want to know what I’m wagering before I lay my chips down.” “Yah a cautious man, cher. Some folks admire that.” Cutter took a mighty swig from his Budweiser, belched, and then wiped his thick lips with a massive forearm. “Not me, though. Yah want a wageah, here’tis: Yah sink it, I’ll sign. Yah miss it,” he smiled his drunken smile down at Ian, “I take the stake in all yah lil eat’ries. How’s dat for a wageah?” Ian’s smile dropped like a dead leaf. “No,” he stated flatly. “I figured ‘twas a bit rich for yah blood. Well, thanks for the round, anyhow.” The big man took another swig from his beer and then turned his back on Ian. He began to waddle off the green. Ian cursed to himself. He couldn’t lose this deal. “Wait,” he called out, angered by how desperate he sounded, even to himself. He thanked God he at least had the luck of not seeing whatever self-satisfied grin must certainly be creeping across the big man’s face at the moment. Ian wrung the grip of his putter. “Deal,” he spat out. “Well, alright, then!” The big man turned, his face lit up like Bourbon Street, and made his way back up the hill to the green. “Hold on,” Ian said, fishing a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. “You’re signing this contract right here.” “There’s that conf’dence, cher! I like it!” *Yeah, I’ll show you, you fat prick*, Ian thought. He turned back to his ball and lined up his putt. *No pressure.* He had made big putts before, this one was no different. 12 feet away, the cup sat patiently, waiting for him to realize his dreams -- or bankrupt himself at the behest of some obnoxious seafood magnate’s drunken fancy. *No pressure*. “Get’n with it, cher!” Cutter belched. Ian ignored him. *No pressure.* He gripped his putter tightly, but not too tightly. He shifted his weight on his heels. He eyed the cup, his ball, the putter. *No pressure.* He drew back the club face, held his breath. *No. Pressure.* He brought the putter forward in a smooth motion, his arms locked and straight. The face met the ball and sent it skittering across the green. Ian exhaled. The ball rolled, straight as an arrow, right at the cup. He felt his chest swell. Butterflies swarmed his stomach. He had it. His stroke was pure. The ball rolled on, agonizingly slow, drawing out the moment. Behind him, he heard Cutter swish down the last of his Budweiser. The ball carried on undisturbed, a foot away from the cup... six inches... three... two... one... And then it stopped. Impossibly, it stopped. Ian felt the strength leave his legs. “Hoh hoh!” Cutter burst out. “My goodness, but that was close! My heart nearly stopped, cher!” Ian barely heard. His own heart very well may have stopped. He felt nothing in his chest, only emptiness. *How could I have left it short?* The big man, meanwhile, was hollering. Big, boisterous laughter rolled across the green like a tornado. Ian, who had sunk in on himself and was now hugging his own knees, felt a wide hand slap him, hard, on the back. Whatever breath was left in him whooshed out in a gust. “Well,” the big man was saying between laughs, “a deal’s’a deal.” He laughed again, harder. It sounded like a burlap bag being torn apart. “And, cher, this here’s one helluva deal!” And now he *really* laughed. It was a hideous sound, like heavy rock music turned all the way up on a speaker that had already been blown out. The big man was laughing so hard he was actually beginning to cough in between guffaws. It was like listening to a dog choke down a bone. In fact, it sounded exactly like choking... Ian managed to bring himself up from his knees. The big man had backed off a step or two. His wide face had gone from red to purple and was moist with perspiration. Round eyes bulged from above cheeks like hamsteaks. The laughter was now replaced by choked barks and the big man was clutching at his chest, clawing. Ian, wide-eyed, rushed forward dumbly, unsure of how he could help but wanting to all the same. It made no difference. The big man let out one final, chopping cough and then collapsed backward. He hit the green like an atom bomb. Ian actually felt the impact through his spikes. *Clink*. Ian turned. His ball was gone. In a daze, he walked across the green. He knew what he would see waiting in the cup, but he leaned over and looked anyway. His ball rested inside, the smiley face he had drawn on in Sharpie staring up at him, celebrating his victory. “Oh my God...,” The words left him in a breathless sigh. Then, without any thought, his arms shot upwards. “Oh my God!” Ian yelled out. “Oh my God! It went in!” He hollered and began to hop up and down, almost delirious with joy as he reveled in the impossibility of his putt dropping. Shame crept up on him suddenly. A man was lying dead behind him. A terrible man, but a man. He knelt, picked up his ball and headed back to Cutter’s body. Again, he knew what he would find before he checked, but he dropped to a knee and worked two fingers beneath the big man’s chins. No pulse. Of course. Still a bit dazed, Ian worked his cell phone from his pocket, dialed in 9-1-1 and brought the device up to his ear. He told the woman on the other end what had happened. She said they were on their way. He hung up. He wanted to feel worse, but he didn’t. Without realizing it, he found that the contract had worked its way back into his hand. He stared at it. Then he looked at Cutter’s blue face. He shrugged. “Well, a deal’s a deal,” he told the dead man as he pushed a pen into his cold hand. “And, cher, this here’s one helluva deal.

I used to look at people when I was younger; Right in their eyes... I would try to understand if they were there, being able of thought abstract and minus self. I used to wish and hope that maybe they were. That something would dawn upon one and they would look at me and I would see, feel, taste anything that would show me. I looked for year's, I got older and older and I still couldn't find it. Every so often i would see intelligence and glimmers of something better described as a twitch of a muscle you didn't know you had. I gave up, I stopped looking. What I couldn't stop was thinking. I grew wary of what I deemed was called hope. That thing that drives people to want and love and fuck, before greed sets in and once was love turns to lust and they forget what they had held once dear. That conditioned morality that was what they thought of as I themselves. Their flawed idea of uniqueness dissolves. As with all things lost, the human condition prevails and one must search. I thought maybe i wasn't looking right. Was it a given? Was there a mass presumption ingrained into us? If that was so then why did I not have it. Why. That was my fall. I turned on my self and I couldn't stop. I kept cycling and cycling in the true fashion of Einstein's definition. I could control it, which only created more whys. Was it really control? If that was up there standing on the soap box, that idea of being able to stop mid breath, Harness one away from want. Then everything was. Sweet opioid. Love. Quite. I could look up now. I felt what i deemed control, that wary thing I carried with me,not for the sake of other as most do, but for myself to keep me from falling away no longer necessary. I could look at someone in the eyes and not wonder or search, but see exactly how they did; feel, touch, taste, be. The notion of my singularity was null. Well for as long as it lasted. It was worse now. I saw I wasn't wrong to question and look. I wasn't asking the wrong thing or not looking the right way. Alone again. Though with more knowledge. I have conditioned others to act differently why not me? I tried so hard. tearing bit by bit away. Using more and more to see were work was needed. I slowly unraveled it all and put it back. Then kept using more and more. less breaks. It had to stick I had blend it and life together. Had to forget what I was doing to myself or it would never work. Then I stopped. Time went by. Calmness and ease, that frolic on the beach. But nothing last.... A itch was starting to form...

