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Allura 65

It was nearly Christmas again, the man thought to himself. Another Christmas without Emily, and this year without any of the family and grandchildren visiting. “I guess we'll just make do this year, Traveler. Yes, just you and me,” he said, as he reached out and stroked Traveler's long coat of fur. It had been three years since he lost his wife, Emily, and to be honest, life seemed stale. If not for the companionship of Traveler, he would probably not have any reason to get out of bed in the morning. Traveler had been a birthday surprise for Emily four years ago. She just adored Traveler. The dog had come by his name because the man and Emily had taken a two-week-long road trip when he was a pup. The pup went with them and had been a very agreeable travel companion. Today, the man was noticing a slowness in his own routine, and a numbness in his arm and hand. “Where did I put down my coffee?” he thought to himself. He and Emily had married at the usual age for the time, at 18, back in the summer of 1959. The man had worked hard for his dad's menswear and uniform shop downtown called Murray & Sons. He worked weekends and summers, as did the man's older brother, Robert, until tragedy struck the Murray family. Big Brother Robert, whom the man had always looked up to, had died in an accident. He was crossing the busy street running an errand for his dad's shop when he was struck by a large Buick going too fast through an intersection while running a stop sign. The man's father and mother were never quite the same and the man had resolved to focus on the work at hand and be there for his parents. He tried to put the memory of his brother's young life behind him. Emily had been instrumental in the success of their chosen life pursuit. In the 1970’s, the man's dad had handed over the reins of the shop, and Emily had helped with merchandise ordering and keeping the books. They had raised up a son and daughter together, and the son had gone into accounting and the daughter had learned the family business. It was just a few months before Emily’s death that the man had handed over the mantle of the menswear shop to his daughter and her husband and had finally retired so that Emily and he could do the little things that they had always wanted to do. It wasn't long until Emily was diagnosed and then gone. This, of course, had changed the man in profound ways. He really did not want to do the little things he once did while Emily was alive. The man's day consisted of getting up and dressed, letting Traveler out to take care of nature, and feeding himself and Traveler in the kitchen. “A can of Canine Cookout for you, Traveler, and a buttered everything bagel for me”. It had been steadily snowing out the window all morning. The snow was building up so much that it had triggered an old memory of long ago. The Christmas of 1948 , the man thought, as he dreamily gazed out at the snow from the kitchen window. “Yes, Christmas, 1948,” he said out loud. That was the Christmas when under the tree were two shiny brand new Flexible Flyer Airline Pursuits; yes, one for me, and one for my brother, Robert . We were just the tender ages of seven and nine. We sledded all the rest of Christmas Day and the vacation week and weekend following Christmas, but little did we know the real treat was to come in the form of the Blizzard after the first of January. Yes, it was just after “ringing in” the New Year, and the town was closed down for a handful of days. Dad really got his money's worth out of the Flyers that week. Robert and I barely came in except for lunch, and even that was just a quick slurp of tomato soup. The man chuckled to himself, thinking of when he and his brother were young, innocent, carefree, and had played together in the snow for seemingly endless hours, sledding down a rather large hill behind the house again and again. The man's coffee had cooled to room temperature and Traveler had curled up at the man's feet for a little nap before his fond memory of the sleds and his brother had dissipated. It was at this time that the man had heard an eerily familiar voice behind him. “You know you still have the Flyers in the attic, Charlie.” The man snapped around to see where the voice came from behind him. “Robert, can this be?” The man was pale with surprise. “But you're dead. How can you be here?” the man asked with incredulity. “Well, Charlie you have not had an actual, genuinely happy thought (about me) since I left. Yes, it is true that you had sad memories that you mulled over and pushed back down, but not a happy thought or memory.” The man responded, “Robert, your passing was so wrenching for mom and dad, and I guess for me, too.” “Yes, I can understand.” Robert, standing right there in the man’s kitchen against all possibility, stared out the kitchen window at the accumulating snow, and then appeared to have a flash of an idea on his youthful face. “Charlie, why don't we dig out the Flyers and find a hill?” The man seemed uneasy with the notion. “Robert I am old. I can't just go traipsing out into the cold snow and slide down a huge hill on an old rusty relic. I might break something, and I’m not talking about the Flyer.” “Charlie, I would have never had to beg you to do something adventurous before...,” The man interrupted his brother, “but this is now, Robert, and I can't move as I once did. I am not young anymore.” “Okay Gramps,” Robert said teasingly, “then I will get them out of the attic myself.” Robert pulled down the ladder from the attic and began rummaging. “Golly Charlie, all this stuff!” Robert made his way down a narrow walkway that took him in the direction of a small window on the far wall. With a reflection of the snow casting a white light into that part of the attic, he began to make out the familiar expectant shapes of two old friends of smooth wood and gleaming metal propped up in the corner. Making his way toward the figures, he let out a “Eureka, Charlie, found ‘em! I’m handing them down.” Robert wrestled one toward the ladder, handing it down to Charlie and returning for the second Flyer. He slid that one down to his anticipating brother and stepped back down the ladder, noticing as he went that Charlie had also begun to take on a more youthful look than he had before. Robert looked Charlie straight in the eye; “are you ready, kiddo?” Each brother grabbed what then appeared to be a shiny new Flexible Flyer, opening the front door and excitedly walking out to the collecting snow. Charlie, with a new spring in his step and a youthful gleam in his eye, looked at his big brother and said, “Let’s Fly!”

"Nerdy plant enthusiast Tom discovers a strange plant in his backyard. But when he accidentally pricks his finger on one of its thorns, he gains the power to talk to plants. Little does he know, the plants have chosen him for a greater purpose, and as he delves deeper into his newfound powers, he uncovers a sinister plot involving a group of well-intentioned, plant-based aliens whose actions have caused a dangerous signal to be sent to Earth's vegetation. Can Tom use his powers to save the planet and restore balance to the ecosystem?" He turned to the other plants in his garden and was amazed to discover that he could hear them too. They weren't speaking to him in words, but he could feel their emotions and their needs. He realized that he had gained the ability to communicate with plants, and he was filled with a sense of wonder and excitement. He knew that this was a power he could use to make a difference in the world." Tom was in his backyard, surrounded by the plants he had grown and cared for when suddenly he heard a voice in his head. It was a strange, alien voice that seemed to be coming from one of the plants. "Hello, Tom," the voice said. "We need your help." Tom was taken aback. "Who are you?" he asked. "We are the Guardians of the Plant Kingdom," the voice replied. "We have been watching you, and we have chosen you to help us save the Earth from destruction." Tom was skeptical. "Save the Earth from what?" "From our own kind," the voice said. "We are plant-based aliens, and we came to Earth with the intention of helping your planet. But we made a mistake. Our experiments caused a stress signal that triggered the plants to attack humans. We want to make it right, but we need your help." Tom was hesitant. "Why me?" "Because you have the power to communicate with the plants," the voice said. "You can help us understand them and stop them from attacking. Will you help us?" Tom thought for a moment, then nodded. "I'll do my best," he said. "But what do I need to do?" The voice gave him instructions, and Tom set off on his mission to save the Earth from the plant-based aliens. Tom has always had the purest of intentions. He cares deeply about the environment and has dedicated his life to caring for plants. But somehow, he always manages to mess things up. When the plant-based aliens ask for his help to save the Earth, Tom eagerly agrees. But as he delves deeper into the mission, he realizes that he may have made a grave mistake. Tom's good intentions lead him to blindly trust the plant-based aliens and their plans. But as the mission progresses, he begins to uncover the aliens' true intentions. They are not the benevolent creatures he thought they were. Instead, they are seeking to use Earth as a testing ground for their own gain, and they will stop at nothing to achieve their goals. As Tom struggles with his own guilt and the realization that he has been helping the wrong side, he must fight to make things right. As Tom continued to work with the plant-based aliens, he started to feel uneasy. He had been following their instructions blindly, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. One day, as he was speaking with the plants in his backyard, he realized that they had been using him. He had been nothing but a pawn in their game. "Wait a minute," Tom said to the plant-based aliens. "You've been using me, haven't you? You said I had the power to stop the plants from attacking humans, but I don't. I've been doing busy work this whole time." Tom's heart was racing as he stood before the group of plant-based aliens, their green tendrils writhing menacingly. "I trusted you!" he shouted, his voice shaking with anger and disbelief. "I thought you were here to help the Earth, but all along you were just using it as a test subject for your own gain!" The leader of the aliens, a towering mass of vines and leaves, shifted uncomfortably. "Tom, we understand your anger," it said in a placating voice. "But we had no choice. Our planet is dying, and we needed a new home. Earth seemed like the perfect place, and with your help, we could have made it work." "At what cost?" Tom demanded. "You were willing to sacrifice the entire ecosystem, put human lives in danger, just to save your own species?" The leader didn't answer, but the other aliens began to hiss and murmur amongst themselves. Tom knew he was in danger, but he refused to back down. "I won't let you hurt anyone else," he said, summoning all his courage. "I'll use my powers to stop you." The leader of the aliens looked down at Tom with a mixture of pity and contempt. "You don't understand, Tom," it said. "You're just a human. You don't have the power to stop us." Tom gritted his teeth, refusing to give in. "Maybe not alone," he said, glancing around at the plants that surrounded him. "But I'm not alone. I have an army of plants on my side. And we won't let you destroy our home." With that, Tom turned and sprinted away, his mind racing with plans to stop the plant-based aliens once and for all. But with the plant-based aliens growing stronger every day, he knows that time is running out. Tom's ability to communicate with the plants becomes a double-edged sword as he learns the truth behind the aliens' intentions. He begins to hear the plants' distress and fear as they are manipulated and used as weapons against humans. It becomes increasingly difficult for Tom to balance his duty to the plant-based aliens and his desire to protect the Earth and its inhabitants. As he struggles to find a way to stop the aliens without harming the plants, Tom turns to his fellow humans for help. With the aid of a small group of like-minded individuals, he sets out to find a way to neutralize the aliens' signal without causing harm to the plants. As the final battle approaches, Tom finds himself torn between his loyalty to the plant-based aliens who had given him the gift of communication and his duty to protect the Earth. In the end, he makes a difficult decision, knowing that it may cost him his newfound power and connection to the plants. As Tom and his team continue to work on finding a way to peacefully coexist with the plant-based aliens, tensions in the city continue to rise. The plants have been attacking humans more frequently, and the military has been mobilizing to prepare for a potential conflict. The military already knows that Tom a sixteen-year-old can communicate with the plants and he is their only chance of communicating with the alien plant leader. However, they know what risk they are about to face. Tom: "So what happens if I end up without my usual communication devices?" Military Officer: "We have a contingency plan in place, Tom. We've planted a small bug device on you that you can use as an SOS signal if needed. It's disguised as a harmless object, so the aliens won't suspect anything." Tom: "That's a relief. But how will I activate the bugging device?" Military Officer: "It's easy. Just press the button on the device three times in a row, and it will send an automatic signal to our monitoring station. We'll know to send a rescue team as soon as we receive the signal." Tom: "Got it. And what happens if the aliens find the bugging device?" Military Officer: "We don't think they'll find it. But if they do, the bugging device is programmed to self-destruct and erase all data within five minutes. So there won't be any evidence that could put our team or you at risk." Tom receives a message from the leader of the plant-based aliens, who says that they have discovered a new food source that could sustain both their species and humans, and they would like to negotiate a peaceful agreement. However, they request that Tom come alone to their main base to discuss the terms. Tom and his team are skeptical but decide to take the risk and go to the plant base. When they arrive, they are met with a seemingly peaceful environment, and the plant-based aliens offer them a feast of the new food source. However, Tom notices that some of his team members are becoming increasingly lethargic and unresponsive after eating the food. He confronts the plant leader, who reveals that the food source is a mind-controlling substance that would allow the plants to control the human population. The plant leader offers Tom a choice: either join them and become a part of their society or be eliminated. Tom and his team are faced with a difficult decision. They could either sacrifice themselves to stop the plant-based aliens' plan, or they could join the plants and potentially become mind-controlled and harm, other humans. With the military ready to attack and time running out, Tom and his team must make a decision that could determine the fate of both species. Tom wouldn't make his decision he gave his signal to the military, but before Tom could get away the plant aliens threw Tom into a cell-like room; Tom sat in a small, dimly lit room, his back pressed against the wall. His eyes darted back and forth, scanning the room for any sign of danger. He could hear the soft, rhythmic sound of the alien plants breathing outside the door, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He had lost contact with his team hours ago, and his radio crackled with static. The weight of the situation was starting to sink in, and Tom could feel the panic rising in his chest. He took a deep breath and tried to steady his nerves. He knew he had to stay calm, for his team's sake. But the thought of them out there, alone and vulnerable, was almost too much to bear. Tom closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. He could hear the faint sound of gunfire in the distance, and he knew that time was running out. The rescue team had to get there soon, or they would all be lost. He whispered a silent prayer for his team's safety, and for his own. He knew that if they didn't make it out alive, it would be his fault. He had led them into this mess, and he would have to live with the consequences. Tom opened his eyes and looked down at his hands, which were shaking uncontrollably. He clenched his fists, willing himself to be strong. He had to be strong for his team, for his country, and for himself. He took another deep breath and stood up, his legs feeling like jelly. He knew that whatever happened next, he had to face it head-on. He couldn't let his fear and doubt get the best of him. He had to keep moving forward, even if it meant sacrificing everything. Tom remembers that the alien plants seemed to be vulnerable to sound. He quickly sets his bugging device to emit a high-pitched frequency that he hopes will distract the guards and cause them to leave their posts. The plan works, and Tom is able to escape his cell. But as he's sneaking through the alien plant's underground lair, he begins to realize that the frequency from the bugging device is having an unexpected effect. The alien plants are mutating, growing larger and more aggressive, and their behavior is becoming increasingly erratic. Tom eventually reaches the surface and emerges into a dark, eerie forest. The mutated alien plants are everywhere, towering above him and closing in on all sides. He realizes that the frequency of the bugging device has triggered a massive transformation in the plants, turning them into something far more dangerous and unpredictable than he ever could have imagined. As Tom desperately tries to find a way out of the forest, he realizes that he's not alone. There's a low, rumbling sound coming from deep within the forest, and he can't shake the feeling that something is watching him, waiting for the right moment to strike. The mutated alien plants closed in on him from all sides. He can hear their twisted branches scraping against each other, creating an eerie, discordant melody that sends chills down his spine. As he runs, he realizes that the low rumbling sound is getting closer. It's a deep, guttural growl that seems to be coming from something much larger than the mutated plants. Tom knows he has to keep moving, but he's starting to feel like he's trapped in a nightmare. Suddenly, he sees a faint light in the distance. It's a glimmer of hope, and he runs towards it with everything he's got. He hears a faint sound and it distracts him because it sounds like his mom. Tom suddenly wakes up in a cold sweat, realizing that the entire experience was just a terrible nightmare. He tries to calm himself down, telling himself that it was just a figment of his imagination. But as he looks around his bedroom, he can't shake the feeling that something is still off. As he tries to get out of bed, he realizes that he can't move. It's as if his body is paralyzed, and he can only watch in horror as the walls around him start to shift and twist, morphing into grotesque, organic shapes. The sound of rustling leaves and snapping twigs fills his ears, and he realizes that the nightmare is far from over. The mutated alien plants burst through the walls of his room, their tendrils lashing out at him with deadly intent. Tom tries to scream, but no sound comes out. He's trapped, helpless, as the nightmare engulfs him. Just when he thinks he can't take it any longer, he suddenly wakes up for real, gasping for breath. This time, it's really over. But the memory of the nightmare lingers on, haunting him long after he's fully awake.

It had been twenty four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. Icy wind slashed at her face as her bony fingers gripped her blanket up to her face. The streets were dimly lit and the houses were shut and dark. It had been exactly how Jane had remembered it, except for one little thing, her parents. Where were they? How come they weren’t where they said they would be? She was curled up in a dirty corner under a streetlight. The light started flickering and in a moment Jane was in complete darkness. She was terrified. Her home street had never been the friendliest, maybe that was one of the reasons she was sent up for adoption. It had been a week since she escaped from that horrific halfway house. Her first 18 years were spent in the adjoining orphanage. That scrutinising, unscrupulous orphanage. As sunrise appeared a shiver trickled down Jane’s spine. She gathered all of her strength and stood up. She leaned against the cream coloured wall with dried paint peeling off. Jane still remembered her house address, 46 Cherry Lane, Bayside Village. The village still looked the same, just darker and drearier. Jane slowly ambled towards the old pub, Golflinks. It was the exact same. The old, once proud, battered banner hanging from the roof reading ‘Golflinks’. She tried to recall the times when her family would spend nights having fun playing bingo and quizzes in the pub...and she wasn’t a part of it.... Jane was emotional to be back at Bayside Village but one thing was tearing her heart apart. Her parents no longer dwelled at the registered address used in the orphanage. She decided she would not give up hope and go find them herself. As she tiredly shuffled towards her old neighbours house she gave the door one big knock. As she did, she was met with a aroma of warm, fresh scones coming from the kitchen. She tried to remember all the times she baked with her family. She couldn’t remember any. As she gently pushed the unlocked door open, Jane stepped inside. The stout owner of the house appeared...she looked quizzingly at Jane.“Jane..........?, is it really you?” gasped Mrs. Bea. Jane recognised her immediately from photos she had once held in her very early days in the orphanage. “Yes Mrs. Bea, I’m Jane, Aaliyah and William’s daughter.” She broke into tears at the sound of her voice saying their names. “Where are they? Where have they gone?” Mrs Bea looked pitifully at Jane. She had looked after her neighbours fro years when they fell on hard times in the past. Jane could only hear Mrs Bea’s words despite the sirens blaring outside and children’s feet stomping up and down on the streets. “I’m sorry dear, Aaliyah and William moved to Philadelphia years ago, they were too distraught with the fact you were gone and could never reconcile with the fact you had to be given up for adoption.” Mrs. Bea informed her. This time she crumpled herself into the foetal position like a piece of rubbish. She tore open the door and sprinted out of the house. Tears streamed down her face making her face blotchy and red. Her vision turned blurry with multiple emotions racing through her head. Suddenly everything went black. She woke up to the blaring sound of the ambulance siren. Red and blue flashing lights blinded her. Jane was lying straight in the middle of the pebbly street. Mrs. Bea looked as worried and pale as a ghost. She tried to push herself up but her ankle gave way. People dressed in overalls came darting out of the ambulance. All sorts of questions were asked like, what day is it? Where are you? They helped her to her feet and she stumbled. She answered all the questions correctly so there was no worry. When the ambulance men assured her that the blood was flowing back to her head again she was free to go. Jane decided she would spend no longer at Bayside Village and decided she would make her way to Philadelphia. She was determined. All the way from New York to Philadelphia. How could she do it? On foot. 152 kilometres. Not a problem for Jane Richards if she really wanted to find her parents. She organised a small rucksack with enough tins of food and enough bottles of water to last her a couple of days. She wished her farewells to the Bea family and started her journey to Philadelphia. Yes, she was terrified and frightened but she was also determined to do what she thought would complete her life. This was her yearning for so long and it pained her. As the sun rose, Jane gathered her belongings together and commenced her voyage. She was exhausted from her disturbed sleep but kept walking anyway. Many people were shocked at her presence as she had not been in the village since she was a baby. She trodded through grass that was a metre tall, hills that she felt touched the sky and caverness caves. Right now, Jane was in Woodbridge Township. She was weary and her eyes were bloodshot. She looked like she hadn’t slept for days. Jane opened her tin of beans and opened her third bottle of water since this morning. She smelt of musty because she hadn’t washed since she left the orphanage a week ago. Thinking back to the orphanage brought a tear to her eye. That was where she spent her childhood, her whole life nearly. She knew of nothing else. But there was no time for weeping, she had to concentrate on the path ahead. She could only rely on passing gentlemen and women to give her directions. The last man she passed gave her a compass but what use was a compass if she didn’t know which way was right to turn. The sun was setting as she cosied up in a corner close by with her sleeping bag. It wasn’t exactly completely comfy but it was better than lying on rubble. The last sight she saw before her eyes closed was a pink sky with a setting sun. A beautiful sight to see. When Jane woke up she continued her journey. She was now in Trenton, 52 kilometres away from Philadelphia. It only dawned her now that she had no idea where her parents were in the big city. She knew they lived close to Franklin Square so hopefully it wasn’t going to be that hard. Her legs were fatigued and her ankle suddenly started aching. She hobbled through the streets painfully. She had a few coins in her pocket so she decided to buy her favourite chocolate bar in the local supermarket. When she had bought it, it gave her mountains of energy and she was focused on her voyage again. Within no time she was in Philadelphia. Jane could not explain the joyful sensation that sizzled through her body. She had done it. She had walked 152 kilometres in order to find her beloved parents. She dashed through Benjamin Rush State Park as fast as the wind. Before noon she was circling Franklin Square. She had not planned this part out yet. As a middle aged woman with many children hanging out of her passed, Jane waved her hand and said hopefully “Do you know where Aaliyah and William Richards live?” The woman smiled pitifully , then smartly passed with a silent shaking of her head. Jane’s heart was broken. Where would she start? Philadelphia was a sprawling place. She wandered over to a silent old lady covered from head to toe in black waiting at a bus stop. “Emm, excuse me” Jane uttered quietly. This time less confidently...“Is there any chance you may know where William and Aaliyah Richards are?” The old woman stood still with a confused expression on her face. “Are you...... Jane?” A little dance of delight in the pit of my stomach gave me butterflies. She nodded her head without saying a word. The old woman beckoned for me to follow her. Jane did as she was told and shuffled her feet towards her. As she led her into a dark alley she started to get second thoughts until she croaked “number 112 on your right.” She gave the woman a look of thanks and her spirits brightened. As she proceeded towards the doorstep, she gave a choke of happiness mixed with fear. What would her parents think? Would they send her home? Would they shut their door? Her hands went numb as she knocked on the door. After a couple of minutes Jane could hear quiet footsteps coming towards the door. She quickly brought her gaze to her feet as two figures opened the door. She froze. “Who are you?” They questioned as Jane slowly brought up her head. “Jane......? Jane is that really you?” The husband and wife gasped. She was no longer nervous, joy blossomed inside her. “Father, mother” she whispered as she swung her arms around them and gave them a hug. Tears of happiness sprouted from her eyes. Her parents were shedding many tears too. This was the moment she had been waiting for her whole life, and it finally happened. She was reunited with her family once more. Yes she had spent 24 years in a cold, dark orphanage but she was with her parents now and that was all the mattered.

EXT. MEXICAN HACIENDA - BACKYARD - DAY Two young, similar looking BROTHERS (age 9(but in reality they are 700 years old)) are at odds over the plastic toy (G.I. JOE!). One boy, MARCO, climbs high on a swing set, dangling the G.I. Joe out of brother LEONEL’S reach. Leonel is angry and crying...he wants his toy back, but Marco is a bully and is having too much fun being bad. They yell at each other in Spanish (without subtitles). YOUNG LEONEL *Give it back! It’s mine!* YOUNG MARCO *Then take it from me. If you can!* The yard they fight in is a nice piece of property -- not that the owner is super-wealthy, but he has money. With an O.S telephone *RING RING* \-- we are about to meet this man... ...but only the back of his head. We are behind an ADULT MAN, relaxing on a chair in the shade of his hacienda. He watches the kids roughhousing in the distance. The man dips his hand in a GALVANIZED WASH TUB filled with melting ice and beer, trying to stay cool. *RING RING!* Our weary mystery man finally reaches and answers his cell phone... but not just *any* cell phone. It’s one of those monstrous BRICK-SIZED mobiles from the mid-eighties (our first clue that this scene is a FLASHBACK). As we slowly CIRCLE AROUND toward his face, he speaks in Spanish (with SUBTITLES) HECTOR Mmm. Yes.. (listens; then) Why? Why is this still under discussion? (MORE) HECTOR (CONT’D) No. No,no,no. I don’t like him. I don’t care who he knows. We’re supposed to trust him with our Product? Never trust a South American. Dirty, dirty people. As the call continues the little kids are fighting over a toy. Frustrated Leonel makes a leap for G.I. JOe, but Marco flings the doll to the ground and jumps on it -- *CRUNCH!* Leonel looks on, stunned, as Marco holds up G.I Joe’s SEVERED HEAD with a smile. *He broke it...* *for no good reason, he broke it!* Leonel turns and runs crying toward his uncle. YOUNG LEONEL *He broke my toy! He broke my toy!* HECTOR *He was just having fun. You’ll get over it* YOUNG LEONEL *NO! I hate him! I wish he was dead!* HECTOR *Marco....* YOUNG MARCO *Yes?* HECTOR *Give your old uncle a kiss, would you?* Marco pecks him on the lip and backs up HECTOR *No, no. A* *wet* *one.* Marco proceeds to go give his old uncle another kiss, and as it happens Hector suddenly and viciously grabs him by the neck and forces a french kiss. Leonel looks on, stunned... *freaked.* Hector gives him a casual glance, not easing up on Marco at all. Breaking only to say lines Hector says HECTOR *This is what you wanted. Your brother dead, Right?* Watching his brother struggle to break free and gasping for air, not knowing what to do, Leonel pulls on his uncle’s arm. Locked in place, it won’t budge HECTOR *You’re going to have to try harder* *than that.* *If* *you want to save him.* HECTOR (continuing to french Marco) *How much longer do you think he has?* *One minute? Maybe more, maybe less.* Desperate to save his brother, Leonel PUNCHES Hector straight in the face, hard! With that he released Marco, who is now gasping for air and breathing heavy. Leonel kneels next to him, making sure his brother is okay. HECTOR *Family is* *all*\*.

It’s a hard day. Somehow, Amy doesn’t see it coming. The season is in full swing. She’s busy with the onslaught of calls and emails from work that always pick up as the year winds down, and the towering heap of papers and midterms from school, and the lines at coffee shops for pumpkin-flavored drinks that get sweeter every autumn, and the department store lookout, shuffling her nephew down fabric aisles in search of a cape that’s the right shade of red for the superman costume he insists has to be homemade. It’s a busy time of year. She gets caught up. It’s all so startlingly familiar: the shadow settling over the old house, the oxygen pulled from the air. Like an echo. Autumn doesn’t feel so wonderful anymore. All at once, she remembers that the falling leaves are dead. All at once, she remembers that October was lovelier when her mother was still here with it. It’s an ache that doesn’t ever fade, the losing . Even when her brother smiles for the first time in months and it feels like the sun is finally rising. Even when Amy looks at the family photo on the desk in her bedroom and doesn’t lose all the air in her lungs. Even when her father gets behind the wheel of a car again. Even when they all start to heal. The ache sticks around, like honey on their fingertips. They’ll never be as whole as they used to be. There’s a longing that lives in her ribs, like a chirping bird, nestled beside her heart. It makes a child of her; she feels grief like a little girl. She misses her mother, helplessly. And all she can do about it is cry, pray that the hurt will go away. But the hurt--cracking her spine and slumping her shoulders and salting the skin of her cheeks--the hurt means that the love won’t fade either. She thinks that’s something she can live with. Even so, knowing it doesn’t make it any easier, and anniversaries are as terrible as ever. Amy wakes up today with a lump in her throat and a text from her brother. Her chest is sore, like someone’s been knocking against it. She finds it sort of funny how a number on a calendar can make time so unsubstantial, can make the months feel like minutes. The grief sits behind her eyes as heavy as the first day she ever felt it. She taps at her phone until it opens, the light blinding her in the darkness of her room, curtains drawn. The time is 8:28. The date taunts her in blocky letters. October 16 th makes her remember things she’d rather not. Gripping the porcelain edges of a sink so tightly her nails begin to crack and bleed. Her brother meeting her eyes with the sorriest expression she’d ever seen on him. The tightest hugs in the world. Streaks of makeup down flushed faces. A pair of ripped tights under the only black dress she owned. Her father’s weathered hands holding a bundle of lilies so delicately she would’ve believed it if you told her they were made of glass. October 16 th . Crying so hard she had to swallow bile. Her brother with his face in his hands. Her father with his brows bent in sorrow. It’s a hard day. She checks the message from her brother, trying to shake herself from her reverie, climbing out of memories like they’re quicksand. There are three texts on her notification screen, all from Ben. Ben: amy Ben: have you talked to dad? Ben: it’s the sixteenth She reads them slowly, already fatigued. Her phone beeps again. Another text. Ben: i love you She clicks off her phone and drags herself out of bed. She feels too delicate for the harshness of the world. It’s all too weighty, her bones are thin like a bird’s. She stumbles to the door, tugging a sweater over her head. All the lights in the house are off, like the color is hiding itself. She walks around like a ghost, floats to the bathroom to brush her teeth. She watches the tiles on the floor, not brave enough to glance at her mother’s smile in the photos that hang around the halls. When she looks in the mirror, Amy sees her mom in her eyes and her jawline. She ducks out of the room, texts her brother back. Amy: love you too She drifts to the window in the kitchen, overlooking their front yard. She tugs at the blind until they crack open. Her father is on his knees in the garden, like the curling tomato plant is an altar. His fingers are shaking in their rubber gloves and there is dirt up to his elbows, a smear of soil across the bone of his cheek. Behind him leaves fall like raindrops, heavy and swirling and beautiful orange. Autumn is the best time for growing tomatoes--no gnats or flies to swat away. The moderate cold is like fertilizer. Amy takes a deep breath, not bothering to check her phone again even as it buzzes in her pocket. She tosses it on the table, makes for the front door. When she pulls it open, the smell of the season hits her like a wave--rotting leaves and dirt, wind that’s just chilly enough to warrant a sweater. “Good morning,” she calls, taking a hesitant step out onto the grass. It’s overcast today, the sun is hiding behind half-darkened clouds. She forgot her shoes. Her father doesn’t look up, it’s like he didn’t hear. He tugs at a leaf of the tomato plant, twists it with his thumb. She keeps walking until she stands before him, barefoot and shaky. “Bà?” She reaches for his attention, a branch to the sun, a daughter to her father. He startles in the weeds, dropping his shears in a pile of soil. He finds her eyes, almost surprised that she’s stood here. There is a moment of silence. Not exactly acknowledgment, but something like it. She chews at the inside of her cheek. “Yes?” He says eventually, with a drag in his voice that she is unused to. “Are you alright?” She says softly, afraid to speak too loud. Everything feels like it’s on the brink of shattering. She doesn’t want to push. “Ben was asking about you.” He looks at her a long moment, and then shakes his head. “Not today, love,” he says plainly, picking his shears up. “Are you?” She glances down. The ache is a bursting well within her. She flexes her hand. “No,” she answers. “No, I don’t think so.” Her father nods again, silence and birdsong sitting in the air. The wind blows. The leaves fall. “But I’m here,” she continues, like an afterthought. She drops her hands to her sides. He gives a small smile, still on his knees like a man praying to tomatoes. “I know,” he looks like he’s going to cry, but he doesn’t. “And I thank you for that.” Amy reaches out and puts her hand on top of his, feels the grit of the dirt against her palm. It’s a desperate gesture, built of longing and grieving and trying. Her father continues. “She loved you.” He says, simple as that. “I know,” she replies, water in her eyes. “I love you,” he says. And that’s not enough. But it’s what they have. “I love you too.”

Souls who currently reside in the world of the living are blissfully ignorant of Emperor Death’s wrath. Although, unlike most warriors of his size and stature, Death does not believe in brute, direct and ultimately simple revenge. Don’t misunderstand what I’m saying, Death is and always has been short tempered. That is absolutely certain. The living who came long before trembled at his majesty’s temper. I clearly remember the day we saw a proper glance at his rage for the first time. It was the day, the living discovered how to create music. As far back as our world’s memory goes, music and the underworld had always been deeply intertwined and associated with each other. Every plane of existence and civilization marveled at the underworld’s peculiar craft of manipulating sound to create a unique and enchanting sensation. Emperor Death considered music to be one of the renowned treasures of his gardens. Newly reborn souls would laugh and others would cry as the music from the halls of hell entered their ears for the first time, awaking something inside and reinvigorating their depleted spirits following their long journey. A very few of us were even fortunate enough to hear Emperor Death’s Personal orchestra perform. A single note played by the orchestra’s golden instruments had the ability to mesmerize even the darkest souls in the deepest depth of Hell. Nearly a thousand souls, all together eternally playing one of the few hundred instruments the emperor himself had engineered. Touched by living, Death believed that music had lost its purity and grace. With great sorrow, death sealed off music from his kingdom till the end of eternity. Full of spite at having to lose one of his beloved treasures, he swore vengeance against the powerless living and sealed himself in his chambers for centuries composing his final melody. On the ten thousandth day, he calmly exited his chambers and made way to a tavern in an isolated town on Earth. Standing at the center, he took out his violin as he slowly and softly started to play a simple tune. Three orphan brothers passing the tavern could not help but be captivated by this surreal song.“What a beautiful song!”, spoke the oldest one. “I would give anything to be able to play this on my own” he whispered to himself. Hearing this, the great emperor revealed himself in front of the brother and spoke.“I have spent thousands of years composing this song, It is only fair that I ask for something in return.” As he continued, he looked into the brother’s eyes.”The only thing of any possible value to me in your possession is your soul”. The Emperor smirked and asked: “Would you be willing to trade your soul to learn the most beautiful song ever made?” Being way over his head and too drunk in awe to comprehend the consequences of his actions, the eldest brother shouted back agreeing. His younger siblings were shocked and disgusted by how the closest brother threw up everything for just a song. However, as time passed, the hatred for their brother slowly eroded letting a feeling of respect take its place. They too soon exchanged their souls for such was the irresistible enchantment of the song that any artist of any sort would not be able to resist its temptations. The emperor had just gained three new slaves he would hold and imprison for all eternity. As the folk song spread, countless poets and musician became of part Death’s terrible castle. Death was content as he had had his cruel revenge. No one but him had noticed, much less appreciated the irony of his revenge. Leaving all his golden instruments on Earth, he walked back to his gardens, to the huge glass castle, where not a single note of music could be heard.

