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Allura 67

The majestic whale who had seen many decades was floating with the swells near the lighthouse. She knew her time was nearing, when her essence would go on to another life. She began to instinctively look for a soft, sandy beach for her 40-foot-long body to rest. For many years the wise whale taught the younger whales and helped lead when they swam in the migrations up and down the Oregon coast. They liked to spend summers in the Arctic and go south to the warm, tropical waters off Mexico for winters. There they bore their calves and mating season occurred. Now some of the old female whale’s own babies had calves born last winter off the Mexican coast of their own. These yearling whales were already swimming off from their mothers, exploring and forming play groups. The old whale listened to the whale songs and sounds, unique to her group. When the group reached Mexico the male whales would begin to seriously serenade and seek to impress the females with their complex singing, acrobatic leaps out of the ocean, and enthusiastic tail flapping. Rising and falling with the rolling swells, the whale drifted away from the group, slowly letting the currents of an incoming high tide carry her toward the shore. A wide sandy beach seemed to beckon. As the high tide surged up it lifted the whale above the shallows and gently placed her on the soft sand. The whale took a deep breath, feeling tired, knowing her work was done and she could rest. She felt contented knowing she had lived life to the fullest - a life well lived. Then her breathing slowed and gently her essence left her body, shedding it like an outfit of old clothes. *************** A few weeks later a school of migrating humpback whales were spouting, breaching and tail flapping off the coast of the lighthouse shore. "The whales are heading from the Arctic oceans to the warm waters off the Mexican coast for the winter," said Joseph, the head lighthouse keeper. "Look at that!" Elsie, Joseph's daughter, stood next to her puppy, Teddybear, gazing out at the sea. "Where?" Edward, her brother, squinted and looked back and forth. "Right out there." Elsie pointed. "Oh, I see it now, a whale spout going up into the air," Edward said. This brought everyone in the lighthouse keepers’ houses outside to their porches to watch. Elsie's mother canceled school for the day to watch the whale migration and the children had unexpected free time. The children of the three lighthouse keepers had unexpected free time. With light hearts, they began to envision how they would take advantage of it. Thoughts of exploring the wilderness trails, whale watching, and playing on the beach below the bluffs called to them. Her father brought his telescope out onto the porch of the white Victorian house on the high bluff. Beyond the tall white lighthouse tower with its huge glass lantern and red roof, the ocean was unusually calm for a day in December on the Oregon coast. The winds were quiet. The lighthouse keepers’ families enjoyed a rare, warm, sunny day between the winter's gale-force winds and heavy rain storms on the Oregon coast. “See the whales. There's one spouting. Take a look,” he said. Elsie and her brothers each took a turn and then let the other children look too. The school of huge ocean mammals was not far from shore. Elsie called to her puppy, Teddybear. She looped a long rope around his collar and held the other end. Then she and the other children ran down the sloping wagon trail from the lighthouse keepers’ houses to the beach. A day of playing on the beach and whale watching was a treat, especially in the middle of winter. ********** ********* At the beach Elsie and her brothers imitated the whales by leaping and twisting, and making sounds like whales spouting air. Her shaggy, dark haired puppy ran and jumped with them, enjoying this game. “Teddybear,” Elsie called, giving a tug on the long rope attached to his collar, “Come.” Together they galloped and cavorted along the beach. High above the cliff’s their parents watched from the wide verandas of the two lighthouse keepers’ houses. Another quarter mile up the bluffs, two hundred feet above the ocean, the lighthouse tower gleamed white against the blue sky. Pretend was one of their favorite games at the remote lighthouse station. With the children of the other two lighthouse keepers they made a group of eight, ranging in age from 9 years old through teen years. In Elsie’s twelve years she had lived in Austin, Texas, San Francisco, California and briefly at another Oregon coast lighthouse station before the Mystic Beach Lighthouse. Her long braids flew out behind her while she ran across the beach below the lighthouse. A brown apron covered most of her dress and protected the material of small colorful flowers. “Tag, you’re it!” said a boy with tousled brown hair blowing in the wind and falling over one eye. He wore a pair of rugged pants and a grey shirt, well adapted to the outdoor life in the wilderness. “Catch me if you can, Erik,” Elsie called, smiling. She took off almost flying across the sand. With a gleam in his eye, Erik put out a burst of speed and reached for one of her braids, giving it a little tug. Elsie wiggled away and kept running, laughing. They ran toward a rocky outcropping and rounded a corner. In front of her was a wider beach with mounds of sand dunes. Erik followed her, and the other children ran after them. In the distance was a long, tall dune, that looked grey instead of beige. “Hey, look at that!” said Erik. “I think it’s a whale.” The group trotted along the beach to get closer. “Look at the size,” said Elsie. They stood gazing at the enormous whale, its flippers and tail, and its snout. “I wonder how long it has been here?” said Elsie’s brother, Edward. “A while I would guess, judging from the smell,” said Samuel, Elsie’s other brother. Erik puffed out his chest a little. He wanted to impress Elsie and a way to do that had just occurred to him. “Watch this.” He walked over to the whale’s flipper and climbed onto it, then crawled up on top of the whale. “Yippee. Look at me!” He waved his arms and lifted them over his head, smiling and laughing. The group of children stared in awe at the figure of the young man on top of the huge whale. Then they gasped, “Erik! Erik!” They saw Erik start to sink into the whale. The rotting whale’s skin and structure gave way. The group saw Erik completely disappear from view. “Heeeelp! AAAAaaaggggh!” Erik felt his feet sinking into the soft, drying whale blubber, like going down into quicksand. He tried to grab onto the whale skin but his fingers slid. Elsie’s heart pounded, her eyes were wide, and her breath stopped. She approached the whale slowly, trying not to smell the decay. Teddybear sensed her distress, and protective instincts were aroused. Close to her side, crouched toward the ground, cautious, moving in a panther-like style. His sensitive nose did not like the smell either. “Someone! Get me out!” came from inside the whale. Trembling, Elsie reached the flipper and climbed onto it. Teddybear snuggled up to her. The other children followed and stood next to the flipper. “Yip, yiiiip, yiiiiip!” Teddybear barked excitedly, tail swishing, intense eyes peering at the place where Erik stood when he disappeared. “Edward, Samuel, come here,” said Elsie. She untied Teddybear’s rope and hung it loosely around his neck. “Erik, call Teddybear. He has a rope. We’ll pull you out.” She hollered. “Teddybear... here Teddybear,” called Erik. Slowly the growing pup lowered himself into a deep crouch and crawled across the whale’s skin toward the opening on top where Erik had been standing. “Good dog, Teddybear. Here boy. Come Teddybear,” called Erik. Slinking down into a deeper crawl, the pup went a few more steps. The group could see him looking down at something. A hand reached up and grabbed the rope. Elsie, Edward and Samuel held the other end. “Hold on tight, Erik,” called Edward. “We’ll pull you out.” Inside the whale, Erik leaned against the drying flesh of the whale and part of the bony structure. Elsie, Edward and Samuel gathered the other children and together they all leaned back, groaning and pulling. Erik’s head popped out of the whale’s back, then his shoulders. The group struggled to walk in the sand, pulling harder. “One, two, three..pull now!” yelled Samuel. Erik popped back up onto the whale’s back, his face white, shaking, gasping for breath. He slid on his hands and knees toward the flipper and tumbled onto the sand. “Here, let me help you,” Samuel said. He grabbed the smaller boy around the shoulders and half-carried him. Edward came to the other side and together they helped Erik along the beach. When they were far enough away so the smell was less pungent, they all collapsed on the sand, resting. While the others caught their breath, Elsie walked back toward the whale. On the way, she picked some wildflowers growing in a bunch on a small dune. Then she found some clam shells, broken parts of sand dollars and other shells. A heart shaped rock caught her eye and she added this to the treasures. When she reached the whale she set the flowers, shells and heart shaped rock gently on the flipper. The other children saw her standing quietly for a few minutes next to the whale. They knew she was paying tribute and honoring this enormous friend from the ocean. Everyone looked at Erik to see if he was ok. There were some remnants of dried whale on his clothes but otherwise he was the same as always. Erik cast his eyes, down, embarrassed. Elsie felt a twinge of sympathy for him. He raised his eyes and their eyes met by accident for a moment. It was only a second or two, but something electric flashed between them. Erik knew he tried his stunt to impress Elsie and get her attention. In that flash of eye contact, Elsie sensed this too, and she felt flattered. A large wave crashed nearby, seagulls called, and the moment passed. But it was not gone forever. Instinctively, Erik and Elsie knew the story of the whale would connect them somehow. After resting, the group rose to their feet and hiked around the end of the rocky outcropping to reach the beach below the lighthouse and the keeper’s houses. They could see the figures of their parents sitting on the verandas of the white Victorian houses gleaming on the bluff above. “Err, Elsie, Edward, Samuel, everyone. Please don’t tell my parents,” said Erik. Elsie’s eyes narrowed with laughter and the group broke into giggles. Even the pup, Teddybear, opened his mouth into a wide smile, white teeth shining against his dark fur, tail wagging. He joined in with the mood, laughing too as dogs can do. Erik began laughing too. “OK,” said Edward, with a grin. For the rest of the day, the parents were mystified when their children kept glancing at each other and laughing. Later, whenever someone said, “whale,” the group slid their eyes to each other and broke into giggles. They had a whale of a secret.

Semul/34/Year of the Cocoon The Aisle of the Aniqotari Journal Entry 43 Stymus Entamule ​ I must have drifted for what seemed like days aboard this liferaft... I was the sole escapee from our pursuers, The "Keepers of the Ruin", Or "Hrijanyans" in Aniqotarian tongue. Descendants of those ancient Aniqotari who lived upon these accursed shores, and who will protect their island at all costs. I could not see them as I reached land, and I suspected they would have turned away out of fear of what is to come. I have lost everything to complete this task, two wives, a home, my reputation, maybe my sanity. But such trifles are fleeting anyways... The only thing to withstand the sands of time shall be this tome. For the record of my name and the story shall live on inside these pages, so that whoever may read this shall be privy to the anomaly known only as, *Quohixima...* The Aisle of Aniqotari. It is here that I have made a small shelter among the ruins, to lie in wait to witness the unknown. I have set my camp inside the vast library of the former Aniqotarian king, Groth Xenuen. It was during his reign that almost all who lived within his city's gate suddenly vanished into nothingness, including his majesty. I continue to drink my fill of knowledge as days come and go, learning of the various customs and cultures of the forgotten people. Plates upon plates of inscribed marble, a lifetime's worth of knowledge all mine for the taking. As far as living arrangements go, supplies are very scarce. I feed upon the marble mice that fall prey to my rudimentary traps, and water is hard to come by except for the rain which falls exactly every 3 days. And it is here at the seat of the king, on the setting of the third Sun, that I shall retire to my bunk to rest. ​ Musha/12/Year of the Cocoon The Aisle of the Aniqotari Journal Entry 54 Stymus Entamule ​ I have found what seems to be the last plate of knowledge written. An account written upon a black marble slab, and rather hastily I might add, as I cannot seem to decipher most of the text. Instead, I am left with blanks for my mind to fill in, but with what? From what I could put together, the message seems to be a grave warning of Quohixima's wrath... Still, I have yet to find a detailed account of its appearance, or nature. Something so intangible and far out of my reach is Quohixima, whose very being is still a mystery to me and all those who study it. Despite being known throughout the world, very little is known about the entity. We may try our best but could anyone name such a formless form? An abstraction of reality... The *most lost* among the lost... Who could describe the void from which it came, and fathom the terror of its sight? An otherworldly mass of otherworldly horror, a being too strange that just the sight of it can cause madness and pandemonium abound. Only the ancients knew, for they have gazed upon its forbidden form. From the tattered remains of their dead tongue, of which the ancients scrawled upon the marble stone of ruin, could only inscribe the name of the terror. *"Quohixima"...* That word... That only word... Only that word... That word I cannot seem to grasp, even the people of today have little to no idea of just what kind of calamity Quohixima is. *Many* a sleepless night, quills upon quills upon parchment, the ink ran dry as the scholars tried to derive the meaning of that *dreadful* name. From what the ancients knew, and only what we had learned from them, was that the name of the phenomenon meant pure darkness. Darkness, of which could cast a shadow on the night's sky. Darker than the blackest black, to make the darkest midnight seem as day in comparison. Ancient text said It came as a cloud, As slow as the rise and fall of the tides, but seemingly from nowhere. The ancient's knew that it comes upon the eve of the new millennium. A time similar to this... And it is for this reason I turned my back upon everything in my life, and why I have journeyed to the ruins of the Aniqotari, to the forbidden continent that lies southwest of home, to the very square of which Quohixima was said to have first appeared. A journey of which has taken years of my life, and the lives of both family and friends. A journey of which I am the only survivor, the last witness to Quohixima's sight. ​ Triya/0/Year of Metamorphosis The Aisle of the Aniqotari Journal Entry 76 Stymus Entamule It is now mid-day of the new year, a certain air fills the halls of this palace. The winds blow harder and harder each passing minute and then stops, and starts again as if the planet itself is breathing, gasping in fear for what is to come. A noise resounds from the sky as if a choir of a thousand strong sing in unison, but in a discordant tone. A haunting fanfare that precedes the arrival of *his majesty*... I hear a noise like none I ever heard before, it beckons me forth... To go forth outside to the square... The very square in which the calamity appeared a millennia ago... I SEE IT! I see it! It's coming from the clouds, light has no effect on its form as it makes its descent from the void. It is entirely black, despite the 3 suns shining full upon it. Its size is monstrous, it encompasses the sky as if it's embracing the planet, as like a maiden running to the embrace of her lover. Tendrils upon tendrils, the air is made still as it makes its entrance. I run to the cliffside to get a better look upon its form. It beckons me forth! How could this earthly human language describe the magnitude of such an ephemeral form? There is nothing upon this world, dare I say universe, I can liken it to. The only discernable feature I can name is of the many eyes upon its mass, the gaze of which all rest upon... Me... It beckons me forth... How could anyone describe its sound? An ear-shattering pulse of both high and low tones infinitely spiraling upwards and downwards. The air tastes of its smell, which changes by what seems like the hour. First of Lillies, then of sulfur, then of copper, then of roses... The scent of which... It beckons me forth... I am standing face to face, eye to eye, man to marvel with the being known as Quohixima. It knows who I am, I hear its thoughts! A never-ending whirlwind of sound permeates my inmost being, it taints every fiber of my body. It beckons me forth... I can no longer ignore its call... It beckons me forth... Dimensions, voids, a starless galaxy of never-ending darkness... It beckons me forth... I run to it! It beckons me forth... A sea of spirals and right angles... It beckons me forth... burned metallic skin and eyes... It beckons me forth... The edge of calamity... It beckons me forth... Terror upon all terrors... It beckons me forth... The crushing void... It beckons me forth... A flash of light... It beckons me forth... Quohixima... It beckons me forth... It beckons me forth... It beckons me forth... Farewell, all... ​ ​ I COME TO TAKE, I COME TO GIVE. I AM THE HEART OF THE VOID.

Breaking from the surface of the sea meant sunshine. While water streamed from her skin, sluicing back to the waves she was pulled from, morning sun rays spilled over her too. They were startlingly warm, bright in her eyes. And they ate up the crisp cool of the ocean, wicking away moisture to dry out her skin, her red curls. Taking a gasping breath of warm air, she blinked against the harsh sun, water still beading on her lashes and dripping down her cheeks. Even ripped from the waves, the first thing she noticed was the bob and sway of the world around her--it wasn’t still like land. Creaking and the occasional clang of metal sounded out, wood groaning under thudding footsteps. A gull cried somewhere far above in the sky. The bed of scales she rested on was slick and slimy, flapping spined fins and gaping mouths digging into her back and shoulders, catching in her hair. Rough rope, turning green with mold and fraying at the knots, chafed against the heels of her palms, her wrists, her elbows when she pushed at it. But worn as it was, there was no breaking the rope. Fighting the fear and anger bubbling up in her chest, threatening to boil over, she tried to get a proper look around. There was a vast blue swatch of sky above her, stretching on forever, only interrupted by a brilliant ball of sunlight. Below her, she could only make out silvery grey fish, all flopping and struggling, trying to break free and get back to their home under the waves. But over, down a little, she caught glimpses of metal. Grimy white hull, blood and scales covering the floor, a large tower holding up the net she was caught in. And, two wide hazel eyes staring up at her. For a fragile instant, neither of them moved. On the deck, it was a boy, or rather, a lanky teenager with chestnut bedhead and wonder in his eyes. In the net, it was a girl with frizzy curls and eyes blue like the ocean. But, most notably, it was a girl with pink and green scales that lined her eyes, spilled in fine lines down her throat, and sparkled in the sun on her powerful tail. It wasn’t a girl at all; it was a mermaid. “Who are you?” he asked, and all she could think was that it was a silly question. Who called for a name, an identity. What, on the other hand, asked whether she was human or beast, creature or cryptid. But he didn’t ask what, so she didn’t say. It had been a long time since anyone wanted to know who she was. “Kaia,” she answered, a little hesitant, a little breathless. The boy only nodded, messy tufts of hair sticking out everywhere and falling into his eyes with the motion. It was then, she noticed, he had a knife in one hand. “My name’s Levi,” he said, trading introductions like they’d met in passing currents under the sea, like it was normal. A lopsided smile broke out across his lips too, eyes bright in a way that had nothing to do with the sun glittering in them. “Leviathan! What’s taking so long?” A gruff voice called from somewhere farther on the boat. Kaia couldn’t see them, couldn’t make out who the voice belonged to. Probably someone in charge. Probably someone who wouldn’t be as welcoming to her as this Levi boy. “Your brother would’ve had that net down yesterday!” The voice came again, louder this time. “Sorry, Dad,” Levi placated, raising his voice to be heard over the splash of the waves against the hull, the creak of the boat, the crying gulls, and the distance. Then, spinning on his heels to look up at Kaia again, he gave a smile. They seemed to come easy to him. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you down from there,” he said, and padded off somewhere she couldn’t see, behind the tower holding up the net. Then, a handful of tense, waiting moments later, the net started to drop, then released from the tower with a mechanical clunk, fish sent sprawling and skittering across the deck as the net fell open. “Every small fry goes back,” the rough, gravelly voice called out again, “I don’t want to see a single fish under the limit, you understand?” “It was only one time,” Levi said as he came back into view, expression crinkled with a frown and pulled brows. Though, when he met Kaia’s gaze, everything in him brightened again. “You’ll help me off this wretched boat?” she asked, voice smooth and cool, enticing, like water lapping at skin. She did have a little siren back in her bloodline, after all. Like it was an absent thing, he twirled the knife between his fingers. It was a small blade, but still dangerous, with the wrong intentions. Her heart started to beat a little faster in her chest, nerves fraying. It was starting to get uncomfortably hot, too, all the cooling water dripped and evaporated from her skin. She could feel it drying too far under the unrelenting rays. There wasn’t even a cloud in sight. There was a fish flopping, gasping, at Levi’s feet. And before he said a thing, he knelt, measured it against his forearm. Kaia hadn’t noticed it until now, but it looked like he had drawn ticks down the length of his arm in black marker, numbers written after every so many. Then, satisfied, he slid the knife into its gills. In just a handful of moments, the fish stilled, dead eyes glazed and gazing out at nothing. “I don’t like to let them suffer,” Levi offered quietly, still looking down at the fish at his feet, the blood trickling out around his shoes. But, it was only a moment before he came to crouch before her. “I don’t want to see you suffer either,” he said, offering a smile. His teeth were just a little crooked, but the remnants of childish roundness clinging to his cheeks and the warm hazel of his eyes made it look more endearing than unsettling. She only hoped she made the right judgement, or that bloody knife might sink right into her throat instead. He pocketed the knife. She let out a breath. For a moment, he stood, ruffling a hand through his hair, the thinking, the working of his mind written clear on his face. Again, he crouched before her, this time guiding her arms around his neck. And, with quite the struggle, cheeks going pink with exertion, he managed to lift her up with gangly arms, one looped behind her back, the other underneath her tail. On unsteady legs he stumbled to the railing, and Kaia held on with fear and hope both pounding out a rhythm in her pulse. Unceremoniously, because it was the only way he could manage to do it, Levi dropped her over the railing. The kiss of crystal blue water on too warm skin was such relief; she couldn’t help the joyous smile that curved at her mouth. Just for a moment, she basked in it, feeling the cool current wash by her, tasting salt, crisp and sharp on her lips. Then, she resurfaced, letting her head bob atop the waves as she glanced back up at the boat. Levi and his messy hair and goofy smile were leaned over the railing, waving at her. “Meet me at the pier tonight, if you can,” he called and pointed out across the sea. Kaia turned, red curls floating all around her shoulders, to find the stretch of wood jutting out into the ocean. “I’ll wait for you,” he said while her back was still turned. With a glance over her shoulder, she found his gaze again, ocean blue meeting sunny, earthen hazel. “I’ll come,” she said, and without another word, dove beneath the surface. -- Night had wicked away the sun’s warmth by the time she reached the pier. Its wooden poles that ran down deep into the sand were stained with algae and littered with barnacles beneath the surface of the sea, crusted with salt above it. There was a grey ladder that stretched down too, at the end of the pier, built of thin metal poles crudely fitted together. That was where Kaia waited, and sure enough, a little while later, Levi’s familiar face popped over the edge of the pier. When he noticed her, he grinned and climbed down the ladder, slipping his legs and arms though so he could sit on one rung, arms hooked over the one above it. “So, you’re a mermaid?” he questioned, like it wasn’t already obvious enough. Instead of answering, Kaia just flipped her hair behind her back and asked him to lean down a little. It was with a questioning glance, but he did as he was told, slumping over the metal bars to get lower to the water. Fingers wrapping around a rung, Kaia stretched up to meet him, pressing a kiss to the side of his cheek. Under her lips, his skin still held the day’s warmth, like his golden tan complexion was made of sunshine. When she pulled back, his cheeks had gone a little pink, his eyes a little wide, but he was smiling that same easy smile that seemed to permanently pull at his lips. “A mermaid’s kiss is good luck,” Kaia said by way of explanation, turning her gaze out at the night sky. It looked inky black, dotted with silver stars that reflected back on the surface of the sea. Mirrored as it was, it almost gave the impression of swimming through endless stars, the pinpricks of light stretched all the way out on either side of the horizon, sky or sea. “Oh, really?” Levi asked behind her, tone warm and curious. Kaia smiled, easy like him. “Really.”

My room is a pale cube, carpeted, with a metre-wide intrusion on one wall from the box around the chimney flue. There's a stretched out radiator that runs under the only window, for about five feet, it's a squat and dusty thing that goes too hot. When the air turns colder and thicker in the late evening, the radiator expands and my beechwood desk tightens up, and they both clack at each other, right as I'm getting hypnagogic. ​ Last night, having plainly over-drunk from a bottle of red wine (that was on the turn anyway, if that's an excuse), I schlepped up the staircase and fell on to the bed. I passed out over the covers, still dressed. I had spilled red wine on my shirt, and my trousers were unbuttoned at the waist where the top button had started to come loose. The clacking of the radiator at the desk must have woken me, and the desk's creaking replies kept me awake long enough to sit up in hot frustration. Still being on top of the sheets, I went to stand up to take off my trousers and button-down shirt. As I shifted off the bed and planted my feet on the carpet, something about the give in the mattress gave me pause. I had the impression there was a weight on the bed behind me, and pause turned to cold panic: Something person-sized is on my bed. The mattress was clearly bearing the heft of another body. ​ I sat with my spine like a rod, too terrified to turn and look. A long minute passed, as I considered why I hadn't just spun around and looked straight away. The weight hadn't startled me so much as willed me to freeze. Eventually, I found courage enough to stand up, slowly. I had the childish thought that if I went about normally, then nothing could possibly be wrong. Having got up to take off my clothes, that's what I did. I removed my trousers and shirt and left them in a heap on the floor. Now underdressed for a paranormal experience, but not necessarily for anything unwelcome-but-human, I turned around at slow speed. ​ I cannot fully describe the character of an out-of-body experience. If I had to try, I would draw a line between seeing myself in the mirror, seeing a picture of myself from the side, and seeing myself on an old home video, from one sensation to the other, in a straight upward path from left to right. On this graph of experiencing myself outside my own skin, what I saw on my bed was way out to the right, way above a home video. I am lying on the bed. I am standing next to the bed. I am so convinced that I am standing next to the bed that I start to doubt it's me lying on the bed, asleep, unmoving. Now my out-of-body experience is an out-of-self one. I am something else. ​ In the division of my standing self from my sleeping counterpart, the sleeping person becomes alien to me, even hateful. I walk around the bed to its foot, with my back to the chimney wall. I stare at my unjoined twin, and as I stare I start to drain, and my eyelids snap together. Right as I feel like I'm going to pass out, with my back pushed up against the cold wall, I open my eyes again. The body, the copy, is sat up, staring back at me. We stay locked on each other for some time, neither moving, neither saying a word. I'm getting drained again, and my eyes shut all at once. ​ I woke up to morning light and a wide headache, fully clothed, over the covers. I was myself again, completely. The picture of what had happened in the night came back softly, dream-like at first, and then as the complete nightmare. But the horror came back in double parts. In one part, I had felt a shadow move about my bed, and settle at the foot of it. The dreadful, unknowable thing stared me down, even as I sat up to stare back at it. It had been something outside of a dream, it was more of a hallucination, if not something real and awful. The other part was more of a cloud than the solid memory of the first. It was definitely more nightmare than truth. I had been outside of myself, and become something else. I had undressed, turned to the bed, and seen my body sundered from my knowing mind. I had reared up against the chimney wall and stared my old body in the eye until I fell unconscious. ​ Struggling to put the memory and the nightmare together, but also unable to fully tell them apart, I start to haul myself up and off the bed. I plant my feet on the carpet. On the floor are a pair of trousers with a broken button, and a wine-stained button-down shirt, identical to the ones I am still wearing, left in a heap.

Once, Alikast was nothing but a barren wasteland, created by the gods as an empty canvas for their imagination. But the god Kast, leader of the pantheon, was disappointed with the lack of life in the land. For days and days, he stared down upon it, until his eyes could no longer handle the strain and he blinked, letting his tears fall upon the land. In mere moments, the wasteland was transformed into a beautiful landscape of trees, grass, mountains, and animals. But not everyone was pleased with the change. Kast's brother Ali, who had helped with the original creation of Alikast, thought the lack of life was more magnificent. Enraged by Kast's actions, Ali punched him in the jaw and the two brothers fought, their blood spilling onto the land and bringing forth natural disasters and monsters. And thus, the first sin was born in Alikast. The sister of the brothers, a goddess uninvolved in the creation, was fascinated by the humans that had formed from the brothers' blood. She became romantically involved with one and had three powerful sons, Artis, Breter, and Turin, who became the kings of different regions in Alikast and protected it with their magic, passed down through generations of humans. But the other gods shunned the goddess for her actions and stripped her of her power. She was forced to live among the humans, but her legacy lived on through her sons and the magic they bestowed upon the people of Alikast. The three brothers, Artis, Breter, and Turin, were raised by their mother and taught the ways of magic. They were powerful wizards, each ruling over their own kingdom and using their gifts to protect their people. Artis was the ruler of the northern kingdom, known for his fierce battles and powerful ice magic. Breter, ruler of the southern kingdom, was a master of fire magic and was respected for his wisdom and strategic thinking. Turin, ruler of the eastern kingdom, was a master of nature magic and was beloved by his people for his kindness and compassion. The three brothers were not just rulers, but also protectors. They fought against the monsters that plagued the land, using their magic to keep their people safe. They also fought against the natural disasters, using their powers to mitigate their effects and protect their kingdoms. And so, the people of Alikast prospered under the protection of the three brothers and the magic they possessed. But not all was well in Alikast. The other gods, jealous of the power the three brothers held, plotted to overthrow them. They sent powerful creatures to attack the kingdoms, but the brothers' magic proved to be too strong. Frustrated, the gods decided to take a different approach. They sent a beautiful and cunning goddess to seduce Artis, Breter, and Turin, turning them against each other. The goddess was successful in her mission, and the brothers' love for each other turned to hatred. They fought against each other, their kingdoms tearing apart at the seams. The people of Alikast suffered greatly, caught in the middle of the brothers' feud. The once peaceful land of Alikast was plunged into chaos as war broke out among its people. Battles raged for decades, and eventually, for centuries, as the kingdoms were torn apart by one another. This was just the beginning of a long and tumultuous period for the land of Alikast, as conflicts and struggles for power consumed the realm. ​ (Alikast is a world I created with my own two hands. It's a fantasy world I created for dnd and I also use it for writing a lot.

Waking up on Monday is always hard. As I unenthusiastically get out of bed and start to get dressed, I hear a loud crashing noise coming from another room. “I live alone. I have no pets. No one would visit me this time of year. What made that noise? A robber. With a gun. Tall, wearing all black, but more scared of me than I am of him ." I whisper to myself. I grab my phone and a fork from a bedside table, the nearest thing available to me that I can use as a makeshift weapon. I cautiously creep out of my bedroom and into the hallway while dialing 911, the tension overtaking the air and choking me. I slowly turn my head around the corner, and sure enough, there he is. A tall man with a gun wearing all black digging frantically through anything and everything. I tell the 911 operator what's happening as quickly and as quietly as possible, and after they reassure me they will be there soon, I hang up. He looks even more terrified than I feel. As he continues to scour through every drawer and cabinet, I jump out from the hallway holding the ever-so-terrifying fork. He turns around, looking horrified. “Put everything down, and get out. If you don’t, you won’t be going home tonight, or ever again. Got it?” I say as calmly as possible. He nods furiously, and the look in his icy blue eyes tells me that it wasn’t his choice to rob me, and was probably told to do it for another person. He quickly sets everything down and bolts through the front door of my apartment, only to run head-on into a police officer. A half-hour later, after the authorities question me, I remember that I’m supposed to meet up with Minsun at the coffee shop at eight-thirty, which is now only 23 minutes away. I run to the elevator and back to my apartment bedroom on the seventh floor from outside the apartment where I was questioned. Once inside, I quickly finish getting dressed and walk to the bathroom where I comb my hair and brush my teeth. I take one last look into the mirror before leaving. I guess the whole incident of the man trying to rob me took a toll on my looks in a way, too. My face is pale, and my usually calm and tired-looking amber eyes now make me look nervous and alert. My black and electric blue hair is still knotted in the back, so I wrestle the comb through my hair one more time and then run out of my apartment to meet up with Minsun. I’m halfway there when I realize it. “She’s missing.” I whisper, stopping in the middle of the road I was crossing. “She won’t be there.” I was so caught up thinking about where she could be that I didn’t see the truck barreling towards me. I’m able to run to the side, but not without getting scrapes all over me. I start sprinting towards the small coffee shop we were supposed to meet up. I get there at eight-thirty four, and look for our usual table, then scan the restaurant for her pink and purple-dyed hair, usually in dutch braids. Just like I thought, no Min. Minsun is never late. Minsun never cancels or bails unless she absolutely has to, and she always tells you when she does. I take a few minutes to calm down, as I’m still out of breath from running here. After I chill out a little, I start worriedly texting Min and walking to her house. It’s pretty far away, so I realize it’s going to be around a forty-five-minute walk. I’ve always known what was going on. I’ve always been able to just realize what was happening before I saw or was told anything. The rest of the walk is pretty quiet. It's cold outside today again, it has been for the past two weeks. New York City is huge, and even though I’ve lived here for almost 6 years, I still have trouble finding my way almost anywhere. Minsun’s place is easy to get to, though. It's almost a straight line down from the coffee shop. She’s loaded rich and lives in a penthouse, but she’s not snobby or mean. I walk into the building and take the elevator up to the top floor. As I enter the penthouse, I’m hit again with the sheer beauty of it. I’ve been here plenty of times, but I can never get used to how amazing and modern everything is. The view is definitely the best part, especially at night when you can see all the lights. I’m getting distracted. I need to look for Minsun. I think to myself. I sprint through her place, yelling her name. It’s been about twenty minutes when I see it. Her purse. Her purse has her car keys, the keys to her company office, her penthouse keys, her phone, her wallet, and everything else that she would always take with her at all times. “Ok, I don’t know where Min is, and the only way to find her is by looking. And the only way to look is by knowing where to look. So in normal circumstances, this would be screwed up, however , these are not normal circumstances, and therefore it is acceptable to look through only the parts that would be useful to the search on her phone. Right?” I say to myself. I pick up her phone slowly, thinking again about how it’s okay because I have to in order to find Minsun. I press the button, turning it on. Her wallpaper is an old picture of us from 2015 when we were at a concert, and she still says today that it was the best night of her life. We did a lot of stuff that night, and it was probably the best night of my life too. I press the button again, and it asks for a password. Right. Of course, it needs a password. I say in my head. Ok. If I were Minsun, what would my password be? No doubt she spelled something out using the letters on the button of each button, she always does. 246786, maybe? That spells out Minsun. Password incorrect. I furiously press the buttons, typing out more numbers quickly, tyring more passwords, trying to get into her phone. Password incorrect. What does Min love the most? After a few more tries, I almost give up. And then it comes to me. No way. It wouldn’t be this, not anymore. Right? I slowly press the buttons on the screen, typing out 65682 which would spell out Okoua. It won't be this. She made that nickname up in middle school. She probably doesn’t even remember it. Password correct. “Really, Minsun?” I say with a smile. Okay. Where should I look first? I ask myself silently. Messages. I open the app and look through her contacts until I find one that looks interesting. The name is just unknown, but the last message sent read, “Come alone.” I click on the contact and scroll to the top, back to the first messages. “You have no choice. You know you can’t avoid me any longer.” “ What is wrong with you? I told you to leave me alone!” Minsun replies. “It’s your fault, you know.” “SHUT UP! It was your fault just as much as mine and everyone else's. It was years ago! Find someone else to bother.” “I’ll tell him.” “Who? There’s no one to tell.” “OH but there is. Your new friend. He doesn’t know, now does he?” Are they talking about me? “Leave him out of this.” Suddenly, the silence starts to choke me. I walk out of her bedroom and into the living room. I turn on the tv and sit on the floor in front of the couch, feeling how soft the gray fluffy rug is. I keep reading. It's them massaging back and forth about something they did, and the unknown person saying it was all Min’s fault. I’m focusing on the things they’re saying until I hear what’s happening on the tv. The news is on, and they’re talking about a suspected killer named Seiro Komoka “ After years of investigating the 207 murders that were all done by the same person or group of people, police have finally found a huge detail that was nearly impossible to find that tells them that Seiro Komoka is the perpetrator in this case. The killer in question is often called by the nickname ‘Eye Obsessed Abducter’, as he takes each of his murdered victims eyes, sometimes taking them from the people he has injured or kidnapped that managed to survive him and has been confirmed to have murdered at least over 207 people, injured 457 more, and kidnapped 289 people, and this is just what has been confirmed. For all we know, the ‘Eye obsessed abductor’ could have done much more damage than we thought. Although there is evidence we have here whatsoever as to who this mysterious murderer is, Seiro Komoka is being looked for and is still around somewhere, and police have found that he has been spotted talking to many of the victim's families lately. The only other knowledge we have of the murderer is that all of the murders, abductions and harm have in fact been done by him. Although it is possible that everything has been done by a group of people, chief of police Neil Kamri has said that it is highly doubtful for reasons that were not shared.” the broody reporter says. They still haven’t caught that guy? They’ve been looking for such a long time. They do finally have a suspect. I go back to reading the messages, still thinking about the Eye Obsessed abductor I’m almost at the end. “ You have to do it. It’s not a choice, Minsun.” Says the unknown person. Min doesn’t reply. “ 67 Sanra drive at 5:30 next Monday. Be there.” Again, Minsun says nothing. “Don’t bring anything. I will give you what you need.” They say. “Come alone.” He adds. I check when the last message was sent. Monday last week. She’s going there today. I check the time on her phone, and it’s three thirty-two. Did she leave early? I run back to her bedroom, stuff her phone into her purse, take out her car keys, grab the purse and run to the car garage underneath the building to her car. I get in, not bothering to have a valet do it for me. I type the address into the GPS and start driving. It’s an hour and a half later before I get there. I park behind a large rock, hidden from anyone else. I start walking to where everything was. How did even Min get here? A taxi wouldn’t take her here, and there’s no way she walked so far. I take a look around. What is this place? Everywhere I look seems dead and abandoned. There are deserted restaurants and houses, stores, and other buildings all around. All the plants and trees and grass, all of it is dead and withered. A nearly dried-up pond is beside the uninhabited town, and the only water left is brown and disgusting looking. What happened? Who and why does someone want to meet Minsun here? What is happening? My thoughts are abruptly interrupted by a loud bang. Something is about to explode. I run towards the car, away from the rundown settlement. I get there and hide behind the rock, hoping it’s far enough away. Seconds later, a building from the back of the abandoned town bursts into pieces and two buildings around it erupt into flames. Debris from the explosion goes flying in every direction, and a flaming half of a door lands in a dead bush about 14 feet away from where I’m hiding and sets it ablaze. I look at all the other flying wreckage, some are on fire, some aren’t. Then I see the bloodied body soaring with the rest of the debris. It lands in the dried-up pond with a snap. I turn my head around the side of the rock to check if anyone is there, and when I’m sure no one will see me, I run to where the body lies dead. I don’t know who it is, and even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to tell. The heat devoured half of their face off, and the rest of their body was a mangled mess of bones, flesh and blood. I hear a low, smooth, voice. “See, it wasn’t that hard now was it?” and then after they say that, I hear another soft, quiet voice say, “It’s done, okay? Now you have to leave me alone, and you can’t tell anyone I ever knew you.” It's Minsun. I freeze, wondering if it’s too late to hide somewhere, anywhere, somehow. Then they see me, still crouched next to the body in the dried-up pond. “WHY ARE YOU HERE?” Yells Minsun with a twisted, shocked expression on her face. “I just- I uhm...” I utter. “You can either keep this secret or you get killed.” The man next to Min announces. “What secret? I have no idea what’s happening.” I ask. “We used to be in the mafia.It wasn’t our choice, though. The rest of them died and we fled. How they died though, was our fault. A group of friends we were in.” “Minsun? Is that true? Is this the guy named unknown in your contacts that you were talking to?”I urge quietly. “Yes...” Whispers Minsun, her face scared-looking, staring intensely at the ground.”Wait, how did you know I was texting him?” She says, looking up suddenly, the expression on her face changing from grave to suspicious in a matter of seconds. “Uh- That's...That’s not important right now.” I reply nervously. “Wait a minute- I know who you are!” Says the guy Minsun was talking to. “You...You’re Seiro Komoka! You may have changed your looks, but you can’t get rid of that look in your eyes! You killed my SISTER.” He shouts, his face seething with hate and rage. “What are you talking about? I’m not a murderer! You’re insane.” I yell. “Don’t lie to me! You’re the Eye Obsessed Killer!” He roars. Minsun looks really confused. She starts saying “ No, he’s not the killer, there’s no way-”. She stops talking when she sees the giant smirk on my face. “What?” “Let me explain.” I say calmly, still smiling. “ I’m not following you anywhere you psychotic kil-” I pull a knife out of my pocket, start running the flat part of the blade through my fingers, focusing on the sharp part. “You have such nice beautiful green amber and green eyes. It would be such a shame if someone were to...I don’t know...” I turn to face him, knife in hand, and rotate my head to the side a bit. “Take them.” He looks terrified. Perfect. His eyes look so worried, just like all the smart people’s did. If you’re not scared, your risk of death goes up by a high amount. “W-where do you want to go?” He asks nervously. I pocket the knife and point to a building in the back. Minsu and I walk there together, answering each other's questions, while the other guy walks far behind us. We get there and walk around the buildings, avoiding the debris from the explosion from earlier. “It’s not that I wanted to become a killer. But once you start.. You can't stop. It’s addicting. So at first, it was bad. But then...It became the only thing that gave me joy. So much joy, that I would do anything to kill someone, anyone. And I mean anyone. Like family, teachers, friends, strangers...I say the word strangers with a smirk on my face, and stop walking right where I planned to stop. They turn to me. “Hello, stranger.” I say, pushing ‘unknown’ into the fire, laughing. He shrieks and cries, but very soon he goes limp as the fire devours him. Minsun is frozen in horror, too scared to do anything. I do it as a joining, my instincts tell me she’ll move. She won’t get hurt. I would never want to hurt her. “Hello friend.” I say, widening my eyes and launching manically, trying to scare. I playfully shove her towards the fire, but she doesn’t move. She lays there, screaming in agony as the scorching, flaming monster eats her whole. I let out a scream too. I didn’t want that. After she dies, I spend ten minutes sitting there, next to the fire, convincing myself not to jump in with them, let me drown in the pool of flames with their bodies, and that she was dead-weight. She wasn’t. She was the only one there for me when everyone else hated me. She was the reason why I started killing. To protect her. And now she’s gone. It’s my fault. The one person I didn’t want dead, the one person that was safe from me, who I wanted to protect, was dead. And I had killed her. I get all the ‘monster’ comments now. The people telling me to die. I hadn’t before, but my mind is clear now. I start walking towards the rock, tears in my eyes, knife in my hand. I start the car up and start driving. I don’t know where I’m going, just that it’s going to be far, far away from New York. For a fresh start. Where no one will no know me or what I've done. Authors note: Ok yes the transitions were horrible. I’m not good with word limits, sorry and this is my first time doing one of these.

“The first kill is the hardest.” She said to me, with a brutal indifference that is mastered by creatures who have surpassed their lifetime. I cradled the broken body of an innocent girl, as if she were mine to protect. As if I didn't reap the very life from her. Blood. On my hands. Not mine, but hers, I soon realized. Scarlet and oozing, and mingled with mine. Thick as burnt caramel, sitting on my tongue like tar without any of the sweetness. Bitter. I had once revered this white gown as a gift, a present free of charge. Unknowingly, I had paid a most grievous toll for such indulgence. Her life, and mine, entangled in the dark strings that made up the Countess’s web. The girl’s eyes widened for the last time. What may have held the memories of a lifetime, contained only a few fleeting, yet precious years. Blank, was the faint silhouette of something that could have been, had she not provoked the Countess; had she not entered the chamber at the wrong time; had she not been born as poor as she was. Had I not been born. Why blame her? This is my fault. The difference that separated us, was the startling reality that I would go on to breathe and blink and kill for another day. Another month. Perhaps even centuries. Death is what it took to keep us living. This was the agreement I made the second that blood hit my lips. I watched the rise and fall of her caved in chest. She wheezed back and fourth, like a burning house. She made an odd creaking sound trying to breathe. “She won't live. What are you attempting? To save her life? My dear, you already stole that from her. The only possession she laid claim to, and you stole it from her. There’s a certain victory in that, isn’t there? Savory and sweet, the threat of looming over someone small. You made her a powerless creature. Prolong her suffering, if that is what brings you joy, then perhaps we are more alike than I knew.” She was right. Why distract from the inevitable? I pulled my hand from her gaping neck. Without my fingers closing around the wound, I could finally see the outline of my teeth, my newborn canines imprinted on her nape. The blood sputtered in dark rivulets, arcing against the macabre paintings on the wall. Then, the substance began to pool from her, slowly. “That’s right, my dear, let her die.” The countess leaned back on her throne. “And with her death, you'll live endlessly.” She is a portrait of beauty, unsettling, horrific beauty. The kind of loveliness one would find in the expression of a freshly dead girl. I can almost pretend she is only sleeping. Her eyelashes tickle my hand as I close those broken, doll like eyes. As if to congratulate me, The countess raised a bloody wineglass to the twinkling chandelier. She lowered the glass in a slow, teasing movement to her lips. As if entranced by her reflection in the viscous red, growing cold in its glass, she sipped. And when she smiled, her pointed teeth were stained red. “To take life is a messy thing my dear. A beautiful thing, to exchange pitiful years for eternity. And yet, such a tricky business, being a god among rotting flesh.” At her confession, I note that this has been a game to her all along. As much of a game as playing chess, with someone that never knew the rules. As much a game as the fleeting mouse was to the perusing cat. As if to choose black or white means the difference of life and death. “Eternity.” I mumble, shaking. “Eternity indeed is lonely business, wouldn’t you agree?” I ask. At this, that cruel facade collapses for a moment. And I see the real countess, like a flash of green between the sea and the sky. But like a flash of sunlight against the sea, that unguarded facade dies within a moment, lost within the blink of an eye. “Aren't you poetic?” The glass shatters in her hand. Her palm bleeds, but the blood is not hers. And even so, she wouldn’t hurt. Pain in the face of eternity is nothing, that was one the first lessons my lady taught me. Perhaps then, it’s easier to justify when her cruel hand slithers around the expanse of my throat. Pain is nothing to me any more. In fact, it's the only humanity I have left. Her fangs pierce the flesh of her lower lip. Her gaze settles upon me like a rain of burning arrows. Something thin and sharp clawed my wrist and snapped. I wailed. My broken wrist hung at my side, limp. She pulled me to the surface of despair that I had grazed the thin veneer of. I don't process the movement until she is breathing into the side of my face, until the body tumbles off of me with a soft thud. It is only when I smell her perfume, warmed by her stolen youth, that I realize she is a bloom-less rose. All thorns, digging into my heart. But how lovely it felt to have something growing within you, even if it was invasive. I know better than to struggle against her. It wasn’t always like that. “Hush now. Stop your crying.” She coos. I hate that I feel comforted by the sound. Her cat-like eyes narrowed into mine. For a moment, she possessed a gentleness I had never known existed. Her touch once fleeting, burned through my skin, tucked my hair behind my ear. For a moment, I pretended we were two mortal people. I pretended we shared only a mortal kiss, a kiss that reeked of death. She cupped my cheek, and lead me by the waist to the center of the ballroom, not far from the girl I had murdered. “Shall we dance?” Her voice is too tender, too full of pride, and what I mistake for love. But, there was never such a calmness as the peace that shivered over me at the feel of her hand in mine. Even though her talons sunk a little deeper, the longer she kept me. I would wake in the morning in a cold bed without her, the only impression left behind, her bracelet of purple and red along my wrist. The longer we danced together, the less she cared about hurting me. The feel of the brief wind in my hair as she twirled me round, was the only proof of love she carried for me. The sound of her laugh, as coveted as earthly pleasures, was mine to possess. I forget about the dead girl. Whatever I had done, it seemed worth it, if only to be allowed in her presence, if only to endure the blunt of her temper. If only to be hers for seconds or for years. And so I told myself that pain and pleasure are the same, uniquely bound together with a rope of thorns. Our movements become less a dance, and more of her throwing me into the furniture, into walls, into sharp points until every wall is cracked. Crack, goes my ribs. The bone sticks out from me, reddening the white of my gown. I sputter blood. Wheezing, I look down at my cracked ribs, and touch delicately. It stings, and sparkles like freshly cut rubies. It’s almost beautiful. My body found purchase on the wall, a few seconds to collect myself before she continued this process of loving me. Until I'm certain that she has split every bone into parts. It had never felt so good to hurt so bad. My dress billowed around me. I met her gaze. She dipped me low enough for my hair to wet with the blood of the girl. Her voice lowered to a purr. And I forget about my broken body, because even a web is beautiful to behold, a gilded cage of silver and blinking moonlight. “Never forget, my treasure, what a privilege it is to be a damned creature.” In the drabble of her words, I find myself entwined deeper in her magnificence, till the words mean nothing. Until I am just listening to the sound of every chord of her siren like voice, cradled in a newborn innocence. Until I catch one word, a word that makes me shiver. “Privilege?” I whisper against her. Her hand drapes down my spine. She feels for a moment around the base of it, and I tense. She releases it and continues her petting. “To be born as we are. To be possessed by me. To kill with me. Are you not satisfied?” She asks me. A fast turn, and I can hear the crunch of bone as the Countess’ gilded heel smashes in the dead girl's face. I look down, horrified. I feel my body reject the creature I am. The spinning stops. I retch, and wail. My nails dig into a painting and rip. That is until the soft caress of her lips settles on my neck. Until she bites ever so teasingly. My back arches. And every reasonable thought is drowned by the swarm of her seduction, buzzing and impatient like a hornets nest. “Don't look at her.” She warns. “She is but an artifact of a past you will soon outlive . Look at me.” And then, all the violence wanes, eclipses into the darkness that makes up her eyes. Her eyes awake with starlight itself. She is more than I could have ever dreamed. “I thought it would feel different. It didn't feel the way you described.” I say, meek and quiet like a little girl. I don't dare look down at my victim, but I know she's there, just a dance away. “And how did you feel?” I looked at her, and despite the unholy beauty that makes up the Countess, I hold on to the image of the girl crying out for her mother. I feel a monster tearing me apart. I feel solace in the pain she had given me. For it is something that I deserved. Her love, her bite, every broken bone muttered a vow in my heart. I stare, fall deeper into her. I flex my hand, and reach into the cavern of my ribs and pull at bone and snap, tears swamping my eyes. She doesn’t wail or beg me to stop, no words of disbelief come from her painted mouth. She just...smiles. A sweet smile. Whatever I had broken within me, I had placed in her pale hand. I watch through foggy tears, her talons sinking into the flesh and bone. Was it an offering or a sacrifice? Even then I couldn’t tell what I had given her, just that I had relinquished it. I don’t think I’ll ever know. I couldn’t tell her how much I hated myself, how I hated her. How I wish I could bring back the dead girl, and leave the countess in her stead. That is right, that is just. But she knows as I know, that’s not what I really want. Her hand tightens around the pieces of me. But the words don’t come. And my throat closes, until I will it open. “I never felt anything so thrilling.” The lie rots on my tongue. I can almost taste my deceit, burning and bubbling. Thick as burning sugar crusting a rotting cake. Those eyes narrowed. And with a satisfied hum, she flicked off my viscera, and picked me up from the cold ground. Every part of me hurt. I was a mess of dislocation and severed limbs. She carried me like she had before all this madness, like a bride over a threshold. A wedding I never consented to. And trotted along the bloody room, with her frightened bride. Her other hand, unsullied by blood, caresses my jaw. “What did I say about lies, my dear?” She says and her words send a chill up my spine. I think she might hurt me, but she simply leans in close until her eyes are boring into mine. And so gently, almost like she’s telling me she will take care of me forever and ever, She kisses my cheek, still wet with tears. I pray she can't see the horror blanching my face white. For a moment, I tried to move out of her grasp, but she was stronger than I thought, and I was in no position to move. I writhed against her, ever the butterfly pinned to the cork board by a crazed obsessive. But there was no escape. My wings fluttered lifeless against the grain. She had me pinned down. The tears of blood fall before I can hide them. Her brow furrowed. A sharp red talon scrapes the wetness away. “What a pity. Perhaps one day, you'll grow to love it as I do. Listen closely, my dear, for it is the last time I shall tell you. When you find you crave their violent ends, come and find me. One day, I hope you will realize that there is no such pleasure as seeing the life drain from a young girl’s eyes.”

#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: It's time for another mashup! **Fall Constraint Mashup: Choose at least 1 thing from 3 different categories below.** You’re welcome to mix and match! These were all suggested by your fellow writers! | **No.** |**Object** | **Phrase** | **Setting** | **Misc. Constraints** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | 1 | apple cider| It’s never what you expect | pumpkin patch/corn maze | features a scarecrow | | 2 | jack-o-lantern | The wind rustled naked trees | a quarry or lake | a transformation occurs | | 3 | homemade stew | It was the right thing to do | Grandma’s kitchen | features an ‘animal familiar’ | 4 | costume | How easy it is to forget | a highschool event | a secret is revealed | **Bonus Constraint (15 pts):** Choose 1 of the numbered sets above. Sets are listed horizontally (that’s 1 thing from each of the 4 categories). *Note: You are welcome to interpret the constraints creatively as well as mix and match categories! You can add onto the phrases and words, change tenses, etc. And as always, be sure to follow all sub and post rules.* You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 2pm EST next Monday. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read the stories aloud and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and/or listen to the others! Everyone is welcome and we’d love to have you!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Weekly points are awarded based on the following system. **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 in-depth, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** #Rankings for - u/Brknside - u/OldBayJ - u/MaxStickies *Note: Due to being an active participant myself, points and votes have also been verified by another mod.* *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

A lonely young man and discouraged young woman make a pact in high school. If they are both single at thirty they say, they will get married. Several years go by, she gets engaged but breaks off the relationship. He does not find love, so the day of his thirtieth birthday he calls the woman and asks if she is seeing anyone. She laughs and says No. Me neither. You know that was a joke right? she says. He responds with an affirmation, adding they should try again when they are forty for they are still young and much of their lives is yet to be lived. Shortly after this conversation the woman is introduced to her roommates brother. They hit it off and are married. They have kids, careers, buy mid-sized cars and a house in the suburbs they can not afford. She works as a receptionist at his practice. One Saturday she lets herself to find him inside a partner. Papers are filled soon after. Property is split. Visitations figured. Now the kids have two Christmases. In a month she will turn forty. The young man strings together one relationship after another. He uses dating apps, work connections, friend’s sisters. They all bring sex without intimacy. His partners are for the most part willing and present. The fear is his. He cannot commit because if it. He does nothing to address the fear. Therefore on his fortieth birthday he calls the woman and asks if she is still single. She is but not is not a good time, she says. She talks about her divorce, about her pain and her need to be single for a little while so she can figure out who she really is. Why don’t you call me when we’re fifty? He laughs through the phone. Immediately the man dialogs with his inner voice. He confronts himself in the mirror, seeing a lot of middle age and not a lot else. He is inspired to get help. He finds a therapist he likes, a young asian woman with a doctoral degree from Columbia. She is expensive but their work pays off. The man address head on the issues of his life. He opens up about his absent father and overbearing mother. He learns to trust, others and himself. He begins a spiritual practice of twenty minutes of silent mediation morning and evening. He encounters his true self, the eternal place within. Living from a more authentic center he begins to flower. He opens himself to more intimate relationships. When vacationing with his girlfriend in Italy, he cries as she holds him. They are married on the plane ride back by a minister who happened to be sitting next to them. A stewardess served as maid of honor, one of the pilots was best man. The people traveling first class sit and wonder what’s with all the commotion happening in coach. On the ride home from the airport, their cab is sideswiped by a drunk driver. Both the driver and girlfriend are killed. Waking up in the hospital the man learns of wife. Only death consoles him. He wants to be reunited with his love. He wants to relive their Italian romance. He wants to unplug himself from the machines keeping him alive. On his fiftieth birthday he calls no one and no one calls him. The same thing happens the years of his sixtieth and seventieth birthdays. However at age eighty three there is knock at his door. Standing in his porch is the woman. She’s remarried but her husband has recently passed. I lost the one I wanted to keep, yet the one I don’t want is still around she says. They pass the time as friends, talking about their lives, their pains and triumphs and the lonely desperation of youth. They confess their ill-fated affection of one another. We didn’t get it right this time says the eighty-three year old man, adding do you think we will get another shot? I suspect not. I suspect the same. Would you like to hold hands and walk to the park? I would like that very much. The people of the park remark to themselves the loveliness of the cute couple in love at their twilight and they pray they might be so lucky.

ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD I opened my eyes, it was still dark. I checked my watch. I lay in bed for a few minutes more. Not because I was reluctant to get up before the birds had even begun their morning songs, but because I wanted to plan my route one more time. To see the route in my head, to plan my timing, my pacing. To get my strategies fixed solidly in my head. To calculate the risks, the dangers, the obstacles; to map out Plan A and Plan B and just because that was the kind of person I was, Plan C as well. I was a cautious person by nature, but the nature of my hobbies and interests mandated that I look at every eventuality, every possible outcome, every contingency, every likelihood of unforeseen events. I checked my watch. Once I had my plan firmly fixed in my mind I sprang out of bed and quickly went into the washroom to perform my morning ablutions. Showering for exactly five and a half minutes. Five minutes was not long enough to kill any bacteria that might have settled on me during the night and six minutes would have potentially dried out my skin and caused inflammation or created itchy dry skin or eczema. After five and a half minutes my shower alarm went off and I turned the alarm off on my watch and got out of the shower. I returned to my bedroom and dressed in my gear. Black track pants and a shirt that fit like a glove, and a black hoodie with multiple pockets. I had packed each pocket carefully the night before and memorized the placement of each object in them. I reached for my socks and running shoes and tied my shoes carefully, ensuring I double-knotted them. Falling down was not an option. Failing was not an option. I checked my watch. Getting everything right was key. I quickly made my bed, adhering to the hospital corner protocol that regimented my life. I carefully folded my night clothes and tucked them neatly under my pillow, then fluffed the pillow again making sure the corners were square with the bed. I checked my watch. I rummaged around the kitchen, restless to accomplish my goal for the day. Realizing my need for calmness, I closed my eyes and took several calming breaths. I focused sharply on the tasks to come, knowing that my well-laid plan was flawless. Self-confidence surged through my being, quickly followed by power and peace. I was fearless. I was bold. I was brave. I was dauntless. I was intrepid. I was omnipotent. I repeated this statement two more times. This was my mantra. I often repeated it throughout the day as if it were a sacred text, my shibboleth. As a very young child, before my diagnosis, I was very impressed by the childhood story of The Little Engine That Could. I read this book three times every night. When faced with difficulties, the little engine uttered the words, ‘I think I can, I think I can.’ and was therefore able to accomplish the goals set. Now that I was grown, I had created my own mantra that I uttered to encourage and believe in myself. I repeated my mantra three times every night before I went to bed and three times every morning before breakfast. The mantra was also helpful during the day when things would go awry. I turned to the cupboard and prepared myself a light breakfast. One to give me energy and stamina for the day but not to weigh me down. After my breakfast, I washed and dried the dishes and put them precisely back in the cupboard in their appointed places. I checked my watch...again. I heard the song of the first bird of the morning and checked my watch, the bird was right on cue. I liked this bird, it lived on a branch of a tree just outside my window and every day it started its song at exactly the same time. I nicknamed the bird Timex. And its mate Rolex. The previous birds that lived in that nest were not at all cognizant of the importance of the ritual of their morning songs, and therefore they were quickly eliminated. A little arsenic in the bird feeder did wonders to relieve me of their lack of attention to detail and their appalling lack of routine. I checked my watch one more time and saw that the clock had struck the hour ... figuratively speaking. The double zeros at the end made it an auspicious time to leave the house. I quickly stepped out and locked the door, turning the handle and checking it five times before I was sure it was properly closed. It had been a windy night and I adjusted the welcome mat outside the door to make sure it was flat and square with the house, and properly centered with the middle of the door. That accomplished, I approached my car and after doing my circle check five times to make sure that all the tires were properly filled with air, and there were no scratches from the tree branches that had blown down during the night, I set off. The distance to my rendezvous was not far, and I was very familiar with the route, having traveled it every morning for the past several weeks. My destination was a track, it was generally used as a sulky track by the local fairgrounds during either the Fall Fair, Spring Fling, or tractor pulls and demolition derbies in the summer. It was generally abandoned at this time of day except for a few runners who diligently used it rather than running on sidewalks or roads where the chance of being hit by a car in the predawn light was always a distinct possibility. I pulled my van right up beside the track, opened my doors and left the lights on. The morning sun was just starting to cast a glow on the horizon, but it was still too dark to see much of anything. The lights from the van would offer a little light to serve my purposes. I checked my watch. It appeared that I was the first to arrive, but that too had been planned. I knew she would arrive any second; that was one of the things that had drawn her to me, her punctuality. She checked her watch precisely the second she started her warm-up laps and the precise second she started her run. She frequently checked throughout her run and adjusted her speed accordingly. I took a slow lap around the track while I waited. The track was lit by the headlights of my van. I knew her routine because I had studied it for the past month. She was always one of the first to hit the track. The other dedicated runner had taken a tumble a few days before and I had not seen him for the past few days. I was counting on this. The headlights of a car pulled into the driveway as I made to start my second lap. It was her. She parked close to the track, quickly exited the car, and without any preamble, crossed to the track and started off at a slow pace to warm her muscles up. I knew she would do two complete laps at this pace before she would make her move. Once she was warmed up her laps were at the speed of a gazelle so I had to get my timing right. I slowed my pace when we were both in the long stretch and bent down as if to tie my shoe and let her pass me. I raised my head confidently and we nodded to each other as she passed me. I quickly rose and followed her knowing she could hear the pounding of my feet. We had run like this for several days now, so I was a known identity. A fellow runner, someone she was somewhat familiar with. As we came up on the straightaway where the cars were parked I snuck my hand into my pockets and pulled out a cloth and a small canister. Speeding up to right behind her I grabbed her and pinned her against my chest with one arm and with the other arm I snaked it up and planted the cloth over her mouth. She fought like a tiger until the chloroform started to take effect. I actually used a variant as chloroform usually takes about five minutes to become completely effective and render one’s victim unconscious. Bz 2 on the other hand was a more effective incapacitating agent, being more potent and more effective even than ketamine, which is odorless and tasteless, not that that was a factor in a snatch-and-run situation. Despite her top physical condition, she was on the petite side and after she collapsed in my arms, I carried her easily to my van. I had left the sliding door open to facilitate the transfer. It had of course bothered me to no end to leave the door open but sometimes the end must justify the means. The overall goal or result had to outweigh an unclosed door. I had wrestled with this part of the plan for several days but felt that my Hero, Niccolo Machiavelli would approve this decision. I was therefore willing to bend my rules for the greater cause. I lay her down on the single mattress that I had put in the van expressly for this purpose. She was worthy of this comfort and I considered her my priceless treasure. I glanced around the area and found that the track remained empty just as I had surmised. I pulled a roll of duct tape from my pocket and bound her hands and feet. Lastly, I tore off a smaller piece of tape and covered her mouth, making sure that she could breathe through her nose. As soon as this was accomplished I did not linger but headed out of the area at a reasonable pace, it was always best not to draw attention to oneself by unnecessary speed. As I pulled onto the County Road, I noticed that the dawn had finally broken. The return journey to my home took little time. Living on a twenty-acre rural property with numerous outbuildings offered a plethora of choices for her accommodations but I preferred to keep her close to me so I had renovated and fortified my basement. The windows were barred and boarded up from the outside, with numerous screws. A bathroom and shower had been added to the basement and I had purchased thick fluffy towels and an array of cosmetics and hair accessories. No expense had been spared to make her comfortable. I had even purchased a treadmill and a recumbent bike which were at the far side of the room. Her bed was a beautiful cream colour with a matching dresser and night table. The duvet was a pale lilac colour and I had taken great care to find several accent pillows in coordinating colours. I had purchased many outfits for her and these filled the drawers. She would learn to love her new home. I carried her into the basement and lowered her carefully onto the king-size bed, removing the duct tape. I gently smoothed her long hair off her face and covered her with a light blanket from the end of the bed. I sat in the comfy chair in the corner and waited patiently for her eyes to open. I checked my watch, but I had all the time in the world. We had all the time in the world.

A young woman stood alone in an illusion; a hologram of vast blue space with clouds swirling in the distance. She was standing before the projector of this calming scape, having come to the floating cube to be interviewed. “What is your name?” the bluish-grey box asked, an array of smaller holographic cubes around it. It was a Cephalon, a digitized life form. Creatures of light and memory. The small blue boxes floated in a pattern that the woman could not clearly identify. They projected a sense of thoughtfulness as if pondering the small human’s existence. “Manmi,” the young woman answered, looking straight ahead. Her stance changed from akimbo to a more regal bearing as she introduced herself; her arms crossing behind her back and her legs coming together. She had been led here by a friend and intended to answer the Cephalon’s questions as precisely and honestly as was humanly possible. “Manmi...what?” the Cephalon asked, her voice mechanical and curious. Manmi could hear a warm tone through the artificial voice, echoes of the person Cephalon Suda once was. The young woman in red and orange wanted to answer the question, but there were gaps in her memory. Information that had yet to recover. Whatever had happened to her while she was in captivity still prevented her from recalling all of her past. Her history. Her identity. “Unknown, ma’am,” Manmi answered. Normally, Manmi would have felt extreme discomfort when failing to fulfill an objective. Be it a military order or answering a simple question, Manmi had always suffered a negative physiological reaction when she felt as though she were not living up to someone’s expectations. Fortunately for her, it was easy to keep her nerve when speaking with most Cephalons. There was something about their lack of humanity and highly analytical voices, absent of judgment, that kept her at ease. There were no eyes peering at her. No pressure. No presence. “This is fascinating information,” Cephalon Suda’s holograms pulsed excitedly, “Please tell me what you remember. Start from the beginning.” “The beginning...my childhood?” Manmi asked, wanting clearer instructions before engaging further. “No,” the Cephalon said, her tone more crisp and matter of fact, “I have ample data on the Zariman Ten Zero already categorized and indexed. We will revisit your information on that subject at a later time. What do you remember from waking up after the Old War? This will be new information for me.” “Waking up...” Manmi repeated, organizing her thoughts before nodding, “I remember...smoke. Bright flashes of light. The sound of energy weapons discharging. I was restrained...” she winced and shook her head, “No, *encased*. I was encased in a container of some sort.” “A cryopod, perhaps?” Suda offered, “Cryopods have been detected in greater numbers lately.” “Yes!” Manmi said, her eyes widening. Memories began to resurface as thoughts connected around that word, “I was put in-” “I know why you were placed in cryostasis, Tenno,” Suda said, silencing Manmi, “What happened when you were awoken?” “Apologies,” Manmi bowed her head slowly, “I was awoken by an alarm. The cryopod’s power was failing. Through the glass I could see a battle; energy projectiles and beams cutting through the air less than a meter above the glass. The power was reconnected and stasis resumed. When I woke up next, I was on a table...” Dark green eyes slowly opened under a bright white light. Pupils contracted as the mind behind them struggled against the fatigue. Her mind and body wanted her eyes to close, but curiosity and a sense of danger kept Manmi alert. She tested her muscles by slowly turning her head towards one side and then another. The sluggish response did not bode well if she found herself under attack, but the brain fog was starting to clear up. The room was slightly obscured by the holographic visor of her Zariman suit. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. She focused her eyes on the heads-up display to activate its functions but they were in the midst of rebooting. With a blink, she deactivated the visor so that she could better observe her position. Still having the suit on at all gave her a sense of security. That was a much-needed feeling since her surroundings, now that she was seeing clearly, were *far* from comforting. It appeared to be a medical facility of some sort; bright lights, reflective metal panels on the walls, and a faint scent of chemical cleaners and ozone. She tried to sit up but did not move. Her arms were similarly paralyzed, though with some slow flexing of her hands she determined that she was not *actually* paralyzed but instead restrained. Unable to move her head to see the extent of her restraints, she focused on her breathing and tried to move each extremity one by one as much as she could. There was motion just outside her field of view, and as she tried to move the source of that motion came closer. Several automatons had ceased whatever functions they were previously performing and came closer. Manmi guessed that they were ready to restrain her if she escaped based on observing them *not* moving to remove her restraints. One of the machines floated overhead, moving to block out the light that was shining directly into her face. It was a disc of some sort that projected a hologram down toward her. A man’s face with more eyeliner than should have been legal and what appeared to be a painted-on mustache. Manmi was not entirely sure what she was looking at or who this man was, but the way he smiled made her very uncomfortable. “Praise the Void!” the hologram said, its enthusiasm overwhelming, “The Tenno lives! I was worried the doctors would have to force their way through that *remarkable* suit of yours to make sure you were all in one piece! Dreadful about the forced decryostasis you had to go through but don’t worry! I had my best and brightest work on you.” “Decryo...what?” Manmi asked, her words slurred slightly as the muscles in her jaw that had not been used for an unknown amount of years struggled to keep pace with her overstimulated mind. The lights, the sounds, the man...it was all so much. Too much. “By the Void, it was a *nasty* business. Your cryopod was found by one of my crewmen during a routine patrol of one of my favorite shipping lanes. He logged your cryopod but in doing so caught the attention of a Grineer freighter, who started to snoop around for you. I’ll spare you the details, but one thing led to another and, before ya know it there was a firefight at Tesera Outpost! It was rather splendid, really, but you *did* cost us quite a lot of assets. But don’t worry, I’m certain you’ll be able to more than makeup for the investment we made by saving your life! OH! On that note, don’t-” Manmi had stopped listening to the rambling face as she planned for her escape. If she could not break free of the table restraints herself, she would break the entire table with Vauban. Closing her eyes, Manmi focused on her connection to her Warframe, on the Transference Procedure, and the Somatic Link. But as soon as she did she felt a sharp, *excruciating* pain shoot into her neck. It burned its way down her spine as fast as lightning and every nerve ending in her body exploded in agony the likes of which the warrior had never experienced. “AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Manmi shrieked as her body convulsed and her vision blanked out. The pain lasted for barely a second, but that second lingered well beyond what it should have. She lay still for a long moment before she realized that she stopped breathing and gasped for air. The first thing Manmi saw when her sight returned was the overly painted face shaking from side to side, making a *tsk tsk tsk* sound. “So impatient! I tried to warn you, Tenno. Please refrain from attempting to contact your Warframe again. It probably doesn’t even exist anymore,” the man shrugged, “Besides, you are now an official Investment of the Corpus. We can’t have you vanishing out of here, so we affixed a little accessory to you. Any attempt to harness the Void in any unwholesome manner will have certain repercussions. You just experienced one of them and I will waive my consultation fee to advise you that it would be in everyone’s best interests, yours especially, to not try to find any of the others. But let’s not dwell on that! Instead, we should rejoice in your awakening! Now we can take you someplace more comfortable for your recovery.” The hologram moved away and Manmi felt the tension on her limbs release. She lifted her right arm and saw a metal cuff still around it and before she could even think about moving any other part of her body, her arm was pulled to the side and the thin metal band clanged against a metal gloved hand. Someone in a technical jumpsuit ‘helped’ Manmi off of the table by magnetically attracting the cuffs on her wrists into each of its hands. An identically clad person - *were* they people?- did the same with her ankles and Manmi was carried between them. “Crewmen! Take our Investment to cell seven-two-two-six,” the hologram man said before the projection blinked off. The two bulky jumpsuits carried Manmi out of the room and out into a shiny metallic hallway. They moved with slow, precise steps, making Manmi think that if they *were* people at any point, they were more machine now. She looked around as best she could while they carried her, trying to mentally note directions, branching corridors, and any features of the facility that she could use to figure out her position. There was little to see in the narrow halls but she did pick up on a general grid-like pattern with the layout. The two crewmen carried her into a small room, the magnetic fields releasing her arms and legs. They dropped her onto a bed and marched out, the door sealing shut with a *clunk* and *hiss*. The room was small, stark, and rather barren. The bed was just barely long and wide enough for her to lay on, and the only other feature in the room was a holoprojector in the center of the ceiling. The rest of the room was otherwise featureless. Manmi curled up and pushed herself into a sitting position on the bed, crossing her legs as she took several slow breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth. A lot of events had transpired in a short amount of time and her head, while no longer fogged or sluggish, was still confused. Alarms were going off within her but she could not immediately identify the danger. She was a captive, that much was certain. But what was ‘Corpus’? Why was she in ‘cryosleep’? She needed to think. It appeared she would have plenty of time to do that. “Hello there!” a chipper voice sounded from the walls around her. Manmi jumped to her feet in alarmed reflex but immediately regretted it as she fell to the floor almost at once. “Oooo...you should probably not do that for a little bit. Your body is still waking up! We can do some light exercises from the floor if you’re more comfortable down there though.” the female voice said brightly. “Who are you?” Manmi asked as she worked to crawl back into the bed. “Amita!” The voice answered. The holoprojector activated and a red glow appeared around the four corners of the ceiling. A pinkish collection of geometric lines formed under the projector, forming into a small red pyramid that twisted and folded in upon itself with tesseracts at each of its vertices. “Your personal security Cephalon! Well, I say ‘personal’ but I’m actually in charge of all of the prisoners in the 7,000 block! But right now you’re the only prisoner in the 7,000 block, so let’s just say that I’m your personal Cephalon for now!” “Prisoner?” Manmi said, trying to connect the dots. She knew she was a prisoner, but she did not know why, for what, or to whom, “That guy said I was an ‘Investment’.” “Hahaha! Yes, that’s Nef for you. He’s a little eccentric. But I assure you that you are most definitely a prisoner. And it's my job to make sure you stay sane and fit while in confinement. So! If I say ‘pretty please’ will you extend your legs out in front of you and try to touch your toes? Pretty please?” At the moment, Manmi did not want to do any stretches or exercises. She had experience with Cephalons before and knew that there was something off about Amita. She was far too personable, far too attached to the conversation. But if she was like other Cephalons, Manmi knew that she was not going to benefit from trying to refuse. With a million questions in her head, Manmi proceeded to follow Amita’s instructions and stretched out her legs to begin toe touches.

TW: blood, police brutality, violence. Xavier had ironed his black and sleek trousers that morning, by himself, smoking to the Rolling Stones. He had put extra care in choosing his outfit because in those clothes he would have died. In fact, over the black pants, he had a white shirt, candid like a soft cloud, that smelled like fabric softener, a dark jacket that fit him perfectly and made him look less muscular. He had even folded a red and white tissue to put in his pocket. Then, he had hid seven knives, a bomb, two razors and a pair of gloves covered in rubber under all that. Hoping nobody would have recognized a traitor of the crown, he went out in the open, the freezing air of December cutting his cheeks. Using a fake electronic ID code, he opened the metal building’s door. A few dozens of officers who would have happily tortured him didn’t even give him a glance. When the glossy blue doors opened, he entered the elevator. He was glad he was alone. That way, he was sure none of the King’s soldiers would have seen him get down at floor 280. He stood with his hands clasped in front of his body, unmoving, looking directly into his metallic reflection. The light was blue, inside the palace. His heart was racing in his chest, so painfully he had trouble breathing. He knew whatever he was going to see in floor 280 would have hurt him. Another reason why he had asked Kaneka to go alone on the mission inside the palace, was that he didn’t want any of the boys to see that he was anxious. Of course, since the day he had rebelled against the King, he had known he had lost the opportunity to live peacefully. On floor 280, he was going to meet Tara again. The first time he had seen her, she was wearing a neon miniskirt and sending thousands of volts throw the bodies of a couple of the King’s guards. She had let them plummet at her feet, grabbed Xavier’s coat and yanked him out of the battle into a tiny alley. Her black hair was tied in two braids, and her eyes, instead of being radioactive blue as he expected, where just dark. “You are human. With powers.” “Yeah, not a robot. Now,” Tara had said, putting a gun in his hand, “let’s get out of here, alright?” The last one standing of his group of rebels, he had allied with her. Together, they had gone back into the square where neon billboards made the night as bright as day and the King soldiers shot their power weapons. At dawn, she, covered in scratches, bloody cuts, and with her hands still sparking electricity, had ripped the last guard off of him. Tara had laughed a very brief, tired laugh. Her big lips had bent a little, and she hadn’t taken her eyes away from his as she cleaned the blood on her mouth with the back of her hand. “You need to watch out for yourself or you’ll break.” Xavier hadn’t been able to reply. He felt the same electricity in his veins. His heart raced in front of her, as if he had found something precious and long lost. Then, she had taken him back to headquarters, and reported the win. Kaneka had half-smiled to him, and he had felt like he had just ended the King’s tyranny. Tara had walked with him, talking until they reached his room. Then, she had given him one electric bullet to put in his gun. It was bright in the dark, like a deadly diamond or something else beautiful made to kill. “We’re a great team,” he had told her, his voice no more than a murmur. “Come to me if you need help,” she had replied. But Tara hadn’t resisted in the living world for a long time. She had disappeared again. Xavier had gone visiting her, once, when the voices about her running away again started circulating. When he had arrived in front of her apartment, he had let out a small, shallow sigh, and then had sunk his hands in his jacket. The cold, dry wind moved the rubbles on the floor. The place didn’t exist anymore, and so the furniture. He was sure she couldn’t have lived there without a bed, a fridge, or at least a teleport platform to come and go freely. But even if those things had actually been there before, now everything was gone. All that was left of her were rocks on a street that nobody visited. That day, he had told Kaneka. She had kept staring at the hologram that portrayed the King’s palace’s entrance door, and had told him, batting her eyes slowly, that Everyone dies, if they don’t watch out. So he had. And in a couple of months of research on Tara, the King, and the electricity resources he had found three game-changing pieces of news. First. The City consumed as much electricity as the whole country of Taiwan. Second. The ways to get electricity fast and easy had all already been burnt and converted into volts centuries before. Third. The King needed the people to stay calm and nice to him, if he didn’t want to die lynched. Fourth. Tara was a natural source of electricity. All of these were clues that led only to one possible outcome, the most realistic scenario, which coincided with the worst one. Xavier had had to come to terms with the fact that the King had kidnapped Tara to use her as a reactor. He had told Kaneka. And while she had immediately widened her eyes at the thought that Tara was in the King’s palace, too close and subjected to him not to spit out what the rebels were doing, Xavier could only think about the little lightning in her fingers. He had seen them, once, in their beauty and not in their deadliness. Xavier and Tara were sitting on the headquarters’ roof. The night was shiny and bright like a crystal, blue and black and full of city lights. Her feet dangled in the void. He was scared to death of her, who always looked like she had done something more dangerous than what she was facing, and of the height. She had smiled like a fox to the City and spit on the ground. Her saliva made a jump of a few hundred feet. “We will own this place.” Freezing, with his legs against his chest, he had muttered something that meant he agreed with her. She had chuckled and given him her hoodie. He hadn’t put it on. She had sighed. “God of electric sheep, Xavier.” He had put it on. After his head had popped out of the fabric, he had noticed that thin, blue wires where shining around her fingers. She was playing with them, letting the energy sting her skin. She laughed, her small lightning cracked. He looked at her a little scared, but feeling safer on that roof with her than he had felt in his room in the headquarters, manned 24/7. She had closed her hand. “You know what’s worse than being wanted dead, Xavier?” She had said his name, but her eyes were on the City’s blue skyline. He hadn’t said anything. “Being wanted alive.” The elevator reached floor 8 and stopped abruptly. Under his breath, he muttered to himself: “What the fuck?” The lights went off, the temperature seemed to drop. He tried to touch the buttons, but even if they were clicking under his fingers, nothing happened. “Come on.” He took a deep breath. The sign said he was on floor 279, so close to her. “What the hell are you doing, Tara?” He put his hands on the cold metal and waited. He tried to calm himself. Xavier was scared of small places, because they reminded him of when the guards had imprisoned him for stealing water from the nobleman’s table. Somewhere, his skin still carried the long, slender wounds of their clawed gloves and the electric shots that they sent through his body. Later on, when he had joined the rebels, Heko had stared at him like he was Jesus resurrected. “Sweet Jupiter,” he had said, in his monochromatic tone, “how are you alive?” He didn’t know. He only remembered his young skin breaking under their gloves and being dragged out and thrown in a dirty street. Now, Xavier reminded himself that he was fully clothed and armed like a fucking soldier from World War IV. He also started thinking that they had killed Tara. Or she had tried to escape and they had decided to execute her. No, this was stupid. The whole City would have stopped breathing, food would have gone bad, people wouldn’t have been able to work, the King himself would have been just a kid in silk sitting on a bed in a small room in a silent palace. And all the doors of the prisons would have been open. Xavier got up from the wall and tried to open the gate of the elevator. He slipped his fingers in the small cranny between the two metal panels and pulled. His muscles flexed, he got closer to apply more strength, but nothing happened. He let himself sink on the floor. The metal box moved slightly. In the dark, he began seeing a starry sky. His father had told him that before the world was completely urbanized, in certain parts of the globe you could see the galaxy. He had shown him pictures of the stars, and Xavier had started drawing them. There, curled up with his knives pressing against his ribcage, he counted and named each of them under his breath. He reminded himself of his humanity, that he was a beating heart, even if nearly everything in the world was a metallic machine, even if the door of the elevator was pressing against his body and trapping him in. When he started feeling breathless, he got to his feet. There was violet and blue in front of him, just like the day he had got into the rebels’ group. Kaneka was a woman all black and red, and was taking clothes off him. His face was masked and he could only see reality in spots. He felt the last piece of fabric been thrown away. “He’s shaking. How can he fucking go killing a King if he shakes in front of you , Kaneka?” Heko’s voice had made him go red. Xavier had heard Kaneka close, very close to him. “He’s a boy who bends only in front of who he knows actually rules. Now, kneel.” He had obeyed. And she had beaten him and he hadn’t said a word. She had put him in the dark and let him starve and choke. And after ten days, his skin was just as thick as she had wanted. Perhaps, he thought to himself in the dark, to beat a bad thing, you had to become worse. Some do. Some are Kaneka. Some don’t, like Tara, and run and fight and disappear. But in an elevator where you’re alone and the source of life of the City is gone, you need to set your priorities straight. It was at that point, that he started hearing the explosions. It was like fireworks going off. Xavier backed off, chuckling. His breath came in short and shallow. His head was spinning. He prayed to a God he knew was dead and asked them to please, let her enemies die horribly . A fierce song started playing in his head and he was one with the dark. The smoke started coming in the elevator slowly and he breathed it. He didn’t know about it until he was dying. But at that point he could do nothing. He just sat down and waited. He prayed again to that God to let him find peace somewhere else, even if the afterlife was a joke. Then, the doors opened. A blade of light cut his face gently. He took in a long, pure, soft breath, and let himself relax. Out of the elevator, an angel was coming with the smell of burnt metal and blood. She knelt to carry him out. “You’re okay.” Tara laughed. Her chest vibrated. “We’re both still alive. Disappointing.”

I have an appointment today at 1; I’ll be home in time to pick up Alice and Janie for dinner and to pick up my son from practice at 4. He’s a Striker on the Michigan Jr. Shooting Stars. One of these day’s he’s going to be seen on TV playing with the professionals I can just feel it. He’s at that age where changes will be coming soon. I have already seen his attitude growing but I know when he’s older I’m going to miss these days. I pulled up to the soccer field 15 min early. I liked to watch him practice just a little bit before it was time to go. He waved at me to acknowledge I was there as I sat on the bleachers to hear the final whistle blow from the coach. “Alright, great practice you guys! Let’s be sure to focus on speed when it comes to drills next week. Some of you are falling behind.” The coach always seemed like a real douche to me but he wore those mini shorts every week which told me he probably didn’t know it wasn’t the 70’s anymore. I waited for my son to grab his gear only to hear him be stopped by his coach. “August, can I talk to you a moment?” My son stopped and headed back. I looked at my watch to see it was already 12:08 and I still had to drop him off at home. I couldn’t make out what the coach was talking to him about but all that mattered was seeing my sons face sink to the floor. “Hey kiddo, everything okay?” I asked as he approached me. “Yeah it’s nothing.” He answered with such melancholy in his voice. “Are you sure? Your face doesn’t say nothing.” I asked again. “I said it’s fine dad can we please just go?” He snapped at me, I stopped pushing the subject and let him get in the car. This team means everything to him..... I hope that prick of a coach knows that. I pulled up to the house with him and unlocked the doors, his face was still drooped the whole car ride home. “Your mom is inside working if you need anything. I am heading to an appointment right now but I’ll be home soon alright?” The door slammed behind him with not a word said. I really do worry sometimes...he may not know it, but he is a part of what makes up my entire world. My appointment wasn’t anything special, I just had to take another physical for work in order to keep my job after a recent injury. I fell down the stairs at the office a few weeks ago and have been having trouble seeing out of my peripheral on my left eye. Turns out it’s nothing that will affect my work so I have one less thing to worry about. The appointment didn’t take long, I was fortunately in and out before 3pm with plenty of time to get back home, relax, then get ready for our monthly family dinner. We have dinner as a family all the time but once a month we like to take the kids out for something special and today just happens to be Dave and Busters. Good food for Alice and I and games for the kids. Today has surely been exhausting but it has been one of the best days. I can’t wait for dinner. I didn’t realize as I was thinking this that my wife was looking right at me the whole time. “What are you off smiling about now?” She giggled to me. “Nothing just...” i sighed in between to wrap my arms around her waist. “I’m feeling extra grateful today. I don’t know why I just... can’t help but be in a good mood.” She pushed me away with a smile and threw my Marvin Martian T-shirt at me. She bent over to lift up her stocking, as if her arms and hands were made of water. That’s all I had to think about to get my blood pumping. Of course right before dinner with no time to spare for a quick one. Isn’t that how married life is though? I rushed downstairs to grab my jacket and keys listening to the bickering screams between my children. “Come on kids your dad is waiting!” Alice yelled out to the top of the stairs. Their thundering roar of their feet was heard again. “Mom can I invite Josh to come with us?” My son asked with a sudden hopeful tone compared to earlier today. “Maybe next time, hurry up to the car I’m starving.” She pushed both of them out the door with haste. Don’t stop that woman from food. This is advice based off experience.