41236Fafnir [13:30]: Happy thanksgiving everyone. Enjoy your uncomfortable family reunions and screaming arguments. Bjid [13:33]: My younger sister and my grandfather are already arguing about Trump. KRS [13:36]: That’s four years in a row now. You’d think they’d realize it’s a pointless conversation. 41236Fafnir [13:36]: Didn’t they start throwing food at each other last year? Bjid [13:45]: Yup. We aren’t even at the dinner table yet and it’s already a nightmare. How about you guys? 41236Fafnir [13:48]: My wife and I are driving to her parent’s place later today. Should be fine. KRS [13:49]: Honestly, I’m just home alone. :/ Bjid [13:58]: For real? 41236Fafnir [14:01]: That’s rough. Things bad back home? KRS [14:03]: No, not really. I got this job just last month and don’t want to take any time off. Going home for four days is a pretty big commitment when your folks are on the other side of the US. Figured I just had to hold the L and not go home this year. I still get today off though, so it’s not the worst. 41236Fafnir [14:13]: Shit, that sucks. Sorry to hear that. KRS [14:10]: Eh, I kinda knew this would happen getting the work. Still beats working in retail. Bjid [14:21]: Hah... yeah. I can imagine. I had to go into work this morning for a half shift. 41236Fafnir [14:45]: Wal Mart? Bjid [14:24]: Yup. KRS [14:30]: That’s fucked up. 41236Fafnir [14:40]: You’re leaving there soon though, right? IIRC, you said something else was coming in. Bjid [14:45]: Yeah. Maybe. IDK, they haven’t gotten back to me in about two weeks. KRS [14:48]: I mean, this week is Thanksgiving, so it’s a little fair. You should probably try contacting them. Y’know, just remind them you exist. Bjid [14:51]: Is that a good idea? I thought that would come off as pushy. KRS [14:53]: Eh, they really won’t mind. It shows you care. 41236Fafnir [14:59]: Yeah, you have literally nothing to lose. You should shoot for it. Bleeksley [15:08]: Happy thanksgiving to the all you Americans down there. Bjid [15:10]: TY KRS [15:13]: Riiiigggghhhttt. Canadian thanksgiving is in October. Did we forget this year? Bleeksley [15:14]: Don’t worry about it. 41236Fafnir [15:17]: I keep forgetting that you have Thanksgiving in October. Canada’s practically another planet, haha. Bleeksley [15:23]: Hey, we’re all the same. We all wake up in the morning and ride our polar bears to work. Bjid [15:27]: JFC, I started laughing like a maniac in front of my entire family. Thanks for that. Bleeksley [15:30]: Right. How dare I tell a joke. Might as well ban me right now. [KRS has banned Bleeksley] [[Bleeksley has joined the server]] KRS [15:34]: J Bleeksley [15:35]: I’m not even mad. That was great. KRS [15:40]: I figured you’d enjoy that. 41236Fafnir [15:46]: Well, I have to drive in a minute. So, I’ll be offline for a while. KRS [15:48]: Have fun driving to NPR for seven hours. 41236Fafnir [15:50]: It’s practically just white noise at this point. KRS [15:52]: In all seriousness, seven hours is pretty bad. At some point you should probably look into air travel. Bleeksley [15:54]: You can’t have an emergency escape if you need to wait for a flight. Bjid [15:56]: Fucking Christ, dude. Bjid [15:56]: You right tho. 41236Fafnir [15:58]: Nah, my wife’s family are just a bunch of nerds and they’re great. I’m pretty sure I won’t need to worry about emergency exits anymore. We just both hate air travel. 41236Fafnir: Anyways, logging off. If I don’t manage to get back on later, then I wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving. Bleeksley [15:59]: Drive Safe. KRS [15:59]: Yup. Have fun. Bjid [15:59]: What they said. KRS [16:30]: Anyways, Bleeksley, do you want to play a game or something? I don’t really care what kind, honestly. Bleeksley [16:34]: I wish I could. I have a final paper due this Sunday and it’s kinda kicking my ass. Bjid [16:40]: Then why are you here? Bleeksley [16:41]: Good question. Fortunately, I have a perfectly good reason. Bleeksley [16:41]: I’m procrastinating. Bjid [16:43]: So you’ll procrastinate online, but when you’re playing a game it becomes a problem? Bleeksley [16:45]: ...Yes. KRS [16:48]: I mean, a quick drop into the group chat is different than playing a game for an hour. I get it. Bleeksley [16:49]: Yeah, let’s hope I have enough self control to actually get off in a few minutes. I have some doubts. KRS [16:51]: We’re still good for Mafia night tomorrow though, right? Bleeksley [16:52]: Yeah, totally. I don’t think I’ll have any problems on my end. Bjid [16:53]: I should be fine too. Jeppers [16:53]: I should be down. Bjid [16:54]: Oh, hey, Jeppers. Bleeksley [16:56]: Hey, Jeppers. You just log in? Jeppers [16:57]: Hey guys. And yeah, I did. Jeppers [16:58]: KRS, if you’re still down for games in anything, I’m open. You still play Fighterz, right? KRS [17:01]: I do. I’m not great at it, but I can play. I’ll be on in a bit. Bleeksley [17:05]: You aren’t doing Thanksgiving stuff this year, Jeppers? Isn’t it around the middle of the day in the Midwest? Jeppers [17:10]: I mean, I was at a Thanksgiving thing. I just headed home early this year. Bjid [17:13]: ...Oh boy. That bad, huh? Jeppers [17:16]: Yeah. It was pretty awful. Bleeksley [17:20]: Did your brother tell everyone about you coming out like you were worried he would? Jeppers [17:23]: Yup. He did. Jeppers [17:26]: I wish I never told him. I don’t think I’ve ever regretted anything so quickly in my life before. Bleeksley [17:30]: Gotta love those Christian values. Jeppers [17:33]: I know you’re joking, but I fucking hate them. I almost thought it wouldn’t be a big deal, but it ended up being a disaster. KRS [17:36]: It has to be better than holding it back, I hope. Jeppers [17:40]: It is. I’m pissed right now, but it’s better than having to feel anxious every time I go there. I just wish it didn’t happen the way it did. KRS [17:42]: If it makes you feel any better, The worst thing that’ll happen is having to cut off some shitty family. Which is no harm done. Jeppers [17:44]: It’s fine. I’m going back to college tomorrow, so it’s not like I have to deal with the blowback right now. Bjid [17:46]: Until Christmas. Bjid [17:48]: Which is in a month. Jeppers [17:49]: A Month should be plenty of time, right? KRS [17:50]: Yeah, I’m sure it’ll blow over by then. Jeppers [17:54]: ...I hope. KRS [17:55]: Do you still want to play? You don’t have to. Jeppers [17:56]: No, I do. I really need to get my mind off this anyways. I’ll be on in a minute. 41236Fafnir [20:14]: Sounds like I missed out on a bit. Jep, you don’t really need to force yourself to see family if they’re just going to look down on you for who you are. I’m not saying burn the bridge if things do work out, but don’t try to force yourself to these things if they don’t. If they don’t like you for who you are, then it’s their problem. Not yours. 41236Fafnir [20:15]: Okay. I need to get back to IRL stuff. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

The first thing you notice is the sun's rays, peeking through the dusty white shutters. They don’t close all the way, and by the time the light rises into the morning, thick bars of brightness shine onto your ceiling. Your eyelids fail to block out the bright colours of the room, and when you’ve tossed and turned for half an hour in bed, you begrudgingly get up. It’s only eight-thirty-one, your clock chimes in. You think with how bright it is it must be closer to ten. The thought of getting up early on a Sunday morning makes your body sag with fatigue, though you are the one who chose to awake. There is no going back to bed once you stand, and traipse across the long browned carpet lining the floor of your bedroom. The rest of the house is already flooded with light, with your forgetting to close the shutters before bed. It highlights the dust floating through the air, though everything was still as water at midnight before you came down. A glass of tap water soothes your dry throat, though you’re concerned about the air bubbles in the glass of water. Your mom used to tell you they were nothing to worry about, but your father's brother Fred would argue the white specks were chemicals used to clean the water. Mother would roll her eyes, and take out a plastic water bottle for him. Your mother’s mother would mutter something unintelligible under her breath, and ranted about Fred and his antics. The kitchen where you stand was once filled with a bickering family, you think as you leave the glass on the counter. You thought it was all in good fun, but now you know the hatred ran deeper than distaste over white dots in a glass of tap water. Yet you learned to swallow the bitterness long ago, embraced the isolation that came with being caught on the wrong side of a pivotal decision. When you lose a member too soon, you’re quick to blame those who had a part to play. Your mother was always the kind one, or she was in your memories. The first to fold in on herself for others, changing her demeanour every which way if only to please others. Like origami, every time she shaped herself it left creases that would fade but never disappear. Every time another demand was made, another weight on her shoulders, an expression of defiance would flicker across her face. Despite your wish for it to remain, for her to say what she felt, her face folded back into one of a smiling, complacent housewife. It was because of her inability to refuse that you took advantage of her. Even now, looking back from the cabin she left to you in her will, you benefit from her docility. Though it has been many years since you spoke, she left you the cabin you once loved. Back when it represented a break from the rush of school, when you were showered with gifts from family not seen since summertime. The cabin was a haven tucked away from the world, but as an adult, it is nothing more than a voluntary prison. Why did you stay? You had a house in the explosion of suburbia exploding in and around Toronto. You had a stable job, made a friendly yet distant neighbour, never rude but not taking the time to learn their names. Yet here you stand in an old, badly insulated house with a putrid-smelling bathroom and barely functioning gas fireplace. Cut off almost entirely from the outside world, the whole premise of a remote cabin smacking you directly in the face. No phone, electricity, internet, or people to talk to. It is as alone as isolation can be, and it’s thrilling. You don’t need to fake smiles or get dressed into clothes that scream careless, unrefined. Two years as an interior designer and you already learned people judge you before you walk through the door. Your jacket, two-year-old somewhat-worn boots, frizzy straight hair that is not blow-dried speak unintentional volumes to them. Why? The world is unforgiving. They don’t care if you struggle to get up in the morning, that your family has universally cut you off and hung you to dry. No, they care about their rooms, and you are nothing more than a servant to them, who doesn’t seem to have the decency to look professional. But those people don’t matter to you anymore. As you step out onto the snowy deck, your boots imprinting marks on the fresh white powder, you aren’t thinking about the people. Or what you left behind. You are not bitter about society’s inflictions, because you have peacefully detached from them and retreated. You won’t stay here forever. You are not so withdrawn as to not need human interaction at all, no, you are just introverted enough to need a break from pretending to be an extrovert. Your mother always allowed you to hide away in your bedroom during family reunions, but you were too kind to want to disappear. Instead, you took the burden off of your mother, listening to Fred but never fully agreeing with what he said. Yet, you reminisce, he was never the one to start the big arguments. Echoes of words yelled long ago play relentlessly in the back of your mind. The cabin was an escape from one