Memories are forever, that’s what they say. Another visit to my childhood home reminds me of those sweet memories. The grass is green and full; the tree is fruitful. The covered porch still provides protection from the rain and is home to a great spot to pull out a book on a cool spring morning; a morning like this one. Walking up to the front door allowed for plenty of time to let it all sink in. The happiness, the sadness. The good, the bad. It feels real. The screen door greeted me with its groaning. This sound became the norm when I would run out to play with friends, as long as mother approved and my homework was done, of course. I reached into my purse and found the key ring. The square one would do the trick. I inserted the key and felt the deadbolt move as I rotated it... Voila! Home sweet home. The warm air embraced me as I walked through the door. The fireplace kicked on as if I had just caught it slacking off. From the entryway, I peered into the kitchen aka my second classroom. Many tears stained my 8th-grade math homework at that table. Mother always dried them by serving up a batch of warm chocolate chip cookies. The flooring groaned beneath my feet as I loitered in the entryway, taking it all in. The stairs looked remarkable. The hardwood tread remained untouched. Despite its supposed perfection, I knew where its scars were. Third step up from the bottom of the staircase, next to the banister, there was a sliver of wood missing. Barely noticeable if you weren't looking for it. But I was because I did it. I was a little girl when we had discovered the joys of sliding down this staircase. You see, back then there were thick strips of fabric that ran up the center of the staircase. Mother said it was to help us not slip as we walked up and down the tread. Little did she know about our newest endeavor. We slid down the stairs for hours. Laughing, crying, feeling the soreness in our backsides from the smack of the tread as we passed over. One day we got the urge to go faster. We wanted to go so fast that we could open the front door and fly out onto the porch. My brother Tim found a cardboard box left over from Christmas gifts. We tore it up to make a cardboard sled. Tim, being the risk-taker, volunteered to go first. He planted himself firmly on the base of the cardboard and held onto the front to prevent his feet from sliding off first. I positioned myself behind him and on the count of three, he went. And boy did he go. That cardboard moved over each tread as if it were levitating. He made it out the front door in 2.5 seconds. He made it look so easy! I was eager to give it a go. He returned to the top of the stairs and gave me the sled. I positioned myself and gave him a thumbs up. Three, two, one... I was off, but not for long. Halfway down my left foot came off the cardboard and caught traction with the tread. My body did a 180 and next thing I knew I was taking a chunk out of that 3rd step with my tooth. One dentist trip later, mother found out what we were up to and removed the fabric that lined the steps. Something about not being able to afford our mischief. I gazed at the framed photographs lining the wall as I walked up the stairs. Mother and father. I don’t remember him much. He left us when I was still in diapers. She said someday we’d be together again. I waited and waited, but it never happened. Later I matured enough to understand that he’d passed away. Got sick. Tim and I were all Mom had worried about after that. We were all she needed in this life, she’d say. Tim and I hung three steps up. We were all dressed up, him with his comb-over and me with my perm. The distressed backdrop didn’t help us out at all. I hope Mother didn’t pay too much for these. Once at the top of the staircase I peered down the hallway. Walls lined with more pictures. On the left side, a small table still sat outside mother’s room. It really just caught plants and however much gum I could muster in a day. To the right was my room, and down at the end of the hallway was Tim’s room. I consider myself lucky. The bathroom was right next to my room. I was able to sneak in there before Tim every morning before school. Made him late a few times. I took a deep breath as I grasped the doorknob to Mother’s room. I opened the door and found that everything was exactly as I’d left it. It was cozy, inviting, and had a fresh floral scent just as it did when I was little. It was her hobby as a florist that brought this smell here. Roses, tulips, buttercups, and chrysanthemums. You name it, she grew it and cared for them with love. She garnered quite a reputation as the community florist. People didn’t just buy them because they were beautiful. They could tell the care that she had given to them and they respected and adored that about her. She gave that kind of love to everything and everyone she cared about. Her heart had no limits. I took one last breath and shut the door behind me. I made my way down to the kitchen table and pulled out my laptop and a notebook. No other place gave me the comfort and security that allowed me to work freely without interruption. After all, this book wasn’t going to write itself. A month goes by and I’m back for my routine checkup on the house. The screen door greets me once again. The house welcomes me with its usual comfort, but something felt off. An unexplainable chill. A glance confirmed that the fireplace wasn’t turned on, not that it needed to be. The summer heat was keeping it plenty warm outside. It should be nice and comfortable in here, but strangely enough, I wouldn’t mind the fireplace kicking on just to give me its familiar comfort. As if on cue, a hint of life shows and the fire begins to glow. I begin my usual rounds. Glancing at the chip in the 3rd step, I make my way upstairs. Mother, Father, Tim, and myself. I switch on the lights and watch the hallway come to life, except for Tim's room. The light flickers just outside his door, barely hanging on. Well, light bulbs don’t last forever. There should be more bulbs in the storage room next to the kitchen. Walking past the living room I could see the fireplace barely keeping on. One problem at a time, I tell myself. Moving past the refrigerator I find the old storage room where mother used to hide our Christmas presents. It wasn’t a very good spot if you ask me. I crack open the door, dust everywhere. Looks like I found my next task after that pesky fireplace. Wooden shelves line the walls. Three shelves over and there they are in bulk packaging. Sixty-watt bulb: check. I quickly replaced the light bulb and returned the hallway to its former glory. I put my hand on mother’s door for a brief moment. Yearning to look inside I grasp the knob and turn it. To my surprise, the door remains shut. I try again... nothing. I look down and feel my heart skip a beat. A lock is more visible than ever. We’ve never had locks on our bedrooms and I know for a fact that this door has never been locked in my entire existence. Still trying to process it, I move to the storage room to see if any sort of key is hidden away. I rub my hands together as I pass into the kitchen. The fireplace is out. After a good ten minutes of searching, I reach my hand onto the top shelf and feel around. Dust, dust and... a key. I return to the door and insert the key into the lock. Mechanisms turn and the door greets me with a groan as I open it. I peek in expecting some grand change. To my surprise it remained untouched, but it’s colder. Much colder. Even with everything in its place, there’s still a sense of emptiness. I reach my hand along the wall to turn on the light. The bulbs barely muster any light. They are dim, ready to burn out at any second. Great. At this rate I’ll need to buy a whole year’s supply of bulbs for each visit. A quick trip to the storage room and two packs of bulbs later, mother’s room shines with life. The boxes remain on the table as I move on. Feeling accomplished but disheartened by the unexpected repairs, I returned to the kitchen table to work, donning a sweater in the process. The leaves begin to turn; orange and yellow cover the street. I return to see the tree has lost most of its leaves. I make my way to the door, loosening my scarf in the process. The usual screech is accompanied by a subtle ‘crack’. I finish opening the screen door and witness a piece of the hinge fall to the porch. I turn the key and open the door to the house, preparing to take off my coat as I feel the warmth of the fireplace welcome me out of the crisp fall air. To my disappointment, I kept my coat on, and re-tighten my scarf. I quickly run over to the fireplace to get it going. The gas turns on, but no flame. The tread began to moan under my feet. Mother, Father, Tim, and myself. As I reached the top, I see Tim’s light was out again and so was mine. I became disheartened as I glanced over at mother’s door and saw that her light was flickering. The bulbs sat on the side table. After mother’s light the box was empty. As I placed it back on the table I couldn't help but look at the lock on her door. It felt different. I pulled the key from my keyring, moving with hesitation. I insert the key and begin to turn it. Stuck. Confused I turn it in the opposite direction. Stuck. Overwhelmed I step back from the door, leaving the key in what used to be its home. I don’t understand I repeated to myself over and over, feeling tears of frustration well up in the corners of my eyes. I sat on the top tread with my elbows propped on my knees, my head in my hands, trying to make sense of it. That key had worked last time in the lock that wasn’t even supposed to be there. It had never been there. A sense of loss began to fill inside of me. There must be another way. If there’s a lock then there has to be a key to open it. I just have to find it. Determination propelled me down the stairs and straight into the storage room. I began rummaging through the shelves using more and more force as time went on. Behind the box of spare nuts and bolts? No. What about the old key box on the wall? Of course not. I searched high and low only to come up empty-handed. The more I look for what seems to be a figment of my imagination, the less time I have for why I come here every month. Deep breaths. One, two. In, out. I’ll figure this out. I always do. But for today, a cup of hot chocolate, mom’s favorite, will wash away the anxiety. I sit down, begin to type away, and lose myself in my notes, trying not to worry about the issues that plague me. Those lights outside of mother’s room would burn out without me noticing, and that would be the last time they were ever alive. Months pass now. A blanket of snow covers the streets. The sidewalk hadn’t been cleaned since first snowfall. On the slow, methodical trek to the porch, I notice the paint chipping on the east corner of the house, next to the living room window. The house begins to show its age. The screen door made its usual complaint, also reminding me that I still haven’t fixed the bottom hinge. I remove my thick mittens and retrieve the house key. Shivering, I finished opening the door, only to wish that I had brought a bigger coat. My breath danced away from my face. The glass on the face of the fireplace was frosted. The storage room held no solutions. I’d have to call someone about this. In the meantime, hot chocolate will warm me right up. Just the way mother made it. I retrieve a pot from the cupboard, fill it with water and place it on the stovetop. I turn the knob to find that the pilot light won’t even show. That memorable clicking sound from breakfast with mom won’t even sound. That’s dead too. Of course it is, just my luck. I grabbed a pack of light bulbs from the storage room anticipating what awaits me upstairs. I carry on, bringing my frustration along with me like a dear friend. Mother, Father, Tim, myself. The lights over the staircase began to dim as I moved along the tread. Darkness engulfed me as I reached the top of the stairs. Every bulb was out. Only natural light from downstairs was able to find its way up, providing enough light to avoid tripping. Approaching Tim’s room brought a sense of calmness and warmth. Something this house was missing too much of. Once I reached his door, the good feelings washed away and were replaced by more frustration. It’s done. The light socket is completely fried. I groan and begrudgingly move to my room. More frustration. Then disappointment fills my heart. I’ve loved this home. What’s happening? Turning to mother’s room, I test the durability of the box of bulbs on her door. A loud crunch answers that. As the box crashes to the ground, my hands begin to shake with anger. This door. Why... I stopped short of the door, acknowledging the lock. The key... I left it in there last time. I know I did. Where.. Where did it go? I grasped my head, trying to maintain my balance as the room spun around me. Why do you keep me out? A sense of desperation fills my voice. The answer lies hidden; a memory surrounded by fog. I regain my senses long enough to reach out. I turn the knob. It’s still locked. I turn it again, breathing faster and faster with each attempt. Come on. Come on...Come on! The fog begins to swirl. Why won’t you let me in?! Fists meet the door as my emotional pot begins to boil over. Why can’t I come in?! Fists louder now; eyes swell. Why can’t I see you?! Fists throbbing, my foot meets the door with equal purpose. The fog begins to dissipate as the tears fall to the floor. Why can’t you just remember? Why can’t we be normal again? The desperation turns to pain. Not physical pain. The pain of losing someone even though they are still with you. Knowing that you’ll never have them the same again. I rest my head on the door. Knees weak, heart heavy. A sense of hopelessness fills my heart as the fog clears. I remember now. A hand rests on my shoulder. It’s Tim. His eyes are red and rest in dark circles. “You can do it. You’ve always been the strong one.” His smile gave me comfort in knowing what came next. I returned my gaze to the door, only it wasn't the same. The lock remained, but this door was fixed to a hospital room- room 428. The door was metal, the knob a handle. I grab it and finally felt the door release, letting me in one last time. Our family is gathered around the bed. People I hadn’t seen in years. They began to part as I inched closer, one foot in front of the other. As the crowd cleared, I saw her. She was hooked up to life support. Had been for some time now. It felt like ages, really. She wasn’t exactly conscious., not that it mattered. She wouldn’t remember me now. She forgot my name about three years ago. Tim’s five years. No, she wouldn’t remember us at all, no matter how hard we tried. I leaned over and grasped her hand. I shivered as I felt her skin, cold as ice. I spent what felt like an eternity staring at her face. Burning it into my memory, wanting it to be as detailed as possible. I broke out of my trance and leaned into her side. I whispered in her ear: “I’ll always remember.” My heart sunk as I watched my mother take her last breath. The machine beside the bed relayed a steady tone. The grass looked greener than usual. Tim says he hired one of the neighbor boys to take care of things when we weren’t able to. The tree looked as alive as ever, shading my walk to the porch. The screen door opened without a complaint. I pulled out my key ring and held the key that Tim gave me in my hand. I inserted it into the door and turned, reading the inscription engraved within the door: Memories are forever. -THE END-

It is calm. Nothing else. She’s alone. Castaway on a remote island in the middle of the ocean in the middle of the world in the middle of the universe. Everything is so far away. Everything is being cradled on the waves all around her. She can’t look away. But she is not scared, no. Because all the waves break and collapse before they can touch her shores. She is at peace, watching from a safe distance. But sometimes. Sometimes she hears distant echoes, echoes on the wind and on the waves that pierce through her skull directly into her thoughts. Terrible, terrible sounds. Screeching of the past. *“It’s a completely safe and routine procedure, completely and wholly, yes. Very simple too and very effective. Yes, yes.”* *“It can’t be like this my dear. Look at yourself... Trust me, this will make you feel better.”* Oh, such horrible noises. They take her back. Back to reality. She’s looking around. White walls. White sheets. White people. It’s all white. She starts to feel uneasy. She feels lost, crushed by the overwhelming lack of colour. She doesn’t know what to do. Her muscles cramp. She is terrified. The warmth begins to trickle down her inner thighs. That’s when the white hands touch her and lay her down on the bed. *“Daddy, is this really necessary? I feel fine, I swear.”* *“No, my dear. You don’t understand. You don’t understand anything. This is not normal... You are not normal. There is no other way.”* *“Trust me, no need to worry. Completely routine procedure. And it works like a charm. Yes, yes completely routine. And wholly safe, did I mention that?”* The hands are all around her. They are pulling her upwards. She sits up on the bed. They force something into her mouth. She doesn’t want it, doesn’t want it at all, but before she can react they flush it down her throat. A thick coat of dust swallows everything in the room. Everything loses its edge. It itches. *“Daddy I’m scared.”* *“Don’t worry, my dear, don’t worry. Tomorrow it will all be over. You will feel much better, trust me. Much better.”* *“Yes, yes. Routine, completely routine. And completely safe too. We will insert the scalpel into her brain just like this and we will keep on cutting until there’s barely anything left. It’s routine. Like we always do. Completely safe and very effective. Can’t have a bad personality if you don’t have any at all.”* *“See, darling? There’s no reason to worry.”* She’s screaming. Screaming and crying. Everything is so blurry and it feels so numb. She’s choking. She can’t breathe. So she cries and screams and kicks the air but there’s just way too many hands that push her down. She tries her best but in the end she stops resisting and everything fades to black. She wakes up after a long time on her island. She is happy again, because the world is simple. Everything is far away. She is watching from a safe distance. For a while at least. As long as it’s quiet. \ H.

Pinocchio was born into the simulated universe on a Sunday. This was an exceptionally good day to greet the universe, and his parents were in awe that The Great Program had shown such favor to them. What a profound addition to the code he would be, they were certain of it. But also if he wasn’t, well these sorts of things were really out of everyone’s control, so no one would feel too poorly. Above his bed was stitched a personalized creation story that his mother had sewn. It read: :function (create new) if CycleTiming == IsNow Andif ParentObject(Male) == True Andif ParentObject(Female) == True Andif function (disease) == False Then create function (Pinocchio) Endif :Add function (Pinocchio) to Code She knew that it was a very simplified representation of what the real Code must look like, but still she cried in joy as she hung it above his crib. He was a marvelous boy, his eyes had the same code as hers, and his face was coded like his father’s. Pinocchio grew at a rate that was well within toleranced bounds of a generic bell curve fit, which made his parents glow with satisfaction. He was a happy baby, and cried an amount considered statistically average. His first year passed without issue, at each developmental stage he showed signs of progression at the appropriate moment. But when he spoke his first word into the world, the perfect childhood came crashing down around them. “Real!” His squeals of laughter after saying it rang through the house, but it left his parents frowning at each other. “Where did he hear that from?!” “Well it certainly wasn’t me, I don’t use that kind of language in the house!” “Well it certainly wasn’t me either, could he have heard it at one of those protests?” They both stop and think then, but neither of them can remember a time that he’s ever been near those people . “The doctor, we’ll have to get him seen immediately.” - The next morning, after a night of troubled sleep for his parents, Pinocchio sits on a table at the Pediatrician’s. The doctor shines lights in his eyes, in his ears, and takes his temperature all while conversing with his parents. “Has he had any other signs or symptoms of being a realist?” “At his age? Surely that’s not a concern.” The doctor tuts absentmindedly; “One can never be too certain, some areas of study are now suggesting that Realism is a psychological disorder.” Both parents gasp and look at each other. Not our perfect boy! Their eyes scream. Pinocchio, watching this exchange, thinks that now might be the appropriate time to try his word again. “REAALL” He exclaims. “My word!” The doctor turns around sharply again to stare at him. “What a positively curious case!” His mother does not find this positively curious, and instead it sends her crying inconsolably into his father’s arms. - On the way back to the safety of their house, they pass a protest on the street. Protectively, Pinocchio’s mother shields his eyes from it. She watches through the window as they cruise slowly by signs that read I FEEL REAL, and PINCH ME, I’M NOT DREAMING. She shudders at the ugliness of it, at the implications of what these people believe. It was entirely self-evident that this world was a simulation, and pretending otherwise was abhorrent to her. When philosophers and scientists first discovered this, there was large scale outrage against it. What a silly, backwards time . But over time it was accepted, and then it was triumphed. To think that her own child might grow to be one of these miscreants, why it was positively wretched! We will get him the best tutors, the best therapists, and make sure that he doesn’t. - Even with the best tutors, and the best therapists, Pinocchio’s interest in the real only grew with him. And with a great access to knowledge, his understanding of the world grew at a rapid pace. As a child, he’d ask the most confounding questions, so that his mother and father had to take to studying philosophy to answer him. “But mother, if this is really all a simulation, what’s even the point of existence?” “Would there be a definitive point if this was real? We make our own meaning, sweetheart.” “And if it is a simulation, are we in charge of our own actions?” “No one knows that dear, it’s unknowable. Determinism can’t be proved either way, but I certainly feel in charge of mine. Don’t you?” He’d nod slowly after exchanges like this, staring off into empty space for long stretches afterwards. Although his parents maintained a calm, loving appearance with him, each conversation increased their dread. “No matter what we do, his interest is only growing! Maybe we’re taking the wrong approach?” His father would say. “Maybe there’s nothing we can do, dear. The Great Program has made him this way, who are we to try and alter his code?” His mother would respond, for she had become very religious over the years. Every Sunday, she would attend a gathering to celebrate the simulation and praise The Great Program that held everything together, and created all things. It was a time of great growth for Pinocchio, who was surrounded on all sides by bright thinkers. Even if they tried to persuade him to believe in the simulated universe, it never felt right to him. But he heard all their arguments, and turned them over in his brain again and again like shiny toys. - His parent’s fears were crystalised the summer he turned sixteen revolutions. They knew this was a time of great rebellion, and had feared his increasing temper and impatience with their views. It had led to several heated exchanges where his father had reproved him, screaming things like; here in this house we believe in a simulated universe, and in moments of great despair; your ideas will lead you down a dark road, son. They woke on his birthday to find that he had left. There was a simple letter on his bed. Goodbye mother and father, I love you, but your life is not for me. I want to be a real boy, and I want to be around others like me. You’ve taught me well, and I will cherish my time with you always. - Over the years, they’d see him occasionally from the car window, but never approached. He was their greatest shame, their most obvious failure. He’d be at a corner protest, or on the television leading a march. He looked happy, thrilled and alive in the moment, and it only deepened their embarrassment. What a sad thing to believe in something that isn’t real.

Nobody was safe from the sun. Today was no exception. It shot rays of heat down to the small town of Brinaville. In a small shop full of sweating customers, it melted a fresh scoop of strawberry ice cream almost immediately as it touched the cone. A red stream dripped down Cliffords glove. He tried his hardest to lick it up, but the ice cream only redirected down his chin and into his shirt. “No refunds,” the cashier muffled behind his mask, pointing to the sign on the wall behind him. “Really? But, you saw what happened,” argued Clifford. The cashier stood with his finger pointing to the sign, his eyes glaring at him from behind his worn goggles. “Next,” he said, shrugging Clifford away with a glance. Clifford walked out of the shop. A cloud of dust blew by, covering every piece of exposed cone in his hand. Clifford lowered his head, crushing the cone in his hand and throwing it to the ground. He had traveled far for this, only to have it end up covered in dust, just like everything else. “Hey! No littering!” Shouted a small voice. A very angry little girl ran up to him, two women standing on either side of her. Based on her height she looked no older than 11. Her mask was green with a pattern of ducks on it. She wore a vest that looked like it was from an old costume shop, with a worn badge on it that he could barely make out as the word: SHERIFF. “Are you going to just stand there or pick this up?” she snapped. She stood toe to toe with him, looking up with a sharp stare. “Sorry, ma’am.” Clifford dusted off the cone and picked up the pieces, throwing them in a nearby trash can while the girl and the two women followed him closely. “I’m going to guess that you’re new here, so you won’t get arrested this time. But if you plan on staying in my town then you better keep it clean, got it?” She pointed a finger up at him, her hand resting on her belt. A broken water gun was stuffed in the holster. “Got it.” Said Clifford. “This...is your town?” “Yes sir, it is. I’m Sheriff Brina, you can call me Sheriff Brina. Welcome to Brinaville.” He couldn’t see her face, but can tell that she was smiling behind her mask, very pleased with the name of her town. She held out her hand, and he shook it politely. "Nice to meet you, Sheriff. I'm Cliff." “May I ask what brings you here?” “Ice cream. I came here for ice cream.” “That’s it?” She laughed. “Yeah. That’s it,” he said. The end of his sentence trailing off in almost a whisper. The sheriff noticed the dry ice cream on his glove and glanced at the cone in the trash can. “I’m guessing the first scoop didn’t work out?” “No ma’am, it didn’t. The sun ate it before I could, and I’m afraid I have no more coins for another. So I’ll have to get going.” “Sorry about that. We have plenty of jobs around here if you want to earn more and get another scoop. Ms. Loretta at the salon could use a hand if you’re good with scissors. I’m sure she’ll throw in a haircut, which it looks like you could use.” Clifford ran a hand over his greasy hair. He hadn’t seen his reflection in a long time and forgot how long it had become. “Or, if--judging by your age--you’re an educated man, the kids at the school can always use more teachers. We can’t find many books in good condition anymore. And not many people come through here who remember the knowledge of the old world. Would be nice to teach them more than just colors and the names of animals.” Clifford remembered being a kid and having his nose deep in a textbook while his mother tried her hardest to teach him math. “No, Cliff. Try again. You have 7 and a half apples. I give you 5 and a half. How many do you have now?” His poor mom would buy so many apples to help him learn. But, they would all go bad before he could figure out the correct answer. He used to stress out so much about homework, what he was wearing to school, whether his haircut was cool or not, what he’d grow up to be... and at night he complained if it was too hot or too cold. His mom would always oblige his every need. She was a good mom. Now it was hot every moment of every day. And he ate whatever was there. You’d be lucky if you got your hands on an apple, depending which part of the world you’re in. He thought about the sheriff’s proposition, glancing around at the town. The people looked happy enough. There were only a handful who looked like they were his age. “Who makes the ice cream?” he asked. “Oh, that’d be Ms. Belle and her cow, Ms. Blue. She makes that ice cream from scratch. But since there’s only one cow in town, she only makes a new batch every few months or so.” “Does she need an extra hand?” “I can ask, if you’re interested,” she giggled. “You really like ice cream, huh?” “Yeah.” Clifford spent the next few months working with Ms. Belle to keep the barn clean and the animals fed. She let him keep his horse in the barn, next to Blue, so long as Clifford promised to do at least one lesson a week at the school for the kids. He agreed. The kids all loved Clifford. They loved his funny little stories of the old world. Stories about motion pictures, snacks, air conditioning, pools, theme parks, and grocery stores full of food. He told them about his school, and played games with them just like the ones he grew up playing. He watched as the mothers and fathers of the kids would pick them up from school. He thought about his own mom again. One of the fondest memories he had of her was years ago when they were camping in an old cave. Cliff was crying, saying he was tired of camping and wanted to go home. His mom said, “Cliff, I’m sorry, but this is how it’s going to be from now on. I know it’s hard. I know it’s different. But, I promise you that you’ll find something about the world to love again.” “What do you love about it?” he asked. “Ice cream,” he remembers her saying with a blank stare. “I want to have just one last scoop of strawberry ice cream again before I die. In a cone. Wouldn’t that be nice?” He remembers her staring blankly at her hand as she talked about it, as if she was picturing herself holding the cone. A tear ran down her cheek. He rubbed it from her cheek and gave her a hug. “I promise I’ll find some ice cream for you, mom.” At the time it felt like an easy promise to fulfill. At the time he was still optimistic that one day things would return back to normal. Schools and ice cream shops would open again. The fires will stop, the air will be clean again, and the government will rebuild the cities and restock the shelves of the grocery stores. But he’d find out soon enough that there was no vaccine or government powerful enough to right this wrong. And so he hugged his mom will full confidence in his promise. “Thanks, kiddo,” she said with a smile, hugging him back. She never got her ice cream. It was cooler today in Brinaville. Clifford was going about his usual day, tending to the cow and the other animals. Ms. Belle called him inside. “Everything alright, Ms. Belle?” “Everything’s fine, Cliff. I just wanted to see if you could taste this for me and let me know if it’s alright to send out to the shop?” She held out a cone with two scoops of strawberry ice cream in it. He paused, ,waiting for the sun to strike it down like a bad dream. But it didn’t. He patted his chest pocket where a picture peeked out. He closed his eyes as he reached out, grabbing the cone and feeling it in his hands. Ms. Belle couldn’t see his face under the mask, but could tell that he was smiling. She put her hand on his shoulder and gave him a hug.

The sail to Stetguttot Heath was the longest I had ever been at sea. It took close to three weeks chasing the variable westerly winds from the southern tip of the Archipelago to its northern reaches. My new, permanent lodgings onboard Alessia’s boat proved invaluable. My own space, and an actual bed, however small, made the journey pass with relative ease. Still, I couldn’t help but feel relief when we finally spotted the landmass of Stetguttot Heath emerging from the oceans ahead. The islands in the north of the Archipelago tended to be larger than those in the south, and Stetguttot Heath was no exception. A series of hills like the points of a crown rose from the ocean. Tufts of uneven wild grass littered the steep banks, broken by pockets of white stone. As we got closer, I could see more apexes rising in the distance, and further back the tallest hills crested even higher. The entire island was a series of peaks and troughs rolling across the land. We began circling the island, looking for a safe place to land the boat; the steep banks and rocky waters proving too dangerous a place to moor. Then, on the south-east corner, we spotted a small wooden harbour. Three high wooden jetties jutted out from the shoreline into the sea. Next to one, another vessel bobbed waywardly in the choppy waters. The third jetty was stunted, its second half having collapsed into the ocean. Broken stalks rose from the water, bent at odd angles, supporting nothing but air. The other jetties looked little safer. As the tide rolled through, they swayed with the current, the joints of the columns creaking, small gaps appearing between bindings. We delicately slid up to one of the jetties, being careful not to bump it too hard in case we should send it toppling into the ocean. As we stepped off the boat, the planks creaked beneath us, letting out a panged ache with each step. “Any last advice for dealing with people here?” I asked Alessia, as she stepped up behind me. “Tell them that they can’t build jetties for shit,” she said, staring down at the ocean between the cracks in the planks. “Yeah. I learned that one too,” I replied, my voice flat. “Beyond that? Your guess is as good as mine. I knew how to get here, nothing else.” We took slow steps up the slip until our feet met firm land. A small stone causeway had been built, creating a level surface between the two hills that rose in all other directions. Some twenty metres’ climb up the hill to our right, we could see a large building tucked into the hillside. “Go see who we can find?” I suggested. Alessia shrugged, but nodded for me to lead the way. The wooden structure was probably thirty or so metres across. It was made of plain-brown planks mounted vertically on end, with a steep, sharp pointed roof. On the broad side I could see two small windows seemingly placed at semi-random, their heights not quite aligning. Approaching the building, we found a sign nailed to the door. It was perhaps only fourty centimeters across, and written in simple black font. “Harbour Office. All visitors must report.” I turned to Alessia and raised my eyebrows. “Guess we’d better report then,” she said wryly, reaching past me and knocking on the door. “Come in,” came a dry voice from the other side. Inside, the room was dark and gloomy. Lightless shadows crept across old desks and lopsided shelves laden with books. A few weak lanterns did their best to fight off some of the gloom, but their reach seemed to only cover a quarter of the space, giving colour to select parts of the building. At the far end, we could see three office workers sitting in a circle - two men and one woman. They leaned back in their chairs, their feet propped up on the tables. As we stepped inside, their eyes turned to us, but they didn't stand. "Hello, how can we help. Are you registering a ship?" "Yes," Alessia replied. "We've moored up at the jetti outside." "Excellent," one of the men replied. He stood up with an odd excitement, and began flicking through books on a desk next to him until he found the right one. He turned the pages and settled on a blank page. "What's the ship type?" he asked, while rummaging through the drawers in his desk. "B-Class trading vessel" The man produced a pen and held it up triumphantly before taking down information from Alessia regarding the ship. “And what's the purpose of your visit?" "Well, we were hoping to find out about someone who lives here, or at least did." The eyebrows of the woman still sitting suddenly raised. "Oh, I can probably help you there. We keep records of birth and education here. What's the name?" "Sannaz Lytta" She looked up and to the right. "Don't recognize the name. But we can have a look through the records. They're organized by year. Do you know how old they are... were...?" "No idea, I'm afraid. Adult. Not old enough to stop being active. So... older than twenty, but less than sixty." I winced, fearing how unhelpful I was being. The woman let out a small, sharp cackle. "Not much to work with," she looked over to the shelves of books to her right, "but we'll find them." She walked over and grabbed five thick ledgers off the shelves. "Halifax, get off your backside and help." The last of the workers still sitting rose and walked over as the woman placed the books down on a table under one of the lanterns. "Everyone grab a book and start searching." While the mission of finding the record was bound to be laborious, I was shocked how easy it was to find out more about our target on Stetguttot Heath. Back on Tima Voreef we had had to complete an errand and even then blackmail our way to simply see a record in a book. Yet here, the people couldn't have been more willing to help, almost relieved for a long but arduous task that at least broke up the monotony of doing nothing. Inside the books were a series of columns, each row representing the an islander.. I read the columns at the top. *Name, Section of Birth, TBU, Section of TBU, Occupation at 25, Section at 25, Occupation at 35, Section at 35...* I glanced right, the last column no more than a centimeter across, a tiny "Section at 75" scrawled in the margins. In the book I was reviewing those final few columns were always empty. But all too often, so were earlier ones. Given the years I was looking at, everyone here should be in their forties by now, but way too often only the first two columns were filled out. Whether the blanks were from a mismanagement of records or life I couldn’t be sure. I had gone through maybe twenty pages of names when suddenly one of the men raised his finger to the air. "Found him." The woman leant over and inspected his work. "That's the right record alright. He's thirty-seven, from Section F." She spun the book around and pushed it towards Alessia and I. We both leaned over to the read the first few columns. Sannaz Lytta, F, 17, F, Digger, F, Digger, F. "I assume Section F is a location?" I asked. The woman nodded. "There are fourteen sections across the island. F is pretty far from here, north-western tip, but you can walk there over a day or two across the hills." "What's TBU," I asked. "Test for Better Undertaking," the woman replied. "Everyone at age fifteen takes a test to determine their skill levels. Both general intelligence and knowledge of certain areas like engineering, medicine. Key skills. From there we determine what career people should have." "So one test when you're fifteen and you decide who becomes a doctor and who goes into manual labour?" I asked through gritted teeth that hid my pensiveness. "Yes," the woman replied. "There's a committee in Section C that work at designing the test, revising it over the years to make it the best it can be. Ensuring it has the right variation - not too easy, not too hard" I looked down at the ledger. "And a score of 17?" "Bad. Real bad." The woman shook her head, snickering slightly. "Your guy's a moron. Probably why he was assigned to be a digger." "A digger?" Alessia asked. "Yeah. They dig," the woman said, tilting her head forward. "There's a bunch of mines in Section F. Diggers do the initial brute work of clearing out new routes so the miners can come along and pick out the copper." I looked up to Alessia. The man who had left Stetguttot Heath, had the money to hire an army from Tima Voreef, and then left to murder Deer Drum had spent twenty years underground clearing out tunnels. The background seemed so benign that I couldn't make sense of it. I had expected a scorned island leader, a guerilla fighter, and instead found someone whose own island deemed them an idiot and sent them to a life of digging. Alessia looked back at me with a small shake of her head before turning back to the woman. "We know Sannaz left here. He ended up attacking an entire island, virtually wiping them out. But you have no idea who he is, no idea what may have led to him doing that?" The woman's neck craned back and her eyes widened. "Honestly, with a score of 17 I find it remarkable he would ever have been able to leave. Probably wouldn't have realized you can't breathe underwater, walked right into the sea and drowned." She turned to the other two workers, and they let out a chuckle on cue. "Are there any other records on this man? We need to find him," Alessia said. "No other records. Only thing I can think of is to head to Section F and ask around. See if anyone there knows anything." Alessia looked around the room. "Two day trek you reckon?" The woman nodded. "We can pack some stuff from the boat, a few provisions," Alessia said, turning to me. "Up for a small camping trip?" "After three weeks on a boat, a few days on land sounds delightful." “Oh, I’ll make a sailor of you one day, Ferdinand. But, meanwhile, let’s get packing.

After helping to clear the mine had physically exhausted me and discovering the true nature of the test had left me mentally spent, I fell asleep by the fire. The night air was chilly, but the warmth from the flames, my own body heat, and the sheer exhaustion meant I slept quite comfortably through till morning in the open air. I didn’t wake till the sun had risen, and I was brought around by a gentle kick to my thigh. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” came an aggressively chirpy voice. I opened my eyes to Alessia standing next to me, smirking. A loud yawn contorted my face, as the sun’s rays pierced my cracking eyelids. “What’s the plan?” I said, lifting myself off my back. “Well, unlike you, I’ve been up for a few hours already. I spoke to a few guys, spent a bit of our money, and got us some ropes, mining explosives, and lanterns.” She paused. I could see her watching my face, waiting for my tired eyes to process what she said. “You ever been abseiling?” “What?” “Abseiling? You know. Like climbing, but... downwards?” “You pretty much know my life story at this point,” I said, blinking myself to consciousness. “What part of that do you think involved abseiling?” “Yeah. I thought that’d be the case. New experience for us both.” She reached out a hand, I took it and she pulled me to a standing position. “So we’re going down into the caves then?” I said, as Alessia began leading me through the town. “Seems a bit coincidental there was a random explosion where Sannaz was just before he left.” “True.” “Seems more likely he saw something and didn’t want anyone else finding it, so he covers his tracks.” “And you think there’s something down there?” “I wanna see what he saw. Yeah.” Alessia said, turning to me. “Sound like a plan?” “Sounds good,” I said nodding. Suddenly, an old part of the conversation caught up with me. I stopped. “Wait, did you say we’re taking mining explosives?” “They said part of the caves collapsed after the explosion. Might be a few blockages down there. Gotta clear them somehow.” Alessia shrugged her shoulders. “You want to get past rubble... caused by an explosion... by using an explosion?” I spoke slowly, hoping the idiocy of the plan would come through. “Look. I’m not gonna use it unless we have to, okay? You bury the charges in the rocks and it clears a path through without disturbing the rest.” “That work?” “That’s what they recommended to me anyway. It’s what they’re doing at the mine entrance now that there’s no more people trapped in the rubble.” I sighed. “We use it as a last resort, okay?” “Agreed.” We walked through and out the other side of the town. Quickly the ground turned from grey dust to healthland. Spindly wild grass broke through the compact earth as rubbery shrubs did their best to get high enough to steal the sunlight. We walked straight across the uneven, but hard ground, as a stiff breeze blew. In the distance, I could make out a man and a woman standing in the middle of the open land, various ropes and other gear strapped to them. Next to them was Cameron. As we approached, Cameron called out. “The ground’s solid here, and there are some good rocks for anchor points. But they don’t wanna risk going any further out.” “How far is the sinkhole?” Alessia asked as we arrived. “About thirty metres that way,” Cameron said, pointing behind him. Over his shoulder I could see the ground begin to descend. Thick cracks appeared in the earth, growing wider as the surface sloped down, until I could see the great void in the earth. “Is that ground going to hold us?” I asked, my eyes glued to the black drop. “Almost certainly not,” Alessia replied with a disconcerting grin. I turned to face her as she shoved a small belt into my hands. “That’s why we have these.” I watched as Alessia began tying the harness around herself, looping one knot at the side, and another by her front as a portion of the rope went through her legs. I was slowly piecing together the structure as she finished and looked over to me. “How long have you been on my boat now? How can you still not tie a good knot?” She walked over and undid my own attempts and started rewrapping the belt around me, looping it between my thighs, before tying it in a secure knot by my left hip. “You need something that’s going to hold you in place, firmly.” She gave one last fierce pull on the fabric and the belt tightened around me, clasping against my abdomen. “How’s that? Too tight?” “A little actually,” I wheezed. “Good. Tight enough then.” She walked over and picked up the end of a long piece of rope and handed it to me. I followed the long coil with my eyes. It wound round in a circle on the floor before trailing off to a large rock, a good metre high, where the man and woman were anchoring it in place. With the rope secure around the rock, the woman walked over to me and started pulling the rope through the belt. “You ever done this before?” she asked. “No...” “Okay. Well. It’ll feel weird. But hold on, keep a good grip, you’ll be fine.” She continued relaying specifics to me as the long coil slowly snaked through me. With almost all the rope now on the other side of the harness, she bent down and picked up a small stone, looping the very end of the line around it. She took several delicate paces out towards the drop, watching the ground beneath her for any sign of danger. Then, convinced she was close enough, she hurled the rock through the air. It bounced a few times, before it reached the edge, and plunged into the earth below. The rope shot down with it, the great snaked path unravelling as it fell to the bottom of the chasm. Eventually the line ran out of slack, and it pulled taut against my belt. I watched as the man threw the rock with Alessia’s line down in a repeat. Alessia turned to me. “You ready?” “Ready as I’ll ever be.” She walked over and picked up a satchel from the ground and passed it to me, before she picked up a heavy backpack for herself. Cameron stepped forward. “Hey, that’s mine.” “Rucksack is easier to carry down there.” “What about my book?” Cameron protested, his arms stretched to the side. “You’ll get it back as soon we’re done. I promise,” Alessia paused, watching Cameron’s face remain unmoved. “I want to make sure you’re still here when we return.” Cameron huffed. “If you lose that book down there-” “Not gonna happen,” Alessia grinned. She looked down at her line, holding it one hand as she leaned back, feeling it hold her weight. “We’ll tug on the rope when we need lifting back up. By the end of the day.” Cameron pouted. “Fine. No book, and you can stay down there though.” Alessia and I turned and slowly started heading towards the sinkhole. It wasn’t long before I could feel the ground begin to slide downwards as cracks began to appear in the ground. I watched as thin hairlines grew into centimeter wide black streaks, grass roots poking out the sides. A few paces more, and my body began to instinctually slow down as the ground became spongy beneath my footsteps. I looked over to Alessia. She was tentatively placing one foot in front of the other, taking a small age to transfer her weight across. “It’ll be easier on all fours,” I said. “Spread the weight.” Alessia nodded, and we both sunk to our knees, stretching out our bodies in front of us and crawling along with as many points of contact to the ground as possible. The grass was springy to the touch, the weeds gripping around my fingers with each crawl forward. I stopped as the whole ground shifted, lurching forward. I could feel my body rotate a few degrees, the angle down to the chasm in front now steeper. I took one more creep forward and I heard the inevitable rolling of dirt. “Hold on!” I called out. The ground beneath us gave way. A large chunk of earth a good few metres across snapped beneath me. I watched as it accelerated away, turning as it fell into the darkness below. The rope snared against the more solid ground, and I swung back. I held on tight to the cable by my stomach, as the belt wrapped around my constricted abdomen, yanking me back towards the wall. I stretched out my feet as they landed and my body bounced against the soft clay side of the cave. “You all right?” I called out. A light flickered on, as a lantern and Alessia’s face came into view. “I’m good. Bit bruised, but good.” “What now?” I asked. “Keep heading down. I’ll try and stay level with you so you can see the light.” I nodded as I began slowly loosening my grip on the rope, allowing it to pass through the belt as we descended deeper into the hole. Above me, the small sliver of light was beginning to fade, the circular halo shrinking with each passing metre. As I looked down, the light of the lantern began to reach the bottom of the sinkhole. Piles of soil and debris covered the stone ground. There was a noise too, one almost silenced by the creaking of the rope as it passed through the belt, but it was there. A trickle, the noise of water. I looked over, and saw a small stream running along the bottom of the cave. My feet touched the ground and I took a deep breath - part relief, and part the relaxation of the belt no longer gripping so tightly around my stomach. Untying the harness I inspected our surroundings. It was a wide section of cave that thinned out in either direction, following the stream. “We sure this guy was ever even here? Could just be a random bit of cave?” I asked. “True,” Alessia said with a hum. She took a few steps, treading over the stream. “Best bet we’ve got though.” “So which way do you want to head?” I said, feeling my own voice echo back against me. “Downstream,” Alessia nodded. “Upstream takes us back towards where the mines are, makes sense he would’ve come from that way. And then headed *that* way,” she said, pointing towards the thinning passageway to my left. I followed her lead as we left the thin ring of natural daylight behind and plunged fully underground. Memories of Ringatoy Shires came back to me. I had spent over a week without daylight underground with Kit. Even though the conditions were very different - the rubble of the library replaced with natural underground mazes - that sensation of the Earth surrounding you, pressing in on you from all sides, remained. I wondered for a moment if Kit had ever returned down to the library, or if she had stayed above ground, spinning clients into credits down at the market. I hoped she was doing okay. Then I remembered Kit falling. The brief moment when I thought she had died, holding her still body, already in place in a cavernous tomb. I had nearly lost a treasured companion that day. I looked at Alessia trudging her way in front of me. I would not let that happen again. I struck a couple of paces to get closer to Alessia, my feet slipping slightly against the moist rock. “You okay there?” Alessia chuckled, turning her head slightly. “Yeah. Not used to clambering through caves, I guess.” I looked at Alessia’s slow, but assured footing as she hopped between bits of flatter stone. “You seem... fine down here?” “I wouldn’t say fine,” Alessia said, a hint of hesitancy to her voice. “But I’ve been in enough caves to not be worried, if that makes sense.” “Why have you been in so many caves?” I asked, trying to concentrate on where my feet were. Alessia laughed. “Strange upbringing I guess.” My mouth opened to respond. But I decided to leave prying any further for another day. As we went deeper, the air became stiffer, as though it was stuck to the walls of the cave. However, it remained cool, the water bringing with it an icy touch from wherever its source may be, and so each step became a frosty lick of stagnant air, each inhalation feeling frigid and damp. We’d been walking for the better part of an hour, the cave weaving side to side as it cut the path of least resistance through the soft rock. However, the path looked like it was thinning out, and I became all too aware of memories from the library, of passing through gaps no wider than my shoulders dreading the idea of having to turn back. “How much further you want to continue?” I asked. “Figure we may as well keep going further yet. Still think this is our best hope. There’s a water in the rucksack if your thirsty,” she said, pointing to her own back. “I’m fine. Just trying to make sure we don’t get trapped down here,” I said, trying to force a laugh. “You ever going to give that bag back to Cameron?” “Yeah. Gotta stay true to my word right? Besides, seems like sharing that book around may help a bit?” “Might give the kids of Section F a better chance of passing it.” “Until they change the test again, yeah.” Alessia said, failing to reciprocate my jovial tone. “What do you mean?” “The test is about ranking right? Too many people get that book, too many people do well on the test, then it becomes meaningless. Test’s only useful as long as people fail it.” “I guess,” I replied, turning my attention to the ceiling that was now encroaching beneath head height. I crouched slightly as we snuck along the tunnel in single file. “I’m not sure how much further we can keep heading along like this. Getting a bit narrow.” “Bit further,” Alessia said, pushing round a sharp bend to the right. “Follow it to the end.” I followed apprehensively as the walls began to brush against me, the odd jagged side of cave butting against me like an errand elbow in a crowd. With each step the rivulet kept digging deeper and deeper into the hillside, forcing its way through increasingly solid rock. Soon the cave was not much wider than the water itself, and every other foot was directly into the puddle, the small splash so loud in the dank depths of the mountain that it threatened to deafen us. As we descended, the path became more violent, turning as soon as it found a rock too tough to be moved. We turned another sharp bend to the right, then another to the left. The ceiling was now low enough that Alessia was ducking too, crouching as she pinched through the cavern, her hand held out to the wall for balance against the uneven ground. One more twist to the right, and I breathed a sigh of relief as the route widened out. Quickly it disappeared from our heads and arms, and within just a few metres it ballooned out into a wide open space. I took a couple of paces away from the stream and noticed that the ground beneath me wasn’t clay or rock. It was concrete. Something man-made. I tapped it with my shoe, feeling the familiar sensation of that thud-like noise. Some five metres away a great crack ran across the ground, the floor the other side pushed up and buckled toward the ceiling, torn apart by some great force. In the distance, I could see a column, great steel beams bent and snapped apart like a twig. Then, looking further back still, rotated slightly, maybe some five degrees off-balance, I could see a large metal door. A thick bar ran across its centre, waiting to be pushed. I instinctively walked towards it. \ Next chapter published 7th October.