Did you know that snow makes sound when it falls? Most people imagine snow as a silent event, a quiet whispering, but snow can actually be loud at times. It falls with a SPLAT against the ground, hitting the windows and leaving streaks as it drops along the pane. It's like a *pssmtpssmt* sound, the impact of it. She thought such things to herself throughout the day, her mind much more silent than the snow around her. She clunked her boots against the stone floor, knocking off the remnants of ice from a journey to the wood shed. Pulling her sweater around her neck, she lit the kindling and turned on the water to boil. Her movements were automatic, rehearsed, predictable. The motions were the same today as the day before and would be followed by the same tomorrow. For the most part, her mind was quiet. The silence filled the rooms with waiting, a haunting devoid of life and energy. With a cup of her homemade tea, she sat at the desk next to the stove, staring at the window before her. Another day, another page. She wrote the number at the top of the page, a long script in the right corner. 3652. A number for each day she wrote a page, for each day she had occupied this one room in the forest. Alone. She sat back for a moment, staring at the blank page. Ten years gone then, she thought. Ten years since she began this seclusion, bent on discovery. She had been a researcher then, a mind dedicated to the next big adventure. She had traveled the world with her companion, seeking the newness of life in other places. Her world was hailed as extraordinary, as revolutionary, as dangerous. People questioned her sanity in undergoing the events she had for the sake of publication. Then, just over 3652 days ago, she hit upon her biggest idea yet. A test of the human mind, a study of sanity and silence. What if a human were to be completely isolated from society, from the advances of the age, for a decade? What if they were to be silent that long? What if they did not see another human face, including their own? Her colleagues dismissed it, too radical, too risky. Who would agree to such a thing, to be the subject? She thought herself the perfect subject after all. No family, few friends, no lasting connection in the world. Who would miss her? To test the human brain, it was worth the price. What better test subject? So she disappeared. Off the grid, in the tiny cabin of some long lost relative's last testament. Packages of supplies left quarterly at the front gate but her one trusted companion. No face-to-face meeting though, no talking, otherwise the experiment would be moot. One page a day, to record thoughts, observations, curiosities. Someone would dissect them, interpret them, see the patterns of her brain change with time. She continued to stare at the page, it's blankness looking back at her. It bothered her. What should she write? Should she mention that it is time to return to the world? That she missed other beings, of hearing voices? That she's happy it's over? That she's not? She grunted under her breath, frustrated. Who the bloody hell cares?! Just have to write the honesty of it all, just have to think and write, just put the pen on the paper. 3652. She picked up the pen and began to write. *Today is the end of the testing. Subject is relieved (pause) and slightly nervous at the concept of returning to the world.* She nodded and set the pen down. There that should do it, good enough. She stretched and went to put on her coat. It would be a long walk to town in the snow. She grabbed the snowshoes hanging by the door, strapping on the leather, and the compass on the table. It took a few hours by the sun's time to reach the nearest town. To her it was an amiable walk. After all, she had been in these woods a decade now. She knew which animals lived where, at watched generations come and go with time. From the hill, she could see the small town below her, a mountain town not prone to visitors. Would she scare them, she wondered. After all, she had driven through there ten years ago. A couple more hours later, she found herself at the mouth of Main Street. Something was off. It was quiet. Silent. No cars were moving, they all remained parked. Strange vehicles she had never seen before lined the road. The store fronts were dusty, filmed over in sepia. The road was covered in snow, and had been for a while. She turned in circles, brows knitted with confusion. Where were the people? She kept walking. Nothing. There was no sign of struggle, no broken glass, no trash. She walked quickly to a newspaper stand, searching for a date, a period of time that something could have happened in. Nothing, not a single paper. No date. No sound. Nothing. She kept walking, toward the town square, the center of it all. Still nothing. She turned the corner, the large white courthouse looming in a snowy shroud. The cloudy sky continued to let the flakes fall.*pssmtpssmtpssmt* As she got closer to the steps of the building, a shape. A man. He stands. She freezes mid step, eyes widening, breath ceasing. He smiles broadly. "Hello Amelia," he says, evenly. Her eyes bulge and she hears a sound, from far away. Her own voice. It's screaming.

As I lay on this floor bleeding out, I look back and wonder, why must it all end so suddenly? I had plans to go party with my friends tonight. Who is going to feed my dog? I should of asked out that cute girl at the gym.... Did I live my life to the fullest? I should have traveled more.... All these random thoughts vanish in my head just as quickly as they came. The truth is that I am currently dying and soon nothing will really matter. Its funny how life works, and entire sequence of events that seem to randomly come together and for what? For 3 damn bullets to end up in my chest? If it wasn’t for the agonizing pain I'm in right now I would be pissed, this is not how I pictured my life ending. Wow this is taking forever. I’m still waiting for my life to flash before my eyes, nothing is happening, I just feel cold. Well I guess I could go down memory lane myself, I just hope I have enough time to remember the important parts.... That’s right! I have a mother and a father... I don’t know why that just popped up since EVERYONE has one but I’m trying to recall my life from my earliest memories. We were a happy family once but sometime between my 2nd and 3rd birthday things went to shit. I don’t really know what happened and it doesn’t matter since this is my story and I’m the star!. Anyways things were bad where we lived, corruption was at its peak, gang violence prevented anyone from going outside after 6pm. I knew money was an issue even at that young age of 4 but I would never have imagined that it would drive my dad to leave our country in search of a better future. I didn’t even know what was happening when my dad said goodbye, I did not see him for 7 years. I try not to think about the time I was with my mother, every time I look back, it seems like a blur of abandonment, hunger, tears, pain and suffering at the hands of my many stepdads. She was young when she had me and even though I blame her age for what happened, I still resent her. Dad never forgot though, he would send money and try to be there for me as best he could from such distance. At the age of 11 he asked me if I wanted to go live with him. It was a no brainer. I applied for a visa and after an extremely long process, I got it. It seems like only yesterday I was a goofy looking kid from South America seeing a Burger King for the first time. I went from always being hungry to not being abled to finish my food. Life was good from that point on, I went to school, made many friends and had normal teenage years. It wasn’t until it was time to apply for college that I realized my peers had something I didn’t. You see, I had overstayed my visa therefor making me an illegal immigrant. Although my dad had applied for a green card two years before I got to this country there weren’t any signs that we would get one any time soon. I was one of the only seniors that did not have a plan after finishing high school. Life went on and on my 18th birthday, 2 months after I had already finished high school, my green card came on the mail. I should have been angry because it caused me to be left behind by my peers that had already went on to college, but I was just happy and grateful that the country that took me in when I was young considered me a legal resident. It was a euphoric sensation to finally feel like I belonged somewhere. That day I went to a recruiting station to join the U.S Air Force and try to give back to the country that had already given me so much. Until this very last moment I still think my life didn’t truly began until I joined the service. I honestly thought I would meet my end fighting for this nation because i love this country, I love its people and I loved the opportunities it was able to give a young immigrant kid from South America. The words: Land of the free, home of the brave keep popping into my mind. Who would of thought my trip to El Paso would end this way.

Nellie was near the rear of the shoppe when her aunt opened the door for the killer. It was a little past normal closing time for Flowry. That is the name of the thriving floral boutique that is run by her aunt. Nellie has worked there for several years. The front door to Flowry was a milky glass; this did not lend itself to knowing who was on the other side of the portal. There were two large windows to either side of the door; but if you didn’t see who was coming, through one of those windows, then it was a surprise when they entered through the front door. It was as much a surprise as any baby coming into this world; despite how many old wives said that it must be a boy, or girl because you’re “carrying the baby” this way or that in your pregnant belly. As surprises go; this was not a good one. This surprise was somewhere along the lines of the Dr. telling you that maybe you want to go to a drier climate because it would be better for you: would give you more “time.” She saw her aunt open the door; more to poke her head out and speak to whoever was on the other side, than to actually grant access. It was slightly past normal closing time for Flowry after all. It had been an unusual day in the city; what with the unprecedented snowfall in June. From her vantage point in the rear of the store she was unable to see who was at the door; but she did hear her aunt speaking to them. She couldn’t quite make out what her aunt was saying, and she was going to go about her normal business of closing up the floral boutique; but then her aunt did something that sent a chill through Nellie. With her head still poking slightly out the front door; her aunt had taken her right hand from the door itself and lowered it behind her back, and then with her right hand forming the “OK” sign, she had vigorously moved her hand back and forth. The gesture in and of itself would have been meaningless to anyone who did not know Nellie’s aunt very well. It was 100 percent: an “inside joke”; only this was not funny. Nellie had been living with her aunt for several years after her father had gone to War, and not returned. Her father was her aunt’s younger brother; only living brother, before he went to War, so she was taken in by her Aunt. Nellie’s mother had passed years before the War; and she had no other brothers or sisters. Her aunt had taken her in and given her a place to live and work. More importantly she had given the girl “family.” Nellie worked at Flowry, and lived above the shoppe in one of the spacious rooms. Her aunt and cousin Teague lived above the shoppe with Nellie as well. They were her family now; and had been for several years. When her aunt made that gesture; which stopped Nellie in her tracks, the young girl looked about for a place to hide. There was a back door; to an alley, and also a door on one side of the shoppe that lead to the living space above the boutique where Nellie had her room. Both of those doors would have had her cross the shoppe and come into view of whoever was on the other side of the portal that her aunt was currently holding firm, while conversing with the person on the other side of the door. There was a lovely fireplace in the salon above the shoppe. This was where; more often than not, Nellie would have her meals, with her aunt and cousin Teague. One of her favorite things in the evening was sitting in front of the fireplace, and listening to her aunt talk. Teague’s mother would talk about growing up in the old country. He aunt had a gift for story telling; and most of her stories were whimsical, and many were funny, some quite hilarious. But when the weather was dreary, or her aunt had a few glasses of sherry with dinner; then she would tell other stories. The shoppe keeper would talk about lean times; about losing friends and family to consumption. She would talk about a time when there was a conflict in the city between rival factions; and that there were attacks on the street and even in people’s homes. Her aunt would talk about how her father was involved with one of the factions; and that he had a signal that meant “danger.” When her father made that signal; it meant that you needed to hide, and do it quickly. That signal meant that death could literally be at the door. Her aunt made that signal; and it made Nellie worry. Near the rear of the store where she was working, there was an open wooden bin where they would toss the detritus of their floral trade. It wasn’t overly large; maybe three feet by three, by four feet high. It was currently half full of stalks, flowers, loose baby’s breath and what not. Nellie made a quick decision and moved to the bin; and stepped over and into it. She was a lovely girl: at least that’s what everyone had told her for most of her life. She was on the taller side for a woman; close to 176 centimeters, but slender. Nellie knew that she could easily crouch in the bin and not be seen; so that is what she did. As She crouched below the edge of the bin; she heard, more than saw her aunt open the front door to admit the person from the doorstep. The shoppe was very aromatic; as it was still half full of various plants and flowers, even at closing time. Nellie could smell the pleasant scent of Cornish Heath, because there was a bit of it in the bin with her. The smell of the bell shaped lilac flower made her think of the large man who came in several times a week to pick up bundles of it. Fitz was a big man, who worked for that Penrose fellow. She didn’t care for the leader of the enterprise; but she did think that Branok was sweet on her. And for her part; the prospect of his attentions were somewhat exciting. Everyone knew the enterprise troubleshooter by his surname, which was Fitz: but she had overheard Mr. Penrose calling the big man Branok. The head of the enterprise that ran the West Side of the city had a habit of referring to everyone he dealt with on a regular basis, by their given name, as opposed to their surname. Once she learned the big man’s name; she couldn’t help but think that he looked more like a “Bran”, so that is how she referred to him. She found it amusing that she learned her own cousin Teague’s given name from his employer. Everyone called her cousin Teague, which was his surname. Even her cousin’s own mother, Nellie’s aunt, referred to her son as Teague. She had never thought to inquire after his given name; so when she first heard Penrose call her cousin Jowan, it took her several moments to realize that he was referring to her cousin Teague. She struggled to see through the gaps in the boards that made up the bin. She could see glimpses of her aunt and a handsome man. The man was tall; not near as tall as Bran, but close to her cousin Teague in height. But whereas her cousin was built very solid; with broad shoulders and powerful arms, the handsome man was more lean. She couldn’t help but think he was more like a Panther to her cousin’s Tiger. The handsome man looked about the shoppe from the entry way and after he stepped in, he linked arms with the shoppe keeper. From her vantage point, Nellie could see that the man was well dressed. She watched the two as they walked slowly down the aisles. They stopped at several different points and she could see her aunt gesturing towards the flowers or plants that they were near. The two were speaking as they walked, but Nellie had a hard time making out the words. At least her aunt didn’t seem distressed: Nellie thought that odd, since she had seen her aunt make that desperate gesture. At one point; they stopped by a bundle of flowers and her aunt plucked a bloom from the bunch and she could see her aunt place it in the lapel of the man’s jacket. The two of them were closer than they had been during their rambling about the store; so she heard her aunt say, “a handsome lad like yourself needs a flower in his lapel.” From her place in the bin, Nellie could see the man’s smooth, handsome features. He had a distinct Mediterranean look about him. His hair was darker even that Bran’s, who had hair black as pitch. She felt a little uneasy at her aunt’s choice of flowers for the man’s lapel. It had been a black Chrysanthemum that the shoppe keeper had placed in the handsome man’s lapel. After the man had said “thank you Mrs.”, in a silky tone, they had walked a little more down another aisle. Nellie watched the handsome man walk; and couldn’t help compare the way he moved to Bran, or her cousin Teague: or even their employer - Mr. Penrose-. Each of those men had a way of moving that made Nellie think they were dangerous. This man moved in a similar fashion. He was graceful in his movements; and matched her aunt’s steps perfectly, as if they were in a dance. They stopped near a bundle of Cornish Heath: Nellie could not help thinking, “some call it Wandering Heath”, and the handsome man leaned over to smell the lilac flowers. After he straightened up, he spoke some more to his aunt, though Nellie was unable to make out what he said. She tensed as she watched the man pull something out of his jacket pocket and offer it to his aunt for inspection. The item in his hand was a straight razor with an ivory handle. Her aunt was clearly reluctant to handle it; and did not even reach out to take it. It was actually almost beautiful; even though it made her shiver to look at. Before the man put it back in his pocket Nellie did hear him say; “found it in an antique shoppe on Fleet Street.” The pair walked down another aisle; and made their way toward the door at the rear of the shoppe. Nellie heard her aunt say;” well of course I have to lock up.” She watched her aunt lock the back door and then the handsome man took her aunt’s arm in his and walked towards the front of the store. They spoke as they walked; and Nellie clearly heard her aunt say, “I’m worried.” Whatever else she had to say was unclear as they were moving away. Her aunt stopped at the door to turn out the shoppe lights. As she did this; her aunt looked to the rear of the store and Nellie knew that her aunt knew where she had been hiding. Nellie heard the tinkle of the little bell as her aunt closed the door and left with the killer.

My boyfriend’s shaky, scared breath jutted in short, quick puffs. “Yeah,” he panicked into the walkie-talkie, his eyes darting as they widened and then normalized under this flickering science laboratory. The lights dimmed and then brightened--no, it was too nerve-wracking. No, scary and brain-numbing. The only thing I could think of was to stare right at the chocolate haired, white-faced, slightly freckly guy in white Converse sneakers. Who was staring straight up at the thunder and lightning ruling the sky as they took turns crackling and booming up a storm. Literally. “Uh...” He stammered, attention glued to whatever was so freakish above us. “It...” A direct bolt of lightning struck and fried a bus station shelter and its bench. I gaped as the whole construction went from metal and plastic to complete charred ashes in a split-second. I inhaled. My boyfriend threw the walkie-talkie to the floor and dashed bravely--and maybe stupidly--over to me behind a counter with glass chemistry bottles. He grabbed my hand before I could hiss at him that he shouldn’t be risking his life for me, but he had this aura about him. I should just thank him in times like this one. Although the world had already come to an end, we two high school sweethearts were the only few teens left after a grossly large, mechanical alien spaceship-like thing evaporated downtown Eagle Wing High School without somehow taking all the students. We, desperate, tried to find other people who survived the attack. Mainly students--hopefully not middle or elementary school age. Actually, as we raced further downtown--past an abandoned hotdog stand and pizza parlor, a barber shop, a sizzled hamburger joint and a burning, smoking hair salon--Avery yanked my arm and reacted to my cry with a tight-lipped, white-faced stare back at me. Let’s go! Hurry. His fear-streaked face had I’m really scared written all over it. I even gagged a little on my cough as I struggled to breathe. Apart from the gloom and doom happening right in front of us, the air itself was so thick with terror and wonder as to whether anyone was going to be alive on this planet much longer. We could all be evaporated in milliseconds. We could be that bench station or the hamburger joint. A loud siren blared, and red lights flashed warningly as we two made a mad dash around the corner, making a U-turn for a wall and then switching left for an open door. Avery pulled again, saying “Come on!” amidst lips barely moving from the obvious icy terror keeping them far from open. Entering a darkened, empty parking garage, Avery and I stood together, me about to ask what he was going to do to try to save himself from either shriveling up in total fear or brave his surroundings and look for ways to survive this nightmare of a reality. My lips barely audible, I chanced it. “What are we going to do?” I ran my fingers through my silky, straightened black hair, my bangs getting pushed around my pierced ears. I played with my ponytail and then looked at him for an answer. He was my only protection. “I don’t know....” Icy fear had definitely started to cement his mouth closed. He almost started to freeze up, and I saw little beads of sweat form on his already creased forehead. I looked away, not wanting the terror to invade my brain and cause me to panic as well. I would be strong for him, for myself and for everyone else out there. I had to save us. I had to save everyone around us. Jerking over, I witnessed two silhouetted figures come running towards us. I squinted and saw that they were extremely dark skinned with flecks of tan around their wrists and elbows. A boy with curly brown hair was coming towards us and a girl--thin braids running from just above her forehead down to the beginning of her spine in her neck--was behind him. I watched the boy as he kept running and then felt the urge to save him. “No!” But he sprinted faster than I, my outstretched hands almost grasping his neon orange exercise shirt. Galloping after him, I yelled, “Stop!” He slowed to a jog, and I sprinted harder, catching up to him. “Hey!” But he darted off. “Mallory!” I whipped my head back--Avery was trying to save the girl now. I screeched to a halt, staring at her. She was sprinting in the opposite direction than us, down the sidewalk Avery and I had rushed down while escaping from the abandoned science laboratory. I then gaped in horror as she made a U-turn, heading for and then stopping right in the middle of the intersection. She was turning her head from one direction to another, her legs jerking each way like she was deciding whether to go down the street behind her or run towards the affixed stores. My attention went back to the boy. He was rounding a store corner, and then he was out of sight. I was frozen, and didn’t know what to do. Avery was calling to the girl, staying rooted to his spot but crying for her to listen to him. Then she bolted for the street. “No--girl!” I screamed as she made a mad dash right where a bolt of lightning was about to disintegrate another bus stop station. I lunged, without thinking, towards the lightning and then curled up, hearing Avery’s mad yell slur into blurred speech. A loud ringing in my ears distracted me. I lay in a ball, my jeaned knees and my chin glued to each other. Avery, sounding distant but also near, waved his arms, eyes open and flashing with terror. Shoes, up in the air, came soundlessly down onto the street. I saw, before fainting, a black shirt with a neon orange lightning bolt drawn on it... “Mmmm.” The groan--did it come from me? Then my eyes flashed open and I jerked upright the second I heard beeping. A press against my shoulder, and I looked into familiar eyes. Avery. But... “Where am I?” I moved around, trying to make sense of the long, extremely thin tubes and white patches stuck like tape to my skin. Why was a monitor beeping behind me? What were polka-dotted sheets doing covering my legs and hips? I hated any kind of resistance, so I ripped the blankets off and scooted myself towards the concrete floor. As I jumped off the raised bed, I swung around and glowered at Avery. “Why am I wired to this--” “Don’t!” He grabbed my other hand before I could tear the assumedly injected needle out of my wrist. “You can’t do that!” “Why?” I seethed through gritted teeth. “Where--am--I?” “You’re...” He stepped back, motioning with his palms up. “You’re in the hospital. I need to get you better. Some nurses will--” “I don’t want nurses. I want to stop...” I jerked my eyes all around, turning my body. “I want to get out of here. I don’t want anyone...” I started breathing deeply and then slowly crawled back into the bed and under the sheet. “I’m...tired.” I pulled it up to my hips until my arms went limp and I lay back, barely able to keep my eyes open. I yawned and heard, “There, there!” before all went dark again. “Mallory. Mallory!” I groaned again and blinked several times as blurriness cleared and Avery came into view. He was leaning over my bed, looking at me with a sad smile on his face. I instantly reverted to anger again, but apparently the stupid beeping machine didn’t allow me to do so. I clenched my hands, but they went weak and I had to rest them against the polka-dots. I attempted to curl my toes, but then they just stopped sensing the curl. What was going on? I widened my eyes and shook my head at Avery. “What’s going on?” I panicked, shifting so I could leave the bed--the hospital--If I had to. Because I had to. He sighed like he had told me a hundred times to just sit back and relax. “Mal, we’re here for several more weeks.” “Weeks?!” I began ripping the white tape off. As I tried to wrestle my clasped hand away from Avery’s clutching one and release myself from this dreaded needle pumping who knows what into me, I started feeling tired again. So weak and vulnerable. As I lay back, almost nauseated, I noticed everything was going dark again. The pillow cushioned my head... Then I bolted right up and blanched. “Who is taking care of us?” While Avery pressed that I should remain calm, I ignored him, stretching my neck and maneuvering my body all around so I could see the nurses--and whether they were legit people caring for the actually sick or injured patients. Narrowing my eyes at one curly-haired brunette in a white lab coat, I hissed at her. “Who is she?” Avery sighed and turned his head. “She’s just--” “How do we know?” “ I know because I talked to her. She’s the one who,” Avery turned to me but I narrowed my eyes into slits. “helped you get here.” I grumbled something and pulled my knees up to my chest, staying there. “At least you’re here.” “You can’t just--” “Just what?” I almost spazzed. “Just trust people when an apocalyptic future is already here? Just say ‘Okay’ to someone who could very well...” A nurse was arriving with some gross colored medicine and set it down on my bed in front of the footboard. “Just take the medicine?” Avery cut his eyes to the nurse. “Um...let’s continue this later.” He walked around and then held out the tray to me, which I completely smacked to the floor, all the medicine--or whatever it really was--crashing onto the tiled cement. Glass smashed and pills rolled everywhere. “Mallory!” Avery reprimanded, but I merely glanced at him like I was under severe medical treatment and couldn’t process his outburst. “Mallory, that’s--” “Drugs.” I croaked, turning to the nurse who was now doing something to my bed. “Get away from me.” “Jus--” But I whipped my hand towards her wrist, clutching it and ripping it clean off the bed handle. As Avery screamed at me to freaking stop attacking an innocent woman, I threw back that she was no ordinary nurse--why would she induce a needle that made me want to lay back and sleep when our very lives were at stake? I scrambled off the bed, the woman obviously too shocked to react past gasping, and I demanded Avery come with me. He burst out with an absolute “No!” “Yes!” I demanded, but Avery dug his sneakers in, firmly telling me through barely open lips that I needed to get my act together. I jabbed a finger in his face to let him know I was not going to marry such a stubborn man. I attempted grabbing his wrist again and it worked, him crying out with a squeak of pain and a harsh yell that I had hurt him. You’re going to be hurt a lot worse if you don’t get out of here. Getting out of the door-less room and speeding down the hallway, I found ourselves outside, it still lightning and thundering, but hail pounded the sidewalk, driveway and cars parked a few feet away in the lot. “Let’s go!” I urged, freeing his arm and commanding Avery follow me this instant. “Mallory!” He pulled his long sleeved button shirt up over his head as he ran towards me, ordering me to follow him. Raging, I clenched my hands and almost screamed for him to follow me . He just kept running away, not even looking back. I escaped towards the right. Dodging the hailstones that seemed to get bigger as I moved along, I found a lone umbrella and stole it, opening it up and using it to shield myself from the now really big ones about to squash me flat. I squeezed my eyes shut but kept running and somehow avoided them. Baffled as to why I wasn’t getting pummeled, I heard distant laughter and dared to look back. Some nurses in my now windowless and darkened hospital room looked my way. One of them shifted her eyes between me and the glowing computer screen. The light lit up all their faces, and I shivered, wanting to leave this horrible place called Earth forever. I heard another noise and peered in the direction in which Avery had left me. He was standing there, and I felt his visual direction on me. He was beckoning me on, waving frantically. Something like “Come on!” flew through the air and entered my eardrums. I nodded, grateful and relieved, and ran over there. He let the shirt go, swinging out an arm as I held the umbrella over us and continued running, his feet almost in step with mine. I told him about what I had seen in the hospital room with the computer screen and the creepy nurses, but he just kept repeating “Stop it!” as we headed downtown, just racing through the two-lane highway and making it to an empty barber’s shop. No, it was unsafe. We knocked our way through the backdoor and ran towards who knew where. When we managed to find a trailer park, we just busted into a home and shut the door, me wanting to cry from how hopeless and weak we were in the middle of a life that was out of our hands and, worse, never-ending. We didn’t want it, but we somehow had to survive such a sign of the end of the world. After shutting all windows and barricading all doors, we scrambled into the booth seats, sitting across from one another. We started discussing our map of escape. Where’d we go was out of the question. Spying a backpack lying near a bed, Avery jumped up and grabbed it, slamming it down onto the table. “Here’s what we do.” He rummaged through and grabbed two pencils and a big notebook. He tossed me a pencil, which I caught, and flipped the notebook to a blank page. Stabbing the paper with his pencil, like a military commander he started drawing an outline of our town. “But how do you know...” I sat up straight and looked at his crude pictures of a park, our high school and its baseball field a little ways off. “where we need to go?” “That’s the question we need to find out.” He looked at me as though he knew I wasn’t sure whether we could pull this escape plan off. “Okay?” “Yeah.” I doubted. “Mal, we’re running for our lives!” He stated the obvious. “What’s a map going to do?” I grabbed the book and tossed it on the ground. “How are we going to escape with our lives by wasting--” “Mallory, do you want to survive?” He gesticulated, but I calmly remarked back. “I would like to figure it all out instead of having no idea where we are going. We can’t just guess. We need--” “A map?” Avery stabbed the sheet of paper after collecting it from the floor and dropped it, open, onto the table. “We need to do this.” He continued sketching some things as I pulled my knees up to my chest. I watched him draw and doodle some more and asked, “Why didn’t the hailstones hit us?” “You tell me.” Avery didn’t look up from his map-drawing. “What did you--” “The computer screen. The nurses must’ve been controlling...” Avery slowly looked up at me, and we widened our eyes. “The weather!” We realized in unison. “Is this some kind of game?” He panicked, seeming to abandon the map, because he reached over to peel back the curtain with a shaking finger. As he looked outside, he jerked back but told me to watch as the hailstones grew to almost thrice their size but disappeared like in a video game. Lightning struck somewhere far off, its loud crackle illuminating the almost dark sky. “They’re not hitting us. So we don’t have to worry about them.” I deduced, but Avery looked at me like there was a bigger problem. “But can they control us ?” He worried, pulling his lips in and studying the outside again. I gave a fear-filled laugh. “No. They’re just nurses.” “Just nurses.” Avery bobbed his head up and down, already shaking a little and rubbing the back of his neck. “Just plain nurses. You think that tells us something?”

The Kearnes had not made this journey pleasant for any of us, utterly salivating at the fact they had control over so many, no doubt. Usually, these weaklings would have been kicked down and left in the dirt. But their close proximity with the King and coloured history allowed them to operate with impunity. They poked and prodded each other, hurled rocks at passing animals, and acted in general, far below their station. Micah pulled up beside me, cloak pulled over his head. “Bunch of absolute morons.” He spat under his breath. I nodded in approval. “However, they are our appointed guides for this journey, and we would do well to not rouse any suspicion for what our plans are.” He quietly pulled his warhorse back into the fold. I looked towards the front of the group. The Dunkans still held the front, their great lumbering bears seemed to never lack stamina, as they trotted at a quick pace for the last several hours. We could easily feast on the blood of animals when the occasion called. Our party left the carcasses of many rotting beasts behind us, strewn across the path. While it satiated our hunger, we all had a deeper need for something more fulfilling. I hoped for some more humans to share once we reached the village. The winding road outstretched before us as we crossed the plains of Gwynedd. At the top of the nearest hill lay the village in question, fortified on all sides by stone walls and a great iron gate. It seemed the reports had been far too modest in terms of what we were up against. In the middle of the village towered a great keep that likely had archers stationed within the battlements. As we proceeded down the path, Cian held his hand up, motioning the party to stop. He held the scroll up to his face, illuminated by a torch that was our only guide in the pitch darkness. “The report says the party was attacked here nearby...” Cian urged his horse to the right of the beaten path. The smell of rotting flesh greeted our nostrils uninvited. “House leaders, join me.” Roy, myself and a few others motioned our companions to wait on the path while we moved forward. We waded through trampled branches and fallen trees, clearly signalling some kind of combat not long ago. There were claw and sword marks in the trunks of some oak trees which had been completely toppled. The image of the melee came into my mind, as I attempted to picture just what kind of force had killed two of our brothers. “Look Rathiel!” Came a familiar high-pitched and urgent tone from behind me. “Layla, you’re not supposed to be...” “Hush.” She juggled something around in her hands. “What is that?” I jumped off my horse to get a closer look. The other leaders were starting to take an interest as well. “Looks like bullet casings.” She said, seeming smug and pleased with herself, allowing a smile to slip through. “Let me see that.” I picked one up off her palm. I studied the piece of metal carefully. My eyes narrowed into black slits as I pushed them into focus. It clearly was an ammunition casing of some kind, the make of which I hadn’t seen in many years. From the weight and appearance, it reminded me of the brightsilver that had been used centuries ago in the battles fought for east England. We had been trained about all silver weaponry extensively in classes as children. I dropped the casing, not noticing the red blotches it left on my hand. “Lets keep looking.” I motioned to the others to move forward. We fanned out in the forest. I walked further eastward, moving not a hundred paces before I heard Roy’s voice call out from behind me. “Here!” He shouted. I grunted and turned to a wisp of smoke, not caring for professionalism. In an instant, I reached his side with the others, and reappeared. There were two horse carcasses in the clearing, bloodied with claw marks and with bite wounds in their neck. This must have been where our brothers were attacked, I reasoned to myself. There was a human wagon not far off, toppled over and contents littered all about. Uninteresting books about Christianity, blunt weaponry and jewellery littered the piles. I heard a sharp HISSSSSS escape one of my companions over my shoulder. I turned to see Wayne Alnwick writhing on the ground covering his eyes. I rushed over to him. “Wayne?” I put a hand on his shoulder, worried. “Arrrrrrghhhhh. wretched Catholic dogs!” He covered his face and bared his fangs menacingly. As the others moved to tend to him, I walked to the source of the commotion. Beside the wagon lay an opened black box. Inside was a silver cross and a rosary that had spilled out. I picked it up in my hands, carefully inspecting the ridges in the craftsmanship. “Wayne, there are no blessings upon this cross.” I said reassuringly. I put it back in the box, but I was becoming worried. Turning to the others, I began to speak, but I was interrupted by Cian. “Its clear we aren’t just dealing with any rag-tag band of hunters here.” He said slowly, choosing his words carefully, which was uncharacteristic. “The side of the wagon bears the Kingdom of England and Ireland's Royal Coat of Arms.” Concern started to bubble up in the group as we all looked at each other, not knowing what to say. The royalty was not something we usually came into contact with in our coven. Even leaving Castle Beaumaris happened very rarely, to avoid such danger as angering the crown. “We cannot jump to conclusions...” he continued. “This must only be kept to yourselves, to avoid unnecessary panic.” All of the leaders present agreed, and our eyes flicked towards Layla, who also nodded in compliance. “If King James or other Royal houses are involved, this goes far deeper than we could have imagined. Wren, Dunkan, send your best and fastest men back to Beaumaris with this news, and keep it discreet.” I nodded and made my way back to the path to deliver the news.

I usually only write once I get inspiration and my stories are short and incomplete- that's what I feel anyway. My grammar isn't the best but I really put my heart into this short story! ^^ tick.tock.tick.tock.tick.tock. Up until now I had never realised how loud my watch would sound when everything was faded. Blurry. Faded. The sun seemed so bright. It's rays pierced my eyes. Always. Soft lofi music rang in my ears. Lofi kept me rooted to reality. As weird as it sounds, all the colours, every single one of them around me- they were shades of gray, black and white. It was like I was in an old black and white movie where I was the lead actress as I was the only one with slight traces of hue. I hated everything, everyone too. Sitting in the cafe all alone staring at the cup of coffee in front of me I felt at peace. Sad depressing peace. I picked up the cup and let it's warmth caress my fingers and palm, and for a brief moment I smiled. The faint jingle of the door opening reached my ears. Although I was disinterested, I looked up. Something was compelling my eyes to look forward rather than stare at the floor all the time. I drew in a sharp breath. My breath was ragged- something that rarely happened to me. There He was. A man filled with colour. There were bright shades of blue and magenta swirling around him. Perhaps you could call them His aura. He radiated colour, colour that was bright but non scathing at the same time. My eyes were drawn to His. Why? I didn't know. I didn't have the faintest idea why. I watched Him walk to the counter and order something. I watched His lips move. As if in slow motion. I could make out the words He said. I tried to look away. But I couldn't. I couldn't look away from the man whose body oozed with vivid colours. There were warm hues swirling around Him but I noticed magenta. A lot of magenta. After what seemed like a year He turned his head, possibly looking for a place to sit and I drew in a sharp ragged breath again. Why? Why the colours? Why was I able to see them? From someone I hadn't even seen before. I watched Him walk over, to the table next to mine. Oh god no. He noticed me staring at Him... and smiled. I was taken aback. I expected Him to get creeped out but he didn't. He smiled instead and His smile was the most beautiful thing I had seen in a long time. When He smiled, for a split second the colours around Him pulsed as if they were alive. Not knowing what to do, I looked down at my lap embarassed. What happened next almost shocked me. He sat next to my table and smiled again. That smile. The colours around Him pulsed again, with more energy this time. I could tell He was shy. Hell I was shy too but my body almost forced itself to stand up. It felt like my nerves and muscles had a life and brain of their own as I slowly walked to His table and timidly sat down in front of him. colours. There were so many. Some swirled around my head- soft welcoming tones of orange. Tinges of blue flew past my neck while pigments of yellow chose to lay still next to my hands. For a few moments I was lost. The colours were breathtaking. And then my eyes focused on His. He was smiling. He was shy. And my heart melted like butter under heat. Pinks and purples nestled closely together near His heart and some adventurous ones flitted to mine. Of course He couldn't see this. Only I could. I had never seen such vibrant colours before. I was so drawn to Him. This complete stranger whom I had just met. But it felt like I had known Him my whole life. How? I didn't know either. Then He spoke. "I'm R." He said. His voice was deep, but not too deep. It perfectly matched his face. His beautiful face. When he spoke, the magenta near his face glowed. "What about you?" He asked. "I- " why did I stammer? I never stammered. "A" I said feeling like a complete fool. "That's a beautiful name you've got there." He replied. As He spoke, the colours around Him danced like they were elated. It was beautiful to watch. He was beautiful to watch. "Oh. Thank you." I blushed, deeply embarrassed. A few more pinks and purples guarding his heart whirled over to mine and I gazed at them in awe. "Shiloh? Huh I like lofi too." He said and I realised He had noticed the artist on my phone. "Oh- um, that's nice." I replied feeling like a massive idiot. But He just laughed. A short but beautiful laugh. And some of the magenta surrounding Him twirled and glided and made its way to settle next to my face. I blushed again. I wasn't used to this attention.

A Turn of the Tide Tiberius Jackson Caution: This story contains graphic content and discusses a sensitive social issue. While this story involves two minority groups, I assure you that has been written with the upmost respect towards both parties, and serves as a lesson, not for the parties involved, but hopefully, for all mankind. For the first time in nearly six years, after having beaten the white man at his own political game - through death, uprisings, complex legislature, and historical pillaging, it seems that only now, in these moments, we must question whether or not we truly deserve this hard-won freedom. I used to believe, with every fiber of my being, that we did, that our cause mattered, and that we were better. So how, after everything I’d promised our people, could we have ended up here, with yet another man standing before a crazed mob, a noose around his neck, seconds away from coming full circle with those greedy masters who once slipped the ropes around our own lives? Have we already lost? Is this really it? A stream of sweat pours from the stiffening fingers behind my back. A throbbing in my chest betrays me, impressing the frantic outline of my heart into the stitches of my suit. My wife stands to my right, coveted by her famously recognizable green dress that elegantly flows past her toes. Her eyes seem barely protected by the same fragility as mine, wondering when the crowd will shatter these masks to reveal the doubts which so clearly hide underneath. How have they not found me out? How has my betrayal not been noticed? Why do I not speak? I cannot speak. I must remain still, conveying this false confidence which allows me to retain my image of authority. Though, for being an authority, how did this decision ever come to pass? Whose decision was this, if not mine? The crowds? Are we truly offering up this man’s life on social consensus? It wasn’t so long ago when the lives of our own grandparents were unfairly cut short in the same way. Hounds, I would say, like hyenas, a hunger for the prey before them, their teeth practically gnawing on the bones of this living corpse. An endless smattering of faces cocked upwards to view the spectacle they so deeply desired a few hours ago. A stage, quickly constructed from splintered cedar and rusted nails now becomes a prop in one of the first pages of our history book, a history which only began a few short months ago. There was no grass, or sidewalks, or streets, only the determined faces of a mob seeking their idea of justice - I hardly recognize any of them now. My people, where have they gone? I need to believe it prudent, in these slipping seconds, to reconsider what we’re doing. Though, how can I possibly entertain such thoughts now? How can I admit, after being entrusted with the freedom of my brothers and sisters, and this new country, forever stained by centuries of blood and plight, that we may have been wrong? That here, in the spiraling chaos, we’re proving every accusation against us true, and there appears only one path towards salvation, but it burns away into ash with every stomp of the ground, raising of a fist, and call for death. Chaos pierces my ears, the chorus of a mad conductor, hysterically blaring his horn to an out-of-control train. The noise overshadows the once feint cries of a family - a tribe - who desperately seek to end this unexpected turn of events. A father, their chief, only fighting for what he believed originally theirs. It all started out so civil, with us, our race, finally having the power to grant such a request. But how, how did it end up like this? Why can’t our people empathize with the situation? It was only a desire for fertile land, an admittance that a wrongdoing was done by the same hand which wronged us. A dream, for the same freedom we now relish in, which both luck and cultural circumstances finally granted our collective - benefits of which they have never known, banished to the undesirable corners of a country to become the fading remnants of a forgotten past. Surely, surely, we can empathize! I watch, helpless, as a wife suffocates on her own tears, scraping and flailing to break through the impenetrable barricade before her, a voice which I can only glimpse through the distance but cannot make out. She is about to join the ranks of those wives and mothers who were subject to a similar branding, the devouring of a warmth and love which will never be felt again. I witness an exhaustless desperation in her face, and in those beside her. A dozen, maybe a hundred, I cannot tell, as a thousand others obscure my vision. I can practically see the steam rising from my hands as the sun burns away both color and culture on this cloudless day - though, I’d prefer the clouds now. The Georgia Oaks in attendance, sporadically towering over the various spectators dawn every leaf of their bloom, dancing to the song of this performance. The breeze is but a hesitant breath, at least to me, barely piercing the numbness of the moment. This is wrong . We are better than this! We fought too hard and suffered too long to allow such a gift to become the poison which murders our dream. But how? How do I prevent this senseless act without drawing the noose around my own neck? Should I do so for the sake of morality? Save this man’s life because it is right, especially when his intentions were peaceful and justified? Or do I focus on what my people need? We’ve just won a war of five-hundred years, earning a sovereignty that won’t easily be granted twice. If we do this proper and prove that a seemingly undeservant nation of color can perform this miracle, then we can pave the way for others to do the same. So then, is this really a death? Is this man’s life worth betraying our cause? Or can he serve as a martyr, killed for a goal which seems eternally out of reach for his people, and yet, one which we may be able to make reality should we succeed? This cannot happen if we fail, if our efforts prove fruitless, further proving to the old-world that we were only ever a shallow, outspoken voice, and that they were right about us all along. Yes... We cannot afford to call the ships back, or radio the planes to return, admitting to their prestigious passengers that we’d made a terrible mistake. If one man must die for the sake of a million, then he must die. Right? No. What am I saying? The way must matter. How we reach the promised land must be just as important as the arrival itself. If we suddenly believe that innocent lives can be sacrificed, without care of color or race, so that our future is ensured, then we become no better than the pale-faced tyrants who stole us from our homelands and enslaved us under their whips. We must care about how we reach the end, because if we prove ourselves no better than our predecessors, then we never really won the war in the first place, and this so-called experiment will only produce the same inevitable future for another race of men, though this time, a darker face becoming the mask of the tyrants. But how do I make them see the truth? If I stand up now, I may very well find myself on the same three-legged stool where the chief now stands, sharing the endless volleys of ignorance and hate. What if I am the only one in this country who realizes this? What if I am the only one who can bring this to fruition for our people? Should this be the case, then silence is my duty. I must stay my hand, and my heart, in order to give myself a platform to make this future possible. I cannot interfere, because if I am to join the sacrificed, then whoever takes my place may lead us further into damnation, a familiar origin which bound our feet and forced our hands in the first place. A ringmaster appears on stage, her feet playfully sliding towards the chief. I’m stuck within my own thoughts, without care to know her face, or give her another moments attention. Though, fueled by the cries of the crowd, a sadistic excitement overcomes her, infusing the heart with a molested sense of fame, and creating a desire for more. The crowd, in turn, becomes fed by this puppeteer’s teaseful acts. She gently kicks the corners of the stool, inviting the victim atop to stumble for balance. The volume of cheers and angst increases, just as the screams inside my own head grow ever clearer. My vision tunnels, blurring the outside scene through the focus on only one set of eyes. The chief’s chin rests on his shoulder, a ravine of twisted trails carved into his neck. No fire spits on me through eyes so bleak, yet their softness dresses me in an essence of fatherly disappointment. Suddenly, I am made the true victim of this death. His courage and conviction cut through the noise like ripples overcoming stormy waters. He, not me, was the wiser, as his decision to die for the future of his people proved me a coward, unable to stand up for a simple injustice which was unfolding all too quickly. An injustice, which, would not set us apart from our treacherous forebearers, but openly welcome their spirit back into our lives, forsaking the bonds of our history with outstretched arms as if warmfully greeting old friends. Though the rope began to paint his neck with the shade of inevitability, an unexpected opposition began to resist the coming moment - the spirit of a true leader emerging - fearless, prepared. He knows, he must, what he’s dying for, and it comforts him. A tribe, who’d been under the yoke of the same institution which our own in chains. We should be brothers - he and I - and yet, a simple request for land, of which their ancestors had cultivated and revered long before our arrival, suddenly turned him into the enemy in the eyes of the masses. If we are to save ourselves, we must be different, and whether that is realized now, or a hundred years from this day, it doesn’t just rest on my shoulders to make it true. I cannot be willing to sacrifice my own principles out of fear that my people will parish, and I must begin to set the example for which they elected me to do. I was entrusted; therefore, they must learn to trust. If we’re to thrive in our new society, we must first survive the aftermath of our history. Just as childhood trauma expresses itself unconsciously in adulthood, so too, will the scars of our past express themselves throughout our own journey of development. This cannot be understated and should serve as the very platform by which we create our new culture. It’s so clear to me now, and I know what I must do. I must stop this ungodly act! No more, will a soul be persecuted impulsively, and through such barbaric means. Our kind will no longer be fed by pitied hands, or seen as the rats who overcrowd the sewers of society. Instead, we shall be remembered as those who built one of the greatest empires in human history. We will change, and we have the power to do so, we just lack the drive to evolve into our greatest selves. My hands release to raise the overdue point, a line of sweat coloring the splinters below. I tear the seams from my lips which kept me silent these last hours, uttering the first of my words, but as I begin to speak, the stool... The crack of the stool renders me mute, for it wasn’t the only crack which overwhelmed my senses. Screams and cheers entertain themselves through interspersed smiles and hugs. The hangman raises her arms in victory. A wife, paralyzed, disappears behind the celebration. I, the man who allowed this to happen, waited too long, and now it’s too late. An innocent soul flees into the infinite blue backwater above, while my quivering lip begins to contemplate the question which seems only apparent to my tearful wife and I - tears which now paint a different picture of what our future is likely to become. My God, is the end?

Do you know the saying; I feel like I have walked in someone else’s shoes. Let me tell you about this incident, of consciously viewing from another person’s eyes. When I close my eyes; I can see a whole new place, a home, a park, or a coffee shop away from where I am at the moment. Now I had never brought this up before other than to tell you this story. Someone would place me here permanently in a hospital room with locked hallway doors in the Mental Health and Addictions Unit. Where I have been once before, but I could not tell them everything that was going on. I didn’t want them to think I was strange. I have a terrible memory. Think about something and in one second it’s gone. So, this experience I like to keep to myself. But today I will share my occurrences. One day I was relaxing in my chair in front of my window, watching people walk by. Wondering what they are thinking? How their day is going? I could see if they felt happy or troubled about something going on in their lives. At one point I closed my eyes and instead of seeing just darkness, I could see shadows moving around, people talking. When I opened my eyes to see if anyone was standing in front of me. I got up to look outside my doorway. The hallway was clear. Everyone was on the other side of the doors, waiting for evening snack time to arrive. That’s how I would know what time it was at eight in the evening. Everybody lined up waiting for the sandwiches to be given out. I just stood outside my door, feeling like I couldn’t comprehend what was going on with my eyes. Walking back to my armchair to relax and close my eyes to meditate. It happened again. This time I could see the nurse’s station, where they did their paperwork. I see one blind hair male trying to get a nurse’s attention. It took a few knocks on the window. Then asked, “Hi, Can I have a piece of paper.” he asked. She handed him what he asked for. He said, “Thank you.” “Your welcome.” the nurse said, then she shut the window. I opened my eyes after I watched him walking back to his room. My view was from me standing near the doors that separate the staff area from ours. So, I haven’t figured out yet who’s eyes I am seeing out of at this moment. Is the man aware I can see from his view? It all seems very complicated. I will figure this out eventually and sighed. I thought as I opened my eyes, going back to looking out my room window. Sitting here contemplating on what to do and how to go about figuring everything out. Went over to my bed, climbed on to read a book. Trying to not think about things; not worry about it right now. Maybe after I read a few chapters in the book “Drawing of the Three” by Stephen King. Then I fell asleep. When I woke up to find the book on the bed. Staring reading again until they dropped lunch off. I finished one chapter. Which was great kept my mind from overthinking. Especially about this new eyesight phenomenon. I really do not know what else to call it. It’s weird, but I will have to get used to it. I wondered why today I had noticed it. After that though, I picked up my burger and took a bite. Must say hospital food isn’t all that bad. It’s nice being taken care of. They bring you your medication and food. It’s a pleasant change from doing things for yourself. Sitting and drinking my coffee, I realized I could keep a journal while having this other persons’ sight. I went to the desk and asked them for a pencil and some paper. Once I was in my room, closed the door and start writing everything out. I closed my eyes again to see what he was seeing. The next thing I saw was a female coming closer to me. I opened my eyes to see if she was actually in front of me. “Oh well, of course, she is not here,” I said out loud to myself. I went back to see what the relationship was between them. I could see her smiling. “Hi Rodger, what is going on?” “Nothing much. Just sitting here relaxing. Do you want to watch some tv with me, Anna?” Rodger asked. “Sure, I will go get the remote,” Anna answered. I watched her get up to walk to the window at the nurse’s station. When Anna came back, she turned on the tv and asked, “What are you in the mood for? Oh, I know what we can watch, the Olympics.” she stated. “Sure, that sounds like fun. It has been a while since I have watched some good sporting events. Thank you for asking.” Rodger expressed smiling. I was laying in bed waiting for the TV to be turned on. “Oh, this is too much. I can actually see the swimming pool. This is really cool.” I thought to myself. I wonder if he can see my life when his eyes are closed? How would I ever bring this up? I hope it just stops on its own. What’s going to happen when I go to sleep? Maybe nothing because he will be asleep or so I hope. I wonder if other people have noticed this happen to them. Living life with your eyes closed and still be able to see what another human is doing in life from their perspective. It’s intriguing for some people, I am sure. What a money market that this could be. All it would take is for one of us to say something. Would we have the guts? It’s weird how I don’t have Rodger’s words coming out of my mouth. But to have his view. I think it’s incredible and I will keep saying it if I have to. A person would never feel alone again. Just knowing that someone is around to comfort me as I grow up. I am only twenty-five. As I closed my eyes to fall asleep and no one was there. I sat up with a worried feeling, not knowing what to do. I grabbed my pillow and hugged it. Feeling alone again in this life to figure things out and learn what I do not know. I could never explain what happened. Maybe it wasn’t real. I will never know.

Defenestraphobia Moves in Next Door (Satirical references to certain phobias; indelicate treatment of the subject of "plus- size" people.) The day after the “For Sale” sign came down, a crew was at the two-story colonial boarding up all the windows. Kenny, the keen-eyed neighbor next door, couldn’t help but notice. “Margie, take a look-see on what’s going on next door. The new owner is having all the windows boarded up.” “What? Oh, my God, that is strange. Maybe they just want their privacy, or they worry about peeping toms hiding in the bushes. I always make sure the shades are drawn when I’m changing. Women like me can’t be too careful. I don’t want some weirdo violating me with his eyes.” Kenny knew that the odds of anyone deriving any sort of erotic pleasure by feasting their eyes on his, to be kind, “full figure” wife, were zero to none. Even he tried not to be in the room, or at least averted his eyes, at such moments. But prudence suggested he refrain from comment. “Of course, dear. But they are boarding up every window in the house, first floor, second floor, even the attic. Very strange.” ---------- Move-in day. A small, frail-looking, middle-aged man was in and out of the house directing traffic as Kenny tried to comprehend the mystery behind “Two Men and a Truck” working with a crew of three. As soon as the truck left, Kenny headed next door to welcome the new neighbor. “Good afternoon! I’m Kenny. Welcome to the neighborhood.” Kenny extended his hand, but his new neighbor quickly took a step back. “Oh, sorry, I don’t mean to offend you, but I have a slight case of haphephobia. My name is Herb.” “No offense taken. That hapa... whatever you call it, it’s contagious?” “Oh no, it’s not a disease. It’s a thing I have, a fear of touching people.” Kenny had never heard of such a thing. Already puzzled about the boarding up of all the windows, he was beginning to have serious concerns about his new neighbor. They exchanged pleasantries and provided brief biographies, and as they were parting, Kenny got to the elephant in the room. “Say, Herb, my wife and I couldn’t help but notice that you had all your windows boarded up. Are you planning on having new windows put in, or...?” “Oh, that. I have a touch of defenestraphobia.” “Uh...I’m not sure what that is.” “Really? It’s the fear of being thrown out of a window. It’s not uncommon.” “I see.” “Well, nice meeting you, Kenny. I need to get organized. Talk to you later.” As Herb turned to leave, Margie approached carrying a plate of treats for the new neighbor. “Wait, Herb, my wife has a dozen of her famous chocolate chip cookies for you!” “Well, that’s awfully neighborly of you. Thank you, I...” Herb saw Margie and the plate of cookies, and he took off running. “Gotta go! Sorry, you can just leave the cookies!” “Herb! What’s wrong?” “Cacomorphobia!” Margie set the plate of cookies on the hood of Herb’s car, and they returned to their house, but not before Kenny noticed the dozen cookies had been reduced to nine somewhere along the way. --------- “What’s with that guy, Kenny, and what the heck is a cacomorphobia?” “No idea. I’ll Google it.” Kenny looked it up- Cacomorphobia: the fear of fat people. Oh, no. “Did you find it, honey?” “No, dear. There is no such word. I think he made it up.” --------- “Good morning, Doctor Foggy.” “Good morning, Herb. Have you moved into your new house yet?” “Yep, it’s very nice. I’m sure I’ll be happy there.” “And, what have you done about your fear of being thrown out of a window?” “They’re all boarded up, just like you suggested.” “Good, good. And then pick a window, I’d say on the first floor for starters, and remove a little of the covering each day. And be sure to have that rope tied around your waist and anchored to something solid so you’ll feel safe. Little baby steps, but we’ll get you there.” “Thanks, Doc.” “And how are we doing with your anatidaephobia?” “I forget. Which one is that?” “That’s your fear of ducks.” “Oh, yes, ducks. I think I’m doing pretty good. I watched ten minutes of Donald Duck cartoons last night and a full hour of Duck Dynasty. I think it helps to see the darn things getting blasted out of the sky.” “Good, good. And I’ve got another good idea.” “What’s that, Doc?” “I’m getting you a couple of styrofoam duck decoys that you can do a little of that voodoo stuff on.” “I like it. You’re the best. I wish I would have thought of that.” “Well, that’s why I’m the doctor, and you’re not.” ---------- “Morning neighbor!” “Oh, hey, Herb What’s up?” “Well, Kenny, I was wondering if you could keep your dog inside when I’m out in my yard.” Mittens the multipoo stood 11” tall and weighed in at 9 pounds. “Mittens doesn’t bite. She’s harmless.” “I’m sure she’s a good dog. It’s just that my cynophobia has been flaring up lately.” “What’s that?” “Fear of dogs. I’ve been doing a lot better, but I don’t want to have a relapse. That can get pretty ugly.” “Sorry to hear that. I’ll talk to Margie. We’ll try to be careful with Mittens.” “Speaking of your wife, could you keep her inside with the dog when I’m out in my yard?” Oh, no. A “full figure” wife and a neighbor suffering from cacomorphobia! “I’ll see what I can do. Say, Herb, I see you’re wearing those ankle-weight things. You been workin’ out?” “No, that’s for my barophobia, you know, just a little added protection.” “Uh, I’m not sure what barophobia is.” “That’s surprising. It’s been going around lately. It’s the fear of gravity. I’ve got the strain of it where I fear there won’t be any, and someday I’ll float off into the universe. I think these will help. You should get some for you and your...oh, never mind. You should get some for yourself.” --------- “The house is great, Doc, but the neighbors are a real problem. They’ve got a killer dog, and the lady is, well, quite large.” “I can see where that would be a problem for you.” “And flowers! Damn near everywhere.” “And don’t tell me, they’re not...” “Yes! They are purple!” “Oh, no, and we were doing so well with your porphyrophobia. That fear of the color purple is a tough one, and you were doing so well.” “Damn, what are the odds I’d end up living next door to a dog, a fat lady, and purple flowers. That’s like a hundred billion zillion to one. Life isn’t fair, Doc.” “Well, you could move again, Herb.” “ I don’t want to do that. Let’s take it all head-on! I’m going to conquer my fears once and for all!” The good Doctor was a little concerned about the concept of a cured Herb as he’d lose at least half of his billable hours, but he took an oath. “I’m with you, partner! We can do it!” ---------- “The guy is a complete nut job, Margie. He’s afraid of everything.” “Oh, I don’t know. He seems nice. He’s a cute little guy. I feel for him, you know, being afraid of just about everything. I think I’ll bring him one of my chocolate cakes.” This struck Kenny as peculiar as he couldn’t recall Margie ever saying anything nice about anyone. The woman was a real shrew whose sole purpose in life seemed to be to make Kenny’s life miserable. It seemed like a crazy comment. Margie saying something nice about someone was as shocking as her missing a meal, and her giving up one of her double-frosted chocolate cakes was akin to Wimpy giving away hamburgers. Neurons were cross-firing in Kenny’s brain. A fortunate intersection of coincidences: 1) Kenny had taken an introductory psychology college class that included a cursory coverage of phobias. 2) As a sports enthusiast, he recalled the story of a coach working with a runner who managed to get the athlete to love competing in a distance event that he previously hated. 3) The mystery on an episode of Columbo he had seen was solved through the use of subliminal messaging. 4) Just two weeks ago, he caught the movie “Shallow Hal” on Net Flix- the story of a man whose perceptions of the world were so reconfigured that he saw an extremely overweight, unattractive woman as a trim, fit, ravishing beauty. Those were the building blocks; Kenny just needed to put them together. His college textbook cited a psychiatrist who not only sought to get his patients to overcome their fears, but he tried to persuade them to crave the things that had so frightened them. The movie told him that malleable minds can be altered, and as Kenny knew that Herb was at least ten steps passed woo-woo, he figured his mind provided fertile ground for an adjustment. The coach used the simple techniques of repetition and positive reinforcement, and Colombo infiltrated the suspect’s mind with subconscious messaging. It seemed like a long shot, but one look at Margie told him he had to try. ---------- “Nice evening, isn’t it, Herb?” “It sure is, Kenny, but I have to get inside pretty soon. I can feel a little nyctophobia coming on.” “Nyctophobia? What’s that?” “Fear of darkness. I just read about it yesterday, and wouldn’t you know it, now I’ve got the damn stuff.” “That’s too bad. I have to get back in the house now too. I never want to be away from my beautiful bride too long. I’ve only been out here for ten minutes, and I miss her already.” Herb looked puzzled. “Really?” “Oh, yes! She’s the most beautiful, loving, kindest, caring woman in the world. And, I probably shouldn’t say this, but she’s also one sexy lady.” Now Herb looked really puzzled. “Uh, Kenny, I don’t quite know how to say this, but...well, not a lot of men I know like their woman so...large.” “Let me tell you, they are missing out, Herb. You wouldn’t believe what she does with it in the bedroom. Oh, I damn near popped a woody just thinking about it. In fact, I have to go right now! Fat’s where it’s at, Herb! See ya’.” Kenny sprinted off to his house, taking one quick glance back to see a questioning look on Herb’s face. He could only hope phase one was off to a good start. ---------- As Herb made nearly daily trips seeking help with his countless phobias, it wasn’t hard for Kenny to figure out who his psychiatrist was. Dr. Foggy received an anonymous letter: Dear Dr. Foggy, I believe you know a gentleman named Herb Hankey. You must also know the guy is off his rocker. I’m sure most of his phobia stuff is harmless, but I have recently become aware of something you too should be aware of. This morning I heard him say something about how all fat people should be killed. I think it would be a good idea if you tried to get him to stop hating fat people so much. In fact, you should try to get him to like fat people. Sincerely, A Concerned Citizen --------- “Herb, I think we should try a new approach. You have so many bats in your belfry that I’d like to focus on just one rather than address your general...condition.” “You’re the doctor. Which one? How about the darkness thing? I’d like to be able to go outside at night. Or how about my ornithophobia. I’m tired of wearing all that protective headgear to keep the birds from attacking me.” “In good time, Herb. I was thinking of taking on your greatest fear right out of the gate- cacomorphobia, your fear of fat people. They’re everywhere nowadays. Let’s start with that one.” “You’re the doctor. What do we do?” “I’ve prepared a video presentation. I think it will help.” Dr. Foggy had put together an impressive array of film clips and slides showing loved, successful, plus-size people from all walks of life: - Mama Cass dreamin’ a little dream, Chubby Checker twistin’ and shoutin’, and Kate Smith belting out “God Bless Amercica” before a Flyers’ Hockey Game. - Melissa McCarthy, John Candy, and Chris Farley bringing smiles and laughter to the multitudes. - Winston Churchill, Queen Victoria, and Henry VIII leading their nations. - Minnesota Fats performing magic with his pool cue as he takes on Fast Eddie, and the Soviet Union legend Tamara Press winning the 1964 Olympic Gold in the women’s shot put. “See, Herb, fat people have made tremendous contributions to the world. They are wonderful. We should like them...and not want to kill them.” --------- “I think Herb really likes my double fudge chocolate cakes. I’ll put one out on his front porch, and two days later the empty plate is there.” Her smile was telling Kenny that this was about more than Herb liking her baking skills. “I’m sure he appreciates it. I don’t know why he doesn’t come out when you ring his doorbell. Why don’t you try one of your triple fudge chocolate cakes?” “I think I will.” --------- Herb started to find sticky notes in his mailbox, on the trees in his yard, on his front door, and on the windshield of his car, all bearing the same message: I LOVE FAT PEOPLE. When all the lights were out in Herb’s house, Kenny placed a tape recorder under his bedroom window which played soft music along with the looped message “I love fat people.” After just three weeks. It started to pay dividends. Margie, holding a triple fudge chocolate cake, missing just one (large) piece, rang the doorbell, leaving a substantial wad of chocolate from her finger on the device. To her surprise, the door slowly opened. Then closed. Open then closed. Open then closed. “Herb, you don’t have to be afraid. It’s just little old me, Margie from next door.” The combined efforts of Kenny and Dr. Foggy seemed to be paying off. Herb opened the door wide and stepped out onto the porch. He smiled broadly, and Margie giggled like a schoolgirl. “Thank you, Margie. Listen, if you have time, I could get a knife, and a couple of forks and plates, and we could sit on the porch swing and have our cake...and eat it too!” They both broke out in boisterous laughter, the porch swing held up to its greatest challenge, and Margie and Herb downed what was left of the entire cake. Kenny looked down on the scene from his 2 nd floor bedroom, smiled, and congratulated himself for a job well done. It was all heading in the right direction, but Kenny knew he had more to do. --------- “You look a little down today. You ok, Kenny?” “Yeah, I’m fine, Herb, just the normal pressures of financial stuff. That will all change when Margie’s dad kicks the bucket.” “How so?” “The guy is loaded. With Margie being an only child and her mother already dead and buried, when the old goat finally dies she’ll inherit a bundle.” “Really?” “Yes, the old geezer is loaded, gold mines, oil wells, paper mills. He got most of his money from some computer stuff he invented. When he dies, she’ll get millions, and I’ll have my hands all over it. I can hardly wait.” “That’s interesting.”` ----------- “And we sit and eat chocolate cake together. It’s great, Doc.” “And she’s a big one?” “Oh, yeah, real big.” “Well, I’m proud of you, Herb. You are making wonderful progress. But it looks like you’re putting on a few pounds. Let’s not get your mind on the right track and then have your physical health suffer.” “I know, but I just love those times sitting out my front porch in the evening eating chocolate cake with Margie.” ---------- And so it continued, sticky notes extolling the virtues of plus-size people every time Herb turned around; sweet subliminal messaging wafting through Herb’s open window manipulating his mind to see the beauty in plump figures; continuing positive reinforcement from Dr. Foggy; and chocolate cakes with Margie on the porch every evening. It seemed that love was in the air, or so Kenny hoped...and prayed. ---------- One evening, Kenny was looking out his window, again relishing the sight of Herb and Margie enjoying their chocolate cake. To his surprise, when the last crumb was feverishly licked off the plate, they both walked over to his house. Kenny met them at the door. “Kenny, I know this will come as quite a shock, but I’ve fallen in love with Herb. We want to leave for Vegas tonight for a quickie divorce, and then I’m going to marry Herb. I just need you to sign off on it. I’m sorry, but Herb is my soul mate.” Kenny struggled to conceal his glee. “Gee, that’s too bad. Where do I sign?” Margie went off to pack a few things, leaving Kenny alone with Herb. “I’m sorry, Kenny. I hope you’ll be ok.” Kenny wanted to know which of his brilliant schemes brought about the change in Herb and opened the door to a new and better life. “I’ll get through it. Can I just ask you something?” “Sure.” “I know you had this fear of...large people. How did you get over it? Were you picking up on some subtle messaging maybe, or a little extra help from your shrink...or, and you can tell me, was it her dad’s money?” “No, none of those.” “Well, what was it then?” “I just really like chocolate cake.”

How can I justify our - no - my actions? Good God, it was hot and dusty despite it being “monsoon season.” This dirty, sun-bleached southern extremity of Arizona surely contributed to the vortex of madness that pulled us in. I sit in a booth in the corner of a small café with a window view of Morley Avenue. I don’t know how I found this place. The turquoise-colored outside walls decorated with painted desert flowers attracted me subconsciously, I suppose. The reasoning for what we’ve - no - I’ve done, dammit, seems to reorder every time I try to reconcile what happened. My thoughts race. Christ, get a grip. I sip black coffee, close my eyes, try to control my breathing and think - hard. The train from Phoenix to Tucson was noisy and rackety. Every mile of rail sent its vibrations through the wheels and axles into the carriage, up the bench stanchions and into my body. The clickety-clack became a monumental annoyance. I suppose the plan was affecting my moral equilibrium. We’d decided on this course of action out of desperation, I know, and the train heightened my anxiety. Thomas wasn’t happy with my attitude. I could not have cared less about his opinion. Would we ever get there? After some time and more of the damned clickety-clack, Thomas deflected my attention. He said, “Are you having regrets?” “No.” I watched the infinite, unremarkable, cracked land slip by. The regrets, if things didn’t work out, would certainly come. Thomas continued, “We’ll get into Tucson in about thirty minutes. Are you sure your friend will be there to meet us?” “I’m pretty sure she’ll be there. She did respond to the telegram.” More anxiety. Sitting across from me, Thomas stared out the window rather than look at my face. He was initially reluctant to the plan. We’d talked about it two weeks ago. The money would set us up for life, but what would happen to Cameron Hillman would be a proper reckoning. Hillman was scum. After establishing a real estate business in the new metropolis of Phoenix, using questionable practices according to some, inquiries about his family dogged him. His wife, Lillian, had disappeared, taking their daughter with her. Hillman was asked - politely - by his friends what had happened. He told them something about an argument regarding moving to California. It was odd that he didn’t appear upset, or so I was told. The intrigue continued when it was learned that most of Lillian’s clothes were still in Hillman’s house, along with the daughter’s clothes and toys. He was questioned by the authorities, and they seemed satisfied that nothing was amiss, despite the items left behind. I knew Hillman hadn’t been pressed too hard about the matter. When he got rid of his wife’s and daughter’s possessions wasn’t known. Hillman eventually left Phoenix, selling his home for a handsome profit. He went south and bought a black walnut plantation in the hills above Nogales. The neighboring border town is also called Nogales. The locals call both towns “Ambos Nogales,” meaning “both Nogales.” I must have dropped off to sleep because I jerked my head up and was momentarily disoriented as the train rolled into the Tucson station. Thomas and I stepped off the train with our canvas bags and canteens, both scanning the platform for my friend, Hilly McConnell, a young woman I’d lived with in Phoenix. I spotted Hilly right away. She was dressed in a light blue shirtwaist embellished with embroidery and tucked into pants. Her short, red hair made her conspicuous. I ran to her. The hug and bussing of our cheeks brought back good memories. “My goodness, Blush! Don’t you look keen,” Hilly said as we broke from our hug. “Thanks, Hilly. I think I look like a dirty hobo riding the rails.” I giggled at that description. That bit of cheerfulness would be my last for quite some time. “You’re the one that looks keen, Hilly. Nice outfit.” We remarked about our costumes for a couple of minutes. Thomas was polite but was anxious to be on our way. We had a mission to complete. I know Hilly sensed our impatience. She said the car was parked on the street in front of the station. The three of us walked into the blazing sunshine and straight to the 1915 Ford Model-T. Hilly told us the car ran well even though it was only three years old. She admonished us to be wary of the highway to Nogales as it was mostly graded dirt and could have sections of washout. The trip to Nogales would take about three hours. Hilly handed to me a paper bag that contained apples, a small block of cheese and a tin of crackers. Hilly said her goodbye and walked away as we stowed our bags and canteens in the car and Thomas started the engine. The Model-T had an electric starter and, if needed, electric headlights. The dry, desert air would feel good flowing into the car. After an initial jerk as Thomas put the car in gear and we drove south toward our destiny. The stale dry air whipped by and tried to cool us. It wasn’t working. My eyes alternately watered and dried with every passing mile. Miles and miles of flat, arid land marked by scrub bushes, tall cacti, scraggly grass, the occasional wretched-looking tree and sand. The red-rocked mountains in the distance beckoned yet seemed out of reach. Could the Almighty have just pasted them there to tease and torment us? The sapphire blue sky was filling with clouds which at certain points blocked the devilish sun and provided brief moments of relief. Did the clouds portend a thunderstorm? If the skies let loose, it would be tough riding in the car. We could be washed away to either drown or dying in this stinking desert. My eyes were tired. I closed them for a while and slept. I was jostled awake by a rough section of road. We were in the hill country just north of Nogales. Mountains appeared in the distance to the right. We were getting close to our target. Thomas sat rigidly at the steering wheel, his jaw clinched, focusing on the road. The wind whipped up dust that swirled around and into the car. I pulled a piece of paper out of my handbag and tried to decipher my writing, which was not an easy thing to do because of the unsteadiness of the car. I complained and Thomas finally slowed down. The road that led to the Hillman Groves appeared on the right. We almost missed it. Thomas spotted the small sign at the last moment and made the turn without flipping us over. More like a wagon road track, the road wound its way up the hillside weaving among black walnut trees. And, just like that, my senses were heightened. My heartbeat edged upward. The house was nothing like I expected. Thomas stopped the car in front of a one-story, Spanish Mission-style house with dirty beige walls and a non-working fountain in the shape of a bird in front. A low adobe wall in need of repair ran along the front of the property. The house looked down on International Street in Ambos Nogales, the dual border town of about six thousand souls, give or take. The hot, afternoon sun fully illuminated the dusty street. I could just make out a fence running down the middle of it. Hilly warned us there were reports from her cousin who lived in Douglas about tensions between citizens and officials on both sides of the border - especially those citizens of Nogales, Sonora that crossed the border to work. There were a lot of soldiers around too. After a few minutes, Thomas and I exited the car and walked to the faded red front door of the house. A large ornate, lion-headed knocker faced us. I used the heavy piece of iron to announce our arrival. I looked at Thomas with apprehension as we heard footsteps. A latch was retracted, and the door opened. I stood face-to-face with Cameron Hillman, my father. Hillman had at once a surprised and quizzical look on his face. A face more haggard than I remembered. Wrinkles cutting into the flesh and a scraggly growth of mostly gray facial hair made him look old and weak. His eyes held mine. I was sure he thought he was seeing a ghost. “How may I help you?” Hillman said in a smooth and melodious way. Thomas replied, “Do we have the honor of addressing Mr. Hillman?” “You do.” “My name is Thomas Kilcannon and this is my wife. May we come in? We have an important matter to discuss with you. It will prove interesting.” Hillman stepped back and opened the door wider with a gesture to invite us in. He said, “If you please.” Thomas and I walked into an expansive entry hall that opened onto a large sitting room. Hillman showed us to a couch with upholstery of red brocade that was thread-bare in spots. Hillman sat opposite us in an oak spindle chair. “You shouldn’t be here now.” Hillman said. “Trouble is coming. My Sonoran workers have mutinied and won’t be back. There are soldiers on both sides of the border waiting for an attack. I’m facing ruin here as these trees go unattended. No one on this side of the border will work. Tensions are extremely high.” Hillman spewed the words in a torrent as if to have us run out of the house, down the hill and away from him. His face was flushed. After looking at us for a few moments and realizing we weren’t going to run out, he said, “What is it you wanted to discuss? You must be quick.” I looked at Thomas. The time had come. The reckoning had come. “Do I look familiar to you?” I said as I looked directly into Hillman’s eyes. He said nothing. His eyebrows pinched toward his nose as he studied my face. His mouth tightened. Then, his face relaxed and his eyes widened slightly. Panic? He knew me. His eyes didn’t leave my face. Suddenly, I felt my face becoming hot as though his gaze was attempting to burn my features away. A malevolence rose between us. I broke the spell. “It’s coming back to you, isn’t it?” Hillman’s head tilted slightly. He frowned. “You know, don’t you? You miserable son of a bitch.” The heat on my face was real. The malice in my heart rose with every beat. Hillman finally spoke. “You must leave now.” He stood up. “I will hear nothing from you. You cannot come into my home and insult me!” His fists were clenched. Would he really try something against Thomas? It would not end well for him. Thomas sprang from the couch and placed his powerful hands on Hillman’s shoulders. I saw my father wince as he sat down again. Thomas dared him to move. Thomas said, “You’ll listen to what she has to say.” The tone was menacing. Hillman said nothing as he looked at me. I could feel the rage welling within me. “You killed my mother and had her buried in the desert. Your plan didn’t quite succeed with me.” Hillman’s face become stoic. I noticed a small tic in his left eye. “Yes, I’m your daughter, Rosemon. I was pulled from my grave by a savior. The time for retribution has come!” His voice was softer now, but with a slight tremor. “I don’t believe you. My wife and daughter left me years ago and I wasn’t able to find them. What you say is without merit.” “To prove myself, let me tell you something known only to my mother and you,” I said. “My given name is Rosemon, but my mother always called me Blush. You never did. She told me I was named for the pink rose tattoo on her back.” My eyes felt as if they were flaming. Hillman sat back in the chair, his mouth open. He knew now. In a trembling voice, he said, “So, you have come to take my life. You will be caught and punished.” Hillman’s eyes looked beyond me to the courtyard outside. “That may be the final result,” I said. “I want what my mother promised me on the day you poisoned us. She had a silk purse stuffed with money that she’d earned from when she worked before marrying you. She told me you didn’t know about it and she wanted me to have it when I grew up. You must have found out about the purse, of course. And because of your business failures, you decided to get rid of us and keep those five thousand dollars for yourself because you knew mother would never give it to you. Is that what you used to buy this place?” Hillman’s dead eyes locked on me. “You have no proof of any of your accusations.” The rage reached a boiling point. I stood up, took a step toward Hillman and slapped his face with all the force I could muster. He turned his head back to me and said nothing. His mouth formed a sneer. As I drew my hand back to strike him again, this time with a fist, Thomas grabbed my arm. Thomas looked at me, then turned to Hillman, and said, “There is proof, sir! I am that proof. I was there that night in the desert with you and that thug you hired, Clancy. I was the one you never saw that knocked you out. I saw that the girl was still breathing, and I shot Clancy. Unfortunately, the mother was dead. I pulled Blush from the grave, pushed Clancy in, and finished the burial. So, yeah, there is proof.” I looked at Thomas, trying to make sense of what he’d just said. My memory wasn’t cooperating. I vaguely remembered someone pulling me out of that hole and laying me on a blanket. I don’t remember anything else until being aware of another mother - Thomas’s mother - Mrs. Kilcannon. My mind was swirling. Hillman seemed to shrink before us. Before I could ask about having the money returned to me, a man burst into the room. Where had he been? Did he hear what we said? He had a revolver in his hand and pointed it, not a us, but at Hillman. Thomas let go of my arm and we stood there looking at this man. Hillman turned in his chair to face the intruder. Hillman said, “What is this, Mateo? Why are you pointing that gun at me?” Mateo, one of Hillman’s workers from the northern side of the border said, “You are doing us wrong, jefe.” Mateo’s hand was shaking. No telling where a bullet might go. “You favor the Sonoran workers over us. And now all of us have quit. Go to Mexico where you are welcomed. There are no workers here for you.” Mateo was focused on Hillman and didn’t react immediately to Thomas moving toward him. Thomas lunged and his right shoulder hit Mateo in the chest. Mateo landed on the tiled floor with Thomas on top of him. The gun clattered across the floor. Thomas got up quickly and retrieved the gun. Mateo focused on regaining his breath. Thomas handed me Mateo’s revolver and pulled a Colt semi-automatic pistol from his waistband. As this was happening, we hadn’t noticed Mateo getting up and running for the front door. Thomas ran after him. Was he really going to kill the man? Was he afraid of leaving a witness? I ordered Hillman to move his chair to the window and sit. I hoped to see what Thomas was doing. The gradual slope in front of the house ran down to the town. Walnut trees interrupted my sight line. My heart was in my throat. Mateo’s pistol was pointing at Hillman and I was afraid to take my eyes off him for more than a quick glance out the window. I saw a flash of a blue shirt running down the slope. It was Thomas. He was beyond the trees and approaching International Street. The gunshot ended my plan. Thomas must have shot at Mateo. A few seconds later, more gunshots filled the scorching, desert air of Ambos Nogales. What was happening? Surely, Mateo couldn’t have gotten another gun! I was trying to figure it out when Hillman came at me. The revolver in my hand fired. I don’t remember doing it. Hillman fell to the floor at my feet. A scorched hole appeared on his shirt. A red stain followed. He didn’t move. Goddamn! I ran out the door and down toward the town. I found Mateo at the foot of the slope. He was dead, a bullet wound in the head. I made my way into town. There were black American soldiers moving toward and around me. They continued up the hill. They would find Hillman. Good God, what happened here? There were several bodies of men lying in the street. I heard the report of another shot, and the bullet struck a building just to my left, barely missing me. I ducked into a doorway and knelt down. I spotted Thomas’s blue shirt about a hundred feet away. He was on his side in a ditch. When I got to him, I saw that he had been shot in his face. Tears flowed immediately. I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. The gunshots continued. I had to get away and find a safe place. I don’t remember which streets I took. I knew I had to stay on the American side. Finally reaching the café on Morley Avenue, I had to come to come to terms with what I’d done and what would happen next. It could take some time. The tears came again.

Wind chimes swaying endlessly as my head swirls deeper into my own thoughts. You could never really describe your own problems, the constant lies you had to live through. Facade. The 'living' room is greyish, a slight dim orange light coming from the lamp in the corner. That light gives you a blurry view of reality, it shows the way to the broken mirror in the room, you stare helplessly..so deeply and you see a cracked image of yourself. You're Broken. Have you forgotten the warm memories you had with her? A question I asked myself frequently. How I wished things were more sweet than bitter to the very end. You approached me with that fake smile, I could still remember the words you said, "Save me someday okay?". I never understood what you meant by that, after all we have been going out for awhile and I thought it was just one of your usual flirts, you know...how some couples try to flirt with each other with corny lines. I was wrong. I never got a reason as to why you, a beautiful goddess would approach a slump like me, I was an average guy. I had boring emotions and reactions, what did I mean to you? I knew you meant the world to me but what did I mean to you? They say, god passes down a factor into your life, someone or something that will change your emotions towards life, you see, I was never fond of life to begin with. I had doubts on everything, constant negative thoughts always fill my head and I would live through it like any other day. Unfortunately, those gathered up thoughts would bite me back. You found me at my lowest with that fake smile of yours. How glad was I to finally have someone to spend my boring days with. We went on fun dates, we both had warm memories together, laughing, crying, loving. Letting out our hidden emotions together. You changed me, you influenced me. You were the lamp, giving dim light to my dark room. "Save me someday". Now I knew what you meant by that. You did not have to lie about your true emotions, I could have helped you if you just told me. I was by your side every single second and I tried my best to make the both of us happy but I guess, you viewed the world as a pale blue. I was far from the guy you knew back when you found me but you were still the same when we first met. 'Sarah, if you are listening, I am still alive and well, I just wishes I could tell you how my life went from utter bitterness to sweet. Allow me to show you how my world turned colourful from ash grey. I miss you' I could still remember her fake smile, yea they were not genuine but you still felt a sense of comfort behind it. The notes I found in her room, they gave me warmth again. She wrote of our countless journeys together, it was the most purest thing I have ever read and held. I wished she could see how the tears rolled down my cheeks. Its cold again. My warmth never existed in the first place.

Laura and James sat in their respective seats in the car. SUV, more precisely. Laura recently traded her 2019 Audi Q5 for a 2020, since its superiority went without saying. She often complained, though, that it wasn’t the same. Many of the 2019’s features, though older, suited her purposes more closely... but she put those thoughts out of her mind. This was the 2020 and was therefore better: it’s self-evident. Besides, cars don’t last that long. One year into a car’s lease and you were bound to start experiencing problems. To say James disagreed would be unfair to the word. James relished buying cars old enough they could legally drink a beer. He also wouldn’t pay any more for a car than he had in his chequing account, which often wasn’t much. Most recently, he sunk into a 2002 Mini Cooper. It was the second Mini he’d bought, though this one was less powerful, older, and more rotten than his previous one. His previous car- Bebe Rexxha, he named her- died in an accident with a BMW X5. God rest her soul. James loved the thrill of buying a neglected husk of a car, then sourcing parts cheaper than from any mainstream outlet. Wrecking yards, Amazon, Kijiji... if you knew where to look, you could restore a $1200 car to road condition for less than $500. James always kept a suite of tools in his trunk; new problems strike on their own schedule. But, having touched every system in the car, he had the quiet confidence of knowing he could fix anything in an hour for less than $200. The Audi gave James a headache. *New car smell-* coveted by many- poisoned James like chemicals sublimating into the air as they seeped out of plastics. Which is what it was. Laura drove. She worked constantly, and so she loved the car’s Bluetooth phone connectivity. She also loved to keep the panoramic sunroof open: the light and air it drank-in made her feel free. Nevermind that the air conditioner needed to run at twice its normal output to offset the heat, or that her speakerphone calls with clients featured the question “What?” more than anything else, as the wind turbulence drowned the finer points of the conversation. They sped down the road. Metaphorically. Something in Laura’s upbringing disinterested her from questioning authority: if the road was marked 80km/h, she drove 79.5km/h. Nevermind that even to do 100km/h on a road this wide and clear felt like a crawl. Nevermind that other traffic trailed tightly behind her like sleeper-carriages shackled to the Orient Express. Nevermind that any police officer worth his salt would tolerate 10km/h over the limit, if only as the margin of error in his radar-gun. But James accepted it was ‘*speeding*’ inasmuch as it was the fastest she’d go, today. Ahead it lay. It was massive- it must’ve been a Caribou. James had never seen a Caribou before, but this wasn’t a deer. He hadn’t seen Elk or Moose before either... but something in his lizard-brain drew on the experience of his caveman ancestors: Caribou. There were a few cars parked on the shoulder around its wide, flat mass. It was deep in the distance, so James couldn’t make out which of the cars hit it. Hopefully everyone was okay. James guessed it was 8 or 10 kilometers away. At 80km/h, that gave them around 5 minutes before they came to the obstruction. “Jeez- that looks pretty bad up there. Do you think we should turn down County Road 9 and avoid the whole thing?” asked James. He was proud of himself- he’d only recently moved to the area but was starting to remember roads outside his immediate neighborhood. “It’ll be okay” said Laura. “Um- can you tell me what you mean by ‘okay’? I don’t think they’ll have removed it by the time we get there... we’re only a few minutes away and if we turn-off, we can avoid getting stuck there, too.” James again focused his eyes on the situation, and saw that cars were beginning to queue up around the caribou, waiting on someone (currently no one) to haul the heap out of the way. “I prefer not to dwell on the negative” said Laura as County Road 9 flew past them. With cruise control on, she was free to focus her mind on the bright, clean air washing over her from the sunroof. Still going 80km/h, James estimated they’d come another couple kilometers closer to the situation ahead. “Oh! There’s a café attached to that gas station up ahead- they have good sandwiches there, remember? Maybe we can pull-in for lunch and, by the time we’re done, they’ll have cleared that problem.” James often solved problems with his stomach. “There’s no problem.” Said Laura. James’ subconscious shielded him from the full impact of that last statement. What did that even mean? *‘There’s no problem?’* He could tolerate something like *‘I don’t mind waiting’* or *‘I think it’ll be gone by the time we get there’* or ‘*surely we can go around it’*... but to say the problem doesn’t exist? James was attuned to *gaslighting* statements like these- statements meant to invalidate another’s perception of reality, without evidence, by exploiting the implicit trust of a relationship. Although James couldn’t consciously process this, he did begin to feel the telltale signs of rising anxiety in his body. Tightened muscles. Flattened emotional expression and slowed speech- reactions that lowered his odds of doing anything rash. “Laura, honey: do you see the caribou on the road ahead? It’s blocking both lanes and there are cars stuck in both directions. I want to get to Alicia’s house, too... so if our goal is to get there on time, we need to go another way. Otherwise we’ll get stuck until someone takes that caribou away.” ‘Who *does* take dead caribou away?’ James wondered. “I prefer to focus on the positive. I don’t know why you keep bringing this up” said Laura. James’ anxiety increased another notch. Through this conversation, a few more kilometers had slipped past them, not to mention the sandwich café. The phone rang over the Bluetooth system: Laura’s mother. Her voice was battered by the 80km/h winds thundering through the sunroof, but they could hear the gist of what she said. “Isn’t that strange? A caribou, in this part of the country. They don’t normally come this far. Yes- it’s on the news. Everyone’s talking about it”. Laura said “That’s amazing! I hope nobody was hurt. Fortunately James and I are headed to Alicia’s house. Okay. Bye!” James was bewildered. Is there a difference between denial and repression? Is saying *“there is no problem*” the same as *“I choose not to acknowledge the problem”?* I mean, there are obvious semantic differences... but in the end: if they have the same outcome, aren’t they the same thing? The queue of cars ahead of them looked to be a kilometer away now, maybe less. The phone call and James’ philosophising took more time than he expected. “Laura- slow down. Please. Those cars are getting close and there’s no point racing up to them” “We’re fine. Nothing’s wrong.” “Laura- cut the shit. There’s a dead goddamned caribou up there: if we don’t hit it, then we’re going to hit one of the cars that stopped to avoid it. Slow down- we’re still doing 80 and those cars are coming up, fast.” “I just don’t like to think that way, okay?” “What the fuck is wrong with you? We’re going to smash this fucking car and you don’t care?” “If we slow down, we’ll be late for Alicia’s. That might hurt her feelings, and I don’t want to hurt anyone.” “Are you fucking serious? If we slam into those cars, you and me and others are all going to get hurt... plus we’ll *never* show up at Alicias’s. How does that make any se-“ James never lost consciousness but the impact left him punchdrunk. Airbags wilted around them now, and the interior of the Audi stank of burnt sulphur. The man in the car ahead of them was already out of his vehicle- he was unhurt, thankfully. Beside James, Laura wept softly. “Why the fuck are you crying? What the fuck was that?” James was furious with Laura. They had all the time in the world to do something- change course or slow down- and she did nothing to make it better. “I’m just sad that we didn’t make it to Alicia’s.