thing, but an invitation for another terror to be unearthed. Years of practice burying the bitter resentment from family were brushed away like the layer of dust on the countertops. The small burn on the couch from Fred’s lighter. Small shards of glass still stuck under the baseboard from shattered picture frames, hastily swept up. A long-wilted pot of flowers mother never got to bring home. A reminder around every corner of the pain and ear-splitting screams of memories clawing their way out. You should let them out. Cry, throw something, uncork the glass bottle brimming with acid memories, bubbling up. You feel it, don’t you? If another were there to ask you simply if you were okay, you would likely shake your head no and collapse in a heap of tears. But you refuse, clench your fist and stand up straight, wiping away the water brimming around your eyes. You will not cry, you will not let it out. You think it makes you strong, but you are weak from running from it for so long. You are so close to getting through this phase of your past, why do you now refuse to acknowledge it? Your mother never cried in front of you. Her face would scrunch up ever so slightly, whenever emotions slammed into her at an overwhelming rate. She would just purse her lips, shake her head, and busy herself with a task. You used to admire that aspect of her, but now, as you hang your head between your arms, you wish she was there to tell you how she did it. But she is gone, and you can't help but stop the memory from flooding back, clear as freshly cleaned glass. That day the snow had piled up against the window, and we were debating staying an extra night. Everyone’s vehicles, except for Fred’s truck, were too snowed in and cold to be started. The then-working heater kept you warm inside, but after a week of already being in each other’s company, everybody was on their last leg. “Put that down!” Grandma hissed at Fred, who was jokingly trying to light your clothes on fire, enjoying how you would lurch backwards in the cruel joke of it. He would light it, bring it just close enough to your shirt to discolour it before you would turn around. At grandma’s scolding, his mouth would turn up into a cruel smirk. “I wasn’t doing anything. Y’all shelter her too much.” You moved further away from him, spying your mother leaning on the counter. “Mom?” You asked, immediately knowing something was wrong. She didn’t look up, and you were the fastest to your feet, rushing over to her. “Are you okay?” you asked, already knowing the answer. When she shook her head lightly, a feeling of dread crept up your spine. “Mom!” You turn to your family, who were watching silently, emotionless. “Somebody help her!” You insist, fighting back hysteria. Your mother was not one for theatrics or extra attention. “She’s probably fine, just a little sick of this cabin, like the rest of us.” Fred took a sip of his beer. You stared at him for a moment, in shock at his nonchalance. “No, Em’ is right, Jenn isn’t okay.” Aunt Beatrice stands. “She needs to-” She was cut off by your mother slumping against the counter, and your diving to try and catch her before she hit the floor. Her skin pale and fingers twitching, you finally began to panic. “She needs to get to the hospital!” You cried, struggling to drag her toward the door before Beatrice began to help you. Grandma chimed in. “Fred’s truck is the best chance you got.” “Whatever, I think she’s fine. She’ll wake up in a minute and you will feel stupid for overthinking it.” Ignoring that statement, Beatrice continued your grandmother’s train of thought. “I’ve got the keys, Emily and I will go.” Fred stood, swaying slightly as he did. Pointing his finger at Beatrice, he glared. “You are not driving my truck.” “You’re drunk. You’re more likely to crash into one of the trees on the way than get Jenn help.” “You’re not driving my truck!” Fred walked up to Beatrice, staring her in the eye. “She needs help!” You cry, and Fred turns his glare to you. His breath smells of beer and tobacco. “She’s fine.” Grandma’s voice chimed in from her spot on the couch. “Fred is right, you guys are overthinking this.” You look around at their faces, and Beatrice looks defeated. “No!” you yell, “Fred how goddamn selfish are you to not-” You never get to finish the sentence before the air rushes out of your lungs. A heavy arm shoves you against the wall, and the whole room erupts in protest. The shattering of glass pierces your ears, as Fred stumbles away from you. Beatrice drops an old picture frame, shards of glass sticking out, and rushes over to ensure you are okay. “She’s not breathing.” Your heart stops at the soft sound of your grandmother’s voice, and when you turn around you no longer see the rising and falling of your mother’s chest. “No!!” It is now that you slump against the wood siding of the house, that you sink to your knees, ignoring the wet discomfort of the snow. You cry salty tears and don’t wipe them away. The memories clawed their way out, and now fully consume you. You’re not sure how long you sit there, wallowing in your pain and self-pity, the snow soaking through your sweatpants and tears freezing on your face. The wind whistles past your ears, and eventually self-preservation wins out, and you pick yourself up. Not bothering to dust yourself off, you sprinkle snow on the already water-warped floor. But with the feeble warmth from the gas fireplace, the cold, icy part of you that kept you emotionless and detached slowly melted away. The knot in your chest untangles. Without it, you finally felt like you could breathe. You grab the broom from the closet, the worn handle fitting nicely in your palm. The flooring groans under your feet as you approach the remains of a shattered picture frame. You sweep the glass, the splintered frame, and the faded picture across the living room floor. When it gets outside, the glass falls through the cracks in the deck, leaving only the frame. With one final push off the deck, the wood falls gently down into the snowbank below. The picture is snatched by the wind, and carried off across the yard, still moving when you go back inside. The pot of flowers is heavy in your hands, the soil making your nose wrinkle in disgust. You walk quickly with it, and with great satisfaction, throw it off the side of the deck. Softly landing on the thick layer of snow, the once unwanted life feeding the garden you will eventually grow. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. When you are satisfied, you sit down on the weathered sofa and close your eyes. Because it’s over. Not because your family has made-up again, but because you chose it to be. You chose to not care anymore and to acknowledge the past without succumbing to it. Your mother never cared much for family gatherings, and she would prefer your shirts don’t have burn marks. And the cottage, once coffin-like and cold, has the aura of a new beginning.

I saw the whole thing. I work in a cramped gas station kiosk for a department store chain. The wall-to-wall front window overlooks Freddy Gonzalez street. On that street, I shared in Snowden's secret for the first time. Only on this day, there was no elegant prose, no moral learned, no imagination at play. Only grim reality. It was a muggy Saturday evening in Texas not far from the Mexican border. The air was damp and hot, encouraging me to stay within the walls of my air conditioned box with the radio on. My favorite song by Pink Floyd was playing on the radio: "Wish You Were Here". The sky remained grey and heavy between the episodes of violent rain. The blue Nissan Xterra appeared in my left peripheral. It always did. The vehicle crept forward to the stop sign, idled a moment, and turned right onto the street, unaware of the fate to which its harbored passengers would succumb. A beautiful young girl sat in the rear passenger seat. Her dark brown hair went past her shoulders and shined with a vibrancy challenged only by the radiance of her skin. She faced out the passenger side window - her cell phone was in her hands. She sat facing that way for a reason only she and I knew. The vehicle was still moving slowly, the driver taking extra caution on the wet road. The girl looked up and caught me staring. I tried to look away, but I was transfixed. She was my Beatrice; she was my salvation. That's when it happened. In my right peripheral, a second exit opens onto the same street. It is much closer to my kiosk than the exit on my left. I heard later that the driver was drunk; the driver was asleep; the driver had a heart attack. It didn't matter. She was looking at me, and she smiled with those lips that became fuller and more beautiful by the day-much in the same way that Beatrice's beauty increased for Dante as they drew closer and closer to the center of Eden, to the Good itself. My lips began to form a smile back, one that would always pale in comparison to the ones brought forth by those lips that sustained my life. That's when it happened. The truck collided directly into the rear passenger door. I hadn't noticed how fast it was going until I witnessed the magnitude of the impact. I saw the whole thing. When the ambulances and police cars arrived, only two of the occupants were of importance. The young boy in the car was the only one moving. The mother was unconscious at the front wheel. The boy was removed first. He was hysterical. One eye struggled to remain open in a swollen pool of black. From the other sprang tears. As a waterfall crashes into the pool of water below it with a grand and indifferent force, so did his tears cascade onto the puddles of water that littered the road. Blood painted his upper lip a dark crimsom. The heart wrenching sight of him was diminished only by the most painful and broken wailing I have ever heard in my twenty-one years. He didn't want to be pulled from the backseat. Where his strength failed him in the struggle to free himself of the paramedics, his eyes succeeded in maintaining an unbreakable grip on his mother and sister. The mother was removed second. She offered no resistance. Her airbag had been deployed. Her face was red and purple, a swirl of the two colors which appeared so mixed that one could not tell where they separated and joined. But something told me she would live. Before the onlookers had arrived at the scene, the EMTs had covered the girl's body. She was removed last. There was no rush. The crowd that had gathered there did not know what had happened to her. They craned their necks and squinted their eyes in a vain attempt at discovery. But I saw the whole thing. When the truck hit her door, she was still smiling at me, phone in her hands. It was bedazzled or bejeweled or whatever it was she called it. I always teased her that it was childish. But now, the glimmering plastic emeralds and rubies seemed more inappropriate than ever. Her eyes were brown, just like mine. In the next fraction of a second, which is still an inescapable eternity in my heart and mind, her forehead broke the glass. Only half of her phone was still visible. The precious plastic jewels had changed colors. The rubies were no longer shiny, but redder than I had ever seen. The green of the emeralds had morphed into wet peas in marinara sauce. A few glistening strands of cortex added the final ingredient. Her right right eye was shrouded in a gory fortress, taking refuge from the fatal scene. A hint of brown hid near the center of it, all of it's radiance and gleam wrung from it forevermore. The other half of the phone was buried in her left eye socket. Her smile was gone, replaced with lifeless, parted lips. They seemed poised to whisper something; perhaps an unwanted secret she had learned and had hardly the time to process. But her lips didn't have to move for me to hear it. It was the secret that Snowden had spilled while he went cold in the sun. It was a secret that I would never forget - not now. I saw the whole thing.