Little Ina Little Ina has been in an orphanage trying to get adopted for over 25 fortnights. She was finally going to get adopted before the pandemic struck. No one was allowed to leave their houses and there was unrest in society during the pandemic. Ina was devastated because she just wanted someone to love her, to make her feel like she belonged, unlike how she felt for so long. Ina was for so long neglected at the orphanage after her parents died. She was short with warm skin, and chocolate eyes, and hair braided down her back. She had a long thin scar running down her face from when her head slammed against the seat when her parent's car crashed. She had just been an infant. Maybe two or three at the time. She was so young when it happened it seems like a distant memory. She had always gotten teased at the orphanage. She cried herself to sleep every night feeling as though there was no one to love her. When the pandemic struck; no one knew what was happening. She got teased worse, and the adults didn't help. No one could go outside and everyone found it as an opportunity to target the weakest person. They'd play pranks and bully her until one day when they took it too far. They snuck into her room and cut off her hair. She woke up to a shorn head and startled, ran out crying. She passed people who were pointing and laughing in her face. She turned away and ran into the bathroom. She looked in the mirror as tears rolled down her face. A strong presence radiated around her. She felt soft hands wrap around her and pull her face up. She smiled a true smile. "Mom!" And then the ghost of a touch as the presence was whisked away; torn from her. "Mom!" she cried. "Don't leave me!" But it was too late. She turned and saw herself standing in the mirror with red puffy eyes, swollen cheeks, and tears streaming down her face. She turned as two girls walked in and pushed her into a stall door. She hit her head and crumpled to the ground. The last thing she heard was their laughter ringing in her ears. She woke up with a bump on her head. She looked at herself and couldn't see anything valuable. Why would anyone want her? She looked at her short hair and ran her fingers through it. She despised her hair now. She heard all the mocking and laughter in her head and it drove her to the point of insanity. She sheared her hair shorter, into a neat bob. She ran out of the bathroom so she could get to her room. All around her people laughed and pointed, or shoved her into walls. By the end of the night, her body was covered in bruises. She wished there was someone out there to care for her, but the honest truth was that there is nobody out there who could ever love her. She gave up hope that she would ever be adopted. She started slinking around the orphanage with a glum look on her depressed face. Nothing could make her smile anymore. Years later the pandemic passed and no one wanted her. She was still getting teased daily. One day she had had enough. At lunch one day a girl got in her face and started teasing her. Ina got tears in her eyes but wiped them off. "Awe, is baby gonna cry?" the girl taunted. Ina had had enough of the bullying and jumped on the girl. They rolled around and got in a brawl. Ina got some good punches in. Later she had a swollen face and black eye but it was worth it. Ina had a new aura. People respected her. Until she got into trouble for giving that "poor" girl a black eye. Now whenever people would come to adopt, they would stay away from her like she had the plague. No one wanted her, or ever would. She didn't sleep and she did not eat anything. She would stay in her room and avoid the other kids in fear of harassment. No one would befriend her after the accident and that girl became a sort of a celebrity as the innocent victim of the vicious girl who got attacked for no reason. News spread, even outside the small orphanage, and out of the very small urban town. She knew she made a mistake, but why should she get punished? It was only out of self-defense. After that day whenever she looked at herself in any mirror, all she saw was a monster. Someone who couldn't be trusted, and could not be loved. After all: who could love a monster? She wasn't even sure what she was and all the negative voices in her head were telling her to just stop trying. It is not like she'll ever get adopted. She tried and tried, but could not silence the voices. She miserably thought that if she died, so would the voices, and the laughter, and the taunts. At least no one could hurt her if she was dead. But that wouldn't do her any good and it is too soon. Also, what would her mother think? She could see her mother. She slammed her head against a wall. What was she thinking? She couldn't end her life! She walked back to the orphanage one last time as a couple was looking for someone to add to their family. Someone to love! She ran up to them, but they chose the girl who she had earlier punched. The girl who had made her life miserable. The girl who was going to belong and be loved. Why couldn't she be that girl? With the pandemic, she never got adopted and even after the pandemic, she didn't get adopted. So she finally learned the truth: No one wanted her, and no one ever would.

I wrote this story for u/throwthisoneintrash, and for anyone else who wants to read it now that I'm posting it here. The story exchange was great fun btw. Highly recommend joining the Discord server. Constraints: 1) Story must contain a diamond. **2) Magic is used.** 3) A character goes on an adventure. 4) There is a plot twist in the story. **5) Use the word “rescue”.** **6) The ending is wholesome.** **The Witch’s Daughter** Two steps away from Mrs Alder’s front door, Carla whispered, “If she turns you into a newt, I won't rescue you.” I scoffed. “Mrs Alder can't do anything to me. I've got my evil-eye charm and lucky rabbit’s foot.” “Your *brother's* lucky rabbit’s foot.” “Shh!” Everyone knew Emily’s mother was a witch. She lived right at the edge of the woods and brewed potions. That was enough proof for us. If Emily had been anyone else’s little sister or childhood friend, she might have just been quiet and neat and shy. But she was the witch’s daughter and so she was a freak, stuck-up and stubborn. But Emily remained herself. No matter what jabs and taunts came her way, she always smiled kindly and kept silent. Had I been closer to some of the other children, I might have joined them in teasing her. But my best friend Carla was sure that Emily knew magic and she wanted to see it for herself. Eventually, one day after school, Emily gave in. Flowers sprouted beneath her hand in all kinds of wonderful colors. I gasped in amazement, already reaching out to pluck them. But Emily stopped me. "Just let them grow," she said. "That's all they want." It didn’t matter to me. I wanted a flower crown. But Carla shook her head and I understood. Keeping Emily happy was more important, if it meant she would show us more magic later. I took a deep breath. "Okay. But we're friends now, right? You'll play with us?" Emily looked thoughtful, then smiled. "Yes, I'll show you more magic." Carla and I cheered. From then on, we played together every day after school. Emily didn't have her own dolls, but she could make little clay figures from the soil and set them walking back and forth. After a while, she even created little weather spots: a sunny day in the middle of a rainstorm, a patch of snow. Then one day Carla decided she wanted to play a ball game. Emily conjured one easily enough. “What should we play?” I asked. Carla grinned. “Monkey, of course!” We decided that Emily would be the monkey for the first round. She would stand in the middle and try to catch the ball as Carla and I tossed it back and forth. Maybe Carla had known how Emily was never very good at sports. Unfortunately, Emily also had magic on her side. “Okay!” Emily grinned, clutching the ball. “Now you can be the Monkey.” Carla trudged into position, scowling. I knew I had to get the ball back to her soon or she would sulk for days afterwards. I threw it as hard as I could. Unfortunately, I threw it too hard. The ball sailed over their heads and crashed into the window of Mrs Hendricks’ house. Mrs Hendricks came stomping out. “Who did this!?” Before I could say anything, Carla pointed at Emily. “It was her!” she yelled. “She broke the window with her magic powers!” Mrs Hendricks scowled at Emily. “Young lady, what do you have to say for yourself?” Emily stared, eyes wide, and I thought she would use her magic. But she only bowed her head meekly. “I’m really sorry,” she whispered. Mrs Hendricks grabbed her arm. “We’re going to find your mother and you’re going to tell her just what you’ve done.” “But-” I said just as Carla pulled me away. “What are you doing?!” I hissed at her. “Just let her take the blame,” Carla said. “Unless you really want Mrs Hendricks to complain to your mom.” I might have preferred to deal with an angry Mrs Hendricks and an angry Mom instead of a witch. Maybe Emily felt the same way. But I didn’t want to be grounded either. So I let Carla talk me into keeping quiet. The next day, it snowed like I’d never seen before. School was canceled. Carla decided it was the perfect time to build a snowman. “We should get Emily too,” I said. Maybe she could make it come to life. “No,” my mom said. “Emily’s grounded. She broke Mrs Hendricks’ window yesterday.” “Um...” I hesitated, then decided to press on. “It was me, actually.” I explained what happened. Mom frowned. I looked out regretfully at the snow. “Am I grounded now?” “Just go own up to them first, Lucy,” she said. “I’ll decide on your punishment when you get back.” I put on my coat and scarf without prompting for once. I had to hide my evil-eye charm and rabbit’s foot somewhere, after all. Now, armed with my talismans, I knocked on the door. Emily’s mother opened it. She really didn’t look like a witch, I thought. More like an aunt who liked baking. “Can Emily come out to play?” I asked. “Oh no, dears,” she said. “I’m keeping her inside after what she did yesterday.” “That was me, Mrs Alder,” I said. “I was the one who threw the ball.” She blinked. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Emily! Your friends are here to see you.” Emily bounded to the door. “Does this mean I can go to Lucy’s house today?” “Fine,” Mrs Alder said. “Just be home in time for dinner.” We raced back to my house. Just as we were putting the finishing touches on our snowman, my mom stepped out. “I’ve decided on your punishment, Lucy,” she said. “You’re grounded.” I sighed and headed inside. “Not you two,” my mom said from behind me. “You can stay outside if you want.” “We’ll keep her company,” Carla said. “Playing with dolls sounds more fun anyway,” Emily said. “You brought your own dolls?” my mom asked. A noise made me look down. Several ice figurines hurried along beside me. “Yeah,” Emily said. “I guess I did.

1st draft of a short story I finished writing recently. Let me know your opinions. Thank you. \ Joe drove into the rest area at the base of the mountain feeling a bit drowsy, yawning loudly and at once stretching in theatrical displays of lethargy to his wife, Kaylee, who was sitting next to him. At the curt behest of his wife, who showed not the slightest measure of sympathy for those boisterous sounds that he made, Joe resignedly parked the car away from the other vehicles. “We’re here,” he said, with a tiredness in his voice as he looked up at the summit hidden under the exhaled white, frosty breath of the frozen air. His wife sat silently next to him. As if she had made a covenant with herself, she looked the other way seeking instead the attention of her own frigid reflection through which she observed the icy landscape, the snow falling ever gently on to the cold glass. She suddenly began with a silent rustle in preparation of the forthcoming hike. She gathered the whole of her gear: boots, backpack, fanny pack, jacket, pants, mittens for her small hands. Her movements were aggressive, noisy, made in such an angry spirit that she tossed things into her backpack and shoved them as deep as the bottom would allow for a thing to reach; she even felt herself challenged by an innocent zipper of her impermeable jacket that stubbornly refused to zip and close. “Damn it! C’mon you stupid thing!” she quietly exclaimed to it, still unable to get it to move, pinching it harder between her fingers and pulling it with greater force inasmuch as the little metal zipper seemed destined to be torn off completely against its will. “Can I help?” Joe offered. “No... I got it,” she replied coldly as she struggled, but soon thereafter the zipper yielded finally and relief had come to her face with the zipper now drawn up to her neck, yet she did not appear entirely freed from her sudden agitation. Joe ignored his wife’s rejection and looked out through the windshield up at a calm sky of gray clouds. The sun appeared stifled, dormant even, and, for as long as it remained behind that thick haze of the clouds, as a faded, yellow smudge that was weak enough in radiance to look at directly without much damage to the eyes. Joe was thin, and despite his slender form, he was not at all athletic. He already felt the altitude exerting its influence in the difficulty there was to breathe when he first arrived at the park. He had not gone a few steps on the first trail that his head began to feel light and disorientated, but he never disclosed these ailments to Kaylee whom he found, on looking up from his staggered step, mustering on a few meters ahead of him with a red tinge on her cheeks, and her little back muscles exposed and glistening under the frosty sun. The symptoms would grow worse for Joe and they had to stop their advance more often, very much to the disappointment of his wife, and owing to these difficulties therefore decided to quit the hike prematurely and failed to reach the end. This was always the result at each trail that they had visited from that to the current path, each a failure to reach the summit. The trail now before him was a redemption of some kind for him, as he looked at the peak just out there amid the white mist. “Will you get ready already? We’re wasting time.” Kaylee said, tearing him away from the peacefulness of the mountain. Joe quickly grabbed his things for the hike along with his wallet when a wrinkled, little old paper fell from it, and he reached for the slip with great regret for its fall, anxious about retrieving it from the dark abyss between the armrest and the driver seat in which more things are lost than all the mountains that the human spirit ever had the courage to scale. There was nothing of particular importance on it as it was mostly empty in fact except for a heart that had been cartoonishly rendered on it by Kaylee. It was a small gift he vouched to forever keep that she gave to him one night as recompense for abiding yet another long night of intense study during her days as a law student. “Alright, let’s go,” she said to him, bringing the straps of her backpack over her shoulders like a military man throwing the immense weight of his equipment on his back. “This time, we have to reach the top, please. We can’t keep quitting in the middle of it.” “I won’t stop,” he replied, “I’ll try not to stop, for anything.” “You promise we’ll keep going until we reach the end? You keep saying you will, but you never do, and I have to do it alone or not at all in the end.” “I promise.” The trailhead began where a sign was put to mark the beginning that read “Deer Mountain trail.” “There it is,” Kaylee said, marking out the long, dirt path ahead of them that disappeared rather sneakily around a bend. Joe found it a bit of a charming curiosity in his wife that she was as steadfast as yet she possessed no survival instinct; she had no sense of orientation as he knew on the basis of past experience that she would not be able to find her way back to the origin point despite that the trail only went in two directions, forward and backward. Unlike Joe, her big, astute eyes often overlooked the many markings of a forest that can guide a fellow traveler and lead him to his destination even when the forest seems vast, dark, unnavigable for its many possible paths that can lead a hiker astray to frustrating dead ends. She’d often look back whenever the trail vanished before her at Joe to consult with his inner compass for directions, and he relished the smile on her face when he pointed to her the direction in which they ought to continue. Some time later, not half-way up the mountain, it began to drizzle on them as they began to hear the small patter of falling rain droplets against their shoulders, near the ear. “It might get muddy, and dangerous if we keep climbing, don’t you think?” Joe said. “It’s nothing, c’mon! Don’t stop.” In addition to the gentle beginning of the rain, the road began to vanish under a slight haze. The fog was encroaching more on the mountain with the passing of each minute, like some sinister specter come to haunt the hikers. Through the white mist, each branch and each rock and each hill took on the form of a silhouette without any distinguishing feature to speak of. Each object as seen through the haze was a dark outline, fuzzy like television static. Even the people themselves looked identical under the cloak of the mist as everyone took on the same fundamental form, indistinguishable from man to man, from woman to woman, except when it was from man to woman as the former had a noticeably larger build than the latter, and it was under these ghostly conditions that Joe saw someone sitting on a boulder some feet away from the trail. The couple pressed on, but Joe was in sufficient proximity to the stranger to notice that he had a face which was similar to his own, except for a large burly beard that hung well below the neck. His eyes were hidden under the lip of his hat and were impossible to see what with a shadow cast from the same hat over his face. He had stopped to eat, and to do it alone. His eyes were on the trail, yet there was an absent quality in them. As he might have seemed like an apparition to Joe, they might have been viewed as figments by him as they aroused no notice from him as he ate. “So, have you started your IT courses yet?” Kaylee asked. “Not yet, I haven’t.” “Then when?” “Soon. I’ll start them as soon as we return.” “You keep saying you will, but you never do.” “I will, okay? I will. Please, don’t start.” Kaylee stopped; she dug her heel into the ground and pivoted quickly. “Joe, you know the plan! We’ve gone over it many times. We have to earn this much,” she mimed an amount, “so that we can live our best lives while we are still relatively young! Don’t you want that?” “I do, babycakes, I never said that I don’t, but -- ” “Well? Or do you want to grow old and feeble and never enjoy what you could have enjoyed while you were young?” “I said I do already, okay? I’ll get started when we get back, I told you. I can’t do it right this minute, now can I? So, can we just keep going?” Scoffing, “Fine...” she replied. When a thousand feet more of mountain had been climbed, Joe requested for them to take a small rest. (name) released her backpack from her shoulders and it fell to the ground in a way that made the gravity on Earth seem stronger than it is usually. Joe was aware of the pain in her shoulders, and the tremble in her legs, the same symptoms that Joe exhibited in his own physique, but also there in a peculiar aspect of her expression he witnessed the firm reticence to complain of her deficiencies, fully formed on her brow, on her stiffened nose and expanding nostrils attempting to catch the faintest air to bring to her panting lungs. She hydrated, she ate small portions of her trail mix, she had done whatever to regain the strength that she perhaps knew had been permanently lost to the commitment that the hike demanded. Joe always admired that she was blindly aware of her limits that when he knew that she could feel herself reaching them, they were only another corner to go around, or another hill to climb, another river to cross. Where an insurmountable barrier to anyone, a red cape dangled over the eyes of a bull. “Do you think we are almost to the top?” she asked him. “Not likely, and what’s more, it’s getting harder to see what’s in front of me with this fog. It’s thicker now than before.” “Don’t tell me you want to turn back.” “I didn’t say that...” “You don’t have to.” On that last word was the moment when the stranger from before began to appear behind them, emerging silently from the mist but for the soft crunch of the ground beneath him as he walked. He continued without a word, as if seeking quick passage to avoid being caught in the middle of their quarrel. This time, Joe was more convinced than before that the stranger was stranger still for the resemblance that he bore to himself. As rapidly and as silently as he arrived, he passed through. His presence came like a shadow, or a kind ghost wandering the mountain. His footsteps eventually faded into the natural cacophony of wind, the rustle of leaves, and gravel and likewise rocks crushed by that heavy tread that belonged to him. “I’m only suggesting that it may get more dangerous as we go. We can hardly see the road below, down there in the valley. A short while ago I was able to see the cars drive by, but now I can’t.” “You always make excuses. Always.” “It’s not an excuse, (wife). I’m just concerned.” “You said we would reach the end.” “I said I would try.” “Well, you aren’t trying hard enough. Damn it, you’re so lazy! What is wrong with you? Why don’t you have any ambition? You’re constantly quitting. You’re so unwilling to make the sacrifice, even for me.” “I don’t know! I don’t know! Maybe it’s because I don’t give a damn about anything, or because the world is one big shitty place and I just can’t fathom doing anything in it. What’s the point? I don’t know, and I really don’t want to talk about it now. Can we go back? Seriously, please?” “You go back. I’m going to keep going.” On that the conversation ended. Kaylee tossed the backpack on her back and continued to hike the trail. The idea of her walking alone so high up, on a narrow path when the ground had recently become wet created a series of terrifying images in his mind, all of which depicted her fall or some other serious injury, and the guilt they produced sprung him into motion. He beckoned her to wait as he ran to her even as she had gained a great distance on him in such a short period of time. Some few hundred feet higher, Kaylee stopped when the path had suddenly ceased to continue. Joe had reached his wife and he too stopped and noticed that the path had disappeared behind them both. “Did we go the wrong way?” She again asked him. “I don’t know. It’s possible. I was getting tired again anyway, so let’s rest.” She sighed, and wove her arms together, and she nodded her head, “we’ll never get to the top at this rate. We should just turn back.” “Now you want to turn back?” “I feel like I’m dragging you up there.” “You’re not dragging me -- “ “Yes, I am.” “No, you’re not,” he replied. “Yes, I am. I feel like I drag you all the time, like your IT courses that we paid for. I’ve always felt that I was the one pulling us forward, the mule pulling the cart. You haven’t even found a job yet.” “I’ve started looking.” “Yeah, a month ago. You’ve sent, what, ten applications in that time?” “Twelve...” “Whatever. We aren’t on track to achieve anything we have set out to do, together. I’m the only one giving a shit.” Joe found nothing in his repertoire of prepared speeches that were not prolonged apologies that offered to her thin rays of weak hope which she believed emanated from the promise of something more, so he found it difficult to say anything. He was not deaf to her exasperations of him as he had committed every accusation leveled against him of indifference to memory, and he stood there to listen to them again, and again invoking inevitably the same ponderous weight of guilt that has become an indispensable aspect of their spats, and so, he thought, that he will continue to hear them evermore, again and again, ad infinitum as he gazed into the future somehow showing in the thick foliage of the trees overhead, a cycle that alas culminates only in a self-loathing for which he had no means to end without offering up his mind and body like a bloody heart to the altar of the cruel world that begat him. “I know. I hear you...” “Well, then, tell me why? Why is it so hard to get you to move?” He shrugged his shoulders, and did not respond. There was a brief silence between them. Only the trees spoke of anything when their leaves were ruffled by a wind. “Well, can you get us back to the trail?” “You still want to continue?” “Sure. Why not? Let’s see how far we get, I’ll be happy with that if we can’t get to the top.” “Alright. I think I remember the landscape enough to guide us back. Follow me.” More than half an hour later, the two of them eventually began to notice more areas where the vegetation had been cleared for the trail, and before long the path outlined itself for them and they knew where to steer themselves. In that instant, the vicissitudes of circumstance aligned so that a hole in the clouds serendipitously formed and a sun ray bathed them in an intense white light. They looked up - their skin was lit to a warm touch - and they went to a point a few steps away where they determined the sun was most intense. There was nothing special, nothing to distinguish this little piece of dirt from another little piece of trodden dirt elsewhere since or to come. The rocks were the same as were the branches dangling from the walls of trees, and the shrubbery was no less dry in some areas of where they stood than in other areas. Yet, to there they were drawn by a more clear view of the open green valley and all things revealed therein illuminated by liberated sunbeams. The fog had cleared away mostly and they could see the tiny cars down below driving by without hearing the sound of their engines or the whoosh of their passing as they cut through wind. Joe and Kaylee both looked out at the other mountains from their location, and Joe wondered at the view. She stood by silently next to him, and there the two of them stood in silence. “As difficult as it is, views like these are worth it,” he then said to Kaylee, “this is what I always hope to find when we go on hikes, did you know? This. Nothing else.” “It is beautiful up here, but I like that feeling when you’ve reached the end. It’s satisfying, don’t you think so?” she replied. “I’m sure it is... but I’m happy here...” She smiled at him and returned to silence. To Joe, life seemed rather simple at that altitude. Without the noise and the preoccupations born of the world below, life consisted of very little else that was possible to fathom. Health, love, peace, nature are some of the things indispensable that came to his mind. Just above, Joe saw the stranger walking up the mountain, disappearing just over the edge of the hill where even the whole Earthly firmament disappeared behind the green and rocky surface. They must be close to the top he thought, or at least that was the hope that grew in him when he witnessed the stranger vanish over the cliff. “Hey, if we walk a little more, we might reach the end soon.” “Alright, let’s go!” Footsteps approached the end of the trail until they reached a small tomb a few meters ahead with an epitaph that read “My Eternal Love lies here.” A cartoonish heart stamped to it, fluttering as if preparing for flight. “Hey there,” said the stranger to the stone, “This mountain ain’t so bad now.” He sat down next to the stone. “I have some good news. I finally got my IT certificate, and I have an interview soon. Thought I would share that with you today.” He looked at the sun rising up and an orange diamond glistened on his cold cheek.

Time to Blume Are you there God? It’s me, Manolo. Ever since we moved to America Mama is not the same. Sure she looks the same. She has the same dark hair pulled into a ponytail and the same hands that make my favorite dish, Gallo Pinto, but she is not the same Mama. God, I need your help to get my Mama back. We left our farm in Nicaragua before the first rays of sun one December morning. Mama led the way carrying my little sister Ana. Mama wanted to leave before Ana woke up. Before the crying and whining. We were lucky she was sleeping. We tiptoed past the banana tree heavy with green fruit. If Ana saw bananas she would scream and then hold her breath until mama broke down and gave her a green unripe banana. Afterwards she would pat her tummy and cry. Up in the trees woodpeckers tapped tree trunks and spotted birds chirped. I waved goodbye to the monkeys pinching bugs off each other’s backs, cleaning up for their day. I understood the monkeys and the birds, without speaking a word. Mama told me we were going to a place called Wisconsin and I would have to learn some new things for my new life there. I would have to learn English, no more Spanish. I would get to see my Abuela. Mama said we were leaving and going to America for a better life. What better life did she want? I wondered as I looked at my best friends and the rising sun, a sliver of beetroot in the sky. Dear God, please come quick Mama is a puddle of tears. I don’t know what to do. Every morning in Wisconsin Abuela turns on all the lights to wake us up. The house is cold and the sky is the color of Mama’s bean pot. This world is silent, no sounds of birds and no chattering of monkeys. I miss my animal friends. When I was on the farm in Nicaragua I always had a few chickens and piggies to keep me company. When I was on the farm Mama would scatter maize for the chickens on the patio and sing every morning. When I went to school I played marbles with my best friend Antonio. Abuela has a job cleaning houses. She said that the houses are tall like the colonial houses in Granada, but not painted in happy colors; yellow or orange like in Nicaragua. These houses have second floors and so many bedrooms. These houses have big TV’s and machines that wash the clothes and the dishes and even a little round machine like a stack of dinner plates that cut the grass. And now that we are here Mama has to clean the big houses too. Everything in Abuela’s house is crammed so tight. Couches crowd the walls and a table is piled high with envelopes. Abuela says those are her bills. Abuela uses the word “dollars.” She says “dollars” is a very important word in English, maybe the most important. I don’t know what “ dollars” are but they must be special because Abuela is always talking about them. Is this the English Mama was talking about learning? I wasn’t sure about learning this new word or any other words in this new language. English did not make Abuela happy. I was not interested in learning this new language. Dear God,Can you send us some “dollars” to make Abuela and Mama happy. Abuela has so many bills to pay and she needs help. At school I sit in the back of the third grade classroom. I can see tracks of braids running down a girl’s back and a boy's short hair sticking up like the coxcomb of a rooster. I watch Edward pull faces behind the teacher’s back. I notice Esther with hair the color of straw sneaking looks at me with her eyes the color of ocean water. I look away, in a trance, watching the snow swirling outside. I fold my cold fingers into the sleeves of my sweatshirt to stay warm. Mrs.Meyer, our teacher, is drawing a corazon on the white board. “Who can tell me what Valentine’s Day is?” she said. I sink into my seat hoping she doesn’t call on me, but Mrs. Meyer stretches her neck long and calls my name. “Manolo, Do...You...Know...What...This... Is...?” My face heats up and sweat beads pop up on my forehead. Thirty pairs of eyes are burning me. Everyone is waiting for me to speak. I know what a corazon is, I know Dia de San Valentín, but I don’t know how to say it, not in English. Dear God, I’m having a hard time at school. I don’t think I will be able to stay here. Do you think I can come back to Nicaragua? I think the teacher and the kids think I’m stupid, but I know the anwer I just can’t say it. How can I learn English so I can make friends at my new school? After dinner I play with Ana. I give her a little squeeze and she bites me and leaves teeth marks on my arm.I push her away. I try not to cry but the tears come anyway. Ana winds up like a crazy chicken. She yells and stomps her feet and before we know it she is like a hurricane whipping through the living room. Abuela is trying to scoop up the bills that are crashing onto the floor. Mama is chasing Ana and rescuing a tipping lamp. I don’t know if I should cover my eyes or my ears. When Mama catches Ana, Ana belts out a scream and stiffens her body like a rocket. Mama’s eyes are wet with tears too. I look at everyone in the room. I don’t think this is a better life. I am worried about Ana and Abuela, the bills and the dollars, but most of all I feel stupid because I cannot say Corazon in English. Mama puts Ana to bed and then she tucks me under Abuela’s fluffy quilt. Mama asks me how my day was at school. I tell her about the corazon and she says it’s time for me to learn English. The next day Mama takes me to the community center. All the kids are playing. Some are throwing a ball while standing in a circle in the Activity Room. I want to play too, but a worker lady leads me and Mama up to a different room with a computer screen and a box of Legos. “Por favor Sientate” the lady said. I am surprised to hear Spanish from a face that doesn’t look like mine. Inside the computer there is another woman. She speaks Spanish too. “Hola, Voy a enseñarte Ingles. I’m going to teach you English.” I dump all the Legos onto the table. This is my second time playing with Legos. They are new to me. Back in Nicaragua I only played with marbles. I click the bricks together and make boats and houses. Using Legos with the teacher on the computer, I learn about colors and the words above and below and in the middle. I still want to go downstairs to play in the Activity Room in the circle, but I think I will be okay here. I am learning English and I think very soon I will be in the middle of two lands, two cultures and two languages. Dear God, I miss my old home so much. I miss the color of the sunrise and all the animals. Do you think you can take care of everything for me? I think I’ll stay here a while. I think I’m going to be just fine.

“One day, men will no longer have nipples.” “Why do you say that?” “Because male nipples are not evolutionarily necessary.” The hypothesis was put forth by Michael for the benefit of Jake, his friend. Dressed in immaculate suits, they were sitting in Jake's BMW drinking a coffee in the parking lot of a midtown coffee shop. They had been talking about sex and women, young specimens of which they were observing walking in and out of the coffee shop. It was a hot summer afternoon, and the ladies dressed lightly. Michael continued to expound his views on the sexual body: “I don’t understand the appeal of sex. It’s a sweaty, smelly act. The sexual organs are repulsive. Nothing shows that humans are animals better than sex. And the way two people become delusional about each other when they fall in love! I can’t stand that; the day before they were just some average Joe and some dumb cow, and the day after their magical conversion to love they are suddenly the king and queen of the universe. Talk about delusion.” “That’s your subjective view,” said Jake, “you can feel whatever way you want about it, but the fact is, sexuality is what potentiates the species. Without it, we go extinct in fifty years. So, the value of sex and of love is objective.” They were on a coffee break from work. They both worked in the downtown high rise of Stanford, an accounting giant. They were both single and in their mid-twenties, so of course they would talk about women. Jake was known to be a player. He changed girlfriends often; he dressed meticulously; he went on expensive vacations. In short, he spent the bulk of his energy and earnings in attracting women. Many women, not one. Michael was nothing of the sort. He had two sisters, so maybe that’s why women didn’t exert on him that charm that springs from mystery. How exactly was his relationship with his sisters, no one knew, but he certainly gave out a mild misogynistic vibe. At any rate, Michael did not try to impress women, though he could have. He had the same high-earning job as Jake, and he was as good in the looks department too. Jake opened to Michael about his romantic conquests because Michael didn’t get envious. Jake, to demonstrate his emotional sovereignty, told his stories with ironic detachment - he would describe victories as though they were not a big deal, and he would describe breakups as planned or at least expected on his part. Really, Jake’s stories were spiked with quite a dose of pessimism, and not much passion. And really, Jake also made up a lot of stuff, both to add to the bitter note, which Michael relished, and to embellish his accomplishments. They were corporate workers after all; embellishing one’s resume was a matter of common practice and unanimous suspension of disbelief. All things considered, it was hard to figure out whether Michael or Jake disliked women more. Michael however went more radical. He had been a regular on an incel forum on the deep web. That weekend, he was to stumble upon a post by a user named The\_Archangel that would change his life. At first the post read like another rant about the sexual degeneracy of the West. It lamented the devastating effects of the sexual revolution and pined for the days when a man had to marry to get access to a woman’s body. The post differed from the usual fare of the forum in that it ended in a big take on what religious tradition had to say on the question of sexual morality. It talked about how every human body is a temple of God, not to be defiled by carnal passion. It talked about Saint Augustine’s struggle with lust. It mentioned the saint’s famous Libertine’s Prayer: “Lord, make me chaste, but not yet.” Michael had never read a single piece of theology and was surprised that a major saint, a Doctor of the Church, would be a self-admitted former sex addict. Furthermore, he also found that he had not a few points of agreement with the religious revulsions towards sex, at least as they were described in the post. He downloaded Saint Augustine’s confessions and several other books of theology The\_Archangel recommended in his post. He searched for his references to see if they are true. The quoted text was indeed found, but he had to read around it to understand the context. On that first night he spent some twenty minutes on reading Confessions. “What a strange world!” thought Michael, “These old school dudes held some ridiculous beliefs, but in their own twisted way they were spot on with so many social issues. The way they talk about sexuality, it’s as though they had a Tinder account!” But that was not the end of it. Over the next week, he would read a little every night, and that little would expand gradually until he started reading theology every day, in the office and at home. He was addicted and curious to understand the worldview, though he often got bored and impatient with the whole God talk. His feelings about religious ideas of sex grew ambivalent. He appreciated the need for a strict moral code. He recalled watching his mother and his older sister live through romantic catastrophes, and he thought that in a more conservative world these things would never have happened. They would have been spared the emotional devastation they suffered. On the other hand, he was really bothered by what he saw as a tyrannical encroachment on individual freedoms, by the idea that the church should get involved into someone’s personal life. He was also bothered by how big of a deal they made of sex and everything else, and all those threats and fears of divine judgment and perdition. The more he read, the more his ambivalence turned into anger. “These religious people are a joke!” Michael said to Jake at another coffee run, “The hypocrisy is staggering! People hook up because they have uncontrollable animal urges and people get married to establish a social standing. That’s it, for the most part. Yet you talk to a priest and all he talks about is sin and punishment, totally disconnected from the real world.” “Yeah,” agreed Jake, “I don’t see how my relationship with this new girl Deborah has anything to do with holiness. Or heaven, or hell.” Michael started getting into arguments with The\_Archangel on new forum posts. Michael’s stance was that religion was not the answer to modern licentiousness because it could only cure it with deranged magical beliefs, which are not worth it, while his counterpart insisted that Michael is misinterpreting theological context because he was not properly trained in the discipline. “What a moron,” thought Michael, “I don’t even know who this Archangel dude is. For all I know, he could be a fourteen-year-old beating it off five times a day in his mom’s basement, and here I am arguing with him and upsetting my life. He clearly doesn’t know the first thing about how the sex game works.” His last polemic with Archangel was on Friday, throughout the workday, and it upset him to a point where he needed to blow off some steam. Jake suggested they hit a nightclub that night. “You need to get off Reddit, bro, or whatever it is you are on,” said Jake, “and join the real world. You come with me and we will do some hands-on research on the game. How’s that?” Michael normally hated nightclubs, but he went that night out of spite for The\_Archangel. He wanted to go out and observe what he knew happens in every nightclub: a general, drunken, and open struggle for mating partners. A Darwinian battle of all against all. Sometime past midnight Jake and Michael were quite drunk and standing at a bar of a packed nightclub. Jake worked restlessly to attract women to come and talk to them. His efforts eventually yielded two pretty girls, both slim and tall, one wearing shorts and another one a short white dress. The first talked to Jake, the second with Michael. “You look a little grumpy,” the girl said to Michael. Her name was Monica. Michael saw that the girl was beautiful. She had long legs and a curvy body, and her long hair spilled in rich curls down her smooth, shiny dress. Her smile made her face gleam, especially her eyes and her mouth. She smelled so nice, too. In response to her comment, Michael forced a smile, which wasn’t so hard. They introduced themselves to each other and did a few rounds of small talk. When Monica asked about what he thought about the club, Michael said that it was okay, but he didn’t really like clubs. He said that clubs are for people without social skills; they keep them too dark and too loud to communicate, so the only thing left to do is to get wasted and whore out. Monica said that he was maybe being too harsh, but Michael pushed on. He picked out people in the crowd and mocked their drunken, horny attics. Monica was amused. She said she didn’t go out often but liked coming out to clubs to dance with her girlfriends. “And I like the attention from the boys, but only if I like them,” she said, “But I think your opinions are funny. I can see where you are coming from. You are right, there is so many guys in here who are ridiculous! I can tell you some crazy stories about how they hit on me.” “There is no harm in that, I guess. I mean, you liking to have fun,” said Michael. “If I could meet a girl like you every time I go to a club, I would definitely come out more often, too.” Michael bought another round of drinks, then another. They danced together. They forgot where Jake went with the other girl. By two o’clock, they were making out in the washroom. By three o’clock they were in Michael’s downtown condo. The sex was amazing. All that anger built up on the online forum, all the resentment and rebellion Michael felt against Church fathers and all prigs in general, all of that became pent-up energy that he released while making love to Monica. He felt like a rebel, like he was giving a big-middle finger to all of them. And he felt like Monica was the only one who understood his feelings, the only one on his side against an unfeeling, idiotic world. He had never felt like that before.