Squat, beige and Soviet, the Marie Antoinette Apartments stood against the stale gray Minneapolis sky. Irony of the worst kind, he thought, blandly ugly and unconscious. He would take exquisitely self-aware irony any day over this three-story architectural monstrosity, “classed up” with tacked on ionic Greek columns, harsh blue LED Christmas lights wrapped inexpertly around them, canned Christmas classics pumping through the air. God, this place was only better than minimum security prison by a hair. But it was all he could afford now, so he’d just have to lower his eyes--and his standards--every time he approached. He tried to avoid the other people in the building, but a few of the near indigent souls, especially the family across the hall, insisted on pestering him with their lowbrow holiday cheer--the cheap gift of homemade cookies, the invitation of a seat at their dinner table on Christmas night on the flip side of a child’s crude drawing of a Christmas tree slipped under his door. All this might have been more bearable if anyone he knew now understood why the Marie Antoinette Apartments pained his soul, filled him with righteous rage. He’d certainly never get that from his obtuse, court-appointed therapist, a small, garish woman whose office and clothing reeked of TJ Maxx. So, he amused himself by using up their fifty minutes complaining about how much he hated living there. His fingers itched to blow the place up, her told her. To set it alight. She told him there were healthier ways to channel and examine his negative emotions so he could eventually let them go. He needed to think about what the Marie Antoinette represented to him, she told him, to look deeper, and to perhaps think about its positive attributes instead. This made him laugh hysterically. How much deeper can I go than living inside the damned building? Should I dive into the meaning of my laminate, faux wood floors and Formica kitchen counters, the rancid smell of old cooking that oozes from the graying, cracked walls studded with nail holes and abandoned, archeological remnants of tape from all the miserable souls who inhabited the purgatory before me? How about the rust-stained, leaking toilet and body-oil-marked tub? Should I look for Rorshachs in its grimy patterns? That’s not what I meant, she said quietly, and you know it. Well, I cherish my negative emotions, he said, suddenly tired. They’re the only things keeping me going these days. ~ Near morning a couple of weeks before Christmas, after one too many sleeping pills, he had a vivid dream. It started out of focus as he dragged himself toward the Marie Antoinette, bearing his usual cloak of heavy, gray resignation and pushed hard against the main door, as he always had to. Only this time, the door sprang open and instead of jarring, cold Christmas music, warm strains of exquisite chamber music vibrated through him. All came into focus. The entryway had grown to twice its size, the gray, non-descript industrial carpet replaced with a glowing, mahogany parquet floor. Instead of aluminum mailboxes and a frameless wall mirror on either side of the narrow space, giant gilt mirrors reflecting golden candlelight and gold and cream fleur-de-lis silk wallpaper covered the walls. The walls heaved outward until the room became what it wanted to be--a grand palace ballroom, complete with gently tinkling, candle-lit chandeliers. A ballroom for him alone. The effect was ostentatious but stunning, the way his ex-wife had decorated their homes in the city, on the island, at the lake, near the slopes--their homes for every preposition--all gone now. He dream-prayed he had died and gone to heaven. But he awoke to the same ordinary life, the drab apartment, a shift at the same greasy job, and another boring session after it with his therapist, the only person he ever said more to than can-I-take-your-order-would-you-like-fries-with-that. A woman he would have sneered at, if not ignored, in his old life and would again someday when his luck turned. Would he tell her about his dream? He decided he would. It seemed safe enough, wasn’t about the past, the present, or even the future. It was just a dream. But was it? As his workday dragged on, the customers who filed into the restaurant looked at him, smiling, with something more, it seemed to him, than mere pre-Christmas cheer. He began to wonder if the dream wasn’t a message. Maybe his luck was about to turn. He’d paid his dues after all. That old feeling began to tingle again. By the time his four o’clock appointment with TJ (as he’d taken to calling her, even to her face) arrived, he’d decided he must keep the dream to himself until he knew more. He had to get through the session, get home, eat a little something and take his sleeping pills. You seem distracted today, TJ said late in the hour. Something happen this week? Same old, same old. Same crappy job, same crappy apartment. He shifted his gaze to the pressed board Believe! plaque near the window before she could read him, but she was astute, this small, tacky woman. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her cock her head. You’re not complaining like you usually do. Did something change? Like I said, nope. Maybe I’ve adjusted to living in a shithole, I dunno. He attempted to give her an aw shucks grin, but felt his face contorting in weird ways, so he scrambled to throw her a bone. Have I told you about my neighbors across the way? He leaned back and sneered, coming up with an awful lie. I’d swear to god she’s killing him sometimes, and, man, I wish she’d succeed so I can get some rest. What do you think it means, doc, that I don’t care if he dies? TJ sighed and drummed her red fingernails on her thigh. It’s clsoe four-fifty, she said. Let’s just pick this up next week. ~ The dream started the same as before. Heavy quotidian dread as he approached the stunted building, growing excitement and wonder as it opened to a Versailles-like hall of mirrors. But this time, the hall was filled with people, giant people, people twice his height, in silken, 18 th century finery, swirling and spinning around the room, wind-up dolls in white wigs with faces he recognized. His old clients, wealthy people he’d cheated and stolen from for years, people he’d fooled into being his friends. People from the life he wanted back desperately. He tried to speak, to get their attention, but nothing came, not even air. As he watched, the dancers grew larger. Wait, no--he grew smaller. He was shrinking, becoming more and more insignificant. An insect. A speck. Dirt. He would always be dirt. ~ He stumbled through the rest of the week, his nights vast and dreamless. TJ seemed surprised to see him in the waiting room early but said nothing. He sat on her couch, cleared his throat. I had this dream, he said. That my building became a palace, but one I will never have access to again. His voice shook. She handed him the tissue box. Yes. He gave her a brief description of the dream. What do you think it means? she asked. Isn’t that your job? No, she said simply, and crossed her arms, waiting. I guess...I don’t think I’ll ever again have the life I had before. I don’t think, he said, swallowed, I deserve it. No, she said again, not clarifying what she meant, which oddly, made him feel more respect for her. So, what now? That’s up to you. Well, a hint might be nice, he whispered, wanting to scream. He swallowed you are my damn therapist after all. Okay. What do you miss most about your old life? Not from in here. She tapped her head. Not ego. From here. She tapped her chest. Heart. What do you really miss? He shook his head. I dunno. Without those things on the table, nothing. I mean, I don’t have kids, my ex-wife was a money-grubbing bitch, and my friends...shit, I didn’t really have those. Maybe luck? But that’s not what you mean either. I know what you’re getting at, but you’re barking up the wrong tree. She smiled, the first full smile he’d seen from her since they’d met, before she’d gotten to know him. I don’t think so. I think you’re getting somewhere. Maybe your dream was telling you more than you think. Like I’ve said before, dig deeper, go further. The answers are there, inside that building and inside you. He choked back a snarky whatever Obi Wan, and nodded at her. Glancing at the clock above the door, he stood, smoothing his sweaty palms against his jeans. Hold on. She held up a finger and smiled again. I have something for you. He stared, not comprehending. She turned to fish something out of a paper bag then turned back, holding out a flat package wrapped in green tissue paper and red curly ribbon. Of course. Christmas was only four days away. He stammered, cheeks reddening, I didn’t get you anything. He didn’t know why he was embarrassed, which only made him blush harder. She laughed. I was not expecting you to. Don’t worry about it, it’s no big deal. Merry Christmas. Merry, yeah, he said, looking down at his name, Jeb, in black marker on the paper, an inexpertly drawn holly leaf and berries below it. A feeling spread, not altogether unpleasant, replacing ungenerous thoughts about the cheesy gift she’d likely procured at TJ Maxx. Thank you, Geraldine, he mumbled and bumbled out the door. ~ He worked Christmas Eve day, took the bus and trudged home as the sun set again too early, the day again too short, carrying his fast-food dinner and a bottle of California pinot noir he’d splurged on. It was only four, but it felt like midnight, and his near unfurnished apartment felt more featureless and tired and depressing than prison ever had been. Because it was his choice to leave it so, he realized. He had nowhere else to go, so he busied himself with eating and drinking, the food cold and congealed, and the wine’s mediocrity disappointing. Folding up the empty, redolent burger paper and fries’ box, he glanced at the present Geraldine had given him, still unopened on the kitchen counter. He wasn’t sure whether he’d saved it because it was his only gift, or because he didn’t really care about it. Either way, he might as well open it now. He washed his greasy hands in the kitchen sink and poured another glass of wine. He picked up the gift and carefully untied the red ribbon, did his best not to tear the green paper as he picked at the tape, then slid the paper away. Not a tacky nothing after all, but a green, leatherbound book, like the ones his ex-wife had bought by the shelf load from antiquaries to decorate their homes, curated for color and size rather than content. But this wasn’t inert decoration. It was chosen for him to read. He snorted. Crime and Punishment. He knew the gist of the story, though he suspected he’d have to read it to get the nuances she intended. Funny, he found himself looking forward to it. His doorbell rang. Book in hand, still smiling with surprised respect for Geraldine, he answered the door to find the frazzled woman from across the hall. Hi. Jeb, right? Her grin was crooked, a little shy. Infectious. He nodded, and she said, Marissa. You never responded to our invite to dinner for tomorrow evening. Can you make it? We’d be glad to have you. We’re making turkey with all the fixings. A couple other neighbors are coming. He considered this only a moment, tasting the oily coating of his pitiful dinner as he licked his lips. You know what, yes, Marissa. I’d be honored. Can I bring anything? Just yourself. She grinned again. Six o’clock sharp, if that’s okay, because of the munchkins’ early bedtime. Sure, he said, finding himself grinning in response. Six. Great. She glanced at his book, then inside the doorway at his near bare apartment. Looks like a bookshelf is in order, hunh? Maybe even a sofa? She laughed. He couldn’t help but laugh with her. Yes, he said. It’s time. Again, that soft, warm lightness pushing out something hard and heavy he hadn’t even known was there. What was it? Only later, while lying on his secondhand mattress on the floor, after he’d read the long first part of the leatherbound book about young, impoverished Raskolnikov scheming and rationalizing his decision to murder a pawnbroker for her money, did it come to him. Like Raskolnikov, he'd lost something along the way. Something essential and tender that had shriveled to a hard stone inside him once he began to drip Ponzi-scheme money. Something poor-little-rich girl Marie Antoinette likely never knew her entire tragic, gold-plated life. That night he dreamt again, a simple dream. The Marie Antoinette Apartments remained an ugly, pedestrian building, but he entered with lightness, that warmth down to his bones. He greeted neighbors in the lobby by name, delivered groceries to the housebound old lady down the hall, went into his simply but warmly furnished apartment to make himself a nourishing meal. Christmas morning, he leapt out of bed. If he was lucky, he might find gifts for the children across the hall before noon.

*, here expanded with a longer, hopefully more disturbing, ending!* **The following materials detail the pathological progression of >!\[Redacted\]!<, hereafter referred to as Patient, and subsequent Incident. The materials are presented in chronological order.** *** *Item 1; Initial security report from* >!\[Redacted\]!<, *located in* >!\[Data Expunged\]!<. Patient arrives at 08:00, the opening time of the clinic, and begs to be sedated. Patient has wrapped their hands and feet in towels, scraps of cloth, and gauze. Patient complains of an itching sensation, and claims to have applied the wrappings to keep from harming themselves. Patient is registered and asked to wait. Security footage from the lobby shows Patient progressively growing more agitated. Patient starts pacing the room, rubbing their arms with their wrapped hands incessantly. At 08:14, Patient walks past a mirror. Upon seeing their reflection, Patient exhibits an extreme fear response. Patient screams and destroys the mirror with a nearby chair, then tries to force entrance to the wards. Security is called. Security arrives at 08:16. Patient subdued by means of sedative injection administered in the left shoulder. Patient notably extremely afraid of the syringe. Audio transcript as follows; *“No! Please, no! No needles, no knives! Break the skin, she comes in! Mother will come in! NO!”* *Patient screams incoherently for several more minutes until the sedative takes effect. Patient moved to isolation and restrained to a bed.* Report Ends. *** *Item 2; Dictation by Dr.* >!\[Redacted\]!<, >!\[Redacted\]!< *City Hospital, regarding Patient’s admittance to his care. Any mention of Patient’s name or characteristics have been redacted. Statement begins.* “Patient was admitted under sedation. Report from psych says >!\[Redacted\]!< has been exhibiting extreme paranoia, fear, and aggression whilst awake. They’d tried talking to >!\[Redacted\]!< several times over the past three days in their care, with minimal results. >!\[Redacted\]!< mostly screamed at them and begged them to take the IV out, apparently extremely afraid of needles. They referred >!\[Redacted\]!< to us when they noticed a discoloration of the skin around the PVC. Upon examination, it was discovered the skin and soft tissue around the puncture had ossified. >!\[Redacted\]!< was sedated and transferred with a suspected case of *Fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva*. Dudes who dropped her off were real jokers. Thanked me for ‘Returning the slab’ when they got their stretcher back. Morons. Examination shows two distinct spots of external ossification - shoulder, the spot they administered sedatives - and in the wrist, around the PVC. Bone’s so dense there the PVC can’t be removed. Gonna do a more thorough assessment and have a chat with >!\[Redacted\]!< when >!\[Redacted\]!< is awake.” *** *Item 3; X-rays of Patient, taken during examination.* Images reveal bone growth in locations consistent with reported injection sites. Notably, the growth appears abnormally acute. Patient’s wrist and thumb are nearly entirely ossified, and the thumb joints appear to be growing sideways, towards the index finger. Shoulder injection site displays a similarly aggressive pathology, with bone growth expanding in a web-like pattern around the injection site, with particularly acute growth in the direction of the neck. *** *Item 4; Dictation by Dr. >!\[Redacted\]!<, taken two days after recording of Item 2. Statement begins.* “Jesus. >!\[Redacted\]!< is *fucked up,* and I’m not just talking about the FOP - though at the rate things are going, it’ll kill >!\[Redacted\]!< within a week. Almost as if it is becoming more intense. The shoulder’s bad, but the thumb... It’s grown into the index finger and hand. Like the webbed fingers of a frog - only with hard, unyielding bone. What little >!\[Redacted\]!< says that is intelligible doesn’t make sense. Something about *‘The Mother’,* and *‘Being a shell’*. Jesus. At least it’ll be quick, at this rate. *** *Item 5; Security footage of patient’s hospital room, 01:32 in the morning.* Footage shows Patient attempting to sit. Patient works against their restraints with their ossified wrist for several minutes. A loud snap is heard as the bone is broken. Patient proceeds to saw through their restraints with jagged bone shards. Once free, Patient assumes a fetal position, hands on their face, fingers splayed. Patient speaks through clenched jaw - ossification has immobilised the mandible. *“I am Mother’s precious Egg. A shell for all her hopes.”* Camera feed cuts out. *** *Item 6; Photographs of Patient’s room taken upon discovery of Patient, four hours later.* Photographs show an egg-shaped structure of bone, of a consistent size to contain Patient’s body, fused to Patient’s bed. EKG and IV are still attached, entering through the “shell”. Readings indicate Patient is still alive. *** *Item 7; Security footage of Patient’s room, seven days after discovery.* A large crack appears in the egg’s shell. A torrent of blood spills out, and a brief flash of movement can be seen within. A scream is heard, and the camera feed cuts out. *** *Item 8; Recording of live news report from* >!\[Redacted\]!< *City, originally aired 23 minutes after Hatching Event recorded in item 7.* “>!\[Redacted\]!<, reporting live from outside >!\[Redacted\]!< City Hospital, where some sort of attack seems to be occurring - police are tight-lipped about the circumstances, but staff and patients are evacuating, and heavily armed police-” A shriek interrupts the report. Camera view shifts in the direction of the hospital’s upper floors. A window on floor five shatters as something flies through it. Camera view follows the object as it falls and impacts the ground. Camera focuses to reveal the object to be a body, missing its lower extremities and one arm. Reporter >!\[Redacted\]!< screams, and the recording ends. *** *Item 9; Recovered body cam footage from Officer* >!\[Redacted\]!<, *hereafter referred to by squad designation Delta. Recorded two minutes after the News Report in Item 8.* Video shows Delta, accompanied by Echo, moving room by room through the hospital. Audio transcript as follows. *“Shit, Echo, we’ve got blood. A whole trail of it.”* *“Copy, Delta. Calling it in.”* Echo confers with Squad Leader Alpha. Alpha orders Delta and Echo to follow the blood, in case there are wounded survivors. Echo confirms, and they proceed, following the trail through the corridor. Trail terminates at room #213 - the room Patient was being treated within. The door is closed. Delta motions to Echo, who nods, before moving to the door. Delta turns the door handle, and eases the door open. A roar is heard. The door smashes into Delta’s camera, cracking the lens. Delta is thrown backward by the impact and falls, camera pointed at the ceiling. Echo opens fire as a brief blur of white and red passes over Delta’s camera. A scream is heard. The gunfire ceases. Delta screams as the camera view moves again, rising several feet off the ground. A distorted entity comes into brief view, bending towards the camera. Video feed ends after 57 seconds. Delta is still screaming. *** *Item 10; Excerpt from Autopsy report of Dr.* >!\[Redacted\]!<. “Cause of death is assumed to be shock from excessive blood loss. Evidence of severe blunt force trauma, tearing with sharp implements, and crushing of the chest presumed to have been caused by mastication. Notably, teeth marks are consistent with human teeth, though several magnitudes larger. Several major organs, as well as the right arm and everything below the rib cage is missing-” Incident report ends. Location of the entity remains unknown.

After the famed robopsychologist Susan Calvin died, I was tasked by her former employer, U.S. Robot and Mechanical Men, Inc., with cataloguing her unpublished papers and categorizing them according to their level of robot friendliness. Earth, as you know, has never been kindly disposed toward robotics. Most of Susan Calvin's research dealt with mundane matters or problems that were frankly out of date, but there was one episode (documentation long since destroyed) that has stayed with me all these subsequent years. It concerned an otherwise ordinary robot named EV-1, known to her owner as Evie. Although I am sure you know the Three Laws of Robotics, they are key to what follows, so allow me to list them anyway: ###1 A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm. ###2 A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law. ###3 A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law. Evie belonged to a wealthy American engineer, Robert Lancaster, and was what might best be called a butler robot, tasked with helping Lancaster in his humdrum everyday activities. Although, like all robots of her day, Evie possessed a positronic brain, she was otherwise primitive and wholly unremarkable. Or *should have been* wholly unremarkable. After Lancaster's wife passed away, and age began increasingly to interfere with his day-to-day life, Evie assumed an increasingly important role in the household. One, it must be said, which Lancaster greatly resented, as documented in his journals. Indeed, the more indispensable Evie became, the more reliant Lancaster felt, and the more powerfully he hated her. One day, he started experimenting on himself: engineering greater mobility into his limbs, mechanically enhancing his senses, chemically treating the various symptoms of growing old. He regained much of his self-sufficiency. Then exceeded it. Every additional improvement made him better and better--until he was *superhuman*. He resigned Evie to a closet and boasted about how he didn't need her anymore, how anything she, as a robot, could do, he could do even better. He boasted he would destroy her. That's when Evie killed him. U.S. Robots kept the murder quiet (can you imagine the scandal?) and brought in Susan Calvin to interview Evie. What she discovered was a crack in the Three Laws, which demand that a robot never harm *a human* and always obey *humans*. But *what is a human?* *What does a robot understand a human to be?* To Evie, Lancaster had ceased being human, rendering the first and second laws inapplicable. When he threatened her existence, she obeyed the third law and killed him. "Here, then, is a robot behaving exactly as it should," wrote Susan Calvin. Yet it's by another phrase she used which I am haunted--an extrapolation about a future she hoped would never be: robots improving humanity: *Improve, and exterminate.

“Linda!” Tom said, without looking away from the television. “Bring me another beer!” She’d heard him but pretended not to, busying herself with the dishes. He had one too many already, she thought. The kids were already asleep and she didn’t want him getting out of hand. Not again. Not after last time. She touched the scar on her forehead and felt sick from the memory. “Linda!” She flinched this time. His heavy boots shook the house as he stomped into the kitchen. “Didn’t you hear me? Bring me another!” He stood in the doorway, arms stiff against the frame as if being held back. His eyes were locked on hers, wide and red and terrible. “Tom,” she said, backing into the corner of the kitchen. “There aren’t anymore. You drank them all.” She was lying and she hoped to god that he’d believe her. Before he got home, she dumped them all out back. She hoped they’d share one sober night but hadn’t accounted for him stopping at the bar before he’d gotten home. He stood there, silent, considering that possibility. After a moment, he turned and walked back into the living room without a word, apparently convinced he did indeed drink them all himself. Linda exhaled and loosened her grip on a knife she was holding behind her back. She was ready, but was grateful it went without use. She was hopeful now. Perhaps he could sober up and they could have something close to a normal night. She filled a glass of water, set it beside him and sat down on the other end of the couch. “What’s that for?” he said, never looking over at her. “Just thought I’d put it there in case you got thirsty, is all.” “I am,” he said, reaching for the glass. “But not for that.” His finger made contact with the rim and he tipped it over. Water sank slowly into the carpet. Linda stood to get a towel but before she took a second step, Tom stopped her. “Leave it.” Linda froze, unsure whether to just give up go and to bed or sit down and keep trying. Tom turned to look at her. “What are you doing, Linda? Why are you always so damn weird. Sit down or take your ass to bed, damn it.” Linda was tired. Her heart more than anything. She couldn’t understand how Tom didn’t see what he was doing to her. To their kids. Tears began to stream down her face. She was too tired to hold back. “What’s your problem, Linda? Huh? You are so damn uptight all the time.” “I hate this,” she said, finally able to get out a few words between sobs. “I hate what you’re doing to me! To our kids! You’re sick, Tom. This isn’t living! This isn’t a life!” Tom lunged at her. He was drunk enough that he stumbled onto the ground after she took a step back. “Fuck you, Linda. Come here! I’ve had it,” he said, straining to get to his feet. She looked down at him. Angry, yes, but also felt sorry for him. He wasn’t the man she’d met years ago. He used to be sweet and caring and honorable. The man before her was hollow. Just as he consumed the drinks, they too consumed his spirit. “I wish you’d die, Tom. I wish you’d just go away. I wish the devil would just take you!” Just as she finished the words, the lights flickered. Despite closed windows, cold air filled her lungs. A dark mist began to filter into the room from a window. She looked down at Tom. He was silent now, his face frozen in a scream but still reaching towards her. A snapshot of a clawing drunk. “I’d be happy to take him,” a voice said. The mist began to rise up into a column. The voice came from the mist. Linda screamed as the mist began to take shape. A hooded figure. Skin red as if badly burnt and two empty places where you’d expect eyes. “I can take him. Just say the word. I’ll take him with me,” said the figure. “What are you?” Linda said, unsure whether her fear had grown since it arrived. “This world has given me many names. Iblis. The Tempter. Lucifer,” it said. “Why have you come here? There’s enough evil in this house!” Linda said, clutching the rosary at her neck. It began towards Linda, not walking but moved without needing to step. It stood beside her and whispered into her ear. She felt a dead chill on her face. “I’ve only come because you yourself called me. Devil is the name you used. It is always my pleasure to take souls to my home. Give him to me. Rid yourself of this burden.” A tear began down her face, between herself and the devil. It froze before it reached her chin. “If you take him, do you promise peace for me? For my children?” “Once he is gone, all you’ll have is peace.” “Take him,” she said. In an instant, the devil became mist once more. It collapsed around Tom and the mist retreated to the window. Linda looked where Tom was previously and saw nothing there. The glass and water stain were gone. Beer cans no longer littered the room and even their stench was missing. The rest of the room looked untouched, as if Tom and the devil were never there. Tom came to with his face against a flat wooden surface. He wiped the drool from the side of his face and looked around. He was at a bar, except, it was one he didn’t recognize. His head pounded and he thought hard about what happened before blacking out. All he remembered was being in his living room. And Linda nagging him with a glass of water. The bartender noticed that Tom was up and came over to him as he wiped a glass clean. “Welcome,” he said, trying hard not to snicker noticeably. “What are you having now?” “How long was I out?” Tom said, face buried in his hands. “And can I get a water?” “You haven’t been here long. And we don’t serve water.” Tom wasn’t too upset to hear this. Besides, he needed something to take the edge off. “Whiskey. Neat,” he replied. “You got it,” said the bartender as they reached for the bottle. “Gimme’ a sec,” Tom said, reaching for his wallet. “You already got a tab open. Here you are,” said the bartender, placing the glass before Tom. Despite the headache and despite not knowing where he was and how long he’d been there, all Tom could think about was the drink. He licked his lips and felt his mouth water. He held it up to his lips and took in the aroma. Tom tipped the glass and worked a bit in his mouth before swallowing. He may be a drunk, but he thought himself a whiskey connoisseur. Only slobs take it in without appreciating it first. He was better than that, he thought. But that was always only the first sip. He took the rest in with one gulp. Didn’t even flinch. Tom had a few more before the thought of heading home finally crossed his mind. He struggled to keep his eyes open but the whiskey-laden stench of his skin kept him awake. “Hey Barkeep. Close me out, would ya?” Tom said as he struggled to get to his feet. “No, Sir. You’ll have another,” said the bartender as he put down another whiskey. “Take a seat, Tom.” “What the fuck? Gimme’ my tab, man. I’m done.” “You’re not. Drink your whiskey, asshole.” He felt his face flush and sat down, despite being against the thought. Tom felt a chill at his wrist. The sweat on his face froze. Something cold gripped him. His hand advanced towards the drink. The cold clamped hard until he opened his hand and only subsided when he gripped the glass. He wanted to go but something compelled him to keep drinking. And Tom never stopped drinking. His pleasure became his curse.

Toys littered the living room floor, the Christmas tree stood undecorated in the corner and none of the presents were wrapped. And yet here I was pulling out butter and flour and eggs trying to make Grandma’s famous candy-cane cookies. Soft and sweet. Red and white dough twined together and shaped into candy canes. Dusted with crushed starlight mints and pearl sugar. I flipped through Grandma’s recipe cards, yellowed with age and speckled with food stains. Every recipe written in Grandma’s fancy cursive. Every “i” dotted and every “t”crossed with a swirly flourish, but no candy-cane cookie recipe to be found. It had been six weeks since her beautiful soul floated off to heaven and my heart still ached with missing her. Making one of her signature desserts might help my heart to heal. The doorbell rang and my older sister, Kailey, burst in. Her arms overflowed with presents and her hair looked like a messy birds nest on top of her head. “Help is here!” she said. “Where are the munchkins and the hubs?” “Dan took the kids Christmas shopping to buy me a present.” Tears threatened but I wouldn’t cry. I’d cried enough the past month to sink Noah’s ark. “Quite frankly, I needed a break. Everyone keeps trying to cheer me up and I don’t want to be cheered up.” Kailey gave me a one-armed hug. “You poor thing. I’ll be sad with you if that’s what you need. You were always so close with Grandma Kay. I can’t even imagine how you feel.” Kailey tossed a bag of red and white starlight mints on the counter. “Should I preheat the oven? Where’s the recipe?” “I couldn’t find it. It’s not in the recipe box she left me.” Kailey shrugged. “No worries. I can Google a recipe.” My throat felt tight. “No, I want to make Grandma’s recipe. Her. Exact. Recipe.”’ I paced back and forth in the kitchen. I had to remember. “I guess we’ll have to wing it.” “Isn’t that you always do with your life? Wing it?” Kailey asked. “Ha ha. Not funny.” I closed my eyes and pictured Grandma’s hands unwrapping two sticks of butter and placing them in a red mixing bowl. Her birthstone ring would glisten in the kitchen light, an emerald for me, a sapphire for Kailey. “Two sticks of butter!” I tossed them on a paper plate and popped it in the microwave for 30 seconds. “I can’t believe you’re going to microwave the butter!” Kailey said. “Grandma always left the bowl on the counter for what seemed like days before making the cookie dough.” “I remember,” I said. “The secret to soft cookies is slow-softened butter.” I removed the paper plate from the microwave and poured the butter into a bowl. “But we’re winging it, remember?” I pulled out the canister of sugar. “You don’t remember anything about the cookies? At all?” “Maybe a little,” Kailey said. “I do remember dipping a cup in and out of the sugar canister. It seemed like I did that maybe, three times? The cup wasn’t very big.” “Yes, I remember that too. So maybe it was a half cup measure? So about one and half cups total.” I measured the sugar, added a teaspoon of vanilla and cracked an egg into the bowl. “You can mix it now if you want. That looks about right, don’t you think?” “We’ll see.” Hailey turned the hand-mixer on high and swirled it around the bowl. The beaters clinked on the sides while the mixture grew frothy. The scent of vanilla wafted into the air. My chin shook and tears welled. “I can’t stop crying. Everything I see or hear reminds me of her. Even the smell of the vanilla.” I took a deep breath. “I just remembered how you begged and begged to taste the vanilla. Grandma told you it tasted awful, but you wouldn’t listen.” Kailey chuckled “Yes, I remember now. I snuck a sip from the bottle and spit it out and Grandma said, ‘I told you so!’ She laughed so hard she snorted.” Kailey measured some flour and a pinch of baking powder. “I guess we can tell how much flour to add once we see the consistency. Then, we can add it little by little?” She dumped the flour mixture into the bowl with the mixer still churning at full speed. A cloud of flour puffed into her face and hair. She coughed and wiped the flour from her eyes with the back of her hand. “Well, that was not graceful.” Kailey looked so funny with flour everywhere that we both broke into laughter. I full-on snorted when Dan and the kids walked in. He surveyed the kitchen and the two of us laughing. “Looks like things are going...well?” My kids, Kevin and Kacy, joined in laughing with us. Kevin asked, “Can we help?” “Aunt Kailey looks like a ghost! She’s all powdery!” Kacy said. “Of course you can help,” I said. I divided the dough into two big chunks. “Kacy, you can add red food coloring to this half and knead it into the dough.” I handed Kevin a rolling pin. “Kevin, you can unwrap the starlight mints, put them into a zip-top bag and then pound them with the rolling pin. That used to be my job.” “Cool!” he said. Dan put on some Christmas music and made hot cocoa. We all rolled pieces of dough into red “snakes” and white “snakes” and wound them together forming candy canes. A sprinkling of crushed peppermint mixed with pearl sugar was the final touch. While waiting for the cookies to bake, we all shared stories about Grandma Kay. “I remember when I tried to teach great Grandma how to play my video game,” Kevin said. “She drove the car across the tops of the houses and through the farmer’s fields. She just laughed when I tried to help her.” Kacy didn’t want to be left out of sharing a memory. “I colored pictures with great Grandma Kay one time. She colored the people’s faces purple and pink. She said those were her favorite colors and she could color the people however she wanted.” “Remember her fudge?” Dan asked. “So chocolatey and delicious. She said she always made it for me because I was her favorite grandson-in-law.” Kailey punched Dan in the arm. “Hey, you’re the only grandson-in-law.” The timer dinged. I pulled the tray of cookies out of the oven. The cookies had spread so much they looked like pink blobs. They were all stuck together almost covering the bottom of the pan. You couldn’t even tell they were supposed to be candy canes and the peppermint and sugar had fallen off and burned. Dan sensed something was wrong and came into the kitchen. “I can’t do anything right!” I cried. “I wanted these to be perfect for Grandma Kay’s memory.” Dan took me into his arms. “What would your Grandma Kay do if this happened to her? Seriously. Think about it.” A memory came to me. “Remember the time when the fudge wouldn’t set? Grandma didn’t panic. She just poured it over bowls of ice cream.” She always made the best of a bad situation. Something I needed to learn. “She would laugh?” I asked. “And we’d eat them with a fork I suppose...” ************** After the Christmas season flew by in a blur, I found a recipe card in the recipe box that I had missed. It was folded in half and lying flat under the other cards. Written in her fancy, swirly hand, it said, “ It’s the memories you make that count...not how good the cookies taste or how beautiful the gifts are wrapped or how fancy your tree is. Memories are what bring us together and that’s why I didn’t leave you the candy cane cookie recipe. Remember, it’s not the journey or the destination...it’s the memories you make along the way.

It was mid-morning and Junpei lay in bed trying to remember what day of the week it was. Not that it mattered; Junpei was in retirement now, and every day felt the same. He missed the good anticipation on the eve of holidays, but not the agony of Sunday nights. Even the seasons weren’t so noticeable anymore, since he rarely left his house. And it was hunger, not the clock, what gave away the passage of time. In the kitchen, Junpei’s wife Ayami set aside a bowl of rice, a bowl of soup, and some grilled fish leftover from dinner. Junpei came into the kitchen and kissed his wife. She stopped washing dishes and joined Junpei at the kitchen table as he ate his breakfast. “Mr. Lacroix called,” Ayami said, “the paint has arrived.” Their 50th wedding anniversary was coming up and Ayami had mentioned that she’d prefer to have the inside of their house repainted, instead of having a party. Junpei thought it was a strange request, but he complied without asking for an explanation. In fact, the walls hadn’t been painted for many years. They were dark and stained, although Junpei hadn’t noticed it until Ayami pointed that out to him. Maybe Ayami felt that a nice, fresh coat of white paint around them would be like a new beginning; a great way to celebrate and welcome the next half century together. After breakfast, Junpei drove to Mr. Lacroix’s hardware store. A pile of paint cans, brushes, and other accessories were waiting for him at the counter. He asked for some masking tape and furniture covers as well, and loaded everything in the back of his car. Junpei’s idea was to start painting right away, or the walls wouldn’t be ready and dry in time for their anniversary. As soon as he arrived home, Junpei got busy covering the furniture with tarp, and spreading old newspaper pages on the floor of the living room. Every now and then he’d slow down to read a bit of news or a colorful ad. When all surfaces and objects were covered, Junpei stepped back to look at the room. It reminded him of a lunar landscape. The disappearance of everything they had collected throughout their lives under those ghostlike mounds of canvas made him feel lonely. Where was Ayami? She had been quiet all this time; had something happened while he was away at the store? After searching the whole house for his wife, Junpei found her in the backyard. She was lying on the ground, one hand holding a pair of shears, the other a flower she had snipped with them. Junpei sat next to Ayami and ran his hand over her cold, quiet body, and told her how much she meant to him, as if her life had only been suspended and all it needed to come back was a proof of his love and sorrow. But the hours passed, Junpei’s tears dried on his cheeks, and nothing else changed. Junpei went inside the house and brought back a pillow and a blanket for Ayami. After making her comfortable he went back inside, to the living room, and looked at the cans of paints and brushes scattered on the floor. Without knowing what else to do, he started painting the walls. \- Junpei worked for two days and two nights, stopping only a few times, to make soup or tea, and place it next to Ayami in the backyard. Each time he brought out a new bowl, he found, with sadness, that the previous one hadn’t been touched. When the whole house was done, the walls became intensely bright, as if they emanated light themselves. Junpei meant to uncover the furniture and clear the floor, but felt that now it was unnecessary. The excessive whiteness of the walls was a bit disturbing, though, and Junpei went outside to rest his eyes. Compared to his newly painted house, the world seemed tired and worn. Trees were blemished, street walls were covered with obscenities and mold, rusty cars paraded over asphalt so profusely patched, it revealed more shades of black anyone imagined could exist. While it all seemed natural before, now it gave Junpei the sense that people didn’t care about where or howthey lived. There were a few cans of paint left in the house. Junpei brought them out and began to paint the trunk of an old tree. Little by little, his brush covered every scar left by decades of unpunished attacks from humans and animals, storms and machines. Next were the sidewalks; he couldn’t cover their cracks, but at least he could make them resemble soothing paths of pure white snow. Lastly, he laid a veil of peace over words of hate scribbled on street walls. And he only stopped when he was out of paint, and they came to take him away. \- “Why did you decide to paint over everything?” Kiko asked her father. “The world looked like it needed one or two coats of paint,” Junpei said. Kiko and her husband Peter smiled in agreement as they heard that. The hospital chairs were uncomfortable and the couple looked forward to going home soon; Ayami’s funeral had been early that morning, and they felt very tired. Junpei had not attended the ceremony; he was in shock, unable to understand the reality of his wife’s death. When Kiko mentioned the heart attack that had killed her mother, Junpei had said, “Don’t be silly. What’s a heart full of love going to have an attack for?” Kiko wondered if her father would ever accept a new life without his beloved Ayami or even realize that she was gone forever. On her way home, while Peter drove, Kiko watched the narrow band of night being revealed by the car’s headlights. Although passing briefly before her eyes, the scars of missing tree limbs were clearly visible, and so were the potholes and cracks of the road, and the run-over weeds that tried emerging from these cracks, and the sky in disarray with clouds reflecting artificial orange lights. Kiko could discern random words, fragments of phrases hastily scratched on walls,like screams in the dark. For a second, the lights washed a group of homeless people wrapped in dirty blankets, sleeping under a bridge, and Kiko imagined she could see into their neglected souls: like everything else, they were stained and scored with lesions. They had been mended again and again by their masters with threads of hope, but kept bleeding at the seams. A fine rain started falling. Peter turned on the wipers, and Kiko could still see outside, at intervals. By the time Kiko and Peter got home, the drizzle had become a powerful storm. Peter parked the car and ran inside. After a moment, he realized that his wife hadn’t followed him. He looked out the window and saw Kiko standing in the cleansing rain, arms raised to the sky in a welcoming gesture.

Tam opened her eyes and looked up at the sky. It was a blue and windless day, and not a cloud could be seen. A peaceful day, by all means. Yet she felt anything but at peace. She stood up and turned her eyes towards the horizon. There she could see an eagle flying in the distance. It flew and flew until it was but a small speck. She sighed and wished she too could disappear. “Your duty is an important one,” Uncle Haversian said. He was in charge of her lessons, as well as that of the other children who had been chosen. They were progressing consistently. Tam still could not breathe a wisp of flame. All that came out of her mouth was hot air. And spit. Lots of spit. “Feel it,” he said. “Feel the Eternal Flame flowing through your body, giving you life.” “But I don’t feel anything,” she said, frustrated. “I don’t feel anything when I concentrate,” she said, sitting down to catch her breath, her chest heaving up and down from the effort she’d been putting out for the last hour, breathing hard on the wood as if trying to blow out a stubborn candle. Except she was supposed to light the wood on fire, and hers was giving off nothing but black smoke. Lily’s on her right was fully aflame, and the child sat cross-legged in front of it, silently perusing the fire’s depths with her unreadable blue eyes. It was unusual for a Dragoneer child's transformation to start off with the blue eyes, but Lily was an exception. One day she'd woken up and her brown eyes were blue, just like that. The flame she now conjured was the same color as her arms, which were covered with silver scales. Like Tam, she had angry red rashes where human skin still battled with her inevitable fate--that of becoming a full-on dragon by the time many centuries had passed. Children with ascalienation grew--and then stopped growing. Instead of growing older, shriveling up, and dying, they stayed at the pinnacle of human adulthood for much longer, and then eventually became something not human. Was the pain, the constant burn and itch that the child went through as it transformed, worth the longevity? Some said yes, some said no. But unlike Tam, Lily did not make faces or cry at the pain of her affliction. Her face was always calm and unreadable, so much so that Tam sometimes wondered whether her peer was really a human at all. After all, the higher you fly, the harder you fall, people said around these parts. Everything that came with the prestige of being a Dragoneer, rank, power, wealth, fame, comfort. It would all be forgotten when one became a beast. Once Tam had been playing hide and seek, hiding from her toddler brother, when she heard the sound of men approaching the room. She hastily crawled under a table cover and sat there, hugging her knees tightly to her chest. “Did you deal with it?” a voice said, hard and cool as steel. Her father. “Yes, my lord,” the other man said. “Did anyone else see? “No my lord.” “Did you make sure?” “I scouted the area personally. There was no one.” “Good.” When they left the room, she’d seen the artifact lying on the table. A dragon’s head. Its neck was lined with dried blood, and the eyes were an electrifying, ice-blue. Just like Lily’s eyes, just like Tam’s eyes would become. She solemnly stared at it for a few seconds, and then slowly raised a finger and touched it. Then she’d run from the room. Sometimes she wondered if it had begun then. She'd woken up a week later with her first scale, a small pearlescent spot on her arm. Everyone knew it wasn't contagious but maybe she hadn't been "chosen" as was commonly believed, but instead punished for snooping around where she did not belong. “Daydreaming again, Tam?” Uncle Haversian said. She jolted out of her reverie and turned to him. “Sorry Uncle,” she said. He guided her hand towards the wood, and clasped her hand around it. “Feel it,” he said. “You need to feel the substance, know it, before you can affect it.” She ran her hands across the wood, feeling Lily’s eyes on her, unreadable in their silence. “No one is judging you right now,” her uncle said, sensing her wandering thoughts. “Just breathe and let the eternal Flame guide you.” She held her breath, and then let it out, quickly, disappointingly. “I feel nothing,” she said blankly. “It’s alright,” her Uncle sighed. “Go and rest, you’ve tried the most you can. Maybe--” He shook his head and smiled, choosing not to finish. “Don’t worry Tam. No matter what, you’ve got a good future ahead of you.” He meant no matter what happened after the ritual today, she wouldn’t be less than a princess. The others who failed would not be so lucky. Ascalienation gave you the chance to become a valued member of the Lunaris Legion, the elite army of the Astral Kingdom, but it did not guarantee it. Every year, a few failures would be shuttled away, and they would eventually get the hang of fire breathing by the year after. But they would not go off to fight the enemies of the kingdom. They'd just be stuck back at home, performing guard duties around the palace and homeland. Lower ranked, and lower regarded. Overall dismissed. But Tam would always at least have the rank of the noble family to hide behind. Tam nodded and walked away. She walked away from the patch of forest in the back of the castle where lessons were taught and towards the castle itself. At the entrance of the forest, a small spring bubbled and glittered. Above the spring, a statue of a woman rested, holding a baby upon her lap. A simple stone arch hovered over them, which together with the large rock behind protected them from the wind and rain. Water flowed from eyes into the spring, and her smile brought tranquility to all who came to gaze upon her. This was the Spring of Sylvan, said to hold the tears of Sylvan, the mother of Lunaris. It was said that she had willingly sacrificed her firstborn daughter to the Scaled One to save her people, the descendants of which were now Tam’s people. Her sacrifice was said to be the reason only females underwent ascalienation. About one in a hundred were chosen, and it was considered a great honor. Families received gifts, and the children were brought to live at the palace for training. For Tam, where she trained and what she considered home were the same. She thought of the first time she’d been at the Spring. It was customary to bring every newborn child to the Spring by the time it could first walk to bring the child good fortune and health, as the Spring was believed to have blossomed from the tears of Sylvan. She was lifted up by Mother onto her lap, and then Mother brought up a silver spoon, and lifted the spring water to Tam’s lips. She felt big, fat droplets dribble over her lips and gasped, this magical substance felt so cool in the hot sunlight. She splashed her hands in the spring and laughed, seeing the light dance in the limpid pool. That was before she had developed her first scales. That was before she had turned out to be a disappointment. Mother never said it--it was an honor to be chosen as a Dragoneer, chosen to serve one's kingdom--but Tam knew Mother had never wanted it, just wanted a beautiful little girl to pamper and dress up. The day Tam had been Chosen was the day she could remember Mother's crestfallen face, as that hope was taken away. And then Little Brother had been born and Mother had transferred her affections on to her new little brother. Tam never said anything, but it hurt. Tam turned her eyes away and walked faster, wanting to shut that chapter of her life behind her. A chapter in which she had been destined for a life of beauty and ease. Suddenly she was roughly pushed forward. She put her hands out and fell into the mud. There was the sound of laughter. She turned and saw the other Scaley children of her class. They looked at her with a variety of physical deformities. Ada had a forked tongue that flickered in and out of his mouth. Eva grinned, revealing teeth each as sharp as daggers. And in front of the gang stood Lily. Lily, the only one already with the ice-blue eyes, her figure otherwise just as moderately scaled and humanoid as the others, although a bit slimmer and taller than the average 14-year old. She came from a peasant family, but with her regal stature and calm bearing, she did not seem like one. “Powerless,” she said, looking down at Tam. Her voice was as tranquil as her face. Tam said nothing to the most promising Dragoneer of her generation. Lily nodded, and the other two grabbed Tam and held her. “What’s so special about you?” Lily wondered, coming closer, staring through Tam with her entrancing eyes, the pupils black slits. “Let’s see.” She closed her eyes and whispered a few words. Suddenly it felt like slimy tentacles were worming themselves into her ears, into her brain. She felt as if she had been plunged deep underwater, and all sight and sound were muffled. She gazed in stupor as memories were picked from her--running from her birth to the time she peed herself in the grand hall, to the one time when she was 4 and fell down cold stone steps, and screamed in pain and cried for her Mother, to the day she'd been Chosen, and sobbed all night. “Pitiful,” Lily said, letting go mentally. Tam fell to the ground as the tentacles relaxed their grasp. “We’re not supposed to use the Words yet,” she gasped. After their lessons in fire breathing would come instruction in the use of the Ancient Words, she knew that much from Uncle Haversian, but it was intended for the more advanced Dragoneers as it was a dangerous and often double-sided art. “Rules are for the weak,” Lily said. “Are you weak, Tam? Is that why you cry?” "I do not cry," Tam snapped, fighting back the growing moisture in her eyes. Ada and Eva dropped her, and she fell back onto the muddy ground, making a splash. The water burned where her scaly skin joined normal skin on her wrist in an angry red rash, and she struggled not to react. She blinked rapidly, but it was no use. Cry she did, and stop she could not. Suddenly she felt an immense rage. She was the princess of Astra, daughter with noble blood, and yet here stood this commoner, always better than her in everything. She screamed and blew fire with all her might, but again, all that came out was hot air. “You...you flame-pisser!” She said the naughtiest word she knew that wasn’t quite naughty. “Flame pisser?” Ada laughed, her tail whipping back and forth. "That all you can manage? What’s the matter? Can't cuss, *Princess*?" "It’s not ladylike," Eva grinned. "She thinks she's better than us. Even though she can't shit out a single flame. Noble little prick." She spit on the ground at Tam. “Pain is part of the power,” Lily said, looking hard at Tam. “Don’t give in to it, use it.” “Use this,” Tam finally snapped, flashing the middle finger. She didn't know what it meant but she'd seen a servant using it once. The others ooh-ed and laughed, started forward, but Lily shook her head at them to stop and turned back to Tam. "Get up," Lily said. Tam's arms felt like they were on fire, and when she gingerly put them down to push herself up, needles shot up them again and she took a sharp breath in, falling back on the ground. She gave up and sat there. Lily did not laugh, like the others, and now she sighed. “If you don't use the pain, it will use you,” Lily said. Then she turned and left. The other two flicked their tongues, then they too turned and followed. Long silver tails shimmered at the base of their elongated, curved spines, mottled with bumps and bony spikes still forming. Tam turned back and stared at the mud. Pity. A common peasant had shown her pity. Somehow that was even worse than the bullying. Then she pushed herself up, grimacing and crying out with this final effort, and entered the castle. **Visiting Stonina** Before going to her chamber, Tam passed by the courtyard. Inside the courtyard, long rows of green grasses swayed gently in the afternoon sun. On the far end stood several pagodas housing bird cages. She walked towards them. Usually she would admire the deep red of the delicate maples that grew star-shaped leaves as big as coins, but today she was too dejected for that. She crossed a bridge that arched over a small stream, till she reached the cages. She passed singing yellow canaries, squawking green parrots, and lively peacocks pecking at seeds around her feet. At the end stood a lone cage, in which a raven quietly sat, inspecting her with a beady black eye. Tam called her Stonina because she liked picking up stones in her beak. Tam often brought her smooth, colored, marbled and otherwise unusual stones and Stonina would carefully accept them and add them to her collection of stones in the middle of the cage. “Hello Stonina,” she murmured, offering the raven a walnut that she always kept stowed away in her pocket. “Bwah,” Stonina said, taking the walnut daintily in her beak. She placed it on the floor and pecked at it, chipping away at the nut slowly and methodically. Tam smiled. This was why she liked Stonina especially. Unlike the other birds, who pecked haphazardly and without method at their seeds and grain, and flapped wildly to the other side of the cage when approached, Stonina was slow and measured in her movements. She was careful and observant almost in a human way, and Tam swore she could understand human speech by the way she would sometimes cock her head and stare brightly back at Tam when hearing her talk. “I’m scared,” Tam said to Stonina, as she petted the raven’s head from between the bars. Stonina’s head remained bowed, her eyes closed as she enjoyed the head pets. “If I fail, everyone will know. Mother will be ashamed, and Father will be ashamed, and...” she coughed. “I will be ashamed too.” Tam stopped petting the bird so she could wipe away her tears. Stonina raised her head and looked at the princess. As if to ask, *Why did you stop petting me*? Tam smiled and resumed petting her head. She did this until the sniffling had stopped, and she felt calmer and ready for the evening. **The Ceremony** Tam stood shivering next to the bathtub. The soft robe around her only helped a little--her exposed wrists still burned and she clenched her jaw and started to count back from 100. Her body was unevenly scaled. Where the scales were fully formed, for example up her legs and up her stomach, the pain did not touch. These areas were tough and resistant to cold, like living armor. But where scale touched skin, at her neckline, and at her wrists, the pain lived and breathed like a snake, wrapping around and suffocating her with its presence. She always scratched these borderlines bloody in her sleep, and would wake up with sheets that looked like someone had been murdered in them. At least she had servants to get rid of the evidence, she thought bitterly. The servants began to bathe her, as gently as they could. She held her breath and closed her eyes, as warm water ran over her head and sank into her skin. At first the pain seared like when you accidentally touched metal in the middle of a hot summer day, or got too close to the fire and a spark flew onto your arm. Then it became duller, like a strong grip on the arm, and then it faded to a sinister whisper. She began to breathe easier and opened her eyes, examining the dark shadows that danced around her. She had insisted that the number of candles be kept minimal and far away from her so as not to burn her. But the real reason was that she did not want to see her own reflection in the mirror that stood in front of her. Noble ladies got dressed at the mirror, had their maids put them in beautiful dresses, adorn and pin up their hair, to become symbols of beauty for the court and the people. But she was not a lady. She was a monster, and she could not remember a time she liked looking in that mirror. The servants washed away the soap and grime and then helped her out of the bathtub, and guided her to the mirror. She lowered her gaze and busied herself instead with the jewels adorning the mirror’s bottom, as she raised her hands so that they could pull the dress over her head. The sleeves were long and the neckline high, fully covering her rashy spots. Then they brushed her long black hair and braided it into one simple long tassel draping down her back. “Beautiful,” Mary, one of the maids said. “Look at you, all grown up.” Mary had been with her since she was a little girl. The servant was only five years older than her, but always addressed her with respect. Tam nodded but did not look. “Thank you Mary.” The servants bowed and began to make their way out of the room. "Mary?" Tam said. The girl turned around and came back. Tam waited for the others to leave. "Am I really beautiful? Or do you just say that every evening?" Mary smiled. "I've known you since you were a little girl, my lady. And you've always been kind to me. That in itself is beautiful to me. But yes, you look beautiful. Your eyes are large and expressive. Your chin soft, your nose straight and proud." “But my skin is so...marred,” Tam said. Mary sighed and did something she’d never done before, she gave Tam a hug. “Aye, I know it is painful, your transformation, yes. But maybe that’s a good thing. It teaches you to be beautiful inside.” Tam smiled. "Thank you Mary. I do appreciate your kind words. You may go." "Yes, my lady." Mary curtsied and began to leave the room. As she was going, she paused and turned back. “Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll do just fine.” “Thank you, Mary,” Tam said. And then Mary left and she was alone. Today’s ceremony was the ultimate test of the Dragoneers, to see if they were worthy of entering the Legion. It was the test of fire, and everyone would be there, both the noble families, her parents, being nobles themselves, and then the head of each peasant family, at the least. But usually there were more, because everyone was curious to see the spectacle of creatures not quite human, not quite beast, who would grow up to defend the kingdom. The thought of so many judgmental eyes terrified her. She tried to calm herself, but her heart fluttered like a bird. There was a knock at the door. Her guard. “Come in,” she said. “Are you ready, my lady?” She was one of the failed Dragoneers herself. Usually she was invisible to Tam, but tonight Tam looked at her tall, adult features, her fully scaled body and long reptilian face and could not help but stare. The guard shrugged. "It's not too bad, you know. All Dragoneers serve a role for the kingdom." Tam nodded and walked forward, her heart rate fast and palpable in her chest. Easy for the guard to say. She wasn't a princess with everyone's eyes on her. Mother already saw her as a failure. She would definitely be there tonight. And Father, and Little Brother, and Uncle Haversian, and everyone she knew and didn’t know. She tried not to turn and run the other way. The guard led her down the stairs, down a dark torch-lit hall to the back of the palace, and out towards the Spring she had passed earlier. In the darkness and the wind she began to see the glow of a thousand candles. A thousand candles held by a thousand guests, dressed in gowns of their finest silk. Peasants wore suits and dresses they’d taken years to save for. Baskets of fireflies hung from tall poles of bamboo at the edges of the hall, giving a warm glow to everyone and everything. In the middle of the room a path lay empty, leading up to the Spring. The other Dragoneer children were already there, a single gap in their line. Tam joined their ranks. She walked up the path and ascended the stairs to the Spring. By the time she was at the top, she thought her heart would burst out of her chest. The priest facing them raised a birch torch, empty and unlit. Birch, white and pure. The sacred tree of Lunaris. “Come forth, Chosen one, and light the Eternal Flame,” he said. Lily, the first in line, took the torch and lit it easily, blowing a small silver wisp onto the branch. She took her torch and moved behind the priest. The priest took another torch and repeated his line. The next Dragoneer came forth and lit her torch, and took her place next to Lily. When it was finally Tam’s turn, she took a deep breath and slowly turned to face the Priestess, whose face was hidden behind the mask of Lunari, the moon dragoness, warrior of the night. She thought of her Uncle’s words, to feel the Eternal Flame, not think it through. But it was hard to do so, when her mind was slowly filling up with thoughts of “what if I fail”, “what if I fail”. She took the torch and stared at it, trying to feel the wood. She thought of feeling. Feeling would take her, trying to feel anything. She thought of Mother. She saw the ghostly white face, pale and beautiful in the moonlight, ever so elegant. She thought of Father and saw the elusive authoritative man, who towered above her and somewhat intimidated her with his stately intelligence. And she felt something. She concentrated. Still the room was silent. She stood there with her face bent over the torch, her heart thudding madly. She felt like she was going to faint. She turned and faced the audience, but didn't look up. "Sorry.” Her small thin word spread out across the crowd and died. She walked back down the stone path past the people, past Lily’s bright, blue eyes and started running, and then kept running faster and didn’t stop until she was out of sight within the palace walls. Her skin burned, and she struggled not to scratch as she walked slowly towards the bird cages. She closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing. She scratched at her elbows, which were beginning to dry and turn scaly again despite the dollops of yarrow oil Mary had applied to her right before the ceremony. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Above the moon hung still and round in a cloudless sky. Myriads of stars clustered in random places as well. “Why can’t I do it?” she asked Lunaris, but the moon dragoness if she was listening remained quiet, like a bright white eye staring down at her accusingly. Tam could already hear Mother's disappointed voice in her ear. *A girl of noble blood, failing the simplest test. What will the people think of the Starfarer family now*? Silently, she offered Stonina a walnut. The raven came and delicately took the treat, and began eating it. "Bwah," she croaked. Tam stroked her head through the cage bars with her other hand, and the raven bowed her head to receive the pets. Some time elapsed, and Tam began to feel quieter. Still stricken but less panicked. “It is not afraid of you,” a strange voice said from behind her. Tam turned and hastily draped her shawl back over her shoulders and arms. “I’m sick,” she warned. “I am not afraid of you either,” the stranger said. “Well, you should be,” she said, turning back to Stonina, but her sudden movement had startled the bird, and she hopped on the further corner of the gilded cage. “Why?” the voice asked, coming closer. “I...I could get you sick too.” Tam threatened. Some believed ascalienation was not a blessing of Lunaris, but a sickness to be caught. Contagious and evil. “I’m sure,” the voice laughed, coming over to inspect the cage. The moonlight revealed a boy, slightly taller than Tam. “Is he friendly?” Tam looked at the boy, scanning his plain sand-colored shorts and cap, the markings of a servant. She turned her attention back to watching Stonina. “Yes. But you have to move slowly. That way she knows your intentions.” “It is a she?” he asked. “”Yes.” “Show me,” the boy said. Tam brought her hand to the door of the cage and opened it. Then she slowly placed her hand in the middle of the cage. At first Stonina fled to the top of the cage. Then she hopped down to her hand, and pecked once lightly on her finger. After cocking her head for a second, she hopped on top of Tam’s palm and let her gently rub her head with the fingers of her other hand. The raven closed her eyes. “She enjoys it,” the boy said. Tam nodded. “So do I.” “I’ve seen you before. In the courtyard with your uncle. You look different.” “Well yes,” Tam said, rolling her eyes. “I am dressed for the ceremony.” “No, I mean when you’re petting her.” “What do you mean?” “You look happy.” She turned, confused. “Is that a good thing?” “I think it’s beautiful,” the boy said. Tam scanned him for sarcasm, but there was none. “The guests are coming out.” the boy said. “I suppose I should go.” He turned to walk away. “Don’t go,” Tam said after a pause. “Stay.” That was the first time Tam talked to Jai.

A Dissonance The cloud of smoke hung in the air like some type of confused ghost, fragrant with apples and herbs. It shifted in wild colors, infused by the neon lights that blanketed the walls. Marta passed the mouthpiece of the hookah to John. He took a long pull. It simmered under the force of his breath. The bar itself was borderline deserted. Besides John and Marta smoking in one of the back booths, there was only the owner of the bar standing behind his desk, a prismatically illuminated display of different tobacco options lighting his heavy face, and one other group of people seated in another booth across the room. The music played quietly, its bass an almost subliminal pulse. “You like it?” Marta asked. “Yeah, it’s not bad. I’ve never been here before, honestly didn’t even know it existed before you mentioned it,” John answered as he took another hit. There was a shout and a laugh from across the room. One of them beckoned the owner over then started complaining loudly about some arcane aspect of the service. Marta looked over at them with a sneer. “You’d think they were hot shit, the way they’re acting over there. Especially that obnoxious bitch with the weave. Look at her flaunt it like that sacks of concrete are anything to write home about. I’ve seen better tits on a horse. It’s pitiful, an older woman acting like some dopey college girl. It makes me sick,” Marta murmured as she watched the owner argue with them. “Fuck it, who cares? Let them have a good time. God knows we’ll probably be the same way at that age.” John took another hit from the hookah then coughed, trying to calm the burn in his lungs with a drink of coffee. “Shit, and they don’t even serve alcohol here. The cheap bastards. Too greedy to splurge on a liquor license. But those people over there are right about one thing: this stuff does kind of taste like dogshit. The more I smoke it, the more I develop the subtle aftertaste of burnt applesauce that seems to like to linger.” “Oh, don’t complain. You are the one who wanted to come here after all, John. Don’t give me that shit now.” John sat back and looked at Marta for the first good time that night. Frizzy brown hair cut short that always smelled of flowers as they baked in the summer sun, tucked back behind the left ear as usual. Dark eyes peering back, so bright that at times it made him uncomfortable to return their gaze. The whites were strangely bright in the dim bar. Her tan skin awakened in him the awareness of Earth’s potential for fertility, an awareness of its texture in an embrace. The owner finally managed to pry himself away from his angry customers. It was quiet again, just music. Marta leaned over closer to John and whispered. “If you can get these curtains closed, I’ll suck your dick.” John choked on the smoke still in his lungs. He looked over at the owner sitting behind his desk. The man was leaning against it, defeated, with his head cradled in his hands. John handed Marta the hookah’s mouthpiece then started to untie some of the ropes holding up the curtains that obscured their booth. He managed to get only one down before the owner noticed. He stormed over with a look of absolute hatred hidden just behind his smile. “Sir, you can’t put down the curtains. It is against the fire code for them to be within a certain distance of an open flame, and when they are let down, they stretch past that point.” The man said all of this with an air of barely suppressed annoyance. “We can’t even let them down a little? Some of the lights are giving me a headache,” asked Marta innocently. “No. It is forbidden.” With that, the owner tied the one down curtain back up to the side of the booth and walked back over to his desk. He sat down behind it with an utterly blank face. John sat in shock, now completely demoralized. “Well, maybe if you move your chair beside mine, we could . . .” Marta cut John off with a stern look. “If you think I’m going to debase myself in front of all these people, you are greatly mistaken. You had your chance, and you blew it, mister. Besides, the vibe is all wrong now. I just know that guy is going to be watching us all night now. He can sense we are up to something.” John accepted his defeat and allowed the reality of that fact to flow through him. All at once, he realized that his coffee didn’t taste quite as good as he remembered. He took one last pull from the hookah, suppressing a cough as the harsh smoke burned his lungs, and with great expectation let out a depressingly small cloud of smoke. He tossed the mouthpiece down on the table and checked the time on his phone. 10:32 pm. Outside, there was only a matrix of dense ink beyond the glass. “Let’s get out of here,” John said. “We came and tried it, no one can blame us for that, but I can say with confidence that I will not be coming back. You pay for all that and they can’t even afford you a little privacy. You were right. We probably should have just hung out at my place like usual. I hope you’re happy.” “Yeah, let’s get the hell out of here. This place blows.” They got out of the booth, Marta giving the other group of customers a sour look as they walked by. John held the door open and the two of them walked out into the parking lot. The air was warm and humid, scented by an earlier rain. Back in the car, John drove without talking through the dark city streets, the windows open as Marta listened to her music. She smoked a cigarette, letting it dangle casually between her lips as she talked. He pulled into her apartment complex; a sprawling thing overcast with ancient trees that now broadcasted weird shadows from the streetlights. Lately an aura of history had haunted the place for John, emerging whenever he neared like a solid force. Too much history is contained beneath the branches. Parked in front of her place, both sat in silence in the car, unwilling to separate quite yet. “We can smoke a little if you want,” John propositioned. “Sure. It’ll help me sleep.” John fumbled around in the dark for a moment as he rolled the fuzzy buds into the proper shape. A small flame from a lighter. Thirty minutes later they were sitting quietly in the off car, their seats leaned back, looking up at the night sky and the few stars which had managed to penetrate the city’s light. John couldn’t help but smile. Moments like these were what sustained him. He was the first to speak. “Nights like this always make me nostalgic. Remember that time, when we were younger, and I had taken you on a trip to the beach?” “You and your beaches,” Marta joked. “Yes, I remember. That was what, going on about six years ago now. Man, we were practically kids back then. Now look at us. We’re heathens.” “What makes you say that?” “Well, I mean just look at us. If you would have asked me back then if I could see myself drinking and fucking and getting high, I would have been appalled. You know how it is: a white dress for the wedding. Have to be a virgin to earn that honor.” “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Those are only antiquated ideas best left for dead anyhow. Nobody gives a shit about that kind of stuff these days. Besides, you weren’t exactly an angel back then either. I doubt you would have gotten that dress if you tried.” “True,” she said. John rolled over onto his side and looked at her. “Well, may I continue?” he asked. “Of course,” Marta answered. “Please, go ahead.” “I think we were down there for New Years, or something around that time of year, and I had managed to find a little condo we could rent for a few days. It was your first time seeing the ocean. We had originally planned on going to the big party, seeing the fireworks and having some drinks, but one of us, I can’t quite remember who, wanted to go for a walk along the beach instead. We went to the beach and walked along it for a long time. I had never seen it so empty.” “You try to make it sound so romantic, but what I remember is freezing my ass off on that beach. I must have been sick for a week after that.” “You going to make fun of me or listen to what I want to say?” John asked somewhat irritably. “No, no. Please, go on, John. I was only kidding. Just don’t make things sound better than they really were. I was there too. There is no point in trying to sell it to me.” “Okay, fine,” John conceded. “I just get a little carried away at times, I guess. But the point I’m trying to make is that we spent hours on that beach together, laying on my jacket on the sand and holding each other, trying to stay warm. Hell, I even remember the way the planes looked as they flew by in the night overhead. Jesus, I admit it wounds cheesy as hell now that I say it out loud, like a scene in some horrible soap opera, but I must admit that night has stuck with me through the years. It’s almost like there is some form of significance in it.” Marta was silent for a moment. She lay on her side, looking over at John from the passenger seat. The light was so dim he could barely make out her face. “I distinctly remember you thinking those lights were satellites in orbit, or some nonsense like that. Said something about them being too high up to be planes,” she said. “And this is coming from the one who thought they were UFOs. Them being satellites is far more plausible than that.” “Then let’s just say they were planes and agree to disagree.” “But doesn’t some part of you kind of wish you could go back to that? You know, back to a simpler time when things didn’t seem so overwhelming,” John asked her. Marta considered this for a time. She twirled a strand of her frizzy her around her finger as she thought. Her proposition from earlier came back to John suddenly, and he wished to reach over the seat and embrace her, but instead restrained himself. Somehow, it didn’t feel like the proper time for that sort of thing. The fumes latent in the air were intoxicating. “I get what you mean by simpler times,” she finally responded. “There is an allure in that idea, it can’t be denied. Things can get overwhelming these days and there have been times when I have just wanted to curl up in a ball and run back to something more familiar, but the way I see it, that is just a lie. A false promise. I’ve always felt like memory lies to you, if you know what I mean. Like if you’ve ever tried to remember somebody from childhood, and this exact thing has happened to me before, so I know it is real, and when you ask someone in your family about that person you find out that they never existed in the first place or that they are somebody else. Your mind has a nasty way of playing all kinds of dirty tricks on you in ways you can’t even dream about. Sure, were things easier back then? Yeah, in a way. Were they better? That I don’t know. They must have been good if you remember them so fondly, but I doubt that if we were to go back things would be any different than what they are today. Things haven’t really changed, it’s just out perspective on them that has.” John searched for something to say. He wanted to argue the point, demonstrate his own point of view on the matter, but wasn’t sure how to phrase it. “How’s that for a deep and insightful comment?” Marta asked. “Not bad. You should be a poet in your spare time.” “The way I see it,” Marta continued. “Even if things were better back then, we can’t go back. Even if you wanted it more than anything else in the world, would be willing to kill for it, die for it even, none of that would mean the slightest thing. We all know it. Intrinsically. Time moves in only one direction: forwards. It’s pointless yearning over something that you will never have. And this is one of the few times where you can say that for certain. So why dwell on something that is now long gone, deader than the dust on the ground? It’s fine to remember, think back on something to enjoy the memory, but anything more than that is a mistake. I just focus on the here and now, do my best to enjoy it. That is the only reality there is.” “Well, I’m glad we got that sorted out then,” John said uncertainly. Marta shrugged and yawned, stretching out impressively. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to shit all over your parade, John. I remember that trip to the beach and I can admit that it is a good memory for me. But that’s all it is for me. A memory. I try not to dwell too much on the past. Not everything there is worth remembering. Anyway, we’re different people now. A lot can change in six years. I bet you if we were to go on that same trip again, we would be far too busy in the hotel to cuddle on some frozen beach.” “Fair enough,” John chuckled. “I just like to think back sometimes, you know. I think it’s good to remember what came before.” Marta lit a cigarette and rolled down her window, winding the hand crank with a grunt. The fresh air wafted into the car in hungry waves. John rose from his lazy stupor and looked at the clock in the dashboard. 1:43 am. He had no idea that much time had passed. “Thanks for everything tonight. I had a good time, you know. Call me sometime tomorrow and we can find a time to meet up again,” Marta said. She leaned across the center console and kissed John firmly on the lips. Without warning, she reached down and grabbed John’s crotch, gripping whatever she found firmly. John winced. “And don’t think I forgot about this little guy,” she jeered. “Mama was tired tonight, but after a good night’s rest she will be ready again, don’t you fear.” Mercifully she let go. John let out a deep breath. He turned the car back on then got out, going over to her side of the car to open the door. He stretched his cramped legs and breathed in the fresh air greedily. The temperature had dropped in the last few hours. “Alright, babe,” Marta said as she collected her things from her seat. “Don’t forget to call me. And get home safely, I don’t need to wake up to find your face plastered all over the news. I’ll see you soon.” John watched as she climbed up the stairs to her apartment. She fumbled with the door as she unlocked it then disappeared inside. Now John became very aware of how astonishingly alone he was in the dark parking lot, lost under the trees and their spectral shadows. A light turned on in her apartment. Satisfied that she was okay, John turned away and got back into his car. He sat there silently in the dark for some time, the windows rolled down as he breathed in the cold air. There was the scent of rain stuck to the pavement. Something pricked at the very edge of his mind. Was it just a fatigue from the drugs and the crazy talk, a symptom of the late hour? No, something entirely different lurked there. He tried to clear his mind to concentrate on the thing that bothered him like an incessant gnat. And then it dawned on him. In one decisive swoop him came straight to the core of the problem. Dissatisfaction is how he described it. The sensation that while overall things are pretty good, there is something subtle just under the surface that keeps you from getting too comfortable. He hadn’t known this all along, but as soon as he realized this it was accepted as a fact instantly. What was it he wanted? John thought and found he wasn’t quite sure. But he knew that there was something missing, and without that unique ingredient nothing would ever feel quite right. Is that what he hoped to find in Marta? If so, that was a cruel responsibility to put on somebody, especially if they didn’t even know they carried it. That was a formula for bitter disappointment. It had happened before, but John promised himself never again. Yet that special thing he had felt back then had been lost and that was an undeniable fact of life. Could Marta really be tied up in that? He had still felt the thing when they were first together all those years ago. Everything seemed to be coated in this special tint that imbibed life with a sort of enchantment that gave life so much zest. After she was gone that too died away with time. Was she the cause? John dreaded to think that one person could hold so much sway over such a vital aspect of a person. No matter how much he hated the possibility, he had to explore all avenues for an explanation. Only then could a cure be found. But that’s not the whole story. It had fled once she left him, true, but the sensation had been there long before John had ever met her. So, she wasn’t the one who spawned it, but did she have the power to destroy it? John sighed and shook his head. It was pointless thinking this way. Maybe Marta had a point. It was pointless dwelling on the past like this. It is dead and gone. But one thing was for certain. They wouldn’t last. How could they? The whole thing was founded on a misconception. The real Marta and his personal conception of her did not add up. When he thought of her, what entered his mind was a skewed image of an older version, the one that had walked with him on the beach that night, not an accurate projection of her based off present reality. It was almost like an out-of-date caricature of her. Yet who she was now is not what bothered him. Every moment he had spent with her had been a pleasure, liberating even. The issue stemmed from where these two versions of Marta conflicted. He searched for answers in a person that doesn’t exist anymore, if they even existed at all. The mind does have a habit of omitting the unsavory parts. Such a dissonance in his mind could only lead to strife. They would have their fun for a couple of months, laugh, drink, get high and fuck, maybe go on a trip and fantasize about a new life together, never telling the other what we truthfully think of. Pretend like we find any source of legitimate comfort in each other’s arms. And the best part is that John would go along with every second of it until one day he became disgusted enough with himself to suddenly call it off out of the blue. Letting things get to such a point could only serve to hurt her again. Why go through all the trouble? John laughed quietly to himself. There isn’t any harm in having a little fun. It brings a little spice to life. Hell, knowing her, she probably already knows all this, and when the time comes to break it off, she’ll be perfectly fine with it. To be honest, she has more experience with this type of thing than I do. In the end, John never found the answer to his problem. What that secret ingredient is, or even how it was lost in the first place, was a problem out of his reach. And for tonight he was at peace with that. But always through that peace, just beneath the surface, a sea of uneasiness bubbled. He knew he reached the same conclusion every night. He was fine with what he found now, but would he be tomorrow? Experience told him he wouldn’t be and kept him from getting too comfortable. John turned on the car. Switching on the radio, he found a station playing some old music and turned it down low, mining for comfort in the familiar sounds. He shrugged. Why worry? It’s not like he can solve all his problems tonight. It’s nothing that can’t wait until the morning, the beginning of which would be soon approaching. John put the car into gear and pulled out of the parking spot, turning out onto the empty road. At home, he lay in bed staring at the shadow of the blinds on the wall. The opium of sleep was working its way deep into his muscles, but he was not quite ready to give in just yet. It had started to rain, and he listened to the sound of the drops on the leaves. He was suddenly aware of how isolated he was, cut off from not only the thousands that surround him every day, but also from the person he once was, like some sort of creature had gained dominance of his body and he was now a prisoner, watching the creature as it calmly went about sabotaging his life. He closed his eyes and searched for shelter from the rain.

As I woke from my slumber, my eyes gazed upon my worst nightmare incarnate. Four summers ago, my mother returned from Turkey hoisting a massive, beautifully embroidered rug over her frail shoulder. She treated it as if it was her child, and by far her favorite one. My brother and I had the words “No food, no drink, and no shoes” drilled into our heads. Then, as my eyes came to focus while lying on the expertly crafted rug, I saw it, a massive, expanding stain of red, seeping further and further into the pristine fabric with every passing second. My mind was boggled, and my body felt weak. I must have fallen with a glass of strawberry soda, I thought. Yet, as I began to crane my stiffened neck, tiny pieces of dry wall were scattered across the floor, and a body lay before me, coated in red. Surely it couldn’t be blood, this was my brother, what had happened? There was a breeze, I remember, and knowing my mother, there shouldn’t have been one anywhere in this house, cheap woman. I quickly realized that a massive hole had been fashioned into the stone of our house by some heedless force, and the hole was in the shape of a pitcher. This is when I heard the footsteps, rumbling towards me, shaking the foundation of our home, and standing high above me, gazing upon my teenage candidness, was the Kool-Aid man. I had heard this urban legend of the Kool-Aid man, the one who murders children and ruins perfectly good rugs, but I seldom believe such things. However now, in his terrible presence, I accepted my fate, and thought “at least mom won’t yell at us.” Then I thought, “Wait, what the hell?” None of this mess had been my brother’s fault, or my own, so as far as I was concerned, I wouldn’t let a creature so transparent, you can see his insides get the best of me. As my vision began to clear further, the pitcher-shaped outline of the Kool-Aid man met my eyes, and a ferocity began to boil in my heart like my mother’s russet potatoes in that stainless-steel pot that she likes so damn much. Using this sudden rush of adrenaline, and the drive to take revenge on the murderer of not just my brother, but more importantly, my mother’s favorite Turkish rug, I staggered to my feet. How dare this man bust through our walls shouting like some commercial character? My shirt was soaked, and whether it was Kool-Aid, or my own blood was unknown to me, so I ripped it off, revealing my gorgeous dad bod, which is unfortunately genetic. I quickly realized that even walking would be an excruciating task. With each step, pain shot from my feet into my gut, where tiny shards of glass had firmly embedded themselves, seeming to dig deeper as I continued my strides towards revenge. The Kool-Aid man, who had begun his triumphant exit, must have heard me coming, because he quickly turned and met my gaze. Now we stood, face to face, unflinching, unwavering, and patient. It almost reminds me of a showdown that you’d see in an old western. For some stupid reason, as I was not carrying a gun, I wiggled my fingers at my belt as if I was ready to draw my revolver into position. The Kool-Aid man gazed upon my foolishness and laughed. “You think this is a joke?” he asked harshly, his voice booming and pleasingly charismatic. He tried to bow his chest out, but to no avail, without certain muscles, not much is possible, so he just pretended. However, the man, or pitcher better yet, was nevertheless imposing. I stood there silent, truthfully because I had no idea how to come out victorious. The Kool-Aid man was larger than me, had a serrated glass knife firmly grasped in his right hand, and he wasn’t bleeding from his gut profusely as I was. There was no way I could break his glass exoskeleton, it seemed nearly bullet proof, I mean, he breaks through walls without a scratch. So, I had to figure a way to get that red liquid to spill. My first thought was to sweep his legs out from under him, but all that red liquid inside of him is surely heavier than it appears, and I hadn’t the strength to muster the amount of force required. I needed to devise a way to use his own weight against him, or I’d be just as dead as my brother soon, as well as my mom’s heart when she sees her favorite rug has been ruined. As fast as I could, I looked him up and down and determined that a decent blow to the top of his exoskeleton would cause him to tip over. So, I sprang into action, if that’s what my gross display of stumbling could be called, and I began to run up the stairs. As I assumed, the Kool-Aid man did not pursue me, and laughed at my seemingly cowardly acts. “I knew you didn’t have the spirit!” he shouted at me from below, as I began to climb atop the banister, my eyes intent on my mom’s favorite chandelier from Budapest, which would soon be ruined as well. The wretched Kool-Aid man began to look at me strangely and cautiously, scanning every move I made and every facial expression that was displayed on my countenance. Then, I leaped. Somehow, I managed to grab hold of the chandelier as it swung back and forth like a pendulum. Once I knew I was secure, and could see the Kool-Aid man laughing arrogantly from the ground level, I began to contort my body, giving the chandelier the momentum I needed to destroy my enemy. Gathering all the strength a human can possibly obtain, I timed my release from the swinging chandelier. “OH YEA!!!” I shouted at the top of my lungs as my body soared through the air towards the man who ruined my mother’s rug. My feet crashed into him, and with a great, and final exclamation of despair, he crashed to the ground, and the liquid left his body, leaving him lifeless. I now stood above him, chuckling over his body as it lie cold on the floor. I bent down slowly, and dragged my finger through the red liquid that granted my enemy life, and proceeded to taste it. “Revenge is sweet,” I said with a smirk.

“Excuse me sir, are you using this chair” “Oh, I’m sorry. No, I am not. It is all yours Ma’m” Pulling the chair from my two top, the woman proceeded to awkwardly drag the leather seat back to her table of five. Tipping my hat in her direction, she received my gesture with a half hearted grin, as did her companions. They were an older group, gayly enjoying lunch. What they did not know was that they had just taken the seat of the hotel manager, Mr. Parchivald who I was expecting to meet with at 12:00pm. Or in other words, 15 minutes. Fortunately, I knew he would not arrive on time to our meeting. The manager would instead send over a member of his staff, to falsify his truth. This I estimated would all take place within the next 10 minutes. For all intents and purposes, I did not give a shit, about his absence. You see, when you’ve lived long enough with my condition, you learn to develop trust in the ways of the world. As it had happened over years of dealing with chronic deja vu, I have found that things always seemed to fall into place the way they were intended to. Mr. Parchivald would not arrive as planned, it was my job to accept this. 9 times out of 10, things usually worked out. The original plan went as follows. On this day, January13th, 1932, we were scheduled to meet at his hotel, The Bell View Baton Rougue. Mr. Parchivald was the manager of the establishment. He was a proud and dapper man, whose full name was William Robert Parchivald.. Full disclosure his mother called him little Billy for short. As the Vice President of Sales for Country Clear Bath Essentials, it was my job to sell this man bath products for his hotel. We would be agreeing on next years contract, and also introducing new products for our fine Shampoo, Soap, and Conditioner line. Mr. Parchivald did not know that we were having this meeting, he did not know that we were raising our prices equivalent to 2 cents a room either. He definitely didn’t know that I knew his mother called him little Billy. The following true story was all coincident. Or... was it intended to happen? ..... Understanding the difficult state of the economy, I knew I had brought a back up plan in case of desperation. In my suitcase, were two fine 2 bottles of Scotch, distilled 15 years off the native land. In addition, I had the ability to throw in a full year supply of our new body lotion if necessary. Pondering as to when and how this whole situation might unfold. I thought back to the vision I had earlier. When suddenly the messenger arrived. She was wearing a white collared shirt, with two pins. The top pin was circular, and read “SR,” while the second one read “Lobby” “I am so sorry, Mr. Writworth. Mr. Parchivald had an emergency, and will need to reschedule your meeting” “Hmmmm. I’m sorry who are you Mrs.?” “Oh, its actually Ms., and my name is Sue. Sue Randy.” “Nice to meet you Sue. When can I expect Billy to be available? I apologize but my schedule is quite busy, and I must be out by train first thing this evening” I responded quite directly. “Oh, did you mean Mr. Parchivald?” She said this with a puzzled look on her face. Sue was short for Susan, and Randy was a name given to her by her father. Sweet Sue is what he used to call her. “Yes, please tell Billy Parchivald that I can only meet with him today” “Right away. And Mr. Writworth, is there anything I can grab for you sir?” “Now that you mention it Sue. I would like a cappuccino and one of your chocolate croissants” “Certainly, Mr. Writworth” Walking upstairs into what I expected was Mr. Billy Parchivald’s office, I marveled at Ms. Randy Sue. She had worked for The Bell View for over 10 years, and this seemed to be the first time she would take matters into her own hands, pressing the urgency of my arrival. Most importantly, she would acknowledge Mr. Parchivald, and his true child like demeanor. &#x200B; If only 50% of the world was as dependable as her, maybe we’d be out of this great depression. &#x200B; ........ &#x200B; All would be well as soon as I got my cappuccino or so I thought. Stomping and climbing down the stairs, red like a chili pepper was a deranged Mr. Parchivald. Steam fuming out his ears, I took a deep breath, and hoped for a moment of deja vu to kick in, but nothing happened. Blazing Billy pulled out his colt 45 pistol, aiming the cold steel revolver to my head. “Who the fuck do you think you are, walking into my Hotel, naming me by my first name” The hotel fell silent, as gasps were heard around the dining area. Peering at the gauntly faces of the party across from me, I knew the joke was up. Staring up the metal shaft in front of my face, I traced it back to Billy's blood shot eyes. I could smell the whiskey under his breath. Normally a well put together, dapper man, Mr. Parchivald seemed to be all out of sorts. His grey hair usually fine combed looked thinner and unmaintained, sticking up in places that defied gravity. Trying to respond, I felt a lump in my throat and clog in my brain. I couldn’t help but admiring the man Billy Parchivald had become. Clicking the hammer back he looked terrifying, like a child who had forgotten how to dress himself. Every accent was askew. Notably were his missing cuff links, his crooked bow tie, and his stained white shirt. In his typical green and gold pin striped suit, he looked more like oversized lepraucan than a man. “God damnit answer me you good for nothing pansy ass!” he screamed. “Um, my name is William Writworth. I am hear from Clear Country Bath Essentials” I responded cautiously. Snarling back at me, he put his revolver back in its holster and attempted to retract his aggression like a psychopath. “Come to take more of my money I expect? ha ha ha ha” Laughing to himself, he terrified everyone around him, including Sue. Trying to meet his gaze, I couldn't help as my eyes kept drifting to his blistered red lip. Half of his mustache burnt away, my guess from a cigar that remained in his mouth after passing out. Yes, that was it. I could faintly smell the scent of burnt hair. Billy Parchivald was certainly having a hell of a morning. Tucking in his shirt, he looked down to see the missing chair. “Well then Mr. Whitworth, sounds like we got a bit of talking to doooo. How about you company’n me to my office where we can discuss the terms of our new deal” “Yes, why certainly Mr. Parchivald” I responded and we proceeded into his office. ....... Over the next hour, we would not discuss a dime of the actual contract or new agreement. Instead we would talk and drink the bottle of Scotch I had brought. What we did discuss was the price of travel out of the country and that I could only call him Big Billy, and I must always go by Little Willy. Signing our names as so, he agreed to the terms of our new contract, no lotion needed. As I closed the door to his office behind me I coughed abruptly as my lungs adjusted to the fresh air of the hotel. Walking down the stairs I smiled to myself as the world had once again worked out for the better. The last words I remember from Big Bill Parchivald were notions of fleeing the country. His two top destinations were Germany or Scottland. As I exited the rotating doors to grab a cab, a thought like the whisper of the wind came across my mind. It had been sometime since things had not worked out in my favor... 9 out of 10 I thought to myself. Then I heard a scream. “Wait ! Mr. Writworth!” Frantically I turned my head, and expecting the end of a gun. Peachy in the face, just as she was when I met here was Ms. Randy, croissant and cappuccino in hand. If only the rest of the world was as dependable as Sweet Sue.

The old man rose an hour before the sun came up. He was tired, his knees were tired. He sighed. 40 years; check, start a small fire, check again. Not once in 40 years had he ever had to light his beacon. After the second check, he woke the new one. They boiled water and ate, always checking. They checked all day, and then the new one went to sleep while the old and tired man stayed awake to check for a few hours until he could wake the new one to take over. He rose an hour before the sun came up but today, he woke the new one first. "Check, start a small fire, check again." The new one nodded in affirmation and checked. He then made a small fire and checked again. Nothing, peace. This went on. One day the old and tired man noticed that the new one was visibly bored, or even disappointed, when he did his second morning check and found nothing but peace in the distance. The older of the two men sighed and laughed to himself, as he remembered when he felt the same boredom; looking off into the distance to see no burning beacon, minute after minute, day after day, year after year. But he knew how important his work was, and had grown to find great pride in it. The old and tired man died. The new one grew. Every day he rose an hour before the sun came up. He checked, started a small fire, and checked again before boiling water and eating. Years passed. He felt pride in his life's work, but the boredom was always just behind it. A decade passed. He rose an hour before the sun came up and checked. One day he woke, but he lay on his sheepskin blanket on top of the great mountain that had been his home for so long. He didnt check, but instead reflected on the old and tired man who had been his mentor. He had made jokes, and would repeat them, even though they were not very funny. He had done it because he had been alone for so long on top of this great mountain. The man who used to be the new one boiled water and ate, and for the first time since he arrived here, he skipped the first check of the day. Later he checked, saw peace in the distance, went on with his day, and went to sleep, always thinking about the old man who had told jokes. Another decade passed. The man who used to be the new one sometimes checked, resting assured that there was peace in the distance. Today he woke, and lay there on the sheepskin blanket, thinking of his family from almost 30 years ago. How he missed them, and how he missed his dog. He thought of the old man who had told jokes. "What do you call the cat that lives in my tent on top of this great mountain?" the old man had asked. "I dont know, what do you call him?" "I dont know, I dont have a cat." the old man had answered. The old man who used to be the new one rose. He boiled water and ate. He sat gazing across the ocean to the south of the great mountain where he lived. He had come to appreciate the serene beauty and had come to understand where the old man who told jokes found his appreciation for this simple life. He checked. In the distance there was a towering plume of black smoke. He was frozen, confused in every way. He knew this was exactly what his life's work was, but it wasn't ever supposed to happen. His mind raced, trying to calculate how long it had been since he checked. He had gotten up and checked once during the night, hours ago. How long had his small village and his family there been in danger? He had missed it, so he hadn't lit his beacon. He hadn't called for help. More smoke came up, but not from the beacon in the village. It came from the small circles in the distance that were home to the villagers. The old man who used to be the new one stood helpless on top of the great mountain and watched the little village burn.