Little 9-year-old Lucy Henderson laid awake in her bed for the fourth night in a row. She knew two things: She needed a better nightlight and there was a monster under her bed. Her arm clenched around her stuffed teddy bear, Charles. The tree outside clawed against the glass of her window with every gust of wind. Ghoulish faces formed from the streetlight casting shadows on her ceiling. Lucy’s eyes shut tight. Every time she did, she felt the bed stir - sure that the monster beneath it was reaching up to grab her. “Janice down the street had a break-in last night. They’re happening on our block now. What are we going to do?” She heard her mother say through the crack in her door one evening. “Keep your voice down, we don’t want Lucy to panic.” Her father responded. “You know how she gets. It’ll be alright.” She spent the following two weeks waking her mother up in the middle of the night. A flashlight next to her bed became the agreed-upon solution. Her eyes opened at the sound of a loud thump and she looked around. The dim nightlight made it difficult to make out anything in her little room. She grabbed the flashlight and scanned the darkness. The beam of light brought clarity. She saw that the tree outside was only a tree. Toys she forgot to put away cast the other shadows underneath her crummy nightlight. Lucy knew there was no such thing as monsters. The tension in her muscles eased as the light crossed the foot of the bed. At the edge of the light, she watched a white, boney hand recoil out of sight. Immediately she turned the light to get a better look. It was gone. Lucy protested the flashlight as a reasonable solution. Her father reminded her that she would be 10 years old soon and she needed to be a brave girl. She clasped Charles tight around the neck and crawled to the foot of her bed. She followed the beam and peeked over the edge. To her relief, nothing. She let out a big sigh and laid back in bed. She turned her head to look at the clock on her nightstand. Instead, a white face cloaked in a dark robe stared back at her with large, hollow black eyes. It neared closer to her and she let out a bellowing scream. Moments later her Mom burst through the door. The light from the hallway filled the room and the creature vanished with the darkness. “Oh Lucy, not again.” “It’s under the bed Mom, I promise!” Her mother, frustrated, sank to her knees and checked under the bed. “There’s noth- wait,” she said as Lucy leaned in. “I can’t quite get a grip on it. Here it is.” She pulled a candy wrapper up into view. “What have I told you about candy before bed? It’s driving your imagination wild. There are no monsters under your bed.” “Yes, Mama but what about the break-ins? I heard you and Dad talking and-” Her mother pulled the girl close and held her. “You’re too young to be worrying about that. Me and your dad will protect you. Promise.” Defeated, the little girl put her head down. Her mother laid a soft kiss upon her forehead. “I love you.” She picked up Charles who had fallen on the floor and placed him back into Lucy’s arms. “You’ll get out of this phase. Remember it’s only your imagination.” She got up and clicked the lock of the window shut before exiting the room. A wave of darkness crossed the room as her mother pulled the door shut. As it closed the white face crept from behind it. She gripped the blanket tight and covered her head. Her eyes shut and she covered her ears with her hands. She repeated “It’s only your imagination,” in her head over and over again. A few minutes of silence passed. The pounding in her chest quieted. Charles was in a headlock under her arm, the stitching around his neck close to ripping. Her eyes opened. The flashlight was gone, she felt around but couldn’t find it. She could see through her blanket and scanned the room. It made the shadows from the nightlight even more confusing. She dared not look toward the darkness so she kept her eyes toward the window. The wind calmed down and the branches outside were still. The closet door creaked as it opened. The silhouette of a body appeared in the light of the window. It lunged toward her. Her eyes shut tight. She abandoned Charles and grabbed her pillow, wrapping it around her head. She didn’t want to see, she didn’t want to hear. She kept repeating “It’s only your imagination.” Tears welled in her eyes waiting for the nightmare to be over. The blanket ripped off and she drowned in the cold of the room. The pillow tore from her face. She turned to look. There was no monster. Only a man in a ski mask. Before she could scream his large hands covered her mouth. He held her to the bed with one hand. His other hand brought a finger to his lips signaling for her to stay quiet. The nine-year-old struggled as the man peered around the room. He stared at the door for an instant making sure there would be no interruptions. She could hear the faint noise of her parents watching TV in the living room. Hand still on her mouth, he swung his backpack around and pulled some duct tape from the open pocket. He leaned down close to her and whispered in her ear. “You make a sound, I’ll kill you.” Tears rained down Lucy’s cheeks. He ripped a strip from the roll and spread it across the little girls quivering lips. As he pulled another strip of tape, Lucy noticed a shadow rising from behind him. Her eyes fixated as it grew. Broad shoulders sat beneath a deep hooded cloak hovered above the man. The creature’s boney arms reached from under its cloak and crept closer. Lucy’s heart stopped. The man pulled Lucy’s arms up in front of her but stopped when he noticed she was no longer resisting. Her eyes were wide and fixed behind him. He turned around, still on top of the girl. Inches in front of his face now stood the white, lanky monster. The man froze as a chill washed over his body. Before he could scream the monster wrapped its bony fingers around the man’s face. In an instant, the monster dragged him under the bed. The legs of the bed slammed and scratched against the hardwood floor. Muffled screams got quieter and more distant. Lucy jumped in fear and landed on Charles. She pulled the teddy bear to her chest and scattered away against the wall. The man lunged out from underneath the bed. His grasp reached inches away from the little girl. Blood covered his hands and face, now exposed between rips in the mask. Startled, she threw Charles toward the man. “Help me, please help me,” he groaned as blood spurted out of his mouth. Lucy looked up and saw the monster hovering over the man. It was waiting. The little girl stood up and looked into the man’s terror-filled eyes. Then shook her head as her monster dragged the man back under the bed. The bed shook until the echo of screams died and the room fell silent. “Lucy! What’s going on in there?” her mother called from the living room. The hollow-eyed face slid out from under the bed. It put one long, boned finger to its mouth. Lucy pulled the tape from her mouth and yelled, “Nothing Mom! I was going to check the lock on my window and I tripped on some toys!” “How many times have I told you to clean up your toys before you go to bed?” Her mother yelled back. “Put them away and get your butt back in bed. I don’t want to hear another peep out of you tonight.” “Yes, Mama.” The traumatized nine-year-old said. The face sunk back into the darkness under the bed and appeared on the other side in one smooth movement. It lifted her blankets and signaled with its demonic finger for her to come closer. Lucy stood and wiped the tears from her eyes. The monster then raised Charles from the floor. Its white hand shook the bear, enticing the child. She made her way onto the bed as the monster pulled the blanket over her.

Edmund was not his real name. The young man was a librarian by trade, although one wouldn’t know it by looking at him. He wore a double-breasted gray suit, his neck swathed in a long black scarf. In his hand he held an elaborate pocket watch, which he was studying closely. He was standing outside a wrought-iron gate in a slum of Paris in the middle of the night. He watched as two drunkards across the street stumbled out of what was casually known as a “night cafe.” He eyed them nervously, gripping his walking stick tightly as they walked away. ‘Edmund’ gulped and wiped his brow with a clean handkerchief before checking his pocketwatch again. ...11:58. The young man was tantalized by the night cafe: the fact that on one side of the street was a deep soul-slavery, while on his side - under a flickering yellow lamp - was freedom... at least for those who could find it. 12 o’clock midnight. Edmund heard the click from the wrought iron gate, and then began to fiddle with a difficult-to-see combination lock. He quickly scrambled with the lock, his fingers sweating, and inputted 6, 15, 24, and pushed. As expediently as he had entered, Edmund closed the gate fast behind him, giving it a few tugs to make sure the lock was engaged. Under the night sky, the garden had both a threatening and romantic feel to it. Several large trees lent their hanging leaves and fruits to the few who could find them as little lightning bugs darted between the tall grasses that lined the slowly churning stream that ran through the secret garden. Edmund bent down to examine the cobblestones in front of him and put on his specially-made spectacles. “Good,” he murmured to himself after an examination. “No sign of them.” He found himself wishing that the gate would allow itself to be opened at twelve-noon instead of midnight as he walked among the lush greenery. How beautiful it would be, Edmund thought before reminding himself why he was there. He stepped over a bridge spanning the little stream and was presented with the shop he had been searching for for years. Amidst the verdant foliage, a quaint and charming shop emerged like a hidden gem. Its façade was adorned with creeping vines and ivy, a sign that it was much, much older than he had been led to believe. A sign above the entrance read, "Exquisitely Rare Books," inviting the curious and the curiouser to step inside and explore the wonders within. Edmund carefully opened the front door of the strange little shop, stopping the bell above from announcing his arrival. In spite of that, he heard an old-sounding voice from deeper within. “Hello! I am so glad someone had found my clues. It has been such a long... long time since I have had any customers.” The interior of the shop was warm, but the little electrical lights were just a little too faint. Edmund looked around for the source of the voice, but could not discover its origin. “Yes, delighted,” Edmund said, glad to hear that no one else had been in the store for ‘a long time.’ “Help yourself, lad,” the voice responded. Edmund looked over the bookshelves to see if he could see where the shopkeep was, but could not. “If you need any assistance, please don’t hesitate to ask.” Edmund put on his spectacles again and lit a match. The voice again pervaded the store. “No flames, please!” The clerk’s voice said calmly yet commandingly. Edmund blew out his match and put it in a convenient ash tray. The book Edmund was looking for was definitely worth all the fuss. He passed by several first editions and original manuscripts of books that lesser librarians could only have dreamed of seeing as he walked further and further into the shelves. There was an original Leonardo diagram of some device that the young man couldn’t reckon, followed by a translation of a chapter of the Codex Seraphim and the Chronicles of the Starless Abyss . Books that lesser book collectors would have leapt at without searching deeper. Farther back, farther back, into the recesses of the place. He found a spiral iron staircase and began to ascend. The Atlas Obscura was there at the landing, along with The Lost Apocrypha and the only known copy of the Crystal Codex , made completely out of diamond. The lights were dimmer back here than on the first floor, and even Edmund’s special glasses were not helping him. “Excuse me?” He called out to the ever-darkening gloom. “Is there any chance of making this place brighter?” The clerk responded with Edmund’s true name and a little speech about the ‘romantic promise of darkness.’ That phrase stuck in Edmund’s mind - part of a poem from the book he was in search of. The young librarian sighed. “Nevermind,” Edmund called out to the gloom. I’ve gotten this far , he thought. Even if I have to camp out here until daybreak to see what I’m doing, it’ll be worth it. He clutched his walking stick. Perhaps I could even stave off the clerk until morning as well. “I think you’ll find that daylight won’t help you here,” the clerk suddenly said, somewhere in the dark. Edmund didn’t respond, but instead intensified his focus in order to read the names on the spines of the ever-twisting rows of books. That’s what struck Edmund the most about the place: it was becoming less and less organized as he went forward with priceless books and tomes spilling onto the floor. Picking one up, he saw that it had a title that shocked him so much that it caused him - a man of many meticulous and despicable crimes - to throw it to the ground in disgust. Another book sent a river of tremulous thoughts through his brain. Yet another title seemed to throw the entire worldview of a major religion into question. Focus, focus , he said to himself as he walked deeper and deeper into the bookstore... or whatever it was. The darkness was now intense, but somehow Edmund could read the titles on the various slumping bookshelves. What Edmund was looking for was far more disturbing than these, however. He stepped over a pile of parchment and squeezed between two bookshelves at the very back of the second floor when he saw it: A knee-high gap in the wall with red light pouring out of it. Getting on his knees and pushing the piles of papers away, he peered into the gap. A few more books fell in his way as he crawled forward - scrolls and even a few pages of forgotten minuets by Mozart began to fall in front of him, but he was not deterred. At the end of the crawlspace, he could see a lone book in the distance. Continually pushing the books and pages that were falling in front of his path away, he crawled forward. The space itself narrowed and narrowed, the source of the red light not able to be determined, the book seemingly retreating. He pulled himself by the carpet of the infernal space along with the forward motion of his knees to finally claw his way to the large, eight-hundred-or-so leatherbound tome and brought it close. Edmund’s black hair was now in complete disarray as he stood, kicking the other things away from his feet. A few were scrolls of ancient papyrus, their pages singed by a great fire from long ago. “Did you find what you were searching for?” The voice of the clerk behind him asked. Edmund continued forward. “Yes I did,” Edmund said carefully. “Thank you v-very much.” Clomp, clomp, shuffle, shuffle. Edmund was still struggling to hold onto the tome as more and more books and parchments fell at his feet from unseen shelves. “Very interesting work,” the voice behind him said, growing fainter. “Yes, yes it is,” Edmund said. “I notice that you were not enticed by the other works you passed by on your way to that one.” Edmund gulped, being careful to be polite and yet not looking behind him. “They are wonderful books as-as well,” he said. Up ahead was the faint orange glow coming from the candles on the first floor. He reached the guard rail of the spiral staircase and gripped it tightly. “You are a special customer, that is for sure,” the voice said again. Edmund made his way to the first floor, still clutching his find in his arms. “You a-are too kind,” he said, calling up the stairs, still not looking behind him. “H-how much?” He asked as he trundled across the much brighter, much more comforting first floor. There was no answer at first. “You know the price,” the voice called down in a sly tone. Edmund pushed the door open, not caring this time if the bell made a noise. After a moment, the forgotten and concealed bookstore returned to its state of hush and silence. Every once in a while there was a shuffling noise upstairs, but otherwise there was no movement. When the sun came up, the trees outside blocked the light from entering fully. The shadows from the branches of the willows outside danced strange dances on the floor within.