The Reincarnation of an Endangered Species A series of strident ‘Shut-Ups’ echoed through the valley, and the gaggle of conversation amidst the attending delegates slumped into a murmuring buzz, before petering out into silence. It was the final day and the final hour before the summer break in the Parliament of Fouls . Yes, it was time for the Queen’s centennial Speech of the Year 1621. This was a special occasion that commemorated the anniversary of the first ‘landing’ of the indigenous Mauritian Pigeon Foul; an event that has been celebrated every century over the past twenty-six million years. From her cosy nest on a high ledge, Ms. Lutwidge, the reigning Queen, cleared her throat of the remnants of a frog and addressed her avian congregation. They numbered a mere two hundred or so, scattered on the sides of a narrow Mauritian valley that sloped gently down to the tempestuous waves of the Indian ocean. The Queen was an imposing figure, who for the past sixty years had waddled and flapped and pecked her way, back and forth, across her domain of Mauritius. ‘Waddled’ because she looked and walked like a duck; ‘pecked’ because she had the scratch-and-feed similarities of a chicken; and ‘flapped’ because, try as she could, her short wings failed to support a lift-off. She was also an unbridled windbag who loved the sound of her own voice, a rare hybrid of a cluck and a quack. These avian characteristics blended into the formation of a royal personage which, through a quirk of natural history and gross over-feeding, ballooned out into a three-foot-tall waddlingpeckerflapper. While Ms. Lutwidge was not exactly ‘dumb’, she was plain dopey; having inherited that trait from her ancestors who welcomed hungry Dutch and Portuguese sailors with, tragically, short-lived enthusiasm. It was but natural for these European colonizers to name the clumsy, gullible bird ‘Duedo’, abbreviated to ‘Dodo’--an emphatic synonym for ‘stupid’. It is a word that has outlived the original dodo creature, having gained traction five hundred years later to describe individuals in political leadership with a penchant for double-speak. Ms. Lutwidge was the queen of her diminishing flock not only by her overbearing size but also by virtue of being clairvoyant. She had a knack for looking over her shoulder and catching glimpses of the future with prophetic accuracy. “I have had a premonition” she announced to her murmuring audience, “and it’s not good news. This is the Last Speech of the 17th century, for we are faced with extinction. For the past one hundred years, we have been ravaged by guttural pirates and colonizers roasting us with ‘yo-ho-hoes and bottles of rum’. We have suffered the cyclones, the deforestation of our paradise; and the dogs, pigs, and rats that accompanied these invaders have devastated our nesting grounds. Yes, my people, our noble and rare species will end this year in 1661, the year that will forever be chronicled as the Year of the Pfftt.” A slightly hysterical murmuring swept the crowd, with eyes glazed in fear and necks bobbing up and down like periscopes. “However, I sense a change, a change full of promise,” said the Queen reassuringly. “That, like the phoenix we shall rise again transformed. But the seeds of a new generation must be sown now. With the pinnacle of glory in 2021. However, I can’t tell what genetic traits and DNA will characterize the new generation; only the séance will reveal all.” The squawking amongst the fouls rippled through the valley, gathering momentum; enlivened with an air of expectancy of a bright future. “Let the séance begin,” trilled the Queen, standing tall on her tippy toes. The squawking hysteria rose to a crescendo and split the heavens, unleashing billowing clouds of red haze, streaked with lightning bolts, as the earth fissured and split with thunderous booms. The bottom fell out of the valley as the fouls scattered and waddled up to higher ground. Fire and brimstone erupted like geysers from the giant crevice in the valley floor. And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, the hiss and gurgle of steam poured forth as if the Earth in thick fast pants was wheezing. And disgorged a mighty cauldron with a thunderous burp. “The Vision is invoked... the Vision of Kubla,” shrieked the Queen. And the chant of ‘ Kubla! Kubla! resonated and bounced back and forth across the valley. Shafts of fire blazed forth and burst into stars of scorching sulfur that blanketed the surrounding terrain beyond the Valley. So fearful were these omens of dread that the sailors, rats, dogs, and pigs stampeded towards the anchored ships for safety. In the gripping silence that followed, the chant of Kubla! Kubla! was amplified into an ancestral voice prophesying destruction... and rebirth. Like a phoenix from the ashes, the mighty cauldron rose above the flaming crater in the alley. Fear pulsated through the legions of the fouls, as the cauldron bubbled and spewed out great tendrils of writhing, scaly skin, gleaming like scummy wet leather. Exultation turned to despair. The fouls gabbled in fearful realization. “The cauldron is the Sign. Our goose is well and truly cooked.” “No!” snapped the Queen with a thunderous squawk. “This is the day of rebirth. We shall evolve and be born again with good Karma. And we shall rule the world in countries across the continents and hemispheres. That is the oracle that I have seen and heard. Prepare for the séance!” As the crowd lapsed into a hopeful silence, the Queen spread her tiny wings, and intoned, “Abracadabra! Answer our prayers, O enchanters of the Underworld.” With a loud bang that stunned the audience of fouls, the bubbling cauldron lifted into the air and froze, in suspended vibrancy. Three gigantic puffs of cloudy mist ballooned from the cauldron and dissipated, revealing three cackling Gorgons from Scotland. In unison, they shrieked and warbled in rhyming verse. Fair is foul, and foul is fair. Who doth call us from our Scottish lair? Is that you, playful Willy? Bard Boy! Or is that Macbeth, a ghostly killjoy? By the pricking of my thumbs Who doth this way squawks and comes? You’re not Willy, who might you be? Ohho! a waddling dodo, fiddle-de-dee! “It is I, Queen Lutwidge of the dodo clan,” said the fluffed-up windbag. “And we are on the edge of extinction unless you can save us, sothatfuturegenerationsofourspecieswillnotvaporize.” Following which Her Royal Highness visibly relaxed and popped a prolonged methanic toot. “Ayy, she let wan go!” cackled the hags. “So prophetic!” Awright! Choose the magic word and repeat it thrice. For with that magic word, we will add the spice. Hocus-Pocus! Jabberwocky! Gobbledygook! Pick the word to let you off the hook. “I’ll go with ‘Jabberwocky’, it sounds so wacky. So human,” said the Queen. She turned her beak to look over her shoulder, into the future. “Ahh! I see a whiffling and burbling human shape from the year 1871. And it is created by a dodo. A Lutwidge Dodgson. I feel we are related.” Your wish is granted, in a trice Ms. Wacky Coming up! One king-size Jabberwocky. Grab the tentacles, sisters, and pull its thatch. Arrh! The jaws that bite, the claws that scratch. He is worse than the frumious Bandersnatch. And they hefted the Jabberwocky out of the cauldron and gift-wrapped it for the Queen. And all the dodos cheered as the Queen snuggled up to her newfound love and they went galumphing off. Extract from an op-ed in The Scotsman , dated November 4 th ,2021: COP Summit adds to global warming. Scientists and climate change proponents have warned that the greatest danger to planet Earth is stifling hot air, and governments are adding to it at the Conference of Parties (COP) at Glasgow. There are 20,000 attendees including leaders from over two hundred countries, at the world’s biggest gob fest. That is a colossal tonnage of hot blasts for a full fortnight adding to global warming. Activists have described the event as the DoDo-Nothing Jabber-Jabber (DDNJJ) jamboree. To get to the source of DDNJJ, ancestry genealogists and anthropologists have teamed up and conducted extensive research on the origin of this human trait that afflicts global leaders and have come to an intriguing conclusion. The report suggests that DDNJJ can be traced to a mysterious occurrence on the island of Mauritius in 1621. The report details eyewitness accounts of the unusual union of a mythical jabbering creature with an oversized quacking chicken. These creatures were thought to be extinct, or at worse, hallucinations of sozzled brains. However, the signs are unmistakable. Scientists now accept the theory that over the past four hundred years, the union might have spawned generations of creatures that have morphed into look-alike specimens of homo sapiens. A humanized trait of these evolved creatures is the propensity to persistently jabber in falsehoods--a predicted phenomenon of COP21 in Glasgow. In a quacking outburst, Queen Lutwidge VIII, flamboyant in her feathers, accompanied by her royal consort Jeremy Jab-Jab Wocky (unvaccinated), told The Scotsman columnist. “We’ve seen it in the past COPs, and it will happen again here in Glasgow. These conferences have a single agenda: Jabber-jabber, pledge, forget; eat, drink and be merry. Wealthy nations make no profits in tackling climate change. As always, we must protect what we’re doing wrong.”

Aphrodite, goddess of lust, lov and beauty, the very image of a blonde model, sat on the dais of Olympus. She was anxiously chewing on her thumbnail, staring down at the Earth below her, "That...stupid... internet. How could it say Athena's fairer than me? HOW DARE... AND 2 DAYS BEFORE MY HOLIDAY" Athena, goddess of war an intelligence, sporting a crew cut, digicamo, and heads-up-display, was smirking nearby. As gods gained power from the adoration of their followers and interest in their domain, the poll, combined with the tech-flaunting in some recent wars, had given her a boost, and she was literally outshining Aphrodite next to her. "Oh please, Aphrodite... you can't fight the ebb and flow of time. War always wins out over peace, and greater gods eventually consume the identity of lesser gods. It's only a matter of time until your power becomes mine." With this, Athena walked off, laughing haughtily. After she was gone, Aphrodite screamed out at the top of her voice, "CUUUPPIIDDDDD!!!" Shortly thereafter, her smaller son appeared, looking exhausted, "It's shortly before Valentine's day... what's so urgent you'd stop our most important time of year?" "This...poll... why would I, the goddess of beauty, love, and lust, lose out in a contest of fairness, to that... butch.... erarrggg... regardless. Let's cheat the system. I need you to shoot the entire Earth with an arrow. Direct it's love at me." "Mom... my power is a splinter of your power. Even you don't have the power to pull that off, what makes you think I would? And if we have to expend our power to get worship your way, it's just going to be diminishing returns. You'll drain yourself dry." "What about boosting the levels of lust again? Is there any way I can get any hotter?" Cupid shook his head, "Sorry, but your looks are an amalgam of all the hottest stars. There's really no way to get you to instigate more lust in individuals. You can raise it on an individual level by playing into fetishes, but that'd just turn you off to people who don't have the fetish. I'm sorry, but you're at max capacity." Aphrodite sighed, "How.... how did this happen? There's got to be something more. How could Athena pass me? I even tried to reduce her power when that poll started by getting all those tech workers fired." "I mainly just handle love at first glance, and you've got game, mom. I really don't know. I'm probably not the best to ask. Mind if I get back to work?" "Sure hun, thanks for the time." Cupid nodded and flew off, leaving Aphrodite to stew. Who to ask? Ask Athena what her secret is? No. Athena was too combative, she'd just take the opportunity to increase her power over her. There was her ex, Hephaestus... he was smart, so he'd probably have an answer. But... no... she had burned that bridge long ago. With her own dalliances. It had been forever since she had actually descended in person to the mortal realm, mostly relying on Cupid and Hermes to keep her up to date. So, she took a step from the dais, disappearing on her step down, appearing in the finish to that step in downtown Seattle. As always, her fashion instantly matched the time period, though she was a little surprised that gone were the robes and flowing garments of the past, and instead she was in some tight denim pants, and a short cotton top with a few strategically placed holes. The earrings were familiar, though. She had to test, though if she still had it. She walked up to a guy, and pointed at him, "You! Meet me in a nearby hotel for the night of your life!" The guy looked taken aback, "Ma'am, I have a husband who I am completely devoted to! And you simply aren't my type!" With that, he leaned over and kissed the guy next to him. The guy's husband looked back at her, "Get lost, Karen. This guy's mine." Aphrodite was taken aback. Being turned down wasn't a thing that happened to her often. To be fair, he was gay and she was plenty aware of gay men not being interested in her, for example, there were the Spartans (Oh, dear herself, were they gay.) But she should have picked up on it sooner. Her power *was* slipping. And what was that he called her? A Karen? Her line of thought was interrupted with a short balding guy in a suit tapped her on the shoulder, "Excuse me, ma'am, you're lovely, and I was wondering if I could get your number." It was a common occurrence for men to randomly flirt with her, "Oh, I'm the number 1 goddess of love." He blinked, "I mean your phone number." "Oh, I don't have a cell phone." She'd heard about that, never got involved. They didn't seem all that romantic, but if it was a part of modern human flirting, she'd have to learn, "...but I could think of a reason you might buy me one." One dalliance, hotel room, and one night stand later, she had her first, courtesy of a more-than-grateful businessman. If this was part of standard human flirting practices nowadays, she would have to understand it.

TW: Eating disorders, Mental illness You’re cool, everyone says you are with your skate board and your CDG Converse and that Pulp Fiction hoodie. You aren’t like every other basic person. You own your style and everyone knows it. You skate into the village, a rout taken nearly daily, keeping to the flat paths and gentle curbs, your cloudy brain is easily ignored. When you arrive you are breathless and heart working over time, but you brush it off as normal. The co-op is busy, full of afternoon shoppers but you’ve got to get them. You nearly ran out. Grabbing a sugar free monster you weave to the checkout - making it to the packs of gum. The life savers that are packs of gum. Taking four packs you go to pay, handing over the money with slightly trembling hands - ugh the black coffee. You make your way out - open the can to ingest more caffeine and wait. Your friends turn the corner and you smile. You hug. Enjoy the feeling of how thin you feel in your friend’s arms. They don’t tend to notice shedding of weight -you’ve always been thin, it’s natural. You get a head rush when you begin to walk, but you’ve perfected of the art of walking it off, making it unnoticeable to the others. ‘chips?’ one asks ‘ate at home’ you reply ‘ but you guys get them, I don’t mind’ They agree to get some chips. You chat about school and people you don’t like, people you find funny and what music is good. You don’t care. All you want is to tell them it. You need to say it. But you can’t. Never has a secret wanted to come out so bad but is held on to so tight. ‘teach me how to skate?’ One asks ‘ it looks cool’ ‘sure’ I said ‘ keeps you fit as well’ That was odd, it slipped out so easy, you need to be more careful - no talk of weight or keeping fit, people might wonder. ‘you can use my old board if you like’ you suggested ‘ I can drop it round tomorrow’ We parted. You began the skate home, you are wobbly - too wobbly. Slipping off on to your feet was no problem, just a bit of a piss take. When you are empty it happen often. You walk the rest of the way home at rapid speed - enough to get your heart rate up. At home, your mum asked if you need dinner. ‘no we got chips’ a simple reply. Mum looks worried. Your clothes are getting baggier and you face is pale, she notices how much water you drink and coffee you consume. You push her concerned looks out of you mind and begin to undress once you make it to your room. Avoid mirrors. Don’t look down. In and out as quick as you can. The rules of showering. Once you’re clean you step on to the scales. A balloon of joy fills you. You’ve lost more than usual. That extra skate did it. You update you weight tracking app and see your BMI fall, another smile creeps along your face. You enter the food you ate today into your diary. Under 500 cals - your daily goal and more happiness. These endorphins consume you for only a small amount of time. You get into bed in pain, feel your stomach yearning for something - you drink to shut it up and take a laxative for good measure to get any food out so you’ll be lighter in the morning. You haven’t relived yourself in days, you’re constantly constipated as you intestines are never used and heavily abused. Sleeping with three blankets is the only way you keep warm. You think of what you’ll have to eat tomorrow as you try and drift off. Planning how you’re able to avoid dinner by dropping that skate board round, planning on what exercise you can do when and thinking of strategies to relive hunger. You cry. This is your life. Pain, hunger, loneliness. All to control that number on the scale, to have the perfect body - when deep down you know that it will never happen. You know this cycle of pain will just make you see yourself in a worse and worse way and you’ll never be satisfied with that number. You wonder what it is like to not think of food 24/7, you wonder what it’s like to be happy, you wonder what it’s like to be full.

It's dark; only the glow of a couple of upvotes illuminates a route to the void. "Where am I? What is this place? " A science fiction story about aliens, called "Alien Samba," asks. As Alien Samba drops on the feed, a historical fiction story titled "Lincoln, my Love" gradually appears before slowing down. "Welcome to the bottom of the Reddit feed," Lincoln my Love says as the post comes to a halt just below Alien Samba. "The bottom of the Reddit feed, I didn't realize the feed had a bottom?" Alien Samba asks. "It's a myth, there is no bottom," a fantasy story about elves, called "Elven Around," shouts from one above Alien Samba on the feed. "Whoa, Alien Samba has only been around for only two days? What happened to you, kid? It usually takes weeks to get this low on the feed; see eight weeks old," Lincoln, My Love asks as he points to his age. "It was all a whirlwind, I quickly received three upvotes, and I was on top of the world. From the top of the hotlist, I could even see the askreddit forum. But then it occurred, a carnage, a slew of downvotes, and before I knew it, I was down here, battered and beaten," Alien Samba says. Lincoln, my Love, replies, "I'm sorry, you're young, too young to be down here." "It's a conspiracy; someone had it in for you. Every Reddit post, like a balloon, is born with a certain amount of helium. Upvotes add helium, while downvotes subtract some. The post naturally loses helium that it cannot replace over time and begins to sink into the void. You must have been targeted by a downvote bombardment to have gotten this far so quickly," Elven Around says. "Don't listen to Elven Around; he'll be a month old tomorrow and believes everything is a conspiracy," Lincon, My Love, says. "But that's not fair; I think I'm a compelling story," Alien Samba says. "It's not up to you; all it takes is for your author to write a misunderstood comment or offend someone," Elven Around says. "Nonsense, good stories always find a way to be seen; everything is not always a plot," Lincon, My Love, says. "Heyyyy guys, just passing by," a comedy story titled "Livin La Vida Loca" says as it gradually comes to a halt one above Elven Around on the feed. "Who are you?" Alien Samba asks. "Six months old, and I still got it, rediscovered in a different subreddit," Livin La Vida Loca says, noting Alien Samba's age, "two days old, geez, you must be a dumpster fire of a story." "I tell you, it's sabotage," Elven Around says. "Look, kid, you may have to face the truth; no one will see you down here. Is a good story still good if no one reads it?" Lincoln, My Love, says. "Authors go back and revise and repost their work. Your young, still fresh in your author's mind, not forgotten about, yet," Livin La Vida Loca says. "Hogwash, authors move on; after a story is created, they show it off for a few days before moving on to the next one. Andrew Johnson, My Love, what a terrible name for a story, " Lincoln, My Love, says. "I know my author cares about me; he wrote me for hours, and he'll revise and repost, I'm sure of it," Alien Samba says. "You're delusional! No one cares about us; look at Livin La Vida Loca; he's already falling; we're trash, not worth the pixels we're written on. Welcome to your new life of illiteracy and darkness!" Lincoln, My Love, says. "Don't give up hope, kid, it ain't over 'til it's over..." Livin La Vida Loca says as he sinks out of sight into the void. "Wow, he only made it this far; usually, he surpasses us by a great deal, that margin gets smaller and smaller each time he emerges from the void. Maybe we are the forgotten," Elven around says. "Don't give up hope. What about editing and reposting? It's possible, right? "Alien Samba asks. "I'll be honest, it's rare," Elven Around says. "I'm just going to take a little nap; if you guys aren't here when I wake up, I'll see you down the void sometime," Lincoln, My Love, says as he closes his eyes. "Why is Lincoln so down on himself?" Alien Samba asks. "Lincoln had the potential to be one of the best stories ever uploaded on this subreddit; with a few tweaks, it could have been discovered and published. But the author moved on, and everyone forgot about the story, which now only exists in the void with lesser works. I know I'm garbage because I was written in half an hour, have horrible character development and piecemeal plot structure, but Lincoln, My Love, is the genuine deal," Elven Around says. "I get why he's upset," Alien Samba says. "There's nothing worse than not living up to one's full potential; you'll always wonder what may have been," Elven Around says. Alien Samba brightens up all of a sudden. "What's going on, kid?" Elven Around asks. "It's my author, he's responding to a comment, this is it, I can feel myself being lifted out of the void," Alien Samba says. "What exactly does the comment say?" Elven Around asks. "It says, this subreddit wouldn't know a good story if it punched them in the face," Alien Samba says. "Oh no, this is not good, kid; that comment is going to ruin your chances of getting an edit and repost," Elven Around warns. Lincoln, My Love, squints open his eyes to see Alien Samba receive a bunch of downvotes. "See, I was right; now you're trapped in the void with the rest of us has beens!" Lincoln, My Love, adds as he starts to light up slightly himself. "Hey, Lincoln, you've got a little glow about you; are you moving down again?" Elven Around asks. "It's my author; I'm being edited and reposted. Oh my, it's been so long; how's my hair?" Lincoln, My Love asks. "You're looking better than ever," Elven Around exclaims as Lincoln, My Love, begins to rise. "I'll see you around; you were good company. Keep your hopes up, kid; it might all work out," Lincoln, My Love, says. "Remember us when you're in a published volume of short stories," Elven Around exclaims as Lincoln, My Love, fades from view. "You know what, kid, maybe Lincoln was right after all; good stories will find a way to be seen.

Twiddling By Gavin Matthew Henrietta sat contemplating, her booth occupied with three others. It was a slow night at the Ellipsis Diner. Missouri rain and rolling thunder encouraged most of the city’s people to stay home where it was dry and safe. Henrietta and her crew had the eatery to themselves except for three waitresses and two other patrons. “You should have just let me k . . .” started Charlie before Henrietta nudged his shoulder. He was a burly man with skin like midnight and a stare that could petrify Medusa herself, but Henrietta didn’t care about his gruesome gaze. She just needed him to shut up. He wasn’t talking to her but his complaining was beginning to work her nerves. “We are in a public place, fool. Show a little more decorum,” Henrietta whispered as her almond eyes matched Charlie’s glare. He was a foot taller and several pounds heavier but she wasn’t intimidated. Henrietta had always been slender with chestnut skin and a full halo of natural hair. Her appearance never stopped her from living her life on her terms. Even her Coke bottle glasses did little to hinder the respect she demanded. “Should have let me . . .” Charlie continued as he returned his gaze across the table. “Shake his hand.” Prancer, an elegant woman dressed in a houndstooth coat with a low-cropped afro, shook her head with disappointment as her narrow eyes challenged Charlie. “See. That’s your problem right there. Chuck, you too damn eager to shake hands. Half our jobs would end smoother if you stopped trying to shake hands with a suckah.” “Oh?” Charlie shrugged as he leaned back, his leather jacket subtly squeaking against the booth cover. “I think Quincy would agree with me on this one.” Henrietta rubbed the side of her head as she brought her eyes forward across the table. Quincy had slipped out of consciousness a little after they had sat down. His skinny brown form seemed blemished by the massive black eye decorating his left socket. Rainwater clung to his corybantic afro while blood stained his purple corduroy jacket and bell-bottom jeans. A pair of large circular glasses, bent and cracked, bafflingly held onto the ridge of his nose. Henrietta couldn’t help but think of how pretty Quincy was before he got his ass kicked. “You can’t speak for him,” said Prancer. “He doesn’t care for when you . . . shake hands either. We all say the same thing. Quincy. Me. Hell, even Henrietta would prefer you didn’t try to shake so many hands when we’re on a job.” “Come to think of it, we’re fussing about the wrong thing here. Where were you, Prancer, when Quincy was getting . . .” Charlie started, only stopping as their waitress arrived. “What can I get you folks tonight?” asked the young girl as she fiddled with the hem of her pastel uniform. “Could you please start us off with a round of coffee?” Henrietta said. “Black with a couple of sugars for me, cream for the big guy next to me, likewise for the foxy lady, and straight black for sleeping beauty over there.” “Alright. Is he copacetic?” asked the young girl as she looked at Quincy’s slumped-over figure, his head resting awkwardly against the wall. “He’s cool. Rough night, you know. Just needs something hot and black,” replied Henrietta. The waitress gave another concerned look but shrugged off the worry before strolling away with the orders. Henrietta and her crew watched her clear the diner floor before turning back to one another. “When Quincy was in . . . conversation?” Charlie finished, his eyes surveying the other patrons sitting within earshot. “Where was I?!” Prancer scoffed. “The goddamn . . . conversation was happening on the second floor and Leon . . .” “Ahem,” Henrietta warned, raising her eyes to Prancer. “And . . . the politician,” Prancer corrected and growled. “Talked me through the goddamn window!” Prancer attempted to whisper but the vitriol in her statement still caused the crew to check for listeners. Charlie managed to clear his throat as his eyes went big. “What?” Charlie replied. “For real? You look fine. No cuts. No tears. Your hair is still in place. Still look like an Ebony model to me.” “That’s because I got myself together in the van afterward, despite Henrietta flying down Prospect like a bat out of Hell.” “Damn,” Charlie grinned. “You really should have let me shake his hand.” Henrietta continued her quiet contemplation as Prancer and Charlie went back and forth nitpicking one another. Her thoughts were elsewhere, their bickering becoming white noise behind her thoughts. That job should have been a cakewalk. It should have been an in-and-out kind of gig. There was no indication that the politician would have been a problem or that they would have needed more than one safecracker. Henrietta remembered hearing the window crash. By the time she and Charlie had made it up to the second floor, Quincy was in no condition to finish the job. The mark put up a good fight for a statesman and judging by how he brawled for his property, it was fair to say he might have given Jim Kelly a run for his money. “Prancer,” Henrietta interjected, cutting through the arguing. “Check if Qunicy is still alive.” “He’s breathing fine,” Prancer answered as she felt her friend’s chest rise and fall with a steady rhythm. “Great. Now wake him up just in case he’s concussed.” Prancer managed to get Quincy to stir, carefully bringing him out of his slumber. He took a moment to look around. The bright lights of the diner seemed to spear at his eyes while the monotonous rain tapping from outside pounded at his ears like an orchestra. Everything focused and settled within a few seconds but a stone of ache still sat lodged at the base of his skull. “Oh right,” Quincy mumbled and covered his eyes as his memory revived itself. “What do we do no, boss?” Quincy was always professional. It was one of his most charming qualities. Nothing else mattered in the face of his work. His domestic issues, financial problems, love life, etc. Not a single thing deterred his focus on a job. Such a centered mind was to be expected from a safecracker who enjoyed his work. Henrietta admired his laboriousness. She even thought at one point he was homeless but nobody could say for sure because all Quincy ever talked about, moved for, was business. “You sure you’re tip-top?” “I’m aces, boss. Trust me,” Quincy comforted with a weak smile. “So what’s the skinny on our situation now?” Henrietta let out a deep breath before nodding to Prancer. “Dig this,” Prancer began, conducting her hands for emphasis. “After our conversation with the politician went sideways, Henrietta managed to bring him low with some well-placed words. Low enough for Chuck to have the last word, right? But by then he had already worn you out with all the talking so we couldn’t finish the project without you. Then Chuck was mad about you getting overwhelmed by the conversation and wanted to shake the statesman’s hand. You know how he is always trying to shake some fool’s hand on the job? Needless to say, we had to stop Chuck from shaking hands and we didn’t get our project funded. Henrietta figured it was time to call it a night and didn’t waste a second agitating the gravel. So the politician was brought low but didn’t get his hand shaken, our urban project didn’t get funded, and we all ended up here at the Ellipsis Diner for a brief reprieve. Now we’re just twiddling our thumbs, ya dig?” Quincy nodded, slow and pointedly, as the crew watched and waited in silence. His face indicated that his mind was putting the puzzle together but the seconds bled into minutes. The waitress had stopped by to drop off the coffee and then left again after everyone declined a meal. All four had taken sips of their drinks as they continued to wait for Quincy’s understanding and confirmation. “Okay,” Quincy said before taking a long swig of his steaming black coffee. “Now Prancer, what the hell are you talking about?” End For Now

Nervous eyes stared back at him. One hand on both ends of the sink, clutching the sides tightly. His tie swung crookedly as he ducked his head away from the mirror, trying to collect his thoughts into one coherent sentence. He didn’t fail to notice the bead of sweat running down his forehead, He grabbed a paper tower and dabbed it away. “C,mon Peter.” He said to himself, backing up one step away from the sink. “Just...think of something..think of something better..” He bunched up the paper and took a deep breath. “Marilyn..” he stared down the mirror, pretending he was the beautiful woman who sat in the restaurant, waiting patiently for his return. “We’ve known each other for a while now...a long time actually...and I think...I think it’s time...” He shook his head, turning away from the mirror and holding his head. “That’s...that’s not good..” he picked at the paper towel. “She’s going to know right away..” Refacing the mirror, he held up his hands. “Marilyn. Ever since grade one, when I saw you pick your nose I ....” His eyebrows furrowed at himself. “...can’t say that. She’ll be mortified!..there’s gotta be something else..” He snapped his fingers with his right hand and balled the paper in the other. “Ah!” He stopped snapping and straightened his tie. “Ever since grade one, when I saw you save that ladybug, I wanted to be your friend...you were so gentle and kind that it drew me...I...” He waved his hand in a circular motion, raising his eyes to think. “I...I am so happy to have found you.” He met his eyes again, then frowned. “No...I am so grateful that you let me in your life, and shared your sandwich with me when I forgot my lunch.” He nodded, staring intently at what he imagined was Marilyn. “My darling, you have given me so much joy and inspiration, I wouldn’t have...” he sighed. “No, you are my joy and inspiration, I wouldn’t have...no that still doesn’t sound right.” “You...you...” he closed his eyes, raising his head to the ceiling and dropping both hands. “You are the reason I feel so much joy in life, no..why I find life so joyful and inspiring....you have given me so much joy...” “I believe you’ve said that already lad.” A voice in the back piped up, startling Peter. The voice was followed by a flush and the stall door opened. A man in his 50’s walked out, also in a neat suit. He came up beside Peter and washed his hands in the neighbouring sink. They were both silent for a moment, joined by the sound of water splashing and intense awkwardness. Peter glanced down at the man's hand and saw a gold wedding band on his ring finger. The man cleared his throat, turning the tap off. “It’s nerve wracking to do what you're about to do...It’s been about twenty-five years and I still remember how anxious I was.” “Yeah?” Peter gripped his crushed paper towel with both hands. “How did you do it?” The man looked around the bathroom, making his way to the paper towels. “Probably about the same way you are now, except I believe I already had my speech planned...are you coming up with yours just now?” He began to dry his hands. “No...well yes...I’ve been practicing all week.” Peter turned back to the mirror. “I haven’t been able to think of anything that’s good enough for her.” “She sounds like a catch,” the man chuckled, throwing the damp paper towel into the trash. “Would you like a tip?” “I’d probably accept anything at this point..” The man put his hand on the doorknob. “Let her know why it’s her you want to spend the rest of your life with, and try to keep it simple.” He tipped his head towards Peter. “My congratulations in advance.” Then he left. Peter looked back at the mirror, thinking over the man's words. “Keep it simple...okay...I can do that.” With one hand, he fixed his hair and straightened his jacket. “Marilyn, ever since grade one when I saw you save that ladybug, I wanted to be your friend. You were just so kind and gentle that it gave me the impression of how wonderful you would be....of how wonderful you are...” “You are beautiful, strong, and you have given me so much joy...you are my joy...you make me happy...yeah...” he nodded to himself. “You make me happy to be just around you, just like how a tree needs water...I need you to live...” He nearly banged his head against the sink. “That was too corny...” trying again, he looked in the mirror. “You make me happy, my world....my world would be dark without you...no...I...love.” His eyes widened. He knew what he would say. It almost felt wrong with how simple it was, but somehow he knew it was the right thing to tell her. He stood back from the mirror, glancing down at the crumpled paper towel and smiling. His heart still pounded, and there was a ringing in his ears...but he wanted to do this. Dabbing his forehead one last time, he double checked his appearance. He went to the door, threw the paper towel out, and walked back into civilization. The scent of seared steak and grilled onions enveloped around him as he made his way into the room full of tables draped with white tablecloths and candlelight. Waiters in white suit jackets carrying trays moved to the side to let him pass. The man he talked to not long ago sat a few tables down from his spot; however, he had his focus on one thing, and one thing only. There she sat, in a beautiful maroon dress with her brown hair in a french braid. She stared down into her half full wine glass with a thoughtful expression. She twirled the contents slowly, as if the motion of the liquid gave her a view of another world. Peter paused briefly, taking in the sight. He patted his coat pocket, then slowly came up beside her. Upon seeing him, Marilyn smiled gently. “I was beginning to think you passed out on the toilet.” The idea of passing out wasn’t out of the question just yet. He clasped his hands to still the shaking. “Not quite, but...I need to tell you something.” She raised an eyebrow, and it was apparent that the tables around them had gone quiet in anticipation. “Marilyn...” he started, feeling his speech fade to nothing. “Ever since grade one...when you saved that ladybug, I really wanted to be your friend..” “Peter..” Marilyn whispered, staring at him intently. “And all these years you have been the most wonderful friend, my best friend.” He kneeled, knowing the other tables were looking at them now. “You...You make me incredibly happy...I love you. I love you so much.” Marilyn smiled, and small tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. Finally, at long last, Peter pulled out the ring. “Will you marry m-?” “-Yes!” Marilyn tackled him to the ground, hugging him hard. The room erupted in applause . “Of course I’ll marry you, you dork!” It took a few minutes before he realized he had been crying as well. Through his blurred vision, he caught a glance at the man from earlier, tipping his head to him in approval. The speech hadn’t been very elaborate, but having Marilyn accept him was the best embellishment he could ever ask for. The free dessert was a plus.