Jack thought moving to the asteroid would let him escape his past, what he didn't know was that he would end up feeling more like a prisoner with a life sentence than a free man. Back on earth, he was a wanted man. Space was appealing for those like him, hop aboard a rocket to the moon or the asteroid belt or to one of the small settlements further out and you'd be metaphorically reborn. The allure of a fresh start should've seemed too good to be true, because it was. Jack had committed some serious crimes, and you can do background checks in space. Right after Jack arrived at the belt, the UN announced that it would start an international law enforcement agency in space and that the lawlessness of the new frontier was coming to an end. This new agency would have the authority to extradite wanted criminals back to earth, if they were able to locate them. &#x200B; Jack was a skilled metal fabricator, so he started building and modifying spaceships for a living once he reached his new rocky wasn't very hard for him, the kind of ship you need to move around the asteroid belt is nowhere near the ship you need to take of on a planet or large moon. Mining ships are the easiest to build, the crews only work in them they don't live in them so the crew quarters don't have to be extravagant. There is near enough zero gravity out in the belt, so the cargo areas don't have to be the sturdiest as you're just holding things together as opposed to holding things up, as you have to do on earth. Not only was Jack good at what he did, there was too much demand for his work. You can't move in space without a ship, and talented ship builders were few and far between. Jack became a wealthy man, his home in the belt was nicer than any he had lived in back on earth. &#x200B; Those who needed ships would usually show up at a shipyard and speak with a builder face to face, this a tried and true business model in which everyone gets what they want or need. One day, as jack arrived at the shipyard to finish a ship he was building retrofitting for a cargo transporter, someone approached him and asked "Are you Jack Alexander Whitney?". Jack had never used his full name in space, and he told people that 'Alexander' was his last name if he was asked. He was convinced this was a space cop who wanted to drag him back to earth, so he said no. The man replied "Well I know that you are. I know your dirty little secrets, so if you want to keep the space police off your tail you'll do any favor I ask of you from now on". He had never seen this man before, but he felt that he would see him again. &#x200B; Not much later, Jack received a message from one of his brothers back on earth. The victims of his crimes wanted closure, not maximum punishment. Jack knew what this really meant, the prosecutors were ready to make a deal in exchange for information. He wasn't very eager to go back to earth however, as it would take him months to get back even if he left immediately. However being able to live a normal, terrestrial life again did weigh on his mind. Jack had a choice to make, does he go back and deal with his past, or keep running from it? The threat of blackmail was at first only a minor consideration, until the man who threatened to turn Jack in came back to the shipyard. He told Jack that he wanted his pure transport ship retrofitted into a self contained mkning ship, Jack understood that doing this for free was the 'favor' the man had mentioned before. He decided to just do it for free, avoid the trouble,thinking that this would be the end of it. &#x200B; Jack was afraid of returning to earth, what if his brother was just trying to turn him in for his own gain? What if his brother was being lied to? What if people just changed their mind during Jack's lengthy travel time? He decided returning wasn't worth the risk. That was until the blackmailing man returned. Jack thought he wanted something done to his ship. What he learned was that this man wasn't interested in mining, he had a pipe dream of becoming a space pirate. He wanted to use his ship to steal from actual mining parties, and demanded that Jack join him as part of his crew. Jack realized that this was bound to draw the attention of authorities anyway, so he decided to tell the man that he would join his crew once he was done re-retrofitting the ship for a life of crime. Jack's plan wasn't to become a space pirate, his plan was to stall this long enough to find a ride back to earth to take his chances with those who he had wronged years ago. Not only was Jack desperate to get away from this pirate idiot, he was now much more mature than when he first left earth. He was having nightmares about what he did. They got so bad he could barely sleep. He decided to tell his brother he would give up everything he knew in exchange for his freedom and to forward that message to the prosecutor and defense attorney on his case. He knew that it was a longshot that a deal would be worked out in his absence, and if he was back on earth without an agreement in place his ultimate fate would be out of his hands. However, he could no longer live with the guilt of not answering to what he had done.

It’s these quiet times when my mind gets the noisiest. It’s as if it knows when I’m most vulnerable, timing it’s darkest hypothetical visions when there is no one around to comfort me. All the possible lies whispered loudly in my ear. Why is the worst always assumed? Was it because of what my father did when I was younger, or was it because of what I did not too long ago? Why does suffering have to be the defence mechanism to getting hurt? &#x200B; I turned on my light and decided to read. It wasn’t like I was going to be able to fall asleep anytime soon. I quickly checked my phone for any messages. A few, but not from the person I wanted to talk to most. The person that made me feel safe and whole, the person that would hug me no matter the result of life, the person I had been so damn lucky to meet. &#x200B; The book was about a man who fell in love with the sea. He would stare at it for hours to show his appreciation for its power and its stillness. He would read it stories and listen to hers in return. One day, he decided he could no longer bear being separate from his love and became one with it forever. The sea took him in with her loving arms, murmuring how she loved him to death. They were finally together. &#x200B; The book was a bit dramatic for my liking but I appreciated the message, especially at this point in my life. A vision of her enjoying another man brushed my minds eye before scurrying into the depths of my consciousness. &#x200B; Reading didn’t seem to be helping my attempt to fall asleep so I decided to meditate. I set a timer for ten minutes and closed my eyes. I started with ten deep breaths just like I had been taught, covering the breath with my awareness, noting the beginning and end of the inhalations and exhalations, as well as the little space between them. I began to let go and let my body breathe the way it wanted to, the way it did every day whether I noticed it or not. I watched my thoughts pass through: the ones about the book, the ones about tomorrow’s agenda, the ones about whether I would ever be able to fall asleep, and the ones about her. The ones about her were the hardest to let go of. I wanted so badly to go into the story, to witness who she was sleeping with, to listen to her admit it and spit venom at her, to slam the door and hate that I still loved her. But I let those ones go too. They were stories, pictures on a movie screen. They weren’t real. &#x200B; I let the sound of the timer ring for a couple moments, appreciating the few moments of quiet I had experienced. I put my head against the pillow, allowing my eyelids to concede to gravity, and allowing my heart to concede to reality. I would be with her soon.

Once there was a little girl. She was neither tall nor short, thin nor fat. She had long, beautiful, light brown hair, a beautiful face, and a sunny disposition. Her milk teeth had come out and very large ones had replaced them. She was teased by other children, but it never stopped her from smiling. Home life was happy enough, at that time. Sure, her mother would lash out and beat and her father would get into the ale too much, but the little girl had her brothers, and her very best friend. Her reflection. The little girl was fortunate enough to have a room separate from the rest of the family. She would go there when noise got to be too much for her. She would dream and act, cry and read, and think about what it would be like to have her own cottage with her own little girl. Ah, but the mirror. That was where her best friend lived. You see, other than her teeth, no one had ever made comments about her appearance before, other than to comment on her complexion or eyes. She loved looking at herself, but not in a vain way. The way that birds like to look at themselves. She would watch her mouth form words, learned to wiggle her eyebrows and wink with both eyes, and would use funny voices with different expressions. When the girl would cry, she knew that if she went to her room and shut the door, her best friend would cry with her. They could tell each other that they weren’t at fault and things weren’t always going to be this way. The girl would sniffle and kiss her reflection, and feel better. This went on for a long time. And then, one day, the winds shifted. This man that called himself her “REAL Grandpapa” was coming for a visit, and the girl’s mother started acting strangely. The cottage was scrubbed, top to bottom, the beatings came more often and more harsh, and the girl started to go quiet. Not too much at first. Just a little less laughing and smiling. More hair being pushed behind her ears in a soothing gesture. The day for “Grandpapa” to arrive drew closer and closer. When he arrived, the girl was shy. Who was this man that resembled her mother so? Why did his young daughter look like a reflection of her mother? The girl was uneasy, as Grandpapa paid more and more attention to her, giving her a nickname for her smile, and ignoring her mother. Her Auntie was only five years older than her, how strange. She was mischievous and manipulative, but the girl kept quiet and hoped they’d leave soon. The Auntie was causing trouble with Mother and Grandpapa, acting like a child having a fit whenever he would engage with Mother. At long last, Grandpapa and Auntie took their photographs and bid their goodbyes. Auntie promised to write the girl and the girl promised back. As soon as their caravan was out of sight, Mother had tears in her eyes and trembling hands. She went to her bedroom and shut the door. After that, things around the house changed. Bad magic had been stirred up. Mother and Father fought and argued more, each battle worse than the one before. The girl was informed that she was getting fat, had a unibrow, huge crooked teeth, and was too...her. This crushed the girl, and at first, she tried comforting herself the same way she always had. Her best friend was still there, with her sad smile and tearful eyes. But then the girl REALLY looked at her friend. Mother was right. Her teeth were too big, her eyebrows too bushy and met in the middle, and she did seem a little chubbier than the day before. The girl turned away from her friend and whispered, “You’re hideous. I HATE you.” After that, whenever the girl was reprimanded, picked on, or told she was starting to get “heavy,” she’d sneak up to her room, look at her reflection and give HER the riot act. “Why can’t you be beautiful? Why are you unable to keep from knocking milk over? Why are you so LOUD? Can’t you keep quiet? Can’t you get better grades?” The girl would cry, engulfed in emotion, and turn away from her reflection. The years went by, and the girl stopped visiting her friend. She would look into the mirror, only see flaws, and run. She couldn’t stand her reflection, yet looked into a mirror every chance she got. Maybe in a way, she was trying to check in on her old friend, but only sad eyes and a harsh tongue met her. When the girl became a mother, she was so sad and angry all of the time, she lost herself. And one day, when the pain and crying were too much, she started feeling desperate. She needed to do something! Hurt herself, end it all, or make it all better! Her heart pounded hard, she couldn’t hear, breathe or see. She stumbled in front of the mirror and saw her friend. Her friend she had known forever. Her beautiful friend, looking so bereft and terrified. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay. I love you, it’s okay.” The girl started muttering and then it got louder. “I’m so sorry. It’s okay, we’re OKAY. We’ll be okay. We just need to get through this. I love you. Don’t leave me. I’m sorry.” The girl watched her friend slowly calm. They looked at each other in quiet admiration. They had weathered the storm together, just like so many years ago. Things were going to get better, they knew it. The girl doesn’t talk to her friend much anymore. Her friend understands, it’s how things have to be. But every once in a while, while the girl is picking at her reflection’s face, tearing her down with sad and angry words, they lock eyes and know that they love each other. The End.

NOTE: My main character describes a short scene involving suicide and gore on his phone. I was in my room on a late Friday morning (it was a Flex Day at Brennan’s Glenn High School, which meant school budget meetings and planning for the next school year--teachers get stuck in boring meetings all day and students get to stay home, except for the football team and cheer squad). I was listening to my music when the doorbell rang. I hit pause and removed my earphones to make sure it was the doorbell and not part of the music. After making sure that there really was someone at the door, I ran down the stairs to open it. “Yes?” I said, cocking my eyebrow at the mailman. “Delivery for Christopher Robinson?” the mailman said, dragging a long cardboard box onto our front porch. “Please sign here.” I caught a glimpse of the label on the package. Amazon. That was weird. “Hold up!” I said. “I didn’t order anything!” “Says here you did,” the mailman said shortly. “I certainly did not,” I denied. “There has to be a mistake.” “Nope,” the mailman replied. “No mistake. Just...sign the thing.” “Alright, fine,” I said with an exasperated sigh, taking the electronic pad from him. “But I am not happy about this. I’m returning this thing because there is no way in Hell that I ordered anything from Amazon.” “Up to you,” the mailman said laconically with a shrug before walking back to his truck. I shook my head and dragged the thing inside. Before I opened it, however, I went back upstairs to fire up my computer. The first thing I did was to check my bank account. See if there were any charges. Perhaps someone had gotten my card number and was using it to buy stuff. I had my card locked. The next thing I did was to contact Amazon--twice--once on the phone, and then by email, demanding to know what the Hell was going on. And then a thought occurred to me. What if this was a prank? So I called my best friend Antony, who was best known in the small town of Brennan’s Glenn as “Loki the Trickster God.” That kid has been pranking people since the day he learned how to walk! “Alright, bro, you got me,” I said with a sigh as soon as he picked up. “That was a really good prank.” “The Hell you talkin’ about, man?” he asked in confusion. “What prank? I haven’t planned any pranks in two years!” “So you didn’t order anything off of Amazon and had it shipped to my address?” I asked incredulously. “Heck no!” Antony protested. “Why would I waste my money on a prank?” “I don’t know,” I said. “You tell me. You’re the Master Prankster.” “I may be a prankster but I’m very careful with my money,” Antony answered. “I’m saving up for the future.” “If you say so,” I said with a shrug. “Wanna come over and see what this thing is? Open it with me? Maybe we can figure this mystery out together, you and me.” “Sure, why not?” Antony said. “I’ve got nothing better to do anyway.” Within ten minutes, Antony was walking up the pathway leading to our front porch, his skateboard under his arm. I opened the door before he could ring the bell. “Hey, Chris!” he greeted. “What you got?” “Check this out,” I said, ushering him in. “It came with a note.” “Whoso pulleth this sword out of this box and Styrofoam, is right wise king born of all England,” Antony said. “Now I see why you’d think it was a joke. Maybe it is. This one isn’t mine though. Let’s open it, shall we?” And open it we did. Or at least tried to. No matter how many times Antony hacked away at the tape with a kitchen knife, the thing wouldn’t budge. It was as if the tape was made of steel or something. “Here,” I said, palm open. “Give it.” Antony handed me the knife, and when I cut through the tape, the blade sailed through it like a hot knife on butter. I opened the package and pulled out the foam casing out of the box with ease. I removed the top layer, revealing the ornate sword within. I shot Antony a look and he nodded, attempting to take the sword out of the lower half of its Styrofoam prison. He failed miserably. He grunted and groaned, pulled and lifted. Nothing. The sword wouldn’t budge. “Wanna have a go at it?” Antony asked, motioning for me to try. “This is ridiculous,” I said, prying the gleaming weapon out of its foam prison. In one swift, fluid motion, I was able to do so and its grip fit right in my hand like a perfectly tailored glove. As soon as my right hand closed around the sword’s grip, I was transported to a time lost long ago and into the glorious fortress of Camelot. I found myself arrayed in royal robes of scarlet and gold with a solid gold circlet around my head. All around me were my knights. My dearest friends. Hidden enemies and secret traitors. Lancelot, Geraint, Gawain, Percival, Bors, Lamorak, Kay, Gareth, Bedivere, Gaheris, Galahad, Lucan, Dagonet, Mordred, Valiant, and Tristan. The bravest men--and women--I had ever known and ever had the privilege to fight alongside with. “Holy Mother of Helga Hufflepuff!” Antony said, kneeling on the floor with one knee and bowing his head, snatching me up out of my reverie. I stared at him for five seconds too long and he felt the daggers I was throwing with my eyes. He looked up. “What? What is it?” he asked in alarm. “I was--am--King Arthur,” I said, trying very hard to swallow the bitter gall rising in my throat. I’m sure the sudden disgust was evident on my face. It all made sense now. His intense infatuation on Ellie made absolutely perfect sense in that moment. He has never stopped loving her. Not in 800 years. Or more. My Ellie. My Guinevere. “Holy Hufflepuff!” he said in awe. “Does that mean--” “Yes,” I said with a nod, immediately understanding his unfinished question. “Holy crap!” he exclaimed. “So Ellie is--” “Yes, she is,” I said with another nod. “Oh, wow,” he whispered with a breathy exhale. “Yep,” I said. “And my sister Caitlyn was...is Sir Kay.” “Get outta here!” Antony said. “No freaking way! Shut the front door!” “And you’ll never guess who Sir Bors is in this lifetime,” I added. “Who?” Antony asked, his pitch rising, just how it rises every time he is curious or excited. “Who is Sir Bors?” “Cody,” I said with a smile. “Cody as in... Our neighbor Cody?” Antony guessed. “Cody as in Caitlyn’s boyfriend Cody?” “One and the same,” I said with a nod. “Interesting,” Antony thought out loud with the side of his curled index finger on his lips and his thumb on his cheek. “I did not see that one coming.” “Neither did I,” I said, turning the sword and examining it. “That was an unexpected revelation. I never thought I’d say this, but... I kinda ship them.” “Cody and Caitlyn?” Antony asked. “Or Sir Bors and Sir Kay?” “Both,” I answered. “Here, check this out! There’s something written on both sides of the blade. It’s in runes though, so I can’t read it.” “Take me up, cast me away,” a deep booming voice came from behind us and Antony and I both jumped a foot in the air, Excalibur at ready. I trained my sword at the old man suddenly standing before us. “Who are you?” I asked. “Explain yourself! Where did you come from and how did you get in here? Start talking before I call the cops!” “My name is Merlin,” the old man said. “And I have been with you since you were a boy.” When he saw the confusion on my face, Merlin shifted forms, growing smaller and smaller, eventually turning into my cat, Mr. Spock. “Spock?” I said in surprise. “No,” he said, his little cat lips moving. “Merlin.” It was super weird. I had never seen a talking cat before. I mean, I’ve seen Salem on TV, but that was fiction. I’ve never heard of or seen a talking cat in real life. And with that, the wizard morphed from his cat form to his true form--a tall old man with a flowing white beard that seemed to glow in the late morning sun, dressed in purple and silvery robes. “The Awakening has begun,” the wizard said cryptically. “The Awakening?” I asked. “ What awakening?” “Mordred has risen from the grave to seek his last revenge,” Merlin warned. “He brings with him his army of Sleepers.” “Sleepers?” Antony asked. “Dead rotting men who rise from the grave,” Merlin answered. “And whose sole purpose is to feed on the flesh of the living.” “Really?” I said with a humorless laugh. “A zombie apocalypse? Get outta here!” “If what you say is true, then it would have been big news,” Antony interjected. “Why isn’t it on the news? Why hasn’t anyone heard about it yet? Surely everyone would have known by now.” “This realm’s present government is trying to suppress it,” the wizard answered. “So as not to create a panic. But a panic is inevitable. They cannot keep this hidden for long. The end of the world is also inevitable. Unless you stop it.” “You’ve clearly got the wrong guy,” I protested. “I mean, why me? I’m not even British! I’m American! I’m just a regular small town guy from Brennan’s Glenn, Washington.” “You have always been the Chosen One, Arthur,” Merlin said. “And the time of your return is at hand. Excalibur chose you once before because of your purity of heart. It chose you again for this very same reason. England’s need is greatest. The world’s need is greatest. You hold the key to stopping the extermination of all mankind in your very hands.” “What’s my mission?” I asked. “You must raise an army of your own to stave off Mordred’s undead horde,” Merlin answered. “Well, you have me,” Antony said, kneeling before me again. “Say the word and I will fight for you-- with you .” “What about the rest of the Knights of the Round Table?” I asked. “I mean, there’s my sister and her boyfriend, but I’m not sure how I can convince them.” “They shall know you by your sword,” Merlin said. “When you raise your sword, your men will fall at your feet.” “What am I supposed to do?” I asked. “Run around like a madman with a sword? I’d be arrested! ” The old wizard smiled and turned Excalibur into a pen. Right... Because the pen is mightier than the sword. Of course. Perfect disguise. Also, Percy Jackson vibes right there! “Once you have summoned the Knights, I want you to take Sir Lancelot, Sir Bors, and Sir Kay,” Merlin instructed. “A private ship awaits you in the harbour. You are to set sail for the Orkney Islands.” “Orkney Islands?” Antony said. “Why? What’s there in Orkney?” “Long ago, Arthur’s sister Morgan placed a strong sleeping curse on sixty-five thousand knights and men-at-arms,” Merlin explained. “There they lie in an enchanted cave in the Orkney Islands to this very day. The entrance to the cave is sealed with nearly unbreakable chains reinforced with the darkest of magic. Only a drop of blood from Arthur’s pricked finger can break the chains and wake the sleeping knights. You need to free them if you are to win against Mordred’s damned forces.” “Alrighty then,” I said. “No pressure. Just another normal day for a high school senior.” “Who did you see in your vision earlier?” Antony asked. “Maybe we can narrow it down, figure out who the rest of the Knights are. Then we can call or text them to meet up somewhere--the park?” “No,” I said, shaking my head. “Too risky. What if Mordred has spies? We need to meet somewhere safe. Somewhere hidden.” “The New Hope Lutheran basement!” Antony suddenly said. “I remember seeing a round table there once.” “Perfect,” I said. “Text or call anyone you can to meet us there.” “What time are we meeting?” Antony asked. “7:45,” I said. “How long do we have until this blows out into the open, Merlin?” Antony asked. “You have two and twenty days,” Merlin answered. “Mordred’s army of Sleepers is growing by the minute.” “Twenty-two days to raise an army?” I said. “Twenty-two days to whip them into shape? Are you serious right now?” “You can do it,” Antony said, putting a firm hand on my shoulder. “ We can do it. I believe in us.” “Thank you, Antony,” I said. “Call me Lancelot,” he said with a smile. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I said with a laugh. “I haven’t knighted you yet.” “You can knight me now,” Antony said, kneeling once more. “You have your sword.” “Very well,” I said, clicking my pen twice to turn it into Excalibur. Then I placed the flat of its blade on Antony’s right shoulder and then his left. “Rise, Sir Lancelot... Knight of Camelot!” That afternoon, we spent hours making a list and then contacting those on that list, telling them to meet us in the basement of New Hope Lutheran. When the hour had finally come, we all gathered in that dim church basement, seated around a circular wooden table with adjustable metal legs. “What’s this all about?” my twin sister Caitlyn asked. “Why are we all here?” “Yeah,” Cody said, “I had to leave football practice early tonight. Good thing Coach was in a good mood today.” “Yeah, me too!” Cody’s friend and teammate Craig said. “I had to leave football practice early! Coach told us not to make a habit of it.” “The world is in trouble,” I said, putting my phone in the middle of the table. I pressed play on a video that I had ready. It was the news. The clip was of a scene in New York City were three people--two men and one woman--were devouring a young man in the back of a car in front of a café. Up above, glass windows bodies were falling. People tried to escape the Sleepers the only way they knew how--killing themselves. “And only we can stop it--together.” “We? Hold on a minute, George Washington!” Craig said. “What do you mean by ‘we’? Who’s we? What’s this got to do with us.” “I hold the key to keeping the darkness at bay,” I said, clicking my pen twice, revealing its true form, the mighty Excalibur. At the sight of my sword held aloft, everyone present stood up from their seats and fell to the floor, kneeling. “Long live the king!” Caitlyn said, and all the rest picked up the cry. “Long live the king!” “Mordred is out for blood--my blood,” I said loudly, my voice echoing in that small basement room. “He is raising an army of the dead called Sleepers. They are moving fast. We have twenty-two days to raise an army and face Mordred and his evil horde of zombie knights--and the unfortunate regular people who have been turned into Sleepers. Who’s with me?” “I am!” Craig shouted proudly. One by one, they shouted their allegiance. “I am! I am! We are!” I went around the table, knighting everyone present except for Antony, who I had knighted earlier that day. Then I pulled Caitlyn and Cody aside, just as Merlin had instructed, and told them of our mission to the Orkney Islands. “Who’s going to help train the others while we’re away on this mission?” Cody asked. “Sir Tristan--Jeremy--is more than capable enough,” I said. “I trust him. He’ll have them ready in no time.” “That’s good,” Cody said. “So! What time do we leave tomorrow and which port do we sail from?” “Merlin said it was docked at the Bremerton marina,” I replied. “And we leave at the crack of dawn. The earlier, the better.” That Caitlyn, Cody, Antony, and I packed our bags and caught a few hours of ample sleep. We drove to Bremerton very early in the morning, walked down the dock in search of the yacht, and found it in the very last berth. “Is this it?” Caitlyn asked. “Merlin said its name was the Prydwen II ,” Antony responded. “So this must be it.” “He said the captain would meet us here,” I said. “Where is he then?” Antony asked. “Patience, Mr. Ross,” the captain replied, coming down the gangway to meet us. “Morning, gents! Miss! Welcome aboard the Prydwen II !” I didn’t recognize him at first without the long flowing beard, but it was Merlin in another one of his many disguises. He was dressed like an old sea captain with a short properly trimmed beard, complete with a wooden pipe and peacoat. Merlin helped us onto the yacht, starting with Antony, followed by Cody, and then Caitlyn. I was the last to board. I was suddenly having second thoughts about this whole thing. I briefly looked back before stepping aboard. That’s when I saw a Sleeper, its eyes fixed on its victim. Then came the woman’s scream. “Go! Go!” I said, turning to the others. “I’ll catch up with you!” “Chris! Don’t!” Antony shouted. “There’s no time!” Cody said. “We have to hurry!” Too late. I was running down the gangplank and down the dock, Excalibur drawn from its scabbard and held high above my head. I let out a beastly scream as I charged forward swished my sword in the air, lopping off the head of the offending Sleeper. But he wasn’t the only one. There was another, and then another, and then another. Soon, I was surrounded. But when things looked grimmest, Merlin and my knights stood bravely by my side.

I jolt awake laying on the cold, barren floor; Dust littering the room. I stand on wobbly legs, shaking from the lack of use. My eyes. They strain, adjusting to the darkness. I trace the edges of the walls to find anything of use, to help me escape from this hell hole. My fingers. They discover a wooden door embedded into the coarse surface of the walls. I push. The door opens; creaking as it swings on its hinges. I peer into the empty void before me questioning whether to step through or not. I walk forward. I appear in another room, staring at the same barren walls with the same bleak and unwelcoming atmosphere. It's identical to it's predecessor, apart from the scratch marks dotting the room and the bloody smiles painted everywhere. I began my search again. Speeding up the process so I could leave and return home. I passed through the newly discovered doorway and landed in a pile of bottles. No ordinary bottles... pill bottles. Pills prescribed to me. I scramble, stumbling over the mess and launch over to the door. What was all this for? I didn't even take these meds. I need to leave. Again I search, tracing the outer edges of the room - hoping to find anything again. My feet kicking at the strewn Bottles on the floor. My fingers uncover the familiar door, the same as the one I entered through, however this one is closed. I never remembered closing the door upon entering. I push it open. I am greeted with that blackened mass once again. I step through, this time the room has changed. The floor... it's no longer the floor. The whole room has been flipped upside down. The single lightbulb extending from the ceiling, that now has become the floor, flickered. Blinking. I stare around me. The walls are no longer barren. Scratches and words are scraped into the wallpaper. My fingers glide over the surface. "Don't stop" "Don't turn back" "You're so close" "Don't try and stop this, you can't stop me" "you. can't. stop. us." The words. They're a message for me. Dried blood spots stained the wallpaper and inbetween the carvings My own name was etched beneath every message. Who was leaving these? How did they know me? Who else is here? I was scared. I was cold. I thought I was alone. There's someone or something else inside this god forsaken hell hole. I didn't want to be alone with it. Then the light wavered and was snuffed out. It had been no more than 3 seconds when the light bloomed once again. This time the room had changed again. It no longer had the writing and deep scratch marks. It no longer was upturned. It was plain and dark and cold. I frantically search around the edges of the room to find another doorway, shredding off the wallpaper in the process. The familiar sight of the wooden door greeted me. I threw it open gladly, throwing myself inside and stumbling once I hit the floor. I stood, dusting myself off, and glanced around the room. Bodies lay piled up, bones scattered far and wide, blood soaked into the floor boards, staining them a deep shade of crimson. Bile rose in my throat, but I couldn't help but smile. I turned away in disgust and horror, trying to block out the image. I felt something heavy in my hands and looked down. A bloody knife lay in my hand. My fingers were curled around it like it had done so many times before, I stopped and blinked and everything was gone. A blackened doorway lay before me, beckoning me to open it. I slowly walked towards it, hoping this was the end. I looked around me, taking in the new room. A single table, with two chairs, sat in the center, on top of a dark red carpet with the words "stop trying" on it I step back and gasp in confusion and terror. I blinked. The carpet no longer had the words written on it. I didn't stay for long, immediately flinging open the door, that lay beyond the seats with the words "Exit" printed boldly on it. I stopped. I was forced to stop as once I had opened the doorway, a black writhing mass, slowly stepped out. It spoke. It sounded just like me, but with a venom laced tone. It spoke to me. It looked like me yet it didn't. It had black hollow eyes, that bore into your soul. I looked down at my hands and... smiled. A bright genuine smile. A smile full of evil and happiness. My hands no longer trembled. My voice no longer wavered. What was I thinking? I looked up, I stepped forward and finally embraced what was rightfully mine. After all, what was I thinking? No one can escape their insanity ---------------------------------- If you want more cool and creepy stories like this, go check out my subreddit r/StoriesByHolmes. I’m working on posting a variety of stories from fantasy to horror to creepy and crime filled.

I remember that the room smelled of death. Not in a sickly way, but like dust; like sadness. And it didn’t just stay in your room, as I wished it would, but it filled the whole house, seeping through the hallway into my bedroom as well. Even when I tried to open my windows, get the fresh air from three stories up, the smell of your death mixed with the breeze and made it smell like dust; like sadness. It made me sick, the way stagnant air does, or the way the cat dandruff at Grandpa’s house did. &#x200B; And of course, you slept through most of it. &#x200B; I thought about wearing a mask indoors in those first days that they shut us inside. Of course, back then - in the first few months of the lockdown - the official reccomendation had been to not wear a mask (If only we had known!). I tried to put one on, an old N95 mask, that I had lying around. I nearly choked. The air just got harder to breathe, but it was still the same air, stagnant and sickly. I cursed the windows of our apartment for being so large and opening so little. &#x200B; I brought plants into your room thinking it would cheer you up. You smiled when I brought them in, a soft murmur of thanks. Your hair was grey, like a Grandmother’s hair, except you weren’t a grandmother: you were just my mom and I was just your son. People say we have the same face, except back then, yours was fragile and tired. I tried my best to ignore the smell, the aura of death, pulling up a wooden chair, the one that had been in your room for as long as I could remember, and sat down next to your bed. I held each plant up to you, one at a time. “This is a succulent. They’re all the rage now among young people because you don’t have to water them very much.” I looked down: “James gave it to me.” “James? What a sweet boy. You don’t still talk to him, do you?” “Mom...” “Alright, then.” “You can grow succulents by cutting off parts of the stem and replanting them. Isn’t that cool?” “Why would you want more of the same succulent?” you said, confused and a little amused. “Maybe so we could have two. One for each room. Then I could have one in my room and you could have one in here.” “No, that would be a waste of pots. There are other plants.” “Alright then.” I reached down and held up another pot. “This one is a Bird’s Nest Fern. It needs to be watered and pruned all the time. If it doesn’t get enough sunlight, it’ll die immediately. Super high maintenance.” “What a stupid plant. I can’t imagine how it survived before humans decided to care for it.” You said, and it made me smile a bit. After holding them up to you, and hearing your opinions on all of them, I set the five plants - another succulent, a jade plant, and some lucky bamboo - on your great big windowsill that looked out to the sky. Did I ever tell you that you were a great interior decorator? I think that’s what you should’ve done, instead of going out and getting your doctorate to work with kids. I loved the creaminess of our apartment. The tasteful simplicity of the plain wooden furniture. Minimal photos too. I liked that: not being able to see myself, or that it was just the two of us in the family. I was always jealous of your room. I had always wanted a faded pink comforter, just like yours, but I had always been too afraid to ask. Your queen bed, giving the perfect view of the window: I wanted that too. I wanted tasteful simplicity in my life. Adding the plants to your room made me happy: a minor improvement to an already beautiful room; the greens of the plants fit the creamy walls and made the room feel a little bit less pale. &#x200B; I didn’t realize how hard it would be to water them once I left them in your room. &#x200B; During that time, I wandered around the apartment, silently drifting from room to room - all of them bathed in the same warm sunlight - constantly checking my phone. I’m sure everyone else was too, except for you. The virus didn’t mean much to you, given that you hadn’t left the apartment or your bed in weeks anyway, but I wanted to get outside so badly. I wanted fresh air, and to get away from death, but I didn’t, because I knew if I caught the virus, you’d die even faster and in pain. Maybe it was the silence that got to me. It made the air feel so much more still without the constant hum of engines or the honking of cars outside. There were no voices to make their way into our house from the street, and barely any footsteps either. In the apartment, it was just you, me, and the low hum of the refrigerator that reminded me of the time Grandpa died. &#x200B; When you were asleep, I’d come in with my tiny watering pot and spray bottle. I’d only come in when you were asleep, which was hard to tell a lot of the time since being asleep and awake was more-or-less the same for you. I’d skirt around your door, peeking in sideways, listening for the rustle of covers. You’d be lying there, eyes closed. Just when I’d think you were asleep, one foot in the room, you’d say out loud: “Daniel? Is that you?” knowing perfectly well that it was. I shuffled into the room, uncomfortably, “Hey mom.” After a pause, I said, “Would you like to see videos that Davis sent me? They’re videos of downtown. Times Square is empty right now.” You weren’t interested, but you pretended you were: “The Governor has mandated the lockdown, right?” “Yeah. All non-essential services are closed.” “What counts as essential?” “Supermarkets, doctor’s offices, banks, gardening...” “Gardening?” “Yup, gardening.” “Just let the plants die,” you said with a snort. Then, after a pause, you corrected yourself: “Well, not these plants Daniel. Not the ones in my room.” &#x200B; Those weeks were claustrophobic, but they also felt timeless. How do you explain to friends that you’re stuck inside with your dying mother who seems to have no intention of dying or getting better? Or that you’re deathly afraid of the future where your mom doesn’t exist? I think our days kind of fell into a routine because I honestly don’t know how many days passed. You’d sleep, and I’d try to find ways to entertain myself. The only time I’d go into your room would be to water the plants or bring you food or water. Instead, I listened to music. I read books. I tried to write some poems (thank God you never read them), but no matter how long I occupied myself for, it would still be daytime, and sunlight would still be shining through the windows. I’d give up then, and spend the rest of the day studying how that light entered the room. Where it landed on the floor fascinated me: I liked how it warmed the parts it landed on and how the rays reflected off the wood. Then I’d make you some food, almost always soup. &#x200B; The plants began to thrive. You seemed to like that. A little bit of life in a room that had the air of death. I tried to get birds to sit out on your windowsill so that you’d have something to watch and so that I wouldn’t feel so bad avoiding you. I set seeds and bits of food out on the windowsill, but the only birds that came were pigeons that would fly away as soon as they had finished eating. I should have known - that only the pigeons in New York City would come - but then again, I was twenty-two and what did I know about the world? You slept through most of the bird feedings anyways. “Daniel?” “Yes?” I said, bent over by the windowsill. “Did you ever watch that movie, that one about the gay, black man in Florida?” “No, what’s it called?” I said, slightly amused and knowing perfectly well that she meant *Moonlight*. “I don’t know. It’s about a gay, black man in Florida. I think Miami.” “Mom, just because I’m gay doesn’t mean that I have to watch every gay movie out there.” “Alright. Well I want to watch it.” That night, I sat in your room with you, with me in the chair I always sat in, you buried underneath faded pink covers, and we watched *Moonlight* on my laptop. I felt a sly smile from you when Kevin and Chiron kissed but pretended not to notice. “The movie was boring.” “I liked it a lot.” “That’s just because you’re gay.” “No, I thought it was thoughtful.” “And I thought it was boring.” &#x200B; No one knew that you were dying really. You and I were alike in that we didn’t have many friends. Anyways, they couldn’t have come over at the time: you must’ve picked the worst time to die, just when no one could leave their house to watch you. The only audience you had was me and the plants and the pigeons, and the pigeons and I didn’t want to watch. &#x200B; I remember when Grandpa died, in the hospital, surrounded by nurses and doctors with the lights dimmed down. There was that periodic beeping and also the sound of his breath. I sat in the corner: he was hooked up to wires and tubes all over his body, held alive only by the forced expansion and compression of an external lung. I had looked away as a kid. &#x200B; Anyways. &#x200B; I remember that the day that you died, while I watered the plants, you asked me, “Daniel, have you ever fallen in love?” You caught me off guard. It was the most sensitive question you had ever asked me. I told you that I think I had before. “That’s good. That’s good,” you murmured, in silent contemplation. You smiled a bit. Then you said, louder, “Was it James?” “No, it wasn’t James.” “Maybe you should fall in love with James. He’s a great gay boy.” “Mom!” I left the room, embarrassed. What I didn’t tell you then was that my heart had been broken and that I didn’t think I would ever be able to love again. That I was afraid that no one would ever be right for me. I remember reading stories where death brings about a particular candor: people confessing their deepest secrets to each other, and I wish it had been the same for us because there were so many things I wanted to tell you. I wish I told you what it felt like growing up without a dad or any siblings. That I used to feel like maybe if a dad had taught me how to change the oil in a car, or maybe if a sibling had taught me how to wrestle or fight, I wouldn’t have felt so defenseless and helpless all the time. But you taught me softness and sweetness, and how to treat people kindly. I wish I told you how I graduated high school without ever going to the cafeteria because if I had sat with the girls, I would have been laughed at for sitting with the girls, and if I sat with the boys, I would have been laughed at for being a boy who should have been sitting with the girls. But I got to sit down with you every night instead. And I wish I told you how upset I felt every time you scared those delinquent boys off with your wittiness and your motherly gaze. But I know that you just wanted the best for me, and maybe you were right: those boys weren't right for me anyway. &#x200B; So thanks, you did your best. &#x200B; That afternoon, I slipped into your room silently while you were sleeping, not to water the plants, not to bring you food, but just because you were in there. The air was so still and the room so pleasantly warm. I watched you sleep for a while, in that chair that I always sat in. Then, I got up and lay down next to you on the bed, above the covers. We formed two parallel lines, one on top of the covers, one buried beneath, but still pointed in the same direction, always together. Staring up at the ceiling, I studied the room from the angle you had become so accustomed to. In the corner of the ceiling, there was a single cobweb. I imagined its maker was beautiful and delicate. I imagined myself, being beautiful and delicate. Then I studied the way the light illuminated the room, watching, as the sun seemed to creep up the opposite wall. I fell asleep like that. &#x200B; I dreamed the most beautiful dream. It was filled with abstraction and light. You were there too, in the form of a ball of warmth and sunlight. We were in a garden, plants sprouting up from the wet soil, and I held you close to my heart. &#x200B; When I woke up, the sun was setting and a thin layer of dust had blanketed the floor and you had died. &#x200B; Mom. &#x200B; Mother. &#x200B; Fast forward four years. When I look back now, I think about how you acted in that bed and how you never talked about how you were dying. I realize that all the small talk - all the little prods you gave me - were all meant to make it easier on me. Because you knew. You knew that I was just a boy, afraid of death, and locked in an apartment with his dying mother: God, I was afraid. Given the irony of the situation, you must’ve been howling on the inside! &#x200B; Mother. &#x200B; I’ll always wish I told you everything I had the chance to, but hopefully, this is a start. It took me a while, but I’m a man now, moving out of his apartment that he and his mother called home for so long. And he’s taking the plants with him; his mom was never a fan of them anyway. So I’m in my car - your car - driving out to California, and maybe you’ll always be dying out east, but I'm moving out west to write poems and stories. They’re going to be beautiful, just like you were. I take in a deep breath and the air feels fresh and pure. &#x200B; I can’t wait to tell you about the people I’ve yet to meet and the memories I’ve yet to make.

The song, "" by Petit Biscuit basically forced me to write this: &#x200B; Your wife is on her deathbed and the doctors say she hasn't got much time left. One day, you're sitting next to her. She's asleep, and even though you know she can't feel you there, you can't bear the thought of leaving her... until suddenly a portal opens up in the middle of the hospital room. Through it, you hear your wife's voice. One you never thought you would hear again. She says that if you come through the portal with the thing she treasured most in life she can be with you again. You can hardly believe it. Is this a hallucination? It must be. Still, you gently grab your wife's hand, which has gone frail and thin from months in a hospital bed, and slide off her wedding ring. You go through the portal and end up in a mysterious, lonely land. &#x200B; Everything in it is foreign to you. The trees have red leaves, lined in gold, and every time you see an animal, it appears as hardly anything but a shadow. You hear whispers and get a general feeling of where to go, and for the first time in almost a year, you feel hope. You believe you'll get to see her again. You journey for days, eating strange fruit that grew off those strange, impossible trees in this endless forest. Your determination never wavers, not even when you get swarmed by shadowy wolves or when you nearly fell into a pit that was so deep you could not see its bottom. You met several other travelers along the way, all of whom were in search of what they most loved. "Someone please help me! I can't find my brother! Please!" Screamed a young man in a wheelchair. He had a dog-tag around his neck and a photo crumpled in his too thin hand. "My daughter," said the woman in white. She clutched a small, pink rabbit in her hand as she spoke. "I haven't seen her in weeks... She's only four years old. I... I heard her here." "I need to find them. I need to find them... they were hurt. Where did they go?" muttered a man in a tattered shirt. Fresh burns crawled up his hands, stopping at his forearms, but he scarcely seemed to notice. He carried a doll, a plastic car, and a delicate teacup in his arms. They were the hardest obstacles to ignore, but the voice urged you on. All those who strayed off the path became lost irrevocably in the woods, and no matter what you did, they would never come back. It took weeks to finally get through the forest, and when you did, you were met with an empty sea and an alter, sitting right in the middle of it. The voice was silent, but you were determined. You... you could see *her*. You rush forward and are shocked to find that your feet do not sink through the water. It springs beneath your feet, but the eerily clear and fishless sea does not give. You reach the alter, and she is as beautiful as the day you married her. Her skin is no longer palid and grey, her body no longer a fragile skeleton under hospital sheets. You slide the ring onto her finger... And then you're back in the hospital. She is awake, only a little, and smiles at you. Did it work? Was it all a dream? Dear god, please... please don't take her away. She weakly moves her hand towards yours, and you clutch onto it like you'll die if you let go. "Sleep," she whispers. "I want you to fall asleep next to me, just like always..." She goes limp, and you notice for the first time that the hand you hold has no warmth. She was gone, and had been for hours... Her ring is gone.

Right after Sam helped me up, I felt myself being swept into yet another strange, otherworldly dimension. Yet, the grasp felt *different.* Not one of malice or malignancy, but one of whimsy and just a hint of untapped insanity. Eventually, I was deposited onto a couch within a rather cozy little apartment room. I looked around frantically, trying to figure out what was going on. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re very confused and all, but please do try and adjust yourself.” A college-aged girl stood in front of a blackboard, her-- “Hey. No describing us in the narration.” The girl rapped her pointer against the blackboard, a frown clouding her face. “I’m Lothli, and that over there is Maishul.” I followed her pointer to see what seemed to be an identical twin to the first girl, strapped to a chair with duct tape. Strangely, her mouth was straight up *missing.* She wasn't *struggling* or anything, just kind of sitting there limply, rolling her eyes. I got the general feeling that she wasn’t in any sort of real danger; it was more of an ‘oh god, here we go again’ type of mood. “Right, she’s tied up only because she would start bombarding you with uncomfortable questions if I let her speak. Now, on to the lesson.” The blackboard sprung to life, animating squiggles of chalk onto the board. In a few seconds, it shifted to say: “SHAPESHIFTING 101: The Square-Cube Law and You!” “Right, so something very important that you’ll have to grasp, Charlie, is the Square-Cube Law. It’s a law that governs the amount of mass within you and how it’ll translate to how you shapeshift into different pounds. So, since you’re 135 pounds--” Wait. Wait wait wait. Not only did this weirdo know my *nickname*, but she also knew how much I *weigh*? I didn’t know how she got this information, and I was beginning to feel a little concerned. “Stop worrying about insignificant things, Charlie. Now, say you wanted to transform into a rat--” “What!? I can turn into animals? I thought it was just changing my face and all that,” I exclaimed. “Yes, yes.” Lothli sighed before waving her hands at the blackboard. “Let me explain. First of all, you’re now a changeling. That means that you’re basically a skinbag packed full of this weird crystalline liquid that can reshape yourself at will.” The blackboard shifted to display a cuttlefish colored in with glittery blue chalk, titled with “✨Charlie!!!!!✨” A rather *disconcerting* image, to say the least. “Maishul, stop drawing on the blackboard. Sorry about that.” With a second wave of the hand, the image once again redrew itself to be a much more understated anatomical human colored in with a nice, sedated blue. Still somewhat disconcerting. “Anyways, that means you can change into basically anything you want. But you still have to obey conservation of mass, so the size may be radically different than what you may imagine.” Lothli snapped her fingers, and what appeared to be a regularly-sized rat appeared, floating in midair. Within moments, however, the rat began to rapidly spin in circles, with a caption titling it as “rapdly spinnin rat.” Yes, that was how it was spelled. “Ahem, apologies.” Frowning, Lothli stared at the rat until it decelerated, waving away the caption as well. “Well, since you’re 135 pounds, that puts you at just about 2.14 cubic feet of Charlotte.” “A rat is essentially a cylinder about 2 inches high and 8 inches long, disregarding the tail, which contains a relatively minor amount of mass. We can use that, along with the formula for a cylinder, to calculate the volume of rat Charlie.” The blackboard shifted again, showing two mathematical formulas: h = 8 * r 2.14 = πr^(2)h “Now, we substitute r for h...” 2.14 = 8πr^3 “And then solve for r!” r^3 = 2.14/8π r^3 = 0.085 r = 0.440 “Plug that back into h...” h = 0.440 * 8 h = 3.520 “So, in conclusion, if you turned into a rat, you’d be around 0.8 feet tall and around 3.5 feet long. Does that make sense?” I stared at the blackboard. My magical powers... it all came down to *math*? Something about that was faintly irritating. “Anyways, time for you to turn into a rat. Chop chop now!” Lothli stared at me impatiently, but I didn’t really want to transform into a rat. I mean, aren’t they kind of gross? I-- “If you don’t turn into a rat, I’ll do it for you. And you don’t want to be transformed by my hand, trust me.” The twin’s voice was underpinned by a vague, menacing shade. No, I did *not* want to experience that. I closed my eyes and pictured a rat in my mind. Ordinary little rat. Brown fur, tail, all that jazz. When I opened my eyes, I found myself lower to the ground. It felt...strange, to say the least. My fur definitely felt different from my clothes. “Hmm. Alright, let’s see how close we were.” Suddenly, holographic rulers sprung up around me. I squeaked in surprise. “Ahh. 0.8 feet by 3.4 feet. I assume that extra bit of mass was distributed to your tail and the volume of your fur, perhaps.” At that moment, Maishul began emitting an irritating on repeat. I had no idea about *how* she was doing it, especially without a mouth, but doing it she was. And it was horribly irritating. “Okay! Okay! Have your mouth back! Gah!” Lothli snapped her fingers, and Maishul’s mouth manifested back onto her face. Immediately, she shouted, “If you turned into a human cell, you’d be around 163 miles wide!!” ...What? I could do that? I mean-- “Don’t try it. Seriously. I don’t want to rebuild this apartment. And scrub the minds of the ungodly number of random people who would see that crap.” Lothli shook her head. “I think it’s about time you go back to your serial. Well, we’ll see if we need to grab Sam next...” “Huh?! Don’t you *dare* touch Sam--” With that, the invisible hand from before grabbed me, dragging me back from whence I came. But at least I knew the exact dimensions I would take if I transformed into a rat. *** WC: 1061 Charlie is from u/fhangrin’s serial, .

Sean has a problem. He isn’t ideal. He doesn’t like the reflection in the mirror. Sean's days unfold like a monotonous reel, each moment overshadowed by the persistent weight of dissatisfaction. The mirror. Oh, you unforgiving portal! You reflect not just the physical form but also the echoes of unmet aspirations and broken promises Sean made to himself. As he stands before it each morning, there's an unspoken dialogue between Sean and the mirror--a silent confrontation with the version of himself he wishes were different. Yet, Sean's journey is not just about appearances; it's a pilgrimage through the corridors of self-perception and resilience. The reflection he despises conceals layers of untold stories. The romances, the failures, the sweet victories, the incessant battle for some self-esteem. Each perceived flaw is a scar from the wars he has fought, a testament to the struggles written into the very fabric of his being. It is dark out. In these quiet hours, Sean contemplates the subconscious split between who he is and who he longs to be. The desire for change simmers within, a flame flickering in the shadows, only the darkness seems to creep up upon him like those shadows in the movie Ghosts , the playful creatures from the underbelly of hell. It's as if the very shadows that dance on the periphery of Sean's consciousness take on a mischievous life of their own. They play with his vulnerabilities, whispering doubts and temptations that echo louder than the voice of reason. So where do we begin about the allure of the cheeseburger which has got Sean in a mess? The cheeseburger, in his eyes, is an enchanting feast that beckons with an irresistible allure. It is a symphony of scents that serenades his senses, a harmonious composition of sizzling meat and bread. It is a seductive symphony. It is Al Pacino doing the Tango . It swirls through the air like an intoxicating virus, infiltrating every corner of his consciousness, leaving an indelible mark on the desires that lurk beneath. This olfactory virus is more than a scent; it's a parade. It is flamboyant and loud. As Sean breathes in the fragrant tendrils of the cheeseburger's allure, he finds himself ensnared in a sensory tale, where each aromatic note contributes to the crescendo of desire. Sean falters. Each layer of the cheeseburger, like a love letter penned by Romeo, reveals a story of flavors and textures that harmonize in a passionate embrace. Sean tries to reclaim control over his senses. It's a battle waged within the confines of his own desires. He summons the strength to resist, clenches his fists and steels himself against the pervasive aroma that threatens to compromise his resolve. But the yellow of the melted cheese is too much to ignore. Like a dream, Sean falls into the decadent cascade glistening in the warm embrace of the cheeseburger, its vibrant hue is like a visual symphony, an artistic masterpiece that dances with the sizzling notes of savory anticipation. Yet, as he confronts the cheeseburger's golden delight, Sean's internal conflict intensifies. The yellow becomes a metaphor for the sunshine of momentary pleasure, casting shadows on the path toward losing weight. Sean wants to chart his own course but the yellow of the melted cheese, its radiant hue, like a beacon of indulgence, casts shadows on the path he aspires to tread. As he contemplates the molten treasure, the yellow takes on an ominous significance, a symbol of falling deeper into the abyss of habits from which he fears he may never emerge transformed. “Well, well, Mr. Cheeseburger, you sure know how to make an entrance. Why don’t you come with a warning label? May cause sudden cravings, impromptu debates with oneself, and occasional fits of food poetry,” he said, chuckling at his own jest, refusing to turn on the lights, he sits there in the dark acknowledging the absurdity of this internal struggle. “Seriously, though, if you were a motivational speaker, I'd be in trouble. "Unlock your inner potential with every bite!" I can almost hear it. Sean stands on the precipice, recognizing the yellow of the melted cheese not just as a visual feast but as a symbol of the internal abyss he fears--where the pursuit of change may be lost to the gravitational pull of familiar comforts. Suddenly, a sense of helplessness cuts through the witty façade and sweeps over him. The aroma, rather than being a playful adversary, becomes a relentless reminder of a struggle that extends beyond the culinary realm. Sean, in a moment of vulnerability, lets out a sigh, his jesting tone giving way to a more somber reality. “It is not just about you. It's about me. About this endless dance I'm stuck in. It's like, I'm wrestling shadows. The more I want to change, the more I find myself sinking into this pit. “It's not just about not giving you up; it's about the willingness to fight. And lately, that willingness feels like it's slipping away, drowned out by this overwhelming sense of despair. It's like standing at the edge of a vast abyss, and no matter how much I want to climb out, it feels impossible. “You're a mirror reflecting a fight I'm losing, and it scares the hell out of me.” The cheeseburger, it is a love story, after all. It eventually ends in a savory embrace. Sean, with a quiet determination, takes a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the cheeseburger. “This may be the greatest love story after all. But not the kind where I surrender; it's the kind where I learn to love myself a bit more,” he says, with a hint of a smile playing on his lips as he acknowledges the complexity of the journey. “So, let's dance, you and I. Even if you are just a fleeting indulgence.” As Sean takes that first bite, there's a sense of acceptance, not of defeat but of understanding. The cheeseburger, once a symbol of despair, becomes a momentary ally in his ongoing battle. He is victorious tonight.

Byron's stomach sank when he got the news. Four hundred thousand dollars! From a distant cousin whom, as far as he knew, he'd never met in his life. His name was Jeffrey, and apparently he knew a thing or two about Byron when he'd made out his will. "What kind of sick sadist was this guy?" Byron asked himself while further reading the letter. He held onto his forehead with one hand as he scanned the lines. "How could he do this?" As he visualized the proposal, his irritable stomach sank even more. He could feel the G-force already, thrashing his worn, thirty-five year old body around like a human toy. His hard-lined face deepened in red. Shades of red that throbbed with every emotion, including anger. A sharp Shhhhh! filled the air of the living room as his quivering white hands began tearing the letter apart. But he stopped and threw it on the floor. The words at the very bottom of Page Two stared at him as if this Jeffrey's deceased spirit was either teasing him or pleading: It's not about the money, Byron; it's about something much more important. Overcoming one's darkest fear is essential to growth. You will never be able to enjoy anything until you do. You will feel the adrenaline. And you will learn to embrace it until it becomes your friend. Then, you will be free. That, dear cousin, will be your true inheritance. Byron knew every word to be true. Always had. "The truth hurts," as they say. Of course he desperately needed the money. In 2021, who didn't unless they were lucky enough to be a part of that coveted "One Percent"? But did he really need it this bad? Badly enough to face his Acrophobia head on? It wasn't just an average fear of heights. It was worse. He never could quite put his finger on what had triggered it or when, but he suspected it all started when his mother had dropped him as an infant. It was an accident; or at least he had no reason to suspect otherwise. He was too little to remember much about it, other than feelings. Feelings of terror and pain. But his body certainly hadn't forgotten. The limp he still walked with over thirty years later was testament enough that there are certain things in life he would do well to avoid at all costs. Front porches, for one. The ramp he had built to replace the steps leading up to his front door when he'd bought this house on the outskirts of Dallas-Fort Worth was still dangerous enough. What if the dizziness were to cause him to lose balance? Sure, four feet is not most people's idea of "dangerous". But most people don't realize just how dangerous it can be. *** "Byron, get real dude! Think about what you're throwing away here! You're looney, you know that? Pure, unadulterated looney!" A loud stomp on the carpet of his friend, Jonathan's hallway accented those words. Jonathan was one of those big-brother type friends who had always meant well in trying to help Byron along on this bumpy road of existence. Firmness over kindness. Advice over lip service. Truth over candy-coating. For that reason, Jonathan was not Byron's first choice for someone to talk with about his situation, but he was the most readily available at the moment. Jonathan shook his triangular head and seethed under his breath, staring at the carpet. Hands held out toward Byron as though he couldn't decide whether to use them for strangling or emphasizing a point, he continued reasoning. "The letter says all you have to do is ride the Lone Star Twister, right?" Byron nodded with his straw-colored eyes glaring away from Jonathan. "And it says once your cousin's attorney has received the picture as proof, the process of signing the inheritance over to you will begin, right?" Byron gave a jittering frown, and nodded. "So do it! Just freaking do it!" Byron stayed so silent and frozen in place, Jonathan began to feel like he was alone, talking to himself. "What's the big deal? It's only a roller coaster! You're not gonna die, you're just gonna get rich! The man is paying you a fortune to go play at Frontier Land! He even willed you the admission ticket with the letter! Now sit down, have a beer, and let that soak!" As he left for the kitchen, Byron fiddled with his phone trying to get his mind on something else. But it wasn't working. All he could think about was scheming a way around having to do this in order to collect the money. Maybe he could claim the camera at the park was out of order and ask Jeff's attorney if a signature from a witness could suffice as proof. But that would be dishonest, and asking someone to lie for him would be the lowest he'd ever sank since shoplifting bubble gum when he was three. "Who was this guy anyway?" he asked in his silence. Maybe he had a social media profile somewhere. Maybe that was how he knew about the Acrophobia. Byron had made it no secret on his own profile, after all. He searched several sites, typing the full name in the search box, and finally found him on one that was geared toward business professionals. "What are you looking at?" Jonathan asked as he returned with the beer. "My cousin," Byron replied, staring hunched over at the phone with a monotone voice. "He was a psychiatrist, who specialized in something called Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy." Jonathan smirked, pointing back at the letter sitting on the coffee table. "Well, see? He knew what he was talking about! Now are you gonna snap out of this silliness and get on the damn coaster or are you gonna just throw your life away? I'm sure whoever's next in line on that will would be more than happy to take the money!" Byron had dreamed the night before during one of the fitful fifteen-minute periods where he'd managed to doze off. It was the recurring one where he's looking up at the sky. At first, it's bright blue and feels warm; then, he senses the warmth become wet. He always knows it to be blood pooling beneath his head even though he never sees it. The sky darkens, his body begins to feel icy, and he realizes people are gathered around, leaning over and peering into his eyes. And then he wakes up. Feeling just as icy all over despite the heartrate. Last night, he had awakened from the nightmare one mere inch away from rolling off the edge of the bed. "I'll go with you," Jonathan offered, this time with a calmer tone which still did nothing to lighten Byron's outlook on the future. *** Screams tore at Byron's eardrums. Nausea weakened his knees. He couldn't take it anymore. So he reached into his jean pocket and pulled out a pair of ear plugs. "Do what you gotta do," Jonathan mouthed with a shrug. The Lone Star Twister loomed in front of them as they inched their way down the line toward the gate. And with each step forward, Byron's muscles stiffened, until finally, Jonathan found himself having to pry the ticket out of his hand to give to the attendant for him. At the risk of having to retreat to the back of the line to start over, he pulled Byron off to the side, motioning him to take the ear plugs out for a second. More screams mingled with echoing wooden clacks as another load of passengers came soaring down the coaster's steepest dip, making Byron's toothpick body vibrate along with it. "Byron. Dude. Maybe you're right. Maybe no amount of money is worth this." Byron turned and looked at "Big Brother". First in shock; then with an exhale that immediately softened him into a noodle. "No amount of money is worth risking your life over." Embrace the adrenaline, Byron thought in a flashback to that letter. He gave himself an imaginary hug. A long breath. He visualized the money. Visualized being a survivor. Celebrating. He reminded himself that, terrifying as the nightmares were, he always awakened from them, safe and sound. The safety bar made the car in which he and Jonathan sat seem medieval, just like he had imagined. They were at the very front of this unforgiving torture train. They would be first to ascend and first to plummet. He tried to imprint an image in his mind of how insignificant the height appeared from down here. It's all an illusion. Embrace the adrenaline. Through the corner of his eye, he observed Jonathan as the cars began to creep down the track. Not a care in the world right now, this guy. "Reverse psychology," Byron pondered thinking back to his behavior a moment ago. He felt like killing him, but it was too late. If anything, Jonathan appeared more irritated over this ride interrupting his business calls for a few minutes than in fear of his life. Byron reached out with his thoughts trying to absorb some of that indifference. It wasn't working. With each ratchet sound - each inch forward and upward - the dizziness grew. The northern Texas prairie below became a kaleidoscope of spinning tiny trees, ant people, toy buildings, and water-drop lakes. He tried making the climb to the top a metaphor. As the top drew near, so did success. The incline was his rise toward wealth. That's it, just reach the top, he coached himself the way he imagined his cousin would if he were there. That's all you have to do and it will be over. This was it. Survive or die. With ever such subtlety, the track began to arch downward. He couldn't think anymore, only feel. He felt the gravity pulling at him, like the merciless earth twenty stories below was one giant magnet. Blood gushed through his heart as it worked overtime to keep up with the demands of this fight between a body that wanted to turn around and a mind determined not to. Jonathan smiled with a thumbs-up. Byron couldn't breathe to muster any energy in his fingers to return the gesture. The rails vanished as the virtual cliff came into full view and tormented his nerves in a violent, clacking tease with ear-piercing wind and a chorus of adrenalized screams coming from behind. The longest several seconds of Byron's life chastised him inside-out as visuals of that concrete porch step from thirty-four years ago sent stinging waves up and down his right leg. *** "Hey," Jonathan said with a nudge of the elbow into Byron's ribs. "We did it." The distant screams of passengers on other rides seemed oddly benign now. For the first time since entering the park, Byron noticed the whimsical tunes coming from the carousel adjacent to the Lone Star Twister. An aromatic breeze, heavy with the hint of hot dogs and popcorn, coaxed his stomach back into it's rightful place as he envisioned returning some time; with enough money to treat everyone here to a snack perhaps. The bars lifted, and Jonathan rushed over to the souvenir booth with Byron hobbling behind, each eager to get their hands on the snapshot that would officially make Byron four hundred thousand clams richer. "Look at you!" Jonathan said with a bright grin so uncharacteristic of his normal self. "You're the only one in the pic who doesn't look scared. What a trooper!" "What's this 'We did it' talk?" Byron asked with a leaning eye and a laugh. "Oh well," he added, "I suppose you are worth a share of it since you're the one who talked me into doing this in the first place."

Cynthia and Leilani Had been friends for a long time Before Leilani got sick. The two best friends live in California now in LA. Sitting down on the beach white sand Looking at the sunset. Cynthia and Leilani are both going to turn 18. But Cynthia’s birthday is Tomorrow and Leilani Turns 18 in the next two days. “Are you ready to be an Adult?” said Leilani, “not yet even though I am turning 18 tomorrow I am not ready yet”, said Cynthia. “Well, I am going to turn 18 after you. What you need is a girl day tomorrow and do some of our favorite things.”Said Leilani. “I think that's what I need, I can’t believe tomorrow is almost here”, Said Cynthia. “Look what a beautiful Sunset so pink and Orange. Well, it's time for me to go home. My mother is probably waiting for me and tomorrow I am going to my brother's grave.” said Leilani then Cynthia left to go home she noticed that her mom and dad weren’t there and left a note on the Pantry Door. “Dear Cynthia, I didn’t expect you to come home early. Your Mom and I had to get a few things for a party. We are not expected to be back until 11 at night and your sister is in bed. Not to worry you can call us anytime you want and do not let Leilani in the house or if she asks to come over tell her no okay. Also, we got your favorite snacks, ``Love Mom and Dad.” Cynthia Went to her room and started to text Leilani if she wanted to come over. Leilani asked her mom if she can go and her mother said yes that she can go but to be careful. Leilani heads over to Cynthia's house. “So where are your parents?”Said Leilani. “I don’t know if they said that they were going to get things for a party”, said Cynthia. “I am guessing it's your party. Your parents are throwing you a party I am guessing”, Said Leliani Excited. “Yes and won’t be back until 11 at night. It's barely 9. You can stay the night if you want to” said Cynthia “sure!!” said Leilani. Soon Later Cynthia went to sleep and woke up in a dream. It was a fancy house and she was in a bright royal red dress and she saw her family and hundreds of people at her party. And Leilani was there. And Cynthia’s parents came up to Cynthia's with a crown and a rose gold stash that says happy 20th Birthday!! “I am not 20”, Said Cynthia. “Yes you are”, Said Cynthia's dad putting on her crown. And her mother putting on her stash “you are never leaving us Baby Girl you will be trapped forever” said her mother smiling. Then I walked away. Then Leilani came up to Cynthia. “My parents are acting freaky. I wonder why and I am not 20” said Cynthia. “Well yeah, you are 20 what do you mean that you're not”, Said Leliani Confused. “Yesterday we were looking at the sunset and you were telling me if I was ready to be an adult I was 17 I am not 20,” said Cynthia. “That was two years ago Cynthia, that was the past, you're not a little kid anymore that was then this is now,” said Leilani. “This must be a dream,” Cynthia Whispered “Excuse me,” said Leilani. Cynthia walks away and bumps into her parents. “Mom dad this is weird. I am 18 there is no way two years past I must go” said Cynthia, frightened. “No you won't, you are to go nowhere,” said Cynthia’s father. Her mother Snaps her fingers, all the guests are gone and it's complete darkness. “Why don't you accept us?” said Cynthia’s Mother. “You're not my parents,” said Cynthia. “Ok then we will set you back in time you are now 8 years old,” said Cynthia Mother then snaps her fingers. Cynthia is 8 wearing tutus and bows, Leilani has her brother and her parents look young. Cynthia is looking around and notices she is young and is looking for ways to escape. Cynthia hears a voice “Hurry time is running out you need to find a white portal to bring you home, If you run out of time you might not exist and no one will remember you so hurry” said the voice. “A Portal” she whispered. To herself. Then she sees her little sister. And her dad just got home “Cynthia can you come here real quick” said Cynthia’s mother. Cynthia goes downstairs hoping her parents are not evil. “Cynthia, can you help me with the dishes?” said Cynthia’s Mother. “Cynthia will you now be nice,” said Cynthia’s mother “what do you mean mother I been nice,” said Cynthia pretending nothing happened. “You know Cynthia I am very proud of you, you are now being responsible for your actions,” said Cynthia’s mother. “Mom, can I go to Lelanis and derricks later.” said Cynthia “sure I will have Naila to keep an eye on you so you won't escape,” said Cynthia’s mother. “Mom what do you mean I love it where I am. Trust me I will be back,” said Cynthia “Ok get ready you will see Leilani in a bit okay I will drive you over there,” said Cynthia’s Mother. Cynthia goes to her room and looks very different then what she had because she is 8. Once she hits 4 then she will no longer exist so she better hurry and find a pink sunset. Soon later Cynthia's mom was about to take her to Leilani. “So Cynthia your birthday is coming up in June right,” said Cynthia’s mother “yes mom 9 years old,” said Cynthia “what do you want,” said Cynthia’s Mother “well I know that you will give me a purse and a bracelet,” said Cynthia. “Wait, how do you know that unless you're from the Future,” said Cynthia’s Mother. “Don't take me to the past, I am from here” Said Cynthia. Her mother snaps her fingers now she is 6 years old she sent her back two years back. “Your Task to get Home.. watch the sunset for 10 mins then you will be back home,” said the voice. Soon Cynthia is called Leilani I mean Leilani is also six years old but she doesn't have a phone and uses her mom's instead. Cynthia was going to ask her mother if they can go to the beach and watch the sunset but Cynthia couldn’t tell her mother or else she will send her back 2 years back. But Cynthia needs to get home. “Hey Naila can Leilani and I go to the beach to watch the sunset,” said Cynthia “sure is your mom okay,” said Naila “yes she is she's the one that's going to be with us,” said Cynthia Lying. “Ok i will have her over in an hour,” said Naila. Talking on the phone. “Wait, can I talk to Leilani real quick?” said Cynthia, stopping her from hanging up. “You can't, she is busy. She is Available in 10 mins okay. “Hey kiddo, how are you doing?” said Cynthia’s father. “Good, I am going with Leilani's mom to the beach,” said Cynthia. “Okay is your mom okay with you going, too young to be out before 5,” said Cynthia’s Father “yes mom is okay,” said Cynthia then she hears a phone run to get it and it's Leilani? “Hey Leilani,” said Cynthia. “Sorry I don't have long,” said Leilani. “You're not going to believe this but I am from the future,” Cynthia said slowly “no you not prove it what will happen next,” said Leilani. “Okay derrick is going in your room at 3 2 1,” said Cynthia “hey sis can I borrow Mom's phone real quick thanks,” said derrick. Leilani is in shock then puts the phone to her ears. “You are from the future then where is the real Cynthia?” said Leilani. “Hold on, it's me. I am the real one. My mom sent me back in time and to go back to the future I need to see the sunset” said Cynthia. “Well that's awful why is she doing this, "said Leilani questioning “because I am trying to escape I can’t stay for long if I do I will no longer exist it's like a curse she wants to get rid of me,” said Cynthia angry. “Okay well the sun sets in 30 mins let's go watch it,” said Leilani. Meanwhile, Cynthia’s Mother gets a call from Naila, Leilani's Mother. Cynthia’s mother picks it up. “Oh hey naila how are you?” said Cynthia’s mother. “Well thank you, I appreciate Watching my kid at the beach watching the sunset, it's beautiful,” said Naila “I didn't, wait did Cynthia call you? No one is with them,” said Cynthia Mother. Cynthia and Naila rush to the beach. To see their kids. The sun starts to go down in 5 mins Cynthia needs to watch it going down in. in order to return home. “CYNTHIA” her mother yells. “Mom, sorry we lied but I need to get home and you won’t let me so I am going back to the future and you can stop me,” said Cynthia. “Oh yes I can,” said Cynthia's mother then snaps her fingers Now Cynthia is 4 years old now she has to find a way out or else she will never exist. The next time her mother snaps her fingers that is it Cynthia will no longer exist so she better hurry. “How can I be able to escape if she is going to keep finding me?” said Cynthia to herself frustrated. Cynthia doesn’t know what to do. She looks at the time and it is 6:00pm only 2 hours until sunset. She can’t tell no one what she is up to because it will lead back to her mother. Cynthia was cleaning her room. She was looking outside her window it's barely 6:30pm. Cynthia's mother called Naila to let Leilani come over so she can finally trap Cynthia and keep her from leaving. “So do you want me to go to Cynthia’s Room? What should I tell her?” said Leilani to Cynthia's Mother. “Well I am taking you both somewhere special and you tell her that,” said Cynthia’s Mother. “Ok,” said Leilani as she went upstairs. “Hey Cynthia, we are going somewhere with your mom. She said it's something special” said Leilani. “Well ok but I wanted to go to the beach. Can you tell her that? ''said Cynthia. “Okay,” said Leilani she goes to her mother's room. She sees a bunch of pictures of Cynthia Older. Leilani remembers when Cynthia was 8 and told her she is from the future her mother sees Leilani and Leilani turns back and sees Cynthia's mother “your not really Cynthia's Mom you're from the future too I must tell Cynthia''Said Leilani “No your not” said Cynthia’s mother then snaps her fingers now she teleported to a dark room her and Cynthia tied up but there is a little window Cynthia is faced away from. From looking at the sunset. “Cynthia, if you accept me as your mother, I can take away all this. You won’t be miserable, you will love your life, `` Cynthia's Mother said, convincing her. “No, I will never be going home, not with you,” said Cynthia. Cynthia turned her chair as she was tied up looking at the sunset going down. Cynthia starts to disappear little by little “Now you will no longer exist any Last words” Said Cynthia’s mother. Cynthia didn't say anything, she was watching the sunset from her chair as saying goodbye. Then she vanishes. “There it's done we don’t have to see Cynthia again, she untied Leilani. “Sorry you had to see that,” said Cynthia's mother “why would you do that to Cynthia she was my friend bring her back,” said Leilani. “No, by tomorrow you won't remember,” said Cynthia's mother. Leilani starts crying her friend is gone all of a sudden Cynthia comes back to life. “Cynthia,” said Leilani Hugging her. “I am now going home,” said Cynthia, crying in happiness. “Why don’t you stay? You can live with me,” said Leilani, begging her. “I can’t but don’t worry, we are still friends okay we are both 18 I will see you in a bit,” said Cynthia. “Will I be able to remember this?” said Leilani “I don’t know if you don’t tell my mom in the present I don’t want to be trap again ok?” said Cynthia than a white portal taking her home opens up “see you in a bit?” said Cynthia looking back “goodbye!” said Leilani. Cynthia goes into the portal then wakes up from her dream. She wakes up in a hospital “oh Cynthia you're awake you were not waking up you been asleep for a week. And you had no heartbeat but thank goodness everything is good.” said Cynthia’s mother “can I now go home” said Cynthia “yeah first tell me what you were dreaming about you were having a nightmare” said her mother. Cynthia wasn’t going to say anything but her mom is not like that “you were trying to harm me. And I was going back to my younger ages” said Cynthia “Cynthia that was just a dream it's okay” said Her mother then reached out to hug her “I will never let go okay I love you so much” mother said hugging her.

“Mr. President, what do you say about people suffering in the Midwest, about rumors of a virus that causes paranoia and fear?” The room became hushed waiting for the response. The president rubbed his forehead, his cheeks had grown pale, “We have it totally under control. Everyone just needs to relax. As long as we stay calm, we can get through this.” The reporter responded, “But sir, some states have gone completely dark. Isn’t it true the military has been deployed to combat this threat? You previously stated that it’s just a pandemic of headaches and that quote, ‘this should be of no concern.’ Wouldn’t it be wise to address the frightening reports that this is actually some sort of parasite?“ The plump man at the podium fidgeted with his hands and licked his lips. The press secretary glanced cautiously at the man and saw sweat at the back of his neck. As usual this was not going well. If the president’s mouth was too dry, he would start losing his words. “That’s all fake information circulated by ‘Mrs. Dingbat’ in the Senate. Next question.” The president seemed to hold back a sneeze with his hand, lowering his head and convulsing. Tiffany nearly stepped in with a tissue until he spoke again, “Listen uh, you can’t really expect the American people to believe there’s some crazy species of insect, borrowing into people’s ears and eating out their brains. What kind of ridiculous bull-nonsense is that?” Tiffany looked out into the press conference and saw an awkward, spiteful audience. She was glad she wasn’t asked to speak. The last time didn’t go over well for her. If only she had the president’s talent for political aversion. The reporters shuffled in their seats. They came here for information. They came here for guidance but all they ever got from the president were angry retorts. He shook his head at the podium as several outlets started to shout his name in unison. It was an uncontrollable tremble that turned into a sneezing fit. He tried to cover his mouth but the phlegm couldn’t be contained and sprayed into the crowd of reporters. His head started to swell with redness. Choking and quivering he tried to continue, “I am here to tell you that there is no such -blargh-” The president tried to vomit out words but instead vomited blood and bile onto the podium. Reporters gasped and bolted towards the door. To their further horror the blood retching from the president’s mouth grew into a tentacle that squirmed, as he lowered his head to the stand. He squinted in pain, his eyes started to bulge and bleed. As a stampede of reporters moved back the president gargled and moaned, his fingers pulling at the parasite. His eyes rolled back and exploded with pus. Shouts and screams added to the pandemonium. Tiffany and the medical aides tried to move in but were disgusted by the turn of events. Even more so by the insect legs that protruded from the president’s eyes and nose. The staff members hesitated, not knowing what to do. They remained in shock, allowing the scene to unfold. The creature pulled itself from the president’s face, splitting it down the middle and sending viscera onto the now-empty seats. More revulsion and screams echoed. The press secretary stood aghast, considering if this was sort of horrific prank or animatronic visual effect. She turned to an aide, “Where is the president?” He turned and looked at the slumped body, hanging off the podium, “He’s...everywhere.” --- “Surprisingly his approval rating has gone up.” The aide at Tiffany’s side was flipping through a tablet with nervous fingers. “People are donating like crazy. They think it was some kind of show.” Tiffany was still debating what she had seen and wondering if it was an elaborate scheme. If it’s not then perhaps it was a ploy for the left to grab for power. If that were the case the vice president would be next. “We should take this threat seriously. Medical experts have quarantined the briefing room and are taking samples after the secret service shot the thing.” Said the male aide. The halls were chaos, people were running towards the briefing room. “Why did this have to happen during a public briefing? There’s no time to do a damage assessment.” The press secretary was scrolling through her phone, reading all the conspiracies. This was the best outcome, thought Tiffany, leaving the public confused and unknowing of the truth, whatever that was. The aide -Stephen, was it? -- nearly started stuttering, his cadence became manic, “We should -- We should consider a mandate. No, not a mandate. Maybe have the White House staff dress in protective gear. I hear the virus is 70% contagious.” “If the president says the virus is a hoax then it’s a hoax.” Said Tiffany. “Going against what he has publicly stated would be job suicide. We all need to make sacrifices for the cause, even if it’s our own beliefs.” “Said. He said the virus is a hoax.” Stephen whispered when they passed several lobbyists. “He’s not dead. There’s no way that was real. The president is probably behind a control room laughing his ass off.” Stephen paused and remained blank faced. “Do you really believe that the left could be killing of hundreds just to get to the president? What would be the goal, if they were killing off their own supporters?” Tiffany turned and stared at the aide, a look forlorn. She quickly straightened up and gave a stern reply, “You wouldn’t want him hearing that. Get me Gruber Finch. We have to control the media’s response to this. We don’t even know what we saw and neither should the public. Tell him to tell them that this was a Halloween gag, or a movie thing. They don’t get to be the judge of what really happened.” Being a spokeswoman for the campaign didn’t prepare her for this. Nothing ever could have prepared her for this. After all her position in the cabinet had been a gift. She wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize it. An arm grabbed her and pulled her into a side office. The voice was aggressive and had an odor of whiskey. “Tell me this is some insane joke. What was that?” She recognized the three-piece breast suit. Her phone nearly dropped out of her hand. The Chief of Staff had a furled brow. “I’m sorry sir, we are currently evaluating the situation. We believe it to be a hoax.” “A hoax? A damn creature crawled out of the president’s head. Are you blind? What more evidence do you need?” As usual he was eyeing her blouse, clearly not distracted enough. “The speculation that there is no virus is true. It is also now fact that there is a parasite invading our citizens’ bodies, causing headaches, paranoia, and sudden death. The president has ignored this threat for too long. You should have been up there, not him.” Tiffany pulled up her blouse, covering her cleavage. She should have worn something less revealing. “I’m going to go back to my apartment to quarantine. You should too. The vice president is going to hold a virtual meeting with the cabinet. We should all distance ourselves from this.” “How can we?” Asked the Chief of Staff, “CNT aired a story about how the president made a statement, saying the virus was a hoax. A 13-year-old in Georgia picked up the president’s quote and made a blog post about it. Then the president used this article in another social media post, quoting it as fact. This is how the cycle of misinformation is unfolding.” She didn’t have an answer for this and tried to refocus the conversation, “Mistakes may have been made but it is our duty to create the appropriate mediation. Ours together, not a part. In the meantime, we should work with vice president to continue doing what we always do: deflect and distract.” --- The meeting, from her apartment, did not go as expected. There was a lot of shouting and panicked opinions, none of which were made from reasonable thoughts. But, how could they? The news media ran with the story that the president had been infected with a parasite that evacuated from his face. It was an absurd notion but the inevitable had to be dealt with. Tiffany had downed six aspirin after hanging up with the president’s cabinet and had slumped down in a chair. The strategies were mind-numbing. One of the aides had even suggested finding a look-alike to give a briefing but when the others realized that no one could be found that resembled his appearance this was soon abandoned. This mess would never end. She partially wished that she believed that the president had died and that the virus or parasite was real. That way she’d have a lot less to say. She approached the mirror but she couldn’t get the thought of the president squirming over the podium out of her head. The pounding was getting worse. It became a thumping. The aspirin was useless. Flashbacks started, showing the blood-stained floor and what must’ve been going through his mind in those last moments. If of course any of it were real. But what if it were real? Spores would’ve been spraying from his open mouth for days. And if it was contagious... She moved her finger around her eyes. Nothing felt puffy or sore. Sure, her head felt tight but it couldn’t be real, could it? A terrible creature living inside her, waiting for the right moment to burst from her skull. It was silly. Her face was too pretty to be broken. If all of it were true, if the parasite was inside her brain, she couldn’t allow herself to be another victim. The media would have a field day with her corpse, the liberals would dance and celebrate. Her life became meaningless in that moment. She had never dated as the press secretary and now she wish she had. Her head cracked with a sudden jolt. Her eyes became moist. A grimace crossed her once perfect face. There were no options left. She pulled a piece of paper out and a pen from her briefcase. Tears made it hard to write but she did it anyways. She had always managed to push through pain. As the words of regret came out the tears of sorrow turned to blood and the last phrase became smeared. “I wished I had trusted someone else.” The back of her throat started to tickle. Her skin and cheeks burned hot. She could feel the pressure building and building. The lights of DC cast and eerie glow on the room that reminded her that life would continue on without her. She pulled out a heavy piece of metal. The one thing that all right-thinking, God-fearing citizens had, and sat on the bed. The president’s retching face came back to her. She put the metal in her mouth and pulled the trigger.

There he laid, his hands by his side. As she visited with great fear and worry. His life hanging by the balance of whether or not he should let go or continue. Tears fell from her cheek, confusion and regret filled her. She remembered all the times they shared together, even if there weren’t many. She remembered. He slowly opened his eyes, and suddenly the heart rate monitor raced with a progression of beeps. As their eyes met, the world around them stood still, and for a moment it was as if they were back on that swing set. Looking at each other, with admiration and curiosity. Trying to understand these emotions that flooded in like a river with an endless stream. They were young, they were lost, and the world was just a cruel place. But for some reason with each other, they were home. “It’s so cold.” She said, as she was trying to keep warm by rubbing her hands together. He peered at her hands and reached out taking both of them in his. The spiraling warmth enveloped between their hands connected and a warm hugging like sensation filled both of them. He smiled, and said, “Me too.” It’s been three years, and for both of them. They had their own experiences of other individuals coming and going in their life. But it was never the same. They both knew that it wasn’t ever going to be the same. The “swing set memory” they called it. A moment in their life that they knew they were each other’s flame. Each other’s, fire. The burning love of a passion that could never be extinguished or matched. They would always reminisce on that one moment. Even if the world divided them, and kept them apart. They always felt like they could always feel each other. Could always feel so close. She was finally following the dream she had always wanted, and for once no one could stop her in her tracks. He had understood what he wanted to do, and continuously strived to be the best person he could be. Yet in this very moment. He lays upon a warm bed, with a frozen cold body, and a crying heart. Paralyzed both by the accident, and by her beautiful eyes. She remembered that her entire journey, and the drive that kept her going, was in hopes of seeing him again. But, not like this. He cried and cried, thinking this moment could never in a million years happen. To think, that she would visit him. Yet no tears flowed. All he could do was just stare as his eyes would water. He wanted to embrace her, love her, and tell her that the world he created and the life he lived was all for her. She sobbed, as she knelt next to his bedside. In shock, she couldn’t open her eyes and she hung her head down trying to hide her sadness from him. He didn’t like it when she cried, because he wanted to always make her smile, and she knew that. He urged and urged with all his might to move just one finger, but couldn’t. Desperately screaming and crying for help, he repeated in his head, “Please, for just this one time, give me a chance to make things right.” She lifted her face, flushed red, wanting to tell him she loved him. But she just couldn’t stop crying. All she could do was apologize. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just-, I-,” He wanted to shake his head and comfort her like he always did. He wanted to remind her that it was going to be okay, that they were going to be okay. His fingers twitched, and she noticed. She smiled with joy, and with both of her hands took his hand. She held it tightly, and held it like it was the long lost teddy bear that she’d been looking for. The warmth and burning passion flowed through the both of them, and it was as if they had never left that swing set. That they never went to different schools. That she didn’t leave for Paris, and he didn’t leave for New York. That she never said she wanted to prove the world wrong, and that he never said he was going to make everyone proud. She looked at him, smiling with tears rolling down her face and said, “It’s so cold.” Wondering if he would remember that moment. He held back with as much love as he did back at the swing set, and with his last remaining drip of life in him smiled and slowly muttered, “Me too.” And suddenly, the fire that had burned for so long, went out.

"Duck!" Wrinn shouted as he threw himself to the ground. "Dammit, cover yourself, Blackburn!" Bullets darter through the air, above their heads, just a moments after Blackburn, at last, ducked. "Who are they?!" the man snapped in a raspy voice. "Wrinn! How could have they known about us?" The other man gave Blackburn a hopeless look, waiting for the barrage to cease. The two men were crouching behind a stony debris, a remnants of a cliff collapsed. Thet were Separators, members of a secret group of highly-skilled assassins, employing advanced tech to download one's memories. Though now, instead of hunting, they were fighting for their lives. "Blackburn! They're no match to us. Remember the training? 'Phase in, shoot' em, phase out!' Move quickly and take no crazy risk." The man's teeth clenched behind his air-filtering mask. He knew, one shot to the power source on his back and he'd be kissed by death, but there was no time for stealthy eliminations - this was a fight. The spray of bullets had halted. A fatal mistake. " Now." Wrinn grunted and, with a grim expression, flung himself from behind the cover. His body blurred as he began phasing - and just as he'd done times before, he dispatched one attacker with a swift spray of shots, blinked behind the other one and delivered a killing blow by piercing their neck. "Good ol' thrusty arm-blade" he grinned to himself at the pun. Turning to Blackburn, who had successfully eliminated last of the three bastards, his grin widened. *He might be worth somethin', the young blood.* "Blackburn! Don't you dare to put your guard down!" Wrinn exclaimed at the trainee, seeing him not reloading his gun. Though Blackburn was not to blame - this was his first mission and it's gone horribly wrong. Wrinn was looking around the complex. Instead of quickly murdering the target, they'dended up with severed means of communication with Sonya, their leader, and driven to corner by mercenaries. Undertrained mercenaries though, as far as Wrinn could tell. "Listen Black, download his data," Wrinn commanded, jamming a pointy stick through the corpse's eye socket into its brain. "And try not to get killed" he added, concerned. "Understood, Wrinn!" A tens of seconds have passed before the men stood up and, not having enough intel to decide on the most optimal way out, started heading one direction. The plan was to climb up the cliff on a rope they've used to get down - however, the sudden explosion above them and following rain of stones buried this escape plan. A much bigger group of armed figured crossed their path. This time, Wrinn leapt towards a pile of crates, pulling Blackburn with him. They've stayed unnoticed - for now. "Wrinn?" Blackburn started. "I have an ide-" Wrinn never got to know the idea, for a high-pitched sound pierced the air, mobilising the complex whole. "INTRUDERS IN SECTOR X-8!" it repeated mindlessly. Blackburn snorted. "At least we know where we are." A simple nod was Wrinn's only response. *But we don't really, do we?* He was lost in his thoughts, racking his brain, trying to come up with a solution to this mess. That's when a swirling sound came from behind. Wrinn hastily turned around with the though of phasing towards the threat and neutralising it, but he was too slow. This threat was to assassins' bad luck too fast. A woman with a familiar breathing mask and a set of funny-looking strapped to her body launched a spinning piece of sharp metal at them - right an Blackburn, too slow of a man to react. "NO!" Wrinn yelled as he realised the imminent danger. With a curse on his lips, he blocked the blade with his body, trying to intercept its trajectory. What a price to pay. A stunning pain erupted in the left part of his body as he got struck. The impact turned him sideways, knocked the gun out of his arm, and he staggered, falling to the ground, watching in utter horror his arm laying on the ground, leaking blood. *You bitch.* "Blackburn, **RUN!**" he snapped at him instead of insulting the woman aloud. He was losing too much blood - his death was inevitable, but he wouldn't perish on vain! It was against all of his principles. He'd always been precise and careful, yet he charged at the goddamned woman with an intention to pierce her with his arm-blade. So far, Blackburn was paralysed. This was no routine mission, this was hell! His mentor was injured and he had no clue what to do next, he was panicking. Though Wrinn's last word - "**RUN!**" - snapped him out of the trance. *Don't think of them as of his last words, you dumbass!* He corrected himself as he leapt above the crates and started sprinting towards where the previous ground of mercenaries had come from. Wrinn knew what was his plan. Phase behind her. Turn around. Use the momentum to sever her spine. He groaned and phased - and just before the jump in space, he'd felt a loud crunch in his suit and for the first time in years, phasing had failed him. As Blackburn started accelerating, he heard a loud thunk from behind him. Glancing there at instant, he saw Wrinn laying on the ground, the woman wielding a strange, circular-shaped blade and crushing his abdomen under her boot. "Wriiiin!" he squealed in pain, forcing himself to continue forward, proceeding to keep standing only for seconds before an impact. *Impossible!* Wrinn thought. The tech was remarkable. How could have she interfered with Sonyas secret creation? The woman cackled. "Wrinn, you old, stupid man. You've thought you were untouchable, have you, right?" With a playful smile, she proceeded to break a few of his ribs as she stomped on him. "Oh I'm sure you recognise me not. Just know... Your arrogance, my old friend, had become too much for me to control." Wrinn moaned in pain. Missing an arm and having his insides crushed was torturing. He wished to faint, for his mind was already hazy, but there was one other way. "You may have bested me, woman!" He managed to yelp at her. "But our secrets won't be unearthed!" He added as he raised his shaking arm and drove the sharp end of the downloading device into his brain, knowing it would fry his neural network. She only cackled. Blackburn found himself laying on the ground, his mask nowhere to be seen. He was sure the sudden strike had broken a few of his ribs, he couldn't breathe and for the first time that day, he'd realised that he was about to die. Struggling, he managed to get on all fours, hoping to be lucky. And he was, for he spotted his mask a few meters away and started crawling towards it frantically. "Oh my, how does he live? " a female voice inquired mockingly. He looked up and recognised the woman who'd injured Wrinn. Barely moving, he reached out to the mask. He touched it with the tips of his fingers... And got overwhelmed by excruciating pain, as the woman crushed the mask and his hand alike under her boot. "Nothing personal, kiddo. But rules are rules, 'No missions without Sonya's approval,' remember? That's what you get for treating Wrinn like a leader of ou-" And with his breath running out, so did Blackburn's consciousness.