My feet met the cold stone floor, sending shivers up my spine. Seemingly I wasn’t the only one, I could hear gasps coming from the crowd that surrounded me. A few murmurs as well, probably comments regarding the unpleasant feeling. To be completely honest, the cold stone was the least of my worries if I could call it that to begin with. I wasn’t concerned, not really. Not about our presence here at least but the anxious aura surrounding the crowd I was part of could barely go unnoticed. I let my eyes wander around, pushing the people around me into the background to fully focus on the walls that surrounded us. They were black with red ruby gems decorating them in various patterns. The symbols they formed were well known to us all, the symbols of our Gods. However, not many of us believe in their existence anymore. Despite this, we still carried out this ‘ceremony’. A ritual, some called it, but that always sounded a bit bizarre to me, way more sinister than it was but the word ‘ceremony’ didn’t seem fitting to me either, therefore me and my friends call it Krvozwem. It means blood pool, bloody pool, or pool of blood, whatever translation you pick really. The language is known only by us though, we made it up when we were little which also explains the simplicity of the name Krvozwem as we were limited by our childhood minds. Despite the simple name we have chosen for this ceremony, the building where it was carried out was far from simple. The pillars were detailed, carvings decorating their surface, and the walls I mentioned earlier held balconies that were filled by people who came to witness Krvozwem. Our parents were in the front row but some of them were on the balconies as well. I noticed a few familiar faces up there, their hands anxiously gripping the railing that prevented them from falling, though some seemed to be uneasy with anticipation that made them fidget with their fingers, clothing, or jewelry. Anything they had in reach. It was pathetic, I never understood why there is so much anxiety when it comes to this. Wasn’t it an honor? To be chosen as the one. To have all the eyes on you. On me . Yes. Me. Of course, they would choose me. Who else is there to choose? The girl who throws up at any minor inconvenience? Or the weakling that dares call himself a man? I glanced their way to check their faces, and as I thought, Rina looked like she would throw up and Hel’s knees were practically shaking despite him trying to put on that ‘confident’ expression of his. Of course, they were my friends. Or rather steps to my victory. I don’t care for them, not really. As soon as this is done, I’ll toss them aside like the pitiful beings they are. Not that I feel pity for them. I don’t feel anything. They are just tools to me, just like my parents are. All the people in my life have one purpose, to serve me to get me to the top. Once their task is over, they are no longer needed. And what better purpose could there be than this? They should be grateful I let them be of use to me. My eyes met the gaze of my parents, their pride shining through to me. They have been speaking of this day ever since I learned to walk. It was my bedtime story, my dreams, my greeting in the morning, and a lecture during lunch. Krvozwem. The highest of honors. You see, our world is dying. Has been for years now. There is no food, not for the Kos’Vies at least. That’s what the lowest of the lowest get called. Poor. Dirty. Disgusting . They survive off of each other now, in the most literal sense you can think of. Cannibalism. They reproduced as fast as rabbits though, or that’s what grandpa said. No idea what a ‘rabbit’ is but it must have been repulsive if Kos’Vies got compared to them. At least they never run out of stuff to eat. And water? Ancient legend at this time. Blood. That is all we can drink now, nothing else will give us enough energy to fully function. Some people resist the customs but they are not seen often. Most of the time, if you would come across one on the street, shouting their chants in protest, they’re gone the next day. A curiosity but a welcomed one. Keep your ‘pure’ thoughts to yourself. As for us, we are the higher-ups, the Sno’Egoï as we like to call ourselves. We are the better ones, the ones who will prevail. Most of us at least. The Elder Kri was the founder of Krvozwem, she believed our world could be saved. That’s why we do this every year, gather here in The Zoufpij where the ‘ceremony’ takes place. I got picked when I was 3 years old, others got picked around the same time and some later but they usually don’t go past 8 years old. The Elder Kri formed a unit called DiVon for this very purpose, they choose the ones who show the most potential to be Lek’Ká, the one who is prophesied to save us all and bring us to a better world. ‘Under their rule, we shall prosper. We shall not know pain. Ascension will be brought by The Mighty and all the Gods will owe us fealty.’ As one of the ones who got chosen, I attended classes that were meant to prepare me for the role of Lek’Ká if it ended up being me. It will . But let others hope, their crushed spirit will make it even sweeter. It felt great already as one by one of my ‘companions’ got called forward, getting soaked in the crimson liquid in the middle of The Zoufpij. A big pool of thick blood. None of them came out as Lek’Ká yet. Nobody has. Ever since The Elder Kri introduced Krvozwem to us, there has been no one who was The Mighty but that’s simply because I wasn’t born yet. In all honesty, nobody knew what would happen when the person who stepped in was Lek’Ká. We’re about to see. They called me, my turn. Finally. After so many years. Started when I was three, and I am 16 now, the little me would be proud. I stopped at the edge of the pool, looking down at my reflection in the liquid. This is it. My foot sank, and the other followed. I walked to the middle of the pool, covered by blood from the waist down as I tilted my head back, my eyes closed. “Bohgen búzu dlusch náon vétro,” I whispered the phrase we get taught as soon as we say our first word. It’s the last phrase of the prophecy. ‘Gods will owe us fealty.’ Some call it the trial of Lek’Ká as it’s supposed to ‘reveal’ them but to me, it feels like more than that. More than just a phrase. It feels, right. Like home. Nothing. Nothing happened. How? How is this possible? It’s me . It has always been me ! I am Lek’Ká. I am . I wouldn’t get out. They can’t make me. I will stay until my true self is proven. Until they see. They will all see. The DiVon grabbed my arms with force, about to drag me away but... they couldn’t. I wouldn’t budge. I couldn’t budge. It was as if I was glued to the bottom of the pool. The crimson liquid began to swirl around me as if someone had begun to drain it. Murmurs and gasps of surprise echoed from the walls, DiVon let go of me and stepped back, rushing to hold back all the others who tried to get to me. I didn’t see them anymore. My eyes were closed, arms spread out as I embraced the thick liquid that crawled up my body. It covered me whole, almost suffocating me before it forced my mouth open. Sharp pain appeared in my throat as it entered my mouth, my eyes shot wide open, tearing up at the sensation. The people who were trying to get to me stopped struggling, watching me instead as I closed my mouth again. I wiped my mouth, trying to catch the breath that was almost taken from me. When I looked down, the blood that surrounded me just seconds ago was gone. The pool was empty. It all went... inside of me. A scoff left my lips before I straightened up, my arms by my sides as I looked over the other-- My subjects . The DiVon yelled my name for the whole Zoufpij to hear. “The Mighty! Lek’Ká!” Then I watched them all bend their knees, bowing to me. To me . Their Mighty . Their savior . I basked in the feeling. Most of them couldn’t even look at me, not feeling good enough to gaze upon me. They weren’t of course but I wanted them to see. To see what I am. It was so much. Everything I deserved. So much. Everything I worked for. So much. Everything I dreamed of. Too much... My head felt like it was about to explode, and my vision got blurry until I could barely see. The ache made me fall to my knees, hitting the stone ground with a groan. DiVon rushed to me but soon retreated. That was the last thing I saw properly before the black blur in the center of my sight began to spread, leaving me in darkness. I wanted to scream out and yell for help but I couldn’t. Every time I opened my mouth blood began to spill out. My arms felt weak as I leaned on them, my palms on the stones beneath me but the weakness soon faded out of my mind. As soon as the blood from my mouth touched my hands it was like acid, eating on my flesh and not stopping until it reached the bone. Screams of terror filled The Zoufpij. I couldn’t see anyone but I could hear their footsteps as they ran towards the exit. Leaving me behind. My subjects. Leaving me . Leaving their Mighty . Lek’Ká . The agony I felt throughout my whole body was indescribable. It was like I was being torn apart just to be put together and then torn apart again before I even got the chance to recover. But the crimson liquid didn’t stop at my hands. It spread. Slowly eating at the flesh of my body. Biting away at my skin. Tearing apart my muscles. Ripping out my nerves. At the end of it all, I was lying in the middle of the pool. My eyes stared at the dark ceiling as I felt my life slipping through my now skeleton fingers. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to be Lek’Ká. I was supposed to be worshiped. Praised. Looked upon. But instead, I am here, alone. Dying. The prophesied savior. But, perhaps this was what it meant to me Lek’Ká. A sacrifice. For my subjects. A sacrifice that will bring them a better world, with food and water. And perhaps even the repulsive rabbits. A subtle smile appeared on my lips, though I wasn’t sure I had any, my brows furrowed as a tear rolled down my cheek. “ Mighty ...” Was all I managed to hoarsely whisper before it all fell into nothingness. The beginning and the end of The Mighty Lek’Ká. The savior. The believer. The gullible.