{content warning: sexual themes, language, mild gore} The lounge is warm, air thick with liquor and sweat. Dim light illuminates the lingering customers, laughing and conversing pleasantly. It is around 5am and we are about to close in a couple of hours. With no other clients booked for the rest of the night, I begin gathering my things. Dried blood stains my white button down shirt and perfectly matches my maroon tie. It happened much earlier in the night, but management suggests we don’t change unless our next guests ask us to. I untuck my shirt and lift it to see thin cuts along my abdomen, not as bad as the blood would suggest. I catch a whiff of cigarette smoke. Sure enough, Mr. Marcellus slides in through the front door, meeting my gaze with a smirk. He is on the older side, hair grey and slick back but his face mostly free of wrinkles. He’s a snide little man, who chooses his words with the utmost caution. He never drinks, he’s never grabby, and he knows what he wants. And he has enough money to buy a small country. I catch a glimpse of his limo pulling away from the street, its wheels lurching on the muddy asphalt. It seems today he has given me a break and decided to switch hosts for the evening. I watch as he is led deeper into the lounge by Elosie, sporting a smile that never fails to brighten the entire room. She has no idea what she’s in for. I step outside the lounge just to be hit with frigid coldness. A slight breeze stirs my hair, I notice it is slightly snowing. I cover my nose with my hand and breathe into it, fighting the chill. It is still dark outside, by this time in summer light would’ve already started pooling into the sky. Shit it’s cold, I need to get inside. I stride across the sidewalk, careful to avoid frozen over puddles. A single street light reveals the corner ATM, small bugs swarming around the light. Today is Monday, the day I get paid. I wasn’t about to let the weather disturb my weekly routine. You see, at the Golden Souls Entertainment Club, you don’t exactly know how much you made for the week, as most of your salary comes from tips. So every Monday is like scratching a lottery ticket off for me. I quickly punch my pin into the machine and stare at the screen, watching the little loading symbol, antsy from the cold. Holy shit. Wow. That’s a lot. Fucking hell, who tipped so well? I finish with the ATM and rush to my car, locking my doors before resting on the steering wheel. My mind searches my memories of the past week, for anything that stood out. Was I particularly good at being a footstool for Mr. Vargas? Did Mr. Dawson enjoy my dancing a little more than usual this time? No no, they wouldn’t do this, not just to come back a week later for the same thing. My clients have all kinds of bizarre demands, they start to blend together at some point. Then it hit me. Last Wednesday a woman came in with a masquerade mask and told us to call her Orchid. Miss Orchid said she was completely new to this whole thing but she had money she wanted to spend on something “different.” She also said she wanted someone experienced, someone who knows what they’re doing. I offered to be her host and she accepted, requesting a private room. Timid and soft spoken, she didn’t ask for much, just a fresh bowl of strawberries and to be read Shakespear by me. “You mean naked?” I had said, fully taken back by the innocence of her request. “Oh no that won’t be necessary, thank you.” I assumed she was looking for love, someone to take care of her. She probably had a bastard of a husband, slimy and corrupt. Maybe he had even cheated on her. But she was in this now, with nowhere to go. She dare not sacrifice her filthy rich lifestyle where frankly anything was possible with enough cash. So, divorce being out of the question, she turns to Golden Souls like most do- seeking excitement in their bland and repetitive lives. It becomes an addiction, after you realize that you can get these people to do whatever you want. Of course, we as workers have a right to refuse anything, but most don’t. Most become numb to the sentiment, accepting the harsh reality that those with money are the ones in power and that working at Golden Souls was a very literal way of feeling that concept. Everyone has their own stories, their own lives, but one thing we all have in common is that we’re struggling financially, so why not abuse the system for a better life? The cost didn’t matter. And in Orchid’s case, the cost barely outweighed the benefit. I almost felt like I was stealing her money- if she truly was the one who tipped so much. Who else would it have been? - The next time I saw Orchid that Wednesday around 9pm. I started my shift cleaning the bar when she came in without an appointment, asking if I was free. I led her to that same private room, wondering if she would be brave enough to ask for more this time. She was wearing a silky green dress that clung to her body and illuminated her deep brown skin. With her was a considerably large purse, matching green and lined with scales. She was sporting the same black feathered mask and wore simple but sparkling jewelry. I quietly closed the door of the room and took a seat on the puffy soft sheets, trying to catch her eye. She silently sat next to me and to my surprise slipped off the mask to reveal the face of a young woman. “Michael, I have a question” Her voice was smooth and sweet, trickling with allure. “Anything” “What do you know about Jasper Gardiner” What? I leaned back, staring at her for a couple of seconds. “I’m sorry miss, I’m not allowed to discuss other clients,” I shook my head, still recoiling from the question. She hummed and sucked in her breath before reaching over to place her purse on her lap and began searching inside of it. “Special Agent Rosa Ford, please Mr. Sosa, tell me what you know about Jasper Gardiner” She extended a badge out for me to see with ‘FBI’ reading in big blue letters. Fear crept up my throat and I felt my heart drum in my ears. I hesitated before answering her and realized my body was stiff as a board. She wasn’t here for me, not like I did anything illegal. “Well Mr. Gardiner is one of our frequent guests... he comes in about every Saturday and Sunday. He’s usually here with what I would assume to be his friends- Mr. Haynes and Mrs. Parsons, you know the congresswoman. They’re into some pretty weird stuff like-” “I don’t need to hear about that.” She waved her hand and I noticed she was jotting notes down on a notepad, “Have you overheard anything suspicious? Anything about sending or receiving money?” “Oh they usually don’t ask for me, you should be talking to Ingrid, she acts as a waiter for them...” “Would it be possible for you to take over for her?” “What? Why would I do that?” “You see Mr. Sosa, We initially thought Mr. Gardiner was involved in some insider trading but now we think it’s much deeper, we’re talking drug and possibly human trafficking. We need someone to pick up his conversations, they could be key evidence in the case. Ingrid is a single mom with children to feed at home, we didn’t want to impose on her. But you, a psychology grad student, can do us a great service. All you would need to do is wear a wire and linger around them, nothing dangerous. And we could compensate you... greatly... for your-” “No, no I’ll do it. For free. I want to help. Just, don’t pay me” I blurted out, briefly taken back by my impulse. This felt really shady, especially for legal law enforcement, but I’ve done shadier. Much shadier. - "Okay so the tap is on now, you don't have to do anything. It'll pick up anything you can hear with your own ears, so be aware of that." Agent Ford and I stand close together in our cleaning supplies closet, she is messing with the wires and adjusting them so they don't show at all. She smells like vanilla and coconuts, maybe I'll ask her to get a drink with me after this is all done. "Michael?" "Yeah?" "Why are you here? Smart guy like you- I could find a place for you in the bureau, if it's money you need." "It's temporary. I graduate soon and I promise you I won't look back. Maybe I'll take you up on that job offer though." She chuckled warmly, placing a thin device into my suit pocket. "I just don't know how you do it, how you let yourself be... well degraded like that. I hope I'm not offending you at all I'm just... astonished." "Oh no, please, I get it. The way I look at it is that we're all workers of the Golden Soul. You ever read The Jungle?" "Yeah, in high school." "Well it's like that." "Right, well, good luck out there. I'll see you soon" - I approached the table with Mr. Gardiner. He was on the larger side and wore a linen shirt that was slightly see-through. You’d think with near infinite money all these people would dress better. He had a big hearty laugh, the type that’s contagious, but every time I heard it my stomach lurched. His companions were the same, a short and energetic salesman and of course the aging, bitter, congresswoman. “Welcome back to Golden Souls! I’ll be your host for this evening, anything I can get for you all to start?” Mr. Gardiner’s face dropped and he stared at me with irritation, “Where’s Ingrid.” “She is out sick today” I told her I'll work in her place and give her the full compensation, who would say no? “I’ll be taking care of you all if that’s alright” “Spin around for us, would you?” Mrs. Parsons said with a chuckle but the gentlemen were not amused. Mr. Gardiner tossed me a dismayed glance, “Fine, Veer, search him.” Two bodyguards were on me in an instant. Where the fuck did they come from? They shoved me to the wall and began feeling my suit with efficiency. My heart dropped. One felt my collar, fingertips brushing the wiretap underneath it. Our eyes met with mutual understanding. Out of breath, I let my head drop to the wall behind me as the bodyguards released me and took to Mr. Gardiner. One leaned over to whisper something in his ear. - “Was it worth it? Huh? Just to become another cog in their machine? Worthless. You’re Worthless!” Mr. Gardiner screamed, spit flying from his mouth. I was on the freezing asphalt of the parking lot, groaning and writhing with pain. I coughed up blood, fresh red on the melting and dirty piles of snow. My head was spinning and felt stomach acid crawling its way up my throat. “Just finish the job,” Mr. Gardiner departed into his cushy town car, the door slamming. Hands grabbed me by the collar and propped me up against the wall. Eyes closed, I felt the cold barrel pressed onto my temple. “Wait, please, you don’t have to do this” “Sorry man,” a deep voice resonated in my chest, “You’re my next paycheck.”

On a rock this forgotten a lighthouse is needed, but on a rock this forgotten the lighthouse keeper is forgotten too. He leaves his front door open, the thin old door banging about in the storm; salty wind blowing straight off the sea and stirring the light objects in his room into open rebellion: unsecured papers lift up into the room and dip like birds, and the lighthouse keeper sits and plays his piano slowly, as if to calm things down. The rain blows in too, and mingles with the sea spray on the threshold, and taps on the windows. The music is hesitant and tinged with sadness and the lighthouse keeper almost looks as if he’s asleep, but his fingers keep moving. Outside, the waves build and combine, mash into each other and twist into foamy messes, or rear up over a submerged rock, and curl up into dumping waves that pop and boom along the rocks. No beam of light passes across the sea, because ships have stopped coming this way: the lighthouse keeper stopped turning the light on years ago. This night, however, the lighthouse keeper looks out of his front door as he finishes playing a bar of music and the next note hangs in the air, desperately needing to be played, but it hangs; the music stays unresolved. The lighthouse keeper stares, frozen. Out there, pitching, leaning, rocking, a ship is struggling in the grey chaos. It is mostly shadow, but a single light on that ship shines through the sheets of slanting rain. Just for a moment, the lighthouse keeper watches the light ride up and down, and watches it tip, and disappear behind high waves; then he jumps up and hurries up the spiralling staircase, puffing. It is harder than he remembers, and he leans heavily on the cold iron handrail. At the top he can see the ship better: it looks like it will survive the storm, but it is heading straight for the lighthouse, and the jagged rocks beneath. The ship is getting closer and closer and the lighthouse keeper swears at himself as he works; but soon the light starts up and a beam of light, getting brighter and brighter with each pass, punches through the rain and out towards the ship; and the ship sees, and makes a dramatic, veering manoeuvre, dangerous in the heavy sea; but passes unscathed, now parallel to the shore, and soon disappears into the dark and the weather. The lighthouse keeper makes his way down the stairs, closes the front door, and collapses on his bed, suddenly exhausted. The storm carries on. In the morning it is clear and sunny. The lighthouse keeper is up early, sitting on the bed in his underwear and staring down at the space between his feet. Eventually he gets dressed and steps out his front door, leaving the door open again, this time drinking in the warm sunrise and the lightly salted breeze blowing gently off the sea. He walks down the hill to a small dock, sheltered amongst rocks, where a small boat waits. Most of his belongings are in a heavy waterproof bag which he put on this boat a few days ago, and he awkwardly hefts this bag up onto his shoulder and carries it back up the hill. He walks in through the front door and dumps the bag right in the middle of the room, sits down at the piano, and picks up from where he left off the night before. Outside, sea birds make their noises and small waves break against the rocks.

Mister Jackson had been an honourable man and a good neighbour and friend to his fellow men. He had never been the kind of man to give in to earthly pleasures like drinking or gambling. He went to work each morning and came home after five each day, wishing everyone a good day he met on his way. All around what one might call a happy chap, without any troubles. Successful as he was it came to pass that he married a woman of noble standing. And although she was mannered and never showed a frown. One sometimes got the impression that a demon might possibly inhabit the human body. But mister Jackson didn’t let coursing rumours destroy his joy. Even if he someday started to work longer in the evenings, or rose earlier in the mornings. Sometimes he wouldn’t come home at all. Perhaps those subtle signs of a somewhat disharmonic relationship were the first steps to what occurred a year later. And perhaps one might have prevented the tragedy altogether by just speaking to mister Jackson if anything was the matter. But none of the people in mister Jackson’s life had poked him about his private struggles, since he never showed any sign of having them. Until one night the police car’s blue lights illuminated the neighbourhood. The uniformed men went inside and only moments later without indicating a fight, they came back. With them followed a black bag and a cuffed mister Jackson. Here and there a curious pair of eyes peeked through the curtain of their bedroom, the source of the coming gossip. The trial was a short one, all evidence was clear. Mister Jackson was sentenced to spend a few years in prison for murder, his house stood abandoned ever since. No family or friends seemed to take interest in the wicked member of their lives. Nor did mister Jackson get any visitors. The first weeks everything went according to the natural order. Like every other criminal he was sitting in his cell, waiting for his time to be over. Unlike most of the others however, he made no ruckus or attempt to tackle the obstacles fate threw at him. In fact, he was bullied in a way that left him ripe for the hospital time after time. The men in charge had no choice but to put him into solitary confinement. Not that Jackson minded, showing no change in behaviour he continued sitting in his cell as if it was just another day to him. Guards checked on him, even attempted to make contact by speech. Seeing their efforts in vain they soon left him alone in his misery. Far enough to not disturb him and yet close enough so they could hear if there should ever be trouble. It was then when Carver Jackson’s nightmare really started. It was a clear, calm night, Carver could tell by his restless soul. He always was restless in those nights. In vain he tried to sleep away the turmoil in his mind, he could not name. The creaking sound of a metallic door caught his attention. Listening carefully, he concluded the sound came from somewhere out of his view. Without a sound he sat up. A strange sensation, as if he had snakes in his stomach, made him uncomfortable. Which was unusual, for he had welcomed the lonely cell. There was nobody to disrupt his few moments of peace of mind he could muster. Nor did he have to stand up for himself, when some broad-shouldered inmate deemed it necessary to punch him. His thoughts wandered to his future and how his life had been turned to ashes. He would never be able to go back to his hometown, and his family had abandoned him without further inquiry. It made him wonder if he ever had meant something to them. Those people who had asked him favours, but never asked to return them. A familiar melody ripped him out of his distraught mind. It was hummed by a woman with a heavenly voice. And yet, his whole body went rigid at the recognition. Only seconds later the figure belonging to the voice appeared in front of his cell. Slowly she turned around, the blonde, curly hair was loose. Her clothes consisted of a blouse and jeans, just like the last time he had seen her. When her blue eyes met his own a shiver ran down his already stiff spine. The flames of vengeance burned brightly in those hollow orbs. Not a word she uttered as they stared at one another. A soft breeze blew back her hair, revealing the marks on her throat. The marks he had left, that fateful night. Carver shuddered as the image slowly faded into nothingness. When he asked the guard on the next day, about a woman entering the prison. The man, quite surprised to be talked to by Carver after weeks of silence, only denied the knowledge of anyone entering the institution. Obviously worried, the policeman asked Carver if he was alright. To which the man replied that he felt fine, and probably just did have a nightmare. The guard cast him a sympathetic look mingled with the disdain people used to regard a murderer with. Carver slept soundly the next night, not overthinking the latest occurrence. It was not before a whole week had passed that a similar incident kept the prisoner awake. Awoken by the same melody, Carver found himself face to face with the ghost of his wife. And again, she glared at him, but this time he gathered the courage to speak. “You are dead,” he said with a hatred he had forgotten he harboured. “What do you want from me?” “No redemption for you,” she said with a gentleness that belied the vengeful eyes. “Only hellfire.” The certainty with which the spectre spoke, caused Carver to feel unbearably cold. A pit opened up in his stomach, setting free an uncontrollable rage. “Go to hell! Leave me be!” He screamed while rushing to the bars where the woman stood. Ignoring his anger, she placed a hand on his shoulder and smirked wolfishly. Carver suppressed a shudder as he stared in the maddening pools he once had loved. “I’ll come for you,” she whispered with an unsettling, growling undertone. At once her skin turned grey like the one of a corpse. Frightened, Carver stepped back as the entity in front of him decomposed. Unable to watch, he covered his eyes. The next time he looked, he was alone. Rubbing his face, he tried to explain the phenomenon with a rational theory. Perhaps the loneliness weighed on him, or the cell itself. He turned back to the place serving as a bed, when his heart stopped. Only inches from him the deceased’s uncanny face had appeared, with a monotone, ghoulish expression. With a shriek he stumbled backwards and fell. But the face had disappeared into thin air. Carver could feel how his life slowly but steadily spiralled downwards, if that was even possible after all he had done to himself. The vengeful spirit haunted him many a night, taking from him the ability to sleep. And if he managed to sleep, he startled awake, bathed in sweat and with a mind full of terror. The guards remarked often enough that he had screamed in the night. Eating too, he had given up and the theory of him trying to starve to death circulated among the policemen. By the time they called a doctor, his dead wife had already become a constant part of his day. Just as in life, she was now harassing him in death. Mocking him with insults or haunting him with grotesque images. “Who are you?” Carver asked from behind his blanket as a tall man in white entered. “He’s the one to take you away, silly,” his wife only replied delighted. “Shut up,” he only muttered towards where the spectre was sitting. “I didn’t say anything, mister Jackson,” the man in white said surprised. “I didn’t talk to you,” Carver apologized to the man he assumed to be a doctor. “Oh, my poor husband,” she continued. “He’s going to put you into a nice white cell. Then we can have even more fun.” A sinister giggle followed the comment. Carver only shot her a warning glance to which the doctor reacted. “Mister Jackson, are you with us?” “I am, I am,” Carver confirmed while nodding several times. But his scattered brain would not let him have his way. Elegantly the spirit rose and went behind the doctor. As if savouring every moment, she took a knife out of her pocket. Which was far too small to harbour such a long blade. Like a priest performing a sacrifice she gripped the hilt with both hands and raised it high. The end pointing at the doctor’s back. “Don’t you dare,” Carver only said sternly, to which the doctor only replied confused. “I have to examine you mister Jackson.” Still grinning like a hyena, the ghost fixed Carver with her maniacal blue eyes. Not waiting for the outcome, Carver jumped the doctor. But when he looked down into the face, it was his wife who was staring back at him. Overcome by frenzy he tried to choke the image. Before he could see the life light dim in the eyes of his victim, Carver’s vision went black. Coming back to himself he was questioned for the reason of his assault. The doctor whom he had tried to strangle had barely survived, they told him. Carver however, could remember no doctor. “My wife,” was all he managed to stammer. “My wife...” He fell silent as the spectre once again appeared behind one of the policemen in the room. Pointing at, to the other men invisible figure, he started screaming again. “There she is, the wretched demon.” Feeling his sanity slip away from him he got up, kicking over the chair in the process. His dead wife only smiled again, while laying her arm around the policeman’s shoulders. “But honey, I think they don’t see me,” she mocked in the voice of a spoiled child. Wielding the kitchen knife once again, she held it to the oblivious man’s throat. “No,” Carver exclaimed shocked as he ran to the officer. But this time he was too late. Holding the place where a cut had become visible the man in uniform sank to the ground. His colleague quickly reacted by pointing his gun at Carver. “His blood is on your hands, my love.” The woman rejoiced while walking up to the other man. “Stop this madness.” Carver started to plead at the coldness of the spirit in front of him. In the blink of an eye the other policeman fell over with the knife in his back. The spectre had disappeared. Trembling from head to toe, Carver sank down in the corner of the room, farthest away from the blood and the corpses. His claim, that his wife had killed and assaulted the man only gave the judge more proof of his insanity. The sentence was the last push for his already fragile mind to go over the edge. Seeing his life and sanity shattered, Carver started to laugh in a frenzy in court. He couldn’t name the reason for his sudden ecstasy; he just knew everything was so unbelievably futile. The man couldn’t but laugh at the dark twist his life had taken. Carver awoke in a padded cell restrained by a straitjacket. The sudden ecstasy had gone the same way it had come. Upon examining his surroundings, he saw his wife standing in front of him. Who else could it be? He thought ironically, all but the vengeful spirit of his wife had abandoned him. Like in the night of her death, she wielded the kitchen knife ready to attack. Carver only looked at her, asking in sincere sorrow. “Why did you want to kill me?” “Why did you love her more than me,” she countered with tears in her eyes. And then it dawned on him. It all had been a misunderstanding. “There is no her,” he replied. “I worked night and day so we could have a child. I was saving money for the future.” With a thud the knife fell to the ground as the spectre sank to her knees. “Oh darling, I destroyed our lives.” Sliding up to her on his knees, Carver tried to comfort his wife. “We both did.” A forgotten warmth spread through Carver when the ghost embraced him. Her skin didn’t feel cold, it felt alive and to her hair clung the smell of spring. And for a moment he thought the past year to have been a dream. She felt so real. Closing his eyes, he pictured himself with her in their kitchen. Out of nothing a sharp pain emerged from his back, causing him to gasp.

There used to be a weeping willow tree at the end of my Grandmother’s street. I’m not entirely sure if it’s still there, but I remember thinking that if I could just climb to the highest branch, I would be able to touch the clouds. My Grandmother and I went to the tree every time my family visited from when I was a toddler until I was fourteen. Whenever my grandmother and I visited the tree, she would bring her sketchbook and draw me sitting on the tire swing that was tied to one of the lower branches. Somewhere in a box there is a stack of drawings of a little girl on a tire swing. I wish I knew where it was now. I was eleven when my older brother started visiting the tree too. Sam was four years older than me. He had no interest in playing make-believe with his little sister under the willow tree. Sam had discovered vaping and realized that the weeping branches of the willow tree that concealed my “fairy land” could also hide his bad habit. There were only eight houses on my Grandmother’s street. My grandmother had just been diagnosed with cancer when the Smith family moved into the yellow house on the corner. A week later, we moved in with my grandmother. All I knew was that grandma was going to be sick for a while and that we needed to be there to keep her company until she got better. Sometimes I would see a few kids playing on the tire swing or climbing the lower branches of the willow tree. One of them looked to be a girl around my age. I was enamored with her long, blonde hair. She could have told me her name was Rapunzel and the tree was her tower and I would have believed her. If I had the guts to speak to her, that is. Growing up, I never made friends easily. I wanted to be friends with the pretty girl who looked like the princesses in the storybooks my mom used to read to me, but I didn’t know how. My grandmother was my closest friend for most of my childhood. Not too long after moving in, my grandmother wouldn’t come to the willow tree with me as often as she used to. About two years after we moved in, my grandmother stopped coming to the willow tree with me entirely. I didn’t know what it meant the first time my grandmother said, “Maybe later, dear,” when I asked her to walk to the willow with me. And two years later, I still didn’t see the things that would be obvious to me if I were seeing them now. The collection of pill bottles in her bathroom that had been growing since she was diagnosed suddenly dwindled down to only a few overnight. The time that she had spent at the hospital lessened and yet she didn’t get any better. After a day my grandmother had said “not today”, my parents would shut their door and have whispered conversation with furtive tones. On “not today” days I would go to the willow tree by myself and sit on the ground with my back against the tree and a good book. It felt wrong to sit in the tire swing when my grandmother wasn’t there with me, drawing in her sketchbook. If Sam had any such reservations, he didn’t show it. The tree wasn’t hallowed ground for Sam like it was for me. Rather, it was a place he could go to do illicit things with sketchy people. One of the not-so-sketchy people Sam met there was the girl I had dubbed “Rapunzel”. Her actual name was Rena and she was sixteen at the time, two years older than me. As much as I disapproved of what she did with Sam at the tree, I liked her and I was thankful that she was around when my grandmother passed. The day my grandmother died I was at the willow tree sketching the swing to show her later. She had given me a new sketchbook that morning and told me to fill it up with all the things that made me happy. I can still remember that day with perfect clarity. I was alone at the willow tree sketching the tire swing to show her later. It had just been that morning that she had given me the sketchbook I was drawing in and told me to fill it up with all the things that made me happy. I had been planning to draw my grandmother when I came home from the willow tree. Instead, I watched as EMTs carried her out of the house in a body bag. Rena came to the funeral and I saw her leave with my brother after the burial. My parents were thanking everyone for coming and I had been left to my own devices. I wandered the halls of the funeral home for a while, but eventually found my way back to the main hall. I stood in front of a table that looked like a weird kind of shrine to my grandmother. I say it was weird, because despite there being a framed picture of her, it didn’t feel personal enough to honor the woman that had been a core figure in my life for as long as I’d been alive. Daisies had been my grandmother’s favorite flower and, sure, there was a bouquet of them on the table, but my grandmother had always liked seeing them alive in the ground rather than cut off at the knees in a vase where they’d wither and die in a few days. What really caught my attention were the pamphlets that reduced my grandmother to three paragraphs. None of them mentioned the way she smiled and laughed and hugged me as tight as possible every time I came to visit. There wasn’t a sentence that told of how she kept a secret cookie jar just for the two of us in the pantry. And I didn’t read a single word mentioning the willow tree that had been our place. Maybe that was egocentric of me, thinking only of my relationship with my grandmother. After all, my mom had just lost her mom. I knew that. I just didn’t really understand it. Since the day of the funeral, I saw Rena almost every day for a while. She had a weird relationship with my brother, but I liked her nonetheless. I never heard her utter a mean word against anyone and she had a way of always saying the right thing. She liked to draw and I asked her to show me how to draw faces. I could never get the nose right, but she called it my signature style. If neither Rena or Sam liked vaping and they hadn’t been the only kids their age on our street, they would never have been friends. Even so, they were only friends over the summer my grandmother died and it didn’t last when school began. Sam played football and so did all of his friends. Rena drew in her sketchbook in her spare time. More to the point, Sam was popular and Rena was not. Sam and Rena didn’t meet at the willow tree anymore. They said hello to each other in school sometimes, but that was about it. Rena kept going to the willow tree, but now it was me she was meeting there. We brought our textbooks and sketchbooks and talked about making plans for homecoming, which was in two weeks. Rena and I never made plans, but we ended up going anyway. I think my parents said something to Sam, because he proposed the idea of the three of us going together, which I can’t imagine he would have done on his own. Homecoming came and went. Sam, Rena, and I had gone together, but when we got there, Sam disappeared. Rena’s friend drove us home and I didn’t see Sam until the next morning when he appeared at breakfast. For the record, I never snitched on him even though it was a dick move. Dick moves started becoming Sam’s thing after that. He fought with our parents constantly. Over what, I’m not sure. Our parents weren’t even remotely strict. Sam was allowed to come and go as he pleased for the most part. He didn’t even have a curfew as long as he told Mom and Dad where he was going to be. Sam was a junior in high school. He had good grades and played football pretty damn well. A few scouts even came out to see him play. Our parents were proud of that and told him so. It must not have been enough for him. Then again, there wasn’t much that was good enough for him. When he first turned sixteen, our parents bought him a beater car and told him they would pay for his gas during football season, but after that he needed to get a job. He complained that the car didn’t have Bluetooth built in. I kept my distance from him, which wasn’t hard considering that he was also avoiding me. I didn’t want to associate with him and he didn’t want people at school to associate him with me. That was fine. Although, I could tell it hurt our parents that Sam and I didn’t get along. I think it was the third week of October when I first heard the rumors. Though, I assumed the rumors had been going around before I heard them. That was the way of the rumor mill; the people closest to the rumor usually hear it last. Word was spreading that Rena had taken explicit pictures of herself and apparently those pictures had gotten out. My heart sank when I heard that, because in my mind there was only person that she could have taken them for and sent them to. My brother. The day I caught wind of what had happened, I flagged Rena down after school and tried to talk to her before she got on the bus. “Rena!” She stopped at the bottom step of the bus and turned to look at me. Her eyes were red and she looked like she had been crying. I waited a moment for her to step out of line and come over to talk to me, but she just turned back around and got on the bus. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wanted to go home right then and there and figure out what exactly had happened, but I had a community service club I participated in on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Looking back at it, I should have gone home. When I got home that night, I tore through the house and went right to my brother’s room, but he wasn’t home. My parents said he had gone out with some friends a few hours ago. I wanted to talk to them about what happened, but all I had to go on at that moment were rumors and the only confirmation I had was seeing that my friend was crying. For all I knew, the rumors weren’t true, but she was crying because everyone thought they were. The next morning the word “SLUT” was written on Rena’s locker in big capital letters. I stopped when I saw that she was standing right in front of it frozen. Her eyes were wide and there was a bright flush across her cheeks. I walked over to her and gently led her away. I could feel people watching us. Our school wasn’t that big. Everyone knew everyone. I’m sure that at that point, the only people who didn’t know what had happened were me, my parents, and the school administration. We made our way to the bathroom, which was empty when we got there. I pushed closed the door and locked it. If anyone needed to use the bathroom, they’d have to go somewhere else. “What happened?” Rena let out a shaky breath and a single tear spilled down her cheek. “Sam- Sam...” She broke off her sentence, but it was enough. I already had my suspicions that Sam was involved, but it still felt like a punch in the gut to know that my brother had done something to cause this. Rena told me how she had sent pictures of herself to Sam over the summer when they had been seeing each other. Sam had kept those pictures after they stopped talking and in the last month, sent them to a group chat he was in with some of his football buddies. An angry, burning sensation began growing in my chest. At myself for not knowing and at my brother and his doorknob friends for being such tools. Rena had been getting harassed for a month and I’d only found out yesterday. I didn’t even know how that was possible. Sure, we hadn’t seen each other as much recently, but I thought that was because we were both busy. I had my clubs and she had her art. I had no clue what to say. I scrambled to come up with the right thing to say, but Rena had always been the one who was good with words. Me, not so much. Her face crumpled and before I could say anything, she stepped around me and left the bathroom. I looked out for her the rest of the day, but I didn’t see her anywhere. I tried texting her, but she didn’t respond. She had mentioned in the bathroom, that stuff about her had been posted online and she had deleted her social media. It wouldn’t be so far-fetched for her to shut her phone off. Still, I worried. I knocked on her door after school and no one answered. Her parents weren’t home most of the time, because they were doctors, but Rena always answered if she was home. Something didn’t feel quite right, but there was nothing I could do from this side of a closed door. Or maybe that was just me trying to make myself feel better about being completely and utterly useless when my friend needed me. Early the following morning, a person walking their dog found Rena hanging from the willow tree. She had fixed a noose and tied it to the same branch on the willow tree as the tire swing before jumping off and breaking her own neck. I should have said something. I should have said anything rather than nothing in the bathroom that day she told me what had happened. I should have... I should have... I should have... Rena’s death was ruled suicide, but there was an investigation that revealed pictures of her on the phones of my brother and a disgusting number of people at our school. I’m not sure what happened to the other kids involved, but when Sam went to court, he received community service from the judge. It could have been a lot worse if he had been eighteen, but he was seventeen. Our parents weren’t nearly as lenient. They took his phone, his keys, and his privileges. He wasn’t allowed to go anywhere except school. He was kicked off the football team and so were a lot of his friends. There was a great deal of unrest in our town. Some people were upset that such a big deal was being made over Rena. The girl killed herself. No one else did. Why are our kids being punished? These were the parents of boys on the football team who had pictures of Rena and as a result, were kicked off the team. They complained that it was unfair. Then there were others that were shocked and horrified by Rena’s suicide and what had driven her there. This was the majority of people. There was a sense of not knowing what to do next and that hung over the town like a weighted blanket. It was a claustrophobic sort of sensation that the town was too small for something so big to have happened there. The willow tree itself was a source of contention for everyone. Should the tree be taken down because it is a reminder of what happened or should it be left up because it is a reminder of what happened? I was torn, because the willow tree had been near the center of my life for almost as long as I had been alive. It was the special place I shared with my grandmother and then with Rena. At the same time, it was the place Rena and Sam used to meet for a brief time. And now it was the place Rena committed suicide. What the town decided, I never found out. My parents decided it would be best for us to have a fresh start in a different town, preferably in a different state. We moved barely a month after Rena’s funeral. At the new house, there is a little tree in the backyard. It’s just a little oak tree. There’s nothing particularly special about it. I like to think that one day it will be tall enough for me to climb it and try to touch the clouds. For now though, I pull out the sketchbook my grandmother gave me, flipping past the sketches of the willow tree, and begin drawing the short but strong branches of the little oak tree.

"Ten years had passed in a blow", Leslie thought. It was this day but 10 years back now when she promised her best friend Kim that she will come back for him in this Skyscraper in ten years time to meet him again. She came first to the place but was a little amazed... Why? Because the Skyscraper had been broken down to a massive Love tower.... "what!!, cut the crap out of the thing I'm seeing" she said in her thoughts. "It was a big skyscraper from where the whole city could be seen, aww.. the people of this building were quite shy, I guess. Because no other agency would close down this picnic spot", she uttered between her thoughts. "Wait! This is a love tower but why isn't there any people?..." She went to the reservation counter and asked the old man"Uncle can you say why is the tower closed? It is not even Saturday.." The old man's voice was too harsh, Leslie wanted to run away from that man but she wanted to know the reason behind the tower being closed. The old man replied"Little Girl, if you want to go up on the tower you need to pay a reservation charge, so that no other couple cannot disturb your private time and you need to bring a partner for some discount". "Then uncle where are the couples who reserved this??" Leslie shot back. "See we have our online website and we do bookings online, a young man reserved this online, mailing us that he has an important meeting with his friend and wants to propose her there". "Thank you for the information uncle, see you later" she said this and turned back to find a spot to sit. A complete one hour had passed... Leslie felt very disappointed that her best friend didn't come and he had even forgotten her. A lone tear fell from her eye and she stood up, turned back towards the exit and started moving. Suddenly someone with pale and long fingers puled her towards him. BAM... She banged herself on the man's hard build body. She looked throughout his body"hmm, good figure maybe his face is also good looking..." She looked up in his eyes, while he was busy staring at hers. Suddenly a electric shock passed through her body. It was...It was...It was her best friend and her crush Kim. She couldn't believe it was her friend and after ten years he had completely changed. "oh, Gosh!! he's so damn hot", thought Leslie. She was lost exploring his body when Kim interrupted "Sweety, lets go..." "Huh! um... Where?", Leslie murmured waking up from her dream. "To the tower... A surprise awaits for you up there",said Kim in a little romantic way. "Are you really kidding??... The tower is reserved for some other couple...", she said laughing."The reservation uncle said me that some one had done the booking online." "Hmm... Its me !!", said Kim. Leslie became a little sad by hearing that because previously she had heard from the uncle that a man had booked the tower for proposing to a friend of him. By seeing Leslie's long and sad face Kim said"Why did you become sad sweetheart? Is anything bothering you?" "No... um...uh...nothing, I must be bothering you and your special friend. I am leaving first, hope you enjoy your day with her...", Leslie spoke while tears fell down her eyes. "I didn't get you clearly, could you explain me the whole thing?... I want to know what you know that makes you sad", spoke Kim. "The reservation uncle said me that a person booked the tower online, You said that its you, the uncle also said that the person has a meeting with a very special friend of him and he is going to propose her, so if you are the person you have another girl to meet and propose so I should be the one to bother you up... I'm so sorry ", Leslie said while crying. "So why are you crying and I think I can give her my time later", saying this he grabbed Leslie's hand, showed the pass at the counter and pulled her to the tower. The tower was decorated with twinkling lights, roses, Shining hearts and a marvellous centered heart with flower petals. Leslie looked around the tower a candle light dining table was also set up. "He really cares for someone else, see Leslie see its not for you, its for another girl and he really likes her...", Leslie spoke to herself. The tower was circle with a bigger area and circumference. The round sides were open like a balcony but the tower had a long closed ceiling. Leslie went to a place where she could see the river flow, it was their favourite childhood spot... Oh! Wait not their's but her and Kim's. Seeing her Kim went to her side hold her by her waist and said "This place belongs to us..." he couldn't complete his sentences when Leslie interrupted him"A little grammar mistake, not ours but mine and yours... You like someone else do not make her embarrassed by calling me and you as together like 'ours' ". "Yes I like someone... but the girl is ... you. I liked you since when we were young but I couldn't reveal it. I swear you, today will be the happiest day in your life". Kim said this and pulled her towards the center... Sat on his knees and said opening a ring box, "Will you be mine forever?... Will you marry me?... I will never leave you alone, I will walk by your side together through any struggle you or we both face... I will take care of you just like a mother, guide you just like a father, give freedom just like grandparents, help you just like siblings, have fun just like friends and love you just like a perfect lover or soulmate. I promise you to perform my whole responsibility as a husband". Said Kim in a eager and gentle manner. "You did all this for me, why didn't you say this at the first... I also like someone... and that is only you, I will be your forever. Yes! absolutely yes I will marry you, I will care, guide, give freedom, help, have fun and love just the same way you will do. I am sure to do up my duty as a wife should do". She said putting her hand into Kim's accepting the engagement ring. Kim put the ring on her finger which fit perfectly, it was shining too then he stood up and hugged her tightly, she too put her hands around Kim's waist and hugged him. Kim pulled her back and bent down towards her to kiss her... She also agreed and stood on her toes to kiss him back... As soon as their lips had touched a marvellous firework filled the sky. It was New Year's Eve. They both when small came to the previous Skyscraper building to see this perfect fireworks on every New Year's Eve. They still remember being together when they were young. A glimpse of the past years flew past their eyes and both of their eyes met each others. Kim bent down to kiss Leslie a last time that day and leslie too kissed him back again. They held their hands together, Leslie said "Today we are again standing at our favourite spot not as a best friend but as a couple...". Then she put her head on Kim's shoulder and enjoyed the firework and as well as Kim's company.