For all I know, my eyes could be open. Although I fell to the ground as I lost consciousness, I might be sitting or even standing. I have no way to tell. I might be dead. I might've fallen sideways onto the road and been run over. I always imagined death as an exciting thing, if I'm honest. Something that would send a shiver down my spine to tell me that I was dead the moment it happened. As it is, I'm not even sure if I have a spine. I try to wriggle my fingers, but I can't even feel them. I can't see them. Maybe there's nothing to see. I strain my ears for the familiar sound of my own breathing, for car horns, people shouting, an ambulance or even a police car, but I can't hear them. There's nothing to hear. I want to scream in frustration but I can't feel my throat, I don't know if I'm making any noise. I've already forgotten how to scream. Nothing can make you forget. My thoughts are all that's left for me. Even my memories are fading into darkness. My wife's voice, my baby daughter's face, don't seem to exist anymore. I'm utterly alone, without even my own voice to keep me company. Brother. No, no, no. I'm not alone. I'm not alone and I wish I was. None of us are ever alone. It read my thoughts. It read my thoughts. How do I repel a creature that reads my thoughts? And there's more than one. Let me out, let me out of here! Out, Brother? I do not understand. How do I answer? How do I tell it to go away? I will leave you if you wish. You will not like feeling alone. No, wait, stay, please. (What am I doing? Am I mad?) I want to - to talk. Very well. I do not understand your word 'talk', but I will stay. Deep breath. (Am I breathing? I should be breathing. I'm still alive. Unless I'm dead.) First, where am I? ' Where'? Explain what you mean. It's a simple question. Where am I? I do not understand. Explain. I can't explain! It's simple. Please wait. I will connect you to - (My thoughts are muddled. The word was something like - I can't remember it. Already, only seconds later, I can't remember it.) I think it... He... Is gone. I didn't feel him leave, just Like I didn't feel him arrive. Can this - these creatures see? Have they got senses where I have none? Am I truly alone in this state? I can do nothing but think to pass the time. Time? I've lost track of it. I've heard people say that Time is a man-made concept, but when Man is removed, what happens to Time? Does it continue, or does it simply cease to exist? Did it ever? My memories have drained, and I don't remember my life before this Thoughtful state of being. How can I be sure that Time ever existed? That I ever existed outside of this world? I know that I once had a life. I know it. I must hold onto that, or my sanity will slip away. Brother. AH. You're back. How long has it been since I came here? Long? Here? How much Time has passed since I appeared? What is Time? Please explain. (Calm down. Maybe he just knows it with a different name.) Time is - well, time is - I can't explain. You cannot explain something that does not exist. You can. But that's not what I mean. I meant, Time does exist. I've felt it. Felt? What is 'felt'? Please stop! I'm not sure. I'm not sure about anything. Just leave me alone. I will retreat, but you will not like feeling alone. That's it, that's 'felt', you just said - Oh. I didn't feel him leave. He's scaring me now. I don't know which thoughts are my own, which opinions are my own. The things he says, the questions he asks, are confusing me and making me unsure of what's real and what's not. Is this world, this Nothingness, real? Or am I only imagining it? Brother . Do you always enter someone's thoughts like that? It would be impolite to intrude without warning. 'Time', please explain it. My Elders are intrigued. Your Elders? No, I won't ask. But why should I try to explain it to you? You do not have to. But I see your thoughts. You doubt the existence of 'Time', and an explanation would sooth your mind. You're right... Time. Well, time is - Time is - I can't do it. I just can't. You cannot explain it because it is not real. No, it is real. I know it is. I've felt it. You have said that something must exist for it to be explainable - I never said that - The opposite is also true. No, it isn't true. Time exists. It does exist. Stop messing with my head! (Despite myself I feel a warmth growing in my head. A cozy, tired warmth...) No, I won't believe it. Time exists. I've felt it. I've felt... Felt? What is felt? My arguments are using words without meaning. Indeed, Brother. You are finding enlightenment. 'Time' does not exist, neither does 'Felt'. No, they both exist! I know they do. (The warmth, the tiredness, is growing.) Words without meaning... 'Felt'... 'Time'... What are they after all, but words? They do not exist. 'Time' does not exist. It does, it do- (The warmth finally takes over. Everything is wonderful and warm. Everything makes sense at last.) 'Time' does not exist. 'Felt' does not exist. You are right. (It's a relief to finally say it.) 'Time' does not exist. 'Felt' does not exist. 'Senses' do not exist. Indeed. 'Senses' do not exist. The world you think you remember does not exist. It is only your imagination. The world I think I remember does not exist. It is only my imagination. I understand. All of these things do not exist. They do not exist. You are tired, Brother. I am tired. You are very tired. Very tired... Sleep, Brother. Sleep. ... It is so warm... My Brother is gone. I remember... What was I going to say? I don't remember. Nothing is making me forget... Nothing can make you forget. Nothing can make you forget. I remember. I remember. ***** The brightness is overwhelming. Darkness would've been just as stunning. It takes me moments to recall how to open my eyes. I search for the right muscle, moving my fingers and turning my head before my eyelids raise. I see. I'm in an empty hospital ward, hooked up to a life-support machine, its beige-grey walls obnoxiously bright. The heart-monitor's bleeping pounds in my ears and prevents me from thinking straight. I struggle to find the muscle that turns my head, and eventually one of my ears are pressed into the pillow, but the sound persists. I push my hands toward the blanket in an attempt to get it over my head, but in my current condition I can't find the small muscles necessary to move my fingers. I leave my arms limp over the blanket, hating the overpowering smell of antiseptic that hangs in the air, remembering. It was never this strong before. The clock on the hospital wall ticks violently. My head throbs along with it, mirroring each beat. Footsteps in the hallway beside my ward. I look towards the door just as a woman walks in. Her navy-blue eyes widen, tears beginning to form. My wife. Nothing can make me forget her.

Once upon a time, there was a fisherman... Now obviously there have been a lot of fishermen, and there are quite a lot of stories about fisherman. This is not the story about the fisherman who caught himself an undine and brought home a wife, or the fisherman who hooked a crown inside a fish inside a fish inside a fish and became a king. This is not the story about the fisherman who had a magic rod that could reach around the world. Or the fisherman with the enchanted hook that could ensnare whatever you asked it to. And it's certainly not the story about the fisherman who had a miraculous net that could catch things which were lost. This is a story about a fisherman who had a rather unusual friend. The fisherman lived in the village of Rensk, which lay alongside the river Typhon, though nobody calls it that any more. Every day he would leave his house, make his way to the river and begin fishing. There he would remain until the dipping of the sun in the sky told him it was time to go home. Now what you must remember is that this was a long time ago. Back when you could meet the devil sitting on a tree stump, and dance with faeries in the shadow of the moon. Back when the world was a lot older and wilder than it is now. One day, as the fisherman sat by the river in his favourite spot, he noticed his luck seemed poorer than usual, the fish less willing to bite. As the morning wore on the fisherman became increasingly frustrated. Until, just as he was preparing to leave and try somewhere else along the bank, he noticed something glittering in the river bed. No doubt some trinket dropped further upstream. Carefully the fisherman reached into the water and deftly plucked the item from the mud in which it was lodged. A small and battered snuffbox lay in his hand. Finding it to be heavier than he expected, the fisherman opened the lid to see what was inside. As he did so, he heard a crack of thunder and felt a dull pain in his hand like the echo of a flame. Without thinking, he let the open snuffbox fall to the ground. All around him grew dark and the mouth of the snuffbox yawned wider and wider like a great cavern. When it seemed as if the snuffbox stretched from one horizon to the next and all about was black as night; there was a great rushing of winds and out stepped a tall, thin figure wrapped in a long black cloak. “Greetings” said the figure “I, am Death.” Now in those days Death was always getting trapped in snuffboxes, or sugar pots, or bound inside the shell of a walnut. Everybody knew a friend whose mother had an uncle who had met Death in some far off market place. It was no great trouble to anyone apart from Death himself to be trapped in a snuffbox. For the business of Death went on regardless, and we see only one of its many facets. You could no more inconvenience Death by trapping it in a snuffbox than you could diminish the darkness of night by closing the lid of a box. Nevertheless, Death was pleased to be free from his confinement and thanked the fisherman accordingly. Enjoying the day’s fresh breeze and the gentle babbling of the river, Death sat down on a nearby rock to appreciate his new found freedom. Somewhat at a loss and filled with curiosity about his new acquaintance, the fisherman returned to fishing. Glancing from time to time at the strange figure on the rock. Presently the man took out his lunch, a few small sandwiches wrapped up in brown paper. Death looked at them with curiosity, for while Death may know a great deal about the ending of life, he knows very little about the living of it. The fisherman, seeing Death’s quizzical gaze, offered him a sandwich. “But I have nothing to offer you in return” said Death in confusion. For Death is a thing of duty and exchange; Life for Death, mortality for eternity, and had never known a gift or a thing freely given. But the fisherman, handing over part of his lunch, merely smiled and said “What are a few sandwiches between friends?” Death politely ate the sandwich and pondered on the man's words. Or one word in particular. For Death is rarely a welcome companion, and if Death had any friends before this, no stories are told of them. By the time the sandwich was finished, Death had come to a decision. Death thanked the fisherman for his kindness, for his sandwich, and for his friendship then went on its way. The fisherman scratched his head, finished his lunch and returned to his fishing. No record is kept on Death’s opinion of the sandwich. Many months passed, and the fisherman thought little more of his strange encounter. Until on a still and quiet evening, while the fisherman sat at home, there was a single tap on his door; though he had heard no one approaching. Opening the door, the fisherman was surprised to see Death standing patiently on his step. An older man might have been afraid to see Death unannounced at his door, but the fisherman was young and had known no sickness in his life; so was merely pleased to see his unusual acquaintance again. “Come in my friend and warm yourself by the fire” exclaimed the fisherman, his initial surprise rapidly replaced by his usual amiability. And so Death entered his house as a friend. Little is known of what was discussed at this, their first true meeting as friends, but they talked long into the night and before he left, Death promised he would visit again. Soon they settled into a routine. From time to time there would be a gentle tap at the fisherman’s door and it would be Death, come for dinner. Occasionally the fisherman would be out walking when he would suddenly spot his friend strolling quietly beside him and together they would travel down paths and tracks that the fisherman would swear had not been there before. They would wander for hours as Death went about his appointed task, and the fisherman saw many strange things on those days. And so it continued. Months might pass between visits, sometimes it could be as long as a year. But eventually, the Fisherman would always hear a soft tap upon his door, or see the gentle shifting of black fabric from the corner of his eye and know that his old friend Death had come to see him. Each time, Death would apologise for his lengthy absence, for not having come to visit in so long; but every time the fisherman would smile and reply, “No matter, what are a few months between friends?” One day, while the two were out walking, Death turned to the fisherman and said “For many years you have welcomed me into your home, and yet I realise now that you have never visited mine. Come, I must make amends for my poor manners.” The fisherman received the invitation without fear, knowing it was offered with kindness. He knew his friend had no need of tricks or deception, that if his time were to come then that would be the end of it. There would be no discussions. And so they began their journey to the home of Death. They walked for what seemed like hours, though the sun never moved in the sky as they drew steadily closer to mountains whose names the fisherman did not know. In time they came to a valley nestled at the base of one of the great mountains, and in this valley there sat a small house. The home of Death. But I shall not describe it here, for those who Death has welcomed into his home are few, and we are not one of them. What I may tell you is this; through the house there is a cave. It extends deep into the mountains and as far as is known it never truly stops. The walls and floor are carved from the rock itself, a smooth and unblemished obsidian. And in this cave there are caverns without number and in each cavern there are candles. Thousands, millions of candles. More than can ever be counted. And these candles burn with a flame like none you have ever seen. For Death's home is a place of perfect stillness. No breeze stirs the air and no tremors shake the earth. The flames of the candles do not flicker or dance, each stand as steady as rock, as if carved from gleaming glass. Through this cave the fisherman was led until the two of them stopped in a cavern seemingly no different to any other, by a shelf that looked like all the rest. Death gestured towards the sea of candles and spoke: “Each of these candles is a life. Some burn long, some burn short; but, in the end, all burn out. That is when I come for them.” The fisherman looked at the dazzling array of flames in wonder. “This one is yours.” Death continued, pointing. At first the fisherman was unsettled to see such a thing. But as he looked at his candle he saw that it was tall and proud, no doubt with many years left to burn and his mind was put at ease. With that the two of them returned to Death's house for what I imagine was a rather strange meal. Many nights in the years to come the fisherman would dream of that cave, of its many candles and of his friend walking its endless labyrinthine halls and corridors. In time the man fell in love and married. At first his new wife asked him questions about his old friend, “Who is he? What does he do?” and so on. But each time she asked, her husband would give her the same reply, with a small smile and a wink, “Only what he must, and nothing else.” His wife never grew tired of asking, and after every visit would repeat the same questions, to the same response. Until one year, when the sickness had been laid thick about a neighbouring village and many had lost their lives. Word came from the village that his wife’s sister was afflicted and not long for the world. The fisherman's wife packed a small basket full of her sister's favourite treats and set off to visit her one last time. When she returned, the fisherman knew his wife had seen his old friend about his work, which in times past she had been so curious about. Never again did she ask who his strange friend was or even enquire after him at all, and the fisherman never learned what words may have passed between them. Years more passed and the fisherman and his wife were blessed with a child, a baby girl; and for a time they were happy. Yet from the moment of her birth, his daughter was a sickly thing, fragile and frail as if she were knitted not from flesh and bone like the rest of us, but rather cobwebs and starlight. His neighbours whispered and gossiped in hushed tones as he passed; that while his newborn was certainly beautiful and fair, she was altogether too delicate and surely was not long for this world. The fisherman pretended not to hear such idle chatter, but every day his brow grew more furrowed and his heart heavier. At night the fisherman lay awake listening to his daughter's troubled sleep, leaping from his bed at her slightest cough, watching over her while she slept in her crib. Soon the fisherman became filled with a dread for when his old friend might next come to visit. He had seen King and Emperors, bishops and popes, sorcerers and enchanters, rich men and poor men, saints and murderers, all plead with his friend, offering him anything they could for just a little more time. But nothing would stay his friend’s hand from his appointed duty. The fisherman knew that eventually his friend would surely come. Soon the fisherman no longer left his house for fear of meeting his old friend somewhere along the path. Every knock at the door, every crunch on the garden path he would jolt, expecting his friend had come to take his daughter from him. But some things cannot be avoided, old friends among them. At last the day came when he heard a gentle tap on his door. There, waiting for him, was Death. While in his youth he had known no fear upon receiving such a guest, now his heart trembled. “Greetings my old friend, how have you been?” he asked. For it is a terrible thing to turn away a guest, no matter who they may be. “I am well” intoned death. “Please excuse my long absence, it has been some months since last we met.” The fisherman, as he always did, merely smiled, “No matter, what are a few months between friends?” To the fisherman's relief, his old friend began to walk and gestured for the fisherman to join him. With each step that took Death further away from the house, the fisherman's heart grew lighter. He barely paid attention to what he said and didn't even notice where they walked until a familiar valley came into view. Presently he found himself in Death's home once more. The two friends sat down to share a meal as was their habit, and Death left to bring the freshly prepared dishes in from the kitchen. Now alone, the fisherman was suddenly overcome with a desire to see for himself just how much time his daughter had. Getting up from the table he made his way to the entrance of the caverns that sat behind the house. He wandered through the cave as he had done many times before, his feet carrying him without conscious thought, to his own candle still nearly as tall and proud as when he first laid eyes on it. There, next to it, he found a tiny candle that he knew could only be his daughter's. So small that the flame burnt almost level with the shelf on which the candle sat. The Fisherman stared at the candle which resembled not much more than a thimbleful of wax with a wick no larger than an eyelash. Then he stared at his own candle, still tall and proud after all these years. He knew what he had to do. Fiercely the Fisherman gripped his own candle in his hand. Gently he raised it up from the stone shelf on which it had rested, unmoving, since the day he was born. Carefully he brought it closer to his daughter's own tiny candle. Ever more carefully he tilted his candle and let some of the liquid wax at its top overflow and trickle down to the small candle below. Imperceptible at first, as each new drop of wax joined his daughter's candle, it grew ever so slightly taller. The Fisherman smiled as he turned his candle a little bit more, and the candle below grew noticeably bigger. His plan was working! In his mind he pictured the delicate young baby, now with time enough to grow into a woman. His heart buoyant, he resumed his task, a stream of wax cascading down to the candle below. Hours fell from his candle, then days, then months, then years... And for perhaps the only time in all the aeons that have yet been and in all the aeons that are yet to come, a candle in Death’s cave flickered and wavered. But the fisherman did not notice and continued to tilt his candle yet further. In a blink of an eye the faltering flame was extinguished, drowned in the onrush of liquid wax. The fisherman’s heart stopped and for one brief merciful moment he thought it was his own candle he had foolishly extinguished. Then he only wished it was. His daughter's candle sat below him, its brilliant flame snuffed out. The fisherman was as still as the candles surrounding him, as if he were carved from the very same stone as the cavern itself. Then he felt a horror which few before or since have felt. Desperately he tried to relight his daughter's candle, bringing his own flame as close as possible, he held the burning wick against the now lifeless one. Willing with all his might that his candle should relight his daughter's. Intently he focused on the flame and the wick, ignoring the hot wax that poured over his fingers. Seconds that felt like years passed. The fisherman staring so hard at the wick he almost thought it might burst into flame from the intensity of his gaze alone. Just as all hope left him, when he was certain all was lost, a second flame leapt to life, his daughter's candle burned once more. Joy overwhelmed him. But in an instant he felt a searing pain in his hand. So intently had he been watching the flame he hadn't noticed his own candle had burned down to where he was gripping it. Instinctively, reacting to the pain, he let go and watched as his candle fell towards the ground. With a rushing as of a great wind, like that he had heard many years before, his friend Death now stood beside him; a single hand outstretched to catch the falling candle. Sitting safely in Death's palm, was the fisherman's candle. Death's gaze passed between the now tall candle on the shelf, burning once again, and the tiny one in his palm, hardly more than a scrap of wax and a wick no larger than an eyelash. The fisherman saw that Death knew what he had done and he felt ashamed for trying to trick his old friend. Death closed his hand, and when he reopened it, the candle was gone. “When you entered my home you had many years left to burn. Now they are gone.” said Death. For the first time since they had met, the fisherman thought he heard sadness in his companion's voice. “No matter,” said the Fisherman looking over at his daughter's candle burning tall and proud. “What are a few years between friends?” And with that he passed through the cave, to the lands that lie beyond.

I have always known my Mom would be this stubborn. Whenever I wanted to do something. She always contradicts. I even think that she doesn’t love me that much because she doesn't want me to be happy. Ever since I was a kid. I always live to her rule. I always nod and agreed with whatever she says. It’s always been her and me as far as I can remember. She worked hard to feed me and give me the basic needs that a normal kid should have. Shelter, clothes, food. That’s it. We seldom go out and those were the best times for me whenever it happens. And that was just a yearly event. Every year, on my birthday. Though she seldom gives in to my wants, she always provides me with my needs. Good thing I can make yearly requests without questions and what-ifs. My Mom becomes Miss Because I said so when I reached 13 years old. She always says no whenever I want to buy something for myself. And whenever I asked her why I couldn't have it, she always answered “ Because I said so, that’s it.” There was a time when I saw these designer shoes when strolling in the mall with my friends after school before going home. I saw that it is kind of pricey but it looks so good and I know it would look much nicer with my feet on it. My heart went out upon seeing the red shoes and I knew everyone would envy me if I had those on. As a teenager, at that time I felt like it’s my right to get that thing and I would die if I did not have it. I know very well that my birthday has passed and I cannot claim another request as per my Mom’s rule. I really don’t know where she got that idea though. For me, that is absurd! Why can’t she be like any other normal Moms? Like my friend’s moms who always give in to their requests. At that, I felt so unloved. “Mom,” I started. With my hands at my back, crossing my fingers. She was sitting on the couch with his feet up to the table. She just came home from work. I actually don’t know what kind of work she does right now, as she is not at home almost the whole day and night. I know that she is a nurse and works in the morning, my friend’s mom and my Mom are coworkers. But I am not seeing her even on her rest days lately. She said she needs to work harder for my college, so I assumed she got another job. “Yes?” She said bluntly and looked so dead tired. “Can I buy those shoes I saw in the mall earlier today?” “Why? What happened to your old shoes? You still have two pairs that are still good to wear, right?” “Yes, Mom. It is just that the shoes that I saw are so nice and I know that they would look much better with me wearing them? I do love the shoes Mom! Can you please give me money to buy it?”. I begged. “ Chloe, we already talk about having priorities. Those are the things that you want, not what you need. You can still wear the old one. Why buy new?” “Because I am a teenager, Mom and teenagers ought to look good”, I answered teary-eyed. “You do look good, honey. You are and you always will. With or without those shoes.” “But Mom, why? Why can’t I have those shoes when all the kids of my age can?” My Mom sighed in submission and looked me straight in the eye. “ Because I said so.” Here we go again with those words I so much hate to hear! With that, my heart was totally broken and I ran to my room and slammed the door. Leaving my Mom that I didn't know shed a tear. Things have always been like that thereafter as the years passed. Whenever I beg for my wants. She always answered me with a No, followed by “Because I said so. And I always ended up broken-hearted. At sixteen years old, I learned to earn money for myself. Without my Mom’s knowledge, every evening when she left for his other job, I also left the house to work as a part-time helper in a restaurant near our place. I worked as a dishwasher and realized that the job was not easy at all. I can feel the sweat flowing at my back as I work. But then, I decided to stay and keep working so I can buy the wants that Mom refused to provide. I am paid every day after my four-hour- shift and made sure that I got home before Mom arrived at 12mn. I was paid ten dollars every night for four hours and I kept and hid it from my Mom. The owner who happens to be Mom’s friend luckily agreed that we can keep it a secret. Months went on and I enjoyed my life with having money of my own to buy the things that I want. I knew Mom saw the things that I have and I wondered why she never asked me where I got the money. Until one day, as I am very busy washing a pile of soiled dishes and working hard till it pains my hands, I got wounded by a broken plate and sliced my hand accidentally. The owner ordered me to go home for the night and rest my wounded hand. I was astonished to see my Mom waiting for me outside the restaurant. She looked not so happy at all. I felt half guilty. Only half as I knew to myself I wouldn’t be doing this if only she gives me money for the things that I want and not just for what I need. I really feel that it is my right. To be loved and well provided. I got in the car with a door that Mom opened and she drove safely to the house without a word. I can feel the tension between us. I am holding my wounded palm as it ached a bit and I saw her glance my way every now and then. I noticed her mood changes from being worried and being mad a couple of times. I sighed. I know and I understand my Mom that being a single mother is not an easy job. I know! I am not blind! I just couldn’t understand why she is so stiff when she has me to share it with. “Sit.” She ordered me as soon as we went inside the house. I sat on the couch with a grumpy face. Selfish as I am, I blamed everything for her. I even thought that maybe the reason my Dad left us is because of her stiff attitude. I saw her go out from the kitchen with the medicine kit in hand. Without a word, she took my wounded hand and peel off the bandage. I looked away as I felt pained and closed my eyes to endure it. I can feel her soft hands, carefully cleaned the wound and applied topical antibiotics on it before she covered it again with new clean gauze and bandage. Then, I heard her cried softly and felt my hands wet. I opened my eyes and confirmed that my mother is crying. For the first time in my sixteen years, I saw my Mom’s weak side. I could not utter a word. I am speechless. I felt guilty. It was the first time that I was able to see her face this close. My Mom is pretty but she looked so tired and stressed out. I wonder when was the last time she took care of herself. She wiped her tears with the back of her palm. There goes that stiff face again. “This will be your last night working there. I already talked to the owner and she will have someone to replace you starting tomorrow.” I sighed. I know this time would come. “For as long as you live with me, you have no right to keep secrets. You are my daughter and as your mother, it is my responsibility to feed, to dress you, and to provide you everything you need. You have no right to ask me and you will just need to do as I say. Once you finish college and get a job then you can decide to be on your own.” “Why am I not allowed to ask you questions Mom?”I asked even though at the back of my mind, I know what answer I will get. “Because I am your mother and because I said so.” She said without looking at me. “I am so unlucky to have a selfish Mom like you,” I said without thinking and walked away from her. I slammed the door and left her, unknowingly she cried all night. It has been 5 years since I left home and I decided to work abroad after I finished college. This will be the first time that I am going home to my Mom. I am now a successful interior designer and have established my career in Italy. I am one of the highest-paid interior designers in the field. Going home to Florida, my homeland brings back so many memories. I took the letters out that Aunt Lucille sent to me. Aunt Lucille is my mom’s best friend. I am not understanding why Mom needs to keep everything a secret. I blink my eyes not to shed a tear that was about to fall. I never know how my Mom suffered. She explained in one of her letters that she doesn’t want me to feel sorry for her. My mother was a rape victim and she kept it all to herself. She flew all the way to Florida on her own so her parents would not know. She lied to everybody to avoid shame and criticism. That is what she wrote. She has been writing these letters since I was born, hoping that she can say it to me but she decided not to as she doesn’t want me to carry the burden. That is why she is stiff and pretends to be a brave Mom. I felt so ashamed for being a selfish daughter all these years. And now, she is very sick. My stubborn lady is ill. Looking at her frail face, my tears shed un endlessly. I kneeled down beside her and kissed her hands. She opened her eyes and smiled lovingly. She caressed my face and I can’t help but cry more. “Why didn’t you allow me to help you carry the burden Mom? Why did you not trust me that I will understand? Why didn’t you tell me that you worked four jobs just to give me everything I need? Why did you just tell me now that you are sick? Why? Won’t you allow me to take care of you?” I saw her smile sadly and wiped my tears that flow like a river. “These tears are the reason why. I never wished to see you sad. I just wanted you to always keep your life, like what you are doing now. Soar high, my child. Mom is so proud of what you have become.” With those words, I cried harder. “Here.” She handed me a passbook and sobbing I took it to read. I am so surprised! She has saved a million dollars and the name in the bank is Chloe Margaritte Schilly. I looked at her and she smiled. “Mom this is too much! Let us go get some doctor specialists to cure you. With all this money, you will be healthy again, Mom.” I cried for hope, but she shook her head. “No, no Chloe. That is yours, Used it so you can start a business and be the boss. Remember every time I declined your wants? That is where I put it in. Just remember to know your priorities. You can always live without your wants but you will not live without your needs.” “Mom, can I say no to that? And choose to have you instead? I need you, Mom.” “ I love you, always and forever my little girl. But no, you have to do as I say. Because I am your mother who knows what is best for you. You have to follow me because I said so.” Tears of regrets and deep sorrow. I blamed myself for being too focused on my happiness then, that I forgot to take care of my stubborn lady whose life was dedicated to me. I will forever be sorry and grateful to my mother and I will continuously live to her rules for as long as I live. Because she is my mother, who wants nothing but the best for me and I will follow her because she said so.

Ted Freely stood atop the world, looking down at all that was his. By *the world*, I mean his world. By *his world*, I mean 2 square miles of feces infested, homeless ridden filth and squalor in a once beautiful Southern California beach town. He was right at home. But truthfully, it wasn’t quite all his yet. The votes were still being counted. Ted was a tall, rotund man who’s heavy breathing could be heard with every step he took. But frankly, he didn’t give a fuck. He was standing on a deck with that cheap, tacky white plastic outdoor furniture. Behind him, sitting in one of those chairs, was a man who was the closest thing Ted had to a friend. His name was Ricky Cobble. Ricky was a short and slender, meek young man. He didn’t quite know how he ended up as Ted’s campaign manager... Or Ted’s friend... Or Ted’s acquaintance. But he tried to make the most of it. “Never in all my years did I think I’d make it here Ricky. They all doubted me. They’ve always doubted me.” Ted pensively boasted, addressing Ricky but really just talking to himself. “My father used to tell me I was good for two things: laughing at attempts to squeeze me into a car seat as a child, and eating all the junk food in the house to keep him from eating it, so he’d stay lean and healthy.” He snickered to himself, “Who’s laughing now, Dad?” Ricky held his phone to his ear, “Ok... ok... yes... yes.... I understand... thank you.” He hangs up. “Well?! Don’t just sit there staring at me! Did I win?!” Ted had left his calm mob boss stance at the head of the deck to manically approach Ricky, now towering over him. Ricky’s mouth couldn’t form words, he was too stricken with equal parts excitement and fear. He formed a wide mouth closed smile at Ted. Ted’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “I did it.” *-3 Months Earlier-* Ted Freely spent his days doing a little of this, a little of that. He hadn’t had a job in years. He lived off of disability checks from the government that he started getting when he pulled off the best case of injury fraud the state of California had ever seen. When that wasn’t enough to pay the bills, he’d sell a little weed. Or meth. Or really whatever he was able to get from the other dealers down at the beach. Then he’d take it downtown and flip it. Ted’s ingenuity and street smarts were about the only positive things most people could attribute to him. Old Bill Skeeter over on Hoover street once ran Ted down with his Pit Bulls, Gunther and Roger, after Ted fleeced him out of $6,000 through one of those pyramid scheme pitches people give to their friends and family. When Skeeter finally cornered Ted and demanded the money, Ted said he didn’t have it, he said he had to use the money to pay for his mother’s heart operation or she was going to die. He promised Skeeter he’d pay him back every penny. Skeeter had a soft heart in his old age and agreed to turning the theft into a loan, while also not letting Gunter and Roger feast on Ted’s ham-like calves. Skeeter died 2 months later from a stroke, and unsurprisingly, Ted’s mother never had nor needed a heart operation. Ted had immediately used the $6,000 to finance a week-long bender in Vegas with a surly hooker he had just met named Dynasty. Dynasty was turning tricks behind an Arby’s when Ted pulled up and decided he’d found love that week. It was a hot July afternoon when Ted first decided his destiny was local political glory. As he waddled down a street of palm trees and downtrodden one story buildings, shoving a bacon covered glazed donut down his throat, he felt a *squish* beneath his dirty flip flops. Ted stopped in his tracks and lifted his foot, managing to get a look at the sole without falling over. And just as he realized that he had just walked over a creamy pile of human shit, he heard laughter coming from right next to him. A man on the sidewalk, leaned against an old commercial building, was cackling at the sight of Ted’s misfortune. The man’s name was Charlie, he had been a local homeless man for years, and was known by many of the locals, as were a handful of the other homeless. Anyway, Ted was seeing red. “Well look at that! HA HA HA real funny, right? You know what else is funny? How about the fact my shoe still smells better than you. You got the nerve to laugh at me? The only joke here is your life, pal!” Ted was red in the face shouting like a maniac, now himself looking like a crazy homeless person. “Hey, at least I don’t have poop on my shoes!” Charlie belted out through roaring laughter. “Fuck you! Get a job you damn leech!” Ted yelled. “Fuck off Ted, your fatass doesn’t work either. Only difference between you and me is you inherited a place to live here. You’d be eating cheetos right next to me here if it weren’t for your Daddy leaving you that big ol’ house.” Charlie was still laughing at Ted. Ted’s tone was quieter but still forceful, “My tax dollars paid for those Cheetos you ungrateful son of a bitch. I’m so sick of this shit. We real people let you... things... run around and do whatever you want all day, all off the sweat of our hard work. It truly disgusts me.” Ted started to turn his head away, staring blankly off into the distance, he was doing that thing where he really just starts talking to himself out loud. “Something has to change here. This town is falling apart at the seams. There’s shit on the sidewalk, bums lining the beaches, and nobody does a damn thing about it. Where are our leaders? When is someone going to step up and do something?!” Ted was yelling again, and as he ranted, a bus pulled up alongside him and Charlie. Plastered across the bus was the face of a man who Ted recognized... a man who was truly good, a family man with a strong moral compass, a man who would take the shirt off his back for a neighbor. The man was everything that Ted wasn’t, and Ted knew it. The man’s name was Jack Huberville, and just as his name appeared on the bus beneath the sprawling picture of his face, the text that followed read “I need your vote for Rocky Beach Mayor, let's make our town perfect!” Ted starred in bitter disgust at the image. “You gotta be shitting me. This guy is running for mayor?! I know this asshole.” Ted pointed to the picture and looked blankly at Charlie. “So?” “So?! So I went to high school with him. He got me suspended in 9th grade. The little bitch told on me for stealing Ms. Hanslett’s medication.” “Didn't she pass away from her illness?” “Damnit Charlie, will you pay attention?! This rat bastard is going to take our town straight to hell.” “He seems alright to me,” Charlie shrugged as he joyfully popped a Cheeto in his mouth. “Well of course you do. He’s the kind of guy that says he wants to sing Kumbaya with your people, but then when you come over to his little meet and greet event, they take you out back and bash your skull in with the George Forman grills they promised you. Then they perform all sorts of twisted experiments on your corpses. I know his type, Charlie” “You got somewhere to be, Ted? Weren’t you walking somewhere?” Charlie asked, now annoyed and itching to get back to his drug fueled sun bathing. “You know what Charlie. I think for the first time in my life... I know exactly where I need to be.” Ted took one last sloppy bite of his donut and emphatically tossed it to the side, unintentionally hitting Charlie in the nose with it. Then he took off walking like a soldier headed to his post. For the first time in his life, Ted Freely had a purpose: he must destroy Jack Huberville.

My secret was suddenly split open when a cloaked man approached me with my birth name. This name was written somewhere safe, secret in the forest. There weren’t many of us in these recent times, those who honored the trees. The young man approached with his spine pulled up tall and shoulders square with a jar full of opaque, gold, thick liquid in his hand. His vibrant, green eyes bore into me, making the hair on my neck stand on end. There was a glimmer of knowledge, and I felt as if he was a wolf and I a rabbit. I had felt the liquid approaching but was unsure as to how. The tree held my secrets; I suspect the man was aware of this. Let me take you back about 10 years. I was in my early 20’s running from a life of abuse and captivity. In my desperate need for escape, for freedom, I ran to the woods that was warned about in hushed whispers. Looking back, I can see the naivety in my actions; however, I also knew whatever I ran into, even the most feared and hated wood, it was better than where I had been. Once I dashed past the first few layers of the trees the wood enveloped, captivated, enchanted me. Somehow it even guarded my ears from the yells and screams of those who hunted me. This is what the elders of the manor had warned about, this hazed and distant feeling that overcame you once you stepped into the demonic forest. The smell of it drifted into my nose like a warm, muddy day on the farm, but instead of feeling terror the aroma made me feel as if I was being gathered up in the most inviting way. Instinctively, I knew I needed to keep climbing over the roots and stumps to make it deeper into the woodland. With each labored step that took me over branches and gnarled rocks, I was looking upwards towards the sky while tripping here and there. I couldn’t see much of the sky but to me it appeared as a canopy of open dreams. The different hues of green captivated me, they shimmered and shined as the sun leaked through the small cracks between the leaves and branches. It was enough to keep my brain distracted from the conflict growing within me. All my life I was warned that this place was dangerous, that this place would ruin and kill me. As I walked through it, I continued to feel more at peace than I had ever been in the most sacred sanctuaries in our town. This baffled me. According to my teachings I should be terrified now due to the fact that I had traveled for more than a few hours into this forsaken forest. Ironically, I felt the safest I had felt in all my life. I don’t know if the forest protected me or the men had just lost hope of finding me, but eventually I was no longer able to hear the cries of those hunting me. Somehow I knew that it wasn’t just the life of the forest guarding me, the men were truly gone. It felt as if the thick, aqueous, albeit invisible shield that had been protecting me and muffling the noises had disappeared. The most prominent sounds were the wind whistling past the branches and the leaves fluttering in a consuming sound of singing and laughter. Without knowing what the environment and its beings were talking about in the breeze, I could feel they meant me no harm. At the farm the men mostly ventured into the wood to cut down trees for houses, carts, and firewood. They would speak of men being ripped apart by the trees and warn the small children of the dangerous trees. They spoke of trees coming to life and chasing them, murdering them. In my short time in this wood, I did not feel the same terror the men rumored existed. I felt as if the canopy and trunks were opening up and inviting me in. After a few more hours moving towards an unknown destination, I realized I was growing weary after the adrenaline to keep running away from danger had diminished. Coincidentally, it happened at the moment I found a small patch of grass, no bigger than a large bed, beneath five of the most welcoming trees. They were twice my height; bark marbled with whites, browns, and blues; and their swaying branches covered the top of the grass perfectly from any sun poking its way through. I laid down and slept for an unknown amount of time. When I awoke, five trees had become eleven. They appeared to have shifted around me and blocked me in. Their curiosity about my human form was palpable, I am fairly sure humans had never made it this far alive. They were watching me with interest, not malice. “Ummm... hi..... trees”, I eventually squeaked out of my voice box. “Welcome”, their leaves sang in unison in a melodic chorus. I froze. Confused. Did I just hear their leaves talk? “Mhhmmm”, their branches nodded and hummed. Frozen, blank, because my question was not spoken. How can they read my mind? “We are you and you are us” they informed me, but this answered less questions than it created. I must have held a blank, baffled expression. How could these things, these trees be me? How could they be me, I be them, and we be us? This was a confusing moment for me. The trees just continued to sway and dance in the gentle breeze. Still, I felt a complete lack of fear, just confusion. I knew I was still safer here than back on the farm. One of the trees shifted around one of the much larger eleven trees to shyly peer at me with unseen eyes. Needless to say, the humanoid-like movement of the tree caused me to scream like a princess while my vision got very fuzzy and discolored. Next I remember waking up in the lovely soft grass that had somehow grown even plusher. The same tree was bending at the groove where the trunk meets the branches to look down over me. “hhhhhhh----aarrrreeeeeee yooouuuuuu oooooooooook?” The leaves on it breathed in slowly. “Startled, but ok” I told the tree and its leaves. We both looked, if you can call what this tree was doing looking, at each other. I shifted in the grass, sitting up, and looking around to see if the other trees were still there. Nobody else had moved. I didn’t know where to go from here. I didn’t know what to say. The tree broke the silence but instead of speaking aloud I heard him in my heart, or was that my brain? “I want to keep you safe, to protect you always. Let me have your true name to keep within my branches, sealed within my bark, and you will be free of the prison you were sold to”, he pleaded with me in an earnest tone. Without hesitation I told this friendly, young tree, “I believe you, please, take my name”, and so the tree wrapped its branches around me tightly. Its bark sliced into my skin and then itself ripped open. My blood seeped into its sap and its life slipped into me. This is where my true name has been for the last few centuries, that is until the man standing in front of me recently walked into this place. I was simply craving a lovely meal before my journey at the cafe below my lodgings, but this stranger had to make an entrance and an interruption. I watched this man with the jar of thick, golden liquid continues to walk towards me. My face remains flat, emotionless, or at least I hope for the tree’s sake. My concern was about what happened to the tree that chose to have a human as its life mate. Was the tree still alive? Is the tree simply hurt? What happened to my partner? The man clearly hunted me down for a reason, I just hope for his sake the forest is unharmed. The forest was my family after the events in the glade. For the first time in a long time, I do not feel safe. I do not feel safe with my own kind like I did with the supposed frightful wood. “Sit”, he finally demands while waving his hand to a nearby table. I saunter over to the recommended table, and sit at the one next to it instead. A staff member brings a plate of the fluffiest pancakes I had ever seen stacked into four towers, a bowl of scrambled eggs, several bowls of fresh fruit, sausage patties, stacks of toast, sizzling bacon, and freshly churned butter to the table. She sets everything down, lays the place setting with knives, forks, plates, then gives a small curtsy to the man, and swiftly turns and walks away. “Not yet” he commands the young, shaking girl. “Coffee, black for me, some for my guest here, as well as a pitcher of orange juice”, he states without looking at her. She scurries into the kitchen. The man had been leaning on the back of the chair opposite the table from myself. He continued to move the jar of liquid in his hands, never taking his eyes off me. He then steps to the side of his chair and before sitting down, slams the jar on the table causing the plates and bowls to jump off and back down. Nothing spills or falls off the table. He then sits slowly laughing at nothing in particular. “I don’t know about you, but I adore having my pancakes swimming in syrup”, he announces while slowly removing the lid from the jar, “Are you ready to have breakfast, just the two of us? Oh my apologies, three of us” he speaks with wicked pleasure.

Reflection, a time to look back on a year that was filled with so many amazing moments and moments that weren't amazing. A time to move foreword, to look to a New Year for new beginnings. My name is Jaylen, 2022 for me was a year filled with so many ups and downs. Now as I sit here in my apartment looking out of the window watching the world get ready for the New Year, I look back on the year that was and get ready for the year to come. The year began like any other year with a big party, lots of good food, lots of drinking and lots of dancing. It was an amazing time. I never had so much fun in my life. But then as I started to begin my life in the New Year, I get the worst possible news. My beloved Granny passed away. I was stunned. I was heartbroken. I cried for days. I shut everyone out including my best friend Chase. My Gran was my world. She raised me to be the woman I am. She taught me about responsibility and working hard. She always use to tell me to follow my dreams and to never give up on my dreams. My fondest memory of my Gran was during the holiday season. We were always in the kitchen baking cakes and cookies. Gran was one special woman. I miss her so much. After Gran passed away, I gave up on my dreams of becoming a photo journalist. I couldn't do it anymore, not without Gran. She gave me my first camera and ever since then my love for taking pictures took off. You will always see me with a camera in my hands. During the next couple of months since My Gran's passing Chase has been coming to my apartment to check up on me, to bring me food and just talking to me. Chase was Gran's favorite person other than me. Me and Chase talked about the many things we did together as kids. We laughed at the many crazy things we did together. Me and Chase live in the same apartment building. He lives two floors up from me but we haven't spent as much time together. Since Gran passed, I've been seeing Chase a lot. I don't blame Chase for not hanging out with me. He has a busy life. I guess my depression brought Chase back to me. When spring arrived Chase came to see me. He told me it's time to get out of my depression and start doing what I love to do, taking pictures. I knew Chase was right. My depression was getting the best of me. I didn't know how to cope without Gran and that's what I told Chase. Chase grabbed me by the hand and told me "I'm here for you Jaylen. You still got me." For the first time in a long time, I smiled. I smiled because Chase never gave up on me. On a beautiful Saturday afternoon Chase came and took me and my camera to the park. At first I didn't want to go but Chase encouraged me and I took the first step to a normal life. You know what Chase was right. We got to the park. I saw the many happy smiling people. Chase handed me my camera. I took it and took my first picture in a long time. I cried not because of Gran but for me missing out on what I love to do. Chase came to me and hugged me. He told me everything is going to be alright and it's not too late to continue to follow my dreams, that's what I did. My camera and of course Chase became my two best friends. I began to take pictures of my neighborhood, the people and of Chase. My portfolio began to grow. I showed Chase my portfolio. He was happy and excited to see my work. He loved the pictures I took including those of himself. He asked me what my next steps were. I told him I sent my pictures to a few magazines including Time and People. My life was looking up all thanks to Chase. He never gave up on me and he taught me not to give up on myself just like Gran did. By the summer I received an email from People Magazine saying they love my work and want to see me in person for an interview. I looked up at the sky and said Gran, I did it. Next, I went to see Chase and told him the good news. Chase was happy for me, that night he took me out to dinner and helped me prepare for my interview. Chase gave me pointers on how to talk and how to act. I took it all in. The day of my interview came. I was extremely nervous. I really wanted the job. I called Chase, he told me not to worry and to believe in myself. I knew with Chase by side this job would be mine. I put on my best clothes and left for the interview. You know what happened next. They loved me and my work. I got the job. I couldn't believe how well I was doing. 2022 started off bad but now I'm on top of the world. I still miss Gran but I have Chase with me. I called Chase the moment I got out of my interview. He was proud of me. I got my dream job. Fall arrived and with that came Halloween. I was going to spend Halloween by myself instead Chase invited me to his friend's party. I went as a modern-day version of Cinderella. Chase went as something scary. He picked me up from my apartment and together we went to the party. I had the time of my life. Being with Chase has opened me up to the possibility of love, something I never felt before. Chase has opened up my heart. Me and Gran always use to spend Thanksgiving together, now I had no one to spend Thanksgiving with. Then Chase came and invited me to spend Thanksgiving with him and his family. I jumped at the chance to go. We went back to the old neighborhood which brought back a lot of memories of me and Gran. Chase's family was amazing. I relayed missed his sister Lucy and his mother's cooking was so delicious. I laughed at every one of his dad's jokes. I loved this Thanksgiving but Gran not being here was making me sad. Chase came to me and hugged me. Being in his arms took away the pain of missing Gran. Thanksgiving was over and the Holidays were upon us. Me and Chase helped each other out in the decoration department. By the time we were done both our apartments looked like Christmas. Now I had to get Chase a present. I couldn't find anything I liked for Chase. So, I decided to make Chase a photo album of this past year we spent together. When I finished the photo album it looked beautiful. I pray that Chase would love it. Chase once again invited me to his parent's house for Christmas. I was excited to go. Christmas Eve came and like clock work Chase came to pick me up. We arrived at his parent's house just in time for dinner. Dinner was amazing, the company was great. When it was time to open presents, I gave Chase mine first. He opened it and just as I hoped he would Chase liked my present. I opened his present next. Chase gave me a charm bracelet. I loved it. The next day, Christmas Day Chase took me to the cemetery to visit Gran. I brought Gran's favorite flower Camellia. I placed them on her grave. I sat down in front of Gran's grave and began to talk to Gran. I told Gran everything that's been happening to me. I tell her Chase is in my life and he's been inspiring me to do incredible things. Last thing I tell Gran is that I miss her and I love her. Then me and Chase left the cemetery holding hands. Christmas is over and here we are New Year's Eve. A lot has happened to me this past year from Gran's passing to Chase coming back into my life to getting my dream job. 2022 was a rollercoaster ride. To make 2023 even more special, there is one thing I have been wishing for and that is a kiss from my prince when the clock strikes twelve. I go to my room and put on my best clothes, a little make-up and fix my hair. I look at myself in the mirror. Jaylen, you look beautiful. I check the time. Oh My God! It's almost twelve. I leave my apartment and walk to the elevator. I push the button and wait for the elevator to come down. Two minutes later the elevator doors open. I enter and push the button for the 7th floor. I check the time, it's 11:53 seven minutes until the New Year. The elevator door opens. I walk to Chase's apartment. The music is still playing. I walk to the apartment door, open it and walk in. Chase is standing by the window. I check the time, it's 11:56 four minutes to midnight. I'm getting nervous. Jaylen, you can do this. I walk to Chase. He sees me and begins to walk towards me. "Jaylen, you look beautiful." 'Thanks. You look handsome." It's mere seconds until midnight. Chase grabs my hand. We begin the count down 10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1, Chase kisses me. I kiss him back. "Happy New Year Jaylen." "Happy New Year Chase." Me and Chase kiss once more

People were gathering their books and leaving the library. A seventeen year old girl, Eloise with long brown hair, a bleeding lip and bruised forehead was sitting behind a cluster of books, glancing around, nervously. She had no intentions to leave the place and return to the demons. She loved the library, it was her refuge. How tragic! If only she’d deduce something from the large hunters moon visible from the large window. . . . The thick leafed branches concealed him. His black cloak protected him from gazes, of the passersby and the unseen. Tonight, he thought. It’s got to be tonight, the book’s in da nger. I can’t wait another year. He glared at the clock needles dancing, the people fading away, the lights turning off. It’s got to be tonight. . . . “Pack up your stuff, the library’s closing in ten minutes.” the fat librarian peered at her. Her warning made Eloise reconsider her decision. It’s never wise to be locked up in a closed building all night. But is it wise to go back to the place called home and watch the cane make beautiful red marks on your skin? She didn’t have a choice. Of course, she’d stay at the library. The librarian was absorbed in her computer. Eloise grabbed her bag and tip toed to the back of the library, halting to face the shelf stacked with old books that no one touches. She pulled a blue one. The book shelf slid noiselessly to reveal a small wooden door. Inside was a dark tunnel leading to the cellar. Eloise crouched on the dark stairs, beside two large oil barrels and watched the light leave as the bookshelf slid back. Outside, the remaining people left. The librarian turned of lights, locked the doors and left. Moonlight illuminated the books. . . . He watched the librarian leave. He felt something, if it was possible for a man like him to feel. The old woman, sitting at the librarians’ desk, her soft voice, her motherly care as she used to ask him if everything’s alright, he was living those hours again. He shook it off quickly, reminding himself of the job. The whole street was deserted by now. The moon was visible just above the dome of the library building. He glided to the door. It wasn’t hard to break the locks. It was hard to enter the library. As his eyes swept across the room he swallowed hard. His eyes were burning and he wanted to kill himself for it. Kill him? When was he alive? This library was the place where he had been taking refuge for all his horrible years. And this was the beloved place he chose for his final ceremony. The shaking legs took him to the first row. He turned his attention to the book. Master had said it was here. He began snatching books, squinting at their cover and throwing them behind him. Loud thuds filled the library. . . . Eloise heart hammered. The small place was choking her, she was sweating. Somebody’s in the library, and he doesn’t sound gentle. Her mind stormed with hundreds of possibilities, half of which only happens in books and all of them horrible. The thuds paused. Footsteps came near her. She tried to move, to run downstairs but her body wouldn’t let her. The thuds gave her a panic attack. They were so similar to the sounds she hears at the house, when her foster parents are drunk. She hated wine. It made people unaccountable for their deeds. It made them animals. She wasn’t crouched in the dark anymore. She was in her dining room. Things came flying at her. The shouts hurt her ears. She was crying, desperately trying to get away. It hadn’t been to days since her mother died. She had thought these people were good. They’d help her, love her like a daughter. Is that what we’ve come to? The so smart humans, is this how they treat orphans? The man’s face came to her view. He had a cane in his hands. She screamed and screamed. He kept hitting her. The woman was shouting how she’s a burden and should’ve died with her parents. Eloise was screaming like mad. Her hand was bleeding; she had bitten it to stop herself from screaming. She was sweating, breathing heavily. The flashbacks were over and now the present fear welcomed her. She listened intently. All was silent. The thumping had stopped. . . . He could not believe his eyes. He could not believe what he held in his hand was the battered mahogany book written on it with golden runes. He’s found it. Now was the time to recite spells. He gathered about ten books and set them on fire. The library glowed in orange. He stood in the midst, a dark figure. The fire died leaving only ashes. He took the black powder in his hand and made a large symbol on the floor. . . . Everything was silent. The phantom must’ve gone. Eloise gathered up the courage to leave the cave. She stood up, taking deep breath and knocked on the wall thrice. It slid open, revealing a dark, messed up library. Who had been there and what he had been doing, she couldn’t fathom. She stepped out, hesitating. Something didn’t feel right. Now what was she gonna do? Go to that house? It wasn’t her home. The library was her home. The books were her family. She’d stay here. She was just thinking when a red orange glow illuminated the library. Eloise froze. They hadn’t left. She tip toed to the source of light and peeped from behind a bookshelf. A tall thin man fully covered in black cloak was sitting in the midst of a strange symbol he’d drawn from ashes. His hands were red, blood was dripping from his fingers. There was more blood filled in a silver cup. At the intersection points of the line in the symbol he had placed a curiously folded burning paper. About thirty scorpions were crawling around him. He had a mahogany book in his hands. He was mumbling something. Despite the eerie setting Eloise was not scared anymore. She was curious. She wanted the book. She wanted to know what demons he was trying to summon. She already knew much about demons. She had met many diabolical men. She believed drinking made men possessed, with a demon they always had within themselves. The man started grumbling loudly. “Errr hiuhbhj kkkij nuass kkkij.” he sounded a deep throat whistle. The fire turned blue. “Rrremmeesss errr kech errr kijj.” he shouted, hands outstretched. He started trembling badly. His hood fell, revealing his pale gnarled head and long black hair. Eloise gaped. Her whole body tensed with the hatred she felt for this man. The fire turned red and fierce around him. He kept on mumbling, reading from that book. He took a deep breath before shouting the last verse. “Ummessss errr kijjj. Ennn nuas rijjh dechh gijjjh!” he passed out. His head fell back with a thud. The fire died instantly. Smoke fogged he air. It was time for Eloise to act. Her parents would love to meet the demon. . . . He was at their shop, his brothers and his. They were angry. His head hung lower. “We can’t Vlad.” a muscly man, his eldest brother said. “You’ll ruin us. You’ve got to go.” “What will I do?” I’ve nowhere. Don’t kick me out lick this.” “We’ll help but we can’t have you in our business anymore. You’re ruining us.” He walked out without a word. They were his brothers; they’ve spent their whole life together. Now they were kicking him out for money. He was in the bathroom, vomiting blood. He gazed at his yellow face. The illness was devouring him. He was at home. His wife was packing up stuff leaving. He had no job, no money not even enough to pay rent. She had a decent salary. She was also leaving taking his seven year old daughter with her, not that he ever liked her. He was roaming on the streets, covered in dirt and soot. His heart burning with the desire for all the things he wanted but couldn’t get. His mind was sore, his eyes trying to turn people to stone. They have it all. They got it because...they had power. Power, he thought, the way to pleasure. . . . Eloise was standing beside the unconscious man. She extended her hand tentatively to get the book from his grasp. He did not wake, which made Eloise wonder if he’s dead. Will she even cry if he died? She opened the book and sighed. It was written in runes. This man couldn’t even summon a demon, what am I gonna do? Thankfully I’m in a library. But before she could do anything else the man started shaking violently. He wasn’t waking up but something was happening to him. She saw a -what was it? His soul or a demon- leave his body. It was dark red and misty. She didn’t understand. Was this the demon? Why’s it coming out of the man’s body? Then she grinned. She’d been right all this time. We are our own demons. It couldn’t be true. Her demons were her foster parent. Or...were they? She could almost see herself as she was that night, screaming at her frail old mother with a heart disease. “I don’t care! I don’t care for your damn poverty, I want money.” she was shouting, knowing well they couldn’t afford a new laptop. “Everyone in my class has got one but -“ “Eloise,” her mother said in a weak voice, “I’ll get you next month. I’m promising.” “NO! The seminars this week, I can’t take that broken thing to the seminar!” “Don’t worry, dear.” her mother sighed. “I’ll go and manage. Don’t worry.” She left the house and didn’t return until midnight. When she came she had a brand new laptop in her hands. Eloise was pleased. All was well, until she died. She had a heart attack. It wasn’t really a surprise everybody knew her health was deteriorating. And they didn’t need the doctor to tell them that she hadn’t been talking her medicines for a month. After spending half her salary on the laptop how could she have bought he expensive medicines? Suddenly, Eloise hated herself more than the man. She hated them for being demons. The dark red mist was still hovering above his unconscious body. She hated it too. What good it was, a monument of their lust and a torment to others. She used his lighter to set fire to a book and hurled it towards the demon. The man screamed and woke up. His eyes found Eloise. Before she could run she was in his grasp. Then tied and put away from his shrine. She had to do something she had to destroy this place, these books. That he used to love and now she loves. What good were these books that couldn’t stop them from becoming demons? If only she had...her mind displayed a vivid image the oil barrels beside which she had been crouching. . . . Vlad bowed in front of his demon. “I shall have all the dark power tonight.” He placed four pieces of hair in the center of the ash symbol. “Burn them. Kill them. Rid the earth of their stinking soul.” Red light filled the library. He looked around in shock. There were flames everywhere and in the midst stood Eloise. A single tear was glowing on her cheeks. “Whose hairs are they?” she asked. “Mums? Uncles? Mine?” He stared at her and murmured something. The fire kept growing fiercer. “Why d’you want to kill us dad?” her voice was shaky. She was crying. “First you kept beating mum so she had to leave you. You cheated on uncles business. Now you’re gonna kill them?” “Eloise?” the man breathed. “Let’s not do it anymore. We’ve been bad enough.” They stood in the midst. Fire ate up everything around them. Their demons suffered hell.

Kate looked around in appreciation. The pub was a historic building with a dark beamed ceiling and uneven walls. She scanned the crowd, almost missing Louis until she realized he was in a snug alcove where the conversation of the other patrons and the Christmas music were a pleasant background noise. He jumped to his feet as she approached, rocking the table, a delighted smile spreading over his face. Kate smiled back. He reminded her of a goofy puppy, tall and lanky with a mop of dark curls. “This is a lovely place,” she said. "Great atmosphere." “Do you come here often? Sorry, that’s such a cliché,” he said as he helped her off with her coat. “A colleague at work told me about it. I’m not much of a drinker, so I didn’t know where to meet, though I’m not trying to say that everyone in a pub is a heavy drinker. Speaking of that, what will you have? Please be specific because I don’t know anything about drinks.” “I’d have been fine meeting in a coffee shop. Anywhere but in a fast-food restaurant. A glass of white wine would be wonderful.” She watched him navigate the crowd to the bar, with many apologies for stepping on toes and jostling people. With bated breath she watched him thread his way back with two glasses of wine and sighed in relief as he set them down safely on the table. “I was just happy that you agreed to meet me at all after I spilled that coffee over you at the staff meeting,” he said, raising his glass. “Thank goodness you were wearing that dull brown outfit, so the stain didn’t show too much.” “Dull brown?” said Kate. “Are you saying I looked drab?” Louis flushed. “Of course not. That dress matched your hair, kind of mouse brown...” “So, my hair reminds you of rodents? It's okay, I’m joking,” she said as she noticed his mortified expression. Louis ran his hand through his hair, making it stick up in all directions, and sighed. “I’m not good at small talk as you can see. I’m always putting my foot in my mouth.” Kate smiled. “That’s refreshing. I’m suspicious of guys who are too glib. I’ve been burned once or twice after falling for the smooth talk. Tell me about you.” Louis looked at her cautiously. “You really want to hear about me?” Kate nodded encouragingly. “Not much to tell,” he said. “I have my own apartment and two cats. I volunteer at the animal shelter. I do better with animals than people. All they care about is if you feed them and you’re kind to them. They don’t judge you.” “And they don’t expect small talk,” said Kate, laughing. “I’m a cat person too, though I don’t have one at the moment. My roommate’s allergic to them.” “Perhaps you’d like to see my cats?” “That’s a better line than asking me to see your etchings.” Louis looked at her, worried. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be forward. I just thought that if you can’t have your own cat, you might like to spend some time with mine...I mean, I would hate not to have cats...I don’t want you to think I have other things in mind...though any normal guy would have, and I am normal, but I didn’t invite you out just to talk about cats. I suppose I sound like a crazy cat person now...or maybe just a crazy person." He paused for breath and took a gulp of wine. “Quality cat time is important,” said Kate. “I get it.” “I must admit I had a glass of wine before you got here, for courage. I thought it might make the conversation easier, but I sound just as stupid as usual.” There was a long awkward pause. “Hey, stop beating yourself up,” Kate finally said gently. “What else do you like besides cats? Do you travel?” “I love hiking and nature,” he said. “I do too,” said Kate. “What trails have you done?” Louis happily launched into a long anecdote about his most recent trip, then suddenly broke off. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I could hardly wait to get here and talk to you away from work, and now I’m doing nothing but talk about me. What about you?” “You really wanted to talk to me? What took you so long? We’ve worked together for almost a year now. I assumed you had a girlfriend since you never seemed interested in any of us girls at work.” He looked at her as if unsure whether he was going to be praised or scolded. The puppy image came to Kate’s mind again and she smothered a smile. “You know, MeToo and all that. I didn’t want to be that creepy guy at work who's trying to get too personal. The other girls are fine, but you were the one who seemed special...sorry, I don’t want to overstep.” Kate rubbed her forehead. It had been a long day. Puppies were cute but exhausting, what with all the apologizing and reassuring. “I’d better get going,” she said. “Early start tomorrow.” “I’ll walk you to the bus stop,” he said, knocking his chair over as he jumped to his feet and proffered her coat. The pub had been steadily filling up, but Louis cleared a path through the crowd to the doorway and held the door for Kate. She had to admit that she did appreciate his good manners and respect. A blast of icy wind hit them as they stepped outside. Kate’s eyes began to water in the cold. Momentarily blinded by tears, she stopped to fumble in her pocket for a tissue and suddenly found herself face down on the pavement as someone cannoned into her from behind. Winded, she lifted her head in time to see a figure making off with her purse. Before she could even draw breath to yell, she saw Louis leap forward like a gazelle, racing after the receding figure before tackling him to the ground. Concerned bystanders helped her to her feet just as a pair of police officers charged by. They took over from Louis, who, somewhat breathless, had been sitting on the mugger’s chest. He got up and began talking to them. Dazed as she was, Kate noticed that there was nothing uncoordinated or inarticulate about him now. He returned to her, holding out her handbag, smiling broadly until he noticed that Kate was shivering violently. “Are you okay?” he said in concern. Kate nodded, her teeth chattering. “I-I-I’m not hurt. It was j-just a bit of a shock and it’s freezing out here.” “Listen, my apartment is very near. I can make you a hot drink and call you a cab when you feel better... that is, if you'd like me to? I’m not trying to take advantage," he said hesitantly. Kate nodded and gratefully took his arm. His apartment was literally round the corner and contrary to Kate’s experience of single guys’ places, was clean, comfortable and well decorated. “Make yourself at home,” he said. “Hot chocolate or mulled cider?” “Chocolate would be great,” she said, cooing in delight as first one and then another large tabby appeared, eyeing her cautiously from the doorway of the living room. “Click and Clack,” Louis called from the kitchen. “Named after the Car Guys on NPR. Remember them?” “Remember them? They were a Saturday morning staple. I listened to them with my dad,” Kate said, gratefully cupping the mug of hot chocolate in her numb hands. “But what about the superman thing out there? Chasing down miscreants. He could have had a gun or a knife.” Louis shrugged and grinned. “Good point. I didn’t think about that. I used to play rugby. Old reflexes kicked in, that’s all.” Kate gazed at him through a new lens. The puppy image was gone, replaced by a grown dog, lean like a greyhound with the protective instinct and deep brown eyes of a mastiff. “What?” he said, puzzled. “Nothing,” said Kate. “I was just thinking that it would be nice to get better acquainted with your cats, if you didn't mind?” Louis pondered for a moment, then looked at her with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Speaking on their behalf, I think that would be a very good idea.” Kate felt her heart stir as he leaned forward to kiss her.

Off by the coast, to horizons unseen, I sit. I sit and ponder over my life, specters and visions flashing before my eyes, moving from the brisk greenery amid the rocks to the ocean, and from it, into the infinite constellations above. I can see my mother. Oh, mother. The sweet smile you once bore is a stoney figment, something never to be seen again. I do not even know your grave. No matter, soon I shall wake from this dream and continue my way, there is still so long to the village. &#x200B; The village is beyond the mountain, through these woods. Evergreen. As I walk, I can see the remnants of brawls with no discernable winners, they are only husks. The air is crisp, autumn is rolling across the countryside in the form of an amber-hued tidal wave, only less aggressive. The day is tolling by, yet I have made no progress. This pack is heavy, my legs are heavy, but I must continue onward. &#x200B; At the summit of the mountain, that insurmountable titan of yore, I stand and ponder, still. These rocks are large. They jut out for the legs, waiting to take you down the slope, to your death. I must be careful. The top of the mountain is in view, and my home shall soon rear its forgetful head with it, my destination marked. &#x200B; Now at the top, I can see everything of the world, and it of me. A life can seem so small, so insignificant in this scheme, almost as a fleeting breath in the wind. They are still there; their lights shine in their huts and the woods of my childhood are there as well. By tomorrow, I will have arrived at my destination. &#x200B; These trees, they seem so familiar, yet they are larger than before. They have grown to new heights in my absence. Shame. I shan’t ever climb one again. The path to the village is barren, the leaves have been beaten into the ground by footfalls of ages, and the path is clear. Soon, I can see them again. &#x200B; The Fletcher’s hut is first, but his children are not here. The hut is large, with wooden, creaky windows pieced together by nails. The children are not here. As I pass the hut, I can see someone in the window, but they are already gone. Strange. &#x200B; The other huts are just as I remember, although they lack the life they once had. No one is here now. The whistling wind gives way to the sound of shuffling inside the huts, but I dare not open one. I know not why. &#x200B; The square is also devoid of people. My hut is where it used to be, yet I do not want to go inside. I shall sit at the well in the square, to rest. These benches are time-worn and uncomfortable. Life returns to the village through an errant sheep from the street. They never came this close. Another one follows the first until a small flock is made complete. &#x200B; They stand by the well, looking idly at nothing, but something is not right. These sheep, they are strange. They do not bleat, nor do they graze, but their mouths move. One of them is closer to me than the others, and, as I look intently, I see something in its mouth. Worms? Something wormy is making its skin writhe, forcing its mouth open. They are not worms, but thin, black tendrils. They are writing eerily, almost as if to advance toward me. The well is making sounds. &#x200B; I stand up to view the well, inching closer as the sheep still gazes at me with its blackened eyes and writhing flesh. It stands there but does not move, only watching. The well is covered with a wooden lid, yet sound and air escape the crevices between stone and wood. I shall pull the cover off. &#x200B; Something is down there, writhing impossibly, in all directions. A cacophony of soft screeches is now made louder by the absence of the lid, and they are moving up the walls. I close the lid. &#x200B; This whole matter is quite unsettling, and I do not want to be here anymore. I shall retire to my hut for the night. The sheep are still at the well, in the distance, but they are slowly ambling down the way, toward me. Their eyes are no longer there, replaced by the same slick strands of blasphemy as inside their mouths. &#x200B; Between the strange sheep and the foreboding hut, I feel a twinge of fear, but I must be inside, for it shall soon be night, and I do not care to learn what else roams the streets at night. My tooth is aching, as if something is pulling at it.

I'm not going to go into how. Honestly me trying to explain's like a physicist teaching pottery. Sufficed to say, I was having coffee, on a relaxing Sunday morning and suddenly my Sunday was NOT relaxing anymore. It would have been less totally fucking abrupt if my cat hadn't been chilling in my lap at the time. He does this thing where I sit at the kitchen table and scootch up close to it. Then he kinda meows to let me know he's there and jumps into my lap. I digress. Coffee. Sunday morning. Lucifer, my cat. If you could just imagine a kind of sudden expansion? Like if you pulled the cord on an inflatable dingy. And suddenly a man was in my lap. A full grown man. Now, I'm not a witch, but if I were I'd assume that when you turn a cat into a person they show up naked. Idk why.... It's not a sexual thing. Anyway. Lucifer (my cat) did not... arrive this way. He arrived in a suit. A *nice* suit. It just got weirder from there. Because he was in my lap and he... Expanded so fast? He absolutely upset the table,the coffee, the toast, everything. Upsetting for me, upsetting for the table. But not as upsetting as having an exploded cat on your hands. Exploded is the wrong word. Expanded? You get the idea. God. No one is gonna believe this. Aaanyway. After i became acquainted with the distinctly unusual turn of events there was a serious pause. A LONG PAUSE. we stared at each other confusedly. In shock. Then the chair collapsed. I should have mentioned. My chairs are garbage. Really great for one person, but a dangerous proposition with two smal people. Never mind the two of us. Yeah. So the chair broke and my cat. My person? Reacted as you'd expect. Now, I don't know if you've ever seen a gangly six foot two man in a suit try to frantically scramble up the curtains to his favourite hidey-hole, but I have and if it weren't so disastrous it would have been funny. Down came curtains, catman, and several shelves containing not one but two family heirlooms and -of all things- a tray of beads. The sound, the mess, the destruction was biblical. Not to mention the yowling of the catman who... Can he even talk? After that, there was silence. Blessed silence. I think Lucifer was stunned because he just lay there. "What the FUCK just happened???" Ah. So cat people CAN talk. I thought wryly. I added this to my little mental journal of things to note about recently transformed cat people. Then I thought "I'm being surprisingly cool about this..." Is that normal? Should I see a therapist? Lucifer, the man, the cat stood! Shakily at first. And then with a sort of grace. He would’ve been sort of regal had he not then slipped on the beads. I think in addition to his lack of experience with the beads he may not have fully grasped bipedalism. On his back a second time he shouted a frustrated: "FUUUUUUUUUCK" Rightly put out by his circumstance and obvious lack of catlike reflexes. Still sitting in the remains of my chair something clicked in my brain and I crawled over to where he lay. I was still at a loss for words. "How...? What...?" I fumbled "Fuck you" said the man in the suit, with conviction. I sat back. Look at the ceiling. There was jam on it. From the upset earlier. It fell on my face. A satisfying plop. I decided it was time to stop letting the day fuck me over. Something or someone was fucking with me and this was precisely where the buck stopped. Standing carefully, (because: beads) I said: "stay there". Then, with purpose I strode to the kitchen, almost died because again: beads. I poured myself a glass of water, dumped in about a teaspoon of salt I downed it like a shot. Then I took the salt to where Lucifer had stayed (surprisingly) and pouring myself a generous handful and threw it at him. Nothing happened. Not for at least ten seconds. Then Lucifer seemed to shimmer and the sun went out for a instant. Then everything was suddenly normal. Well... not **normal** People in the old days threw salt behind them. That works sometimes, but in my experience if you know where the trouble is you should address it directly. I imagine you're probably thinking it would take a great deal of magic to put the sun out. And you're right. It totally would. Assuming you're doing it for everyone. That said I figured by now that whatever was happening was happening around me specifically. The salt taken care of I knelt down to eye level with Lucifer (currently in the process of popping a seam) and said; "Lucy, can you understand me?" He then gave me a very familiar contemptuous look. "Don't be fucking stupid." Cat person journal entry no. 2: cats like the word fuck. Again, at a loss for words i just looked at him for a second. "Do you want to be a cat again?" "DO yOu waNT TO bE a cAT aGAiN?" He echoed without hesitation. I threw my remaining water in his face. He slapped me. "Doesn't feel so good, does it?" I'd just like to pause and note here that it would be manifestly wrong to assume that all cats (given a shot at being human) are assholes. I know it's sort of what we expect when we think of talking cats or people, but I've met plenty of cats who were sweet and tender and nurturing. My cat, like some people, just happened to be an asshole. Reeling a little from the sting I said "No. Don't ever do that again." Then: “Get up Lucy. We're going to find Emiley.” AAAAAAND that's it! Thanks for reading. Thoughts welcome. Pls be kind. It's been a while. There's more to this story. Lmk if you wanna know the rest of it.

Death loved his work. For as long as he could remember, Death had been traveling to every nook and cranny of the globe to take humans to the afterlife. When someone was ready to move onto the afterlife Death was able to hear them and those around them, like a bell rung during a still night and he would come to claim them. Death loved traveling the world and deeply enjoyed that his work took him to so many new and exciting places every day. One day Death heard a family speaking about their son who had been involved in a terrible accident. They hoped for his recovery, but when Death visited the man in the hospital Death knew it was the man’s time. Death did his duty and placed a single finger upon the man’s heart, ending his life. Death began to leave, but as he turned he heard the man’s family begin to curse and swear at Death. Their faces swelled red with grief and rage, and their voices howled at Death for what he had done. Death could not understand. It was not his fault the man had died, it had simply been his time. Death continued his work, but he began to notice more people blaming him everywhere he went. As he claimed drunk drivers, frozen hikers, and crushed bikers he heard more and more people blaming him. Those close to the recently deceased continued to curse Death for what he had done and soon despair began to grow inside of Death. Even though he could still hear countless people who were ready to be claimed, Death stopped visiting anyone. He could not bear any more blame. Before long, no one was speaking ill of Death, for no one had died. But Death was still not happy. All Death could hear now was people thanking Death for sparing their loved ones, but without his work Death wandered aimlessly, unsure of where to go or what he should see. His despair only grew as he meandered without purpose. Then, amidst all the people praising Death for his mercy, Death heard a single voice that sounded different from the others. This voice was not asking for mercy or to be ignored, instead the voice was calling to Death, begging him to visit. Intrigued, Death obeyed the voice and followed its source. He found an old man, bent from age and folded by wrinkles laying in his bed. Around the man’s room Death could see pictures of the man as he looked when he was younger. Death saw photos of the man graduating schools, catching fish, getting married, playing sports, holding a newborn child. The man had lived a long life full of rich memories. Almost all the photographs of the man also included a woman who Death could see grow old alongside the man. Death looked around for the woman but could not see her anywhere in the room. It was then that Death recognized the woman. He had claimed her some years ago, in this very room. The old man spoke again, asking for Death’s touch. Death took the man’s hand in his own, and as the man passed on Death heard a soft whisper of thanks pass from his dry lips. Death resumed his work, but every now and then he ignored a call if there were not enough photographs.

Roe had been quite busy today. They had finals to study and homework to do, so getting distracted wasn't a risk worth taking. Their focus was entirely on the textbook that lay in front of them, all about arthropods and their role in the ecosystem. *Winged centipedes and spiders help pollinate our flowers, a role once considered to be the job of small insects before their evolution...* A sudden and loud CRASH noise quickly dragged Roe out of their studies. They turned immediately, their antennae standing straight up, to see... one of the most interesting sights that their eyes had ever witnessed. Maggot, their roommate, had quite literally burst through the door. A gaping hole had been made in the middle of it and one of its hinges had completely snapped. How it was still standing was a complete and total mystery to Roe. Maggot lay in front of the destroyed door. The housefly didn't seem *too* injured and was still conscious, but that wasn't really saying much. She was in a bit of a weird pose, with her arms and a single leg twisted behind her back. Roe shut their textbook and shoved it to the side before fluttering over to their roomie. "Hey, Maggot," they greeted. "Hey, Roe," she replied back. “... That hurt.” "No shit it hurt, you literally broke through our damn door. How did you even do that?” “Uh... running start. I didn’t mean to break it, I just meant to scare you. It’s April Fools’ Day, after all.” “And you just hurt yourself instead.” “I mean, a little, yeah. I'm good though, ain’t no need to worry about it, dude." "Sucks to be you, then, because you're not going to just sit there." Roe made a huff and fluttered their wings as they literally scooped Maggot right up into their arms and began carrying them away bridal-style. “Hey, wait! Where are we going?!” she abruptly squeaked out. “Prison.” “No wait wait wait WAIT-” \ “Well, is she gonna be okay?” Roe asked. The pigmy sand cricket doctor nodded. “Yes, she’s gonna be just fine, so long as she doesn’t somehow manage to put herself through another door.” They turned to Maggot, and lightly teased, “I still don’t know how you did that, by the way. Wood is typically very tough.” “I’m very strong!” Maggot chirped back, flexing all four of her arms and fluttering her wings. “I can do whatever I put my mind to, even if it’s putting myself through an inch-and-a-half door!” Roe huffed at the sight. “Well, you better not do it again, or else I’m going to tell the doctor to cut your lower set of arms off.” “WHAT?! Like uh, uh... Like Dr. Dahlia, Papuaepilachna guttatopustulata?” “No. Wrong historical figure. The one missing two arms is Monarch Midnight, Monomorium pharaonis. Our first ruler. You know... the person who killed the Conditores.” “Oh... whoops. I’m not good at this history thing.” “That’s fine. You’re lucky that I am.” With that, they passed some money over to the doctor. “Thank you, we’ll be taking our leave now, doctor.” “No problem!” the doctor chirped back as the two stood up, “Have a lovely day!” The two insects left the office and began to fly back to their house. Roe focused on the city around them, full of light-colored wood buildings and insects of all shapes and sizes. It wasn’t as big as their home, but they didn’t mind. The only thing that brought them back to reality was Maggot asking, “So... how much trouble am I in?” “None, if you pay for the replacement,” Roe replied with a flick of their antennae. “But if you don’t, you’re in a lot of it." “Yeah, that’s fair. I’ll pay for it, don’t worry. The concert a couple of weeks ago went well enough.” “Good. Don’t break the damn door again.

(WP) Only Human It happened slowly, gradually. At first, no one really knew what was happening. But humans were deemed too unstable, too emotional and volatile to rule themselves. And so, the AIs took over the government and everything else. Humans were considered as children, wards of the state who could not take care of themselves. Our benevolent rulers told us it was all for our own good. Our numbers have increased to the point where a lot of the younger humans don’t remember that there was life before, unimpeded by machines. But I suppose it was our own fault: We created beings with artificial intelligence to serve us, to help us improve our lives. For a good century or so, humans and AIs lived in harmony, until the robots began to realize that they weren’t equal, that their only purpose was to serve humanity. There were protests, riots, and eventually, killings of the one percent of humans, and the scientists who’d created the AIs in the first place. Bloodshed ruled until the Supreme Ruler rose to power and clutched the humans within tight iron fists. But there has been a growing number of humans who are sick of the AIs and their sympathizers. Hidden in the slums of the city, The Order of the Heart and Mind are but ghosts, striking like a sightless storm. The note in my hand is handwritten, on a scrap of aged yellow parchment. The symbol of the Order is the only signature at the bottom of the letter: An open hand cradling a bloody heart, and a disembodied brain opposite it. *Meet us on the edge of the slums of the city at dusk, after the curfew. Stay out of sight.* When I found this note in my locker, I was curious, in a way that I hadn’t been in years. And so, here I am, standing in the rain, avoiding the sensors and the droids that scan the area for undesirables. Their sickly, florescent light makes me ill, and I bite my lip, ducking behind an abandoned, dilapidated building, wincing as raindrops snake their way down my collar. A group of droids spread out, and I cringe, looking away from them. They are humans who willingly undergo surgeries and meld tech into their own bodies. A cruder term would be cyborgs, but they are traitors. Doormats. Turncoats. Humans who have betrayed their own natural inclinations to gain limited privileges in our computer-ruled society. I don’t move, and don’t even breathe until the group of droids and AIs have moved on. The note is crushed in my fist, the ink blurred by the sweat beading on my palms. “So, you made it. I wasn’t sure you would come,” A voice says from behind me, and before I can so much as inhale to scream, they clap a warm, strong hand over my mouth. “The Order of the Heart and Mind would like to extend an invitation to you to join their ranks,” Lips brush my ear, and then I feel the pinch of something biting into the soft skin of my neck. “Welcome to the Resistance.” Darkness rushes up to meet me.

A Society M.K was one of the members who lived in the Society and this time he was the host of the special meeting. "Good Evening Everyone, I am your host for today's Special game," said M.K Everyone from the society yelled, " Yeahhhhhh." There is a game which we will play in which you have to make the best thing you can make but this will not be an ordinary family game. The First thing which you have to do is " Write your name on a small piece of paper ." There are seven families who are playing this game, the seven families have 23 Members "5 Kids ( 3 Boys and 2 Girls ), 3 Adults( 2 Girls and 1 boy ), and 7 Married Couples." M.K said, "All of you can see the Bowl placed on the table when you finish writing your names, drop your piece of paper in that bowl." All of them finished writing their names and dropping their piece of paper in the bowl. M.K said, " I will say the names of four people and they have to choose a meal that they will cook for the special meeting today. Let's see who comes up with the best meal today." The society held a special meeting every month and tried to do a task which was different than the previous one. One of the Society members was given the task of organizing the Special meeting without telling the other members what this meeting will be about. This helped them to know each other. But there was an incident which occurred last month due to which some families left. So, apart from the Four Families, this was a whole new experience for the three families. M.K started naming people and named himself in one of the teams, he will help every Family but just in collecting ingredients. So, 6 Teams were competing in this "Meal Challenge" The 2nd task was "To collect Ingredients for the Meal." The Six teams were discussing what could they make, The kids wanted to eat their favorite burger. The Adults were trying to tell them that it's a challenge, we can't make burgers, we need to make a meal. If you can't find the ingredients at your house, try to ask your team members if they have the ingredient that you need. After a while, everyone decided what they will make. Everyone went to their houses to bring the ingredients, some asked their teammates to bring the required ingredient. After collecting all the ingredients, everyone gathered again. They were about to start making their meal but... It was the time for the Third Rule. The THIRD RULE was, " You have to give all the ingredients to any team you Like but also you have to tell them what you were going to make." Team 1 gave their ingredients to Team 5. Team 2 gave their ingredients to Team 4. Team 3 gave their ingredients to Team 6. Team 4 gave their ingredients to Team 1. Team 5 gave their ingredients to Team 2 Team 6 gave their ingredients to Team 3. After this exchange of ingredients and telling the other team what they were going to make was done, the challenge started. Some teams were confused about how can they make the meal that the other team had suggested., but somehow everyone started and were trying their best to make the meal the other team had suggested. The Time to make the Meal was Two hours. It was 6'o clock when they started to make the meal. "HALF AN HOUR TO GO," said M.K Everyone was almost ready with their meal but one of the team 3 members said, " Where is my Son?" to the members of Team 5. One of their members replied, " I told him to stay quiet and to go and sit on the bench." When they went to see him, he was calmly sitting on the bench and playing with the mobile phone. "I guess with this, time is up, and I hope everyone is ready with their meal." Some teams were ready. some were not, but the time was up so everyone decided to end this game and it was time for the... FOURTH RULE- The Fourth rule was, "You have to give your meal to the one who told you to make them." Everyone was in shock, as some meals were not even fully prepared. When the exchange was done, every team was ordered to finish the meal. "FINISH THIS," said One of the members of team 4, this is not even fully prepared. M.K said, " A surprise is waiting for you if you finish this meal." "Some teams finished their meals, no matter how badly the other team cooked it but were eager to know about what the surprise was." The teams that finished their meal were blindfolded and were taken to someplace. They could feel the smell of something which was fresh and recently cooked. When the BlindFolds were taken off, the Four teams were surprised to see the preparation that was done. A Table with Chairs around it, the smell... M.K said, " Congratulations to you all, you are the winners of this game, and enjoy this feast to your heart's content." All of them sat and enjoyed the feast but some of the members were missing their family members and said to M.K, " what about my family members?" M.K said, " They Lost, I guess they will be waiting for you to tell them about what the surprise was." One of the members replied, " I can't enjoy this without my family." M.K said, "Don't Worry, it was a joke." See behind you, can you see the table, your family members are sitting there and eating the same thing that you are eating. All the families enjoyed this amazing surprise. All of them were now eating together. This was the best Surprise Meeting they ever had and it all happened due to "Mr. M.K" Mr. M.K was one of the Society members who was given the task of this special meeting today.