9 year old Johnny Jones lived in an old and spacious Victorian home with his grandmother, Nana Jones. It sat on 10 acres of oak trees in the hills overlooking the city. Ever since he could remember the atmosphere in the house and the surrounding grounds was heavy, giving the inhabitants a feeling of dread. It gave off a kind of creepiness that once it stuck to you it was hard to shake off. Even though he brushed off all of the unexplained and mysterious events that would happen to him there, Johnny knew that most of them were beyond rational answers, so he didn’t bother to ask any questions. Even his grandmother couldn’t explain them. It was 3 am that night when Johnny awoke suddenly with the feeling of being on a boat in stormy seas. He was experiencing the ebb and flow of being on a ship sailing on the ocean. He knew that he wasn’t near anything that could float because he was in his own bed and in his own room where he belonged. The reason for thinking he was on a boat was that his bed was actually moving. It was tipping to one side the room then swayed to the other side, then it began shaking violently. The air in the room was unusually cold as his breath was visible. He tried to gather up his blankets to cover himself but they kept on slipping from his grip. While the tremors grew stronger Johnny had to hang on to his mattress so he wouldn’t fall out of bed to the floor. He shouted out to his grandmother who was hard of hearing. But he took the chance that his screams would reach her. Of course, there was no response from Nana. Suddenly he heard a scraping sound as a dark misty shadow began to slowly ooze out from underneath his trundle, growing tall and wide. The dark figure that stood before him had no humanoid characteristics but did appear to be threatening him. He knew that he couldn’t wait for someone to intervene for there was no time. So Johnny decided to do something immediately to save himself. He gathered every Tonka Toy and GI Joe that were nearest to him and began throwing them at the dark intruder, scaring it away. When his grandmother reached him the monster was gone. And when she asked Johnny what was wrong, he responded in a stutter that a monster crawled out from under his bed. Nana Jones began to inspect the room. She searched behind the curtains, inside the closet, behind the dresser and then approached the bed. To look under it, she had to slowly raise the quilt as not to provoke anything that may be hiding there. What she saw was a conglomeration of Johnny’s out-grown toys clustered together displaying the different ways that were used to behead and amputate them. This created an impasse that blocked her view. She came to the conclusion that there was no possibility that anything sizable could ever successfully fit underneath his bed. “It was just a dream, Johnny.” Nana said softly. All of his life Nana over-protected Johnny. His Aunt Ruth used to say, “Johnny was never permitted a self-entertaining belch without being subjected to his pediatrician. " And then everyone would laugh. That being the case, Nana worried that she may have to consult a psychiatrist if Johnny was seeing things that weren’t there. Since she didn’t believe in monsters she feared he was losing the remaining marbles that currently existed (and for which he needed) in his head. She felt it was only a matter of time when Johnny would exhibit symptoms of the hereditary family secret. If that happened she would be forced to disclose that the sap of insanity flowed through the Jones’ bloodline at the volume and velocity of Niagara Falls. And she didn’t want to do that! “That monster, he he had no face.” Stuttered Johnny. “It ca came at me.” ”It wanted to to hurt me.” He stuttered again. The elaborate and often contradictory descriptions of what he saw that night, to him, weren’t stark enough to induce anyone into perceiving the same degree of horror that he was feeling. So he went on and on trying to get it right about how it really happened. He recounted how the bed shook in the darkness of his bedroom, how a scraping sound came before the sight of a dark figure that arose from under his bed. But as the night wore on he grew weary of scaring himself and finally fell asleep on the couch in the living room. The next day Johnny awoke with a sigh of relief. He felt safe in the daylight. After wiping his eyes, he got up and ran into his room. He dived down to the floor landing next to his bed and began clearing out the debris so there would be a clear view to look for clues as to what it was that came to visit him last night. When he was about finished he realized there were still a few remnants of broken plastic leftover. So he peeked further into the space and noticed something that caught his interest. He saw an object that he didn’t recognize. Curious, Johnny stretched out one of his lanky arms to reach for this shiny metal thing-a-ma-jig. As he wrapped his fingers around it to pull it out, it began to tingle in his hand. Johnny stood up staring at his palm where the object was resting. It looked to be about 1 inch x 1 inch in measurement, made of gold or brass and was oval shaped with strange writing carved into it. The top was chiseled in such a way that rendered it into an almost key-like state. He wondered, 'Was it a key?’ ‘But a key to open what?’ Nana called to him from downstairs so he slipped the object into his pajama pocket. “Come and have breakfast, Johnny.” Nana shouted. “Okay, Nana.” Johnny answered. After his morning meal, Johnny got ready for the day. He decided to go into town to show Mr. Hanson the strange thing-a-ma-jig he found. Since Mr. Hanson owned an antique shop Johnny was hoping that he might know what the object was and where it came from. The door chimed upon Johnny’s arrival inside Mr. Hanson’s shop, alerting Mr. Hanson of a customer to help. Johnny looked around and marveled at all of the vintage items and artifacts that were displayed for sale. There were dolls, glassware and collectibles in every category imaginable. He also offered antique furniture. There were desks, tables, cupboards, Hoosiers and French settees to name a few. Johnny noticed some glass cases carrying rare gold and brass artifacts. While in the middle of his wonderment he suddenly heard the sound of footsteps, so Johnny turned toward the sound. It was Mr. Hanson appearing before him. Johnny swiftly produced the strange thing-a-ma-jig from his pocket showing it to Mr. Hanson. “Interesting.” Mr. Hanson stated. “Where did you get this?” He questioned. Johnny explained the events of the night before and detailed just how he came across that thing-a-ma-jig. Mr. Hanson looked puzzled wondering how a rare ancient artifact could have traveled such a long distance only to appear in a 9 year old boys bedroom? Mr. Hanson went on to reveal that the object was certainly old and looked to be Egyptian. He said it was indeed a key, but didn’t know what it opened. Then Mr. Hanson recommended that Johnny leave it with him overnight for research purposes. He said that he needed time to decipher the writing that was carved into the piece. Johnny agreed and made arrangements to come back to the shop the next day. Mr. Hanson took the object and placed it gently into one of the glass cases, locking it up. Johnny then headed for home. On his way he couldn’t help but contemplate what he was about to face when darkness fell tonight. Will it come again? A feeling of dread washed over him. At home, Johnny begins to prepare for a defense in case the monster returned. He smuggled a steak knife and a mallet into his room, placing them close to his bed. After that, he went to his top drawer and retrieved a dog whistle to wear around his neck. Before turning out the light he notated the time to be 10:00 p.m., then he got into bed and waited. It seemed like time had stood still with nothing happening. But Johnny still patiently waited. What was he waiting for? The answer to that question gave Johnny the shivers and a twinge of fright. At 3:00 a.m. a bright light appeared outside of Johnny’s north window. It beamed brightly as it cast an arrow shaped rod into the room pointing toward his south window, the window that faced the oak forest. So it went in one window and out the other, making its way into the oak forest to strike one of the trees. As soon as Johnny saw it he jumped up to follow it. He ran outside to see where it went and observed in the distance smoke billowing up from one of the trees. Johnny ducked back into the house, grabbed a flash light and headed straight for it. Petrified of the foreboding darkness and the scary trees, Johnny was grateful for the light he was holding which helped him see his way through the forest. When Johnny reached the scorched and still-smoking oak tree he was astonished to see that the tree was burnt in such a way that an outline resembling an oval doorway had imprinted itself into the bark of the tree. It looked like a doorway that was sealed. Junior tried to pry the door open, but the tree was too hot to the touch, so he backed away. Suddenly a strange whirring sound surrounded Johnny which caused a strong wind to blow him off his feet. In a daze he got up and ran back to the house, locking the door behind him. The next day Johnny couldn’t wait to see Mr. Hanson to tell him about the events of the night before and to find out what information he had uncovered regarding the thing-a-ma-jig. On his way, Johnny felt uneasy and kept looking over his shoulder as if someone or something was following behind him. Every time he stopped to look nothing was there. But when he passed one of the store fronts that was built with a with a large plate glass window, Johnny decided to use it to his advantage. He looked into the glass to see what was behind him. This was Johnny’s way of checking on what was following him without actually having to physically turn around. The trick worked. This time he caught a glimpse of the shadow monster peeking at him from behind a lamp post. Horrified, Johnny started to run. Out of breath and panting Johnny barged into Mr. Hanson’s antique shop. “Are you alright?” Said Mr. Hanson. Johnny replied, “It followed me, the monster, it followed me here.” Mr. Hanson took Johnny’s hand and led him to a chair and sat him down. “Listen to me.” Mr. Hanson pleaded. He went on, “You must be careful and heed what I have to tell you.” Mr. Hanson explained to Johnny that an Egyptian curse was put upon him by the thing-a-ma-jig’s owner. He went on to say that as far as he could tell the monster wanted it for some reason. But if you give it to him the monster will stay permanently. “So what should I do?” Johnny implored. Mr. Hanson replied, “You must take the key and find out what it opens-then open it.” Mr. Hanson added, “But you must leave the key there.” Mr. Hanson unlocked the glass case and gave the thing-a-ma-jig back to Johnny. “Here, go find the lock.” Mr. Hanson instructed. Johnny went on his way carrying with him a new goal and intention. He must find the lock and banish the monster. Johnny wondered, ‘Did the oak tree’s magical door display a lock?’ ‘Was it put there by the Divine in order to save him from the monster?’ Johnny stepped up his speed to get to the oak forest faster. Night was about to descend and the only light source was the full moon. He wandered among the oaks until he found the one he was looking for. Johnny felt the bark which now had cooled enabling him to reattempt the opening of the magical door. Looking closely, Johnny discovered a hollowed out knot-hole that was similar in shape to the thing-a-ma-jig he had in his pocket. So Johnny pulled it out and stuck it in the knot-hole. Suddenly, the same gust of wind and whirring sound encircled Johnny but this time he held his ground. Hurriedly, he twisted the key halfway in the lock, but was forced to stop. The monster was behind him hovering over his shoulder and breathing upon him a rancid aroma. Growing taller and more menacing the monster tried to grab the key from Johnny’s hand. Shaking and barely keeping the key steady enough to finish the last half of its required revolution to unlock the door, Johnny pushed down on the hand holding the key using his other hand to put pressure on it and CLICK!-it was unlocked. To be successful at opening the door to slide the key inside while a wrestling match was taking place between Johnny and the monster took a lot of strength, determination and of course, performing a Half-Nelson to achieve. But Johnny was clever. He managed to open the door slightly to wedge the key into the crevice between the door jam and the door itself. Then he quickly closed it. Suddenly the whirring sound and strong wind ceased. The stench that was previously languishing around Johnny was replaced by the scent of Honeysuckle. Johnny turned around to see if the monster was anywhere around. Not seeing it, Johnny concluded that it was gone-and hopefully it was gone for good. But who is that standing by the magical door? Why, it looks like Nana! The End

A hissing voice. Rustling in the bushes. Something that seemed to slide into the tent. "HELP!" I woke up with a start and immediately sat up. There was water everywhere. The tent was open, probably because of the strong wind, a parrot sat on my stomach. Sanne's scream still echoed in my ears. "What? You said you knew what you were getting into?" I glared at her as I chased the bird away from my stomach and crawled out of my sleeping bag. The air mattress creaked under my weight. "That doesn't mean I expected this!" Sanne looked around with wide eyes. When I followed her gaze I saw that there was more in the tent than just the parrot. I just saw a tail disappear from probably a snake. That explained the hissing. "What scared you again?" I stretched, unzipped the tent and looked out. It was indeed a snake. "That sound, didn't you hear that? It looked like a huge snake!" Sanne pulled her legs in, the sleeping bag was tight around her. When I saw her start to shake, I turned to her and sat on the edge of her air mattress. I had to reassure her. I needed her a little longer. "There's nothing to be afraid of. Believe me." I brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Otherwise I would never have taken you." She sighed deeply and looked at me. I saw deep in her eyes that she wanted to believe me, but that she was still too shocked. "Wasn't it a snake then?" "Yes, that was a snake. But it is already gone." I took the map to distract her. "Since we are already awake, shall we clean up and move on? With any luck we will make it to the temple today." Sanne took the card from me. I rummaged in my backpack and passed her a sandwich. "Here, eat and drink something and then get dressed. Okay?" She paused, put the card on her knees and took the sandwich. The leaves still felt moist under my feet as we continued our route. It had been ten years since I had been here, but it still felt like coming home. I did not expect that I could have gotten Sanne with me. We had trained a lot to prepare ourselves, or especially Sanne. It just started with a walk from home, three kilometers, five kilometers, then eight kilometers on a Sunday morning. Until a month ago we made it forty kilometers in the countryside. Both with a large backpack, with about the weight that we now also carried with us. After half a day of walking we found a good place to rest. Sanne brushed some leaves off a rock and then plopped down on the rock. "Where are we now?" Her backpack ended up in an anthill in front of the boulder. The ants immediately crawled in all directions and I got distracted for a moment by the movements they made. When Sanne motioned to see if I had heard her, I looked up quickly. "I'll have a look. Don't forget to have a drink. I'll walk a little further, then I'll see where we are and where we have to go." I kept looking at the ground when I said that, put my backpack down next to a tree and walked through the trees with the map. The chirping of the many birds would never bore me. In the distance I saw a snake moving slowly between the leaves of a huge tree. I heard a small stream flowing and decided to walk there first. The map was already wrinkled, making it more and more difficult to see exactly where we were. Was the left line a path or did it just look that way? Where was the stream? My despair seemed to grow. The ten years would end today, we had to find the temple. Today. "Martin? MARTIN!" Another scream from Sanne. I turned quickly to see her running through the bushes. "Where are you?" Without a bag, she ran straight past me. "By the stream to your right!" I called after her. She came to a stop and I saw her looking to the right. "Wait, I'll come your way." As I walked up to Sanne, I folded the map. What if I got lost? How long would we search without clue? It is almost impossible that we have not yet seen the temple. As soon as Sanne saw me, she grabbed my wrist and pulled me along. "What are you doing? Let me go!" "Come on, quickly!" Surprised, I hobbled behind her, first towards the backpacks, but then a little further on. "I thought I heard something behind me and went to have a look..." she begins, "and then suddenly I saw this!" She lets go of me and points towards a point in the distance. "What are you talking about? I don't see anything." "Wait, then we'll change places." As soon as I got to her spot, she pointed in the same direction again. There in the distance stood the temple. The temple I had visited with a friend ten years before. At least, back then I thought it was a friend. Sanne had found the temple. And without knowing it, she had taken over the curse. In ten years time she would have to make the same trip again, with a new person. So that at all times someone was under the influence of the curse. I relaxed my shoulders and looked carefully to the right. Sanne had turned white. Her eyes were red. "What have you done?" She had fear in her eyes. "Sorry," I whispered as I slowly walked back, "I had no choice." But she was already gone.

The tinkerer's daughter had once been burnished bronze, her parts oiled daily to ensure they were in working order. Her father received good work on the daily from those who would visit him. Those who came from afar would bring him small gifts of rare metals and gems that he kept in various drawers and cabinets. There was one day the girl couldn't help but be stuck out in the rain, the pitter patter of the drops on her exterior lulling her into a deep slumber she wished not to wake easy. When she did wake, finally, she found herself somewhere unfamiliar. The back of a cricket crackety cart that juttered her around making her loose limbs clank against each other. She went to stretch and felt herself strain as her rusted limbs creaked against each other. She wanted to cry for being a fool, falling asleep in the rain and allowing herself to be taken so far from her father, but what good would tears do her but rust her further? Hearing her creaky stretches, the owner of the cart soon made himself known at the back entrance, pulling wide the heavy curtains that had darkened the interior and revealing a gruff, weathered face of an old man. The tinkerer's daughter went absolutely still. Unmoving, like a doll, she pretended to be one of his knickknacks. The man entered the back of the cart, leaving the curtain up to light the back. First, he inspected a shelf full of metal rings, raising a bushy gray brow at the collection of varied metals. He moved on. Next, were chimes hanging high near the very back of the cart but tied tightly together so not a single chime clang against each other. Lastly, he approached the tinkerer's girl where she sat amongst a row of dolls sitting primly, properly stacked against each other. Here, he lingered, examining each and every doll closely before finally coming to stand before the tinkerer's girl. With him fully before her, she was freely able to observe his face, wrinkled, kindly, old. His eyes were deepset, one blue as the sky she was unsure she'd see again, the other as brown as the soil the farmers back home tilled for their crops. He seemed to linger on her, and, unwillingly, the girl shuddered. He seemed not to notice for a moment, then in one smooth move, she was in his arms. "Are you alive, girl?" he muttered, seeming almost insulted. "Y-yes, I am," the tinkered girl muttered. The man, now seeming gruff, sighed, big and heavy. "That won't do." Both eyebrows moved to meet at the middle of his face. Fearfully, the girl responded. "S-sir?" He sighed again, placing her on her feet. "The back here ain't exactly meant for a thing alive. It won’t do to have you back here alone." At the word "alone," she suddenly felt anything but. He looked away "I suppose, if it’s okay with you, you can ride up front with me." Tentatively, the girl nodded and joined him.