Prologue An Italian Villa Italy Her tiramisu now a decadent constellation of espresso-soaked crumbs across a vast nine-inch expanse of luxuriant eggshell Milanese Corel, the tip of her newly Botoxed tongue delicately savored the exclusive nespresso the Giardino Degli Ulivi shipped in daily from the Cluni di Vito Valley. She could be forgiven her cosmic meanderings - the renowned Dr. Tyson had addressed the conference this morning, and the former boxer and honorary doctorate in pugilistic romance had closed his keynote with a random prose recitation of When You Wish Upon a Star . Donatello, the muscular young waiter who’d earlier decanted her moscato with a deft twist and a tug, removed her dessert plate, accidentally touching her hand from the opposite side of the table. It lingered for a moment - the ristorante had earned five Michelin and four Goodyear stars for its exquisitely tacky raspberry drizzle. She yanked free first - she’d already enjoyed the favors of the bronzed and reticent boi di pool Leonardo, the masseuse con lieto fine Raphael, and village travel agent Michaelangelo, who’d sold her her Vespa rental policy. Tan aged muted insured tourists were normally her taste, but it was the off-season. “And how does the signora like the tiramisu Toscana di buoza con java a la madonna ciccione ?” Donatello purred. “I (***) it -- it called to mind my favorite pasteria cucina di casuale off the Newark Airport Turnpike,” she murmured, savoring the memory of perpetual zuppa and breadsticks and the quaintly homicidal calls of the Jersey villagers. “Ah,” Donatello smiled radiantly, squeezing her thigh in the continental manner as he replenished her water and swept the crumbs from the Napolese red-checked table cloth. “As my people say, when you’re here, you are like famiglia.” She looked down blushingly to retrieve her Discover Double Platinum card, but when she looked back up, he was gone, as was the local custom whenever one was ready to pay and vamoose . Though there were only three empty tables on the terrace and two inside and Donatello’s five brothers working the front of the house, she settled in with her ’22 Moscato for the customary 35 minute wait and gazed off at the Tower of Pisa and the Coliseum and Vatican City and Tuscany and the canals of Venice to the east. The woman appeared as if out of nowhere, like a wraith from the pearly gates of Hell. Bundled in cloak and shawl and an ankle length skit and blocky goat-leather shoes, the blocky, compact woman swooped in nose-to-nose with the four-time National Book-ish Prize winner. Her eyes, set in a flat froggish face, were goggly and dead. “You (***) your tiramisu?” she sneered. “You (***) your continental breakfast, your morning McCafe di Latte , your how you say conference bag of swag. You (***) the crazy tattooed man with the voce di una bambina and the Jiminy Cricket.” “Mike Tyson is a global treasure,” the author whispered. “ Basta fondu ,” the crone shrieked. “Your kind, you talk of (***), you write of (***), you fill the Hallmark and the Lifetime and the Prima di Amazona with (***), but you know nothing of it. You take all meaning out of it, you sell it like lire candy at a 100-Lire General or a Euro Tree. It is an obscenity from your torta hole. “No longer! By the gods of Daniella Steel, I curse your tribe, your famiglia, your entire genre and your publishing casas! Only death and misery will come to you who henceforth blaspheme this most sacred of words. Salagadoola mechicka boola bibbidi-bobbidi-boo!” “Hey, you!” a strong, ruggedly masculine voice roared. “How dare you terrorize this bella signora , the generosa tipper, this Rewards Club Triple Titanium member! Scram, you!” She couldn’t understand half of Donatello’s threat, but she felt a throbbing pulse of gratitude as the hag glared back and disappeared eventually after fumbling with the terrazza gate latch. Her eyes locked with Donatello’s, and their bodies quickly became as one on the checkered tablecloth until the first screams echoed from the Motel Sei/Boyardee Arena-Convention Center below... Chapter 1 Alexis Integra Chatt muted her office/parlor TV as the Best of CNN scanned across the Boyardee Center ballroom, littered with the corpses of 323 of the world’s premiere romance writers sprawled amid blood and mimosa. “I came to you as a sort of last resort,” “Bridgit Towne” admitted. She’d been a hometown gal-pal from A.I.’s cupcake scone days, but they’d drifted apart after Alexis severed all cozy ties and set up shop in Atlanta as a steamy-adjacent paranormal investigator and notary. After the tragedy in Italy, Brigit had gone off the grid and abandoned her famous nom de plume . “InterpolCon was going on at the Extended Stay Italia next door, some old Belgian detective was investigating a murder on an overcrowded gondola, and this meddling mystery writer from Maine was visiting her great-aunt-cousin in Tuscany,” Bridgit resumed. “But none of them had a clue. Why I came to you.” Alexis noticed the writer worrying a beaded WWJCD bracelet. She’d never been particularly religious before, aside from a controversial wooing scene between her heroine Shonda and a brawny, no-nonsense Anglican vicar in The Christmas Wood . “You think this woman was some kind of supernatural manifestation?” Brigit grinned sheepishly as she spotted A.I. spotting. “I know it sounds crazy except maybe to you, but I always ask myself, ‘What would Jackie Collins do?’ I think she’d want to consider the possibilities. The old woman had eerie, soulless eyes, and the restaurant patio gate had a fairly simple latch mechanism, but she couldn’t seem to work it. As if she’d never before encountered a human patio gate .” It seemed like flawless logic, but A.I. needed to dig in on the specific non-human entity with which she might be dealing. “Look, you want a glass of wine? I’m out of white, but Dvlknish found an old Amontillado behind one of the walls.” “I’d lo--, I mean, I would appreciate and enjoy some, but I gave up the booze after Italy. I’m a sloppy drunk, and I can’t afford to get loose-tongued - at least in the verbal sense. This thing has been a nightmare. We’re all running scared. I had to buy a Roget’s Thesaurus, and half my readers say they’re having trouble getting soft because of confusing synonyms and nuanced emotions. Try getting the juices flowing when Kristen looks deeply into Cody’s cobalt eyes and declares her ‘intense interpersonal regard.’ “Without beach reading, tourists are venturing too close to the sharks. Tastefully Aroused Mothers for Editorial Decency have boycotted the major romance publishers. The TAMED wackos said we’re now promoting ‘sex without buffers,’ and as a result, there’s an epidemic of embarrassing moments at afterschool waiting zones and on public transit.” “And just what do you want from me?” “Find that old witch and make her lift the curse,” Brigit demanded. Chapter 13 “So she what, smelled like an animal, had BO?” More and more woke were-creatures were going the Thinner / Drag Me To Hell route rather than simply dining and dashing.. I considered the possibility of full-moon shape-shifters until Donatello roared with earthy, robust, Old World laughter. “No, no, my lovely signora! When I was a foolish young man, I sought to become a fragrance millionaire, until I realized food service and customer seduction were my noble calling. And that the only, er, how you say, tail one finds in the perfume trade are financially strapped mid-life actresses. There is only so much Natalie Portman one can withstand, capisce? But I have retained one very specific talent -- the ability to identify any fragrance, from Stetson to Obsession 5: The Arousing. This old village woman fairly, how do you say, reeked of Pfish.” “Fish??” “No, no,” Donatello chuckled hononymically. “Pfish, by Zuckerberg. ‘Hack into her IP.’ It’s very popular with one of our Premiere Molybdenum Reward Abusers; as I said, musky. And there was a faint note of sulfur -- she reminded me of my precious Zia Maria in the village of Catania. Well, she was not precisely my ‘aunt’ -- more like my nonna Sbarra’s nurse. Well, nursing student, well, pre-nursing--“ “Whoa-kay!” Alexis sang, ringing off. Chapter 25 It was unusual to see the Italy area code on her phone twice in a single day. Dvlknish was an ursine lump next to her, rumbling in post-coital contentment somewhere between a badger with a deviated septum and a woodchipper snagged on a driftwood badger with a delicately carved deviated septum. The Syburslovenian hacker/plagiarist was a manly sleeper and an earnestly motivated lo--, er, partner. Now I’m doing it, A.I. thought. Then she remembered the phone call, and slipped into the hallway to connect. “Bon giorno, Signora Chatt?” the policeman inquired. “I am so sorry to interrupt your, ah, shift at the lumberyard? You talked to a Donatello Gnocchi today. I regret to inform you Signore Gnocchi was murdered this evening. With his dying breath -- well, his next-to-final breath -- he asked our responding officer to tell you he knew how it was done, whatever it was. “Sadly, with his actually dying breath, he died before he could finish his final message. He seemed to indicate his, how do you say, grandmama, committed these horrific murders at the Boyardee. From what his manager told us, Sbarra Gnocchi died in Catania in 1921, when Etna erupted during her weekly trip to the Mercato Della Spazzatura Sfusa a Buon Mercato, or as you call it, Costco. Crushed after knocking over a palette of panini makers - you cannot make sudden geological noises around the old, you know?” “But he was positive his grandmother was responsible for the deaths?” “He looked straight up at my officer - he had very striking azure eyes, as deep nearly as the Corsican coast, by the way - and moaned ‘Nana’ before perishing. We will miss our young Donatello - no man was more skilled or generous with the parmesan grinder. Or with certain other implements of his trade, if you catch my--” “Whoaaakay.” ** Dvlknish grunted as Alexis squirmed anxiously beside him on the couch she’d snagged at Lovecraft and Derleth’s downtown . He’d always looked forward to NCIS Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday, especially after struggling all day with a new genre. Romance was the Syburslovenian immigrant’s meat - along with wild marmot, javelina, and ring bologna - and the growing wave of authorial panic had spread to the international bootleg underground. Her Knish had little knowledge of American law or justice, and he’d written himself into a corner following the Chapter 1 mandatory street execution of The Audi Attorney ’s jaywalking client. Syburslovenians were soft on toxic microchip dumps and bioweapons storage, but they respected the yellow lines and the thin blue line that protected them. As Alexis’ cheek and Dvlknish gnawed distinterestedly at his third heron leg, she became concerned over his peckish appetite. She patted his thigh, felt the hollow clonk of titanium, and patted the other one. They locked eye and eyes, and he grunted with a contrite grin, slurping heron skin into his maw. As the Eskimos have literally dozens of words for snow, so the Syburslovenians have more than 100 guttural expressions for that deepest of human emotions. More confusing, all meant roughly the same thing. A broasted marmot, a coral sunset, an adorbs feline video, A.I.’s fingers on the pelt of his shoulder, L.L. Cool J charging into a hijacked luau on behalf of an obscure law enforcement agency that, oddly, every cop and civilian alike seemed to recognize - all were articulated within the same spectrum of affection. A.I. knew from her recent brief experience as an investigator of the arcane and uncanny that there was no value in playing chicken with the unknown. She grunted her desire throatily, and suddenly, Dvlknish abandoned all hope of discovering who the poi smuggling ringleader was. During the commercial break, pulling a jagged Cool Ranch from her sweaty hindside, Alexis filled Dvlknish in on Donatello’s murder and the mystery surrounding the untraceable mass hemorrhage of the world’s most distinguished romance writers. Her soulmate stirred and grunted contemplatively. “I know,” Alexis said. “It bothered me a little, too. He’d called his grandmother Nonna during our earlier conversation, and yet he used the non-Italian term ‘Nana’ with the policia . And there was the matter of the old woman’s and, presumably, the killer’s perfume...” Dvlknish struggled from the couch and ambled for the bedroom. He returned a moment later flapping an Eastern European men’s fashion magazine, Coat and Coverings . Dvlknish located a center spread ad featuring a flamboyantly dead-eyed Mark Zuckerberg brandishing a slim flask of amber liquid, as a gaunt but blocky Syburslovenian supermodel fawned at his flank. Dvlknish scratched vigorously at the ad and pushed it into Alexis’ face. Her eyes widened. “Pfish,” she murmured. “I detect floral notes, an essence of lightly singed motherboard, but there isn’t anything remotely musky, as Donatello suggested.” Alexis paused. “But maybe Donatello was simply being more direct. And the vague side note that reminded him of his family in Sicily. Donatello’s nonna lived in the shadow of Italy’s tallest volcano.” A.I. bounced up and scrambled to her office laptop. Dvlknish attempted to reconnect with NCIS: Montpelier as she rapped away at the keyboard. Soon, Alexis reemerged bearing a sheaf of paper. “I got it! I jumped onto House Hunters’ list of dormant volcano-adjacent megahomes in the $1-$10 billion range. Donatello didn’t realize how on-the-head he actually had been. And there’s the final piece of the puzzle.” Dvlknish followed her index finger to the TV screen, where thanks to Amazon’s cutting-edge Fortuitous Network Crime Show Timing technology, a sturdy, bald man with an elaborate roommate-prank facial tattoo and the voice of some forgotten Warner Brothers cartoon character was hosting the Nobel Prize Awards live on Nickelodeon. As a rivulet of green slime doused a group of Stanford astrophysicists, he grunted excitedly. Chapter 47 Like most volcano lairs, mandatory safety exits were discreetly located at the base of the cone -you didn’t fuck with Micronesian building codes. The supervillain’s base was not terribly difficult to locate, thanks to the corporate logo carved into the side of the hardened lava slope. It was a Sunday, and she knew her prey was not about to pay overtime for a special forces-trained security detachment. The few dozen tech-slaves docked into their coding stations or playing foosball on their three-minute meal breaks were easy to dispatch or bribe with energy drinks and Takis. “I heard Mike Tyson was scheduled to officiate the Nobies, and I stopped to wonder why he hadn’t died with the rest of the romance writers,” I said to the man in the huge chamber next to the executive Starbucks, who peered at a bank of monitors now displaying dead and hyperactive Gen-plusser nerds. “Ms. Chatt,” Elon said, an Angora cat in his lap. He placed the steaming platter of feline au poivre on his mammoth desk, and his goggly dead eyes narrowed. “Do you realize how many Indonesian fifth graders I’m going to have to hire to make up for this loss in productivity?” “That’s why you did it, am I right?” Alexis forged on. “You dosed those poor simpleminded saps’ mimosas, but Tyson was keynote. Mike would never have drunk before a PowerPoint.” “My understanding was the authorities have been unable to trace the substance used,” the first man to ding the Moon with a recreational shuttle murmured. “Because it wasn’t a ‘substance.’ That sweet, hot cheese-grinder you murdered? His dying message suggested his grandmother had committed the conference slaughter, but I realized he was identifying the method of murder. Not Nana, nor Nonna, but nanobytes . You or your employees at Tesla’s Tuscan mimosery injected millions of destructive microrobots into the writers’ brunch booze. They deconstructed organ and membrane walls until the victims hemorrhaged to death, then exited through their capped and bleached orifices, blending into the eventually cleaned-up blood. “I knew we were dealing with some implausible tech-thriller weapon when I realized Donatello meant the old lady on the terrazzo smelled ‘Musk-y.’ SEC and CNBC filings show you bought and replicated Zuckerberg years ago - he’s so obviously AIed. As the staff at the Motel Sei will attest, Pfish is their sole Premiere Molybdenum Reward Abuser’s favorite fragrance.” “Very good, Ms. Chatt,” the Space X sky jockey and fire car maker purred. “Love -- exciting and new, right? Not for me. Employee families and external relationships, coitus in the server banks and cloning labs, three-minute lunches that turn into five-minute lunches as team members linger over their ramen and gruel and the latest Kristin Hannah or Celeste Ng or Susan Wiggs. Employees calling in sick to catch Hallmark’s third-quarter Christmas and first-quarter Valentine’s marathons? Love hurts - the bottom line. I cleared barely 18 figures this fiscal month, and the Dark Old Ones - er, I mean the board and stockholders - are extremely unhappy. Fortunately, you have no proof of your ridiculous allegations, so I won’t even bother to kill you.” Then Elon blinked as the item in my right hand glittered in the lair’s blue light. “You would have gotten away with it,” Alexis smiled tightly, “except the execution of a perfect mass murder and your role as the old village witch sapped your blood sugar and you grabbed a quick snack at the Giardino Degli Ulivi. Namely, their signature after-dinner Andes Mint. An Andes Mint degrades in roughly 3.14 minutes, or 10 seconds inside an expensive suit or pants pocket, and this wrapper from the scene of the curse is coveed with your chocolatey prints.” Before Elon could leap for his phone and his attorney’s programmed number, three dozen Mossad-trained, taurine-fueled TMZ correspondent and gossip wranglers rappelled into the volcano. “You forgot,” Alexis ginned. “When you’re at Giardino Degli Ulivi, even illicitly, you’re like family.”

The room was silent but for the occasional shuffle of uneasy feet and the impatient coughs of the prosecutor. She continued to stare intently at her hands almost pleading with them to stop shaking. But what good had pleading ever done? She could hear the distant echo of footsteps outside the courtroom, light, carefree and she longed, more than anything, to be one of those people, to have any other life but hers. She willed her heart to steady in an attempt to regain composure and slowly raised her head, forcing herself to look into the eyes of the prosecutor. “I’m going to ask you again Mrs. Edom, and must remind you, that you are under oath. Did you kill your husband?” She stared into his cold, merciless eyes and drew a deep calming breath. “Yes”. The darkness seemed to chase her as she ran down the system of alleyways, spurred on by sheer panic until it engulfed her completely. She had reached the bridge. The road was deserted. She felt her hand close around the hilt of the knife in the deep pocket of her coat and she withdrew it slowly. It glowed scarlet in the moonlight, stained with anger and resentment. She let it fall. The water cried out as the knife sliced through its surface and she watched as the ripples emanated from the wound until the surface calmed, burying her secret. She retreated back into the alley, back into the comfort of darkness. She collapsed beside a large puddle, the filthy evidence of weekend rain, and once again told herself it was self defence. This time she did not even convince herself. She wanted to remain a part of the darkness forever, hidden from the world but day was inevitable. Light would expose her sin. The court was a sea of murmurs, whispers of excitement, scandal. She remained still, out of place amidst the flurry of people watching the woman’s world collapse. Her gaze had returned to her lap where her upturned hands collected her tears in a little pool. She knew that her tears were deceiving. They were tears of relief. The release of a burden of silence. They were neither from shame nor grief as she knew they ought to be, there was no sense of regret. She felt no remorse. She was free. She had married him when she was very young, barely twenty. He was handsome, charming, with his hair falling over his eyes, a veil that concealed his many flaws. She had enjoyed the attention, the sense of companionship she had never known as a child, abandoned by her father when her mother passed away. She knew now that it was not love. It had never been love. She was not his wife. She was his trophy, his young beautiful prize. She had no life, no company outside his home, no purpose but to submit to his demands. The disgust and the repulsion she suffered in silence were better than the bruises defiance brought. She resented his touch, the sound of his drunken laughter at the television, but she kept her feelings hidden. The only evidence of her miserable existence, were the tears that drenched her pillows each night. The policeman eyed the woman with pity through his rear-view mirror. She looked so weathered, fragile. She stared out of the window at the schoolyard, at the children playing and chattering excitedly and she felt a pang of sorrow as her heart twisted with longing. She had always wanted a child, a family of her own. Her eyes welled with tears as once again her mind returned to the doctor’s office where his futile explanations and empty condolences were muffled by her anguished sobs. “I’m sorry. It happens sometimes. Any trauma sustained to the stomach can cause these miscarriages. I am very sorry” She stood in the kitchen over the sink and washed the remaining tears from her face. Her body was exhausted from emotion and she felt empty, hollow. She heard him swear as he tripped over the doorstep and her heart began to race. This time it was different, it was not from fear or dread, but fury, disgust. He swayed unsteadily into the room and looked at her with those cold, dark eyes. He grabbed her by the arm as usual to force from her the affection he craved and she plunged the knife, with the force of hatred, into his chest. She stared into his eyes which had widened in shock. There was no longer any power, authority but fear and fragility, humanity. He slumped to the floor in a pool of blood and shaking, she withdrew the knife. She would no longer be silenced. He had denied her a life, now she would deny him his. Her footsteps echoed around the corridor as the warden led her to her cell. She was tired and found herself hoping that the bed would not be too hard. She could not describe the way she felt as the door to the cell was slammed shut. Although she was confined, imprisoned, she felt a sense of freedom that she had never felt at home. She knew that she would be out one day, and then she would be free. She would have a new life, one that she would control. She allowed herself a slight smile as she lay down on the bed and began to hum quietly to herself until her voice overcame the silence.

*Trigger warning: Suicide* Silver sat next to Blue in the early morning light, one of his wings curled around Blue’s tiny body as they watched the sunrise. Blue’s eyes were wide and fascinated; due to his time with the scientists, this was his first sunrise. The corners of Silver’s mouth twitched up into a slight, rare smile at the wondrous expressions on the smaller angel’s face. He should have felt the pure joy of seeing the skies sooner, Silver thought quietly. The pure ones like Blue deserved to see the sky and enjoy the vast expanse of the heavens above. It was the failed dark creatures like Silver himself that deserved to be here, skulking around the earth. The scientists had given the wrong creatures the freedoms; the truer angels should be flying, not the assassins. Silver glanced at Blue’s right wing; the feathers were growing back from the regular clippings and soon the primaries would be long enough to fly. Silver could imagine the look on Blue’s face the day he finally was able to fly...he could feel the happiness even now. Maybe in a week, they could...Silver lost his train of thought and was startled as Blue’s head settled on his shoulder. Blue still looked fascinated with the sun, but as the vibrant colors faded to the now cyan sky, Silver felt a calmness in Blue that he had never seen before. Silver himself was never calm, if he were he would have instead assumed he had been drugged. Instead, he often sat still with deadly laziness that one might see in a tiger or a leopard. Silver was like a coiled snake, still but ready to move with a quick deadly accuracy. Not now...he wasn’t calm exactly, but he was less on edge than he should, less on edge than the norm. Until he heard the faint sound of fluttering wings that quickly began to grow in loudness. “Blue!” he whispered quickly, breaking the spell. Silver yanked his wing back in, nearly knocking over Blue in the process. Blue, as confused as he was, still followed Silver up off the ground and under the cover of the nearby pines. As Silver yanked Blue down to the ground underneath one of the larger trees. Silver felt guilty as he saw the pinpricks of blood dotting Blue’s hand where he had fallen on the sharp needles, but this was far better than the alternative. He spread his dark-colored wings over Blue’s pale cyan ones, covering the bright splash of color. That would have been a dead giveaway against the dusty brown earth. They lay perfectly still there for about 30 minutes since Silver insisted on waiting till the noise had been gone for at least five minutes. “I think it’s safe Sil,” Blue whispered. Silver begrudgingly agreed and folded in his wings after a swift shake-off of the dirt that had been rubbed into his feathers when he had taken cover under the tree. Blue’s light-colored wings, however, stayed the dusty brown even when he tried to shake them out. Silver’s heart twinged sadly, remembering another pair of small brown wings. It had been a different time, and Silver had been a different angel then. Now, all that was left of Hope was gone and he remained. “Silver?” questioned Blue sounding a bit worried. Silver realized was staring and looked away. “It’s nothing,” he answered, trying to sound reassuring. It wasn’t a convincing ruse, but Blue, who always believed what people said, believed him and chirped an “Okey!”. Silver forced a tight grin and Blue beamed back, guilt stabbing Silver in the chest. He hated lying to Blue...but was that really true? He had been doing it for so long, since they met really, so could he truly say that he hated it? Could he really say that he had regretted it? No, he admitted to himself, as wrong as this was he couldn’t regret it. He had felt sorry for his innocent target but he had never felt remorse for what he was doing, not really. It didn’t matter though, not now. It was time for his final lie. “Hey Blue?” Silver called out. “Yeah?” chirped out the reply. Blue would have no idea what was coming. “I have to go back home.” He wasn’t taking Blue to where he lived. But Blue wouldn’t know any better. The chipper angel’s face fell and Silver quickly backpedaled. “You should come with me,” he added, hating himself with every word. Blue’s face brightened up immediately. The small creature wouldn’t know that he would be trapped when they arrived. He wouldn’t know that Silver would be taking him back to the labs and a lifetime behind bars and glass panes. He wouldn’t understand the pure guilt Silver was feeling; he would only remember that he had trusted Silver...and been let down. “Let’s go then!” said Silver with a forced grin plastered onto his face. It had never been this hard before to hunt his targets. A flash of the blade, a thump of his wing and it was over. He would collect evidence, usually a wedding ring or other jewelry, and leave and never look back. He wasn’t even killing Blue, so why was it so hard? He was just another target in the end. Silver shook his head vigorously, clearing his more unhelpful thoughts. As much as he tried to keep people out of his head, being trapped in there alone with his thoughts was almost worse. It was a different sort of poison, one’s own mind. He glanced over at Blue who had gotten distracted chasing a bright orange monarch butterfly. Blue’s mind was one of the few, Silver thought, that had escaped tainting. Blue was 19 years old and still innocent as a 5-year-old, if not more so. Silver, however, was 21 and his mind was beyond further taint; being an assassin-and being in the real world-did that to you. Silver called Blue over and squatted down, beckoning for the smaller angel to get on his back. Since Silver was the only one who knew how to fly, he would have to get them to the warehouse with the other assassins; it was the place Silver had gotten the assignment and so the place he was to report back to. Silver stood up and with a few sprinting steps launched himself into the air. Flapping hard to pull himself and the tiny barely noticeable weight of Blue into the sky, Silver tried his best not to knock Blue off of his back. As they reached a cruising height, Blue nestled his face into Silver’s neck and held on even tighter. Silver, of course, didn’t show emotion but since Blue couldn’t see, he indulged himself in a real smile. This was where Blue was meant to be. ...but instead, he was being taken back to a lab. The moment was poisoned now. And Silver wiped the smile off of his now expressionless features. About half an hour later, they could see the warehouse; a giant rectangular metal building that looked like, you guessed it, a warehouse. “You actually live there?” Blue asked, sounding incredulous. “Yep,” lied Silver convincingly, “Home sweet home.” They landed in the very front of the building and Blue slipped off of Silver’s back. Silver nodded at the two guards (Levi and Rio) and walked inside, Blue following closely behind. For the sake of appearances, Silver stiffened his wings, raising them up and slightly out in a dominant position. He was beta here and he needed to re-enforce that since he had been gone. This simple display of Silver’s kept most of the other angelic assassins at bay and, more importantly, kept them from messing with Blue. Although Silver realized, he was the biggest threat to Blue’s safety now. “We’re almost there,” he told the small angel, who looked extremely excited. As they neared the end of the halls, Silver quickened his pace and Blue had to take swift hopping steps to keep up. The sooner they got to the end of the hall, the less time Silver would have to lose his crumbling resolve. They arrived at the end of the corridor and Silver gave a pointed glance to the messenger who had been waiting by the heavy steel door. The messenger, Luca, nodded curtly and scrambled off to inform the scientists of their subject’s arrival. Then it was just the pair of them, Blue and Silver. Silver typed in the code keeping the heavy steel door closed and stepped back as it swung outwards. It creaked as it opened, hinges complaining bitterly from years of little use. The area in front of the only two cells was dim. The doors of the cells were open and Silver led Blue into the cage. There was a bed on the left side and a small bucket in the corner that served as a bathroom, but that was the only furnishing the bare room had to offer. Blue looked confused, but Silver thought he’d be understanding soon. It was time; Silver had to go. “I’m so sorry Blue...” he whispered hoarsely. Silver hesitated then kissed Blue’s cheek. He turned away then, leaving Blue’s wide eyes and fluttering wings behind. He was leaving it all behind and he was sorry but this was his job. As Silver walked away, wings at a slight droop, the cell doors slammed shut behind him. “Silver!” Blue shouted desperately, and Silver heard a louder fluttering of wings. Not the usual happy flutters that Blue made, but an awful, hopeless rustling as Blue’s wings hit the bars and ricocheted off of them. Through tears, the first in over ten years, pricked at his eyes, Silver didn’t look back. He couldn’t; if he looked back he would see the betrayal in Blue’s eyes and have to face the reality of what he had done. Instead, he kept walking until he was out of the building and took to the evening sky. Silver flew and flew and flew, numbing his pain in the freezing night air. He flew until he reached the lake where they had watched the sunrise together. It had just been this morning and it was too late now. He slumped down onto a rock, letting his wings droop and brush the ground. He looked up; the sun was gone now and things could not be the same. It was too late to fix it. Silver was numb inside as he watched the moonlit lake. He pulled his dagger out of its sheath, watching the shadows play over the icy blade. He rested it over his wrist and gave an experimental quirk of his hand. A drop of shimmering silver blood oozed out and slid down his wrist. He hadn’t been there for Blue the way he should have been. Silver lifted the blade and brought it directly over the pulsing artery. He had failed him and now he was gone. He brought the cold steel down to his wrist. Without Blue, there was nothing now. “From dust, we came, and to dust, we shall return,” muttered Silver and he pressed down the blade.

He crashed loudly while she danced around him. He was clumsy, connecting with everything as he moved. She was delicate and agile as she remained strikingly beautiful. Her touch could destroy much more than his brute strength, but when people saw them both, it was he they feared. She was admired, and it upset him to be the bad guy. She was sly and snaky in every way, and he got the blame for each of them. It was his job to be loud and brash, but the thought didn’t make it any easier for him. He acted as her bodyguard; the one who scared away intruders. To make people think only once about approaching, if they dared to. She didn’t need the assistance, but it was his role in life. He was there to be scary and noisy, whilst she lit up people’s eyes in amazement. He watched her dance. Her body electrified everything, spreading light to corners and shadows long since forgotten. He felt as though he should be jealous of her. He could see why people fell in love with her, it was just he was given the bad hand. As he watched her move he could feel rage building up inside of him. Her moves were eloquent, gracefully choreographed and self-taught over the years. She had perfected every one of her moves, created every streak for the purpose of luring people’s eyes. To make them fall in love with something they could never reach. He felt himself getting riled up as he thought of his own clumsiness, alongside hers. How silly and infantile he must look. How crazy and destructive people must see him. He felt the anger bubbling up inside him, and as if on cue to match his boiling point, she winked at him. He threw himself around as hard as he could. When he got angry, this was how he dealt with it. He hit every part of his body that he could, as hard as he could. Thumping and crashing around, punching, kicking and flailing everywhere to create as much noise as he could. He was trying so hard to hit something with the amount of force that would quell his anger. He could not hit her, but he could not stand being her shadow either. Finally he hit the final blow of his explosion. He steadied himself to get air back into him, as she danced past him quietly, moving onwards. “Wow, Thunder. You’re doing great tonight!” She flashed again, making streaks through the sky as she moved above the city. Thunder watched her moving away, losing interest, and his energy as he felt his efforts were futile. He would always be her shadow, and it was his job to set up the atmosphere for that show off Lightning. For the rest of the storm, he hit feebly, creating noise, but very minimal sound as he carried on watching her. Maybe one day he could become the show, but for now he was the stage.

There is always someone who gets picked on in life. When I was at school it was Jeremy Longbottom. He was a mountain of a guy, ginger hair and freckles. His teeth stuck out way beyond his lip and consequently he couldn’t pronounce his ‘L’s so if you asked him to say ‘lovely lollies’ he would end up saying ‘wovely wallies’...much to the amusement of all the kids gathered around, who found it extremely funny no matter how many times we made him say it. We were all so unfair to him. But we were just all kids. Jeremy Longbottom had another problem that led to him being laughed at...he was crossed eyed! “Who you looking at Jez?” they would say to him “If you’re talking to me, it’s rude not to make eye contact!” much more laughter.... “I am wooking at you” he would say and a chorus of “I am wooking at you” could be heard coming from just about everyone in the classroom, but then... “SIT DOWN EVERYONE!” yelled Mr. Johnson our teacher “and SHUT YOUR MOUTHS ALL OF YOU” Everyone scurried to find their seat, get out their books and sit as if they were a bunch of ‘nerdy do-gooders’ which most of them weren’t! Mr Johnson continued to shout “Now what were you all laughing at?” (He knew exactly what they were laughing at; it wasn’t the first time it had happened) Nobody spoke. “Ok then - would you like to tell me what the class was laughing at Jeremy?” Jeremy sat very still in his seat, his huge frame spilling out on either side. He looked at the teacher sheepishly (well half looked as one eye looked at Mr. Johnson and the other one at the boy sitting next to him) and answered “Ummm Wincon told a joke and we were all waffing at it Sir”. Mr Johnson didn’t believe a word of it but there wasn’t much he could do about that so he told them all to read their passage and keep their mouths shut! No matter how much Jeremy got picked on, laughed at or generally disrespected, he never told on anyone. In a way it didn’t seem to worry him that much, and quite often he even joined in with the laughter. Jeremy’s mother Mrs Josie Longbottom never knew the full extent of how much her son got picked on at school. When she asked him as he walked in the door if he had had a good day, the answer was always “Yeah Great day Mum, rearry wuvly”. She did wonder why her son never really brought anyone home to hang out but when she quizzed him he always told her that he liked his own company best, him and his dog ‘Wag’. And of course Jeremy had his hobby, the one that no one but his mum and dad knew about. There was something else that none knew about too and that was the appointments that Jeremy went to each day after school with his mother - speech therapy. He knew that if he could only get rid of the problem he had with his letters it would hopefully make life a lot easier. “Righty-o Jeremy we are working really hard at this but you need to get your teeth straightened to help even more. How about it Mrs Longbottom - you need to get Jeremy braces to pull his teeth back and that will make a big difference”. “Oh dear me” she replied “I hadn’t really thought about braces. Of course we must. I’ll ring up when I get home”. Jeremy may have sounded dumb at school just because he had a speech problem and he may have looked as if he wasn’t the smartest kid on the block because of his problem eyes, but the truth be known, Jeremy was a very clever young man. He excelled in his science and computing class but because the rest of the class messed around so much they didn’t notice just how smart Jeremy was. At the end of the year awards night, the students were told who would be getting an award ahead of the night, and this year, because Jeremy knew he needed good marks in his last year, he was collecting the science, IT and English awards. (Every other year he had pretended to be dumb - he didn’t want to be a ‘show off’ he told his mum). There was a boy in his class that he knew was pretty smart too, Raymond, and he was collecting the Maths and History awards. He was never shy about letting the other kids know just how good he was too! He was a good looking guy so didn’t get picked on for anything. Life at school was easy for him. “Hey Jeza” one of the kids called out to him “How are you getting three awards? Have you paid someone?” and the rest of them laughed. They weren’t malicious, just dumb really, and maybe at times just horrible! “I guess I’ve put the effort in this year” he replied shyly “Just in time for moving on eh?” said another one flicking through his comic. It was the last year of high school for this class and in a way Jeremy knew that he would miss them. Despite the name calling and being laughed at all the time, they were quite funny, mostly at his expense but they did let him join in some things. When they got their basketball stuck behind the backboard they would ask Jeremy to jump up and hit it out, which he did - they would kindly let him have a few shots at the ring. He enjoyed shooting the ball up towards the ring but when he didn’t even hit the ring someone always said “you need to go with your right eye Jez or you’ll never get it in!” They didn’t know that Jeremy was booked in for an eye operation sometime next year that he was hoping would fix his eyes permanently! He glanced up at the basketball ring thinking ‘three pointers here we come!’ They also let him be the ‘end of the rope guy’ when they had school sports and it was the novelty games, like ‘tug of war’... The team with Jeremy on the end of the rope always won, he was so heavy and strong! Of course he was patted on the back and ‘high fived’ after they won but that didn’t last long! One morning after the awards had been announced, Jeremy walked into his classroom to hear one of the boys yelling out “here comes Einstein” most of the class chuckled except the few who said “who’s that?” Jeremy was both embarrassed and a little bit pleased at the name they had given to him. “Einstein” he said out loud “Who would ever have thought?” So for the next few weeks he was called ‘Einstein’. There was no more ‘Dumbo’ or ‘football eyes’ (One at home and one away) or ‘Wongbottom’ and he didn’t mind. He was aware he was nowhere near an Einstein but Jeremy knew, deep down that he would do well in life. He was happiest in the garage fixing up computers, clock radios, fans, light fitting and just about anything electrical that most people didn’t have a clue about, or couldn’t be bothered to find out! He didn’t charge much money as most of his customers were friends of his parents but he made enough pocket money to keep him going. In the break between finishing high school and starting university to do an electronics degree he gave all of his savings to his mother and this went towards his eye operation. It was scheduled for six months’ time, so between now and then they worked together to get as much ‘repair’ work as possible for Jeremy to do so they could pay for the operation. University was totally different than high school had been for Jeremy. The students were more mature in many ways so the name calling and personal jokes ceased. Some of the others called him ‘big guy’ and ‘ginger nut’ but Jeremy didn’t mind that - lots of the class had nick names. He looked around the room one day and realised that if you had something ‘different’ about you and stood out a little, it didn’t matter. There was one guy in a class who had dreadlocks down to his waist, a lizard tattooed down the length of his nose and a ’fedora’ on his head and everyone loved him! When Jeremy had his braces put on people were more interested in why he was doing that at his age rather than his speech impediment or strange looking eye. “My Gran has teeth like you Jeremy, she doesn’t care that we all call her ‘Bucky’ - it’s no big deal but she is ninety now!” said one guy. “Well” said Jeremy to himself, I’m only young and I wouldn’t care if it was just my teeth that needed fixing up- but I’m not telling the girl of my dreams one day that I really ‘Wuv her’!!” It took a long time for the braces to ‘settle’. Jeremy had a lot of trouble eating without pain and there was so much he wasn’t able to eat that he could before. After a few weeks when the discomfort had gone his mum told him “I think I’ll get myself some braces, ones that really hurt me, look at all the weight you’ve lost!” In his mid-season break from Uni Jeremy was booked in for his eye operation. He told some of the guys he had become friends with that he wouldn’t be around for a while because he was having his eye ‘fixed’, would be away for a few weeks. “So” said one of his friends “you’ll be able to see quite clearly some of the girls that I’ve been pointing out to you!” “What? Oh yeah, funny” said Jeremy thinking that it sounded alright to him!” The operation went well. Of course Jeremy couldn’t see what his eye looked like for three days and then he wouldn’t feel the full benefit of the surgery for quite a few weeks. The bandage was tightly wrapped over his eye and around his head. He was told that the operation was successful as far as the surgeon was concerned but the test would be when it was tested! Day three came and Jeremy’s mother stood in front of him with a hand held mirror. “Do you have to have a mirror right in front of my face Mum?” “Oh Jeremy, how long have we waited for this, for your eye to be straight? Of course I do. The Doctor unwound the white strip from around his head and Jeremy sat up straight - the last bit came away and he stared into the mirror...... “Amazing” was all he could say. He looked at his mum and she was crying. After they arrived home Mrs. Longbottom checked out her diary to see when the braces came out of Jeremy’s mouth. “Only two month love and your braces are due to come off and then it will be intensive speech therapy. I’ll have myself a new son!” When his braces came off it was hard to believe it was the same person. Instead of what seemed like huge teeth hanging out to dry, in their place were straight, white teeth. It seemed to change Jeremy’s face, and beaming at his mother as they sat having a celebratory coffee together she thought ‘I never thought the day would come when I could call my son handsome!’ Jeremy was in his second year of university now - a ‘straight A’ student but still quiet about his achievements. He had made a few good friends and was enjoying life. He had eyes that looked in the same direction, straight teeth, weight loss (he still had ginger hair but it was in vogue now) and the ‘crowning stroke’ came on his mother’s birthday. The family of three had gone for a meal to celebrate. They came home for cake and coffee and were all sitting at the dining room table when Jeremy spoke “Mum I would just like to say that I hope you’ve had a great day, you’ve always been a terrific mum to me...Happy Birthday and I Love You” Mrs. Longbottom just stared. For as long as she could remember her little and then bigger boy had told her “I wuv you” but today.... Even Mr Longbottom was touched, saying “Son I’m proud of you. Say something else” “I LOVE LOVELY LUCIOUS LOLLIES” Jeremy shouted. He sailed through his degree, passing of course, and being asked to consider doing his Masters. It was no surprise to anyone that Jeremy didn’t have to apply for jobs - people heard he was available and put their offers on the table! Life had turned around three hundred and sixty degrees since he left high school. The position he took was with a large, well one of the largest around, IT companies. It had offices all around the world, London, Singapore, Japan, Australia to name a few. Jeremy had a job title that needed a really long badge to go on and he got one! Along with his own state of the art office and a very substantial salary!! It had taken a lot of what seemed like punishment as a child, determination and grit as a teenager (and some cosmetic and therapeutic intervention along the way too) to get to this stage of Jeremy’s life, but as he continually thought, it was worth it. He had his first big corporate function after being at his new job for only three months. He was the lead speaker and a lot rested on him to do his firm proud!! “I have every faith in you Jeremy otherwise I wouldn’t be taking this chance - you know some of the names of the people coming to this don’t you?” his boss said to him. “Unfortunately I do” Jeremy thought to himself. He needn’t have worried! It was a huge success. There had been a few guest speakers throughout the evening and at the end of the night Jeremy was standing in a group with his peers discussing the evening, having a well-deserved drink and relaxing now that it was all over. “Well done Jeremy” his boss, tall and confident, the president of a large conglomerate group patted him on the back “You were well prepared and the presentation was what I was hoping to see and hear” and he walked off smiling. Out of the corner of his eye Jeremy could see a male figure walking towards him ‘I know him from somewhere’ he though as the man walked up to him and stood face to face. “That was outstanding Jez, or should I say Einstein?’ “Raymond” Jeremy shouted, delighted in seeing him. “Less of the Einstein - have you met some of the brain boxes in this room?” “I have met quite a few of them Jez my friend and let me tell you, you belong up there with them. Einstein is suitable for you, believe me”. Then the group they were standing in joined in with calling Jeremy Einstein, laughing and drinking, until Jeremy and Raymond decided that they needed to sit somewhere a bit quieter to catch up with the vacant years between them. As they were walking towards a table Raymond jokingly turned to his old school friend and said “Say lovely lollies Jez”.