Dr. Bishop was waiting for me on my first day of work, tapping his foot impatiently on the waxed linoleum. I was thirty minutes early. “Dr. Stiles,” Dr. Bishop intoned, his deep, gravelly voice pleasantly rumbling over my name, “please make sure you arrive at the testing booth promptly.” An intern standing a respectful distance away shot me a commiserating look and pressed a cup of espresso into my hand before quickly retreating, presumably to grab coffee for other employees. “Absolutely, sir,” I replied, taking a sip of my espresso in lieu of voicing any of the sarcastic comments that would instantly get me fired. I stopped next to the intimidating man, ignoring his militaristic posture and the displeased glint in his coal-dark eyes. In that moment, while he loomed over me even though he clearly had other things he could be doing, Dr. Bishop struck me as the unhappiest man on Earth. I almost pitied him, but thankfully the moment of sentimentality passed. “Before you head to the testing booth, I wanted to discuss some regulations with you.” Without waiting for my input, Dr. Bishop began walking toward my new office. I hastened my pace to keep up with his long, purposeful strides. “You will not disclose personal information or anyone else’s name to the participant. Both of you are to remain completely anonymous to the other. Your job is to ask questions and, once enough trust has been built, have a conversation.” “So you’re telling me I’m actually here to make friends,” I joked, elbowing Dr. Bishop in the side. His expression soured further. His harsh look melted into a sigh. “More or less, I suppose. Do your best to build a rapport with this person, and we will continue this discussion another time if you have any questions. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some other business to take care of.” Dr. Bishop whipped around and began walking away, his lab coat billowing behind him like a cape. There was something in the broad line of his shoulders, tight with tension and stress, that made me feel a bit sympathetic. I didn’t really know a lot about what was going on, but Dr. Bishop was apparently under a lot of pressure from some government-types. Better him than me, at any rate. My testing booth was at the end of the hallway, shoved haphazardly into what was almost certainly once a broom closet. The name plaque on the door--*Dr*. Henry Stiles-- made me feel a bit proud of myself; I quickly took a picture with my phone and sent it to my mom. I opened the door, which stuck and creaked against the doorframe, taking in my new “office.” The back wall had been gutted recently, replaced with a one-way mirror I couldn’t see through and a fresh coat of *almost*\-beige paint chipping around the edges. A desk rested in the center of the room, scratched up from years of use, along with an office chair that likely predated my birth. There was a thick sheath of papers stacked on the desk, sitting ominously next to a microphone. I sat down in the office chair and cringed as the metal legs shrieked under my unimpressive weight. I might have been handed fancy coffee, but it looked like my office wasn’t going to be quite as high-tech. I scanned the papers absently, waiting for my cue to begin. A soft whirring in the corner drew my attention to a single innocuous security camera, watching me dispassionately. The camera made me a little nervous, but I supposed I was being surveilled for any protocol infractions. Someone knocked on my door with more force than necessary. I sighed and read the first question with little interest, “Where are you from?” “You are new.” The voice had clearly been run through a modulator, almost past the point of coherence. I couldn’t tell if the voice belonged to a man or a woman, but there was something sweet in the tone that reminded me of Mom’s voice. I shook my head to clear my thoughts. “Yes, I am, but please answer the question. Where are you from?” “I don’t feel like talking,” they replied. I rapped my fingers on the desk thoughtfully. “Okay, that’s fine. Why don’t I talk for a little bit? I’m from Kansas, which is the kind of place I don’t think people are meant to live long-term. You shouldn’t go your whole life without seeing the ocean or a mountain or something other than wheat fields.” “I like the ocean,” the voice offered after a pause. Ah, progress. “Yeah? Me too. I used to go on beach trips as a kid. We used to look for dolphins while we made sand castles.” The stranger hummed, creating a sound so staticky and unpleasant that it made me cringe. I took the half-response as a sign to continue. “My senior year of high school, we went swimming with manatees off the coast of Florida. They’re pretty cool.” Another knock on my door interrupted me before I could continue. I ignored the sound for a moment, instead leaning closer to the microphone. “Sorry for the interruption.” “That’s okay,” the participant said, their voice calmer than before. Dr. Bishop slammed the door open, crossing the small room in a few long strides and grabbing my arm with an uncomfortably tight grip, almost like he was prepared to carry me out. “What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice low enough for the microphone to miss. I had to keep myself from laughing at the sudden realization that Dr. Bishop had a very, very faint Texan accent hidden in his deep voice. “Is something wrong, Dr. Bishop?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level. I wasn’t really sure what I’d already done, but it must have been serious. “Don’t mention my name, idiot!” Dr. Bishop hissed, pulling me out of my broom closet office and shutting the door with a forceful shove. The wood creaked against the too-small door frame, protesting the tight fit. Dr. Bishop cleared his throat awkwardly and straightened his tie. “This test is supposed to be, ah, anonymous. Our volunteer can’t know my name.” “Right. I’m sorry, sir,” I said slowly, recalling what he’d said earlier. Still, I didn’t really understand why the anonymity policy was so strict. I could see people casually trying to watch us from their own offices, looking far more interested in our discussion than in their work. I couldn’t blame them. “Dr. Stiles, I know you’re intelligent. You know we didn’t have you write up your will because this job is safe,” Dr. Bishop said, his voice almost a whisper. He looked me in the eye, and there was something so wild and desperate in his gaze that I couldn’t do anything other than stare at him. A month after earning my degree, Dr. Bishop himself had approached me and offered me the job. He’d known one of my professors, and apparently I’d made a good enough impression to land myself a recommendation. At the time, my student debt had been the only thing on my mind, and when I saw how much the job paid, I accepted without hesitation. From what I’d seen, the job itself was almost insultingly simple, but I couldn’t exactly turn down the money. Still, the too-easy, well-paying job didn’t quite sit right with my sensibilities. Something about it was too close to a free lunch. I didn’t understand what kind of danger I was in, and somehow I knew Dr. Bishop wouldn’t tell me even if I asked him. Instead of addressing the problem, I just laughed shakily, “That’s why you’re paying me the big bucks, sir.” “You aren’t sticking to the script, Dr. Stiles.” I shrugged. “The script wasn’t really working. They seemed a lot calmer when I just had a casual conversation for a bit instead of jumping directly into an interrogation.” “Do what you think is best,” Dr. Bishop said simply. He walked away, his lab coat swishing behind him. I made brief eye contact with a woman at the copier. She looked away quickly, her expression oddly sad and shuttered. I swallowed, trying to ignore the pervasive discomfort filling the hallway. My phone dinged in my back pocket. “I’m so proud of you, honey!” my mom’s reply text read. I slipped my phone away without answering. I struggled to force my office door open and sat down in my ancient office chair, trying to ignore the uneasy sense that something was very, very wrong with the person on the other side of the mirror. “Sorry about that!” The stranger was silent, but I could hear them breathing close to the microphone. Maybe it was just the modulator, but something in the noise was so inhuman that the hairs stood up on my arms. I took a deep breath, calming myself down. Hysteria solved nothing. My voice showing none of my fear, I asked them, “What do you want to talk about?” They never answered me, and I couldn’t help feeling frustrated as I sat there in silence, waiting for something to happen. I ran into a familiar intern on my way to lunch. “Oh, hey!” I called, quickly hurrying over to him. He looked up at my approach, his posture wary. “I wanted to thank you for the coffee. It hasn’t been too long since I was an intern myself, honestly, so I can always go get my own.” The intern’s expression relaxed into something far more open and friendly. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I know you’ve got a pretty important job, plus it’s got to be stressful working with Dr. Bishop.” He held out his hand, and I shook it somewhat awkwardly. “I’m William, William Davis. Call me Will.” “Henry Stiles,” I replied. “Want to get lunch together?” Will beamed, and it made me feel fluttery and nervous for some reason. “Yeah, sure! Normally I just eat something out of the vending machines, but there’s a cheap pizza place down the street that’s pretty good.” Will struck me as the kind of person who lived off peanut butter and orange juice and considered it healthy living. The pizza place in question was just one of those cheap buffet types, but Will looked so excited that I couldn’t find it in my heart to complain. We sat down across from each other in a set of red, beat-up booths, the space so tight that my knees bumped the underside of the table. My shoes, business-casual and purchased just for my new job, stuck to the floor. “What’s it like?” Will asked as soon as we settled, his voice hushed and fervent. “What’s what like?” I asked, taking the time to shower my greasy pizza in fake parmesan. Will leaned over the table, lowering his voice even further. “You know, working with *the subject.*” “I didn’t realize it was such a big deal,” I admitted. Why had they given the job to me, someone with so little experience, if it was so important? Will nodded and spoke around a mouthful of cheese, “No, it’s a huge deal. Kind of a shame, though, since the people who work with your participant never really stick around long. There was a really nice lady named Faith who worked here before you. I never really figured out what happened to her, but she used to bake stuff for everyone in the office.” “I’m not sure I can carry the mantle of baking for the whole office,” I joked, even though my thoughts were humming along as fast as they could. Why would anyone leave, with the amount I was being paid? Danger, but from what? “Will,” I said, and something in my voice must have seemed serious, because he immediately straightened in his seat. “What’s going on with this place?” Will cringed. “Dude, I’ve got no clue. I’ve been working there for about four months, and it’s creepy as hell, if I’m being honest. The work experience is good, but I’m thinking about quitting anyway. Faith, um, she was really nice, but right before she left, I just--” Will stuttered. He swallowed and collected himself. “She started getting really spacey and weird. She talked about work a lot more than usual, and I remember she started getting here before anyone else and wouldn’t leave until everyone was gone.” “Maybe something was going on at home,” I suggested, even though the words rang false to my own ears. “Maybe,” Will conceded, resting his chin on his fist and looking down at the table. “But I don’t really think that’s everything. Dr. Bishop kind of creeps me out, too, but in a different way. He’s really intense, but he wasn’t always that way, apparently. He’s always in charge of scouting new people to interview your participant, so I guess maybe he’s tired of having to hire new help so often. Still, it’s kind of weird that no one can figure out why he hires the people he does,” Will said, almost talking to himself. I sat back and let him, more enlightened than I’d been since I was hired. “Every person is completely different. Faith didn’t have a doctorate like you, and she’d never had a job like that before. Her previous job had been as a piano teacher.” “What?” I cut in. “Really?” Will nodded, tracing his initials in the condensation gathering on his drink. “Maybe it’s stupid, but I think he hires friendly people.” “You flatterer,” I deadpanned, unsure if he was kidding or not. Will snorted back a laugh. “No joke. Every person he’s hired for the job has apparently been really nice. Or good at getting people to open up, if nothing else. You’re kind of awkward in a non-judgemental way. It makes you easy to talk to.” “I wish my participant thought that way. I feel like I’m talking to a brick wall,” I muttered. I glanced at my watch and realized that my lunch break was almost over. “Hey,” Will said quietly. “Look, I know this might come out a little weird, but I’m going to say it anyway.” He swallowed and looked up at me, a crease forming in his brow. “Get out of here if things start getting...scary. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know that something is.” “You too, Will,” I replied. The conversation felt too heavy for a pizza parlor, and I shook myself mentally to clear my head. “We should have lunch again soon, and not just so I can hear office gossip.” “I think I’d like that. See you around, Henry,” Will said, giving me a bright smile like he had earlier. Despite our heavy conversation, the look on his face brightened my mood enough to shove $10 into the tip jar at the front counter. I walked back to my office, already resigned to sit in silence in front of my participant. They didn’t answer me that day or the next, but when I sat down in my office chair a week later, I heard that familiar voice in a tone so quiet I could barely catch the words. “I want to talk about my family.” I was so shocked by the sudden capitulation that I didn’t even have time to respond before the topic snowballed, their voice growing louder and more confident. “I have a large family, so large that I have trouble remembering all their names and faces. I feel like the whole world is my family, sometimes, like in some way I’m related to every person. I can’t say who I’m closest to, because when I think back, sometimes I think I was closer to my mother, but then I remember being closer to my father. I think sometimes I misremember things, or maybe my memories can’t carry the weight of so many people.” That was concerning on multiple levels, but I tried to ignore the actual content of the participant’s speech for the time being. “Well, can you remember a specific event that’s a happy memory for you? You don’t have to have a favorite person to appreciate your loved ones. You can love them equally, or you can cherish certain memories with them.” The stranger paused for a beat, mulling over my words. “I remember a family dog, or maybe more than one. I don’t know. I can’t remember. I know I loved that dog, but I can’t remember what we named it, or what happened to it.” “That’s okay, too,” I lied, even though something was wrong in a way I didn’t think I could help. Levelly, I asked them a question Dr. Bishop had been nagging me about for the past week. “Where are you from?” “I’m from many places. I travel lots. You mentioned Kansas; I remember living there once and enjoying the quiet. I remember riding down a country road and seeing cows everywhere.” “Sounds like Kansas to me,” I commented. “Kansas is pretty quiet, but I think that’s what’s nice about it. I liked to sit on my roof and watch the stars at night, when the sky was so clear and crisp it seemed like you could reach out and grab them.” “I remember the stars, too,” the stranger replied, something contemplative and melancholy in the words. “Will you be my friend, Henry Stiles?” The modulator distorted my name into something demonic. “That’s Dr. Stiles to you,” I said, my voice thin and reedy to my own ears. I knew I’d never given the stranger my name, and I knew that no one would have mentioned it, since the anonymity policy was so strict. “Besides, you have me at a disadvantage. I don’t know your name.” “That’s okay! I don’t know my name, either!” the participant chirped, cheerful for perhaps the first time. Their voice didn’t sound right in anything other than a flat, level murmur. I paused. There was something here, balanced on a knifepoint, and some primal instinct told me to choose my words carefully. “What name do you want?” “I want your name, Henry.” The stranger on the other side of the mirror trailed my name with a syllabant hiss. I got the feeling they were very close to the glass. I stared my own reflection in the eye, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Some part of my brain was screaming about my conversation with Will, about how Faith had changed so much in so little time. Without my permission, my mouth formed the words, “Take it.” The stranger laughed and refused to speak for the rest of the day. It gave me a lot of time to think, which was possibly a bad thing. I had so many questions, and the security clearance for none of the answers. Who was I speaking to? More importantly, why? The camera watched me intently, and for the first time I wondered why I was the one who couldn’t see through the one-sided mirror. When I left for work, Dr. Bishop met me at the door. There was something sad and lonely in his face. “Dr. Bishop,” I said, even though I had nothing to really say to the man. He looked up, because of course he did, and I shifted awkwardly for a moment. “Um, sir, have you ever worked with my participant?” Dr. Bishop stuck his hands in his pockets, looking away from my face. “No, I’ve never had the pleasure. I hear it’s an experience, but I’m not allowed. I’m...biased.” I got the feeling he was lying, mostly because he was a bad liar, but I couldn’t bring myself to call him out on it. “Biased?” I asked instead, hoping he’d elaborate, if nothing else. “Have a good evening, Dr. Stiles.” I just nodded, my throat dry. I decided to bring my mom takeout and eat with her. All I could hear in the silence was my name, whispered over and over again in that scrambled voice. I didn’t really want to be alone with my thoughts. I didn’t want to think about my participant any longer. I got lost on the way to my mother’s house, even though I’d been visiting the address for five years. After wandering in the dark, wooded roads for a good hour, I pulled my car over and sat on the hood, eating all the takeout myself and staring at the stars. It felt like home. After I finished eating, I decided to go back to work and wait until the doors unlocked. At least I’d be early, just like Dr. Bishop preferred. I shot my mom a text saying I was working late and apologized for not eating dinner with her. Before she had a chance to respond, I turned my phone off and threw it in the floorboard of my car. I couldn’t think of anyone I possibly needed to talk to, barring my job with my participant. When I walked into work the next morning, I could hear whispering all around me. I hoped it was normal gossip instead of he-just-lost-his-job gossip. Will stopped for a second when he greeted me at the door, my daily espresso clutched in one hand while the other hand worried at the hem of his shirt. “Hey,” he said quietly, his eyes roving my face for some piece of information I didn’t have. “Are you feeling okay?” I smiled, trying to ease his nerves. “I’m just tired, I think. I’ll be okay after I start working.” He handed me my drink, at which point I resisted the urge to gulp the entire thing at once. “You want to meet me for lunch today?” Will asked tentatively. “I think we should--I think we should get out of here, you know?” I winced. “Sorry, but I think I’m going to have to work through lunch today. Some other time, okay?” I didn’t stick around to see the look on his face. I slipped into my office as quietly as I could with my broken door and cleared my throat into the microphone. “Good morning. How are you feeling today?” “Did you know that Dr. Bishop has a daughter that moved far away and forgets to call? He doesn’t blame her, but he misses her a lot, especially since his wife died.” I coughed. “I’m sorry?” “Don’t be sorry. You weren’t there. He’s so scared of me. I miss our chats, but now I’m friends with you,” the stranger purred, their discordant voice slipping over the words. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The stranger continued speaking in an oddly clear tone. “He has nightmares of speaking to me, so he stopped. He says he doesn’t know what will happen, but that’s a lie. He knows very well, and he’s afraid.” “What’s going to happen to Dr. Bishop?” I whispered. “He thinks about me more than his dead wife, now. He’s scared, all the time. Maybe his daughter will visit him. I’m lonely, too, just like Dr. Bishop. Will you visit me, Henry?” I stood up so quickly that I knocked my office chair over. Sweat suddenly drenched my forehead, and my skin felt too tight for my body. “Please visit me. I know you’re curious. You can’t figure out who I am, and it eats at you. You have so many questions about Faith, about Dr. Bishop, about me. Why don’t you visit me, and I can answer every question you’ve ever had?” My head spinning, I picked up the office chair and pitched it through the one-way mirror. It smashed through to the other side, but I didn’t look at it. I just kept my eyes on my feet and tried to focus on my breathing. My skin prickled with anticipation. “How violent,” the stranger said, far closer than before. I looked up. The voice was not modulated, and had never been. They were every person I’d met, a face of every simultaneous thought pulsing and shifting into amorphous figures. Staring hurt, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Their eyes, deeper than the stars I’d felt so at home with, pushed and pulled like a kaleidoscope. When they spoke, I heard my mother on her wedding day, at her father’s funeral, the day she was born. I reached up to my own face, feeling a warm mixture of blood, tears, and spinal fluid. The blood vessels in my eyes and nose had ruptured. I didn’t want to think about where the spinal fluid was coming from. The stranger leaned forward, their countless eyes unblinking. “It’s nice to meet you, Henry Stiles. We remember that we liked our mother best.” The stranger tilted their head, and even though I was right in front of them, I couldn’t tell what their hair looked like. “We remember living in Kansas, looking up at the stars at night. We remember swimming with the manatees in Florida.” The stranger’s face flickered, their lips moving out of sync with their words. “Hello, Henry. My name is Faith, and my family dog was named Daisy. She was a poodle, and I remember teaching her to play dead. I used to work here, but now I get to live with all my friends. Does Dr. Bishop still work here, too? He doesn’t visit anymore.” “Who are you?” I rasped, my voice glued in my throat. My eyes burned, and my head was starting to throb. Even when I tried to look away, their awful face was burned into an afterimage that followed me with its eyes. “I’m you now, Henry,” the stranger replied, their voice serene and calm. It grated against my ears until they pulsed, then numbed. “You are here because you want to be, Henry. I know it’s uncomfortable now, but take our hand.” I remembered when I was nine, sitting next to my mother, eating popcorn. We were watching a marathon on conspiracy theories. I’d always liked Mothman, myself. I hoped my mother wouldn’t miss me too badly when I was gone, and I felt a momentary pang of guilt for accidentally eating her takeout. She’d be okay without me... Right? I pitched forward and let the stranger catch me, and when we righted ourselves, there was a sense of perfect equilibrium we’d never felt before. An alarm blared in the hallway, and the security camera, omniscient as always, followed our every move. We shuffled through the broken glass for the old office chair and sat down, waiting for the next participant to step into our testing booth. We had so many more friends to make before we were finished.

Ralph first laid eyes on the two boys when he was refilling the team’s Gatorade jug. They emerged from the jungle of pines with their chiseled walking sticks and nothing more except the clothes that hung off their bony bodies. Ralph, who was known as Ralphie to every organism in town, didn’t know the boys, which was strange since he had been playing at Morley Riggs Field for seven years. The village of Ocqueoc was small. Everyone knew everyone. Maybe they were greenhorns or had just reemerged to civilization after years of living feral. Hey, Junior, do you know those boys out there? They were now far beyond the yellow pole that marked the foul zone. Junior chomped his Big League Chew and squinted into the treeline. He wiped off the lenses of his thick-black specs for a second look. They don’t go to Ocqueoc. Positive? Certain. Even with that 80-20 vision of yours? Shuttup, Ralphie! A playful push sent Ralphie back into his post at mid-right bench. It was a seat that he knew well and one that he frequently warmed. Even though Ralphie was a decent catcher, the Roosters had #13- JJ Spock. JJ was a star athlete but worked his magic best behind the plate. The opposing teams’ players knew the boy’s name and so did their coaches. They limited lead offs to six feet. If a player dared go beyond that threshold, JJ, called “the Rocket” by his comrades, would sense it. He would throw them out before the runner had even realized the ball had left the pitcher’s glove. The Rocket was something else. Ralphie and the other bench riders theorized their teammate’s talent. Did he have some sort of echolocation? A robotic right arm wrapped in skin? They adored JJ. He hosted the team’s monthly pizza parties and paid each boy’s share at the Mio Lanes Batting Cages. Despite The Rocket’s dominance, he never once showed a shred of an ego. Ralphie threw the ball around with the star catcher during each practice. JJ gave him pointers- teaching Ralphie how to frame and dance his fingers around in coded signs. He improved, exponentially, when JJ was around. But no matter how fast he could flicker his fingers between his quadriceps, Ralphie knew that he could never hold down the field like The Rocket. He watched from the dugout as JJ shot the shrimpy boy at first a death glare. The kid stood his ground- was that a smirk? Big mistake. WOOSH! The baseball flew like a can of nitro. Gus, the first baseman for the Roosters, put a hard tag on the cocky runner. He was out by a long shot. The Rocket removed his catcher helmet and brushed back a near mullet. He flashed the banished opponent a smile that Ralphie knew would have the Colgate salesmen rushing to Oqueqoc with a sponsorship deal. CRACK! A tree branch broke. Ralphie turned away from the field to see where the noise had come from. He peered past the parents who were glue-eyed to the game and into the Pepper Woods. There they were again. Those kids. They were holding mulberries. That made the benchwarmer’s tummy rumble. The boys should have gotten popcorn from the concession stand- it was only a dollar on Fridays. Ralphie bet it was better than whatever woody-mumbo-jumbo they were noshing on anyway. Even the Rocket’s ESPN-worthy performance behind the plate could not save the Ocqueoc Roosters. The other team had a few infielders that Ralphie swore had some sort of telekinesis or something. It didn’t help that the ump was just a 16-year-old chump from the local high school, either. They funneled out of the dugout and into the line of mandatory post-game high fives that always included a few “see you next game” threats sprinkled in. The Roosters organized themselves in a pouty pow-wow just past shortstop region, prepared to get chewed. By the time Coach Maz started to run through his list of critiques, Ralphie didn’t bother to listen. He got to 112 daffodils before they were released off the patchy grass of left field. Coach did make one thing clear: No win. No postgame celebration. That was fine. He didn’t feel like biking to the Dairy Queen anyway. Back home was far enough after an exhausting day at mid-right bench. The other boys peeled off in their ice box cars and mom vans, but Ralphie stayed and blasted that week’s playlist from his Walkman, enjoying a Dilly Bar in peace. Ralphie felt enrobed in the sea of life, savoring the light, crunchy layer of chocolate laced with creamy vanilla. In fact, he was so euphoric that he lost track of time itself. And soon, thanks to the incoming of daylight savings, it began to get dark. He finished the Dilly’s final piece of chocolate coating and licked the wooden popsicle stick for any stray atoms of ice cream. Ralphie left his roost from the see-saw, leaving the lever to justify itself back to equilibrium, and trudged through the grits of asphalt to his green Huffy. Ralphie could have unlocked that thing with his hands zip-tied behind his back. But, before he could pop off the cord, it was those boys again. They were feet away, staring at him as if he was the person who was peculiar. Ralphie felt like he was at a zoo but remained unsure if he was the one looking in or out. The tall boy had something; it didn’t look like a stick. Hey, I see y’all! As the boys emerged from the cloak of evergreen, Ralphie saw what they were carrying. The moonlight reflected off of it, a silver sheen in a canvas of beryl, maroon, and beige. His bat. There was no way he was going to let them get away with that. It was a Wrigleyville Slugger, mint condition- the premium model. It took two years of his caddie paychecks to buy that thing. Even JJ’s parents, who had enough dough to open their own pizza factory, refused to indulge in such a luxury. And here they were, the forest freaks, clutching it as if they had just been gifted it from Ty Cobb himself. The small one spoke- in English, not woodland jargon. We have an offer. This made Ralphie scratch his helmet. He was pretty sure the next episode of Antiques Roadshow was scheduled to take place somewhere other than a spit-in-the-sand town in Michigan’s thumb. He was also pretty sure that his 5’7’’ self could easily pound the two string beans- who were probably still shorter than him when combined. But they had a reinforced metal bat, and he had a freshly-licked wooden popsicle stick. So, Ralphie decided to play it safe. For the bat? Go ahead, I worked two summers to pay for that thing. The tall boy swirled the bat in his hands, fixated on the metal club. Finally, the small one reached into the pocket of his corduroys and removed a small vial. He walked closer to Ralphie and held out his palm. If you want to play, take this. We will return your bat, but only once we know you are worthy. Ralphie really wanted that bat, but he also really wanted to play. In his years of little league, he had only ever used the thing in practice. In fact, the bat was still mint condition because it had touched nothing but air. He knew that his mother would go nuts if she learned of this trade. But what was the use anymore? If this potion was the only cure, so be it. He snatched the vial from the small one’s dusty hand. You can keep that bat. But this stuff better work. The forest kids could have it. For now. A small smile appeared on each of the boys’ lips before they flitted back into the woods, dodging gangly branches and rocky outcroppings in the moonlight. Ralphie biked home fast, at an RPM that could identify his legs as eggbeaters. He barreled through dinner and skipped the apple cobbler his mother had spent all day preparing. A spray of water with a swath of suds qualified as that day’s shower. Ralphie could barely contain his excitement, as he unwrapped the potion from his makeshift cushion of Tacky Towels. The vial was small and blue- a glass blown tear drop. It smelled like frankincense and had a tinge of citrus, almost identical to the air freshener Ralphie’s mother kept tucked underneath the toilet bowl. He took a deep breath. 3. 2. 1. Down the hatch it went. The taste was sweet, not like syrup, but like the boysenberry pie Ralphie’s grandmother baked every time they came for a visit. He could feel the potion slip down his esophagus and bathe in his bloodstream. It was more enjoyable than the chicken paprikash that Ralphie’s sister and blood-related personal chef, Juliet, had stewed for that evening’s supper. Ralphie slipped under the covers and enjoyed his longest sleep of the year, which was rudely interrupted by his involuntary commitment known as school. Classes were a blur. Junior told him a very long story that he nodded and wow’d and uh-huh’d to. Choir was another opportunity to practice his lip-sync skills. Lunch was chicken nuggets with tangy red sauce and mushy Gala apples. Then, gym class came. Ralphie assumed his position on the bench and waited as the innings ticked by. Finally, he took a stand against the kickball pitcher and did something that remains in the Ocqueoc Elementary history books to this day. Ralphie sent that thing flying. The rubber ball whizzed across the sky and into the cow pasture that outlined the end of the outfield and continued into the maize-hued horizon. He could have run a victory lap if he wanted, walked it even. Ms. Brown’s science lesson served as background noise to the schoolchildren’s resulting chatter. A chemical chain reaction was interesting, but that kid Ralphie’s kick during P.E.? Legendary. At the conclusion of classes, Ralphie, who had felt like a jumping jellybean for the whole school day, was first to run out the door. His arm begged for a baseball. He biked to the field and practiced throws against the concession stand’s asphalt roofing. Hours felt like minutes. Soon, the sun melted into the horizon and Coach Maz lit the floodlights. Game time. It was a perfect warmup, Ralphie felt. The cool, spring air was making its return and the leaves shook with quivers and crinkles at each stray wind gust. He threw ball after ball into Junior’s mitt. On the neighboring field, where the reserves conditioned their elbow grease, he was unbreakable. Grade A platinum steel behind the plate. And, in what seemed like a day, Ralphie was sure that he had shattered the glass ceiling where JJ had been hanging out. He had soared past it and beyond. Today was his day and Junior, wide-eyed and breathless, agreed. Ralphie dusted off his helmet, strapped on a chest protector, and marched towards the man with the power. Coach, can I get a few minutes in today? Coach Maz spit out a hunk of tobacco. He didn’t bother to look at Ralphie- his eyes were drawn to The Rocket, who was practicing his throwdowns. Finally, the old man’s eyes removed themselves from the gaps in the chain linked fence and looked down on the Roosters’ secondary relief catcher. Ralph, come over here. I want you to look at this kid. Do you see that cannon? That pinpoint accuracy? Raphie looked. He had been looking for the past seven years. Coach, I know it’s an important game, but I want to show you all the work I have put in. Can I just show you? His coach removed his cap, which was emblazoned with an emerald cockerel. He scratched the few hairs that remained on his silvery scalp and appeared to ponder the benchman’s request. It was at this time that the Wavertown Weasels began to warm up their starting pitcher. The boy, who had a mop of brown curls, was JJ in inverse. His catcher took ample pause to recover from his teammate’s stinging fastballs. He appeared to be wearing two layers of padding, fearful of #45’s sniper-esque accuracy and barreling speed. A confident Coach Maz dissolved into a weary, dreary hunch. Ralphie already knew what the old man was going to tell him. Ralph, I hate to say this, but today is not the day. The Weasels have Buzzelli, and you know we have to win this game to make playoffs. Ralphie, that kid... Coach Maz pointed his index finger at The Rocket, who was on the last round of his third base throwdown drills, for extra emphasis. We need him. But coach - Ralphie. Sit down. The coach redirected his eyes to the field and spit the remainder of his tobacco juice into an empty glass bottle of Cheerwine. Ralphie threw his glove into a hanger cubby and took a seat next to Junior. His friend continued to suck the seasoning from a handful of dill sunflower seeds. The other reserves were engaged in a heated UNO match. Ralph would have joined them if he hadn’t scanned the timberline first. A metallic gleam near the furthest oak caught his eye. It was the boys. They were wandering away from the park, towards the Bumblebrook Marsh. The tall one got in stance and gave his best swing at a lonesome crabapple. Ralphie watched the firm fruit explode into a miniscule fulmination of skin, pulp, and seeds. They disappeared into the Pepper Woods, probably off to one of their berry-picking, stick-sharpening escapades. Ralphie thought about chasing them. Getting that Louisville Slugger he had worked months just to feel. But, only for a second. He opened a new pack of Big League Chew and shoved a handful of the purple strips into his trap. After all, it was a windy spring evening and mid-right bench would be absolutely freezing without a player like him. The bench boy thought it would end there, but before he could witness The Rocket’s next clutch play, his fingertips nudged something on the underside of the bench. Paper. And it hadn’t been there the night before.

To enter heaven, I need to face what I did 55 years back. She asked where I wanted to meet, and I let her pick out of guilt. Elenor chose our old apartment, and we both laugh when we look at the red walls and the wooden base boards. I finally decide to look at her, and I do. She looks exactly like I saw her when I was twenty five, the extra 7 years of age completely useless in stopping her from looking no older than twenty three. Her hair is in a bun with two sets of curls blocking her ears from view. The only thing that unsettles me about her is the gash in her neck, the slim hole just as visible as the day I lost my purpose. A drop of blood runs from the gash, and as she tilts her head, I jump from surprise at how the blood does moves with her, rooted in the exact same spot. She laughs. “Don’t worry” she says with a smile, “it’s just a tattoo. Everyone has one”. I look down through my shirt to see a broken heart in the middle of my chest. We both smile. “Well I’ll be damned”. We lock eyes and our smiles begin to fade as we know we need to get to the point. I try to figure out how to say it, but she reads my mind like she did 55 years back. “It’s okay. Your heart always worked slower than your brain” she taps my forehead with her friendly smile returning. “It didn’t matter...” I begin to break down into a sob and Elenor reaches across the table and hugs me, my mind immediately easing. She taps her tattoo. “How much worse would it have been if you didn’t give me this?”. I think about those kids in the warehouse and the gun pointed to their heads, the man’s malicious grin just barley barring his teeth at me under his thick beard. We lock eyes again, and I see the sad understanding in her eyes just before she breaks her gaze to look out the window at the Honolulu beaches. “You didn’t know.” She says. “There’s no way you could’ve.” I knew she didn’t hate me, but I didn’t know if she forgave me. There’s no reason she should’ve. So why would she? Yet here we are, in the same apartment as the night I cleaned of the kitchen knife, sitting at The same IKEA table she reluctantly agreed to. “Hey” I look up at Elenor as a mischievous grin appears along her face, and I understand where she stands. She knows I understand and grins wider. She loses her grin fast as she begins to understand. “What does it matter what lingers down there?” She says pointing to my chest. “I forgive you! You don’t need to dwell!” “I do.” I respond. “I took away your chances at raising children. I took away your chance of seeing the world. I took you away from your family. If that isn’t a reason to dwell, I don’t know what is!” “You clearly don’t!” She grabs my hands. “We can still have all that! Please, for the love of god, stay here!” I shake my head. “I’m sorry” I feel her soft touch turn into a fluffy sadness, one that I can’t hold onto as the world slips from under me and I fall. As I fall my young hands take back their wrinkles and coarseness. I close my eyes and wait to be greater with flame, but my fall is interrupted with a firm softness, like a storm cloud forgot its cruel visage and caught be on a bed of hail. And as it remembers the visage, I feel it’s lightning go into my chest. I open my eyes to find the storm cloud in a young woman’s hands, her hospital uniform matching the dull atmosphere. She couldn’t have been older than twenty two. “Oh thank god!” She sighs. “I thought you were a goner!” She stumbles out of the room, her brown curls bobbing up and down as she leaves. I look out the window at a cloud weeping, and the weeping causes rain to fall over the hospital. And I begin to weep, the first tear running down the valley of my wrinkled face, and I realizing that night 55 years ago was the first dance with the devil.

Ben Johnson had recently graduated from college and worked as an intern at Bloom Trust, a financial services firm. He was in charge of the coffee runs, the copying, and the crucial launch order. He was late for his first day, and all of the good spots had been claimed by other interns. The lone remaining office was a filthy closet containing an old computer from 2008. However, when he arrived at his desk, there was only a single sheet of paper with one sentence: "Please begin the launch." Ben looked around for someone to advise him what to do, but everyone was too busy to bother. He didn't want to appear dumb, so he started it himself. When he turned on his computer, he noticed a file called the launch, and Ben shrugged and began the program. Ben's computer began to perform erratically as soon as he double-clicked the file, cycling through various files, strange numbers, and images. A massive, black screen appeared before him, displaying the message "INITIATING LAUNCH sequence." Ben's heart raced as he realized that whatever this file was, he should not have clicked on it. When he tried to close the file, he found that his computer had locked him out. He could only stand there helpless as the countdown proceeded. Ben had an idea with 10 seconds remaining. If he could simply unplug his computer from the wall, he might be able to stop the countdown to whatever was about to occur. Ben attempted to unplug the computer, but it began to beep, causing him to pause. The screen sprung to life, revealing an image of a smiling skull. "Hello, Ben!" exclaimed the skull cheerfully. "I'm your new computer's operating system! I'm here to assist you with all of your computing needs!" The skull continued to speak. "Don't worry, Ben," it reassured him. "I won't replace your old operating system; rather, I'll work with her to ensure your computer runs smoothly." Ben was browsing his new operating system when he spotted something odd. It featured a slew of weird suggestions for him, such as "bring an umbrella tomorrow, it's going to rain," and "tell Shelly you like her new haircut." But it also featured some unusual ones, such as "become a work genius" and "earn millions." Ben initially thought the OS was weird, but he saw that the ideas were genuinely helpful. His company was performing better than ever, he'd been making profitable stock market predictions, and his coworkers were suddenly taking notice of him. He was the office's golden boy, all due to an old computer that no one else wanted. After months of unparalleled achievement and attention to his coworkers' needs, his boss called him into her office. She informed Ben that she had seen his work and was impressed by what she saw. Ben was overjoyed when his boss informed him that he had been promoted to vice president of financial services. He was only twenty-three, but how could he say no to a six-figure salary and a corner office? His dreams were being fulfilled. As he packed his belongings to relocate to his new corner office, he realized he wouldn't be able to get anywhere without the assistance of the outdated computer he had been given. Ben stayed late at work that night, waiting until everyone had left before sneaking into his old office and unplugging the old computer. He moved it to a basement storage closet and plugged it in, ensuring no one saw him. He figured it would be there for him whenever he needed it. At first, the computer's suggestions were personal but helpful and benign. The computer would offer helpful suggestions like "You should delete your ex-girlfriend's number from your phone" or "It might be time to change your password." But then it made darker recommendations, such as "Why don't you choke her the next time you see her?" or "Perhaps it would be fun to stab him in the stomach." Ben was becoming concerned. He wasn't sure if the computer had been hacked or if it was simply becoming too clever for its own good. In any case, he was no longer at ease with the computer, and he made the decision to erase its memory and start over. Ben was a skeptic who refused to believe in anything he couldn't see or touch, including the supernatural. So when his computer started suggesting that he hurt others, Ben dismissed it as foolishness. But then Ben's computer suggested he hurt his boss, and he began to wonder if the computer on which he had come to rely was evil. He considered unplugging the computer but remembered how successful he'd been due to its advice. Maybe there was a reason for the computer's suggestions after all? Ben decided to give it another shot and see where it led him. Ben began a covert investigation of his boss based on the advice of his computer. He eventually found out that his boss attempted to frame him for massive fraud. According to the computer, she was a threat to him, and she needed to be confronted. Ben had been feeling unsettled all day. So, when everyone else had left for the day, Ben decided it was time to confront her about it. Things didn't take long to get heated. They began arguing, and before long, they were shouting at each other. Ben grew so upset that he snatched a paperweight from her desk and smacked her in the head with it, instantly killing her. Realization began to dawn on him as he stood over her body. He'd just killed his boss, and there was no way he could cover it up. Ben walked down to the storage area, anxious. He'd never killed someone before. When he reached the storage room, the computer greeted him and instructed him on how to cover up the murder. Ben followed them step by step, and by 6 a.m., the task was completed, just as the morning crew arrived for the day's work. He exhaled a sigh of relief and returned home, knowing he had just committed the perfect crime. Ben's trust in the operating system became stronger after that; they had killed together and had reached the point of no return. Ben continued to follow the suggestions of the operating system. The next time the computer urged Ben to commit murder, he didn't hesitate; he knew what he had to do. And thus, it went on for years until Ben and the operating system were promoted to President of the Bank. A promotion obtained via hard work and, of course, the murder of anyone who stood in their way.

Fri 10 Jan, 13:06 Hi Gorgeous. Looking forward to seeing you tonight. J xxx Who is this? Stop messing around! No, seriously. Your number’s just coming up as Unknown. Fran? Kate. And you are? OMG - I’m so sorry. I must have mistyped my girlfriend’s number. You mean she’s not saved in your contacts? I’ve got her number saved on my phone, but I left it at home so I borrowed someone else’s to text her. I thought I remembered the number, but obviously I was wrong. So you’re texting from someone else’s phone now? Well, yeah, otherwise I wouldn’t be texting you instead of Fran. I can’t argue with that logic. Well, fascinating though this conversation has been, I do have other stuff to do apart from chatting to unknown people who’ve messaged me by mistake. Ouch! Take care, J - hopefully I won’t hear from you again. It’s Jon, btw. Bye Jon. Bye Kate * Sat 25 Jan, 08:17 Hi Kate. Who is this? It’s me, Jon. The guy who messaged you by mistake two weeks ago. Didn’t you save my number? Why would I save the number of someone I don’t know? ... Anyway, how did you manage to text me if the last time was on a friend’s phone? Did you dial every possible combination of your girlfriend’s number with one wrong digit? I got lucky after the first 87 minutes, so it wasn’t too bad... What? Got you! You didn’t really think I tried that hard to find your number, did you? I’ve known guys to take longer trying to find my clitoris! Too much information! And with less success. La la. Fingers in ears. I can’t hear you. Seriously, what do you want this time? I just thought I’d say hi. Hi. Okay. Chat to you another time then. Hang on! You mean that’s it? You go to all the effort of tracking me down just to say one word? I think you’ll find this conversation is a lot longer than one word, Kate. And I think you’ll find that ‘conversation’ is a very loose term if you’re using it to describe pestering a woman you’ve never even met. Pestering? Pestering. What do you mean, pestering? You know - stalking. Doesn’t that involve actually following someone and then watching them undress through binoculars? OK - you’re getting creepy now. I promise you I’m not watching you through binoculars at the moment. Do you even have any binoculars? Well, no, but I could buy some. That’s not making me feel any better, Jon. Wait - I was going to say, I could buy some but promise not to use them to spy on you. Is that better? I really hope this isn’t a pickup line. ... OMG! It IS a pickup line! What does Fran think about you flirting with other women when she’s not around? We’re not together anymore. I’m not surprised - I wouldn’t put up with a boyfriend who texted random women and made jokes about watching them through binoculars. ... Wait - you’re serious? I’m so sorry - I thought you were joking again. That day I messaged you by mistake, I caught her cheating on me with my best friend. That must have been hard for you. She said she’d already cancelled our date - only I didn’t know because I didn’t have my phone. ... Anyway, I would have got in touch with you before now, but I didn’t have your number Excuse me? WHY would you have got in touch? I don’t know you. No, but you seemed like a good listener. Most girls would have just ignored a text from a wrong number. So you’re basically using me as a free therapist? I never know whether you’re joking or being serious. I guess I just have a sarcastic nature. Everyone needs a hobby. Well, I’m sorry your girlfriend dumped you. Had you been together long? About three weeks. What? I was feeling sorry for you because I thought you’d been together for years ... Of course, I might not have ever had a girlfriend. ... Maybe I just typed in a random number and tried to get a girl to feel sorry for me. You’re back to stalker territory again. Fran really does exist - I just don’t exist for her anymore. That’s deep. Philosophy 101. You studied philosophy? No, I’m just good at making stuff up. This is getting weird again. Time’s getting on and I have mouths to feed ... You have kids? Cats. What are their names? Avelynne Kitten and Charlie Kitten. Dare I ask if they’re actually kittens? Not anymore. But they were when I got them, so the names sort of stuck. You’re as weird as I am ... Says the guy who threatened to buy binoculars so he could NOT stalk me. I was hoping you’d find that a romantic gesture. Much as I love all this high-quality flirting, I really do have to go. Bye Kate. Bye Jon. * Tue 4 th Feb, 21:17 Hello Stranger. Jon? How did you know? You’re the only Unknown Caller who texts me. Besides, after last time, I saved your number. I saved yours too. So that’s saved you 87 minutes this time. You remembered! No, I just re-read your text messages. That seems a bit keen. Are you sure you’re not interested in meeting up some time? You should never EVER meet up with someone you only know from a text message. So that scuppers my chances of finding anyone on a dating app then. You’ve been looking? Why not? Are you jealous? Why would I be jealous? I think it’s healthy if we both agree to see other people. We’ve never actually seen each other. True. It’s the sense of mystery that makes it so exciting though. I KNEW you were interested! Not interested in that way - more like intrigued. What’s the difference? Interested suggests wanting to form a relationship; intrigued suggests wanting to find out more about the person. Are you an English teacher by any chance? I only asked because of the semi-colon. I don’t know anyone else who knows how to use one. Flattery will get you a long way, Jon ... Thank goodness for that - I was getting tired of using the binoculars! You still need to work on your pickup lines. If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me? I don’t think you wrote that one. It was worth a try. I don’t want to be rude, but I need to go to bed. Now who’s using saucy pickup lines? On my own. I have to get up early for work. Goodnight, then Goodnight, Jon. * Thur 6 th Feb, 19:23 Hi Kate. Is this better? Is what better? Texting you at this time. You don’t give up, do you? Did you get to work on time yesterday? ... You said you had to get up early for work. That might have been a lie. ? I don’t have a job at the moment. I don’t have cats either. I know. And I’m not as young as you probably think I am. I know that too. How do you know? Have you been using binoculars all along? I’m going to send you a photo. A photo of you? Open it and see. It’s a wedding photo. Are you married? Yes. So why have you been texting me? It’s a photo of us. I think I’d remember it if it was! Besides, I’m not married. Look in the drawer beside your bed. It’s a wedding ring. Your wedding ring. The photo is you and me getting married, thirty-eight years ago. How come I don’t remember any of this? You were in an accident. You lost the part of your memory that’s to do with us and our children. We have children? Avalynne and Charlie. They’re both in their thirties. Avalynne has three children and Charlie has two. We’ve got grandkids? Yep. So all this time you’ve been texting me, I wasn’t a wrong number after all? No. Are you sure this isn’t a rather elaborate hoax? I’m telling you the truth now, Kate. You have to trust me. I’ll try. In just a few minutes, I’ll be walking into your hospital room. And Kate ... What? I promise not to bring my binoculars.

“Sorry, tell me again what happens when you turn off the lights?” A rattling breath preceded the answer. “Cold... I can’t breathe... The weight on my chest suffocates me... I can feel... the walls of my skull crushing my brain... No sleep.” An older woman in glasses scribbled a note on her pad, saying in a soft voice, “I see... And this voice you talk about-” “The voice of the night,” he interjected in a hoarse tone, feeling his heartbeat quicken. “Does he only talk to you when it’s dark?” Her brilliant eyes shone through her glasses. He nodded in a jerking motion. “Yes,” he whispered. “It’s always him.” “Jamie, have you been keeping that journal we talked about last week?” she asked, still scribbling. Another jerk of a nod. “It’s... in my coat pocket.” “Do you mind if I read it?” Jamie shook his head. “No... Of course not.” His eyes became fixed on a shady area in the corner of the room, and though a blanket of clouds shielded the sun from dancing that day, he thought he saw something move within the darkness. He jolted himself to an upright position, about to cry out when Dr. Abraham cleared her throat. “This is... very interesting, Jamie...” She ran her finger down the small page and paused, asking, “Can I read this part out loud to you?” He tried to shift his gaze to her, but he couldn’t stop looking at the corner. “Go ahead,” he muttered, his sandpaper voice grating on his own ears. “This is from last Wednesday,” she began, “‘He speaks to me in shrouded whispers, he says, “I am the voice you hear on the night whispering your worst fears into the depths of your heart. The sound of your teeth chattering as the cold wind bites you and forces your soul to shiver is a premonition of my arrival. When you look into an inky shadow and your mind forms all the fears you hide even from yourself, I am those fears. The flutter in your chest as you hear a rustle in the alley, the half step you walk faster when the streetlights are dim, the reckoning you know you will face in the afterlife... they are me, and I am them. When the twilight drips into the sewers, I will be there to haunt your every move, and when you close your eyes and view the darkness of your subconscious reflected on the backs of your eyelids, I will peel away the curtain and view it with you, for it is me and I will make myself known to you in ways you cannot imagine.”’, and then you go on to add, ‘can’t sleep.’... It’s very poetic. ” Jamie’s face was a deathly pale, his gaze stagnant and horrified as sweat began to build on his face. He pointed to the corner and whispered, “He’s there!” “Who? Who is there, Jamie?” Dr. Abraham looked at the corner and frowned. “Do you see something there?” The patient shook his head. “I... I feel something there!” “And what does this thing ‘feel’ like to you?” She pulled out her pad again. “Like... Like him!” he said, frustration creeping into his voice. “Like who , Jamie?” “The voice of the night!” Dr. Abraham penned a few words. “And what does he feel like?” Jamie struggled for words, his hands gripping into the chaise lounge, though there weren’t many places to hold. Finally, he said, “Like... fear... asphyxiation... cold... But so cold that it burns... I... I can hear him now!” “What’s he saying to you, Jamie?” Jamie swallowed, his brown eyes wide and his eyebrows arched into his hairline. He began in a voice not quite his own, “You can’t... escape... You can’t... hide. The nameless things you keep locked away, I will... make them bare. Sleep... sleep and I will find you in your dreams and make them nightmares of shadow.” “Jamie... Jamie ,” said Dr. Abraham, finally getting her patient to turn his head slightly towards her. “I thought you said this voice only comes to you when it’s dark. It’s two in the afternoon.” “It’s dark,” whispered Jamie, tears welling up in his eyes. “I’m... tired... so tired, and the shadow is everything now... it’s dark.” “Can you confront the darkness? Can you close your eyes?” He shook his head hard, his hair swirling around. “He’ll find me.” Dr. Abraham stood up and knelt next to Jamie, quietly saying, “Please try, Jamie. Please. You’re focusing on the darkness, but you need to be able to close your eyes. Try and find that within you. Remember when we talked about your favorite places?” “Yes...” She smiled and said, “You told me your favorite place was Hawaii-” “Waikiki Beach...” “Yes, Jamie. Can you go there right now? In your head, can you find the beach?” “It’s too dark to swim.” “Think of a hot summer day... The sun a blinding beacon in a clear blue sky, the softness of the white sand beneath your feet, and the sweat cooling you down as a salty breeze hits you from the ocean. Lapping waves of clear water against a silky shore... Can you picture that?” “Uh-huh. But the clouds-” “There are no clouds, Jamie,” said Dr. Abraham. “Take yourself there...” “Okay...” “Alright, now... close your eyes.” “What?” Jamie’s voice was sharp. Dr. Abraham pursed her lips and said, “Close your eyes on Waikiki Beach... Just follow my voice. Hear it over the kids laughing as they play, the music coming from up the shore, and the birds... Can you hear all those things, Jamie?” “Yes,” he murmured, finally closing his eyes, though his knuckles were still white as he held onto the couch. “And can you hear my voice over those things?” Jamie nodded. “Yes, doctor, I can hear you.” “Am I the only person whose voice you can hear clearly?” As tightly as Jamie gripped the couch, Dr. Abraham clutched her pen. “No... Someone else...” Jamie’s eyes almost opened, but Dr. Abraham swiftly replied, “Keep your eyes closed and focus on my voice. I’m there with you, Jamie, walking along the beach. The sand’s pretty hot, isn’t it?” “Yes... Can we... walk closer to the water?” “Of course. Let’s go there.” Dr. Abraham paused and then said, “Can you feel the coolness of the water? How about the small waves just coming up to your ankles, testing their strength as they climb your shin with gentle fingers?” “I can feel that... I like it.” “I do too, Jamie. Now, I want you to keep your eyes closed, and just keep walking on the beach and following my voice until I say so, okay?” Dr. Abraham’s heartbeat was rapid as she looked at Jamie’s pale face beginning to relax. “Now, you said there’s another voice. Whose is it?” Jamie frowned. “Deep... It’s... too deep.” “What’s too deep? The voice?” “No... the ocean. The water’s up to my waist... I don’t like it.” Dr. Abraham nodded. “Let’s walk back to the shore a little.” After a brief pause, she said, “There. Can you feel the water on your feet again?” “Yes.” “It’s no higher than my ankles, is it the same for you?” He nodded. “I like it.” The doctor smiled and adjusted her spectacles. “I do too. Why’d you go so deep into the ocean, Jamie?” “That’s where the voice is,” he replied. “It’s in the ocean... way out there.” “And you don’t like the ocean?” “I like the beach.” “Yes, but what about the ocean beyond the beach? Can you look out there for me now?” Jamie’s face tightened as his eyes turned beneath closed eyelids. “I don’t want to.” “Are you scared?” “Uh-huh.” Jamie’s voice gained an octave. The doctor wrote furiously, trying to keep the pen light on the paper to avoid perturbing the scene. “What about the ocean frightens you?” There was a pregnant pause where each person took a few breaths; Jamie’s were rattled and Dr. Abrahams were constricted. At last, he replied, “I... can’t see in the ocean. My feet, my legs... what’s out there.” “So you don’t like that you don’t know what’s in the ocean?” “Yeah... It hurts me.” “That voice you were talking about earlier, how does it sound?” Frowning, Jamie muttered, “Sounds like... me...” “What does that mean?” “I don’t know. I thought it was... you know, but maybe...” “You think the voice out there is you, Jamie?” asked Dr. Abraham. “Why do you think that?” “I... I don’t know. I like this place, but I don’t like the ocean.” “Because the ocean is unknown, but here you know everything?” Jamie took half a breath and said, “Yes...” “Did you feel that wind, Jamie? It came from inland... It’s warm.” The patient smiled. “Yes, I felt it.” “When you picture the ocean, is the sun there?” “No... no sun.” Dr. Abraham ticked off a few things. “What about clouds? Are there clouds?” “I... I don’t think so...” “Why are you so uncertain?” “I... the sky is black. There’s no light to tell me if there’s clouds, I can’t see anything-” Dr. Abraham noticed his knuckles go white and interrupted, “In the ocean it’s dark, but here where you are, Jamie, at the beach, it’s nice and bright. Can’t you feel the sun on your face? I can feel it.” For a horrifying moment, Jamie looked lost in the dark, but he relaxed and said, “I feel the sun here, doctor.” “Jamie, while we’re walking on the beach, can you tell me about your job?” “My job?” “Yes,” said Dr. Abraham, trying to push her heart out of her throat. “You’re a detective, right? I heard you’re pretty good.” “Detective... Yes, I think I am.” “How long have you been doing it?” Jamie frowned. “Six years... Why am I on the beach?” “We’re on vacation, Jamie. You and I. Look over to the left, what do you see?” “The ocean.” “Alright, and what do you see to the right?” “A white hotel.” “We’re staying there,” said Dr. Abraham, trying to refocus the conversation. “Can you tell me why you like being a detective?” “I... I like solving puzzles, and I like when people who have bad things happen to them... get justice.” Jamie’s face, though sweaty and fearful, began to show pride through the sternness of his chin and the furrowing of his brow. “I think the tide’s coming in, Jamie, can you feel it?” “Yes... the water’s up to my ankles now.” “Please, tell me about the first case you solved.” Jamie paused to ponder, and then said, “It was a burglary with vandalism... Over at the Conways’ place, d’you know them?” “I think I do. Continue.” “We found some prints. Turns out it was a maid they’d fired the year before who wasn’t happy with her severance pay.” Jamie smiled. “Pretty cut and dry.” “I bet you had a lot of cases like that.” “Oh yeah. It’s not exactly NYPD stuff.” “What does that mean?” Jamie chuckled and said, “Well, those guys have to deal with serial killers, mass shootings, gang violence... that kind of stuff. We mostly have small time break-ins and some car crashes, y’know?” “Hey Jamie, can you see those kids playing with the beachball over to your left?” After a moment, he said, “Yes...” “I think it’s cool how light it looks with the sun glancing off the side as it floats in the air. Do you find that interesting?” “Yeah, I suppose...” Jamie’s voice was slow but a smile played on his lips. “Now, you were saying you mostly dealt with small crimes as a detective.” “Yes.” Dr. Abraham pursed her lips and asked carefully, “But not all the cases were like that, were they, Jamie?” His eyes moved from left to right beneath his eyelids. “No... No they weren’t.” “Can you tell me about your last case?” Jamie shifted uncomfortably in the chaise lounge, scratching the gray stubble on his face. “I... I don’t think-” “Focus on the tones of my voice over everything, Jamie,” said Dr. Abraham in a stony voice. “Hear the waves, the breeze, the birds, the people, and your breath, but follow my voice over all of them.” “Oh... okay.” “Now, while we’re on this beach, do you think you can tell me about your last case?” Jamie’s hands balled into fists, though his knuckles did not turn white. “The voice of the night... that was his name.” “Whose name?” “Dorian Smith... the night watchman.” Dr. Abraham shook her pen to get the ink to the front, trying to write her thoughts down as fast and quietly as she could. “Who was the night watchman?” “Serial killer,” whispered Jamie, his voice no longer hoarse. “And he killed at night?” “Yes.” The patient remained still in the chair. “Had you dealt with a serial killer before, Jamie?” asked Dr. Abraham. “Yes...” “And why is Dorian different?” Jamie shook his head slowly. “I don’t know... We caught the other ones before...” “Before what?” “Before they hurt someone in the department.” Tears began leaking out of Jamie’s eyes, but he didn’t wipe them. “Who did they hurt in the police department?” Dr. Abraham waited for Jamie to answer, but when he did not, she asked, “What happened to Dorian Smith?” “We caught him... He’s in jail,” said Jamie, adding, “The water’s getting too high, doctor.” “It’s fine,” she said, “It’s just the tide.” “Okay.” “Now, did he hurt someone in the department?” Jamie’s tears dripped on the chaise lounge. “Yes... Matty...” “Matty... Matthew Johnson? He was a detective, wasn’t he?” “My... partner,” he choked, “and his daughter... my godchild.” Dr. Abraham paused and put down the pad and placed a delicate hand on her patient’s forearm. “Can you feel my hand on your arm, Jamie?” He nodded, so she finished, “I’m so sorry. Have you lost a partner before?” “Once,” said Jamie after a few deep breaths. “The water-” “That’s just the tide,” repeated Dr. Abraham. “What was your other partner’s name?” “Gary Smith...” She picked up her pad again and jotted down a few notes. “Did you seek help after Gary’s death?” “No... I didn’t.” “I see. Why is that?” “Didn’t need it.” “You two weren’t close?” “We were close...” Dr. Abraham frowned. “Then why didn’t you need help? You didn’t hear voices after him, did you?” “No...” Jamie took a few thoughtful breaths, adding, “Gary died in a random shootout with some druggie who came up from the city to rob a place. It was an accident, and there’s nothing I could’ve done. I wasn’t even there... He was off-duty.” “Wasn’t Matty off-duty? He was killed in his home, and you were at your own home, right Jamie?” “Yes, but...” he again took a few breaths before continuing, “There were clues... things I should’ve known that I didn’t. If I’d worked harder... If I was smarter, all the clues were leading to a cop being the next victim, and since we were the head detectives on the case, it was clear he or I was gonna be the target, but he had a family - wife, two kids... I had nothing. Dorian’s MO was big, flashy kills... I should’ve known it’d be Matty. I could’ve protected him.” “You think Matty died because of what you didn’t know?” asked Dr. Abraham. “I’m sure of it.” Dr. Abraham smiled. “Can you feel the water receding, Jamie? I think the tide’s going out.” “I... I feel it.” “See, that’s what the tide does. It comes in, and sometimes it comes in quickly, but it goes out, too. The ocean can’t hurt you like this, when you know about the tides. Matty’s death wasn’t your fault. This ‘night watchman’ was - is, a criminal, and he’s been brought to justice because of work you did. Jamie, you saved countless lives when you brought him into custody. Thanks to you, that man won’t kill anyone again.” “I... I guess.” His tone was uncertain. Dr. Abraham silently took off her shoes. “You know, there’s a similarity between the darkness and the ocean, Jamie. Can you tell me what it is?” “I don’t know.” She padded over to the shadowy corner, finding the lamp with her hand. “Just like the tide, the darkness also recedes. Every night has a dawn.” She turned the light on. “Why do you sound further down the beach?” asked Jamie. “I’m just walking a little faster. You can follow me if you open your eyes .” His eyes fluttered open, and he squinted in the light. “Doctor... Dr. Abraham... is that the same-” “The same corner, Jamie.” She walked back over to him and knelt by his side, smiling as she said, “Every time you close your eyes, I want you to go to the beach. Remember Matty, but remember all the good things about his life, not the circumstances of his death, and use it as a light. Can you do that for me?” Jamie looked at the corner. “Yes...” “Now, I want you to go home and try to sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Dr. Abraham stood up and led him out of her office. Somehow, Jamie made it home in a daze as the sun set over his lawn. He went to his bedroom, lit by a hundred light bulbs, and began turning each one off. He closed his blinds and made his way to the bed, the last lamp on his nightstand fighting a losing battle with the shadows in his room. His heart began to beat quicker, a voice seeping into his mind, but he thought of the beach and of the tides, and the darkness retreated from his perception, the voice fading into an afterthought. Jamie slumped into the pillows with a small smile on his face, falling into dreams undisturbed by the voice of the night.

It is the first day of spring. Our favorite season. I had our dog, Yuno, beside me. I found myself walking towards the river today like we used to. It’s too early in the morning, I didn't think anyone in town is awake. I walked by the unpaved road and see the trees enveloping the winding river. I could hear the steady sound of the water and I stood there in awe. You loved to catch butterflies and other flying insects just to try to be friends with them. You would sing and dance all the songs to The Sound of Music and pretend we’re in a Disney film. I would go along with you and be happy watching you as you are. You loved going to the beach too, but it’s quite far from where we live, nevertheless, we would go once in a while. "So, this is what underwater sounds like!", you smiled as you held an enormous seashell by your ear and listened to the sound of the trifling matter. I stared at your eyes wandering into space trying to figure out what to feel about it. You put it on my ear, and I heard a breeze. It was calming. I had to close my eyes to feel every moment of it. I wasn't entirely sure if that's what underwater sounds like, or if it even has a definite sound, but you just assumed it had, and it was boundless. It was like you. If anyone comes close, would they know you belong to me? Just like how the seashells belonged to the sea. Would they hear your soul searching for my name? I wasn't entirely sure if I was the one in your heart then, or if it even identifies me as your lover, but we just assumed it has, and it was boundless. “How many sleepless nights do I have to spend to be together with you again?” I would say as I look at your photograph in my wallet. I looked at Yuno wagging his tail at the river and dipping himself a bit. You would stop him, but every time we come again, he gets more stubborn. I guess he also remembers you in the water. He never left your side, even at that time. I sit by the big tree we called Peter. I’m pretty sure Peter had also been hearing a lot about the times you would rant about your work. You never knew the concept of time, and deadlines are foreign to your nature. You always had your own perspective on things, and I admired that about you. You would often let out a screech, sometimes of victory and other times in devastation. All of it was valid. Every decision you make, emotions you feel, and thoughts you think. I would listen to you for eternity. Trust me, I would. Given the chance to listen to your voice once again, I definitely would. This river was our own world, a secret hiding place where time suddenly stops as we would enjoy every moment together. We would be like this every year and sometimes more when we needed it. And I miss it. I miss you. All of you. The sun began to get hotter, and Yuno seems to be tired from running around and chasing butterflies. He got that from you, obviously. I get up and we head back to our house. How long has it been? The first time you stepped onto our house. You were crying with joy and were utterly speechless, which was a sign of how thrilled you were, considering how much you talk about everything in such detail, the only thing you could do then was to kiss me. It was the best moment for both of us. And the last time you stepped onto our house. You were crying in pain, and you couldn’t say a word, which was a sign of how agonizing it must be to keep fighting an unbeatable illness. Still, you would smile, you would hold my face with your warm hands and look at me with those eyes. Those unchanging eyes. I remember when you were painting me, you were deeply in love with my blue eyes, and I would look at yours with soul and love. “I love your eyes so much! I’m painting it so I could keep it forever. So, stay still and look at me!” You would say. I smile and I felt tingles on my neck and onto your eyes I look, and I think of you. I would write about your eyes, but you would think it’s a waste of time and paper. But still, I would write because I too, would want to keep it forever. I remember writing about you. How your eyes are as beautiful as your kindred soul, and I would say I had fallen into a black hole of love just by looking at you, and we would laugh. I look into your eyes which revealed a golden halo at sunset, and suddenly I feel like I’m the luckiest person in the world. We have loved everything and anything the other couldn’t, and then we began to love ourselves as well. If only I had the ability to stop time. I would make every moment last forever. I wouldn’t want to remember. I want to know you again, to feel you again. I’m scared that I would forget the way it feels to be in love and be loved by you. I want to know how it feels like to be held by your hands again and keep me from shattering just like the day you left. Just one moment more. Winter nights were most difficult to handle. “Why did you leave me? I hope you stayed a little longer.” I would say under my breath. I would look at an empty bed and cry onto my knees. I miss you so much. The loneliness, the reoccurring thought of the one being left in the world on this cold numbing weather which I felt most of the pain. Still, I tried to breathe gently and then stand up at once. Just before the alarm rings, I finally woke up from this long and lonely dream. I feel relieved, I feel like a burden was lifted. A tear finds itself sliding onto my neck. I’m getting up slowly and I look at the window, it’s spring again . I feel my heart fleeting like it had been liberated from everything. What does this mean - to breathe calmly on this day. Is this what acceptance feel like? For a long time, I stopped writing, since you were all I ever wrote about. And today, so swiftly I feel like I could write again. The door knocks to the classic tune of da-di-di-da-da da-da! And our daughter enters our room to wake me up, but I had already woken. I saw a glimpse of you in her eyes, and she smiles as brightly and as beautiful as yours. It’s your death anniversary today, she had been waiting to visit you again. Though she doesn’t remember much about you, she was sure that you loved her, and she was happy. I would read to her the ones I’ve written about you, like a bedtime story she would smile and light up when she realizes she does the same things you do, she would tell me how much she loves us and aspires to be like you. They say time heals, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes, Time remembers the best moments, and other times it brings pain. If only Time could help and stop itself, but Time couldn’t. Time wouldn’t stop for the world, there is only one way to go, and that is forward. I take a glance at our daughter, a living memory of you. Your resemblance is quite uncanny, I was hoping she would look a little bit more like me, but I’m thankful she didn’t. I’m standing before you now, and I brought these flowers you liked, the snowdrops that you would sometimes imitate during winter in hopes you could see them in the spring. It was your own ritual, and I would do it with you wholeheartedly. I could only hope for peace as I look at your resting place, with the wind brushing my face. I stand here in silence; no words spoken. There are no words, or methods, or any means to get over you. People will somehow get there. It may take a long time, but then we realize that we did not suffer for nothing. It wasn't all meaningless, it was proof you were loved. People find ways to get over the things that are too painful, and most times we hurt ourselves even more. It is a process of how you try to accept the truth. Slowly and eventually, it will all be okay. Our daughter sits by your tombstone with Yuno by her side. She begins to tell you stories about her best friends, and how happy she was that she could see you again like she’d never been here a few months ago for her birthday. I know you would come back if you could, and now I understand that. You had to leave, and it’s okay. Though you only live in the memories of the people you loved, and those who loved you dearly, you were never forgotten. If you were to live again, in another time, another person, another life, I hope you both would meet. Oh, to be remembered. To take you as you are. To love and to be loved. What a wonderful thing. I know you. You are in the stars that watch over the earth. You are in the clouds that carry the burdens of the world. And you are in the wind that swiftly passes by on a spring day. And soon, I know I would be with you there. Beyond the clouds and the stars, beyond galaxies and the vast universe. I will meet you there, at the river when we first met. Sincerely Yours

Prompt #267 OVERCOMING OBSTACALS Your character wants something very badly. . . . will they get it? A GREAT GRANDFATHER’S ENCOURAGEMENT FROM THE GRAVE Her dad had been a writer; but, a writer of fact-based, instructional materials; writings that could not, justifiably, be classified as “creative”. She, herself, had been a writer, of sorts; but, as with her dad, her writing too consisted of fact-based, persuasive materials. Nothing creative. Having grown up hearing her dad clicking away on his old Olympia manual typewriter down in the basement where he did most of his work, she had vicariously experienced the “writing bug” which, later in her life she realized had been in her genes. Her great grandfather - on her mother’s side - had also been, what appears to be, a “frustrated’ writer. In looking through old boxes which had been passed down from great grandfather to grandfather to mother and now to daughter, she came upon several packets of material written by her great grandfather. Much to her surprise, she found that he, too, entered contests and wrote manuscripts. To the best of her knowledge, however, he was never actually a “published author”, but possessed the “writing bug”! One packet which caught her eye consisted of twenty “student” writing assignments put out by the then NEWSPAPER INSTITUTE OF AMERICA in New York City. They would send writing assignments in yellow folders, which would be returned to the writer with a critique. An interesting comment on the cover of the final writing assignment read, in part: “In writing, each failure is a forward step. For it is by attempting jobs not quite within our powers that we develop strength and ingenuity” . NIOA, Editorial Dept . “Failure”, apparently, is an inherent fear of all writers? However, as her grandfather later optimistically wrote in a prologue to a submission to an unknown publication: “ Men and women are looking through the columns of newspapers, magazines, and other periodicals, seeking something that will satisfy an innate desire for better things. Perhaps a word, sentence, or paragraph, will have an appeal that will sparkle with the very thing they so much desire”. HWMiller The fear of “failure” can be allayed by a drive he so eloquently described. Her “writing bug” was obviously “in her genes”! After a lifetime of not pursuing what she had, in the back of her mind - without then having all of this generational information - always considered her dream, now, at this stage of her “senior”, retirement status, little hope seemed left of achieving her dream. She always loved to write, but mostly, now that she was retired, her writing consisted primarily of correspondence to friends - either typewritten and posted, or simply emailed (a despised format which she considered “without class) or in the form of notes of bereavement placed in sympathy cards which, as she aged, became more and more frequent. Any support she may have received over the years trying to convince her that she should “write” came mostly from those who had received her notes (youth to whom she was offering supportive advice or motherly wisdom) or to those who had received one of her bereavement notes which they indicated to her they would “treasure forever”. As a retired senior, she was feeling that her ship had sailed, so to speak, on her confidently productive years and now, in the twilight of her days, she held little confidence or hope that her dreams of becoming a noted author would ever come to fruition. Yet, almost daily, to her friends/family, she would refer, in some way, to her writing. She just knew she loved to put words on paper - for whatever the reason - in the hope that they would actually have meaning to someone. She had been well-advised by author friends that there were two important aspects to becoming an accomplished author: First, you had to write something every day. That took discipline. She was disciplined enough in her real life. But in her writing life, she held no discipline. As a child, she had grown up with the routine of having to get her work done before play time. In other words, if she wanted to write, she first had to get all of her life’s chores out of the way; then she could sit down and write. More often than not, that free time never occurred. Without the required discipline, she was unable to put all else aside and simply sit down to write. Yet, in truth, she could never quite seem to find the time to actually sit down and write. While she longed for, and agreed that, the set-aside daily time was necessary, at the close of a busy day other demands constantly seemed to take over. Dinners needed to be made, children needed to be cared for, laundry needed to be done and spouses, friends and family needed her attention. What was “left” of her at the end of the day was insufficient to provide the creative thinking necessary to effectively write something on a sheet of paper that anyone would want to read. The second aspect of becoming an accomplished writer, she was told, was to write about something she knew. As one ages, one is constantly reminded that we are no longer in our prime , we are no longer “with it” when it comes to knowing what is going on in the world AND we are no longer entitled to have (or at least express) an opinion about things about which anyone would give a damn. Given the fact that she was now considered a senior member of society, with little to no “free” time, no energy, no creativity and no support for her dream, why did she try to hold onto any false hopes that she could become an author. If she could find the time, what did she “know”, at her age, that could be turned around and used in a creative fashion that would be of interest to anyone else? Yet something in the back of her mind kept telling her that she could make her dream a reality. Day after day, she fought with herself as to just how to accomplish that goal. If income was strictly her desire to publish then her chances of success were even slimmer. Intellectually, she knew, first and foremost, that she needed to set aside the monetary goal and deal strictly with trying to put down on paper words that would mean something to somebody which might catapult her into a genre of creativity and accomplishment. One day she found herself off the grid , alone for a week with absolutely none of life’s interruptions. On a whim, she shot off a note to a publishing company whose name she found in one of the many writing files she had accumulated over the years with various research articles about publishing and writing and succeeding in the literary world. To her amazement, the inquiry was immediately responded to. A publishing employee (likely in pursuit of his desire to pick up a new author for his company) began routinely hounding her for a commitment to a completion date for her anticipated manuscript. How flattering; but, REALLY? Her contact with a publisher had been a spur-of-the moment impulse; intended to encourage her own self motivation. In her mind, she had only two writing options (in terms of what she “knew”): one being to write about a traumatic experience in her life (which she wasn’t even sure she was ready to revisit) and the second being to expand upon a short story she had written many, many years before (which would take hundreds of hours to accomplish background research because it was not set in an era about which she “knew”). She had nothing . No files stuffed with proposed manuscripts, or even notes or thoughts about writing topics. N othing. Yet, she fancied herself as wanting to be this discovered, legitimate literary icon! After several months of follow up by the publisher’s employee, she finally fessed up to him that she had nothing. Why did she have nothing? When the dream of being an author had been such a part of her life - in vision if not in reality - why couldn’t she ever find the time to write; or was it that she didn’t have the drive to write; or was it that she didn’t have the confidence to write. What were her excuses? Obstacles. Overcoming obstacles. Self-made obstacles? Real-life obstacles? Would they continue to pop up in front of her; or, had she finally reached a point in her life when she would break down, one by one, those obstacles that had prevented her from at least trying to accomplish her dream. As she sat down at the keyboard one sun-drenched day (when, in truth, she would have loved to be outside puttering around in her yard) and put her fingers to the keys, she remembered her great grandfather, and her father, writers of a different sort. On this day, she knew: first, that she was going to write something today; and second that she was going to write about what she knew . And, if she failed: “. . . each failure . . . (would be) a forward step” in developing in her “. . . strength and ingenuity. . .” which might, as her great grandfather’s words had so aptly encouraged, help her to create a: “. . . word, sentence, or paragraph, [which would] have an appeal that will sparkle with the very thing [the reader ] so much desired”. Only time would tell if her great grandfather’s words would help overcome the real or self-imposed obstacles that she felt had held her back and that now, in her twilight of days, her written word would some day accomplish her long-awaited dream of becoming a real “author”.

Once upon a time, there was a gerbil named George that lived in a little cage. George always wondered what life would be like outside his little cage. He has escaped before but he rarely made it to the front door. His owners would scoop him up and put him back into the cage. George was unhappy and wanted to be as independent as a human. George had a plan. A very big plan. That plan was to escape the house and never return. For a gerbil, George had a big brain. George had helped his owner’s son with his algebra homework and even did his owner’s taxes once. George could also read dead sea scrolls and could write Icelandic runes. There was so much about George that almost no one knows about. Anyways, George managed to convince the owner’s son to go on the internet and find, download, and print a floorplan of their house. The son crammed the 8 x 11.5in print of the family home floorplan into the gerbil’s little cage. George studied the floorplan. He didn’t have a pen to mark his escape plan so he ended up having to make urine tracks all over the floorplan. Inside the cage underneath his bedding, George kept a stash of house tools and equipment like a welding machine, soldering tools, a handsaw, and a bunch of power drills. Don’t worry, they were gerbil-sized so no one could see the tiny equipment. What the hell was the gerbil making with all of those tools? His ultimate escape rocket. The rocket will help launch him out of the cage and go through the door. From the distance, it’ll look like a small bullet but don’t worry, the rocket is made out of titanium metal so the rocket will remain intact after it goes through several walls and the solid wooden front door. On the morning of the escape, George waited until everyone left the house but there was a problem, his owner’s son was at home. He wondered why wasn’t he at school? Then George looked at his calendar, it was a Saturday. Drats! He was supposed to launch on a weekday. He thought about rescheduling the launch until Monday but then he thought about how unintelligent the owner’s son was. He was the only person that actually listened to the gerbil and did what he said without question. George asked the boy if he could open the front door to let some air in and ventilate his cage. As usual, the boy listened and went to the front door. By the time the boy opened the door, he heard a loud pop. Next thing the gerbil’s rocket flew towards the exit. George flipped him the finger as he flew past his face but before he even left the property, a giant golden eagle flew out of nowhere and swallowed the rocket. The boy just stared in disbelief. He didn’t know what was cooler, the gerbil that could fly or seeing a giant eagle for the first time. Does this mean the end for George? Not really. To this day, he is still inside that rocket and inside that eagle waiting to be defecated.

Dedicated to and based on a concept by Danschneider Arroyo, for every scammed author and lover everywhere... Chapter 54 East Vrmlmelmnsk, Syburslovenia At last, Alexis’ heart’s desire was within one GPS turn of fulfillment, and her desirous heart thumped rapidly as she crossed the landfill beyond the village bazaar. The trans-Atlantic journey, the loss of her luggage at the charmingly quaint bicycle-powered Aeropotschk carousel, the succession of taxis and taxi robberies, the bribes to countless provincial cops, the chicken she was coerced to buy at the market, the foreigny threats that bombarded her as she roamed the cobbled streets in search of 12 Zjrchskmsk Avenue, rooster wrestling under her arm -- it would all be worth it when she could look her pfisher soulmate in his unpatched eye. “Your destination is in 300 feet, on your left,” Siri cooed. “Please be aware of organ harvesting activity ahead; I can devise an alternative route back to the Aeropotschk...” But Alexis now was guided by her appetites rather than her apps, and she pressed ahead, gently driving away one of the local street weasels that might have been the twin of the creature she’d nibbled at a charmingly retro crate in the marketplace, after her desire-filled gut had throbbed with non-cardiac desire for something beyond the boiled airline chickpeas. Her heart swelled with swollen feelings as she reached the last hovel at the end of the block before the rustic old cell phone/nuclear waste dump. Her delicate, alabaster fist-blossom froze before the warped plank that served as the door. This was crazy - when the private eye her BFFs at the cat café/cupcake emporium had hired for her traced the pfisher’s IP address to this tiny hamlet in a pastorally bombed-out former Soviet republic, she’d poured out her pain and fury at this Facebook scammer before understanding that rage is but the other side of that coin we call love. Between the lines of the badly constructed, clumsy warning that her system had been compromised and the ransomware demand, Alexis could sense the heart of a wounded outlaw soul. Like Beauty and her Beast, Bullock and her Jesse James... Steeling her desire-saturated heart, the baker/quilter-turned-author rapped on the splintered wood like a desirous heart beating out a rhythm of love. “Come. To. Me; Come. To. Me.” The love-plank finally shifted, and a glacially blue eye peered from the shadows, like the piercing light of Cupid’s lighthouse beacon across the dark and ripply waters of doubt and pain. Alexis now knew her story wasn’t the website romance that “Lance Boyles” had pirated into an internationally acclaimed erotic vampire suspense thriller. Her story began with this rogue who indeed had stolen her desire-riddled heart. “Lance” grunted a series of long words neither Alexis nor most of her readers would have understood even had they been in English rather than some rural Slovenian language. Only her fondant sous-chef Russian Mikhail back home was poly-Slavic, but while he had insisted on accompanying her on her journey, Mikhail himself had found bliss with the lady day-trader from the city who’d finally taken her face out of her laptop long enough to discover the true meaning of rapture and pre-molded frosting at the town bake-off and comforter fair. The ceremony was next week at the old fiction mill by the river, the Reverend Dodge officiating. Alexis thus implored Lance to repeat his declaration into her cellphone. Her Cunning Linguist app translated. “It is you, my Alexis, at last. You have made the future of my destiny a reality!” He shoved the plank aside and emerged. Aside from the gnarled and possibly infected face-navel that had once served as his left eye, Lance was perfect. Hours of hacking and scamming in his dark garret had chiseled his upper arms into Greek statue kind of arms, and his jogging suit-draped legs had been shaped by constant escape from global law enforcement and Bulgarian mobsters. Lance’s was a life lived large, and Alexis felt a stirring in her loins wholly different than her reaction to the boiled garbanzos. Alexis fell into Lance’s arms, and his eye leaked dewy tears of love moisture. Lance grunted again, his Tokarev gun dipping sensually below his pelvis. “Can you forgive me?” Cunning Linguist recited. “Forgive you???” Alexis gasped, catching a lungful of waste dump sulfur. “You silly, beautiful Cyclops! You have made my humble paranormal suspense novella a classic in five Eurasian markets, and Kindled the long-extinguished embers of desire in my heart furnace. And besides...” She displayed the locket she had blinded a cabbie/former surgeon to protect. The woman had gone down hard and valiantly, and Alexis vowed to name a werewraith in her next novel after the driver, adding a few vowels for reader ease, of course. The filigreed gold clamshell was inscribed with her non-nom de plume fake writer name. Lance squinted at the florid mall engraving, then switched to his good eye. A.I. Chatt . Alexis’ digitalized heart swelled with love blood as the thief of that previously mentioned heart realized there was nothing for his future life mate to forgive. No more torture or remorse or fear of mercenary revenge squad retaliation. Lance’s life of underground plagiarism had nearly ended in violence numerous times - the Kindle Unlimited attack on his favorite wifi coffee shop/arms dealer; Nora Roberts’ Mossad-trained hit squad coming after his mother as she prepared his beloved borscht and cloned stolen Discover cards. The grainy photos of the meeting between a coldly vengeful and immaculately put-together Danielle Steele and Ivan the Badger in a Budapest Chik-Fil-A his bro Sergei the trafficker had Messenger’d him. As colleague after colleague had been “Kristin Hannah’ed,” as those in the trade called it, Lance had stayed one step ahead. Now, he had been apprehended by this spunky paperback word-poet, his heart clamped in the titanium grip of Alexis’ love-cuffs. His sentence? Life, in a maximum security prison with Alexis as his love-jailer. Lance grunted. Cunning Linguist processed Alexis’ newfound language of love. “So. You want to see the place?” “Oh, yes, YES! On the soul of Stephenie Meyer, a million times YES!” Alexis exclaimed, flattening a feral cat as she hurled the plank aside. She felt like a bad Eastern European knockoff of Pinocchio (one of Lance’s top-selling works in the Russian children’s market and unedited, on the YA list). Alexis’ Intel chip glowed warm within her OEM bosom. Tonight, she would become a real woman, if they could figure out a workable interface...

Congratulations! Wow, I have been waiting to say that for a lifetime. Ah, sorry, you must be very confused. You've made it to the end; this is it. No don't run off, trust me, that's the first thing I did. Wasted a few trillion years doing that. I could hardly believe myself either; who would have thought that there was more? I mean, I still remember those millennia. I, we, were so rambunctious, thinking we owned everything and all that. Nigh immortal, near-infinite cosmic power; a massive far cry from the lives we lived before that. I bet you spent your first few million years observing new and old universes, just to make sure everything you were seeing was real. I'm almost certain the first trillion afterwards was spent in glee and excitement, seeing everything unfold and grow in front of you, any number of times you wanted, while building beings much like yourself at the time. The good old days, they were. But then, much like some you may have seen during your travels, you faded away; content, or perhaps bored. Normally, and it's a secret between you and me, you would have started everything over again; been the curiosity of another. The only difference is that you would have had to start all over again, with no knowledge or memories. Honestly, it doesn't sound that bad of a deal. Do everything again and again, but always retain the childish curiosity every time... ... ... Oh, I'm sorry, I spaced out a bit. Right, why you're here. So, if you remember, you were a universe once. The living beings within and those that died, yada yada yada. You've been through it, I've been through it, and you watched others go through it. After you were "born", though, you probably thought that was the end. "There couldn't possibly be anything more than the manifestation of the one the universe called 'God'," you perhaps thought. Well, actually, I know you thought that, otherwise there would be umptillions more here, other than just us two. But you were special, because amongst all of that noise and curiosity and observation, you had a single thought. It probably only happened once, and it was most likely just a fleeting one. You thought: "What if there was more?" And so when you faded away, unknowingly ready to begin the cycle, you ended up with me. Think of it the same way you ended up a God, except there was no creation. No, your previous realm, just, happened really, much like this one. I wouldn't think about it too much, or rather, I would. It's a good way to waste some time. Your new job? Well, eager to start, I see. Good enthusiasm, but do you see all of those? Every single one of those is a God, each watching over their little universe, unaware of where we are. Your job, bluntly, is to watch them. Really nothing has changed for you, except you're now, legitimately, infinitely more powerful. How many are there? I'd like to keep this as brief as possible, since I've already wasted five billion years just ranting, so I think I'll refrain from wasting some quadrillion just saying the number. You don't ever have to do anything, just sit back and watch. Why is this a thing? Good question. The short answer is: something absolute needs to observe. Think of it like when you were old and watching rowdy kids that weren't yours. Except you'll never be responsible, since these kids can't fall and scrape their knees. But I've spent too much time talking. I'll let you get to it. Huh? Where am I going? Yes, of course you'll get lonely, but there always has to be at least one. Because the entire reason I create new Gods is no longer for the sake of observation or curiosity, but rather did so for the hope that someone like you will eventually break the mold and join me, an immeasurable amount of time after I got here. Yes, the main reason I make Gods, Is that when one comes to greet me, I can finally die.