As I made my way through the busy highways and street lights, I finally arrived at a red bricked building that had matching patios stretching out across the complex. This place certainly looked bigger online. I walked through the front door and was greeted by Phyllis, a nice old lady who owned the building. Her hair was curled and white and she wore a face that has seen many like me come and go before. “Here are the keys,” she said as she handed me two gold keys that dangled on an old bottle opener. We walked up the stairs three stories and she brought me to room 304. She opened the door for me as she began to explain, “rent is due on the first of the month and try to keep it down. You got neighbors to your left, right, above, and below you. If it gets too hot, open all the windows. If it gets too cold, put a jacket on.” The door opened into the hallway of my apartment which was dark until I hit the light switch. To my left, a restroom door that had a sink that dripped like a metronome in a music class. To the right, my bedroom, where a twin sized bed sat in the middle of the room with a light green cover that I knew I desperately needed to replace. At the end of the hallway, a large space that was illuminated by a single large window. A full kitchen that still had a stove that still had coils and a refrigerator with outdated coupons and a chinese menu taped on its face. The window had a wooden table that was complimented with a wooden chair right in front of it. I put my things down and sat down at the table. I stared off into the view. The sound of horns and people walking by filled my ears. In the distance, the sun was setting and I can see the cloud beginning to change its color to a hazy purple. One by one, the windows on every home from each busy street began to turn on. “Did I really leave it all for this?” I thought to myself as I let out a final sigh. As I stepped away from the window, I couldn’t help, but notice a small house right next to our red bricked complex. It was easy to miss because all the other buildings towered right over it. It is a light grey duplex with white frames that wrapped around the doors and windows. I have a clear view at the many bouncy balls that got stuck on the roof over the years, and a gutter that has not been well maintained. The backyard had a rusted swing set and weeds that over grew the jungle gym. The front of the house had an old bike that was leaning on a mailbox that stood over a chain linked fence. The side of the house that was facing my complex had a large window which lit up as I began to look. From my high angle, I could only see a desk with a laptop and notebook resting on its surface. I can see the reflection of a flat screen TV and a lamp that radiated a luminescent white light, similar to the shine of a full moon. I can hear Randy Newman’s “You got a friend in me” playing from his TV screen. There were lines all over the carpet, which made me feel like there must be a train set or some sort of children’s toy that was used regularly in the home. Then I saw a young boy, who must have been about 15 years old. He wore circular glasses and had the hair style similar to Harry Potter. It was not well maintained, but how can you blame him, he’s a teenager. His body was skinny and frail and he focused on his laptop as if nothing in the world mattered. On his desk, he had two stick figures. It was Woody and Buzz Lightyear from Toy Story. A movie that I watched when I was not much younger than that boy. At that moment, I see a dark blue BMW pull into the driveway. A middle-aged couple get out of the car. A short woman in pink scrubs walks out of the passenger side carrying a brown paper bag full of groceries. She walked with a fast pace and approached the front door quickly. The man walked out of the driver seat with a briefcase in one hand and a bag full of take-out in the other. He walked slowly and took his time as he walked towards the front door. He had his tie loosened and his blazer unbuttoned. They seemed to move so gracefully that I felt this was just another daily occurrence for them. The boy looks up from his laptop, closes it, and shuts off the light. I never thought I’d feel so close to home by being so far away. I assume that the couple are the boy’s parents and it reminded me of what life was like for me at a time. On birthdays or holidays, my parents used to bring home take-out as well. We didn’t have a large duplex or even a BMW, but my parents tried their best when I was just a boy. But that was when I was just a boy. I unpacked my things and got ready for my next day, the first day working at the new office. I could have stayed back home, but with an opportunity to be a part of the first new staff at this new office, I had to take it. Plus I needed to get away from it all. The office was filled with new equipment and every desk was packed uniformly into its own cubicle. Every single employee was from another branch and the only thing we had in common with each other was the fact that we all left our homes to start fresh here. We all left everything we knew to be a part of the grand opening of an office that handled all the finances for a company that supplied door handles, door knobs, door locks, and door stoppers to offices and businesses. I know my line of work isn’t the most exciting, but it pays the bills. I easily adjusted to my new life as my routine remained the same. I would wake up, drive to work, park in the same spot, walk through the same door, sit at the same desk, talk to the same people, eat at the same restaurant for lunch, look at the same websites, leave work at the same time, and figure out what was for dinner on the way home, driving the same route. I would eat my dinner on the same wooden table and look out the same window. The only thing that was different as the weeks passed was what my neighbors were up to. Without sounding like some total creep or stalker, my favorite part of the day became eating dinner while watching what this family was up to. It was the closest thing I ever had to home. They had their own routine too. The couple would come home at the same time, 6:30PM every single day. Most of the time, they had take-out, and most of the time, they moved in their routine ways. Now unless it happens during my working hours, I have never actually seen the boy leave the house. I have only seen flashes of him looking at his laptop or rewatching the Toy Story series on his flat screen TV. Many times, I envied him. To have take-out almost every night, to have a room all to himself, to have both parents catering to him and loving him, it really seemed like every kid’s dream. On Sundays, both of the parents were off and sometimes, I could smell the sweet smoky smell coming from the flames of their backyard bbq. It reminded me of times when my dad taught me how to use the smoker. He taught me that patience was the key to getting that tender and juicy element. We used to cook together all the time. That was until he got sick and well, everything changed since then. As time went on, I furnished my home, bought some new clothes, and finally learned how to prepare some meals. Of course I was motivated by the ingredients that my neighbors brought in in their brown paper bags, but for the most part, I was able to craft some ideas of my own. I finally managed to save up to buy a TV, nothing close to the size of my neighbors flat screen, but it was big enough for me to enjoy some light relaxing television. But I quickly learned that I wasted my money, because my nights typically ended with me looking out the window to see what my neighbors were up to. One Tuesday morning, I felt a tickle in my throat and my body was aching. Randy from accounting has expressed to me that he was feeling under the weather last week and I knew I knew I should have taken an Emergen-C. I called out sick that day and went into bed. The pounding from the apartment above me and the children running around below me made me realize that this place is impossible to rest during the day time. Then it hit me, this was the first time I was home during this time, and I walked towards the window. The driveway was empty as I expected it to be. The boy was in his room, but this time, his laptop was closed. The boy had his arms on the table and his head pressed against his forearms. I thought he was sleeping, but after looking a bit closer, he was crying. He had Buzz in one hand, and Woody in the other. He weeped and weeped. I wondered what he was crying about. I thought to myself how he has two loving parents, gets to eat take-out every day, has a home to himself, and is still crying? How can that be? It made me wonder how in the world could someone that has so much, spend his Tuesday afternoon crying and weeping. Tuesday afternoon? Shouldn’t this kid be in school? I fought so hard to not just go down there or scream out my window to the kid. I just wanted to scream out, “What do you have to cry about !? You have it made!” But then I quickly realized how much of a creep I would be if I were to approach a 15 year old kid and tell them that I have been watching them for weeks through their window. But it killed me as I wondered what he was crying about. I laid awake for the next few days, wondering what was wrong. I couldn’t come to any conclusions. I thought about all the things a 15 year old boy had to worry about. When I was 15, I was crying over my father’s illness, my mother’s stress, and the time I spent in isolation. Could he be crying over a girlfriend? A sad movie he saw? What was it? About a year passes by and I stop looking out my window every single night. Whenever I do look, it tends to be the same old things: the boy looking at this laptop, playing with his figurines, and a busy parent couple rushing in and out of the house. But one afternoon, I got home early from work and decided to take a look outside. To my surprise, I saw the BMW in the driveway. How strange. In my whole entire year of observing, I’ve never seen the BMW in the driveway during the day time. Did the couple skip work today? Did they take the day off? The boy was not in the window as well. It almost seemed like no one was home. But at night, the couple came outside to the patio. I can only see their legs and I can hear the boy sitting across from them. They were enjoying dinner outside tonight. It was a beautiful sight to see. After seeing the boy cry when he’s home alone, it felt nice knowing he was loved when he had company. Later that night, I noticed a different pattern in how the boy moved. Instead his normal gait, he hovered over the room. For the first time, I saw his father go into the room with him. He stood behind him as the boy opened up his laptop. And then it hit me. The marks in the carpet, they way the boy moved, he was never walking around the home, he was in a wheelchair. It suddenly all made sense as to why he couldn’t move around freely. A few months have passed and I forgot about the boy. By now he should be a bit older and hopefully even got a haircut. I decided to take a look outside the window one night, but his room light was off. “Must’ve called it a night early,” I thought. And then it happened again. And again. And again. I felt embarrassed to say that I was worried about this kid I have never met. Someone I have only known through the four corners of my window peering into his. One morning I noticed a for sale sign up in front of the house. This was my first chance to actually get to take a look inside of the home. I put on my light jacket and headed downstairs. I saw Phyllius on the way down and said hello. “Those poor folk next door,” she mumbled. “They’ve been living there for three generations,” she explained as her voice began to crack. “Why are they selling their home?” I asked. “Well, son, they just got no one to pass it down to now,” she replied. My heart sank as I was finally able to make sense of everything. I ran back up my room and began to sob uncontrollably. Then I began to laugh. Not the type of laugh from hearing a joke, but the type of hysterical laughing that happens when you just don't know what else to feel. Then I began to feel like a jerk. How could I, a healthy adult, at one point in my life envy a kid who was sick. How could I have ridiculed his reasons for crying when he probably felt more alone than anyone else in the neighborhood. I saw first hand how much time he was alone, and the entire time, I could have been there for him. I wept for days over a kid I never even met. I stopped looking out the window for a while. I just couldn’t handle the view of that table that sat at his window. Where I would usually see a young kid sitting, I now saw an empty chair. The BMW was in the driveway all the time now. I think the couple decided to take some time off. They have been showing the house to many different people throughout the weeks, so I decided to finally walk down to take a look. I rang on the doorbell and was greeted by the man who was now in sweatpants and a t-shirt, definitely a different set of clothes compared to what I was used to seeing. Behind him was an empty wheelchair with two figurines on the seat. I viewed the house, but it was really too much for me to handle. That night, I looked outside the window again. It really bothered me how I could feel so alone in a city surrounded by others. But it was also strange to me how I have never felt so close to home, through the view of my window. In a new town and in a new place, it is this family I have been observing that made me feel like I was a part of a family again. I’ve felt alone before, just like that kid sitting at his desk, but now I really felt alone all over again. In a way, I feel like he was my only friend out in this new city. The most tragic part of it all, is that he will never get to know. He had someone that depended on him, someone that valued him, and someone that was there all along.