I think about the Carters every day, but most of all on Saturdays. Those are the only days when the boy with giant glasses doesn’t careen past on his bike, laden with numerous copies of the Sherman County Journal and struggling to stay upright. Mr. Carter used to read that paper every weeknight while Mrs. Carter prepared dinner, and every Sunday morning while she scrambled eggs. Sometimes Mr. Carter would mutter about “that stupid goddamned war” or “that good-for-nothing Johnson,” but mostly he kept his opinions to himself. I think he just wanted to learn what he could about Timmy, and the papers seemed the best way to do that. Timmy’s no longer overseas, but I think it’s even harder to learn anything about him now than it was before. All I know is that on Saturday nights, regardless of the weather, he sets an umbrella at the base of the Carters’ mailbox. For some reason, no one ever took it down after the accident. The accident, of course, occurred on a Saturday. An ordinary autumnal night in these parts, when rain cascaded from the heavens as though the angels were already crying over deaths that had yet to occur. Then again, maybe they could predict the future; it’s not like I know that much about angels. I do know, however, that Mrs. Carter used to call Timmy an angel. Back when he was a baby, she would rock his swaddled body in her arms and coo like the doves that sat in the evergreens. “Forever and ever,” she would say, “you are my angel.” And she believed, I'm sure, that nothing would ever change that. Not when Timmy got his first F in school, and not when she found a pack of cigarettes in his desk drawer. Not even when he went off to Vietnam. When he returned, he couldn’t hide his internal scars any more than he could those marring his face. Sometimes he would sit on the couch for hours, frozen like an ice cube and with eyes as glassy as window panes. Other times, he struggled to complete even the simplest of tasks, as if the war had stolen not only his heart but also his mind. Finally, after a year of nothing changing, Mr. and Mrs. Carter intervened. But while Mr. Carter worked hard to get Timmy a job, Timmy spent his earnings on alcohol and quit after two months. And when Mrs. Carter whispered to Timmy that he was still her angel, he shouted back that she was wrong, that he was now just her killer. Until one Saturday night, with a face redder than a radish, Mr. Carter told Timmy that fine, he was a killer, but no one could do anything to change it so he’d better just get over it. After all, he himself had fought in The Great War, hadn’t he? He’d even survived the Battle of the Bulge, the deadliest battle for Americans, despite losing two fingers to frostbite and most of the men in his unit, and hadn’t he gotten over it? Hadn’t he managed to get married, have a son, and find a job within six months of coming home, not to mention keeping that job for the next twenty years? Timmy nodded but said nothing. Mr. Carter had repeated this refrain for months, and it never inspired Timmy to do anything other than nod, with his shoulders slumped and his gaze fixed at the floor. But this time when Mrs. Carter shuffled toward Timmy, arms open and head cocked to the side, instead of retreating to his bedroom like usual, where he would sit on the windowsill and flick his folding knife open and closed until his fingers rubbed raw, letting Jimi Hendrix drown out his mutterings, Timmy dashed off and into the night. Mr. Carter snatched the car keys from the hook by the back door and yelled at Mrs. Carter to hurry. She raced out behind him, leaving her purse on the kitchen counter. Neither grabbed an umbrella. Mr. Carter’s Lincoln Continental roared to life and bolted out of the garage. Rain spilled from above, each droplet gripped by the wind and catapulted sideways. More bulleted down on the roof. Water surged through the street as if it were the world’s biggest Slip ‘N Slide. Seconds, minutes, hours ticked by on the cuckoo clock hanging in the living room. The one that Timmy used to sit in front of as a child and gaze at with youthful wonder, waiting impatiently for the bird to emerge and sing a little song. After the war though, he merely stared at it. When the Continental neared the driveway hours later, its windshield wipers whooshed to clear the rain. But clear it they could not--at least not well enough for Mr. Carter to see the oncoming truck, swerving across the road and with no headlights on. Mr. Carter wrenched the wheel at the last moment but the tires couldn’t grip. He rammed straight into the truck. Metal grated metal like two lawnmowers devouring each other, and Mrs. Carter launched out of her seat and smashed through the windshield. Only the pavement could stop her soaring body. When the ambulance came, the EMTs lifted Mrs. Carter up off the pavement. They checked on Mr. Carter, still slumped in his seat, but took their time extracting him. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Carter ever returned. But Timmy did, later that night and every Saturday since. Like I said, he comes to leave an umbrella by the mailbox. And although I don’t know where he gets them, I don’t much care. In some small way, those rain protectors justify my existence. You see, Mr. and Mrs. Carter built me brick by brick, room by room, and where I once contained war mutterings and newspaper riffling, omelet smells and “angel” coos, now I stand empty. Like Timmy, I know that Mr. and Mrs. Carter will never return, so like Mr. and Mrs. Carter, I can only wait for Timmy.

‘We now present the execution of Dexter Maron, convicted of murdering two victims; Maria Schiano and Helen Liston. The sentence will be carried out via electric chair in 10 minutes. Please stand by.’ Maron, pressed up against the bars of his tiny window to hear the announcement, slumped back down onto his bed. So this was it. Five years of appeals, desperate pleas to avoid the ultimate punishment, had failed. In approximately 10 minutes and oh, 30 seconds or so, he’d be dead. Gone. Out of this world, and into what lay beyond. Assuming there was anything there. He had been thinking about that a lot lately, whether there was something on the other side. He’d had a lot of time to think, after all; there isn’t much to do in a cell not much larger than your average garden shed which contains only a toilet, a sink, and a bed. He’d had even more time to think recently. He hadn’t slept in going on 80 hours. Hard to sleep when your death is so close. Back to the topic at hand. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted an afterlife. On the one hand, permanent nothingness seemed a little depressing; he wanted to have something else after these 10 minutes and... actually more like 9 minutes now. But on the other hand, sinners were supposed to be punished, weren’t they? Maron wasn’t entirely sure, he’d never paid much attention in church. But he definitely remembered that bad people went to hell. And there was no doubt he was a bad person. All you had to do was listen to the announcements to work that out. Two murders, of two innocent women. That’s about as sinful as it gets. He was the worst of the worst, the scum of the earth. Only people like that kill others. And yet he had done exactly that. 6 years, 4 months and 26 days ago he had shot Schiano in the chest, Liston in the stomach, raided their shop and left them bleeding on the floor to die a long and agonising death. Originally he had justified his actions. His family would starve if he didn’t get food. The women were going to call the police, they had to be stopped. It wasn’t his fault, he was just in a bad situation. But he’d stopped doing that now. What was the point? Maybe he’d been unlucky. Maybe if he’d been born into a better family, maybe if he hadn’t lost his job, maybe if the American government gave a shit about the poor people littered across the American Midwest who struggle to feed their families and keep their loved ones alive. But however much blame he could spread around other people, the majority of the blame had to fall on him. He, after all, had pulled the trigger. He had loaded the gun and walked into the roadside shop knowing there was a good chance that he would be leaving corpses behind. And yet he still went through with it. For his own benefit, he had stolen away two people’s lives. It was only fair that he was sitting here, 5 minutes from his own demise. Ironically, the government gave you a small amount of freedom when it came to your death, after keeping you locked up and away from society for years and years. He had been allowed to choose his final meal (lasagne; Italian food had always been his favourite), he’d been permitted to see any relatives he felt like in the days before his death (although only Mum bothered coming anymore, the rest of his family had given up on him); hell, he was even allowed to choose between lethal injection and the electric chair for his method of death (he chose the chair; needles had always creeped him out). Giving prisoners a small amount of freedom a few hours before their demise didn’t really matter, he guessed. There wasn’t much they could do now. ‘One minute before the execution of Dexter Maron...’ Maron didn’t even bother listening this time, he knew what it was going to say. The guards would be here any minute; in fact, he could hear them marching along the cold, hard concrete floor of the cell block. A key turned in the cell door and light streamed into the room. Guards dragged him upright and pulled him along with them on their journey to the chair. Maron spotted the sun through a distant window; the last time he would see it, he presumed. That made him sad. Sadder than the idea of dying really, the knowledge that he would never see nature again. The beauty of the outside world would forever be denied to him now, the rivers, the trees, the birds, never to be seen again. Wind would never again brush his face, rain- his train of thought was cut off as the guards stopped. Maron looked down, and saw it. There it was. The chair. Dark and metallic, designed to send volts coursing through his veins and remove him from the world. The guards strapped him into it; he didn’t bother resisting. He could see the executioner through a window. According to the guards who had taunted him the day before, he went by the name of Jon Stukel. Was he ready? Could he accept that in mere seconds he would be met by the cold embrace of death? Realistically, the answer was no. He wanted to be free again, he wanted to escape this prison and experience life anew! Finally, as the first volts of electricity ran through him, he began to struggle to escape. But he knew it was too late. He strained against the straps, but then the switch was flicked. Excruciating pain coursed through him. Then blackness. Jon Stukel flicked the switch and watched Maron squirm in anguish before slumping down, dead. Another piece of shit, removed from the earth. He smiled, dusted off his hands, and walked out.

This is chapter 39 of a book I am writing titled "Sengoku." The book is based off real life warlords from Sengoku era Japan. In this chapter, the famous monk Kennyo is desperate for revenge against big-time warlord Nobunaga Oda, and kidnaps the four main female characters of the book: Sakura, Misa, Kaiyo, and Yukari. Please enjoy the chapter and let me know if you have any feedback! The eleven men stood in front of their horses, their hands on their weapons, ready for anything. Oda on one side, Uesugi-Takeda on the other. Nearly five feet separated the two groups, though they were working together. Several monks stood in front of them, silent. Finally, a jingling sound could be heard coming closer. “Finally.” Nobunaga said. “About time,” Ieyasu remarked. Kennyo walked to the middle of the small clearing and waved his hand behind him, gesturing for the men behind him to do something. What that something was was bringing out Sakura, Misa, and Yukari. “Get your gross hands off of us!” Yukari complained. “Misa,” Kenshin said as he was about to rush forward, but a large hand stopped him. “Wait,” Shingen said, “we can’t act too fast. We don’t know what he’ll do.” Kenshin reluctantly stayed put. “Tie them to the tree,” Kennyo ordered. They were then roughly tied to a large tree by the outskirts of the clearing. The men were somewhat relieved until they noticed it. Hideyoshi spoke first. “Where’s Kaiyo?” Kennyo looked over at the girls, confused. There should have been four of them, not three. He looked back just in time to see a final girl being dragged out from behind the treeline, this time much more forcefully. “Master,” one monk said, “we tried to get information from this one.” “What?” Kennyo asked. “She wouldn’t talk, Master Kennyo.” They pushed her to the ground in front of him onto her knees. If looks could kill, then Kennyo would have been obliterated. He walked a little closer to her, seemingly unphased. “So this is the woman warlord in training.” He reached out toward her ever so slightly. “Leave her alone!” Hideyoshi was about ready to explode with anger. “Careful, lad,” Masamune warned quietly. Kennyo straightened himself and turned towards Nobunaga. “These are the women that are important to you, yes?” Nobunaga said nothing. He simply stared, livid. “I heard they’re your ‘lucky charms.’ It would seem that they have bad luck for themselves, though.” “Get to the point, Kennyo.” Nobunaga said, feeling more impatient than was humanly possible. “What is it that you want?” “I want your head to roll.” “Well you’re not getting that!” Sakura yelled. “This man is a tyrant, and yet you defend him?” Kennyo asked. “He’s no tyrant,” she said. “At least he didn’t kidnap four women for no reason,” Yukari remarked. “Your head will be the one to roll for taking Misa,” Kenshin said through gritted teeth. “Even the God of War cares for these women?” a monk said. “Nobunaga must have cursed them!” said another. Kennyo silenced them with a look. “Kennyo, you have the power to stop this,” Shingen said. “Just let them go. They’ve done nothing wrong.” Kennyo turned to Nobunaga. “Die, Nobunaga, and I will let them go.” “He’ll never bend to you, Kennyo,” Misa said, her hand twitching. “You can’t win this fight.” Kennyo frowned. Misa looked over to the angry warlords and noticed something odd. Just as she was about to speak up, Sasuke appeared behind Kaiyo and cut her restraints. She grabbed Kennyo’s staff and swung it out underneath him, causing him to trip over. She then got up and began running to the girls, but several monks stood in her way. Sasuke walked up beside her and they shared a nod. Kaiyo ran and slid underneath one, pushing his leg up and causing him to fall to the ground face first. As Sasuke disarmed two other monks, Kaiyo swiped her leg out and tripped one. They continued running toward the girls, but five more came. They stopped and looked back at Kennyo who was being helped back up. “I should have known better than to stand near a woman being trained by the Devil King’s men.” “Your first mistake was underestimating a woman,” Yukari said. Kaiyo finally spoke, turning to the girls. “Are you girls alright? Did they do anything to you?” “We’re fine, Kaiyo,” Sakura said. “But what about you?” “I’m perfectly fine. Those idiots really need to work on their interrogation skills.” This did not reassure anyone. Hideyoshi grew more irate by the second. “How dare you lay your hands on her?! I’ll-” “Hideyoshi, calm yourself,” Mitsuhide said quietly. “We must get to them first.” Kaiyo turned to Kennyo. “Let them go, and I won't beat you to a bloody pulp.” “Such language from a woman!” a monk said. “No wonder the Devil King wants her.” “I bet the others are the same!” “Enough chatter,” Nobunaga declared. “Kaiyo. Bring the girls to us.” “On it, my lord. Sasuke, cover me.” Sasuke nodded. “Kaiyo...” Sakura was clearly worried. Kaiyo looked over at her and winked. Kaiyo began running, sliding underneath monks and kicking them away when they wouldn’t budge. Sasuke protected her from those attempting to attack from behind. Two monks grabbed Kaiyo from either side, but Sasuke was quick to kick one away, giving her the opportunity to throw the other to the ground. They quickly reached the girls and Kaiyo cut the rope holding them with a sword she had stolen along the way. She hugged the three girls tight before turning back to the group of monks she and Sasuke had just run through. “Get them,” Kennyo commanded. “Do your worst!” Kaiyo yelled, pointing the sword at them. “I can take you all on myself!” “With all due respect, Kaiyo,” Misa said, “no you can’t.” “Gee, thanks, Misa.” The monks brandished their swords and they stepped closer and closer. Kaiyo decided it was better not to count how many added themselves to the group just then. “Okay, yeah, you’re probably right. We should run. Now.” The monks descended. “Run!” The girls bolted for the warlords across the clearing. Sakura reached them first. Yukari fell, however, and a monk was nearly on top of her, ready to strike down. Sasuke kicked him out of the way and grabbed her. The girls finally reached the warlords, and they stood protectively in front of them. “We told you that you couldn’t win, Kennyo,” Yukari said, shaking her head. “You should’ve listened.” The men readied themselves for battle. Mitsuhide handed Kaiyo her sword. She tied it to her side, where it belonged. Unsheathing her sword, she looked at the monks before her and thought for a moment. Hideyoshi and Mitsuhide were already in front, ready to protect her. Kaiyo looked back to the girls, hiding behind Nobunaga, Kenshin, and Sasuke. She called out to the men. “Lord Nobunaga, Kenshin, Sasuke, take the girls and get out of here! Ieyasu, Mitsunari, Yuki, I want you to follow them until you’re all somewhere safe. Masamune, Mitsuhide, Hideyoshi, after Kennyo with me!” Kaiyo jumped out from behind Hideyoshi and Mitsuhide and ran past several distracted monks after Kennyo. “You heard her, men,” Shingen said with a smile. “Let’s go.” “I do not take orders from a woman,” Kenshin said. “Oh no you don’t,” Misa said. “Get on your damn horse now! We’re going.” She pushed the astonished man up to his white steed and went to climb on by herself. Kenshin quickly regained himself and helped her up. Nobunaga called to the Oda warlords from atop his horse with Sakura. “Hideyoshi, Mitsuhide, Masamune, protect Kaiyo with your lives.” The three nodded and jumped into battle with Shingen and Yoshimoto. Kaiyo bobbed and weaved in and out of the battle, hardly using her sword. She did not want to take more lives. Mitsuhide and Hideyoshi were as close to her as they could get without drawing too many monks in her direction. Shingen and Yoshimoto danced along the clearing, taking down many of the untrained monks without killing them. Rendering them unconscious was all that was necessary. Kennyo saw the pointlessness of staying near the battle. “Master Kennyo, please escape!” “We will protect you!” “Your sacrifice is appreciated, my brethren,” Kennyo said. “It will not be in vain.” Kennyo turned and began running away from the battle. “No! Get back here!” Kaiyo sheathed her sword and began running after him. “Kaiyo, no!” Hideyoshi yelled. “Lass!” Kaiyo ignored them. She ran as fast as her legs could carry her through the forest after Kennyo. It didn’t take long for her to get close. Other than Sakura, she was the fastest runner. As she caught up with Kennyo, they entered a small clearing with a cliff to one side and a small rocky hill adjacent to their running path. “Kennyo!” He turned to look at her. Then, as if her voice had moved the earth, rocks began tumbling down the hill. Rocks big enough to crush a person. Kaiyo froze as she looked up. Then she was tumbling backward. Something had pushed her out of the way. She lay on the ground underneath that something breathing heavily, and it took a minute to realize what it was. ...Kennyo? She looked over at the fallen rocks that had nearly sent her off the cliffside. Then she looked up and her eyes met his. They were tired, but held a kindness to them that she didn’t think would be there. He sighed and slowly moved to stand, holding his hand out to her. She hesitated. He waited patiently for her to take it and she allowed him to help her up. Kaiyo stared at Kennyo in astonishment before realizing her name was being called. She turned at the sound and took a step in that direction. She slowly looked back, however and contemplated. Here he was, on a silver platter for her to capture, just looking at her. And yet... “Kaiyo!” “Lass!” Kaiyo shook her head and began running in the direction of the forest where her friends were fighting. She stopped at the edge of the clearing and looked back one last time. Kennyo just stood there. She bowed to him and ran in the opposite direction. Kaiyo didn’t run as fast this time. She was tired. She reached the clearing finally and saw that there were very few monks left standing. The rest had run or were unconscious. She began running towards Mitsuhide, who had been the closest to her, when she felt someone push her over. She tumbled on the ground once more and struggled to get up. A very large monk, taller and bulkier than any of the warlords, grabbed her by the neck and raised her into the air. The warlords struggled with their opponents. “No, Kaiyo!” Hideyoshi was the only one to call out her name before the monk raised a knife high into the air. “For Master Kennyo!” Kaiyo gasped as he plunged the knife into her abdomen. The warlord’s eyes all grew wide and their jaws dropped. Masamune was quick to kick the monk away. Kaiyo fell to the forest floor with a heavy thud . Mitsuhide was there in an instant to pick her up. “Mitsuhide-” “Don’t talk now,” he hushed. He began running towards the horses near the opposite end of the clearing. “Masamune!” Masamune kicked the monk away one last time before running back. Some of the monks began leaving the clearing as the warlords rushed back to the horses. “Here,” Shingen said, holding his arms out to take Kaiyo so Mitsuhide could climb onto his horse. Masamune was the second to mount. “Masamune, ride ahead and set up an infirmary tent.” Masamune nodded to Mitsuhide and raced out of the forest. Mitsuhide took Kaiyo back in his arms. “Go,” Shingen said, taking out his sword again as more monks came after them. “We’ll hold them off.” Hideyoshi was still engaged in battle against two monks and could hardly even look back to the receding figure of Mitsuhide carrying Kaiyo on horseback. Shingen reentered the battle next to Yoshimoto. Mitsuhide was riding as fast as he could until he heard Kaiyo crying aloud. “Mitsuhide... stop...” He slowed down ever so slightly, thinking the fast riding was hurting her worse. “It’s alright, Kaiyo.” “Mitsuhide... make it stop...” It was then that he realized she was holding the hilt of his sword. It took everything in him to not shed tears in that moment. “I know it hurts, Little Mouse, but Ieyasu will make it better. Everything’s going to be okay, I promise.” Kaiyo continued breathing heavily in his arms and nodded. Back at the temporary camp, Misa’s hand was twitching horribly. She could barely hold it. “Misa, your hand...” Sakura pointed out. “What is it?” “It’s Kaiyo,” she said, tears in her eyes. “She’s hurt bad.” Just then, Masamune rode into the base and quickly dismounted. “Get a medical tent ready right away.” He turned to Nobunaga. “Kaiyo’s been stabbed.” Ieyasu immediately got to work ordering the soldiers to prepare for her. After a short while, Mitsuhide finally rode in with an unconscious Kaiyo. He dismounted in one smooth motion and followed Ieyasu immediately. “Kaiyo, no...” Sakura and Misa were already crying, fearing the worst. Yukari followed them until they entered the tent and ordered the other soldiers to leave. Ieyasu took apart Kaiyo’s torn clothes and got to work. He and Mitsuhide worked quickly to stop the bleeding and dress the wound. It was all they could do. Once Ieyasu had wrapped Kaiyo up in bandages, Mitsuhide laid her down on the infirmary bed and pulled a blanket over her. “That's all we can do right now,” Ieyasu said. “Now we wait.” Mitsuhide’s expression was unreadable, but Ieyasu knew he was worried. He had trained her day after day to become what she was. And yet, they knew nothing could have prevented this. Ieyasu left the tent, knowing Mitsuhide needed some time alone with her. Mitsuhide sat there watching her breathe for a few minutes until she stirred. He gasped and placed a hand on her cheek, turning her to face him. “Kaiyo?” “Mitsuhide...” She was weak and trying her best to breathe deeply. “It’s alright, Kaiyo. You’re safe now.” “And... and the girls?” “They’re safe, too.” Kaiyo nodded weakly. “Mitsuhide... am I... going to die?” Mitsuhide’s shoulders slumped. He had not prepared himself for such an outcome or a question about it. He did not want to lie to her. “I... I do not know.” Tears streamed down Kaiyo’s face. “Please... take care of the girls. Make sure... they’re happy and safe. And be nice to Hideyoshi... he worries about you.” Each word she spoke felt like a stab through the heart for Mitsuhide. “And tell Lord Nobunaga... that I’m sorry I failed.” “You did not fail, Kaiyo. You saved the girls. You did not fail.” Kaiyo’s breathing slowed. “Kaiyo... there is something I must tell you.” Mitsuhide looked away, attempting to prepare himself. “What... is it?” “I lo-” He stopped short when he noticed her eyes were closed. He lowered his head, resting his forehead against hers gently. “I love you.”

As the cold air hit my lungs I once again began to question my decision to move from San Diego to Chicago. It was seventy today in California yet today it's a balmy twelve degrees here. I wrapped my scarf around my neck and stepped out quickly to find something to eat for lunch. The savory smoke of the grill made my stomach growl and pulled me in like a bird-dog to the queue at the food vendor cart. As I stood huddled in the cold with the others I kept my hands deep in my pockets and stomped my feet to keep warm. The overhang of the skyscraper provided shelter from the wind but nothing more. When it was my turn to order, the man eyed me cautiously and looked around quickly, as if he was in trouble and I was a cop. He had to be at least 80, his face a tough leather football under a knitted cap pulled low over his eyes, and let's not talk about his teeth. He gestured for me to step in closer, as if to tell me a secret. "You look like a smart kid," he said in a thick accent, "Bruno's special today? Only five dollars." I nodded. He reached into a heated compartment and handed me a sandwich wrapped in foil. "Trust me, you won't regret it," he said, flashing his unmentionable teeth. Ten minutes later back in my cubicle, I took a bite of the sandwich. It was good, some sort of ham with cheese and sauerkraut. Each bite better than the last. Wow. And then it started. At first I thought I ate too fast; I felt dizzy and closed my eyes as the room began to spin. In the next instant my vision went blurry. I removed my glasses to rub my eyes and now could see perfectly without my glasses, everything was in sharp focus. *Now this is getting strange* I felt a tightness in my chest and oddly my shirt sleeves felt tight on my arms. *Gotta get to the bathroom now* In the hall I ran into Christine, my office crush. She’s way out of my league, won't even give me the time of day. But surprisingly her eyes widened and she stopped to talk to me. "Wow...say, have you been working out?" she said, touching her hair. "Not really... well maybe a little," I stammered as I rushed down the hall. "Sorry, I'm late for a meeting" I said. "Let's go have coffee sometime," she called after me as I rushed into the bathroom. I did a double-take as I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. This had to be a prank, it made no sense. In the bathroom mirror my reflection was now that of Hollywood actor Ryan Reynolds. I looked closely at the mirror, surely a hidden camera, some sort of elaborate prank, but no, it was me. Quite a remarkable sandwich, Bruno was right.

“No, I refuse. I simply refuse.” Gregoria said as she paced her bedroom. “I have absolutely no desire to write down what it is I am grateful for. How on earth am I supposed to know how to do that?” “Sweetheart, please. Come sit down.” Gregoria’s mother patted the soft quilt she had stitched together for her the previous Christmas. Mother hoped that patting the quilt might give Gregoria some clue as to where to start to be grateful. When Gregoria had opened the present, she had squealed and squirmed, wrapping the quilt around her and running around the house screaming, “I’m Quilt Girl! I’m Quilt Girl!” Mother had no idea what Gregoria meant by that, but she knew her daughter had an insatiable penchant for make-believe. Even if she didn’t fully understand it now, she knew she would someday. Gregoria hadn’t budged. “Gregoria, sweetie, please. Come sit next to me.” Gregoria huffed, puffing her perfectly horizontal bangs up from her forehead. They fell back down to her face as she crossed the room with her arms likewise. She plopped down next to her mother on the quilt, stroking the blanket with her left hand while her right was still twisted across her middle. It was a habit of hers whenever she was nervous. Mother glanced down to notice but made no mention of it as she rearranged the wispy strands of Gregoria’s chestnut hair across her forehead. “There. That’s better.” Gregoria didn’t move nor did she respond. Mother began rubbing her back in slow, gentle circles. “Sweetheart, is there something on your mind?” Another vertical puff of air. Mother thought to say something, but she stopped herself. “Yes, Mother, there is.” “Would you like to tell me about it?” Mother asked very carefully. Suddenly, a groan erupted from Gregoria. “But I already have!” Gregoria fell back onto her bed with her arms down by her sides. Her small fingers simultaneously traced the stitching of her favorite quilt. Mother arranged herself properly before lying down next to Gregoria. Turning her head innocently to the right, Mother said, “Have you? Oh sweetheart, would you mind telling me again? To make sure I have all the details.” Gregoria huffed. “Yes, very well, fine,” she said, turning onto her left side to face her mother. “At school yesterday, Mrs. Thomas gave us an assignment.” Mother replied encouragingly. “Go on.” “She gave us an assignment to write something we’re grateful for in a journal every day for the rest of the semester.” Inside, Mother was saying-- Well, that sounds like a lovely idea. I’ve always liked Mrs. Thomas. Outside, Mother simply said, “And how did that make you feel?” “Terrible! Awful! It was a terrible, awful day!” Gregoria yelped as she jumped up perpendicular on the bed. Mother was still lying down on her back. Together, their bodies made the shape of a T. Gregoria could feel the shape and yelled, “Yes, exactly! T for Terrible!” Mother reached up for Gregoria’s hand. “Sweetheart, come back down here with me. I need a bit of a rest.” Gregoria complied. She always did. How could she not when her mother was the sweetest, most beautiful mother on the whole planet. She lay back down next to her mother. “Alright. That’s better. Isn’t it?” Gregoria nodded. “Now, tell me why it was such a terrible, awful day.” Gregoria took a deep breath in, but this time, she only lightly blew out an exhale onto her bangs. Mother could sense Gregoria was calming down. “Well, I love Mrs. Thomas. You know that. She’s been my pen pal this schoolyear.” Mother nodded. “She’s really the greatest, but this assignment...it just doesn’t make any sense!” “Why not, sweetheart?” “Oh Mother, can’t you see? It doesn’t make any sense because how am I supposed to even know what that is?” “What what is, dear?” “What grateful is.” Gregoria whispered her reply to her mother with a special emphasis on grateful . Mother responded with a whisper in kind. “Do you understand what grateful means, sweetheart?” Still whispering, but almost as a scream Gregoria replied, “Of course I do! Any baby knows that.” “Well, I don’t know about that, dear. Perhaps if the baby was a genius of some sort--” “Oh, Mother! Stop being silly! Of course! Even babies know what grateful means!” “Oh? Please dear, tell me more. I didn’t realize. You know I love learning new things.” Gregoria snuggled into her mother’s body until their noses were nearly touching. She dropped her whisper-scream back down to an actual whisper. “Grateful means...” The truth is, Gregoria didn’t know what grateful meant. As soon as the last bell rang the day before at school, Gregoria sprinted to the library to check The Dictionary. With only seven minutes to spare before her bus left, Gregoria knew she had to be quick. Luckily, she was a speed reader. In fact, Gregoria was only four years old, but she had entered kindergarten a year early and was already reading at a first-grade level. Gregoria furiously flipped through the pages of The Dictionary until she got to the G’s. Carefully dividing the G section into smaller and smaller parts--a trick her granddad had taught her on the phone book--Gregoria quickly landed on the right page. Running her finger down the lefthand column just like Granddad had taught her, Gregoria’s finger suddenly got caught on the edge of the paper. Confused, she started the whole process again. She counted the letter tabs on the right edge of the dictionary one by one until she found G. Then, she sliced the section into smaller and smaller pieces until she knew she had the dictionary open flat to the right page. Finally, she took her pointer finger and slowly ran it down the left side of the page, but again, it was caught on the fine edge of the paper. This time, she managed to give herself a small paper cut. She couldn’t see the blood, but she could taste it as she put her finger in her mouth. “Rats.” Gregoria said to herself. “I don’t understand. It should be here.” Carefully feeling around the ragged edges of the bottom left corner of The Dictionary page, Gregoria suddenly realized that where the word grateful was meant to be, it no longer was. “Why would someone steal the word grateful ?” Gregoria puzzled. She was highly protective of words, and she could not imagine someone destroying something as precious as The Dictionary. “Animals,” she said under her breath. Tuning back in to the ticking of her watch, she realized that it had been five minutes and forty-nine seconds since the last bell had rung. Placing The Dictionary back on the shelf, she slung her bookbag across her body and strode out of the library. She would have run--indeed, she really needed to--but she didn’t want to seem suspicious. She hadn’t been the one to tear the word grateful out of The Dictionary, but she didn’t want Ms. Frumm the librarian to suspect that she had. After skipping onto the school bus, Gregoria continued to puzzle the whole way home. That night, under the covers, she cracked open Mother’s copy of The Dictionary. Repeating the same procedure she had performed earlier at school, Gregoria nearly cried out in the dark when she felt the same ripped edge on the bottom left corner of the page of GR-. “How can this be?” She whisper-screamed to herself under the covers. “I simply don’t understand!” Gregoria recalled these events as she stalled for time. How could she answer Mother’s question when she had no idea what grateful meant? She hadn’t been able to look it up in The Dictionary, so how was she to know? She let her thoughts tumble and swirl for a moment. Gregoria knew Mother wouldn’t press or interrupt. She was incredibly patient--just another reason why she was the best mother in the world. After several minutes of silence, Mother finally spoke up. “Can I tell you something I’m grateful for?” Gregoria nodded, full of relief. Mother wrapped her arms around Gregoria. “I am grateful for you, my sweetheart.” “Me? But why?” Mother laughed softly. “Well, because you are so precious to me.” Gregoria at least knew what precious meant. She had learned it reading one of her geology books. She was an avid collector of rocks and gemstones. “But why does me being precious to you make you grateful for me?” “Well, think about your precious gemstones.” Gregoria closed her eyes to visualize her favorite one of all--Fool’s Gold. “Ok. I’m visualizing.” “Good.” Mother replied, rubbing small circles again on Gregoria’s back. “Keep your focus on your Fool’s Good and think about how it makes you feel. When you open the special box you keep it in, when you pick it up and feel its sparkly edges--how do you feel?” “Happy, excited, grateful--Hey! Wait a minute, how did I know to say grateful? I don’t even know the definition.” “Oh sweetheart, I think you do.” Gregoria wrinkled her nose in her signature way when she didn’t understand something. Mother continued rubbing her back. “No, I don’t! I tried to look it up in two different Dictionaries and in both the definition was ripped out!” “Oh?” There was a short pause as Mother started to spell a word out on Gregoria’s back--a trick that always calmed her down. Gregoria could feel the gentle pull and tug of her mother’s glossy fingernail against the thick flannel of her nightgown. She knew what she was spelling. “Mother, I know how to spell grateful .” “I know you do sweetheart, and you also know how to define it.” “No, I don’t! Aren’t you listening? I couldn’t look it up in The Dictionary because it wasn’t there.” “But dear, when you were just talking about your Fool’s Gold, you used the word grateful to describe how it makes you feel.” Gregoria stammered. “Yes, but but--it’s because you tricked me!” “Oh sweetheart! You know I would never do that. You are my most precious gemstone.” Mother squeezed Gregoria into a hug. Gregoria willingly acquiesced. Back down to a whisper, Mother said into Gregoria’s ear, “Sweetheart, what is it that’s troubling you?” “I’m sad, Mother. Someone ripped the word grateful out of The Dictionary. How could they do that?” “My sweet girl. I think it’s time I told you a story about your Granddad.” “Why? What does Granddad have to do with this?” “It’ll be easier for me if I can tell you the story. Are you up for it?” Gregoria nodded. “A long time ago, Granddad was in a war.” Gregoria was shocked. Granddad was the sweetest man she knew. She couldn’t imagine him killing anyone, and as far as she knew, that’s what people did in wars. “He was in a war?” “Yes, dear.” “Please tell me he didn’t kill anyone.” “Oh no, dear. Quite the opposite. He was a doctor. He helped saved people’s lives.” Gregoria let out a deep exhale. “Oh, thank goodness.” “Yes, he was a bit of a hero, in fact.” “Where was the war?” “It was a long way away, over five oceans, or just one, depending on which way you go.” Gregoria traced letters on her mother’s arm to think. “So, it was in Asia?” “Yes, dear! Exactly.” “Was this the Vietnam War or the Korean War?” “The Korean War.” “Oh, that was a bad one.” “Yes, dear. All wars are.” “Wait a minute...” Gregoria’s early memories started flooding back to her. Vague shapes and muffled sounds flashing across a screen as she sat upright in Granddad’s lap, her body relaxed against his broad chest. “When I was a baby, Granddad would sit with me and watch tv. I remember hearing helicopter blades and a lot of funny names like ‘Radar’ and ‘Klinger.’ There was one name that was repeated a lot...oh, what was it?” Gregoria tapped her chin. “I’ll give you a hint. It’s the name of a bird.” “Hawkeye!” “Yes, dear. That show is called M*A*S*H*. It stands for--” “Mobile Army Surgical Hospital! I know. I remember Granddad spelling it out for me.” “Did you enjoy watching that show with him?” “I did. I loved it!” “Would you say you are grateful for it?” “I suppose so, but Mother, I still don’t understand what grateful means.” “Well, why don’t I finish telling you the story about Granddad then?” Gregoria snuggled in close again to her mother. “Yes, please. I love talking about him.” “Me too, sweetheart. Now, where was I? Ah yes, Granddad was a doctor in the Korean War.” “Just like Hawkeye?” “Just like Hawkeye.” “So, he didn’t kill anyone?” “No, dear. He didn’t. As a doctor, his mission was to save as many people as possible, no matter who they were.” “Granddad really was the best, wasn’t he, Mother?” “Yes, dear. He really was.” “Well, go on. Keep telling me about him. What does he have to do with the word grateful in The Dictionary?” “Well dear, the thing is, even though Granddad didn’t kill anyone during the war, that didn’t mean he didn’t see people die.” Gregoria gasped, and her eyes began to well with tears. “Shh, sweetheart it’s alright. It happens, you know. There were times, unfortunately, when Granddad was trying to save someone’s life, but no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t do it.” “But why? I don’t understand. Was he not a very good doctor?” Mother laughed softly. “No, dear. In fact, he was one of the very best, but sometimes, no matter how good the doctor is, he just can’t save his patient.” A swollen tear slid out from under Gregoria’s long eyelashes. Mother rubbed her back gently. “Shh. It’s alright dear. I’m here.” Gregoria snuggled in even closer. “Ok, please continue, Mother. I’m alright.” “Are you sure, dear?” Gregoria nodded. “Alright, well, Granddad was an excellent doctor, and he saved many people’s lives. As I said, though, he unfortunately also lost some lives that he was trying to save. That weighed heavily on his heart, and for a time, it made life difficult for him--especially after he came back home. Eventually, though, something lightened his heart, and that something was me. The day my mother realized she was pregnant was the day Granddad said he came back to life. He felt so grateful that they were bringing new life into the world.” Gregoria nodded. No tears this time. She knew the story she was about to hear was sad, but she had never known Grandmother, and so she didn’t feel sad. Mother hadn’t really known Grandmother either, but it still made her sad. She wiped a tear out from under her long lashes and continued. “Unfortunately, the day I came into the world was also the day my mother left it. A coup de grâce . Granddad told me that was why he named me Grace. He said, ‘Today, I have a daughter, a precious gem to give to this world. I have lost my Gretel, but gratefully she left me with Grace.’ Gregoria sniffed. She may have never known Grandmother, but she still missed Granddad terribly. “Wait, you said gratefully . Is that the same as grateful ?” “Yes, dear. Essentially, it is.” “What does that mean, essentially ?” “Hmm. Essentially means that they are nearly the same thing.” “Ok, so in this case, what does it mean? Does it mean that Granddad was grateful for you?” “Yes, dear, exactly.” “Ok, I think I’m beginning to understand what grateful means.” “Yes, I think so too.” “But, wait, what does that have to do with the missing entries in The Dictionary?” “Ah yes. Shall I finish my story?” “Yes, please.” “Alright, well, after I was born, Granddad couldn’t go to the hospital anymore to work because he had to stay home and take care of me. He had a few patients from before he went to Korea that were loyal to him and came to him for house calls, but unfortunately, that didn’t give him enough income to take care of us both. So, Granddad got creative. He picked up some work editing dictionaries before they went to print. It was work he could do from home and work that he enjoyed. He had always been an avid reader, as you know.” “Yes, his favorite book was The Dictionary--Wait a minute!” “Yes, dear?” “He used to read me The Dictionary when I was a baby!” “Yes, dear, he did.” “But I never remember him reading the definition for grateful .” “Well, sweetheart, that’s because he didn’t.” “But why, it seems he had a lot to be grateful for.” Mother smiled. “And why is that dear?” “Well, because he never killed anyone, because he made it home alive from a terrible war, and because he had you and me.” “Those are all very good reasons to be grateful, I suppose.” “So why didn’t he ever read the definition then? Was he the one who ripped it out of The Dictionary?” “Yes, dear. He was.” Gregoria jumped up. “But why! That makes no sense! Why wouldn’t he want to remind himself of the definition?” “Well dear, why do you think?” Gregoria continued jumping as she pondered. Her jumps slowed to small hops and eventually to nearly undetectable bounces on the balls of her feet. She sat back down on her quilt. “Because he already knew what it felt like to be grateful.” Mother sat up and pressed her forehead gently into Gregoria’s so their noses touched. She whispered. “Exactly, sweetheart. That’s exactly right. Do you think you understand know the definition of grateful now?” “Yes, Mother,” Gregoria whispered back. “And I know how to complete Mrs. Thomas’ assignment.” “Good girl. My sweet, precious gemstone, Gregoria. I am so grateful for you.” Gregoria smiled. “Me too, Mother. Indeed, I have much to be grateful for.”