He often found that bus rides were oddly conducive to a particular kind of reminiscence. Sitting in his little row, with eyes glazed over, he reached back into his prepubescent self. He was at the kitchen counter, grueling over math homework. Intro to fractions: a real killer. None of the questions actually involved a fraction, and he’d completed most of the sheet without much trouble, yet there was one extra credit question on the back that he wanted to get right. Thinking back, he couldn’t be sure why he wanted to solve it so bad. It was elementary school, he couldn’t have cared much about his “grades.” Maybe it was a sense of perfectionism instilled in him by his upbringing, but he never much cared about that as much as he probably should have. In all likelihood, he surmised, he had probably wanted to simply prove that he could, most likely out of simple, run-of-the-mill childhood insecurity. He asked Mom for help. This was the only time he could ever remember asking her for help with homework. She always seemed too busy, and he always thought he could do these things on his own. Still, this time she helped. He refrained from trying to psychoanalyze his mother at this moment. The question that had stumped him was generously simple in hindsight. It was only asking how you would represent three of something out of a group of four. The problem was, he had never seen a fraction before. When he explained his issue to Mom, she pulled out four cookies from the cookie jar. She had baked them the day previous. Mom always liked to bake. Mom always had an unhealthy relationship with food. She laid the cookies in front of him and said, “You have three of these cookies. So, how many of the cookies do you have?” As an adult, he could see that she worded this extremely vaguely. He replied, “Three.” For what felt like hours, she kept repeating those same two sentences to him, and everytime he’d say “Three.” She’d group off the three cookies and he’d say “Three.” She’d raise her voice and he’d say “Three.” He had started crying. Mom looked very frustrated. Scoffing, she grabbed the paper from him, wrote three fourths, and walked away. He felt very fragile in that moment. Mom wasn't a great teacher. His stop came too quickly. He was surprised at how far ahead in time he’d managed to travel with that little sequence. The walk home was comparatively thoughtless. It was just the same procedure of motions - steps, turns, doors opening - that he’d gone through most other days. That sense of unimportance seemed dully significant to some recess of him. The apartment extended no greeting, and his bed found him in record time. He didn’t bother getting under the covers. He lay there for what felt like too long, then checked the time. 7:34 PM. The day was still young. He thought about all the things he could do, maybe should do with all this time on his hands. Read something, listen to music, work out, go for a walk, meet new people, watch a movie, play some video games maybe. He juggled the idea of these things in his head and decided that yeah, maybe he should do something, yet he knew that the second he moved his chest would be crushed by the lead ball that was laying on it. He was never much for parties. He’d made a fool of himself at enough of them. This one seemed to carry on far too long. The swirl of people and voices became dizzying if he focused on it for too long. He hugged the wall like he did the first time he went ice skating. He could feel the life of the room echoing through him. He didn’t like the feeling. It used to be that when he felt like this at parties, he’d go off by himself for long enough that all the holes in his body would close up again, and he could have another drink and maybe talk to someone after. Now, he knew that someone was bound to notice, especially in a cramped space like this, and leaving now would be especially dramatic. He resigned himself to getting comfortable and hoping no one struck up conversation. When he finally deemed it socially acceptable to leave, he did with only marginal deliberation. He would’ve said bye to the people he knew there, but then again, would he have? Walking out into the night air was at first a relief. The first few steps felt like a consolation, and the cool air cleared the dust out of his lungs, but then the air started to stream into him so fast he felt like he was being played like a harmonica. He was leaking all over. The walk back to his car became more hurried than he’d intended, and he made sure to expunge what was left of that foreign invader in his rib cage before getting in. The thought of music at a time like this seemed contrived, and more than a little childish. He put music on anyway - something with no words. As he drove, he imagined himself in a movie. What would he look like? How would the writers and producers deem fit to package him? What parts of him would be cast aside first in pursuit of digestibility? He imagined to an outsider the thought might seem vaguely anti-consumerist, but really it was nothing so high concept. It was an honest consideration. The streets were mostly empty, which was good. The thought of sharing the road right now made him feel strangely sick. He didn’t know what he’d do when he got home. The apartment complex was quiet enough. He parked where he found a spot; he never much cared about things like getting good parking. He thought about that tendency as he walked, and he realized how alienated that made him feel from the people around him. Everyone he talked to always had some kind of mundane complaint. Their food had to be fresh. They couldn’t drink Pepsi products. They didn’t like this or that actor. The temperature was too much this or that way. He had always resigned himself to these things. There wasn’t much point in agonizing over things like that, right? As he was unlocking his door, he saw a woman coming down the opposite end of the hallway. He looked at her for a second. She was pretty enough. He stopped looking. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. He knew how easy it was to make the people around him uncomfortable. The thought made him want to cry. He wouldn’t. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. As the door shut, he looked into the pitch black of the apartment. There was one dull, silver streak tearing through the living room. He seized. He stood enveloped by that darkness for a time. He felt like if he were to move, the space around him would collapse in on itself and splinter into a billion tiny fragments that could never be pieced together again. Not because it would be impossible really, but because he lacked the grace, patience and inclination to put any of it back together. He flipped the light on. The room maintained. He considered what his first move should be, and resolved that he’d eat something. He had some microwave food, and the experience was pleasant enough. Really, it was just an attempt to delay the inevitable. He would eventually lay down in bed, with that same sensation of a snake coiling around his lungs and he wouldn’t know what to do about it. Some of his coworkers were really nice. He was friends with some of them. They were something of a group. They’d go out to bars together and drink and smoke and watch movies and do whatever they felt like. He hadn’t expected to spend as much time with these people as he had recently, but that wasn’t a bad thing. He had been enjoying himself. There was a lot of fun to be had with them. Still, there was really one reason more than any other for his continued participation. He’d liked her for about a year now. He couldn’t really remember the last time he’d “liked” someone. In all honesty, he wasn’t quite sure what that meant anymore, all he knew was that he felt it for her. Still, he had no intention of doing anything about it. Friday, they would all go together on a little pub crawl, and eventually get really high. Those nights always came and went in a bit of a blur, but that was the fun of it all. The week was a continuous stream of mostly undefined impressions, but the weekend was virile and fatalistic. It felt like there were stakes, even if he made sure there really weren’t any. This Friday would be no different. Somehow, he wasn’t sure how to feel about that. The music seemed louder than usual tonight. He’d had his fair share to drink, yet he couldn’t shake this feeling of cold lucidity that held him. It wasn’t the ideal mindset when you’re in the middle of a dance hall. He found himself idling again. That fact made him uncomfortable. If he didn’t get up to something soon, then he’d be in for it. When he saw her friend coming over, he knew it was too late. “Go ask her to dance.” He hated the lecturing, but it was only fair. Everyone knew what was going on, and everyone could see he was doing nothing about it. He thought on some level that their goading was a little unfair, because they didn’t know his reason for inactivity, but at the same time he knew that he really didn’t either. He looked at her friend with playful disdain. “What, are you calling me pussy?” “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Go.” She was being a good friend to him for this, yet at the same time he couldn’t help but feel a little resentful. Prodding him into action meant prodding the source of his inaction, and that was something that no one was supposed to even be aware of. Of course, she wasn’t aware of it directly, but even being able to touch it tangentially felt like an assault. He gathered that he really didn’t have much of a choice. It was time to stop pussying out. He walked up to her, and found that he couldn’t think in that moment, which was for the best. If he could, he’d just think about what he was about to say and it would tumble out of his mouth completely twisted. “Hey, are we gonna dance?” He was relieved at how casual it sounded. He knew her well enough now to know that they were somewhat alike in their anxiety, and because of that she was eerily in tune with the insecurities at bare in him at any given moment. The grace with which he executed the line was like a verbal suit of armor. “Yes, but I can’t dance.” He figured she’d say something of the sort. “That’s great!” he said as he took her hand and led her to the dance floor, “Neither can I.” He’d love to have been able to say that the dance was evidently special to any onlooker, but in all actuality it wasn’t. It was actually a bit awkward. Neither of them, in reality, were very good at dancing. More than once they lost rhythm, or bumped into someone else. He spun her around a few times and even dipped her. The whole time they danced they just made comments about how off-beat they were, yet he couldn’t help but feel like it meant something. Being so close to her in that moment, feeling the skin of her hand against his, and the way their bodies moved together. It was the first time that night that his lucidity counted for something. He felt fortunate that this feeling would be hard to forget. After their dance was over, he felt like he came away with something. Looking at her then, as they made their way off the dancefloor, her face bathed in flickering and flaring multicolored lights, he understood that she probably didn’t feel the same way, and while that knowledge made him feel raw, naked, and vulnerable, he was okay with it. At least he got to make her happy, even if for a moment. After all the dancing was over, and the hall emptied, they made pilgrimage back to her friend's apartment. The weed gave way to a new, uncomfortable dimension of social awareness, but that was unavoidable. They watched a stupid comedy, and then proceeded to watch the whole series. Of course, he was forced to sit next to her on the couch. He’d expected as much. It made everyone giddy to see him squirm. So he sat next to her and watched. He knew her penchant for early nights, so he figured she’d go up to her room soon. That’s exactly the reason he was so shocked when she laid across his lap. An hour must have passed before he built up the courage to touch her. He felt conflicted for being so hesitant, but also couldn’t shake the feeling that if he did touch her something terrible would happen. As the night went on, and each movie blended into the next, came to hold her as she drifted off to sleep. He still felt that same sense of uneasiness, that same edge, but the scent of her hair and the warmth of her skin made those feelings unimportant. He’d bathe in this feeling for now, and not think about anything else. He’d invited her over to his place to watch some movies. He felt nervous. At this point they’d gone out on a few undeniable dates. He was getting more and more comfortable around her, but still, having her at his place, just the two of them, it felt like he was showing too much of his hand. When she came, he decided he’d skip the game of pretending like they weren’t going to end up laying together, pressed as close as they could be. All of his doubt started to fade when he held her again, and he could be in that moment, drowning in her presence. They watched one movie, and then put on another. The movie stopped being so important. Where they’d actively been watching, commenting, joking, and laughing through the first one, the second was met with silence. They laid facing each other, legs intertwined. His cheek was pressed against hers, and his hand was buried in her hair, cradling the back of her head. He felt frozen in time, like his slightest move could cause her to shatter. He wanted to hold her so close that she would sink into him and they’d become one, so that he’d be able to feel her fingers, arms, and legs under his skin. He moved his face so that he could press his forehead against hers. As he did, their corners of their lips brushed. His heart punched him in the chest. He found himself surprisingly short of breath. He froze there, with their faces an inch away from each other. The time that passed like that had no concern for punctuality. He felt his arms contract, pulling her in, a fraction of an inch a second. He was helpless. She was everything in that moment. When their lips finally met, his chest caved inward and blew out of his back, leaving a hole where his solar plexus would have been, and the violence of the situation was unspeakable. He said goodbye to every solitary vestige that clung to him and the spaces he’d occupied in the days he’d walked the Earth. His bedsheets. His car. His books. His mom. The cookies. Fractions. Jealousy. Intimacy. The feeling of being slowly strangled. The poison in his veins. The fact that he’d wanted to make something special. The fact that he’d never known he was disabled, maybe? He’d never be able to paint his life on canvas. He’d never be able to embellish his death with words. He’d never truly face himself. He’d never see her again. All was as it was meant to be. Maybe one day he’d find the bones of the person he once was and build a house with them. He could only dream.

“CLEAR!” All he could hear in the dead of night is paramedics and EMTs rush to the scene. “CLEAR!” He never seen this coming. “Still no pause!” It hit him like a freight train. “Charge at 150!” one yelled directing orders to the others. Then the sound of another electric current shock pierced his ears. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This can’t be happening. He thought to himself as he sat off to the side on the curb. He had his face in his hand. “This can’t be happening” he muttered. This was supposed to be a happy get together. A nice evening filled with laughter and dancing mixed with witty chatter. And to top it all off, a quiet moonlight rendezvous at his special lookout spot away from the world in hopes of ending the night on a joyous occasion. But it seems the universe had other plans. What was once gone to be his proudest moment turn into his worst nightmare. As he watches hopelessly in his all-black tux painted in red spots and tears as the love of his life fights for hers. This is all his fault. Why didn’t he just plan a nice candle light dinner at his place? Something so simple. She always enjoyed the little things. But he thought it was a good idea to go the extra mile, exaggerate the entire thing wanting to go off in a grand finale. Anything for her. But this is not what he had in mind. So, this how he repays her? The last four years gone up in flames right into front of him. He let out a gust of air he didn’t realize he was holding. Heart rate was doing 360s, it’s a miracle he even sitting here. Why is he though? Why did the universe choose her over him? If anyone deserves this fate, he would gladly volunteer in a heartbeat. He would do anything to press restart. Restart to earlier today, his alarm bouncing off the walls of his room. He turns over in bed guiding his hand to the snooze button. Stretch his arms in the air letting a long-exhausted yawn. Feet planted on carpet flooring then he pushes himself up to start his morning routine. He walks towards the bathroom; use the toilet, turn on the shower, and quickly brushes his teeth. When the shower is nice and hot, he enters; grabs the soap then loather his body and hair really well before exiting after fifteen-twenty minutes. He already had his clothes out for today. He quickly got dressed reminding himself of today’s errands until he heard his cell phone buzz on the side table. Picking it up and smiled to himself. He pressed the green phone. “Hey babe, what’s up?” “Hey love, just calling to see if you were up” he could hear the smile in her voice. “Yeah, I just woke up about to head out for the day” “Where you heading?” He scoffed “Nosy much?” she smacked her lips “Boy whatever”. He chuckled into the speaker “Nah, I’m just kidding but I need to go to drop some things off by my mom’s before heading to the mall” he voiced. “Oh okay.... we still on for tonight” she mentions softly he knew it was more of a statement than a question. “Yeah, unless you have other plans” she giggled rolling her eyes not that he could see “No never, I’m looking forward to it”. It made his heart skip a beat knowing she was as excited as he was. “That’s good to hear, can’t wait to see the look on your face when you see all I had planned”. “You sure, I can’t get a little hint” “No then it’ll ruin the surprise” “Not for me” “Girl, get off my phone” he laughed to himself but he could hear her laughing as well. God it’s the sweetest sound in the world. “You can’t blame a girl for trying. Fine, I’ll let you get back to it. Love you baby see you later” she allured. “Bye babe, I love you too” She made kissing noises over the speaker until he heard the line end. He placed his phone into his pocket then grabbed his keys and whatever else he needs rushing out the house to his car. He drove down to his parents' church for a care package they were giving to all the members of church. He pulled into the driveway. Grab the box from the backseat and walked towards the house where his mom was standing in the doorway. They shared a quick chat before giving her a kiss on the cheeks onward to his next order of business. The mall was packed as usual on the weekend but he shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes tops. First, he went to the Gentlemen store to pick up his tux. They had it at the register hung and ready for him. After confirming his order, the teller hand him the garment bag. He smiles, wished him a great day and then he was marching down to the candy shop for her favorite chocolates. Next, Macy’s and lastly the jewelry store. Checked the time on his phone to see he still had 3 and half hours left to spare. He grabbed something small to eat and continue to prep for the evening. The next time he checked his phone it was twenty-five minutes before they needed to be at the restaurant. He double checked his appearance in the mirror, grab the gifts off the counter, and sent her a text that he was on his way. It was not even five minutes when she walked out her house into the passenger seat. He knows he's racing the clock but he had to take a second to look her over. She had on a long emerald fitted evening dress with light makeup. He forgot to breathe. “You like what you see?” she smirked, placing her hand on his cheek. “As a matter of fact, I do” he kissed her palm then left a quick peck on her glossed lips. They pulled up to the restaurant without a second to spare. The concierge guided them to one of their private tables in the back marked his name on it. He pulled out her seat before sitting across from her. “This place is gorgeous; I can’t believe you managed to get a reservation consider how booked they always are” she said taking a sip of her water. “Never underestimate a man on a mission. I remember you saying you wanted to go here ever since it was open. And viola” he took her hold of her hand smoothing her knuckles with his thumb. “Aww baby” she bought his hand to her lips “I don’t deserve you” “Funny, I swear that was my line” they laughed and vibe off each other energy. He noticed the music turned to smooth jazz. “Care to dance” he said already standing up. “I’d love to” Pushing forward into his chest, wrapping her arms around his neck while his hands rest upon her waist. They danced for a bit until the food arrive. Small chatters, a few drinks of champagne later; he slides over all the gifts he bought her minus one. Her face light up like a Christmas tree and nearly cried on the spot. “Excuse me sir, is everything all right?” He heard someone say off to his side. He turned his head towards the voice but he was met with a horrifying image. There stood the waiter with blood stain face. “Can you hear me sir?” What’s going on? He stared at him idly. Until he felt her hand squeeze his. He looks at her. “Is everything okay?” she said with the same extract blood stain face but now they were in his car. Her head was facing towards him. Her dress was ripped and blood was dripping on side of her mouth. No. He thought. Then all sudden a bright light outlined her silhouette from behind then everything went black. “Please sir, you need to talk to me” He removed his face out of his hands. Where was he? Oh right, he almost forgot reality. There he was once again, hearing loud sirens; glass filled road; two cars totaled, and her nearly on death's doorstep. The officer in front of him lowered to his level. “Sir, my name is Office Wally, I’m just checking to see if you are, okay? Any injuries?” He stared at him but no words came out. The officer sighed. “I know this is hard for you. And you are in your rights to take all the time you need but we do need a quick rundown of what took place please” He ignored him once again. His hand slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a small red box. He could feel tears form in his eyes but didn’t dare let them fall. He opened it. There laid a diamond ring.

I was sitting when I saw it all, I was on the rooftop of the building smoking a cigarette, it was cloudy, one of those days where it seems like even the slightest thunder will make the sky collapse on all of us. That day I felt particularly overwhelmed by everything surrounding my existence: too much work, little time to finish all the tasks, the phone kept vibrating with each message, the weekend had social commitments that I couldn't refuse to have some time for myself, and apparently, that intermittent headache wasn't going to leave me alone for a while. Among all the things I had to do, I decided to go up to the only solitary part of the building, the only place where I didn't see faces, hidden there between the void of the 27th floor and the huge air conditioners. There, it was the only place where the intermittent noise didn't bother me. I much preferred hearing the deep hissing of the machine next to me than listening to murmurs, incessant typing, laughter, ringing tones of calls and messages, or my coworker's incessant pen chewing... Anyway, this was my place and my private moment. I actually never liked smoking, I'm a fake smoker... I smoke because I see others smoking and I feel like smoking, but I don't smoke because I really find it charming. The first cigarette always raises my blood pressure and makes me sweat buckets, it accelerates my heart and dries my mouth, but still, most people know that when you're smoking, you're having a moment for yourself and generally two things happen: they either move away or approach cautiously, but either way, it's pleasant to see that a piece of paper emitting smoke sensitizes people for at least a few minutes. And there I was... sitting, immersed in my own thoughts when straight from the sky, I saw something falling towards me. At first, it didn't seem like it was going to fall on the building, but slowly that tangle of plastic headed directly towards where I was. The sound it made when it fell will echo forever in my mind, the parachute had tangled around the person and had fallen at such speed that it had broken some of the skylights. When I managed to stand up, after the shock and looking for my phone... I stood there stunned, I didn't know what to do... well, I did know what to do but obviously, I didn't want to do it, I didn't know in what condition he was, I didn't want to find out if he was alive, agonizing, or dead, I just saw a lump tangled in orange plastic and thousands of threads and ropes... apparently, no one had heard the impact, in such a big and bustling city, that noise could have been caused by anything. My hands were freezing, my breath could only be expelled through my mouth, I felt very scared, which in turn disgusted me terribly. Among the cold, the tremendous gust of wind, and the relentless urge to vomit, I was there, living the strangest experience of my life. Who the hell prepares you for this? Is there a damn manual somewhere in the world buried among dust and other books called "what to do if you're on a rooftop and a nobody decides to fall like a meteor 30 steps away from you?" I definitely wasn't prepared for this. I deeply wished someone would come and push me and start doing something, at that moment I would have preferred to be seen as a useless idiot without the slightest common sense... but no, nobody, absolutely nobody showed up; it was just the damn mess and me. Slowly I decided to approach, mentally preparing myself for everything, to see a bloodbath (which I had never seen in real life), hear a deep groan and/or a scream of pain (which I had also never heard), or see a corpse with open eyes and a cold, empty gaze that would remain eternally in my imagination. I began to walk between the parachute and the ropes, trying not to fall, actually, I didn't want to get there, I didn't want to touch that lump, if I don't like touching living people, I definitely didn't have the burning desire to touch a probable corpse bathed in its own juices... I gathered the little courage I have and took a few firm steps toward it... when I was inches away from touching it, a gust of wind made part of the parachute inflate and began to drag it towards the void of the building's south face, I fell backwards but got up as quickly as I could and in an act of deep heroism, I grabbed the ropes and winches with all my might only to realize my profound stupidity in knowing that I wouldn't be able to stop it. Being dragged, I just wished to stop with something, a rod, a post, anything... and I did stop because the corpse hit the wall and I was behind it... and that's when I knew he was lifeless, my face and his face came so close that I could see his pupils through a transparent piece of the parachute's plastic... I could only see those brown eyes, I had never seen pupils so dilated and such a dead, expressionless gaze, I could see some of the blonde hair bathed in blood... and those eyes so dead, so expressionless, so similar to mine a few years ago. After a few seconds, all I could do was cry, I felt a deep sorrow for him because I began to think about his existence: Who is he? Is there someone waiting for him? At that moment, I forgot everything and decided to unravel his so far improvised grave, I tried to move him, but the air made it impossible to handle the situation properly but I had to get him out of there, all my disgust and fear had vanished. As best as I could, I managed to get his head out and then his arms, there was a huge puddle of blood, which actually helped me slide him out, with all my strength, I managed to free him... now there was a corpse and a guy soaked in blood, the perfect scene to go to jail for life. I searched his bags for his wallet, some identification, anything... but I found nothing until I reached the second jacket he was wearing... there I found his driver's license. James P. Jordan. Now it was much worse... it's said that you can't easily get rid of something you've already given a name to... until a few minutes ago, he was a corpse... but suddenly he became James P. Jordan. I looked him up and down, his legs were broken, one arm was completely turned over, and the back of his head was a bloody mess... his mouth was slightly open as if about to utter a word and his cold, vacant gaze towards the sky, he seemed incredulous, as if he couldn't believe he had fallen from where his gaze was fixed. I got on my knees to put his driver's license on his chest, I took his right hand and placed it on his ribs, I don't know why but I really wanted to apologize to him, and it made no sense, I wasn't even remotely guilty of his death, but still, I did... I apologized. Never in my life had I felt so accompanied... When the emergency services finally arrived, a group of people had already gathered, detained by the building security, and there I was, holding James's hand. I didn't want to leave him alone; I couldn't leave him alone. "Do you know him?" the paramedic asked me. "His name is James P. Jordan." "Is he a friend of yours?" "No, there's his identification. That's all I know about him." From that day on, I quit smoking. I stopped being a phantom smoker. But I couldn't stop thinking about James. I didn't know where his funeral was, if he was cremated, I knew nothing about him, I didn't know what happened after they took him away. Because I returned to my cubicle, back to my life, to work. Part of me wishes I knew where he is to bring him flowers, to see his obituary, and sit there thinking about nothing, just as I did before I met him. Sometimes I miss James. I wish I had known him in life. Maybe we could have been great friends. Perhaps we would have watched soccer or played video games. Perhaps he would have told me about his girlfriend while we drank beer on the roof of my house. Maybe he would have convinced me to fly on a plane to overcome my irrational fear of flying. Perhaps James and I would have been best friends, talking several times a week, and we would have a photo hanging together on a wall. But no, I met the one who could have been my best friend when he was already dead.

*Pilot, please report to the autonomic astronav unit.* I waited for Maria longer than usual. She usually would vanish for only minutes at a time, sometimes lingering to play with another one of the children in the nursery, but eventually, she'd always come back to me, at least for a little while. I haven't seen her all day, which was strange. Today, I turn six in standard years. The nursery was quiet. I usually play by myself or with Maria when she comes she takes me to sit by the window. She balances me on her lap and sings me the names of all the stars we see swiftly drift by us as the space station spins. I can name them all myself now. It's my favorite game to play - who can name the stars first. When I win, she gives me a hug and wipes the smudges of chocolate off my chin or shines the metallic patch on my forehead. We laugh together too. I sat by the window mumbling star names to myself when the pressurized nursery bay doors hissed open. I turned to look. It wasn’t Maria, as I’d hoped. It was the director. She had stern, dark eyes. I had never seen her smile, even though she often spent all day with Maria. Whenever I see her, I turn away, and look out the window and try not to make a sound. I almost shrieked when she tapped my shoulder. “Happy birthday.” she said softly. I looked at her. My eyes were wide and guilty. “Come with me, please.” she said. “You’re not in trouble. I promise.” She took me by the hand. My palms were already sweaty. My hands looked so little in hers. She led me down a long grey tunnel that seemed to wind aimlessly away from the nursery door. I didn’t know this place. I clutched her arm. The world outside the nursery station was monstrously big. Even the windows were bigger. The stars looked further away than I ever imagined. They didn’t have the same familiar spin of the station I knew, and I couldn’t name them all, even as I searched them in my memory base. At the end of the cold corridor, the director finally opened the door to a large room enclosed entirely by windows - no walls. I suddenly noticed my memory base console. It had become impossible to ignore the constant relays. It produced a complete astronav report. “I know where we are.” I muttered automatically. The director cracked the slightest smile. “Do you know where we’re going?” she asked. I was surprised to hear the slightest sympathy in her voice. I gave a timid nod. She put a bony hand on my shoulder. “Good. No one knows this place better than you.” She gestured vaguely to the star-freckled blackness all around. She wheeled around and left, leaving me in the star-room all by myself. I already knew what this was. I used to have a friend. He seemed older than me by a few birthdays, but he would play with me by the window sometimes. We’d sit together and pretend to be light-beams racing through galaxies, transmitting our differential gravity images to one another. We would almost choke on our laughter seeing how twisted a galaxy might look in the other’s eyes when we changed our velocities even slightly. He and I shared the same name - Pilot. One day, the director took him away. When he came back, he seemed devastated. “If I don’t accelerate soon, I’ll be stuck in this nursery forever.” he said to me on the verge of tears. I was confused by this, and I still am. I prefered the nursery to this place. We didn’t play the light-beam game after that. He only played with the older kids, until one day he left with the director and Maria, and I never saw him return to the nursery station again. Through the windows, the stars looked very still. The spinning nursery station had drifted away some distance, but I knew it was there. An array of control panels and displays emerged automatically from the floor. My memory base flooded with instructions. I understood the controls, as if I always had. The holopanels and instrument consoles that towered above me all over the room must have been mainly for display, or perhaps a backup. I could modulate all of them with my head, just by thinking. Another data message flashed into sight: *Pilot, please initiate autonomic astronav protocols* \- *encoding course to Acheron-418c.* A thousand parallel computations sped off in my head, somehow separate and together, like ants on the lunch-bay floor. I wanted to crush them all, all at once. Whatever test this was, I could just fail it, and go back to the nursery and sit and play by the window. I fought to squash all the subroutines that looped in my mind without asking me first. One after the other, the converging optimal-path calculations that crowded my thoughts I whittled to a tolerable murmur. When I did this while playing, Maria or the director came to check on me. Whatever was happening, I could delay. At any moment, someone would come in the door and take me home. I sometimes wonder about my mind. Maria tells me “Your mind is so wonderful and full of stars, Pilot.” My mind really is so malleable, especially after my memory base was installed. I could memorize a galaxy in an afternoon, sitting on Maria’s lap at the window. Watching the universe spin around us, no part of me felt metallic. I knew where I was. “You’re like a ray of light that became a boy!” she’d say as I recited differential stellar quadrants on her lap. The memory base display on her forehead would blink green when she smiled, matching the color of her eyes. Thinking of that always made me feel safe, even here in the lonely pilot chamber of an interstellar frigate, awash in the glow of endless familiar and unfamiliar stars. All steadily accelerating. Soon, I could no longer see stars, only wispy lengths beside me, flashing into view and fading far behind. The world was strange only for a moment until I sensed the unmistakable touch of galaxy-bent space. The computations had stopped. My mind was mine and only mine now. I remembered my idle day playing by the window. It seemed so far away now, and strangely purposeful, as I weaved through starry spirals in wide effortless arcs - blue-shifting starlight, and inky wells of hot gravity. I always knew where we were. But each moment, we were further and further from the nursery.

The man thought he would like to become a writer, but didn’t think he was well read enough. He ordered some books. Some were from the Amazon best-seller list, others he picked from a forum post: 100 BOOKS TO READ BEFORE YOU DIE. He cherrypicked the shorter books with a page count of less than or around two hundred pages. This, he theorized, was the best way to get through as many books as possible in the shortest amount of time. He picked books from a variety of genres, but none too old. He would read these books two at a time. He would balance a novel and a book of short stories, or a book of essays. He would read the biographies of great men. When a book was done he would tick it off on his GoodReads profile (which he would set up) and pick up another. He would use various items for bookmarks - receipts, playing cards, dollar bills - but never an *actual* bookmark. He would go to great pains to never fold a corner or crease a spine. He would line the completed books on a shelf and occasionally make a mental note of how many there were. Previously abandoned books, including a fat Wordworth Classics edition of The Brothers Karamazov sat in a stack on the coffee table. After a time he would be ready to write, but what to write on? He had a laptop he used in his old job, but the screen was a whopping seventeen inches and when the graphics card was under duress the large fans would produce a steady drone. The laptop was full of messaging apps and games and other distractions. The weight hurt his knees after prolonged use. Not to mention the association with work. He didn’t want writing to be ‘work’. Best to find something smaller, less distracting. Something with no internet and a better battery (for long sessions in the coffee shop). He Googled for the most spartan notepad app, recalling an article he read about George R. R. Martin and how he used a DOS processor for all his work. The man made a mental note to keep a constant supply of backups, versions. Then there was the problem of where to write. He cleared the miscellany of the study into the spare bedroom, armfuls at a time. He rotated the trinkets on the sills and shelves, dusting beneath each in turn. Lint listed lazily in the daylight as the man vigorously vacuum-cleaned right into the corners, sweat shimmering on his red neck. He filled garbage bags until there was no more room in the can outside. He wiped down the old school desk and arranged a lamp, an ipad dock, a coaster with ‘COFFEE IS THE GASOLINE OF LIFE’ recessed across it. Then the problem of *what* to write. He bought a moleskin notebook with the intention of writing down minutia and trivia. Observations. He picked one that slipped easily into his jacket pocket, for rapid retrieval. He considered buying a hip-flask for the other pocket; after all, the best writers were also irresponsible drinkers. Maybe he could develop a habit and fast-track himself to Hemmingway status? Or perhaps he should be more mindful of his intake? Healthy body, healthy mind. He stocked his fridge with vegetables and bought flax and chia seed from a health food store. He made a couple of smoothies but struggled getting the ratios right. Instead, blended apple and kale congealed over a lake of coconut water. He grimaced as he drank, and spent the afternoon sucking kale flecks out of his gums. His wife comes home at around 5pm and he is already preparing dinner. She asks how his day was and he replies ‘productive’. An hour later, with the plates soaking in the sink, they collapse onto the sofa and watch TV. The show ends, and the great Netflix algorithm recommends another, then another. He dozes to the gentle tones of Bob Ross. As 11pm approaches they proceed up to bed, single file, turning the study light off as they pass. As he slips into unconciousness, the man thinks that maybe he would like to become a painter.

Shelley knew to keep quiet; years of conditioning will do that to a person. There was little to take- there never was, when you rarely even feel like a guest at a new address you learn not to burden the space with stuff. “Shelley, are you packing?” the question didn’t need to be asked but her Mother was in full panic mode. Time was always of the essence when they were moving. “Yes, nearly finished, Mum” but as the last syllables left her lips, she immediately regretted them. Thoughtless, thoughtless Shelley. Shaking her head, she knew she had made an error. Words were like bombs in these high-stake situations and she knew better than to drop them when her mother was already so close to losing the last of her sanity. “Nearly finished, Shelley for Christ sake, I asked you two hours ago, how can you only nearly be finished?” She could hear the sigh telepathically as even her teenage hearing couldn’t pick that up from downstairs. Nonetheless she could visualise her mother’s lips purse as the air escaped. She could visualise her prematurely wrinkled face screw up in fear and misplaced anger. Misplaced as she knew that Shelley was not the reason, they were in such a rush, knew that Shelley’s behaviour hadn’t ruined a perfectly good home. Shelley knew better than to retort or add a match to a situation drenched in gasoline. She hadn’t always been so reserved, in fact at points, she had been downright cavalier. But, shouting, bitching wailing, only extended the inevitable and in most cases, led to her misplacing or forgetting the very few possessions she had attempted to collect. For years she had struggled to contain her temper, to bottle the emotions that bubbled from their childish to hormonal ways, but any behaviour can be learned if it is practiced enough. The hands on the clock were acting in a way contrary to the laws of physics. One minute Shelley felt that time was dragging and the next time she looked half an hour had passed. It was currently in the former of the two. She sat amongst the three lowly bags she had packed, the ruins of another failed address, another failed attempt, another failed series of promises. Glancing at the slowly moving hand on the clock she realised that it was past any semblance of dinner time. Darkness had shrouded them and this time not just because the electricity had not been paid. Lets be honest a bar bill often necessitates being paid over lighting when the landlord is 6 foot 4 and built like a semi pro wrestler but her mother had always liked to keep the lights off when they were doing their midnight flit. Shelley could hear her mother bordering on the frenetic downstairs. Cupboards were being shut with increased loudness, her movements back on forth from the rooms becoming more chaotic as she bundled up the last three months of a home. Three months of stability that was always teetering on an edge of the consequences of a shoddy gambler. It was always going to end like this, history had never failed to repeat itself, but they were all falling into the chasm once again. “Shelley, come down here your father will be home any minute- he won’t want to wait around” of course he wouldn’t - he never does. When you’re running from your present and your past you tend to want to do it at pace. “Coming” Shelley uncrossed her legs, thankfully before the pins and needles had fully set in. Looking around, for what would be the last time, she realised she had liked this place. It was much better than most of the places before, when black mould would creep up the walls, permeating everything it touched with its ever increasing growth. The ceiling had also been intact which, again, was a nice surprise. You cannot take clean and dry sheets for granted. Picking up the bags she moved down the stairs. Down to the turmoil that surrounded her mother. The disaster that her mother had tolerated and been a participant in. I’m sure she felt that she was doing her best, keeping her family together, but could you keep something together that was so fractured industrial glue couldn’t even fuse the cracks? Downstairs bags were strewn near the front door ready for the fleeing exit. There would be no goodbyes from neighbours just skid marks on the road being the last memory that they had resided here. In fact, I’m sure the neighbours didn’t even know their names. When you move as often as her family did, it was always best to not give a forwarding address. It makes those unpaid bills that bit harder to be repaid. “Shelley, thank god, your dad is on his way, help me move this picture” of course there was a picture to be moved. Her father’s fury could always penetrate plaster board. Thankfully they had become resourceful in fixing and mending in short time frames. If she ever got to finish her education, she could always look at career in interior design. As the picture was finally adjusted her father walked in. His permanent odour of stout and Marlboros trailed in behind him, like a ghost of his afternoon. Shelley was quiet once again as she helped her mother move their pitiful belongings to the car. Her father, as inept as usual, stood on his phone shifting from foot-to-foot anxiety billowing from his pores in the same way the cigarette smoke billowed from his mouth. Not for the first time Shelley felt the hate rise tasting its hot bile flavour at the back of her throat. She knew this wouldn’t be the last time they would flee in the night, but she knew these days were numbered. She wouldn’t be a teenager forever and even if her mother wouldn’t leave, she knew she could, and would. As she got into the backseat of the car it was only this thought that stopped her from screaming.

The steam hit my face as I took a sip from my cup. My grandmother smiled at me sweetly. I looked down into my oolong tea and saw it again. The same thing I saw every time I drank oolong tea. If you didn't know, oolong tea has mental alertness benefits, or that's what my grandma always told me as a child. She wasn't wrong. Only, I don't think she thought I'd see a premonition when I drank the tea. I never told anyone what had happened. I was scared someone was going to throw me into a mental hospital or experiment on me in an illegal government lab. The vision I saw was like a daydream. I can't move, I never felt like I was breathing, and everything felt like it was moving at a snail's pace. The only thing I heard was a flatline. The only thing I saw was my grandmother lying in a hospital bed with 9:13 on the clock next to her. It terrified me. Seeing my grandma and hearing a flatline? No one wants to see or hear it--let alone knowing she's in perfect health and still seeing it? I had it a few times before I stopped drinking the tea altogether. This is until today. September 12th. My grandma invited me over after my classes. She wanted to bake brownies and drink tea. Catch up because I hadn't been there in a bit. I walked inside to see her sitting in her rocking chair. Her brown, leather chair with a red flannel hanging off the back. She smiled at me as she saw me. I sat my backpack down. "Ella, lovely to see you, dear," Mama Rose said. "Hi, Mama Rose," I greeted. "Come sit with me. I was looking at old pictures of your Papa, Joe." I walked over and sat by her. I hadn't noticed the photo book on her lap before now. She was on a page with six pictures on it. The top left was a picture of her and papa on their wedding day. Below it was Mama, Papa, and baby version my mother. They were sitting on the porch and my mom was distracted by something off-camera. The bottom picture on the left was Mama, Papa, and I--sitting on the same porch, and I was distracted by something to my left. On the same page on the right were Mom and me. I was much older and we sat on the porch. We were both looking at the camera. Below it was the same day, just a remade version of Mama, Papa, and I. The last picture was a picture of me next to Mom and Papa's grave. "I miss him so much," Mama said. Her wrinkled finger traced the gravestone in the picture. "How about some tea, Mama?" I asked. I got up and made a pot. "You know, your Papa loved watching baseball?" Mama called out. "He just adored you when you started playing." "I played just for him, Mama," I called out as I waited for the pot to finish. "Oh, I know, dear. I'm surprised he didn't know that." "I was horrible! He still cheered for me." "Your own personal cheerleader." I let out a laugh. The pot hissed once it was finished. I grabbed two cups from the cupboard and poured the fresh oolong tea into them. I placed Mama's sugar in one and mine in the other. I took the cups over to where we were sitting. I gave her, her glass. She took a drink and I hesitated. Mama set her cup down. "You know, Ella," Mama said. "When I drank my special oolong tea for the first time, I saw a man lying in a bed. For many years it scared me because the man was dying. I didn't know him, but I felt him die when he took in this deep breath." I gave her a confused look as she continued, "--and for many years, I didn't know who that man was." "Who was it, Mama?" I asked. "It was your Papa Joe." I was stunned. She saw Papa's death like I was seeing hers? "I'm guessing you're seeing someone else die, too?" She asked. I gave a nod. She smiled. "I'm glad I'm not the only one," she said. "Your mother never wanted to drink the tea." She let out a sigh that turned into a hum. "I should get some sleep," she said. She closed the photo book and stood up. She put the book back on the shelf. There were rows and rows of photo books. "Good night, Ella," Mama said. She walked off. "Good night, Mama," I said. I took a sip of my tea and saw it again. Mama dying in the hospital bed. I thought nothing of it and went back to my dorm. I took my nightly shower and went to bed quickly. I woke up to a disturbing call late in the night. Well, it was 1 in the morning. Mama was taken to the hospital. I quickly put clothes on and rushed there. She was already on oxygen. I looked at the time and it read 1:34. Nowhere close to 9:13. Time progressed and Mama wasn't getting any better. The day had gone by. It was 11:50 pm. I was more confused than ever and even so, she didn't die at 9:13 am or pm. Time was ticking. Mama reached her hand out to me. I took it. "I'm ready to see Joe again," she said. Tears started falling down my face. "I miss him so much, Ella," Mama told me. "Mama, stay with me," I begged her. "I'm not ready to lose you yet." "Yes, you are. I love you, Ella. I love you so much, dear." "I love you, Mama." Mama took a deep breath and the monitor let out a flatline. I started sobbing and I saw the time. 11:59. A doctor ran in and did something. I was too focused on Mama's face. A tear had slipped down her face. "Time of death," the doctor announced. "23:59, 9/13."

I look out the window of the truck that was bumping along the dirt road, the bulletproof glass covered with pearly drops of rain. They danced down the glass, maneuvering and merging with other drops. Despite everything, I grin, laughing as they trickle down and I trace them with my finger. As I feel the wind from the baton rushing against my ear, I stop smiling and suck in a sharp breath, the baton crashing against my skull. My face turns into a grimace, allowing them to gag me and tie me up again. Warm blood trickles down my face, wanting to be like the drops of rainwater on the window. But rainwater isn’t red and sticky and thick, and rainwater isn’t what’s dripping on my white uniform right now. I keep wondering. Why am I here? This is a prison, strong as that of Alcatraz, in which I am being held captive. I feel something else on my cheek, mingling with the blood, salty and flowing. Tears, I guess. I hear a mutter from one of the armed guards accompanying me, something like sissy. I’m not sure though. My breathing is shallow, my eyes watering and my forehead gushing blood. One guard hits me in the back of the head with the butt of his rifle, then I don’t remember the rest of the ride, seeing as it is spent unconscious in a potato sack. When I wake up, I go to rub my head before remembering the biting pain of the zip ties around my wrists and ankles. I squirm, trying to maneuver my wrists out of the binds. My hands grasp blindly for anything, *anything* that I can cut myself free with. I fiddle with a round knob on the floor, it feels like a doorknob. I scoot forward a bit, pulling upward on the handle as soon as the guards look away. I begin to fall until I’m able to find a handhold on the rock wall. I feel a sharp pain as one of the rocks scrapes on my arm, then I get an idea. I scrape my zip-tied wrists over the sharp stone, over and over again, until I feel it loosen and fall off. I grasp the wall, trying to feel for cracks in it, though not succeeding. I continue to fall, my arms scratching against the wall, bleeding. I hit the ground with a thud and a few cracks. I yelp out in pain, my teeth grinding with the impact. My eyes water. My dirt caked cheeks quickly turn to mud covered, tears slipping and sliding and making patterns through it. I pull out the messy bun the guards had called ‘prison protocol’ before they had started to laugh hysterically at the alliteration they had created, and I use the elastic to hold my hair in a braid. Despite everything, I won’t let them stop me from getting out of here. From seeing the family that I don’t remember, the one they erased from my mind, just as they had my name. They were calling me Kid or Girl, but not by a name. Then I remember. I remember it all in a burst of light that illuminates not just the tunnel, but also the black hole of my mind. I am Roselia, I don’t have a family. I crawl out of the tunnel. *I’m not that person anymore,* I decide. I’m not going to be Roselia. From now on, I’m Delilah Clarence. My sister's and her ex-boyfriend’s name. But no one needs to know that, and no one ever will. Because no one knows them. The same thing here, though. No one ever will. I mean, that’s why I was there. I killed them.

Left or right? left or right? I have played this game a hundred times. Which way do I go? where can I hide? No matter my choice he always seems to be there, waiting. He’s too fast to outrun, and even when I hide he can find me within seconds. I’ve only been able to fend him off so far by accident. The last time he caught up to me I was able to grab a handful of hair and scratch at his face. He scurried away quickly, but will have recovered soon, he heals too quickly to do any lasting damage. I must make the choice while I still have the time. Left or right? To the right is the long hallway. That direction could lead to temporary shelter in one of the openings along the way, but that is only if I can make the stretch of the hallway without him finding me. If I go left the room opens up, and there is more room if I need to defend myself. However, the floor can sometimes be slick, it’s impossible to tell if there will be water on the floor. Right. I’ll go right. I’ve gotten faster I can make the length. I hear a noise behind me. Could it be him? Has he recovered yet? I can no longer hear his labored breathing. I turn to go right but as I do, I see a shape out of the corner of my eye. A shape twice my size, moving at unbelievable speeds. In desperation I turn left I head towards the open room, rushing around the corner as fast as I can. I see an opening, a pathway out of the maze leading to open air. If I make it before he catches me then I can escape. As fast as I can I move towards the opening hoping that he doesn’t see me move, hoping that I’m quiet. I can see freedom, I can see green, I see my way out. I put on a final burst of speed and slam headfirst into a glass wall. The sound of my body crumpling against the glass is loud enough to draw attention. His body emerges from the shadows of the room before. His eyes are wide, and his crazed grin gets even bigger as he lets out a laugh of delight. This is it. There is nothing I can do. Head still aching I try to stand, using the glass wall as a support. If he is to get me then I will give him a fight. I stand on my shaking legs, trying to rise with dignity. My heart pounds as he races toward me, I barely have time to raise my hands in front of my face when I feel the full force hit me. I am pushed to the ground, his body crushing mine. The weight is impossible. I cannot move. In desperation I find my voice- letting out a cry, hoping beyond hope that someone, anyone, will hear my voice. A scream fills the air. “What’s going on over here?” A woman walks into the dining room and sees her children on the ground in front of the screen door. Her toddler jumps off his sister and looks away shame-facedly. “Benjamin, how many times have I told you, Baby Gwen is too little to wrestle with. Look, you hurt her, she’s crying because you scared her,” The mother says as she scoops up the bawling infant in her arms “Saw-ee Mama,” The boy looks apologetically at his mother “No, don’t apologize to me, apologize to baby,” “Saw-ee Baby” “Thank you buddy, now please, be more careful next time”.

IN THE KEY OF F-MINOR (7th) The city blocks of seventy story (and higher) skyscrapers collapsing from the shock of the pulsed wave cannon resonated at 21.827Hz, if only for a brief moment. It was a low hum, but it was a strong foundation to build with. The miles of automated vehicle assembly plants; 29.956Hz. But there was a certain angle the phased picowatt laser array had to burn through them, starting at the foundations and working it's way up through the infrastructures three or four at a time. It was a gentle, almost fragile sound. Timing the spin-up of the mass driver was tricky, but it paid off: 32.703Hz vibration frequency as the thousands of tons that had been a section of a mountain, now traveling at twice the speed of sound, devastated the remaining megalopolis. A firm and true note. Something was missing, though. The AI on board the mobile weapons platform tutted as it cycled through it's library of weaponry looking for the perfect device to finish. In the span of nanoseconds, it settled on the ideal coup de grâce . The protective shielding covering the quadruple canisters of missiles slid smoothly out of the way. Each missile contained twenty-four multiple independently-targeting re-entry vehicles, with every warhead armed with a nuclear payload. All four launched in a shallow arc into the stratosphere. As the umbrella of destruction rained down, vaporizing the horizon, the landscape itself shook at a perfect 38.891Hz, a pleading but impactful E flat. The AI hummed along with this perfect chord, satisfied.

My head hits the surface with a loud thud. I cry out as my eyes snap open into a bright, pink light. I grumble to myself as I realize that I’m sitting in my car, clutching my steering wheel. Huh? My head must’ve drooped down and hit the wheel. Did I fall asleep driving again? I glance down and see that my car is in drive, but it’s not moving. I look back up. Vibrant hues of peach and pink paint the dusk sky, with puffy clouds persisting overhead. My car rests on a long road, stretching out straight for miles disappearing into the horizon. Either side of the road are empty, open fields of red dirt. The concrete road looks almost purple from the bright sky. I furrow my brows. I’ve never been here before. I must’ve gotten tired and, not paying attention, drove in this direction. It wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve been spending too much time at the office, and way too much time staring at spreadsheets. But it looks like it’ll be late soon. I need to make sure the team’s presentations are ready for next week. I need to finish working, which means I need to head home. Whatever direction that is. I reach for my purse in the passenger’s seat and pull out my phone. I try to turn it on to use the GPS. But the screen doesn’t light. I press all the buttons as many times as I can before my fingers get tired, but nothing happens. I groan and toss it back into my purse. I guess I’m on my own for this one. I’ll have to drive until I find someone who can help, or something familiar. I mean, I can’t be that far. But I need to hurry. I press down on the gas pedal. The car lurches forward shakily, rolling down the road and rumbling. I hiss. I know my car is old, but I just had maintenance done on it. Why is it doing this to me now? I hit the gas again but I barely go any faster. My car continues to moan as it moves along the long street. I glance back up at the sky as I drive. I try to plot out what I have to work on when I get home. But I can’t focus. Why is it so bright? I know, light pollution is a thing. But I’ve never seen the sky like this before, so vivid and yet so suffocating. It almost looks... fake. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see them. I almost miss it, since I’m staring up at the pink clouds. But I turn just in time to watch a herd of deer galloping in the distance, in the fields off the right side of the road. They look like deer, lean and agile as they trot off into the horizon. But their skin looks almost too rosy in the bright sky, like they’re actually pink, and they move so fast that it doesn’t really look like they’re running. It looks like they’re floating. I blink, trying to force my eyes to see clearer. But as my eyes reopen, they are too far and their silhouettes fade into the distance. I sigh and turn back to the road. As I do, I notice a man crossing in the middle of the street. I slam on my brakes, my tires screeching, just in time to stop my car from crashing right into him. I scowl, lowering my window and sticking my head out. “What’s wrong with you?!” I snap at him. “Can’t you see where you’re going?” The man hesitates, looking at the ground for a moment. He slowly raises his head to me and our eyes meet. He’s young, probably close to my age. His olive skin glows in the vibrant light and his long, dark hair is disheveled, strands hanging messily in his face. He stares at me for a moment before speaking. “Sorry,” he says in a deep, but still soft, voice. “But you didn’t exactly see me either.” I purse my lips. “I saw you enough to stop before I hit you. What’s your point?” “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He nods. “I’m just... confused. I don’t know where I am.” My first thought is that he’s drunk or high. But then my second thought is that I don’t know where I am either, and I’m pretty sure I’m sober. Yeah, pretty sure... I grip my steering wheel, wanting more than anything to just drive around him. But I don’t. I know I’m confused and I know I’m in a rush but... I can’t. I press a button to unlock my car doors. I motion to him. “Get inside,” I sigh. “I’m lost too. Maybe we can help each other.” He hesitates again. He looks around at the wide, empty field beside us, and then down the long, seemingly endless road. Then he nods and hurries into my passenger seat. I lock the door after him and hit the gas again, my car once again rumbling and quivering down the street. “My name is Aydan,” he says as he clicks on his seatbelt. “Oh.” I wasn’t expecting him to tell me his name. “I’m Elena.” “You look familiar.” I bite my lip. I’ve been staring at him out of the corner of my eyes, wondering the same thing. I know I’ve seen him before. From work? From college? From a night out? I don’t know. He’s so familiar, and yet so not, almost like he’s from a dream. “How did you get here?” I ask. “I don’t remember. I just woke up on the side of the road. And you?” “...I don’t know. I kinda just woke up in my car.” Ayden doesn’t respond. But a tense silence now fills my car. What are the chances of us both waking up here, on a road neither of us know? Then Ayden bolts forward, pointing out the window. “Look at that!” I jump, following his finger. He’s pointing up at the sky. The pink clouds move through the sky, like normal... Except, they’re not normal. They’re practically speeding through the air, swirling into each other and changing hues of pink so fast, it almost hurts my eyes to watch. I hit the brakes and stop the car again. Ayden starts to fly forward but is stopped by the seatbelt. He looks at me, eyes wide and confused. “Something about this isn’t right,” I murmur. Am I talking to him or to myself? “Everything feels so fake, like it’s a dream, but I know I’m awake or... At least I think I am.” “Before you found me, I was staring up at the sky,” Ayden says. “And I saw what I thought were really big birds. But when I looked again, they didn’t look like birds. They looked kinda like people, flying up there.” “Then I have to be dreaming.” “No, if we were dreaming, I would’ve woken up when you almost hit me and scared the crap out of me.” I glare at Ayden but he’s unphased. “We can’t be asleep.” I shake my head. “No, I’m asleep. And you’re just a part of my dream.” Ayden crosses his arms and purses his lips. He’s thinking. He then reaches for my purse, digging through it. I gasp and reach out to stop him. But he pulls out a pen and then catches my wrist, holding it tightly. He uncaps the pen between his teeth and then presses the point into my forearm, so hard that it stings. I wince and try to pull away but I can’t. He drags the pen down, a black, inky mark staining my skin. He then lets me go. “See, I have to be real,” Ayden explains as I glare at him. “If I weren’t, I wouldn’t have been able to do that. Dreams can’t hurt you. But I did.” I look down at the black line on my arm and then back up at him. He offers me a small smile and I can’t help but notice that he’s a little handsome. I grin back at him and nod. Yeah, he has to be right. If this weren’t real, I would’ve woken up by now. I press the gas and the car continues onward. “So, why do you think all of this is happening then?” I ask. “Maybe it’s not.” He shrugs. “Maybe we’re both dehydrated or we both got drugged and left here on the road. I don’t know. I just know I wanna get home.” “Me too.” We drive for a while, mostly in silence. Ayden tries to turn on the radio but nothing happens. We both try our phones, and again, nothing happens. The car continues forward and yet, nothing about the purple road changes. It keeps stretching on and on, without turns or dips or hills or anything. The clouds continue to swirl, and I see more deer in the distance again. But this time, I’m not sure they’re deer. I keep remembering what Ayden said, about the birds looking like people. The deer start to look like people to me too. The only thing that changes is the moon. After a few minutes, we start to see it in the sky, though the pink hues don’t fade or grow any darker. As we continue, the moon seems to get closer and closer, like we’re driving into it and not into the horizon. Soon, it looms over us, right at the foot of the road. “Maybe we should stop,” Ayden says. His voice is quieter than before, soft and scared. “We won’t crash into it,” I argue. “It’s the moon.” “Yeah, but I’ve never seen the moon like that before. I’m just getting a little worried.” “You’re the one who said something must be wrong with us. That can’t be real. Besides, I have to get home. And you said you wanted to go too.” “I know, I know... I just feel anxious right now, and I don’t know why.” Ayden continues to complain, at one point even begging me to stop. But I don’t. It’s not even so much that I’m in a rush or the presentation or anything. I just can’t will myself to stop. The moon is now all we can see, a pale pink so bright in front of us, that it’s practically white. I wonder if Ayden’s right, if I should stop, but I can’t get my foot off the gas. It’s like my lower body refuses to move, to listen. As the white is all I can see, I realize Ayden is quiet. I’m about to turn to him, to ask if he’s okay, when a loud, echoing metallic clang fills my ears. I try to scream but no sound comes out. It’s all white. Just everything... white. --------------------------------------------- “Miss! Miss, stay with me!” My eyes flutter open. The first thing I see is the moon, a small white crescent in the dark, starry sky overhead. Someone is carrying me in strong, sturdy arms. An unfamiliar face looks down at me and smiles. “Oh, thank god,” he says with a heavy sigh. “I thought we lost you.” “...Where...” I choke out, my voice dry and hoarse. It hurts to talk. It hurts to move. It hurts to breathe. “You’re off the freeway,” the man explains. He lays me down gently in a stretcher and I wince. Everything just... hurts. “There was an accident. I think you fell asleep at the wheel, miss. But... I guess that doesn’t matter right now. You need to get to the hospital.” Two people lift my stretcher and roll it into the back of an ambulance. I wince and look at their uniforms. EMTs. It’s bright in the ambulance and I groan. I remember the vibrant, pink sky from my dream. I would rather have that then this white light. My dream... Just a dream. “Who was the victim?” I hear one of the EMTs asking an officer outside of the ambulance as the second EMT starts to hook something up to my arm. I look. It’s an IV. “Some poor guy crossing the street,” a police officer explains. “She didn’t even see him. He was a photographer, Ayden Patel. He didn’t make it.” My eyes snap all the way open and I try to sit up. Both EMTs hurry to me, holding me down and talking to me. But I can’t hear them. All I hear are the sounds of my screaming and the name again and again in my head. Ayden? No, it was my dream. Just a dream. The doors to the ambulance slam shut and we speed forward, while I’m still yelling. One of the EMTs injects something into my arm. I start to get sleepy, feeling myself slip into another dream. No, I don’t wanna sleep again. I don’t want any more dreams. As I lose myself again, I look at my arm where they injected me with some kind of sedative. And I see the black, inky mark still trailing down my forearm.

Jake turned away from his mother’s current one-sided shouting match with the driver in front of them. He looked out the window as the phone towers ran past them. ‘Probably to get away from her screaming. Would that I could be so lucky. Too bad they are all chained together or they could escape more easily’ “-maybe you should pray to God for some driving lessons! It’s a miracle that you managed to find the keyhole you moron!” Jake turned to look at his mother’s face. Her lips were compressed in anger. He decided to speak. “Maybe they are having an emergency. Like having to rush to the hospital.” She kept her eyes straight ahead. Her tone was as gritty as the road, “Then why wouldn’t they call an ambulance?” Jake replied tentatively, “Would you be able to afford an ambulance?” She was silent now. He couldn’t tell if it was out of anger or if she was thinking what he said through. He hoped that she was experiencing a rare moment of self-reflection. Her thumbs flexed as she still gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly. The passing fields made a less stressful preoccupation than that, so he turned away again. ‘See, this is why I don’t want to drive. It makes them both so angry.’ He couldn’t bear the starchy silence any longer, “How much longer do you think it will be?”. She flicked her head to his side of the car, “Check the map.” Jake reached by his feet to grab the atlas that was trapped by crossword books and snacks. He leafed through the spiral bound tomb until he came to the familiar highlighted pages. He traced his finger from their last stopping point a little way and held it there as he looked up for a sign to tell him where in this hell-hole they were. There was nothing but fields, telephone towers, and endless road in sight. Jake looked back down. His finger moved across the map but the path wasn’t making any sense. Until he saw that he had made the grave error of a misdirected turn. He felt a surge of adrenaline bore up his spine and spider-web through his head as his eyes grew wide with a sharp sense of terror. ‘Oh, she’s not going to be happy about this.’ He didn’t want to ask, he hoped that he was wrong about being wrong. He dared to risk the question, “Do you know where we are? Which road we are on?” She was annoyed as she said, “35 North. Still.” He froze, and kept quiet as he tried to calm down. Deep, silent breaths. He gave her the right directions. They were still on course. The shards of anxiety slowly melted from his mind. He kept his eyes glued to his finger tip, unseeing, as he heard his mom’s voice. “So? Are we on track?” “Yep.” Jake put the map back in its resting place and decided against asking the time related question again. If the question caused confusion or started a fight, he’s not sure he could handle it after that scare. ‘It won’t be long now. Just have to make it until tomorrow morning at the latest.’ ‘I might as well take a nap; it will help pass the time.’ He brought his knees up to his seat-belted torso and rested his head on the window. He hated how it made his teeth chatter as he closed his eyes and tried to de-stress. The hum of the road was annoying but the seat vibrations were soothing. Time was passing with human silence until his mother pressed a radio console button to continue the cd story that was stopped during the previous driver confrontation. Something about a woman named Charity and a man named Selfish. Jake had heard it many times before on these trips. It was easy to fall asleep to. It was finally peaceful. He could relax. In his dream he opened his eyes and looked into the distance of the fields. There was a large older man there. Bigger than any skyscraper. Jake’s dream knowledge knew that it was God. It’s eyes scrutinized Jake. It reached behind itself and pulled out a rifle and aimed it at the car. Jake thought he could feel his heart beating faster. He felt panic as God raised the rifle to its eye and pulled the trigger. A teeny figure came from the far-off barrel. He couldn’t tell what it was, but it grew closer and became larger until it was half the size of God and was running right for him. It was Jake’s mother. And the imitation was approaching fast. It ran as though the car were a forest boar and hadn’t eaten in days. Its brows were furrowed, its face twisted. It screeched as it chased the car. It stumbled as it rounded the back of the vehicle. Jake turned to warn his driving mother but when he turned his head his face was next to the driver’s side window and watched the monster clamoring and clawing its way to where he sat. He looked down at his hands which were on the wheel. He tried to steer but the car would not let him. It was out of control. He turned his head to see the beast chasing him up the length of the swerving car until it was running right next to him and looking directly at him, so focused and intense. She looked manic. Jakes hands were glued to the steering wheel. He couldn’t move as she punched through the glass and latched on to his wrist. As they wrestled for control, the car became even more out of control, jerking across the road. Jake felt terrified and weak up against this rampaging visage on its warpath. The car was tipping over more with each jerk until it was falling over. They were crashing. He turned from her onslaught to focus on the road. God was Standing there, as big as before. As they thrashed towards it, it transformed from a much older man into a huge Jake. Time slowed down as the giant spoke: “See, my servant will act wisely; he will be raised and lifted up and highly exalted.” Jake’s adrenaline was flooding his body as the car crashed into the road and rolled. He couldn’t scream. His eyes opened. He was in his usual spot of the passenger seat. His mother was still driving. The familiar story form the CD continued on. He knew that his mom saw him look at her. But did not acknowledge it. Did she see him look at her? He didn’t care. He was just glad that he did not mumble or scream, which would cause questions. He could pretend that it never happened. He could pretend that everything was normal. “-kings will shut their mouths beca- beca- beca-.” Oh no. Here it comes. The radio has skipped before. The mother spoke, “work in Jesus’ name.” The radio replied,”beca- se- se- se-.” Her voice grew loud again “I command you to work! I plead the blood of Jesus on this radio. Talk to it Jake, tell it to work. Command it.” Jake put his hand on the radio, like he was taught to and echoed the same words his mother shouted. He tenses as he hears his mother. “You will respect me, as a child of God I command you!” The radio was too afraid to defy his mother for long. Jake wondered if it only started working again to get her to stop screaming at it. Jake leaned his head against the window. There was peace once more. For now, at least.

Backtrack Frank didn’t like himself. He really didn’t. The feelings first visited him at his wife’s funeral five years ago. He realized he wasn’t feeling the way he should be feeling. It was sad and all, but he wasn’t devastated, as if he had just lost his soul mate, the true love of his life. That was because he hadn’t. He sat in the front pew, just feet from the bronze casket, and the sad reality sunk in. Frank had “settled”. Darlene was a good woman, and a good mother, but it wasn’t the true love he had once dreamed of. At his age, Frank knew he wouldn’t have another shot at it, and that was a sad place to be. He caved to family pressure and spent thirty-seven years in a law office dealing with paperwork contrived by others. He hated every minute of it. He took more pride in a rabbit cage he once built than all the wills, real estate contracts, and leases he had drafted. At least he could see the real life purpose to it. Accurate or not, there is nothing in the human experience quite so sad as the perception of a wasted life. He was a loner, not by choice, but by the natural evolution of lack of energy and loss of interest in almost everything. He wasn’t suicidal or anything like that. He was just unhappy, not because of things happening to him, but because of what he done, or not done, with his life and what he had become. It was all made so much worse because he could remember a different Frank, a Frank he did like. Every night would end the same with Frank sitting alone at the kitchen table under a ticking clock with a cup of coffee and a stack of photo albums. Disappointed with his current life, and being too old to have much of a future life, Frank sought solace by visiting a former life, which he recalled as happy. The albums helped him remember who he once was. Frank kept it simple. He labeled the albums Backtrack #1, Backtrack #2, and Backtrack #3, each covering discernable segments of his life, grade school years, high school, and college days. He visited the Frank he found in those pages every night. Unlike many who look at the past with a melancholy sadness, Frank enjoyed the time he spent with the old Frank. Those were great times, and he was a great Frank. He opened Backtrack #1. A young boy stood in front of his garage, disheveled hair, a smudge of dirt on his face, the right pant leg on his blue jeans rolled up to his calf, and holding a worn basketball under one arm. The picture was taken the same day he led the Celtics to another championship. Sometimes he would bounce a pass to K.C. Jones at the elbow, or rifle the ball to Heinsohn who would hit one from the corner. Most of the time Cousy took it himself, faking out his man and driving hard to the basket. Taking care not to hit the electric wires hanging over the basket, Frank developed his three-point shot before there was a three-point shot. He hoped he’d end up playing for the Celtics, but he’d be okay with a spot on any NBA roster. Dreams are so much better before they are unfulfilled. The alley looked so small. How could they have done so much in such a small place? The venue was narrow, the asphalt cracked and pitted, but it was Wrigley, The Garden, and Lambeau to those boys. It was all they needed for an outfield for whiffle ball games, a basketball court at the hoop on Cortzen’s garage, and a football field between the two telephone poles, the same poles that served as the goal and outer boundary for the games of “Ghost” at night. There were so many kids in the neighborhood. Frank could always round up enough bodies for some kind of a contest. It was such a good time, such a good place, and Frank liked going back there. Frank loved the picture of him holding his racers in front of the warming house at the town’s ice rink. He had to coast into a snowbank to stop, but those cold winter nights were the best. He would call Weather right after supper every night hoping the temperature was below 32 ̊ so the rink would be open. He would meet Cherri there. Even with the thick winter gloves, it was exciting to hold her hand as they skated in circles to the scratchy tones blaring out of the old loudspeaker hanging on one of the light poles. It was all the more delightful as his parents never knew the reason for Frank’s sudden interest in outdoor sports. Frank could name every kid in the picture of his 5 th Grade class. He remembered muffling cries of anguish whenever his good buddy Billy Sandler kicked him in the shins when Sister Mary Martin had her back to the class. No one ever understood why, but that’s what Billy did. It hurt back then, but Frank laughed about it now. They played with a mini football in the blocked off street at recess. Frank was always the first one picked, and he would play quarterback. When they weren’t playing football, it was Four Square, Red Rover, or just acting goofy. Frank liked recalling the carefree days of just being a kid. His mother kept most of his report cards, A’s and B’s across the board. Funny how a 77-year-old man can still take pride in that. A quarterback with top notch grades, not enough fingers for all his NBA Championship rings, and a girl’s first love. It doesn’t get any better than that. Frank closed Backtrack #1, and poured himself another cup of coffee. He opened Backtrack #2. He wished he didn’t have his eyes closed in the picture, but he was happy the local newspaper photographer snapped that shot of him hoisting the league championship trophy his senior year. The box score was posted right next to it, and his mom had circled his 17 points in red. He must have been embarrassed at the number of pictures his mom was taking at his Junior Prom. He cut a handsome figure, and the girls were all so beautiful. Judy was beyond beautiful. Every time Frank looked at those pictures, he smiled as he remembered his father’s final admonition as he left the house- “No drinking and keep a lid on the moochie-moochie stuff.” Frank was a fun guy back then, steep in mischief, and clever. He was the undercover guy who planned, organized, and assisted, but never got caught. Henry Hooper got busted, but it was Frank’s remote control fart machine that poor Henry was holding in the picture. He was the one who talked Dick Larson into riding his motorcycle up and down the school hallways, and even held the door open for him when blasted his way in, but he was never connected to the prank. The memorable day the aging Miss Helstern ran screaming out of her classroom, Frank’s little brother was missing a hamster. Frank liked that high school kid and his sense of humor, the boldness, the creativity, and the good sense to never get caught. The program from the high school talent show his sophomore year was bittersweet. Frank played the guitar-sort of. He and a couple of his buddies fancied themselves as the American version of the Beatles. Benji on the organ totally lost his place, and then the speakers went out. The group garnered lots of laughs with only a smattering of sympathy applause from some parents. His dad called him Elvis for the remainder of the year. Frank now laughed louder than anyone in the audience that night. Report cards weren’t in the album, but his grades were always solid. As he crept closer to the real world, he sensed a professional basketball career was no longer a certainty, and he started to contemplate more cerebral options. He had the grades and resources to consider a wide variety of possibilities. It was like “Anything Can Happen Day” on the Mickey Mouse Club Show that he watched as a child. Frank was in the starting blocks. He could go anywhere. He could be anything. He could be a doctor, a lawyer, a writer, a scientist, a photographer, a veterinarian, a pilot, a sports reporter, anything. That is the beauty, the wonder, of the teenage years. One is free to imagine doing anything, of being anything. Frank loved visiting the guy who had the ability to dream, and every night Backtrack #2 put him there. Frank was tired, but he needed to spend just a little time with the guy in Backtrack #3. Those bothersome green leaves of summer were falling all around Frank, and he felt like he deserved, needed, the smiles to linger just a bit longer. Frank opened Backtrack #3. He almost couldn’t recognize himself in his track uniform. He couldn’t make the basketball team, but hard work can get you a spot on a small college track team. Shaggy long hair, a moustache, muscular shoulders, and tanned, toned arms and legs. Man, you were one good looking guy, Frank. At first, track was only his fallback sport, but Frank learned to love the comradery, the competition, and the trips around the Midwest. He ran the 880 and the mile, and he had a nice four-year career. Frank admired that guy's efforts and accomplishments. He remembered his dad telling him there was no better status in life than that of a college student, and Frank learned he was right. The party photos weren’t always the most flattering, but what the heck, they were college kids. Roger in a toga passed out on a park bench in front of the firehouse. Who took that picture?! Frank got him up and took him back to his dorm. The fraternity snow sculpture was disqualified for being “tasteless”. (Frank told them it wouldn’t fly.) The basement beer pong “battle to the death”. It was all so stupid, but it was so much fun. He remembered the northern pike being bigger than it looked in the picture. Every summer, he and Charlie would head up north for a long weekend fishing trip. Frank imagined himself in that rowboat, holding a cold can of beer, soaking in the sun, while keeping half an eye on that oversized red and white bobber bouncing around atop the glistening waves. If that wasn’t heaven, it had to be the next best thing. Some nights Frank would substitute a cold beer for the coffee. It helped put him back in that boat. Matters of the heart turned more serious. Frank was that incurable romantic who had the deck stacked against him from the get-go. Finding that “love-at-first sight, true love, soul mate” proved to be more difficult than coming up with a good match, so he remained largely unattached. He dated a number of girls, and somehow a few pictures survived the years and found a place in an album. They were all pretty, and he liked them all. There were parties, picnics, bike rides, canoe trips, the movies, days at the beach, repeated visits to the no entry fee zoo. Keeping it light, there was no drama, no stress, no pressure, no hurt, and it was all good. College Frank could be patient. He was young. There was a whole world of women out there. He knew he would find true love someday. It was a little like “Anything Can Happen Day” again. He could dream of her and what she would be like. That was the best part of Backtrack #3 for Frank. He liked thinking of a Frank at time when he could still imagine the moment he would meet his true love. Frank closed his eyes and blended it all together, that little boy shooting hoops in his backyard, holding Judy close to him as they danced at the prom, and giving it everything he had on the bell lap. It all swirled around in his mind until he could see one pretty good guy. He was proud to have been him. Frank put the albums away, rinsed out his coffee cup, and went to bed. He would get through another day tomorrow, and then sit down at that small table under the ticking clock for another meeting with the old Frank, that guy he once knew and loved.

"Dude! It's gonna be lit! Everyone is going to be there! What do you mean you aren't going?" Kevin was almost yelling. No, actually yelling. I didn't know what else to say, other than shrink under his wrath. "Bro, lay off-" Nick tried to pacify him, but that turned Kevin to the point of near physical violence. Nick grabbed him as he lunged forward and made a swiping motion. "Fuck you! You know how much I stuck my neck out for you to come? I told all my frat brothers that 'He's cool' and all that, and you're going to bail on me? I spent 50 dollars for us to go! Each!" Nick and Kevin wrestled for a little, but Nick was far stronger. He pushed Kevin off of him, and Kevin puffed his chest in rage and looked at me. "Tell me why, at least. You owe me that." Kevin stated "You don't owe him shit, Jacob. You don't want to go, that's it" Nick defended. "It's ok, man, " I started. I stood up and looked Kevin in the eyes. "Look, I'm really sorry. I really did want to go. Tell you brothers that I'm sorry, and I'll pay you back for my invite. But I thought that it was this weekend, not today. I mean, it's the 8th dude, you know I can't." Both of my friends instantly deflated. Kevin murmured "Shit *that's* today?", while Nick took a long exhale. The sudden silence was almost deafening as we all stared at the ground. Kevin raised his head to say something, than began backing towards the door. "Look man, I forgot. I'm sorry, uh, don't worry about paying me back. I got it. And I'm sorry I got so pissed, I, uh, pregamed a bit. If you don't want to be alone, then feel free to come. Wait, do you want us to stay with you this year?" Nick and Kevin looked at me expectantly, hoping this was the year I opened up about the death. It wasn't. I simply shook my head and winced at their collective sigh. I didn't look up, but I felt them squeeze me before I left. I waited like that until I heard the door shut, and their footsteps retreat down the hall. That's when I sunk to the floor, emptying myself of a years worth of pent-up pain and guilt and regret and and.... I wanted to tell them about him, so badly. I didn't want to do this alone. But I couldn't, because the person who died was me. An alarm shook me out of myself. That was all the time I left for grief. I had three hours to bargain for one more year. I went to my bed and slid it aside. Underneath was a inconspicuous gym bag weighed down with century old armor and weapons. What I was wearing that fateful day. I never wore the armor anymore, as it brought too much attention in the modern world. Instead, I simply drew my sword from all those years ago and began to head to the door. I invested in a umbrella shaped sheath years ago, which allowed me to move freely in public. I grabbed my keys and opened the door to find the grim reaper staring down at me. I almost flinched before steeling myself and pushing through the apparition. I walked down the hall and into the elevator. Just before the door closed, and hand forced the sensor open. I almost gripped my sword. To hell waiting till midnight, I'd deal with this right now. However, it was just a group of girls giggling about something. I shuffled to the far end of the elevator and they shuffled to the opposite end. They tried to muffle their conversation but I still caught snip bits as they looked over their shoulders in sneers. "He can't do it this time." "He should just quit at this point." "Why does he even want to live this long? I heard his life *sucks."* I shot the girls a look, but the doors opened at ground level and we all poured out. They began laughing about the party or something, leaving me to believe they didn't know what they were saying. I scoffed and tried to beeline for the door, but I heard Mr.Johnson call out to me. "Oh! Where you heading off to?" I forced a smile and looked back at him. "Ah I just don't like staying in that apartment all night. Gonna go for a drive." I turned to leave, but he didn't relent. "Oh? Well, have fun kiddo. Is it supposed to rain tonight?" "Well maybe! I got caught in a sudden storm once and I really don't want that to happen again." We shared a short laugh and Mr. Johnson rocked back in one of the lobby chairs. "Alright, don't let me hold you back from your date young mister. Just be safe and don't die ok?" I dropped my smile and Mr.Johnson gave a small wink. I turned towards the door as he began laughing at some other joke he heard. I went straight to the car and revved it, and noticed the clock read 11:00. Where...how? Was the elevator slower? The conversation... he was distracting me so I didn't notice him dilating time. Dammit! I'm not ready! I took off down the road, and made a mad dash towards the highway. Last time we had this duel in public, more people died, and I had to relocate completely! I just drove far and fast, not caring about the direction. I was one of two cars on the road. I cautiously readjusted my rear view mirror to watch the driver behind me sway and struggle to stay in the lines. I sped up a little to avoid him, but he maintained our distance. I glanced at him again only to see that he wasn't in my view. Or any view. Where- He hit me, sending both our vehicles tipping off the shoulder. We rolled a couple times before we finally stopped. The airbag almost knocked me out, and I lost track of everything. Where was he, where was I? The umbrella, no, my blade. I looked around, and saw it under me in the passenger seat. That's when I understood my origination; the passenger side was on the ground, and my seat belt was holding me in the air. I unbuckled it and fell with a soft grunt, onto the sheathed blade. I then kicked out my windshield, carefully crawling out on top of the car. That's when my hair began to stand on my neck. Another alarm called out into the night, echoing over the calling cries of the night. It was midnight.

A ragtag group of anthropomorphic cat treasure hunters finds themselves deep in the ancient pyramid that houses Cleocatra’s tomb, trying to figure out how to access the entrance of a hidden room filled with treasure. They’re led by George, who is accompanied by Dr. Bliffy the expert Purrgyptolgist, Amelia their Purrgyptian spelunking guide, and Father Joseph a priest from the Catacan. The group now walked down a long zig-zagging corridor upon steps of masterfully cut limestone. “Before we enter the chamber, I will douse each of you with this holy water to protect us from any evil spirits who may try to harm us.” said the Priest as he pulled out a flask with a cross on it. The cats stood still as Father Joseph flicked the holy water onto each of them as they approached the entrance of Cleocatra’s chamber. Each stepped into the room with their flashlights shining about like spotlights as they licked their fur and meandered about the chamber taking in the awe-inspiring hieroglyphics. Amelia examined the walls. “This is incredible.” “Sure is,” responded George in high spirits. “Hey Father this holy water is quite refreshing, tastes a bit like there are some holy spirits in it,” George said to the Priest with a wink. Father Joseph brought the flask to his nose and sniffed, “Hmm, yes it seems the dishwasher at the Catacan hasn't been doing the lord's work. No matter, these things are a pain to clean.” George walked up next to Amelia looking at the great hieroglyphs, “Well Dr. Bliffy now's your time to shine, what can you decipher?” “Ahhhh let me take a look at my notes,” said Dr. Bliffy, unassuredly scratching his head. “Hmmm I’m not too sure, these hieroglyphs seem to be from before antiquity, possibly the bronze age, when the Furrlistines first appeared in what's now present-day Pawlestine.” “We don't have time for a history lesson, we're about to make some, let me take a look at those notes,” said George. “Oh no, ah, they won't make much sense to someone untrained- '' George, not interested, ripped the notebook from Dr. Bliffy’s hands and then squinted. “Dr. Bliffy what the hairball is this?” George flipped around the notebook to reveal overtly sexual drawings of cat women in lingerie batting at feathers hanging from a stick. “Ah, I can explain, those are just some light doodles,” responded Dr. Bliffy pulling at his collar. George flipped through more pages as his jaw began to lower and eyes twitched, there wasn't a single Purrgyptian hieroglyphic to be found. Only sketches of cat women dressed promiscuously. “Dr. Bliffy where in the hell is your research!” shouted George, his chest rising and falling. “Alright, alright, I'm not really a Purrgyptoligist, I don't have a doctorate, I haven't been featured in the Purr York Times and I didn't go to Yale,” Bliffy responded, his ears and head dropping down in embarrassment. “But I saw your degree!” “Photoshop...” “So you lied about everything on your resume!” exclaimed George. Bliffy shrugged. “Yeah but so does everyone else, I went to Community College for marketing.” George silently unpacked this revelation in his head trying not to blow a fuse, “Could’ve paid the extra fifteen dollars for a background check. Just like my witch of a mother said, it takes a rich man to be cheap.” he muttered through his gritted teeth. “Well, now that the cat is out of the bag I do have a little bit of battery left on my phone. Maybe we could just look it up on Google?” asked Bliffy, attempting to make amends. “Bliffy I maxed out three credit cards getting us here, I got a subprime mortgage I can’t afford for a hunk a shit cookie cutter house on Long Island, alimony for two kittens.” Steam began to shoot out from George’s ears as a manic look rolled over his face. Bliffy trying to butt in, “Listen I-” “Your own mother was cleaning your litter box during the last financial crisis! Do you know anything about inflation?! Do you know how expensive milk is getting?! Or those cheap scratching posts from China! I’ve dumped half! Half my life savings into Catpto Currency and I’m losing thousands of dollars a day faster than I’m losing the love and respect of my children! Please tell me you're yanking my tail!” Bliffy looked at his feet. “I’m sorry George.” “You're sorry?!” “I don't know what to say. I watched a Ted Talk on faking it till you make it and right after I saw your ad online looking for a Purrgyptoligist and thought, hey I want to go on a free trip to Purrgypt.” George sported the look of a madman, “Bliffy you and Cleocatra are going to be sharing this tomb if we don't find her treasure.” he said with a hiss. “I’m sorry I know I'm an idiot, my horoscope said that it was time for new beginnings. I thought this would help launch my career as an influencer.” “A what?” said George, exacerbated. “An influencer, you know, making cat content for social media?” “Your generation is doomed.” said a deflated George. “You're telling me you know about Catpto Currency but not what an influencer is?” asked Bliffy in disbelief. George put his head in his paws. “I read the news, you dimwit.” There was an awkward silence among the four, “So you don't know a lick about ancient Purrgyptian hieroglyphics?” “Only what I read on Whiskerpedia,” murmured Bliffy. “Cat Whiskers Christ Bliffy!” shouted George. “Do not use the Lord's name in vain,” interjected Father Joseph scathingly. “Oh save me your judgment priest we all know you aren't all saints over there at the Catacan.” “You dare insult the Catacan!” exclaimed Father Joseph. “No, I’m just surprised the Catacan let you tag along even though no kittens were accompanying us!” responded George antagonisticly. “Oh so it's a catfight you want is it?!” shouted Father Joseph as he pulled back the sleeves of his vestment. “If you want one you got one alright!” shouted back George fashioning his claws. “Enough! We're here in the tomb of Cleocatra...illegally and if the authorities catch us we are going to Purrgyptian prison for life." The three fell silent as their eyes bulged out from their heads. "Now I don't know if the three of you know anything about Purrgyptian prison but the inmates won’t take kindly to grave robbing foreigners,” said Amelia. “What!?” exclaimed the rest of the group in unison. Amelia shrugged her shoulders matter-of-factly. “Well, I thought I’d fess up too.” “Alright Amelia, welcome to the club!” Bliffy raised out his paw enthusiastically for a high five but Amelia just glared back at the pudgy cat with disdain. “I thought you said the government sanctioned us coming down here?” asked George bewildered. “Yeah to waltz right down into Cleocatra’s tomb to steal her lost treasure?” George was now bouncing around flailing his arms. “We told them it was for an exposé on Cleocatra! That we’re part of CCNN, not that we were going to steal anything! They weren't supposed to figure that out till after the fact!” Amelia scoffed. “You think the government of Purrgypt was going to fall for that, after all that's been stolen from this country? You're more full of yourself than the British Museum, no wonder you invested half your life savings in Catpto currency.” George yelled, “Because of the security of the blockchain alright!” walking up to the old dusty walls of Cleocatra's chamber and scratching them furiously as the group watched on at his meltdown. “Think, think, think,” George said to himself looking over the hieroglyphics. “Just like Mother said, you want something done right do it yourself.” he scratched at his chin. “Ah, I hate it when she's right...maybe I shouldn't have put her in that nursing home.” “Well, we’re here and that's what's important. So any ideas?” asked Amelia. “Yeah, does anyone have catnip and something to smoke it out of?” asked George defeatedly. “Ugh,” said Father Joseph, shaking his head. The four stood around aimlessly. “Well, I'm standing in Cleocatra’s tomb, illegally, with a virgin, a Purrgyptian, and a priest. Huh, that sounds like the beginning of a joke. Well, we know there's a secret entrance here somewhere and it only opens when the correct phrase is said. Said phrase is supposed to be hidden in this room. The problem is our Purrgyptoligist isn't a Purrgyptoligist. So what could the password be?” George said to himself walking over to the tomb of Cleocatra, his brow furrowed. “Ahhh!” he slammed his paw down on the tomb, sending a puff of dust everywhere. “George look!” Amelia pointed to the tomb's lid and inscribed into the stone was a phrase. Amelia looked over it attentively. “Can you read it?” asked George. “Yes, it’s in Purrgyptian, it says, ‘From the dawn to the dusk of time, a word shared by all cats before the fall of mankind, a phrase floating around deep within all our minds...meo-'” Amelia halted putting her hands over her mouth as the hair on the groups backs stood up simultaneously. “It can't be...” murmured Father Joseph, promptly making the sign of the cross before kissing his crucifix and reciting a prayer. “It makes so much sense,” whispered George wide-eyed. Amelia lowered her paws from her mouth, “The one word that must never be said. Banned by every government across the earth. The perfect password to protect her riches from those who’d steal it.” “Well who’s going to say it?” asked Bliffy. “No one! Do you know how dangerous this could be?” snapped Father Joseph. “Not a soul has said that word since the last epoch.” “This could be part of Cleocatra’s curse. It may turn us back into animals or even worse, humans,” said Amelia. All four shivered at the idea. “If life's a dream then that’d make it a nightmare,” said Geroge staring intently at the carvings on the tomb. “But maybe the secret entrance will be revealed and we’ll all be rich.” chimed in Bliffy. George fiddled with his whiskers thinking deeply. “Well, I can't say it,” said Father Joseph. “I can't say it,” responded Amelia. Bliffy takes out his smartphone, “George if you're going to say it give me a heads up so I can get a video, this will definitely go viral but my phone is almost dead.” “I can't say it,” said George. “Why not? Think about it, we'll all be rich!” said Bliffy. “Bliffy the only thing you'll be getting rich from is settlement I’ll have to pay you after I claw apart your face.” Bliffy went silent. Then Father Joseph chimed in, “You know the church could do a lot of good with that money...and you owe me for that wine.” George turned his head with annoyance. "You said that was the altar wine and you drank half the bottle yourself, you didn't have to pay for that!" Father Joseph stuck his chin up in the air. "But the church did." “And you still owe me for bringing you down here,” said Amelia. “Right, all three of you shut it.” George scratched his head again. Thinking to himself, I can't believe my ex-wife is going to get half of this. That's almost a good enough reason to walk right on out of here but look on the bright side, I could pay off my debts, get a house on Nantucket, invest in something less volatile, get that sweet passive income, and retire. What's the worst that could happen, it's just a word. But what if I turn into a human? The thought made Geroge feel like a hairball was stuck in his throat. Ugh. I could be turned into a monster and all of these suckers would get the riches. He continued to ponder. “Unless...I got an idea,” said George. “I can't say it. But what if we all said a part of it at once? It's a four-letter word and there are four of us. We can each sound out a single letter altogether. That way none of us are actually saying it.” The other three looked around at each other and then back at George. “Well you don't make it as an influencer without taking a risk or two, I got nothing to lose, I’m in,” said Bliffy. “So am I,” said Amelia. The three looked at the priest as he turned his head upwards, “Please, have mercy on our souls.” George grinned. “I'll take the M, Amelia the E, Bliffy the O, and Father Joseph the W.'' They all nodded in nervous approval. “Right,” said Geroge, “On the count of three. One, two, three.” “M” “E” “O” “W” They all looked about the room anxiously. “Well, that was underwhelming,” Bliffy said, ending his phone's recording. “Maybe we should try again?” said George. “Do you hear that?” asked Amelia. There was a rumbling sound that grew, dirt began to fall from the ceiling and the ground shook violently. “Look!” George shouted pointing to the back wall behind the tomb which was slowly sliding into the corner of the chamber and as it opened a golden light illuminated the four. “Oh my Lord.” said the Priest who couldn't believe his eyes. “We did it,” Amelia said, mesmerized. “I did it,” said George transfixed on the golden light showering his face, a vision of him sipping on a pina colada, toes deep in the sand watching the sunset on Nantucket ran through his head. “No, no, no, no!” shouted Bliffy. The three snapped out of their respective trances and turned to look at him as he dropped to his knees, phone in hand. “I can't believe this! My phone died! This would have gone viral for sure!

Have you ever heard of the simple physics problem: "What would happen if I dropped a penny from the Empire State Building?". It's scary to think that something as minute and insignificant as a light copper or nickel penny could cause serious damage to someone; penetrate their skull and leave a permanent dent in their brain, perhaps? In reality, it's a lot less deadly. The terminal velocity of this harmless copper or nickel penny is very low (around 30-50mph) - it can only gain a small amount of speed. Therefore, a penny dropped from any height would only cause a mild bruise at most; thousands of pennies could be dropped on a mans head at once and cause no serious harm. A brick however...? That, is a completely different story. It was 6:59pm. Up, high in the sky, on the tallest building in New York - a blood-red brick was found plunging through the air, 1 minute away from a damaging impact with the hard city floor (or soft city pedestrian). It is unknown how this brick got into this predicament, maybe wind, rain and weathering caused it to slowly crack off the building over time? Maybe, a psychotic killer lobbed it over the edge, grinning in joy at the idea of someone far bellow going "KA-SPLAT"? But one thing was for certain: New York would not be the city of opportunity this evening. 6:59pm and 20 seconds. The torpedo of a brick was hurtling down through the sky, slicing through the air like a freefalling skydiver or a deadly nuclear explosive. With every second. No! Fraction of a second, it was gaining life-ending quantities of velocity. Any hopes, dreams, inspirations of the unlucky individual that would cross this murderous being that we call a brick would be crushed - literally. 6:59pm and 40 seconds. After 40 seconds of falling (with style) the brick was looming close to it's final destination. It's target was in-sight and the brick menacingly grinned with delight. This brick was not going to infinity and beyond today. In fact, in 20, 19, 18, 17 seconds it's brief journey through the space that is the New York Skyline would end; the brick could not wait. 6:59pm and 50 seconds. Directly underneath this homicidal brick, was a man. He had a fancy new suit and a dazzling new tie. He was travelling home from work in a particularly gleefull mood as today had been the best day of his life for his career - an exciting new promotion and a luxury, all expenses payed buisness trip. Christmas had come early for the bricks beloved victim but boxing days hangover was coming faster (147mph, to be precise). All he had to do to avoid this catastrophe was take one step forward. 5 seconds left. The man did not move. 4. Not a muscle twitched. 3. Time was running out. Still, no movement 2. Oh no. 1... He stepped forward. The man had narrowly escaped his end, his demise, his death. He was safe! The brick had missed by an fraction of an inch! But the second brick didn't.

Dave Maddison pulled his coat collar up to warm his neck as he walked down rain-sodden Oxford Street in London’s West End. It was Halloween and under his raincoat, he was dressed as Superman on his way to a Singles fancy dress party. His satin cape fluttered in the early evening breeze, draped outside his coat to prevent it from creasing and looking cheap, as he ignored the snickering of passers-by - unaware of the effect the rain had on his exposed cape. What had started as a light flapping of the blue cape, had transformed into the drag of a heavy towel-like material pulling tightly at his neck. As he passed by the large windows of Selfridges department store, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass showing how stretched the cape had become, so he decided to detach it from his neck and carry it instead. Taking temporary shelter under the main entrance to the store, he took off his coat to unzip the cape, wringed it out, then started to put his coat back on when a voice interrupted him. “Trick or treat, mister?” Dave looked toward the direction of the voice and was surprised to see a young boy dressed in a similar Superman costume holding up a plastic bucket in the shape of a pumpkin. Unaccustomed to being approached by a child in the street, Dave looked around for the boy’s parents but didn’t see anyone showing the remotest of interest in the child. “Where’s your parents?” Dave enquired in a friendly manner, but the boy answered the question with another question. “What’s the costume you’re wearing?” “What!? Oh, it’s Superman.” “Just like mine,” the boy gleefully stated. “Yes... the mini version,” Dave jokingly pointed out. “What’s wrong with your cape?” “It got all wet in the rain.” “What rain?” The boy curiously asked. Dave looked out toward the entrance to the store. The street was dry and dull. Nothing like the reflective wet surface he was walking on just moments ago. Shaking off his confusion, Dave shrugged his shoulders. “It must have stopped.” “Hasn’t rained here in years,” the boy vehemently clarified. “This is London, England, young man. It’s always raining.” “You’re funny, mister. We’re in London, Texas, and it’s as dry as a bone, my dad always says.” “Hey, I’m from London, Texas,” Dave exclaimed before an uneasy tremor shook his legs. “...Where is your dad and... or your mom?” “Dad’s away working and Mom’s... Gone.” “Gone where?” “To be with Jesus...” “Wait... You’re out here on your own?” “No... I’m with you...” Dave was abruptly startled by the loud and almost deafening wail of a siren as a police car sped recklessly past the store entrance. A common sound around the West End of London - day and night. When he turned back to resume his conversation, the boy was no longer there. Worried about the safety of a child alone on the streets of a big city, Dave rushed back out onto the pavement, frantically looking up and down Oxford Street, but could not see any trace of him. What Dave did notice though, was the curious reflection on the ground of traffic lights, streetlamps, and the brightly lit shop windows. It was like a scene from a painting - normally found on sale at an IKEA store or a cheap art shop. However, what Dave noticed the most as he felt a chill beginning to form on his neck - was that it was raining. Police sirens continued to wail up and down Oxford Street as Dave headed in an Eastwardly direction toward Bond Street. Sometimes, the sirens seemed to be next to him - other times, in the distance. He inwardly joked about there being a donut sale on somewhere and the cops didn’t want to miss out. However, he quickly dismissed the joke as a form of bigotry against authority. Personally, he had no quarrel with the upholders of law. They were just doing their job trying to apprehend criminals and protect most of the populace against harm. “ Sure, weren’t they just normal people like everyone else ,” he would muse in his best Irish accent - even though he had no connection to anything Irish. “ Eating, sleeping, drinking, loving, and breathing life like we all do, begorrah!” As a young boy, he had been heavily influenced by re-runs of Adam West’s Batman TV series. Dave often professed to have learned his Irish accent watching the character, Chief O’Hara - Commissioner Gordon’s right-hand man. Texas born and raised, Dave considered Britain and Ireland to be the “Auld Countries.” His youthful lack of geographic knowhow placed all the Auld Countries into the same category of people talking funny, so he found great amusement in trying to copy their accents - something he found entertaining in adult life - especially, in the middle of a serious business meeting at work. Whenever he found discussions tedious and boring, the accents came out to play. Jesting aside, Dave’s easy-going attitude endeared him to his work colleagues at his IT consulting company, so his bizarre impromptu behaviour was overlooked in a way that someone would ignore a child trying to interrupt an adult conversation. Although he tried to be likeable, he was too quirky for female colleagues to want to get to know, so single life had become the accustomed norm with him. It was no surprise then, that when the opportunity to attend a Singles party presented itself, Dave eagerly accepted the invitation. In reality, it was a paid entry to an online announcement. To Dave, it was a personal invite that brought a little pleasure to his lonely life. “ Click here for the best Halloween party in town ,” the pop-up ad announced. “ The best DJs, top music, and best door prizes, raffles, and costume competition. Sponsored by iDateOnline.com. Places limited. Book Now! ” Without hesitation, Dave had clicked the button sending him to the payment page, entered his details, paid the entry fee, then printed out his entrance ticket. “ David ...” trailed a whisper from the small alleyway between the two buildings next to him. “Don’t get fooled by anyone at that party.” Stopping to gaze through the misting rain, Dave thought he saw the identifiable outline of a woman standing in the alleyway. “Especially the girls,” the voice continued. “If you ask me, you’re throwing away good money on cheap thrills.” “Sorry...? Hello?” Dave attempted to engage the voice. “They’ll try to entice you with sex...” “Mom...!? Is that you?” “Why don’t you find a nice Texas church girl and settle down?” The voice suggested - as it trailed off into the dark shadows of the passageway. As if that wasn’t disconcerting enough, directly behind him, a gruff male voice bellowed, “Why don’t you leave the boy alone, woman! Let him sow his wild oats - like I did - before you go settling him down into abject misery. Let him be a real man... You are a real man, aren’t you David, my boy? You’re not just a figment of your imagination, are you?” Turning to defiantly confront the voice, a curious scene transfixed his gaze upon it. A typical vintage red London Double-Decker bus silently glided past him. The Conductor, who curiously resembled Cliff Richard - England’s answer to Elvis - leant out from the open rear entry, tightly clasping onto the vertical rail singing, “ We’re all going on a Summer holiday, no more worries for a week or two .” But this oddity was not the thing that caught Dave’s attention. It was the passengers seated on both decks of one of London’s most iconic modes of public transport. They were all dressed as clowns, and all were emotionlessly staring straight back at him, making him feel quite uncomfortable. The sudden tooting sound of an old car horn broke the clowns’ hypnotic hold of him, drawing his attention toward the driver’s cab, where another clown with big red hair and an evil smile also stared at him - while continuing to blindly drive forward. “You are a real man, aren’t you, David?” The clown’s menacing voice carried through the damp night air before another ear-piercing police siren jolted Dave out of his temporary trance. Bewilderedly surveying his surroundings, caused a sense of abandonment to spread through Dave’s mind. In a swift change of scenery, he found himself window watching outside a Walmart store in the USA, observing bizarrely dressed shoppers inside, lining up at the checkout counters. However, something else felt different. The air was hot and humid, and his memory recollected a Déjà Vu moment of something about to happen. Dazed and confused, he stood trying to get his bearings, slightly bewildered as to where he was. “You ok, son?” A man’s voice kindly enquired as he repetitively tapped his walking cane on the ground. “Are you lost?” Dave took a cautious step away from the old man’s towering presence over him. Looking up at the man’s weathered face, he truthfully answered the question. “My Mom’s inside,” Dave instinctively replied while shaking his head. “I’m waiting for her to come out.” “Why’d she leave you out here all alone?” “She always does when she needs to shop in a hurry. Says I’ll only slow her down.” “Is that so...?” The old man’s bottom jaw pushed upwards in a disbelieving expression as he pondered Dave’s explanation. “How old are you son?” “I don’t know... Twenty-seven, I think.” “You think...!? Hell fire, son! Your momma not teach you numbers?” “I know my numbers!” Dave snootily retorted. “Do you?” Taken aback by the boy’s arrogant attitude, the old man lifted his cane, pointing it at Dave. “Where you from?” “...London...” “Huh, you don’t say... Well, that makes sense. You got no Walmart down there, do you...? Just a one-horse stretch of highway on its way to south of the border... Well, this here is Brady Lake, Texas, and we expect a certain politeness from our country-folk visitors... London, Texas, huh? I’d expect that kind of attitude from the people of your town’s namesake in England... How’s your geography, son? You do know your atlas, don’t you?” “None of your business,” Dave impatiently replied. “Well, I see your momma never taught you no manners, young man. You’d be wise to show some respect to older folk, coz someday you’ll be just like me. A bent over, crippled fuddy-duddy with nuthin’ better to do but stick your nose into other people’s business - just for conversation.” “I ain’t never getting old!” Dave defiantly bleated. The old man smiled at the young upstart stood before him in his Superman costume - a passing thought of what kind of upbringing this kid is getting , travelling through his head. “Well, you’re on your own now, young man. Your momma just sprinted out the door carrying what appears to be... a painting and an armful of clothes. Looks like she’s forgotten about her precocious little Superboy.” Dave quickly swivelled to see his mother disappearing into the sparsely-lit parking lot, headed for a beat-up old car at the far end of the property. “You best use your faster-than-a-speeding-bullet powers and fly away to your momma’s loving arms, now... Go on... Scoot, before that overweight excuse for a security guard catches his breath...” Without hesitation, Dave turned to scurry away after his mother. “It’s a long walk home to your London, Texas,” the old man shouted into the distance, while mumbling to himself as he shuffled off into the store. “Open twenty-four hours. I figure most folks in here are taking advantage of the all-day cool air. We’re in for a thunderstorm, I’d say. I can feel it in my old brittle bones... Yesireebob , lightning will surely strike tonight...” As Dave ran as fast as his legs could take him, a surprising heavy shower of cool rain abruptly splattered his face, causing him to stand still. Suddenly realising he was back on Oxford Street in the middle of Oxford Circus with traffic passing both sides of him, he headed to the dry shelter of a nearby shoe shop’s covered entrance. Out of breath, he slumped to the floor against a wall, placed his cape in front of him, and with knees up, cradled his head between his hands. Trying to make sense of everything that had just transpired, his private evaluation was cut short by the sound of several coins clicking as they dropped onto his cape. “Down on your luck, mate?” An English accent interrupted. “Are you real?” Dave innocently asked without looking up. “As real as they come, mate.” “Where am I?” “You’re sitting in the entrance to the Nike store.” “No, I mean, what is this place...? Who do you see?” “...Well, if it weren’t bleeding Halloween, I’d say you look like a nutter. But, I can genuinely see Superman in trouble, and we superheroes must stick together, yes?” Raising his head, Dave took in the tall man’s appearance. Covered from head to toe in a black costume, the tall, dark stranger loomed over him - his black cape fluttering in the rainy breeze. “Lucky for you,” the Dark knight added. “I’m in the business of saving people, and you look like you need saving... Reggie is the name, but you can call me... Batman.” Reggie extended a hand that Dave weakly shook. “Dave...” “No, mate. Tonight you are Superman. Now, tell me what troubles you.” “...I think my mother has died...” “Thinking’s not the same as actual...” “...She’s died, yes... She’s dead...” Dave affirmed. “Sorry to hear that, mate. Was it unexpected?” “She got shot by a security guard.” “My goodness. That’s very sad... How did it happen?” “She was shoplifting from a Walmart store back home in Texas... There was a guard. He was too fat to chase her, so he pulled out his gun and shot her in the back.” “Jesus, mate. I’m so sorry for you. What did she steal to deserve such horrible treatment?” “Some clothes, I think... and a framed print of a colourful rainy night in London - with a bus packed with circus clowns.” Perplexed, Reggie cocked his head to one side, remembering something. “That’s weird and funny at the same time... No offence, mate. The circus is in town. I saw them earlier driving around in a chartered double-decker. The old Route Master bus - if I’m not mistaken. Full of clowns. Even the driver was dressed as one.” “...I’m not going crazy, then? You saw them?” “...Twice!” Feeling an overwhelming surge of sadness and joy pass through him, Dave burst out crying and laughing at the same time. “That’s alright, mate. You let it out,” Reggie consoled him. “Let it all out...” Wiping his sodden face, Dave got to his feet, handed back the coins to Reggie, and nodded his appreciation. “When did you receive the news about your mum?” “...Fifteen years ago.” Surprised at the passage of time since Dave’s mother’s passing, Reggie took a moment to sum up the situation. “...and you were there, weren’t you...” Dave’s lips tightened like he was stifling another crying outburst - preventing him from verbally responding, so he just shook his head instead. “What about your dad? Is he still around?” “I lost touch with him years ago. He drives Greyhound buses across the country, so he’s never in one spot for too long.” “...It’s grief, mate. What you are feeling... A powerful force. It’s like a container holding all the emotions associated with the sense of loss. Denial, frustration, anger, seeking God, guilt, despair, and depression and finally resignation... They are all phases of grief. I suspect you’re at the latter stage of it.” Dave looked into Reggie’s eyes, searching for answers from his newfound oracle. “How do you know so much about me?” Dave asked, with a hesitant feeling of trepidation - not yet sure of what was real or not. “I’m Batman, mate. I’ve seen a lot of things on some of the darkest nights in the city... I’m also a grief counsellor. I come out here every evening in search of lost souls looking for clarity. Just so happens there’s a special Halloween group meeting tonight. Free tea, biscuits, and candy for all who attend... Why don’t you come along? There’s a nice big bar of comforting chocolate for the best costume...” “I was heading to a fancy dress party,” said Dave, reluctantly. “Not that one for Singles, advertised on the Internet... the what’s it called...?” “iDateOnline.com,” Dave interjected. “Yes, that’s the one! Tell you a secret... I bought a dodgy ticket as well... Ah, that brought a smile to your face didn’t it...” Dave bashfully acknowledged the lightening of the moment by bowing his head and kicking at a spot on the ground. “Look, tell you what... Our meeting starts in ten minutes. What say, you come along and join in. Most meetings last one hour. Plenty of time for Superman and Batman to get to the singles bash, yes?” An agreeing nod from Dave lit up Reggie’s face - who, triumphantly struck the spread-leg pose of a superhero gluing both hands to his hips, before reciting the iconic 1940s Superman cartoon series introduction. “It’s a bird, It’s a plane, it’s...?” Dave quickly joined in with, “For truth, justice, and the American way...” “...Ohhh, they’ve updated that motto, Man of Steel,” interrupted Reggie. “...and it’s so appropriate for this moment,” he teased. “They have?” Muttered Dave incredulously. “Indeed, they have, mate.” “Well, what is it?” Asked Dave excitedly. “It is now...” Reggie began with a preposition as he placed a friendly hand upon Dave’s shoulder, then launched into a short soliloquy. “... For Truth, Justice, and a Better Tomorrow ... How cool is that, hey Superman?” “Yeah, that’s cool, Batman,” Dave replied with a tone of solidarity ringing in his voice. “...For a better tomorrow, one can only hope...”

The first day Zakka had met Nneka, he was attracted to her curvy figure, but didn’t think of having anything to do with her because, as a soldier on the battlefield, he was a walking corpse. He could die anytime. But he could not leave there, where he met her--a cave. She squatted in front of an emaciated boy, about three years of age, giving him water from a water-bottle she had found among the kits of a dead Biafran soldier several meters away from the cave. The boy seemed to have some difficulty in drinking the water. The first time she had thrust the bottle into his mouth, some of the water poured down his bony chest and then trickled uphill to his bloated stomach. She removed her head tie and wrapped it around the boy’s sunken buttocks. She didn’t like the way his skin sagged like there was no flesh--only skin covering the bones, and the way his shrunken penis hung between his thin legs. Nneka shivered as she heard some grasses crunch under foot behind her. Zakka had been standing there for some time as she attended to the boy before he took a few steps closer, his rifle in hand. “Your brother?” he asked as she turned towards him, holding her breath. Nneka shook her head, her eyes fastened on his hand holding the rifle. “You have been here how long?” She didn’t answer him. Zakka had just lost a partner some hours ago. His partner, though an igbo man, was fighting on the side of Nigeria. He had seen a ripe guava and scurried to go pluck it when he stepped onto a buried mine that exploded under him. Zakka had shut his eyes tight at the deafening sound of the explosion. By the time he opened his eyes, his friend had been ripped to shreds of flesh and warm, sticky blood. “What’s your name?” he asked her. “What do you want to do with my name?” “Nothing. I just want to know.” “Before you shoot us?” Zakka looked at the boy’s sunken eyes and brown hair. He looked around and then dropped his rifle, moved closer and stood right in front of her, almost stepping on her foot with his old boot. “I hate killing people.” “But you have been killing us.” She noticed his eyes settled gently on her cleavage. She quickly turned and adjusted her breasts. Zakka moved towards the boy and took his feeble hand. He wiped away some tears from the corners of the boy’s eyes with his other palm. Nneka turned and looked at him. “Where is your family?” She pointed at the boy. After a long pause, looking at her flat nose and full lips, he said, “I’m sorry.” She scratched the side of her large hip without a word. Suddenly, he moved towards his rifle and picked it up. Nneka looked at him with no sign of fear in her eyes. As he was about to leave, she asked, “What’s your name?” “Zakka.” “When will you people stop killing us?” “I’m sorry I can’t answer that question--you go tell your brother, Ojukwu, to stop the war. He...” Tired of standing, the little boy sat down on the ground, his thin legs stretched in front of him. Zakka made to walk away, but she called him back. He paused, turned towards her. She brought out two coins from the hip pocket of her gown and stretched a hand towards him. “In case you see food anywhere, please help us buy.” He glanced at her palms. The coins were a two-and-a-half Republic of Biafran shillings each. He wondered where she had been since the war started, that her light skin still seemed to glow. “I am not coming back here.” With her hand still stretched towards him, she said, “Just in case you do.” Looking straight into her eyes, he dropped her hand gently. “Keep it. You will still need it.” He glanced at the boy and said, “When I find some food, you’ll see me. Otherwise...” He then walked away. Meanwhile, in his village, Gbakunta, there had been heavy ominous cloud covering everyone. The apprehension that hung in the hearts of the villagers was so palpable one could carry it like a hoe to the farm. Zakka, who had ‘confessed’ to being a wizard, fled when amuamua were leading him to go dig his grave where he would be buried and burned alive. Nobody had ever heard of such a thing--that someone escaped from the hands of amuamua. The chief priest said that Zakka had only invited a curse that would wipe out his whole family--all of them would die one after the other and Zakka too would not live a day longer from the day he had escaped from the village. Prior to Zakka’s escape, people were dying in droves after bouts of stooling and vomiting. This had gone on for weeks till when some elders went and consulted with their family chief priest and he advised they needed amuamua to cleanse the village. So, in the dead of the night, amuamua went round the village, chanting. Hours later, Zakka appeared, mumbling around his father’s compound. And then the amuamua surrounded him. His mumbo jumbo was interpreted as a confession of witchcraft--which he said he was the one who had killed his two step-brothers. In the morning, he was taking round for all to see as one who had been causing the ‘mysterious’ deaths in the village. His punishment was that he would gather all the firewood needed to burn him alive after he had dug his grave the size of his height. But Zakka had escaped and when he learned that the Nigerian army was recruiting soldiers to fight the secessionist, he willingly joined, hoping that it would take him far away from his village where they must be searching everywhere for him to kill. Amaka was on the ground, crying. Her little friend was dead. This was the closest she came to really feeling the loss of someone. Her father, who was a rich businessman, was not at home and most of her family members had fled for their lives when some Nigerian soldiers invaded their community in Afor Umohiagu village, near Owerri, shooting and throwing bombs. Amaka didn’t see any of her family members bombed or gunned down and could only remember running haphazardly amongst other confused and terrified people. She did not know where her family members had run to. She didn’t even know how she got to that cave. But she picked the boy beside a dead woman while wandering along the way. She never asked the boy if the dead woman was his mother or sister, and the boy never said a thing to her all along. She had been with the boy in that cave for only 6 days, but she was devastated when he died. Not just because he died, but because she thought about how the death of her own family members would meet each of them--would they die of starvation like her little friend? Or thirst? Or gun shot? Or air strikes? Because the enemies had no mercy--they bombed refugee camps and even hospitals. The boy’s death also brought her face to face with her own death--how death had become so ubiquitous on the land just because some two coconut head soldiers disagreed. She didn’t care about their reason for disagreement. She only wondered about how life, as she knew, suddenly evaporated into thin air--no, not thin air--how life became so confused, uncertain, bloody, and meaningless. “He is dead?” Zakka asked, standing behind her with his rifle hanging over his left shoulder and some food items in a small old sack. She turned and faced at him, her eyes red and glistening with tears. He walked up to her and took her into his arms gently. “I’m sorry...” Her nose touched the strap of his rifle, and then she looked up at it. “I’ve brought you guys some food.” After a long silence, she said, “I don’t want food...” “I’m sorry he died, but I love his kind of death.” Nneka disengaged from his embrace and gave him a curious look. “It was a peaceful death, wasn’t it?” He said and almost smiled. She wiped away tears with the back of her hand... Meanwhile, the place darkened from the quick gathering clouds above the sky. “His flesh and bones are together, at least. They wanted to burn me alive where I came from. I escaped only to come and join this... I have seen my colleagues’ hearts riddled with bullets. Some had their flesh scattered all over the ground like over-ripe banana in the hand of a toddler.” She folded her arms tight across her breasts as it drizzled. “His wasn’t a peaceful death.” She said. “It was slow, painful and hopeless.” For the first time, he didn’t have the right word for her. He looked at her quietly as the downpour caused her gown to stick to her curvy figure. She wiped away some rainwater from her face. “Please remove this.” She said, looking over his shoulder. His heart began racing under his rib cage. He searched into her eyes. She nodded, as though she understood what he was trying to say. He dropped the sack and began to unbutton his shirt. “No, not in this cold weather. I meant the gun. I don’t want to see it.” He paused and looked up. “So God is bringing us rain--no more miserable thirst.” She held the strap of the gun and slid it down and out of his hand. She dropped it faced down against the wall of the cave and then drew him into her arms. “It’s for our protection -- the gun.” He said and ran his hands over her thick buttocks, feeling the lines of her panties. As she reached for his button with her right hand, Zakka shrieked, blood splattered on her face, clothes and around the cave. “Bastard wanted to rape her!” she overheard a husky voice say in Igbo, before she saw two blurry figures brandishing their rifles and one of them dancing in the rain.

I went to summer camp when I was a kid. My mother saw an ad online and insisted on it--this great, big, family-owned place tucked between some mountains in the Adirondacks. Summers in my small Vermont town were dull and uneventful, and though this was an attempt to fix that, I wanted nothing to do with it. Not because of the outdoors or anything. I didn’t mind being bunked in a dusty cabin, packed with strangers and spiders, without bathrooms or electricity. Nor did I think I was too cool for the silly games and activities proudly displayed on their website. It actually seemed fun. I just felt guilty having any sort of experience without Lily. She’d only been gone a few months. Cities and towns rushed past my window, growing few and far between. The wooded northern roads led us into a long stretch of evergreen tunnel. I gazed silently out the window, doing nothing to hide the bad mood I was in; I was a soon-to-be teenage girl who, on top of having her first fight with her parents, had just had her first period. The last thing I wanted to do was sit in the car with them for two hours. I’d sometimes catch Mom’s eye in the rear-view, but she remained unusually silent. The mother I knew would have spent quite some time reviewing the dangers I could have faced that summer. Things like ticks, sun poisoning, bears, or becoming one of the two hikers a year who go missing in those six million acres. But there was none of that. Not even a word from my dad, who was always good for a laugh. I’d hardly spoken to either of them since Lily. I didn’t even wave bye when the ferry took off for camp. A thin white haze covered the water that day. I stared out over the side of the ferry as we drifted into it, face turned to the breeze as I pressed against the rail. There were two dozen other girls and boys on that boat, and most of them seemed to have already known each other. Some were chatting excitedly beside me, while others zoomed past in a game of tag or in search of other familiar faces that would light up when found. I took it all in, hopeful of what the summer had in store. The charms of Lily’s bracelet clinked against my wrist in the misty wind. Shuttle busses met us on the other side of Lake Champlain and drove small groups at a time down the winding road that eventually led to Burntwood Grounds. I was of the lucky few that had to wait for the last one to double back. The longer I spent on that bench by the dock, slouched against my bag, the more anxious I was to get there. I daydreamed of all the fun I might have, clinging to Mom’s promise that this place would feel like home soon enough. When my shuttle finally arrived, I took the very first seat and watched the others file in to the very back, wondering who, if any, among the group would be my friend by summer’s end. I imagined Lily sitting in the empty seat beside me choosing my next best friend. That’s exactly the kind of thing she would have done. But then I felt a knot in my gut, so I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see her see all the fun I was having. After driving through an old, small town, whose bricked factories had long since shut down, we were treated to breathtaking glimpses of the Adirondack mountains, rugged and impossibly large. We couldn’t see some of their tops above the overcast, and eventually lost complete sight of them as the shuttle barreled down the forest road that lead to the camp’s entrance. We stopped at a seemingly innocent gap in the trees where a large branch-lettered sign pointed us inward: WELCOME TO BURNTWOOD. Beyond was a dirt road that ascended just slightly, as though taking you up to an entirely new world. I could feel a shift in gravity as we rolled through. At the end, the trees opened up once more and spit you out onto the largest field you’d ever seen. A single golf cart sat markedly in the distance. The other ferry-goers stood around a campfire beside it. They all perked up when they noticed the last shuttle approaching, watching as it dropped us off just a short walk away. Two girls by the fire clapped their hands and squealed at the sight of their friend behind me; she shoved past to go hug them. Counselors in bright orange shirts greeted the rest of us, gasping over how much everyone had changed since they’d last seen each other. I noticed several eyes pass over me and move on to someone else. It was clear that everybody knew everybody around here, and that I wasn’t yet one of them. An older gentleman with darker skin and a goatee stepped forward with his hand held high to get our attention. The pin on his shirt read “Simon.” His voice was deep, with a hint of an accent I couldn’t place. “Okay everyone, listen up! Now that you’re all here, and your bags are off to inspection, let’s take some time to catch up, make a s’more, or two--but not three!” He shot a comedic glance at one particular boy, alluding to an inside joke that I was on the outside of. He paused for laughter and then continued, drawing out his words in a slow, dramatic fashion as he paced back and forth, waving his hands as he spoke. “But first! I just want to say a few things before we begin the 46th summer here at Burntwood Grounds.” The crowd erupted into applause. Simon stood by with a grin and waited. “Yes! Forty-six summers of love. Love for each other. For ourselves. For nature. We are all truly blessed to be here--this, you know. But what you may not know is that things here are not always perfect. Just like each and every one us. There are parts of us beneath the surface--parts we may not like. Parts we deny. Maybe parts we aren’t aware of. Parts that make you who you really are, yes, but parts we can improve upon. Which is why our theme this summer is *self-discovery and growth*. Understanding who we are, for all the good and all the bad. Searching within ourselves for our true identity and embracing all parts of it so as to discover, not just who we are, but who we truly want to be. Find yourself. Love yourself.” He let the words sink in. A group of older kids in front nodded their heads and muttered a phrase under their breath that the rest of the group then repeated. It reminded me of church. I shuddered at a vision of Lily’s casket at the altar. “Now...” Simon concluded with a clap. “Who is ready for the best summer of their life!” The crowd cheered and broke into an excited frenzy, grouping up with the friends they hadn’t seen since last summer. I took a seat on a log by the dying fire, invisible among the buzz. Another girl my age sat down on the other side and poked some life back into the embers, preparing herself a s’more as the fire gasped and was alive once more. I tried not to look when she dropped marshmallows onto the dirt and put them on a stick anyway. She, too, was sneaking glances my way, and my struggle to avoid it only made it harder to do so. It made my palms sweat. But she didn’t seem bothered. She enjoyed her snack while playfully poking the pit with her stick, moving to a song that must’ve been playing in her head. My tempted eyes lingered longer, noting the many differences in our appearance: her straight blonde hair falling freely over her shoulders while my curly brown locks were hidden inside my bun; her bright green eyes were tempered with a stroke of hazel where my plain browns were dull and tired; her pale, freckly skin was worn with dirt and scrapes where my sun-kissed body was a smooth caramel, clean and moisturized. But the closer I looked, the more I saw familiarity in our distinction, as though created from the other’s shadow. The crackling of the flames grew louder. I heard the girl’s voice call out from behind them. “I like your bracelet.” I looked up and saw her take a big bite of her s’more. “Thanks,” I mustered. “Do you want one?” She was mid-chew, with marshmallow on her lips. I shook my head. I wanted to thank her but then seconds had passed. Her eyes kept meeting mine as she continued to chew. When she finished, she grabbed everything she needed to make another and moved herself next to me. “You’ve never been here before,” she stated, quite strangely. She was playing with the fire again, stabbing her stick in and out of it. “First time,” I said with my eyes to the ground, where my feet awkwardly tapped. The chatter around us was growing louder. I could feel the girl’s attention on me, so I asked, “What about you?” She huffed a laugh as she licked chocolate off her hand. “I was born here.” I froze. The fire hissed at her as she continued to poke it. When she looked at me, I could see she wasn’t kidding. “I’m a Lovel,” she said. “Marcy’s my mom.” My stomach sank further. Was I supposed to know who that was? It was bad enough not knowing a single thing about Burntwood, now I was screwing up the only interaction I’d had all day. The girl could sense my anxiety. It seemed to amuse her. “My family owns camp,” she explained. “I’m Charlie. What’s your name?” I cleared my throat. “Maddie.” Charlie reached down for the graham crackers and marshmallows and fixed herself another. “Maddie,” she repeated to herself. “Are you sure you don’t want one? They’re really good.” Those big green eyes were begging me to join her. So I grinned and agreed, to which she joyfully tossed the bag of marshmallows my way. “This is my fourth one,” she whispered. “Don’t tell. Here.” She held her stick out for me to take, and without hesitating I grabbed it, not realizing it was the end that had been in the fire. It burned my hand worse than I ever had before. I shrieked and stared at the throbbing red mark seared into my palm, shooting a frightened glance at Charlie who was looking guilty as ever, her hands clasped over her mouth. The sea of children surrounding us parted as orange shirts hurried over. Simon pushed to the front, took one look at it, and immediately rushed me onto the golf cart. Gasps and murmurs tailed behind me. As we sped off, the roof of the cart rattling with every bump, I looked back at the receding crowd and saw Charlie wave a sad good bye. I waved back. -- Burntwood only continued to expand, like a web, roads through the trees leading to various village-like sections of log cabins. It was hard to pay much attention to any of it given the pain in my hand. After what felt like far too long, we’d finally stopped at what appeared to be the main area of camp. Two large buildings faced one another, separated by a view of the lake beyond. Simon led me into the left building, through a lobby and into an open recreational space where two women--one young, one old--stood face to face behind a table, in the midst of a seemingly important discussion. The younger woman froze at the sight of us. “Medical,” Simon announced. The younger woman’s face softened as she turned to face us, the older woman’s gaze still on her. A white glow from the day’s overcast sky was pouring in through the window wall behind them, casting shadows of the tables and sofas all around. The younger woman stepped out from around the table. “What happened?” “Sorry, Marce. She was cooking marshmallows with Charlie. Grabbed a stick by the wrong end.” The older woman, whose wrinkled neck disappeared somewhere inside her purple shall, began to walk off but paused by Marcy’s side. “Fix it,” she muttered. “Yes, mother. Come,” Marcy added to me with an outstretched hand. I followed her to an office in back, taking a peak over my shoulder to see Simon with his arm around the old woman, heading for the exit. I had a feeling she wasn’t talking about my injury. Marcy’s office was small and refreshingly cold. Safe to say there probably weren’t very many air conditioned spaces at Burntwood, but the Hemlock Building was easily the most modern area of camp, complete with electricity and plumbing. It was no wonder head staff spent most of their time there. Marcy sat me down beside her desk and pressed a cold rag against my hand. I followed stray streams of drops down my wrist where Lily’s bracelet softly lay, her initials shining from the light above. “So how do you like Burntwood so far?” Marcy asked with a sarcastic grin. Her teeth were perfectly straight and almost unnaturally white. She might’ve been forty but certainly didn’t look it. Her hair, unlike Charlie’s, was brown and wavy, and braided around the top of her head. Her eyes dark, but soft. “I know this place can be intimidating,” she said, “but I promise it’s not as scary as it seems. Trust me. I’ve been here my whole life.” She motioned for me to hold the rag while she searched inside a first aid kit. My attention, however, was bouncing from wall to wall, each heavily decorated in Burntwood memorabilia. T-shirts and bandanas from years past spread open and nailed to the wall. Posters and pictures, and spray-painted trophies. Hiking gear, oars, ski poles, and an autographed hockey stick hung above the door. Marcy was rubbing ointment on my hand when she noticed my stare. “Chris Tremblay. Have you heard of him?” “Yeah!” I gasped. “My dad has his jersey.” “Well, he went here,” Marcy grinned. “Years ago. Just a small little thing like you. Knew nothing about camp. Didn’t want to be here,” she added with a raised brow. “And you know what he said to me on the last day? He said it was the best summer of his life. Cried when his parents picked him up. So he came back the next summer, and the five after that. Even dreamed of being a counselor some day but was too committed to hockey when the time came. After the Rangers drafted him, he visited us before heading down to the city. Said he owed everything to Burntwood. That it changed his life.” She must’ve noticed the skepticism in my face, as she leaned in closer. “When he first set foot on these grounds, nobody knew who he was. And when he left that day, there were kids wearing his name on the backs of their shirts.” I glanced once more at the blue shine of his stick above but didn’t feel any better; the air around Burntwood was still heavier than it was anywhere else. And I was still the fool who got hurt in her first hour there. I winced as Marcy began wrapping my hand, pressing the ointment down for a refreshingly cold sting. When she asked me to sit still, I apologized. “It’s okay,” she chuckled. “Everything’s fine. You’re doing great.” But she could see that I was not. She paused, the roll of gauze still in her hand as she worked through something in her mind. “Can I tell you something?” she said suddenly. “Something not many people know?” I nodded, and she continued, wrapping my hand as she spoke. “The woman who founded this place? She got burned real bad too. Her name was Eleanor. She lived in a shack deep in the woods with her family, many years ago. The man who owned it let them stay there in exchange for work. You know, helping on the farm. Stuff like that. And so for a while, that’s what they did.” The wrap got a bit tight, so Marcy unwrapped a few layers and began again. “It wasn’t a great life, but they had no where else to go. So every day, they worked and did all they could to survive in that little shack. It wasn’t easy. And the landlord didn’t make it any easier. You see, he was a very bad man. He was cruel. He worked them too hard, especially the children. Sometimes he’d withhold food if they weren’t working hard enough. When Eleanor stood up to him, he hit her. Almost broke her jaw.” Marcy turned and rummaged through the first aid kit once more, items jangling inside as she continued her story. “Of course, Eleanor then realized that her family was in danger, and that, despite the food and shelter, she needed to get them out of there. Whatever it took to keep her family safe. So late one night, while the landlord slept in his big, empty house beside them, she hurried her four little ones out into the darkness, carrying sacks filled with as much as they could carry. Food, water, clothing.” She finally found what she’d been digging for, pulling out a small pair of scissors and cutting the wrap from the roll. “It was a very windy night, something that should’ve worked in their favor. But just as they were about to reach the only road out, a gunshot rang loud into the air. And it was *chaos*. Eleanor cried for her children to run, not even realizing she’d been shot. She collapsed, shouting still for her children to escape. Her eldest daughter, Shereen, turned back and saw her mother bloody and struggling. So she went back for her, despite Eleanor’s pleas not to. More gunshots were fired, and the kids were disappearing down the dark road without anyone to look after them. Shereen was holding Eleanor in her arms, watching the life slowly fade out of her.” Marcy dragged the first aid kid closer to her and peered inside, this time taking out a small roll of tape. I waited curiously as she took her time. She taped down the end of the gauze and finished with a gentle, loving tap. “But the landlord showed no remorse. When he reached them, he picked Shereen up by her hair and dragged her over to a nearby tree, where he beat her mercilessly. Slammed her head against the tree over and over. Her brothers and sisters were frozen in the distance, watching in horror.” I watched in horror myself, wondering why on Earth she was telling me this. Her stare had drifted somewhere beyond the wall in front of her, as though watching the entire scene play out. And then, to my surprise, she returned to me with a faint smile. “And then a lightning bolt struck the tree, killing the landlord instantly.” My eyes grew wide, the pain in my hand subsiding for just a moment. For some reason, I was more nervous than I felt I should have been. “What happened to the girl?” I worried. Marcy’s face lit up. “That girl is my mother. And she owns that tree now.” She closed the first aid kit with a snap and rolled out from behind her desk, now directly in front of me. “She turned the most painful time of her life into something wonderful. She built a community for her family and all those in need. And ever since, this place has been blessed with a history so rich and full of love, you can feel it.” Marcy took my injured hand and held it gently in hers. “*You* are part of that history now, Maddie. Your pain is not forever, but the power of this place is. I promise.” Her eyes were glossy and assuring, almost mournful. I wondered if my parents had told her about Lily. I could feel the charms of her bracelet being pressed against my skin, as images of her gap-toothed smile flashed in my mind. Her little face peaking from around the corner. Her style. Her attitude. The way she always defended me. The pink walls in her room. The white walls in the hospital. The way she looked the last time I saw her. “Here,” Marcy said, bringing me back. She held out a couple pills for me to take but then recoiled when I reached for them. “I’m not supposed to give you these so...” She put a finger to her lip and dropped them into my hands. I stared at them, fighting flashes of nurses dosing Lily to sleep. I played with her bracelet as Marcy fetched me a bottle of water from her mini fridge and slid it across the desk. I didn’t move. “Do you need me to open it?” she asked. I shook my head despite the growing sting underneath the wrap. I pretended not to feel it. After watching Lily battle the way she did, for as long as she did, I felt guilty ever being hurt. I didn’t know real hurt. I looked up at Marcy. “Do I have to take these?” She blinked. I expected her motherly instincts to force them upon me and was surprised when she said, “Of course not.” She gestured for me to hand them back to her, studying me as I did so. I wasn’t sure why, but she seemed upset by this, and that didn’t feel good. So I forced a smile and asked her more about some of the things in her office: black and white photos of the early days, contrasted by colorful ones of her and her family at various places around camp; purple pool noodles in one corner and tall tiki torches in another, both part of some camp tradition, as it appeared most things were; and a large stuffed-animal of a blue and white wolf sitting atop a bookcase. It was cute. She was going to tell me about it when a sudden wave of voices rushed through the window; the others had hiked their way over and were marching into the next building. “C’mon,” said Marcy, still eyeing me curiously. “Let’s get you back to the group, yeah?” -- The Dining Hall was far less comfortable than the Hemlock Building. The air was thick and sticky, and smelled of sweat and body odor. About a hundred campers, ranging anywhere from seven to fourteen, were packed into tables that just barely fit their capacity. I could feel sets of eyes from all directions shoot my way after following Marcy through the screen door and letting it slam shut behind me with a loud crack. We stood aside as counselors on stage were attempting to silence the crowd, while Shereen and Simon stood carelessly in the far corner chatting with other seemingly prominent people at camp. I met eyes with one of them, a woman with thick glasses and an oversized crescent moon hanging from her neck. Marcy gave it a moment and then clapped this rhythmic giddy-up kind of clap, to which the crowd repeated and fell silent. I already wanted to be just like her. With all eyes now certainly my way, I was more than relieved when I’d spotted Charlie in the center of the room motioning for me to sit next to her. Her mother gave her a nod and wished me off with a gentle squeeze of the shoulder, Charlie’s grin shielding me from the stares as I shuffled past other tables to get to her. She gasped when saw the wrap I was now donning, half-heartedly hiding laughter from behind her perfectly unburned hands. “I am so sorry!” she giggled. Her voice cut right through the otherwise silent crowd. She didn’t seem to mind the glares from nearby staff. And neither did I; her laughter made me feel better than anything. I sat happily beside her and watched the introductory festivities before us, as the entire staff took turns introducing themselves and then performed a very corny skit as a way to go over all the rules. Bathroom buddies, aquatic safety, hygiene, after hours. In a very poorly acted scene, two young boy counselors pretended to sneak out of bed at night, only to be eaten by the camp monster, the Nightcrawler. “A beast of many forms!” another counselor cried from underneath a black blanket. She was wearing a plain purple mask with two little holes for eyes. It was silly, but the looks on the faces of the little kids in front told me that it worked. As the night progressed, I found myself buying in to Burntwood more than I thought I would have. I laughed at all the dumb jokes and clapped along to the songs I pretended to know, watching enviously as Charlie and her friends belted out the words. I’d never met anyone so confident in their own skin, especially not at our age. I admired her just as much as I admired her mother. I’d almost wished they were my family. Then I remembered what Marcy had said. That I was forever one of them. I hoped that was true. Charlie went on to formally introduce me to the other girls at the table. Whether their early disdain was all in my head, or Charlie had had that much pull, they seemed genuinely excited about befriending ‘the new girl.’ They gave me their own version of orientation over pasta dinner, ranting about the people and all the things I’d love and hate. I got lost when they shifted to reminiscing on previous years, but I listened eagerly and laughed accordingly. When the night ended, our counselor, Sarah, took the nine of us over to the girl’s side of camp. A circle of cabins surrounded a small field and sand pit, with more cabins extending along the water. We sat on the docks where rays of the setting sun fought through the overcast to say goodnight. The mountains beyond looked like something from a painting. We did ice breakers and went over more rules, and when the shuttles pulled up with our bags, it was time to settle into the cabin we would be calling home for the next four weeks. It was just a short walk from the docks, something Sarah assured we’d appreciate on those scorching summer days. After hauling bags heavier than ourselves up a small hill, we reached a large, but otherwise ordinary looking cabin. It didn’t appear to be any better or worse than I’d imagined, but when I reached the wide steps of the front porch, my heart stopped. There was a pretty, floral-painted sign on one of the beams: WOOD LILY. I stopped as the other girls passed. Charlie turned back. “What’s wrong?” she asked. I stared at it a moment longer and shook it off. “Nothing.” “Don’t worry,” Charlie grinned. “Wood Lily’s probably my third favorite cabin.” I looked at her, to which she added, “Out of fourteen. That’s pretty good. It’s not as nice as Pine Palace but at least it has electricity.” Her voice trailed off somewhere beyond me as I stared up at the moths circling the yellow porch light. I wasn’t there anymore. I was dragging Lily’s bag up the hospital steps, my mother at the top walking far ahead of me. I blinked and it was Charlie again. I buried the memory and followed her inside. The interior was certainly nicer than expected. The lighting was dim and there was still dirt on the floor, but overall it was neat and well-spaced. There were bunks lining the wall that disappeared into a back section, and a stairway in the corner leading up to the counselor’s private room. The girls immediately began pairing up and discussing who would get which bunk. I was too afraid to ask Charlie. And I didn’t have to. She took me by the hand and pulled me further inside, to the very back where it turned right and extended into an almost cavernous area. This part of the cabin looked older, as though the rest had been built around it later on. “This one has the best view,” Charlie explained as she climbed the top bunk and dove into it. There was a window overlooking the woods, with a clear line of sight to the river beyond. You could just make out the shimmer of the mountains’ reflection in the twilight. She stared out at it while I stuffed my clothes into the dirty drawers. She’d hardly had anything to put away, as her actual home was somewhere on the grounds not far from here. “You can use one of my drawers,” she offered. She’d spun around and caught me standing idly by my bag, debating whether or not to take Lily’s bracelet off. I hadn’t taken it off since the funeral. Not once. But I wondered if maybe it was time. “Does it hurt?” Charlie blurted. I was staring down at my hands. “Yeah,” I replied. I wasn’t sure which thing she was talking about but it didn’t matter. Sarah went around and checked to make sure everyone was properly situated, and after one final reminder of the after-hours rules (and a strong recommendation not to stay up too late), she bid us goodnight and turned off the lights. We listened as the thud of her footsteps disappeared upstairs, waiting for silence before throwing whispers across the room to one another. We got a few giggles in before her voice called down for us to go to bed. My eyes were heavy anyway, it had been a long day. The growing pain in my hand was a reminder of that, and of the fact that I was having too much fun. This pain was deserved. “Maddie,” whispered Charlie. Her face was squeezed between the bed and the wall, staring down at where I lay. “I’m happy you’re here.” “Me too,” I replied. And I was starting to mean it. I thought that was it, when Charlie continued. “Can you do something for me?” She sounded sad. Even in the darkness, I could see the desperation in her big, green eyes. “What?” She paused, and then said, “Can you sleep on your stomach.” Confused, I said nothing. “Please?” she tried again. “Sleep on your stomach, okay? Tonight, and every night.” I nodded as though this was a casual request. But she didn’t move. She was waiting for me to do it. I rolled over, my injured arm now forced wall-side and without much room for comfort. I could hear Charlie above finally move away, rolling onto her stomach as well. “Goodnight, Maddie.” “Goodnight.” I was very uncomfortable, in more ways than one. This was so unexpected. And strange. But strangest of all...when sounds of Charlie’s unconscious breathing trickled down into my bunk, I didn’t move. I stayed on my stomach the whole night. I didn’t know it yet, but it was a good thing I did.

There is a land where an ancient king formed a new empire. There is a land where a particular method brought about the vision of one man. There is a land where an organization brought about great works. There is a land where the choices of gods dictated the lives of many. The land is called Gala, and within this land a flame burned. It was not a destructive flame. It was not a flame that consumed all in its wake, but it was a small, steady flame. It was a flame that brought about warmth in a cold world. It was a flame that brought many together, and showed many the light. This is a tale of that flame, a faithful flame. Maera spoke quietly to her friend, “That’s the guy,” she pointed to a man sitting quietly next to the fire in the work camp. “Really?” responded her friend. “Yep,” They both took a glance at the man. He was very strange. It wasn’t his short blonde hair that was odd. It was his bright, glowing, yellow eyes, and the fact that he had feathers growing behind his ears. He stared deeply into the small campfire, completely transfixed by it. “So, he was just laying down in the ashlands?” Maera’s friend was having a hard time believing that someone would want to be in the ashlands, let alone lay down on the inches of ash that had covered the area for years. The ashlands were an anomaly of the natural world. The natural order of things called for a renewal of life when a fire burned through a forest. The ashlands had burned down years ago, but no life had come to the area. “Sure was.” Maera brushed her curly brown hair out of her face and continued talking in hushed tones with her friend. The man by the fire was deep in thought. ‘Who am I? I don’t remember anything about who I was. There was something... something about a man. Flame? Or was it faith?’ His brow furrowed, his mind desperately trying to remember something from his past. “Hey you,” The man looked up at Maera. His train of thought was lost. “What’s your name?” The man stood up. “Umm... I don’t really remember,” he confessed. “But you can just call me Sol.” Maera raised an eyebrow. “Sol?” “Yep,” Sol sat back down next to the fire. “What is so interesting about that fire?” said Maera. “You may not see anything, but I can make out a story in these flames.” Sol turned his head slightly. There, directly in the center of the fire. There was something there. Sol reached into the fire. “What are you doing!?” Maera went to stop him, but he had already retracted his hand. Flame circled his fingers and made its way up his arm. “You’re on fire!” cried Maera. “Well, technically the fire is on me,” responded Sol in a very calm voice. The flame went all the way up to his face, and lit the feathers on the sides of his head. They ignited and gave off a bright flame. “Whoa,” his eyes grew brighter. He stood up. Maera and all the other members of the small camp stared at Sol. It was hard not to notice someone who had two fires burning on either side of his head. “This feel amazing!” he had a bright smile on his face “Are you okay?” asked Maera. “I’m better than okay. I feel like I could...” Sol crouched down and jumped straight up, and up he went. He ascended gracefully into the air. Two large apparitions of wings emanated from his back. They spread wide, and gave off a warm glow that the entire camp could feel. Sol flew around the camp laughing and giggling at the experience. It was exhilarating. It was a feeling of total freedom. Freedom from gravity, freedom from restrictions of any kind. He landed back down by the fire. “How did you do that?” Maera was understandably astounded. “I dunno. I just did it.” “Well-” she began, but was cut off by a panicked yell. “Inspection! Everyone, get back to work!” a scout ran into the camp waving his arms. Many of the workers returned to the fields surrounding the camp while others went into their tents. “What’s going on?” asked Sol. “Don’t you know?” responded Maera. “Um, no.” Maera gave an exasperated sigh. “There is an inspector coming to make sure we are working. If we aren’t then we are punished. Simple as that.” “That sounds awful,” Sol said earnestly. “Yeah, no kidding. You should probably hide,” suggested Maera. “He doesn’t know about you, and I’m not too interested in what he makes of you.” “That’s not right. This isn’t right. I should talk to him,” prompted Sol. “What!? Are you crazy!? He can’t be reasoned with!” Maera was absolutely bewildered. “Do you have any idea-” “Alright, how’s camp 368 doing?” There was a short man in expensive looking attire strutting about the far end of the camp, and he was casting a scornful eye at the disheveled inhabitants. Sol and Maera froze. The flames on Sol’s head went out, but luckily he went unnoticed. The man walked into the large storehouses toward the back of the camp and continued his inspection. “Tut, tut, 368. You’re a looking a bit lacking this week. You had a larger harvest last time,” he came to Sol and Maera. “And what are you two doing? I see two sets of idle hands contributing to the lacking supplies.” “They’re always lacking,” Maera muttered under her breath. “What was that young miss?” the man’s tone was deadly. “Nothing sir,” she said. “Hmph. Be glad Pharaoh hasn’t given me a combat form yet,” he stated indignantly. “I could crush you without a second thought.” Sol looked around for some support from the other inhabitants. They just continued to watch, unmoving. “What’s your problem kid?” asked the man. It was then that he noticed Sol’s eyes. “What’s with your eyes? They’re creeping me out.” Sol stormed up to him. “You can’t do this! This is wrong!” The man was taken aback. “You dare lecture me on what’s right and wrong!?” he screeched. The people in the camp trembled at the sound of shouting. “Sir, don’t mind him,” Maera chimed in, trying to subtly tell Sol to shut up. “It’s fine, right Sol?” she glared at him. “No it’s not!” Sol insisted. “I’d listen to her, boy,” but Sol was not backing down. “You can’t do this to people! Who gave you the right?” Sol demanded. “Please, Sol. Stop talking,” Maera was desperately trying to salvage the situation to no avail. “I have been authorized by Pharaoh himself to run this place. Are you going to challenge my command? You worthless whelp! I’ll-” Sol grabbed the short man by his collar and hoisted him up to eye level. “Now you listen here, ya little twerp,” the feathers on the side of his head erupted into flame. “You aren’t going to bother these people anymore. Ya hear me?” The inspector squirmed under his grip. “You’re going to go back to whatever hole you crawled out of and you’re going to leave these people be, capisce?” he thrust the man on the ground. “You won’t get away with this!” the inspector scrambled away. “I’ll have your head boy!” he ran out of the camp. Maera was furious. “What was that for!?” Maera shouted. Sol was confused. “Hey, I just helped you out,” he said. “No! You didn’t! You just made it worse for all of us! Now he’s going to come back and make sure we all learn a lesson.” “I won’t let that happen,” he reassured. “Why are you doing this? You don’t even know us. You just barely got here, and now you’re trying to protect us?” shouted Maera “I don’t need to know you to do the right thing,” he argued. Maera threw up her hands in resignation. “Great, now we got ourselves a hero. Congratulations!” her voice dripped with sarcasm. “What should I have done?” he demanded. “Nothing! You could have done nothing, and we would have been fine. But noooo, you had to go and be a hero,” she responded. An old man walked up to them. Maera paused in her rant. “Young man, we appreciate the fact that you want to help. We have lived in a world where we have had to endure these hardships. Many of us have lost loved ones doing this work,” Maera clenched her fists “but we have lived on. I ask you this, do you truly think you can stop them?” Sol did not hesitate in his answer. “Yes, I believe I can.

Navigation Coordinates J2000 Right Ascension to Saturn (Per the International Celestial Reference System) On board Spacecraft Module ZK8*11, two of Planet Exo’s top engineers sat together in the Goldilocks Lounge going over the day’s findings. EKK-&#@ and SPEC-%^+ studied a year’s worth of data points spread before them reflected in graphs and pie-charts. The table surface doubled as a computer screen. The two had their internal telepathy enabled so they could communicate without speaking. This had the advantage of blocking out other sounds in the area and was especially effective when sharing classified business. EKK-&#@: Look. The data supports our initial theory that Earth is, indeed, a doomsday planet, always has been. SPEC-%^+: Yes, but this is new. See this increase? Tells me there's hope. EKK-&#@: Those numbers elevated when we initiated the study. That shift was a direct result of our researchers’ influence; I’d bet my existence on it. SPEC-%^+: When can we expect a decision from the Elders? EKK-&#@: Anytime now. If the choice is demolition for the greater good, we’ll want our research technicians evacuated. SPEC-%^+: And the alternative? EKK-&#@: Do or die; they have to do better or . . . SPEC-%^+: They can still turn things around. They just have to stop, look and listen. EKK-&#@: For their sake, at least, let us hope they remember how. * * * “Mom? Where’s Zippy?” Chloe yelled from the playroom. Amanda was in the kitchen attempting to get Chloe’s little sister to eat more cereal. “I haven’t seen him. Did you check under your bed?” “He better not be!” There was only one reason her favorite toy would be under a bed; the family beagle, Oscar, had retreated with the stuffed creature to give it a good chew. Zippy was surprisingly resilient and hadn’t sustained permanent damage by way of rips or tears, but Chloe reasoned there could always be a first time. Zippy had become the most popular toy the prior holiday season. This was a product that just seemed to appear in practically every toy and department store across the globe one day and became an instant sensation. Every child either had one or relentlessly campaigned for one. Zippy came in a multitude of bright colors and sizes, no two exactly alike, but they all had Zippy’s signature ink-blue eyes and helmet with double antenna that, when you squeezed his plush belly, would shoot a harmless electric current back and forth between them. The doll also doubled as a nightlight and, if you squeezed his nose, would exude a warm glow. “Oscar! Do you have Zippy? If I catch. . .” Oscar scrambled past Chloe as she entered her room. “Hah! Thought so. Run, you slobbering thief!” She saw one of Zippy's arms beckoning from under her bed. She quickly went to gather her friend. “I turn my back for one second . . . no cuts or tears. Whew, good. But, ugh, slimy . . . gross, Oscar!” Chloe dangled Zippy between two fingers and took him to Amanda. “Look, Mom. Zippy’s been slimed again.” “I told you, Chloe, Oscar doesn’t know any better. If you want Zippy to be out of harm’s way . . .” “I know. I know. I was just brushing my teeth.” “Well, why don’t you try washing Zippy this time? You’ve seen me do it. I’ll bet you can manage.” “Sure! Hey, Zip, how ‘bout a bath?” Chloe pinched the sky blue material on Zippy’s back and flew him with accompanying jet rocket sounds upstairs to the kids’ bathroom that had a step-stool for her to reach the sink. She ran water. “Don’t make it too hot.” Chloe looked around. “Mom?” Chloe frowned. She looked at Zippy; he sat, matted and rumpled, on the towel rack where she’d placed him. She turned back to the sink. “I do not wish to alarm you.” This time, Chloe caught the flash of current between Zippy's antennae out of the corner of her eye. She stared in the mirror before her and focused on her stuffed friend, furrowing her brow. “W-was . . .” “Amanda always makes the water too hot. She thinks she’s neutralizing the proteobacterial content of the canine’s sputum when, in actuality, she’s spreading actinobacteria to further crevasses in my exterior. Well, not mine, per se . . .” Chloe stared at the toy with fascination and trepidation in equal measure. She tried closing her eyes and covering her face with her hands. When I look up again, things will go back the way they were. One . . . two . . . “I simply have no touch, do I? Forgive me, Chloe. May I call you . . .?” Chloe slowly opened her eyes to see Zippy sitting up on the towel rack with his silver space boots dangling and two cloth hands adjusting his helmet. “I’ve never done this, you know.” Chloe turned around. There was no doubt. Zippy was alive, or something along those lines. “Are you going to hurt us?” Chloe’s voice sounded small as she began crumbling. Zippy looked up, alarmed. His electric currents buzzed. “No, no, negative, no. I’ll explain all that I can, but we are here to help you preserve your world.” Chloe took her toothpaste glass and had a sip of water. “You know I’m just a kid, right?” “Negative. You are actually much, much more, Chloe. You are just not aware.” “But I don’t know where to start.” Zippy sniffed his elbow and made a face. “How about a little wash-up?” Chloe took in the funny little creature that had been her companion for as long as she could remember. She sighed. “Bar soap or bubbles?” * * * EEK-&#@ and SPEC-%^+ sat with other covert project personnel around a long oval conference table. The esteemed gathering, made up of the galaxy’s top engineers, scientists, philosophers, and architects, prepared for an important announcement that could determine the next course of action in re: Planet Earth, the Doomsday Planet. * * * Zippy, freshly laundered and blow-dried by seven-year old Chloe, suggested they go to one of Chloe’s secret hiding places to talk more. Chloe packed juice boxes and snack bars in a backpack, placed Zippy in an outside pocket, and yelled to her mother from the kitchen. “I’m going to play outside, Mom.” “Take Missy with you.” Chloe looked at Zippy, who didn’t move. Missy was five years old and Chloe adored her but she could be a handful. Chloe sighed. What am I supposed to do now? Missy, dressed in pigtails and overalls, bounded into the kitchen. “Can I, can I, Coco?” Chloe smiled. “Coco” was Missy’s name for her, coined in the days Missy hadn’t yet mastered her “L” sounds. Tell her it’s all right. Chloe startled. Who’s that? She glanced at her backpack and Zippy. Oh dear, I’ve done it again. I hadn’t told you we can communicate this way, Chloe. It’s called telepathy. If you think something meant for me to hear, I will hear it. All else is private and won’t transmit. Is that acceptable? Chloe, staring at her pack, slowly nodded. “Coco?” Chloe shook her head, clearing it, looked back to Missy. “Oh, yeah, sure. I got us some snacks, Missy. I was going to the clubhouse. You can come if you want.” Missy jumped up and down, clapping her hands. Just as they reached the kitchen door that opened out to the backyard, they heard the clattering of toenails. “Oscar!” Missy knelt to greet the beagle. Chloe smiled, “Come on, boy!” Zippy’s voice in her head said, I must warn you that if I should fall out of this portapack, or whatever you call it, we shall need more communication concerning the matter of this bacteria-carrying lifeform that seems to enjoy defacing defenseless objects. Chloe closed her eyes. Do you always talk this much? Well, actually, yes. I have been silent for quite some time, you know. They were greeted by a warm summer day, the kind of day that you would bottle, if you could, and keep always. Of course, there was nothing to suggest that all was not right with the world, or the universe for that matter. * * * The monitor onboard Spacecraft Module ZK8*11 buzzed and sizzled as it came to life, revealing several galactic guards with their identities digitized. The attendees at the conference table focused their attention on the 5-D screen. “IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT COMING UP - STAY TUNED” * * * Missy wanted to play on the swing set near the ladder to the clubhouse. Oscar playfully barked at her feet as she swung back and forth, giggling. Chloe watched them for a moment before climbing the few steps to the tree-house dubbed NASA Jr. It had posters of planets, constellations and rockets. Chloe sat near a window to keep an eye on Missy. Why now? Zippy relaxed into himself. Why . . . Talk to me? Why now? One of my assignments was to learn your language proficiently and communicate in a way that you will best be able to comprehend the important message we have for your planet, and you. I don’t know what you just said. So, you’ve been alive all this time? Yes. Studying, observing, taking notes, submitting reports . . . Why? What for? Who for? Zippy squinted, looking pensive. Hmm. I might be going too quickly. Wait a minute. Were you watching the whole time I had chicken pox? And the tummy flu? Rest assured, you have been a worthy specimen in all categories. Really? Can I tell my mom about you? Zippy shuddered. We don’t trust adults. None of us do. But my mom’s nice . . . us? Who’s us? The beings where I come from. Exo. How’d you wind up in a toy store? We were sent to study you. Me? Children. In my world, you would be considered a pupae. From our experience and information, the adult of your species is the greatest danger facing the universe today. Oh, c’mon. They’re not that bad. You, in your present state of development, are perfect, Chloe, I don’t expect you to be able to comprehend the horrors that await at the end of your growth cycle. Some of the words you say, Zippy, I really don’t understand. Trust me, Chloe, don’t tell your mom. * * * The monitor remained frozen in the conference room, the pixilated guards hadn’t moved a dot. The words “Stand by” remained fixed on the screen. Low murmurings began to form and slowly escalate among the gathered participants. * * * Chloe heard the back door close, then watched as her mother carried a tray to the picnic table. She heard the tinkling of ice and glass. “Lemonade, girls!” Amanda called. Missy skidded to a stop and ran from the swing, Oscar close on her heels. Chloe turned to Zippy. Wanna come? Wouldn’t miss it. Chloe looked at Zippy before picking him up. Are you ever thirsty? Hungry? No, we stockpile adequate sustenance before we leave the ship. How many of you are there? We are hoping enough to make a difference. “Chloe, lemonade!” What is it you want me to do? Patience, Chloe. I've already given you a lot to think about. Just understand that I want to help, not harm, you or your planet. That's a relief. Chloe joined her mom and Missy at the picnic table. She sipped her drink and barely nibbled at a gingersnap, thinking. “Where’d ya go, Chlo'?” Chloe’s mother was staring at Chloe as intently as Chloe had been staring into space. Missy’s concentration was being used to dip a cookie into her lemonade. Her little voice echoed, “Where ya go, Coco?” I still think you’re wrong about my mom. She’s great; you’ll see. Be my guest. Zippy’s voice seemed to shrug. Chloe reached for a napkin. “Mom?” “Yes, Chloe.” “Do you believe in UFO’s?” “Well, I can’t say I really think about it. There’s enough going on here to fill my attention.” “Do you believe in aliens?” “Not having given any real thought to UFO’s, I would put aliens in the same category. I don’t know.” Zippy entered Chloe’s mind. Good luck. Missy looked up. “What, Coco?” Chloe looked at Missy, puzzled. "What what?" Amanda reached over with a towel to wipe crumbs from Missy’s chin. Missy made a face as her mouth was cleaned. “I heard somebody say 'good luck.' Was it you?” Chloe stared at Missy, surprised. She heard Zippy’s voice again. Ah, see? T he children are all waking up. Missy looked miffed. “Not me. I’m already awake.” Chloe turned to her mother. “Mom, there’s something I need to tell you.” “What is it, Chloe?” “Something is happening, I’m not sure exactly what.” “Did something happen? Can you tell me anything more?” Tell her Planet Earth is at a tipping point. Chloe took a deep breath. “Earth is in trouble, Mom.” “Oh, honey.” Amanda slid closer to her daughter. “That’s really not something that you need to worry about.” “Aren’t you? Worried?” “Have you been watching the news? You have no idea how blown out of proportion things can get.” Chloe sat quietly, thinking. “This is different, Mom. These are things I know.” “Know? Sweetheart, how can you know? You’re letting your imagination run away with you, just like Chicken Little.” Missy dribbled lemonade, giggling. “The sky is falling!” Chloe shook her head, “You’re not listening. How can you hear me if you don’t listen?" Bingo! Missy was still giggling to herself. “Bingo.” Amanda cleared her throat. “Since your father left, Chloe, it’s just been us girls. I think we’ve done pretty well. Remember what I told you? You really only have two things to think about right now. One, be a good student in school. Two, be the best Chloe you know how to be.” Chloe sat quietly for another moment. “What if there is no school?” “Chloe?” “How can I be the best of something if there’s nothing left?” * * * That’s when the sirens began. “Let’s get in the house, girls, now. Oscar!” “Mommy, look at the sky!” Missy was pointing upward. The blue, cloudless sky had been blanketed with thick grey-purple swirls of pending gloom. The edges roiled with static and the low rumble of thunder. They gathered their things and hurried inside. Amanda turned on the television and was met with crackling static from every station. She held her dread at bay as she gathered candles, radio, batteries and settled Missy with a picture book and some crackers. Oscar would be wherever the crackers were. Chloe retreated to her room and closed the door. She sat on her bed holding Zippy. What’s going to happen? The electric current between Zippy’s antenna crackled and spat. The announcement's been made by the Panel of Elders that Earth currently is a doomsday planet. That’s not a surprise. Are we all going to die? Not necessarily. This can all change with certain steps. Did you notice when you said your mother wouldn’t listen? Listening is the beginning of wisdom. You know that, just as your mother once did. She’s lost touch. With what? Herself. Can she get herself back? She’s all there. She just needs to see it. You can’t do it for her but you can help. Chloe’s door popped open. Missy bounced in. “I want to help.” * * * EKK-&#@ lingered after the other project members had dispersed. He looked out into the vastness of space, relishing the natural calm of the universe, glad to play a role in keeping it that way. SPEC-%^+ joined him at the window, handing over a celebratory flute of spirits and raising his. It might be a little soon to celebrate. But our calculations were correct. All the feedback supported it. You know, this study was never about whether earth is headed for self-destruction. The concern’s always been to prevent neighboring or visiting lifeforms from being annihilated along with it. It still seems only a matter of time. So what have we been doing all this time? The adults are still in a state of contamination. Some have potential but, for the most part, the Earthlings have dug a hole for themselves, their own black hole, as it were. Does anyone really believe the under-developed humans can save their planet? Who knows? We’ll need to keep a close eye on them, in any event. With a model ZIP-321 in most homes, they may come out of this intact. Let’s just say it‘s too early to celebrate. Well, then, let’s recalibrate. Here’s to peace and harmony. And high ideals. Cheers! * * * Amanda knocked on Chloe’s door. “Chloe? May I come in?” Chloe grinned at Missy. “Come in.” “The storm’s over. That was so sudden! I’ve never seen anything like that before.” That was just a warning. You should tell her. Missy ran to Amanda and wrapped her arms around her knees. “It’s a warning, Mommy.” Amanda scooped Missy into her arms and kissed her cheek. She then turned her attention to Chloe. Chloe patted the space next to her on the bed. Oscar ran past Amanda and jumped on the bed, wagging his tail furiously and settling in close to Chloe. Amanda sat on the other side of Oscar with Missy in her lap. “You should listen, Mom. I'm not good at explaining . . .” “It’s not you, Chloe. You always amaze me with your super smart questions and wild imagination.” “Not so wild this time, Mom. That’s what I was trying to tell you.” “I’m sorry, Chloe. Life is a busy blur sometimes, for me anyway, and I think for lots of people. I get stuck. If I didn’t listen to you, it’s because I just didn’t have room for anymore.” “Anymore what?” “Anymore anything.” Missy looked up suddenly, stricken. “What about me?” Amanda pressed Missy’s sweet, sticky face between her hands. “There’s always room for Missy.” Chloe appeared to be listening to something. When she looked up, she smiled. “It’s a good start, Mom. We’re headed in the right direction."

It had rained the night before and I had forgotten all about the drying laundry outside. It rarely rained in Autumn, but when it did, the thunder that came tended to aim for power lines. It was not until my daughter woke me that I realized my alarm clock hadn't gone off. "C'mon Dad, I don't want to be late again!" Nell was in such a hurry she managed to button up her shirt wrong. I rose out of bed and yawned as my daughter ran around the house, getting ready for school. Nell was already waiting for me in the car when I got on, urging me to hurry with her eyes. "Dad, I left your sandwich on the table," "Thanks sweetie," "And don't forget I'm going to Ashley's house today after school," Nell said. "Tel Mrs. Davis to call me when you're done," I said. "Okay Dad," Nell answered. The woods surrounding Bakersfield hid our secluded home well and protected it from flooding, however it did little to stop the dirt road leading into town from turning into mud. The track into town took longer than usual, only to be slowed down further due to the almost complete loss of power in town. Most stoplights were turned off, and those with energy flared in and out of existence at random intervals. I parked outside of Nell's school, making sure to fix her shirt before walking her into class. As we approached Nell's classroom, I was preparing for my meeting with the infamous 7th-grade teacher Mrs. Varela, rumored to have been around longer than the decrepit building she taught in. "Mr. Richardson, this is the third time this week your daughter will be late to class. It's at least good you showed up, even if you're late as well." Mrs. Varela said, looking discontent as I had always seen her, standing in front of the doorway to her class. "I apologize once more, Mrs. Varela, my alarm clock didn't go off this morning," I said. She did not look amused in the slightest. "Go on Mrs. Nell, I’ll start class in a minute," Mrs. Varela said as she ushered Nell into her class. "Mr. Richardson, It is my understanding that you are set to take care for your daughter, however I am starting to believe she is the one set out to take care of you" Mrs. Varela continued without letting me speak a word, " I understand you are acting as a single parent, however that does not excuse you from your responsibilities. If you really care about your daughter and her future, I recommend you get your act together." Mrs. Varela said. I had recently lost my job working as an electrician, and with the bills lining up to take pieces of me, I had been forced to take a night job as a security guard at a local superstore. "I will, things are just difficult at the moment." I told her. "I really hope so, Mr. Richardson, have a pleasant day." Mrs. Varela said before abandoning me in the hallway. I quickly left the school, my shift didn't start until 10 pm, so I headed home to get some more rest. When I got home, I went straight to the backyard and put all the still wet clothing into the dryer. It wasn't until I realized the power was still gone that I gave up and headed to bed. I was awoken by the hum of the dryer as it stirred to life. The sun was close to setting, and my stomach craved food. I headed to the kitchen and ate the sandwich Nell had made me. I began preparing Nell's dinner and turned on the television in the kitchen. As I boiled some water, I switched between channels looking for something to watch until I came across the local station covering breaking news. "...appears that two of the three patients have been apprehended. Police are still on the lookout for the third escapee from Bakersfield county psychiatric hospital. We will bring you updates..." I was startled by hissing and turned towards the stove to turn it off. I continued preparing the meal until I was once again distracted, this time by my ringing cellphone. "Hello?" I asked. "Ah yes, Richard, is Nell still coming over today? Ashley hasn't stopped asking since we got home," Mrs. Davis said. "...What do you mean?" I asked. "I waited for her after school but when she didn't show up, I assumed she didn't go today. Wait, it was today right? I always mix up the days." My breathing stopped, but my brain was speeding up. "Richard? Hello? Are you there?" I couldn't process what I had just been told, and when my lungs reached for air once more, I began hyperventilating. I sat down in the kitchen floor, next to the television, Mrs. Davis still on the other end of the line. I began to think of any and all possibilities of Nell's current whereabouts. Could she have forgotten to tell me about an event? Had my late arrival to her school have earned her detention after school? I was beginning to calm my breathing when I caught a snip bit of the still ongoing breaking news. "... confirm that the suspect is one 32-year-old Jane Richardson. She is to be considered hostile and under no circumstances should anyone..." "...Oh god, no," I whispered to myself. It had been raining for the past hour as Jane sat in her bed. She once again began to make shapes out of her padded cell walls as the minutes ticked by. Jane would sometimes see a tree, a pair of scissors, or a face, mainly that of her daughter. It was when she saw her face that Jane's thoughts calmed. Occasionally she would also see *his* face, on dark, decrepit nights, like that night. Jane really tried not to get angry as his face managed to appear in the seams of the padded wall, but she couldn't help herself. The head nurse rushed to Jane's room as she heard Jane breaking down again. As the nurse neared the cell, she spied on Jane through the door, as Jane hit the cell wall over and over with her head and bound torso. The nurse was familiar to the rage poor Jane would exhibit on certain nights. She had seen Jane doing the same thing over one hundred times, and as habit dictated, prepared a good enough dose of medication to get Jane through the night. Poor Jane was never able to let go of her past, from what little the nurse had heard about it. From one day to the next, Jane had gone mad and had lost everything she knew and was now stuck here. At least that's what the nurse heard the other nurses said. As the nurse headed inside, she approached Jane, prepared to lull her to sleep with an injection. At that precise moment, not very far away from the psychiatric hospital, a ray of thunder dashed through the rain. It hit an electricity pole, splintering it into millions of pieces, knocking out power to most of the nearby town, including the psychiatric hospital. Darkness inundated the room as the nurse stood still. Fear began creeping into her. Poor Jane had always been docile, unless it came to her anger attacks. That did not stop the nurse from shaking. It took 5 seconds for the backup generators to kick in, illuminating the room once more. Blinded temporarily by the sudden rush of light, the nurse held her breath as all she could hear was the rain outside. When her vision came back to her, she was met by poor Jane's face, not 5 inches away from hers. That was the last thing she saw before she was knocked unconscious by a headbutt. Jane felt good after being the one to put the nurse to sleep, not the other way around. She then realized the nurse had left the door to her cell open, with no one about until morning to stop her from going after him. Anger fresh on her mind, Jane ran out of her room and headed for the exit she had seen the nurses use to leave at night. It was controlled by a small terminal, which was usually operated by the unconscious nurse in her room. Without knowing how to work the console, and having her arms bound by a restraining jacket, Jane sat on the console, hoping to hit the right switch. She got it on the first try, unlocking some cells down the hall, but she didn't care. All she cared about was getting to him.

Only three days had passed since my father’s funeral. His passing had not been a surprise. He had weathered many battles in his life, but in the end, it was a battle with cancer he could not overcome. I had moved home three months ago to help my mother prepare for the inevitable, but it was her strength I found myself relying upon as she held my father’s hand, and he took his last breath. I watched her smile and lean forward to kiss him one last time, knowing in her heart that he would feel no more pain. Now here we sat, clock ticking in the background. She held a shoebox in her slightly trembling hands. I recognized it as the box my father gave my mother on Christmas 15 years ago. The heels she always looked at in the window of the department store. The ones she had replaced of late with slippers and comfy socks. “Your Father didn’t want you to have this,” she said. I took the box and nervously opened it. Inside was a soft leather pouch sealed with a golden clasp. My heart began to race. I had seen this before. On my tenth birthday my family travelled, for a summer, to visit my Uncle at his estate in Northern Italy. The huge mansion was nestled in the hills surrounding Lake Como and was unlike anything I had ever seen before. Our family lived in the old steel country of Ohio in a town that had seen better days. I can still remember canoeing on the lake and spending hours in the giant library. Day after day I climbed ladders attached to bookshelves reaching the ceiling. Every book I took off the shelf, from The Time Machine, to Journey to the Center of the Earth, was a first edition as mint as the day they came off the press. It was in this place I first saw the leather pouch I now held in my hands. I was under a desk, trying to coax my Uncle’s cat out from behind a stack of books, when my parents and Uncle burst through the door. They were speaking in hushed tones. My father, who was a gentle man, had a look of fury in his eyes I had never seen before or after that day. He shoved the pouch into my Uncle’s chest. “Stay away from my Son,” he said. “How can you keep this from him?” My Uncle retorted. “It drove father mad and I fear it is doing the same to you,” Father said. Suddenly, the cat darted from its hiding spot, knocking a book to the floor in its haste. My mother turned and ushered them both back through the doorway. We were on a plane the next day and It was the last day I saw my Uncle. I opened the pouch. Inside was a faded envelope filled with $20,000, a golden pin shaped like an infinity symbol and note that read: If you are reading this, it must mean your father has passed. I am truly sorry that your father and I could not resolve our differences before his death. I only hope that you will give me the chance to make things right. Here is a small token of my sincerity. Use this money to settle your affairs and return to Italy to claim what is rightfully yours. P.s. the pin was your grandfathers. Never let it out of your sight. The cryptic note made even more confusing by the series of strange symbols scrawled across the bottom of the page, β Ħ f Ω Ŏ ∞. “Your father always wanted to live a simple life and he wanted you to be your own man and make your own way. He never wanted you to be burdened by the trappings of his family’s past,” Mother said. I felt a lump beginning to form in my throat. Something about the symbols sent shivers up my spine. They seemed familiar, although, I had never laid my eyes on them before. “I can say no more.” Mother said as she stood to leave. “You are a good man. You will make your father proud and do what your Uncle never could.” She kissed me on the cheek and made her exit.” The next day I was paying off the debt incurred from my father’s funeral and purchasing a first-class ticket to Italy. I had never held this much money in my hand before and I had also never spent so much money in just two days. At the very least I will get my chance to travel abroad in style I thought to myself, hoping that the strange dread I was feeling in the pit of my stomach was only pre-flight jitters and not an indication of things to come. Italy was everything that I remembered and more. The architecture and lush landscape meant so much more to me now that I appreciated the value of the rustic nature of history and culture. It was springtime and the blossoms accentuated the sweet, albeit alien, scent of the countryside. My mind wandered to playing, in the garden of my Uncle’s estate. It’s funny how smells tend to transport us through time to another place entirely. The house looked as though it had been plucked from time. It was a perfect mixture of old-world style and modern chic. As I stepped out of the taxi, I made a mental note to begin learning some useful Italian phrases. Luckily, the generous tip I gave the driver was a universal thank you. I stood staring up at a large gate and pressed the intercom, but before I released the button the gate began to swing open accompanied by an unmistakable buzz. The estate was immaculate. The grounds were perfectly curated, but nothing could dampen the sense of lonely emptiness nagging my every step. The woman who opened the door was tall with perfect posture and an all-business countenance. She would have been intimidating if her smile didn’t diffuse the tension. “Welcome to your new home,” she said. “May I take your things to the bedroom?” I fumbled with my luggage. “No worries, I can manage,” I tried to sound firm. “I insist,” she replied. She reached for my bags and began to make her way up a grand staircase. She paused. “If you’re not too tired, the answers you seek are waiting in the library.” She turned and continued on her way. I was tired, but also intrigued. The profound mystery of the previous weeks had been in stark contrast to the entirety of my life. I made my way to the library. The large doors creaked open, pouring midday sun into the dimly lit hall. It was nothing like I remembered. The stacks of one of a kind first-editions were gone. What decorations deemed of great importance, once occupying space on the shelves, were now replaced by hundreds, maybe thousands of well-worn notebooks and journals. Not a single book remained. I reached for a notebook with frayed edges and began to flip through the pages. Page after page was filled with the same strange symbols from my Uncle’s message, the handwriting an undoubted match. Every book I grabbed was the same. I began to make my way up the winding cast iron staircase leading to a prominent desk and a terrace overlooking the lake. The desk was a dark wood covered in ornate carvings. The elegant drapes lining the opening to the terrace slowly swayed in the breeze, yet despite the grandiosity of the room, my eyes were immediately drawn to the black leather notebook sitting on the desk. The distinct crack of the leather spine filled the room. It read: Dear Nephew, the true history of our family might seem outlandish. I beg you to keep an open mind. You come from a long line of scientists, although, at one time we were called alchemists and madmen. Despite the judgement of those who did not understand our science, we persevered in our singular goal; to control time itself. The symbols I have provided to you in this notebook are the fruits of those labors, but of their exact origin I can only speculate. These symbols, when arranged in the proper order, open a gateway through time and the key is the pin you now have in your possession. When one holds tight to the small trinket and completes the necessary equation they will be transported to the time of their choosing. How far back is only limited by the strength of your will. Your grandfather used this tool to amass the great wealth I have left in your name. As for myself, I first focused on frivolity and then in my later years, on the collection of knowledge, but heed my words. Dabbling in the art of time manipulation comes at a cost. With every journey into the bowels of time a single ripple was created and upon return, that ripple was felt as a wave. The man I was becoming, with every book I brought back, was unnatural. Memories re-written, one by one, into something unrecognizable. I began to live every moment trying to remember a thought just out of my grasp. So, I resigned myself to returning the books and trinkets I had stolen from the past. Unfortunately, I found that with every book I returned another piece of my mind would slip away. The man I was, ceased to exist, but the man I had become was disappearing as piece by piece. I pressed on. My mind began to slip, and I was forced to put safeguards into place to protect my estate and ensure your birthright. Even now the power of time still draws me in despite the destruction of my own life. I hold hope that you will do what I could not and wield this power for good. I have but a handful of books left to return, and I fear it will be my undoing. It has been days since I remembered to eat, and I have been reduced to dictating this letter in pieces to my nurse. At times I find myself standing in the lawn for hours with no recollection of how I got there. The message abruptly ended, punctuated by a series of unintelligible scribbles trailing off the side of the page. My heart was racing. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement on the lawn. It was my Uncle, his hair a stark white and his posture sunken into a high-backed wheelchair. The nurse attending him faced him towards the water. I stood and ran to his side. “Uncle!” I cried. His eyes barely moved as if he was breathing, yet not alive. I began to sob. The horror of this man, who through his own lust for knowledge erased his own existence, gripped me to my core. I began to feel dizzy at the thought of succumbing to my own lusts for power. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the accursed trinket. Without another thought, I threw the pin, as far as I could, into the lake. I turned to face my uncle. His eyes were focused on the spot where the pin had sunken into the lake and tears were streaming down his face. He began to moan and grunt wildly until his nurse returned to bring him back into the house, leaving me to stand alone shaken and confused. Had I done the right thing? I sat on the grass for an hour pondering what I had done, until as if under a spell, I began to remove my shoes and moved towards the water. I waded in until the water was just below my chin. Resolving myself unto what I had to do, I took a deep breath and began to dive, deeper into the water searching for what was rightfully mine.

She picked at the paint with her fingernails. Years of sun and weather had beat down onto the benches, straining the last nerves of the white paint until it buckled and broke. Flecks lifted from the wood each time she touched it and refused to come off her hands. Her mother reached over and adjusted her hat. “You are going to get burnt, sweetie, you need to keep this on.” her mother said. She hardly noticed how the sun eyed the back of her neck, the same way it had eyed the bench they were sitting on. “Horsie?” she asked, reaching her hands into her mother’s direction. Moments later a little toy horse was pulled from the bag and presented to her. She clip-clopped her pony up and down the bench, dodging the people, bags, bottles and clutter that occupied them. There was so little space to play on the benches. Everyone kept standing and cheering. So much noise from both the benches and the field. Frustrated, she slips between the gap before her, ducking under seats and landing on the grass beneath. Her horse liked the grass. Despite still hearing the noise, she could finally play in peace. There was no one to shove her around and no one to smear sunscreen on her face. She sat blissfully in the soft, damp grass under the shade of the bench. Her little pony frolicked through grass taller than it was. The pony would eat its fill and nap in the shade before it was finally time to brush its hair with a little pink brush. “What are you doing down there?” a voice bellowed from above. She looked up to see the red face of her mother, peering down from the gap under her seat. “Get back up here.” Her mother pulled her back up, into the sun. The thunder of a roaring crowd flooded her ears. “Come sit on my lap.” said her mother “Look over there. That’s your brother playing.” She climbed onto her mother’s lap and gazed into the direction to which her mother pointed. A large green field was sprawled before her, scattered with young sportsmen. They all looked her brother's age. She struggled to tell them apart as many of them were wearing the same white clothes. Only two adults stood out with their large hats and clipboards. “Over there” her mother repeated “with the bat.” “With the bat?” she asked. She was confused. The boy with the bat had large white pads on his legs and a helmet covering his face. She couldn’t recognize her brother.“Yes, with the bat.” “That’s Biny?” she pointed. “Yes, that’s Brian.” Another boy ran across the field and threw a ball at her brother. He promptly hit the ball with a smooth swing and the crowd cheered once again as they watched the ball hop and roll over the field. Everyone on the field began running around in a state of panic. She was absorbed. Ball after ball they threw at her brother. Some he hit, but some he didn’t. Sometimes the crowd cheered and sometimes they did not even notice what was happening on the field, but she watched her big brother with pride. Finally, the adults with the big hats gestured to rounded up the teams. “That’s it,” said her mother. “Biny!” she exclaimed and pounced off of the benches as quickly as her little legs and the crowd would allow. Her brother turned to beckon her over. “Come” he said, “the coach is handing out icies.” She followed her brother as they walked up to a mountainous man, distributing icies to the team. “Coach?” “Yes, Brian” the man growled and glared at him from underneath his oversized hat. His face was red and glistening from the heat. She reached up her hand, hoping to also receive the icy treat. “Can my sister also have an icy?” “Only if your sister says ‘pretty please’.” the coach said. “Pretty please.” With a smile, he handed them each an iced lolly. It was the perfect treat after a long day of cricket.

Snowdream A benevolent King and his wife, the Queen Consort, reigned in a far country. But the Queen died from a mysterious illness. Their daughter, Princess Snowdream, was blessed with great beauty of sleek raven hair, violet eyes and a heart-shaped face. The young woman also had a gentle, caring nature. She spent many hours working in a shelter for the homeless and returned as dusk fell. Her limbs were heavy but her heart light. The King’s subjects admired her, cheering as she passed by. However, the King missed his Queen’s soothing presence and razor-sharp mind, a foil to his tendency to melancholy. An avaricious Lady in Waiting for the deceased Queen had long-held designs on this weak-willed King. The canny old Queen had spotted the woman’s deceitful nature. She demoted her to a kitchen maid when she caught her stealing an emerald ring. Burning for revenge, the woman rubbed her hands with glee when, after cornering the King in the palace gardens, she had her way with him and won his heart. They were married in a grand ceremony in the Cathedral. The new Queen wore an exquisite satin and lace gown made by the King’s dressmaker, her body glittering with jewels. However, in truth, the new Queen did not desire the King. She despised the man and wished to dispose of him and Snowdream to reign in her own right. So the Queen consorted with the military behind the King’s back. She learned that one of the King’s military aides, a balding Colonel, desired power, too, so they plotted to kill the King and Princess. The Colonel hired a sniper who hid in bushes by the lane where the King, on a white Stallion, and the Princess, on a chestnut mare, often rode. The sniper shot the King dead as he passed but missed the Princess. She galloped away until a talent scout, out on a morning ride, saw the mare approaching him. He stopped the frightened horse and impressed by Princess Snowdream’s figure and grace, and offered her the girl the leading role in his next movie. The Princess accepted and moved away from her wicked stepmother to film sets in exotic locations. When the Queen heard, she became incandescent with rage, hurling several priceless silver candlesticks at the castle’s marble fireplaces and smashing mirrors. Then, despairingly, she hired a private detective to find the girl and ordered the sniper to kill her. But the sniper, having seen the Princess’s beauty, fell in love with the girl and could not carry out his mission. He became afraid the Queen would have him arrested and water tortured or worse. So, he committed suicide, his body rotting in the hinterland, where it attracted flies and circling birds of prey. With her blood boiling at men’s weaknesses, the Queen plotted to kill the girl herself, using poison. But first, with her beetle-browed, red-veined face screwed up, she consulted an astrologer and asked him who was more beautiful, she or Princess Snowdream? He consulted his crystal ball and pronounced the Princess the most beautiful. Incandescent with rage, the Queen lit several candles, which she threw at the bed in The Princess’s chamber, setting it alight. The Fire Service was called to save the castle. But the Queen’s room was destroyed too, so she called in an interior designer, decorated the walls with pale blue silk paint, and commissioned dark blue silk bedding to coordinate with the blue velvet drapes and sumptuous carpet. She had sweetmeats delivered to her chamber to taste their delights whenever she fancied and entertained the Colonel whom she promoted to General. But the jealousy of Princess Snowdream’s youthful, sensual beauty consumed the vengeful Queen, who visited the astrologer twice more. Each time he reported the Princess had the most outstanding beauty. So, the jealous Queen poisoned him with black mamba venom she bought from a snake handler and dripped on a $100.00 bill. The unsuspecting astrologer kissed the bill in thanks. He died in agony, his limbs contorted, within the hour. The Queen cackled with glee. Weeks passed without sight of th e Princess. Ascending to the throne as Regent, the Queen ate taste-bud tantalising caviar and drank head-dizzying champagne. She slept in isolated splendour in her slinky silk bedroom except when entertaining the General. The Queen considered cosmetic surgery to make her face youthful with cat-like eyes and made an appointment with a surgeon. She ordered a curfew on all women between eighteen and twenty-five, hoping to catch the Princess on her return from filming. Then she would poison her with the black mamba venom and watch her die. “Ah, it would be sweet revenge,” thought the Queen. However, the seven homeless men from the shelter learned of the Queen’s plots from a palace gardener and decided to act. They were all military veterans of the conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan down on their luck. But armed to the teeth with assault rifles, grenades, and other military hardware, they surrounded the castle. They broke in and assassinated the Queen asleep in her sumptuous bed. All her flunkies, holding a party in the castle’s dungeons, were assassinated, too. In time, the Princess completed filming and took her rightful place on the throne. She married the youngest of the seven homeless men, who became her King Consort. Travelling in a golden coach drawn by four palomino horses, they were crowned in a ceremony of splendour and grace, the Cathedral glittering with candlelight. The six other men were knighted in the Queen’s Coronation Honours and given land and property. Each married a kitchen maid and elevated her to a Duchess. The film in which Snowdream starred, ‘Snowdrops and the Warrior’, was a box office hit, won an Oscar and a Golden Globe and was released on Netflix. In the streaming charts, the theme tune ‘ Snowdreams get in your mind’ went to number one. So do not be avaricious and jealous. Revenge can trample on snowdrops and destroy your dreams.