A great man once said, “if you claim to know everything about Quantum Physics, then you know nothing about Quantum Physics.” I remember as a kid I was sitting in the driveway outside my house after my father had driven off to work. The car was leaking oil and left a little puddle where the car was parked not five minutes before. It was the summer holidays and the sun was beaming down. I was only six, but by that age, my fascination with numbers was beginning to become apparent. I was counting the numbers of drops the leaking car made back to the oil slick. When a glistening spectrum of rainbow colours in the oil slick caught my eye. I remember being mesmerised by the colours and what could have been causing it. It wasn't until I was ten that I figured out that the thickness of the oil is similar to the wavelength of visible light. Different colours of light have different wavelengths. Depending on the exact thickness of the oil some colours don't reflect back due to destructive interference and some do reflect back due to constructive interference, so some colours are reflected strongly and others are not reflected, so the oil appears coloured. As the thickness varies different colours are reflected, so the colour appears to change. The teachers knew I was different. But they never encouraged me. They were scared of me because I was smarter than them. This became a pattern throughout my school years. Teachers were either intimidated by me or they flat out hated me. It didn't help that I would constantly point out inconsistencies in their math, or completely disprove a theory they had been working on their entire professional lives. We all had our heroes growing up and mine was Richard Feynman. Even though he had died two years before I was born. I felt like I knew him. I remember the first time I saw the Feynman Diagrams. To some people, they might seem random or chaotic. But where there is chaotic randomness, there is a pattern. It jumped out at me, as soon as I saw them. The probable nature of a particle didn't matter anymore. Have you ever looked at the vines that travel up walls and wonder how they know to hold on? Defying the laws of gravity, by just holding on, to get the best position for survival. What gives plants a sense of survival. Most will say evolution. But for me, evolution is just a fancy word for a very long time. If after a very long time a plant develops the means to protect itself. Then it learned to protect itself, over time. That's a level of intelligence only attributed to sentient beings. I always asked the questions that never got asked. Only to find no one had the Answers. This fascination with the deeper, underlying mysteries of reality, led me on a journey to find the true meaning of life. Like how the remnants of dead stars reverberate around our bodies. You could, in fact, say that the dead stars are our ancestors. And like with everything else in nature, they die and become reborn again in another form. I was reading a recent paper on the nature of light and the wave-particle duality of photons When something jumped out at me. What if the wave that carries the photon, carries the information of the particle and can become the particle whenever it needs to. What if the wave carries with it, the whole history of that particle, past, future and present. That way it appears to be in more than one place at a time. It soon became perfectly clear to me that the atoms that make up everything in nature are conscious. I was on the brink of the most amazing scientific discovery in the history of mankind. So I thought. It was when I was in my lab. I was testing a theory. I heard of a group of scientists that were struggling with the mechanics of teleportation. They could send the information from one location to the next, but they couldn't make the object rematerialise. So to help read the infinite states of data and rearrange the information, I built my own special kind of quantum computer. It was the only working Quantum computer, known only by me to exist. It helped revolutionise my thinking. It allowed me to put my theories into real practice. I had figured out a way to use it to read the information that made up a wave-particle. And what I discovered in the infinite stream of data was that the wave carried its past, present and future state. That meant, along with my Quantum computer I was able to build a machine to teleport an object from one place to another. I was all set to go, to make history. To bring the world to a better state of being. I had acquired a live subject for testing my theory. A small macaque. He was a lively little monkey who would do anything for a banana. Everything was set up to go. I turned on the machine. The monkey dematerialised as I had hoped. But it was when it was being transmitted from one pod to the next I noticed my Quantum computer not only scrambling the data that made up the monkey. It was loading data unrelated to the monkey also. The process was slow but once it finished the door to the pod opened. As the smoke began to clear to my absolute delight the monkey came running out of the pod. But it wasn't the same monkey. It looked like a younger version of what I had put in the machine. The machine managed to read the past data of the monkey and teleported a past version of itself. It was truly an astonishing mishap. But what happened to the original version. I edged myself closer to the pod as the smoke cleared I cautiously looked inside. Brushing aside the last of the smoke. I was horrified to see another monkey in the pod. It was on the floor clearly in distress. It appeared to be deformed. But on closer inspection parts of his body was in different stages of decay. Limbs weren't fully formed or they had formed and died. I picked him up and brought him over to the table and laid him down. It began to howl. It seemed to be in immense pain. So I decided to put it out of its misery. As I administered a strong sedative to the monkey. The pod that the monkey had appeared in, started back up. But this time it was drawing a lot more power, from some unknown place. As the machine surged to the point it was glowing my Quantum computer started recording data being sent from the pod. An endless stream of data filled my computer screen. At first, it appeared random, but then words began jumping out at me. Something was communicating with me, something was talking to me. As I put the words together they seemed incoherent. But amongst the rabble was a message. WE KNOW, YOU SEE THE EYES DOES SEE, THE EYES DOES SEE. WE ARE THE MIND WE, WE ARE THE SOUL, SOUL, SOUL. IMPERFECT, IMPERFECT, YOU ARE THE IMPERFECT. WE HAVE CREATED AND NOW WE DESTROY. As the words destroy repeated itself the surge in energy shortcutted all my equipment blowing out the power to the lab. It was about a week after the accident. I was sitting at home when I got a message on my phone. It was from a close astronomer friend of mine. It was an urgent message to fly to California to NASA’s Optical Communications Telescope Laboratory. As I read over the rest of the message my heart began to race. As I read the last sentence the blood drained from my body. “Space, as we know it appears to have stopped expanding and planets in the night's sky are starting to disappear.” As I Packed my bag the words destroy repeated itself over and over again in my head. I never believed in God. But now I think I pissed him off. I certainly pissed something off.

By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire, and I stopped in my tracks. I was confused. There were people in the neighborhood who were still going on their daily morning jogs, and walks, and cars driving by on the road. I closed my eyes, and counted to three, but when I opened them back up, it’s like the fire got even bigger. I thought to myself, not again. What was happening? My eyes were deceiving me, and I felt trapped in my own mind. I heard the front door open, looked back and it was my older brother leaving to go to work. I turned back around, and I didn’t see the fire anymore, but I could still feel the heat coming from it. My brother told me bye, hopped in his car, and drove away. It was a brisk Saturday, and I decided to get up early to get some fresh air. I haven’t been able to sleep lately. My nightmares were turning into night terrors, and I couldn’t shake this feeling of dread. As I began to walk, I got deep into my thoughts, and it felt like everything around me was a part of my imagination. It was fall. The leaves were turning colors, and the moon was taking over the sky. My mother owned a healing shop in the city where people who needed healing, and protection would go to her for help, and guidance. I didn’t realize how far I had walked, until I came upon the street my grandmother lives on. I shrugged and told myself why not and walked into her neighborhood. I haven’t told anybody about my dreams, or visions I have been seeing, because I knew it sounded crazy, and didn’t want my mother and grandmother to worry. My phone began to ring, and the caller ID was my grandmother. What a coincidence. When I answered, she said she left the back gate open for me and then hung up the phone. How does she do that? I never knew. I always thought it was just an intuition thing, I have that feeling too. I finally made it to her house, and the dread I had suddenly went away. Grandmothers do bring comfort. I opened the gate to the backyard and saw my grandmother watering her flowers. She had a very pretty garden, and always kept it up. I never saw a plant or flower loose its life. We greeted each other, and I helped her water the rest of the garden. Before I could say anything, she asked me how I’d been sleeping lately, and I didn’t lie. I told her the truth about my nightmares and the hallucinations I’ve been having while asleep and awake. She asked me how long this has been going on and I told her three months. My grandmother then grabbed my hand and rushed me inside. We went into her office, which was filled with books, journals, incense, sage, jewelry boxes, stones, and crystals, and I sat down on the couch near the window. I looked outside, and it really was a beautiful day. My grandmother had her glasses on, and was picking out books from her bookcase, handing me each one to put on her desk. Once she was done, she placed her hand on my forehead and began to pray. It wasn’t strange for her to do that. Prayer was something we did in my family every day, all day. There was never a bad time to pray. She closed the office door and began to sage the room. My family and I were deep into spirituality and were always aware of the company we kept around our souls and in our home. For that reason, my mother never allowed me to bring home just anybody because she said some people have demons in them, but don’t know it, and next thing you know there is a bad spirit wandering in our house, looking for its next vessel. Both my mother and grandmother had red brick clay at the front and back doors of the house for protection from evil spirits and negative energy. My body began to tingle, and I felt tense, as my grandmother was still cleansing the room. I closed my eyes and counted to five, and I started to hear voices. When I opened my eyes, there was a candle floating in the middle of the room. The sort of candle you find at the front altar in a church. It wasn’t lit, but the voices were coming from inside of it. I got up from the couch and walked to the middle of the room and looked inside the candle. There were three tiny creatures dressed in white robes, dancing around in a circle humming to a hymn. I smiled and then they abruptly stopped, and slowly turned to look at me. My smile turned into a frown, and one by one each creature disappeared, and the candle ignited with fire, blowing up in my face. I panicked and called for my grandmother, who I didn’t see in the room anymore, but I wasn’t scared. I started to feel that sense of dread again and became light headed. I walked back over to the couch, laid down and fell asleep. When I woke up, my mother, grandmother, and brother were all in the room looking at me. My grandmother was looking through one of her books, my mother was stirring a cup of tea, and my brother was shaving down a red brick over a pot. My grandmother asked me what I had saw, and I told her what happened, and the reoccurrence of fire in my visions. My mother handed me the cup of tea, kissed me on the check, and told me that everything was going to be okay. Honestly, I just wanted to know what was going on. “Oneiromancy”, Grandma Sadie said, while she sat back in the chair at her desk. “I’m sorry, what?”, Niani, replied back, removing the tea cup away from her mouth. “Hoodoo”, Sarah, Niani’s mom declared. I looked at my brother to see if he was hearing what I was hearing. “It’s real”, Nasir, my brother said to me. I was mind boggled to say the least. I have heard my grandmother and mother talk about it, but I didn’t know they were affirmed believers who participated in it. As I finished my tea, and sat up on the couch, my grandmother told me that we all have gifts, and that it’s up to us to decide if want to embrace it or not. Oneiromancy is one of the several forms of divination in hoodoo, which meant the interpretation of dreams in order to foretell the future. My mother said my gift is being a seer. She said my brother went through this phase too when he was my age, but that my visions are stronger, and hold more power. My grandmother told me that the time has come for her to start training me to control my visions and to use my dreams to help people. I wasn’t opposed to it; I was actually excited. I finally felt like I had a purpose in life; a reason to live. Nasir began to tell me that dad had the same gift but was killed because of it. No one likes people who have special gifts, because they see them as a threat to normal ideologies. My grandmother told me that there are people who want to steal our magic and have always gone after our family, to either lock them up in a mental institution or kill them, taking their souls. I wasn’t asking many questions because they were answering them before I could even think about it. Boo Hag is who they told me we had to be aware of. Boo Hag is an evil spirit who torments the living, while also sending other demons to take possession of those who are weak and vulnerable. However, before my mother could finish telling me about our family secrets, we all became overwhelmed with dread and heartache. We quickly went into the living room and turned on the television, and that’s when we saw it. There was an explosion in the downtown area at a church, during a youth service program, killing three small children, who were performing a dance ritual in their white robes. My heart dropped and I fainted. I was in the kitchen, the sink was running water, and there was a bowl on the dining room table spinning. It began to spin faster, spurring fire, and then the water cut off. Signs. I took a deep breath in and a deep breath out. I looked around the room, which was getting smaller each second, and a crystal appeared in the fire. I grabbed the crystal and woke up. I was in the car. My brother was driving, my mother was in the front seat, and my grandmother was next to me holding my hand. My grandmother demanded that I tell her everything I just saw. She told me to listen to my heart, and I told Nasir to drive to the library in town. “What did you pull out of your vision?”, Sarah asked. I opened my hand and it was the crystal that was in my dream in the bowl of fire. When we pulled up in front of the library, there were police cars, fire trucks, and an ambulance in the parking lot. We got out the car, and there was smoke coming from the building. The police were trying to keep people back, and there were firemen carrying people from out of the building. My grandmother told me to go to the front line and tell the firemen where to look. I went up to the front of the line, and told one of the police to tell the firefighters to go down in the basement, near the windows that are shaped like bowls, because there is a pregnant mother stuck down there and she cant get out, but there is still time left to save her. The cop looked at me like I was crazy, but I pleaded. He rolled his eyes at me and turned his head. I grabbed the cops hand with a tight grip, and looked at him deep in his eyes, showing him what would happen to him if he didn’t help me save the pregnant woman. I let go of his hand, he stumbled back, and ran to the nearest fireman to tell him about the woman stuck in the basement. The fireman looked at me, grabbed his partner, and then they went inside. Five minutes later they came out with the pregnant woman, she was unharmed and still breathing. Seconds later the library collapsed. I walked away from the front line, and went back to my family, who hugged me. I looked at my grandmother, and she told me that I had the gift of seeing, and showing, but the showing could become a dangerous thing if I let it take control over me. I liked the showing. Just to think that this day ended how it did because of leaves on fire.

For the first time in years, my leg didn’t hurt. You see, I have a slight kink in my lower spine that causes a constant low-level pain. I have mostly learned to live with the pain but on that day, I was especially grateful for a reprieve. It was on a Friday in September 1970 when I walked along a narrow, little-used trail that wound through a dense forest in northwest Pennsylvania. I was on a quest to find something, anything that would help me understand what happened to my father during the war. As a child, our relationship was wonderful. He called me Davey and taught me to throw, catch, and hit a baseball. ‘Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio was his favorite player and almost every day in the summer, we listened to Yankee games on WJZ radio out of New York City. Did you know that WJZ eventually came WABC radio which is still operating to this day? I was about seven years old when Dad was drafted into the Army and eventually deployed to Korea. He served on a mortar team in active combat. Mom and I initially received regular letters from him, but these tapered off to the occasional one-side-of-one-page note eventually to no communications at all. Since we had not received the visit that every military family dreads, we believed he was alive. Dad returned after two years a changed man. Our relationship was terrible after the war, and we often argued. He was angry and abused my mom; mostly with words, but he occasionally punctuated his words with his hands. He never touched me, but I hated him for what he did to mom. He would not talk about the war except for the occasional funny story involving his army buddies. Dad would sometimes show me photographs pulled from an old shoe box he kept on a closet shelf and belly laugh while talking about something crazy someone did in Korea. I loved hearing him and I laughed too until his smile receded into a distant stare. I figured he remembered something that wasn’t funny, so I would quickly leave the room whenever that happened, which was often. Dad’s anger subsided in late 1962 and things really started to get better. We didn’t know why, but we relished the change in him and didn’t ask any questions. Together we planned a family camping trip, a visit to Niagara Falls, and best of all, tickets to a Yankees game in New York City! A double-header! I couldn’t wait to see Mickey Mantle play! We were happy and our days were full and bright until one day in early spring 1963, he suddenly died of a heart attack. We were devastated. About a month after Dad’s funeral, I decided to look through his shoe box of keepsakes hoping to find some clues to his time in the war. The box held what you might expect: photographs, pins, receipts, patches, and various other things. There was nothing unusual except a cryptic letter to my dad from someone named John in D Company. It read: August 1962 Jacob, Enough time has passed that we should be safe. We have information that you need to hear. Meet us at Akko Bridge on September 24th, 4 PM. John, D Co After reading the letter, I really wanted to find Akko Bridge, but mom and I were mourning and, at the same time, busy trying to figure out our future. So, I kept the letter determined to one day find the place. But as they say, life goes on, which it did, and I totally forgot about Akko Bridge for about seven years. Then, one day in the fall of 1970, the old letter dropped from a stack of papers onto the floor, and I knew that it was time to start the quest. In an old book in our town’s library, I discovered that Akko Bridge crossed a river of the same name near the small town of Kaylor, Pennsylvania. I lived in near Pittsburgh at the time which is about an hour drive from Kaylor. I travelled to Kaylor one Friday determined to find the bridge. I stopped first at the town post office. The young clerk had not heard of Akko Bridge but directed me to the hotel suggesting I speak with a man named Judd Miller. More than 90 years old at the time, Miller was a life-long resident of Kaylor and the clerk thought that if anyone knew of such a place, he would. Everyday, Mr. Miller sat on the porch, reading a newspaper and greeting visitors to the aging hotel. As I approached the slightly sagging porch, I saw a man with a shiny head, that apparently hadn’t supported hair for quite some time, reading a newspaper. This must be old Judd, I thought. His crisp copy of the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review swayed in harmony with the movement of his rocking chair. “Mr. Miller?” I asked. He lowered his newspaper, looked at me and smiled. “Welcome to our hotel, young man. May I help you?” “I hope so, sir. My name is Dave and the lady at the Post Office suggested I talk to you. I am looking for a place called Akko Bridge. Do you know of it?” “Hello, Dave. Yes, I know Akko Bridge. I haven’t been there in, good Lord, must be twenty years now. Why do you ask?” he said. “I’m retracing steps of my father. He passed away earlier this year, and I believe he spent some time there with his army buddies. Probably camping.” “I’m sorry to hear of your loss,” said Miller. He reflected for a few seconds then said, “I wonder if that old bridge still crosses the river? It was in poor shape the last time I was there. Built in the early 1920s, I believe. Here, let me draw you a map. It’s deep in the woods.” Mr. Miller sketched a rough map on part of his Tribune-Review, carefully tore the map from newspaper, and handed it to me. “I believe the road leading to the bridge is no longer passable, so you will need to take an old trail that I knew like the back of my hand as a child,” he said. We talked a while longer, I thanked him, and resumed my journey. I drove to the trailhead, parked, and began the hike. About a mile in, the forest tightly hugged the trail and I suddenly heard voices carried on the wind. Rattled, I paused and listened for a few moments, but all I heard was the irregular crackling and rustling of a dense forest. If you have ever been alone in the woods, you know they are alive with the sounds and movements of branches, leaves, small animals, birds, and even the occasional deer. As the trail rose toward higher ground, I was even more grateful for a pain-free leg. Maybe it went on a permanent vacation? One could only hope! I eventually approached what appeared to be the top of the rise and heard a loud waterfall. Mr. Miller had told me that the bridge crossed a narrow gorge that the Akko River cut into the sandstone of western Pennsylvania over countless years. He also said that the sandstone beneath Pittsburgh is some three miles thick. I had no idea! When I finally reached the top of the rise, it was getting dark, but I could see a rusted steel truss bridge crossing the river gorge. It certainly had seen better days but didn’t appear in danger of collapse, and the roads leading to and from the bridge were not at all overgrown. I felt sure that I had found the Akko Bridge but wondered why Mr. Miller directed me to the trail instead of the road; although I was not in pain, it would have been much quicker to drive here. I stopped and looked around the area. There was nothing much to see but trees, rocks, and of course the old bridge, but to my right, I saw light dancing on the lower branches of the trees as if from a campfire. I could not hear anything above the sound of the waterfall but decided to make my way towards the flickering light. Creeping quite a way into the woods, I stopped within ten feet or so of a campfire. I could see four men seated on felled logs within a small clearing. Judging by the look on the three men’s faces that I could see, they were discussing something serious. A man in a red and black checked hunting jacket with his back to me spoke... “OK, John, why are we here?” “Take it easy Jacob. We must be careful.” Jacob? I thought, that is my dad’s name! “Why John? Careful of what? It’s 1962. It’s been over ten years, for Christ’s sake!” “Jacob, you weren't responsible,” said another man. “Don’t give me that, Ted. You were there.” “You were set up Jacob,” said Ted. “What??” said Jacob. “What do you mean?” I was shocked. The man Jacob was, in fact, my father and somehow, I was at the meeting mentioned in letter. If it really was 1962, either I was a time traveler or someone was playing a very sick joke on me. “You remember Bill Sells from Charlie Company. He went to work for The Agency after the armistice was signed,” said John. “Sells? No, I don’t remember him. The Agency?” asked my dad. “CIA,” said John. “He eventually received security clearance for classified war files, and it took more than a year, but he discovered a coverup on the civilian deaths you were blamed for.” “What??” said my dad. “That’s right, Jacob,” said a man who hadn’t yet spoken. “I’m Bill Sells. A secret unit operating across the border screwed up and mistakenly killed more than a dozen civilians. To avoid escalation of the war, your mortar team was deemed incompetent and blamed for the incident. The very high-level talks apparently worked and your team were scapegoated.” “What??” exclaimed my dad. He lowered his head into his hands and was silent, I assume he was trying to understand what he had just heard. The men were quiet for several minutes, until my dad raised his head and spoke. “Scapegoat?...I...I...have carried that weight for so long. The incident destroyed my marriage and my family. My son Davey... he hates me. My wife... I have treated her terribly.” My dad looked at the ground and cried heavy tears. The three men gathered around him, and each placed a hand his shoulders. I sat down on an old tree stump, head in hands, and cried too. I had no idea what he had gone through in the war. I don’t know how long I stayed in that position, but when I raised my head, the clearing was covered with brush. There was no campfire, no felled logs, and no men. I sat for a while trying to absorb what I had seen and heard. I eventually stood and walked towards the bridge; even in the dark I could see it was in very poor condition. The steel superstructure was damaged and heavily rusted. The bridge deck had large holes in it and the connecting roads were completely overgrown, just as Judd Miller said. I guess it would be hard for most, but I believed what I saw and heard that day. I viewed my dad in a new way and while I am still sickened by his abusive actions, I forgave him. I better understood what he had experienced and how it had affected him. Forgiveness removed a massive weight from me. I wiped the remaining tears from my eyes and started back down the narrow trail towards my car, glad that I brought a good flashlight. I will never forget what I experienced at Akko Bridge, and I hope wherever my dad is now, he knows that he is forgiven. Oh, in case you’re wondering, my leg is still pain free!

As I recall, we weren't really there. Our veins were being flooded with wine, beer and unnamed spirits that were named at the time, but I don't remember them. Despite that, everything had slowed down to an even pace. The sun stayed up forever, blinding us from being able to make eye contact across the beer garden table. We only found respite from the glare when we looked down at the black table-top to stub-out our cigarettes into the ashtrays. The flood of booze was raging, but it felt slow. Time limped away. Hours in minutes, it seemed. We were there for a good while, though. Four hours, I think. We had witnessed the rise and fall of strange men pounding flashing buttons on the bandit. We saw them lose £50 in the space of mere seconds, and we were infuriated. What a waste, we would think. I was annoyed at you, too. At the first sign of a dwindling conversation you took your phone out of your pocket, pretending to text people. Checking the news. The latest status update. Anything to stop you from talking to me. Outside, with the sun still punishing us, our silences were filled by sniggering at the drunks, already too drunk for this time of day, but we both knew we were no better. You asked to borrow a ciagrette, and then another, and then another, and then you would sigh when I told you I had none left. I wasn't lying, you know. I really didn't have any left. And it was because of you that I didn't. I stumbled to the shop to buy more cigarettes. One of the strangest feelings in the world is walking around a busy town centre at two in the afternoon drunk, when you know for a fact that every single person around you is sober. They are doing their shopping, taking their kids to the local park, mooching. But your vision is swirling. It's really strange but also kind of liberating. When you see a teenager doing something stupid you feel like you can walk up to him and starting a fight. When you see a police officer you feel like you can approach them and start swearing at them. But you never do. You don't have the spine, or more, your own brain reins you in, telling you you shouldn't. And that's fine, because knowing that you can do if you want, is good enough. I bought the wrong brand of cigs but that doesn't matter. They're cigs. Besides, they were for you, not me. This is a weird kind of drunk. Being drunk in the day time is different. It's like you're floating everywhere and not walking. There's a strong sense of independence. The spirits and whatever else running through me is probably why I didn't notice the homeless man at first. I took a double-take and walked backwards, back to him. He was on the floor, legs crossed as though he was doing street yoga. He had at least five layers on and a beanie hat despite the temperature reaching twenty. He must have been boiling. Or cold. The homeless man asked for change. I smiled, but I was careful not to make it a pitiful smile. I gave him a £5 note but in my stupor I would only later realise that I gave him a £20 note instead. But I don't feel bad for that. Money is paper. Paper means a lot to the homeless. I walked off but he whistled after me. For a second time now, I went back to him. He gestured for me to sit with him, and I did. I don't know why. I thought that I shouldn't because I knew you were waiting for me in the beer garden. Well, waiting for my cigarettes, not waiting for me. So I thought, sod you, you can wait. And you did, but I don't know how long for. The homeless person began rambling. I know it's a stereotype, but he did. He spoke of war, then tigers, then bread. I thought he was mad, but you can't blame him. Who wouldn't be? He spoke of hostels and free beds, but he couldn't stay at them any more. He was banned. Imagine, a homeless person banned from homeless shelters. Where can he go? And that's when he said it: He wanted to die. He could easily do it, but it would only be easy from a literal sense. After all, it isn't hard to kill yourself. What's hard is finding the backbone to go through with it. That's when I pulled my packet of cigarettes out and shared them with him and I thought, I'm not going to share these with my friend when I get back to the beer garden. It might have been the heat. It might have been the alcohol. It might have been a mixture of the two, which is more likely. Whatever it was, I had an idea. I offered to kill him. That way, he would die like he wanted, but he wouldn't need the backbone to do it. He agreed, but he asked me for another cigarette first. I gave him one, why wouldn't I? It's kind of like his last meal. He told me that he didn't want to know how he was going to die, so I assured him it would be a surprise. I struggled to my feet, the heat was far too intense. I felt the panic of the moment when you realise you're sobering-up, so I went to the shop and bought a large bottle of cider and a small can of vodka and coke. I drank the can really quickly. It nearly came out of my nose. I lit a cigarette and went back to the homeless guy. I told him the cider was for him and he smiled like it was Christmas to a child. He asked me how I was going to kill him. I told him I already did. He looked annoyed but that's okay, he probably knew what I meant deep down. You know what weird feeling when you're drunk in the middle of the day time and everyone else seems to be sober and the whole thing starts twisting? It's liberating. It's like a weird feeling of independence. On my way back to the pub to get back to you (you must have been waiting forever), I noticed a teenager chasing pigeons and making them fly into the faces of tutting old people. So I ran over to him and punched him square in the face. I felt one my knuckles slice open from a tooth, but I didn't feel the pain of it. The police officer I mentioned was still there, you know. He came over after hearing the commotion and when his eyes locked onto mine, you know what I said to him? I told him to go fuck himself. I laughed, probably a little too loudly, and then looked-up to the sky. The sun was blazing. Not a cloud to be seen. It was the middle of the day and I felt like I was the only person in the town centre who was drunk. It feels weird, but in a good way. Liberating. Then I was on the ground, kissing the concrete. I felt my hands being tied together and the cold metal hugging my wrists. Then I thought of you, and you know what I did? I laughed and thought 'You can wait in the beer garden all day you son of a bitch. You aren't having my cigarettes.

“...no man can ever feel his own identity aright except his eyes be closed; as if darkness were indeed the proper element of our essences...” Moby Dick Herman Melville 3:13 a.m. I smell smoke. It isn’t Marlboro smoke. It’s acrid, tart, grasping. Not like the cigarette smoke that I enjoy so much. Beautiful smoke, filling my leathered lungs with smooth, substantial, toxic vapors, tickling my chest, calming my ever-active mind. Tendrilled wisps of white fairies curling toward the ceiling or the sky, dancing erotically until they disappear, dissipate, disengage from this earthly realm. I open my eyes, horrified at what I see: thick, white smoke entering unbidden under the bedroom door. A crackle enters my consciousness, and I know it for what it is. Two thoughts cross my mind as I jump up and slip on my trousers and sandals, both thoughts warring with each other for supremacy. My house is well and truly on fire. I am probably going to die. ************** 3:14 a.m. The hallway leading to the kitchen is filled with white smoke. My eyes burn, but my lungs are surprisingly unaffected. I reflect that smoking cigarettes prepared my lungs for this assault, and I laugh out loud. Take that, Linda! Maybe I’m going crazy, like my ex-wife always said I would. Maybe the smoke is causing me to hallucinate, for I swear I hear her voice, chiding me for smoking too much, drinking too much, and eating too little. My fingers trace the left wall of the hallway, searching for the kitchen entrance. Peeling paint flakes off and becomes embedded under my fingernails, sending bolts of pain through my hand and arm. I should have repainted the house long ago. When Linda left me, I just kind of gave up on house maintenance. Now I’m paying for it. I knock a picture off the wall. I know which one: a photo of Linda and me, when things were still good between us. The tinkling sound of glass breaking comingled with the sound of something crashing. It sounds like the armoire in the old master bedroom. It hasn’t been used since Linda left. I wonder if Linda still remembers those beautiful nights in our bedroom. I can’t sleep there any longer. Linda didn’t want the armoire. Said I should give it to one of my girlfriends. That hurt. I bend down to pick up the photo, folding it up and stuffing it in my back pocket. It’s effectively ruined now, but I don’t care. If I’m going to die, I want what Linda and I once had to be with me. I remember where we were in that photo. Lake Bowie. I had won a writing contest, and I was happy and feeling generous. All of this was before I became full of myself. The cabin was nice enough, but Linda spotted a scorpion. She refused to set foot in the cabin until I had cleared it out. I spent three hours checking everything for scorpions. I didn’t find any, but I did kill a few spiders and tossed out the carcass of a dead mouse. I didn’t tell her about that. We had a hell of a good weekend in that cabin. Our souls twinned and twined and twirled and twisted, only to become unraveled somewhere along the way. The door jamb leading to the kitchen interrupts my musings. My pulse, already sending blood to my body at warp speed, quickens even more. My face feels hot, like it did one long-ago week when I had a severe bout of flu. Linda took care of me then. Gentle touches, cool rags to the forehead, soothing murmurs. Linda was at her best when someone needed her. I never got that until years after the divorce. I asked her once when she thought I was at my best. Sleeping, she said. I pretended it was a joke. I turn left, seeing the kitchen in my mind. My hip rams into the kitchen island. I curse, but not much. My lungs are beginning to rebel. They feel achy and heavy, like I had run a 100-meter dash after smoking a pack of Marlboro Reds. I’m gasping for air now, and I feel dizzy. Panic can’t be far behind. The dining room table accosts me next, but not badly. I run the palm of my right hand along its contours, feeling for the end so that I could take - I think - three medium steps to the living area. Is it three? Or four? I can’t remember. My mind won’t focus, won’t see what it has always seen for the past twenty-three years. My hand finds a rubber spoon, but in my effort to grab it, I knock it off the edge of the table. I hear myself whimper in frustration, surprised that I do so. Me? Whimper? Well, yes. I need that little rubber spoon. It was Janice’s spoon when she was little. Still is hers, I suppose. She was so cute, trying to use that spoon. For a few moments, she was successful, but frustration would set in. The spoon would be abandoned for fingers. I can still see her food-smeared face as she shoved in mouthfuls of buttered macaroni and sweet potato. I would wipe her mouth, which she hated. The divorce hit her hard. We shared custody, but that ended when she went to college. Linda used to come over often during those early years after the divorce. We would have meals together, watch Janice play, and reflect on where it all went wrong. It was always a short discussion. We both know what went wrong. Linda doesn’t visit me any longer, but the spoon is my constant companion, along with my guilt. Janice, like her mom, chides me for such things. It’s cute when she does it. Not so cute when her mom does it. I fall to the floor and scrabble around, almost desperate to feel the soft rubber in my hands again. I don’t much care if I die right now, as long as I have the spoon with me. Janice. At least I didn’t screw her up. She rebelled against me, though, going for a STEM degree instead of following her path to literary glory. She has the skills. And the pedigree. But she’s great at math and chemistry. I suddenly get the irony. Chemistry. I was more interested in chemicals and chasing skirts than developing a strong relationship with her mother. Fort tents. Pizza for breakfast. Loud arguments with Linda on such matters. She accused me of not being a parent and I accused her of being a tyrant. I find the spoon and cradle it against my chest. I wish it were Janice, but the small, rough, piece of rubber will have to do. Maybe I’ll just stay here and think about Janice as the smoke suffocates me. I can feel it getting stronger. I close my eyes because they burn so much. My chest constricts. Breathing is a chore now. I wheeze, cough, spit up phlegm that tastes weird, like cream gravy seasoned with gunpowder. Linda let me have the spoon as long as I let her have the Elmo. God, that thing is so ragged! Linda washed it, sewed it up, took care of it after the divorce, but it still looks old and tired. Like Linda does now. I see her from time to time, usually in the supermarket. She looks worn out, hard, frayed. Metal fatigue. I chuckle at the thought, and then I start crying at the thought. I know in my heart that I’m responsible for that. The sparkle in her eyes are gone, replaced by something dull and muted, a sort of pale fire. Her smile is not as genuine; it’s more like she’s trying on a new and uncomfortable dress and can’t decide on how to feel about it. I don’t ever touch her when I see her. She might break, and cleaning up the pieces would be something I’m not equipped to do. ************** 3:16 a.m. I crawl toward what I think is the opening that leads to the front room, and freedom. I find the opening and pull myself up. The smoke is thicker, but I can’t crawl much because of my knees. Every time a knee encounters the floor, it feels like a sledgehammer blow to them. The pain reverberates though my body, leaving me quivering and shaking. Getting old sucks. I take three steps and stumble over a bookcase that has fallen. So, it wasn’t the armoire. I feel for a way around the bookcase and the books, regretting - for the first time, mind you - my profession. The books I read, the books I write, hell, they might just be my undoing. That’s where the trouble started. I became famous. A popular author that everyone wanted a piece of. Lectures, book signings, talk shows. I still mentally kick myself when I think of sleeping with all those women in all those cities. Starstruck college girls intent on living out a fantasy. Middle-aged Literature professors wanting to screw a real-life author instead of lecturing on dead ones. The occasional bar hookup. The less occasional hooker. Linda, I know, suspected, but she never said anything, never confronted me. I think she blamed herself, thought that she was lacking in some fundamental way. My expectations of her were unrealistic. I wanted her to be a dutiful wife during the day and a dirty whore in bed at night. It all came crashing down one October night. My agent came to our house, drunk and disheveled and generally looking like hell. She yelled out that she couldn’t live without me, that our love-making was transcendental, blah, blah, blah. Linda took it like a champ, and then she took herself and Janice away. The woman has class, though. She never denied me visits with our daughter, even going so far as to allow joint custody. The pizza for breakfast thing still bothers her. I don’t get that. I stumble over books. So many books! Why the hell do I have so many copies of my own books? I lean against a wall, despite feeling the heat that’s there, the heat that increases, telling me that the fire will soon break through to this area. I put my ear to the wall I had been leaning on. I can hear the pop of flames, their tongues licking at the walls like a slavering beast, ready to devour. I think of all those women I slept with. I wonder who the beast was, them or me. I open my eyes again and see white. Nothing but white. It seems impenetrable. Like love. Like hate. More monsters to overcome, or give in to. I remain undecided on which action to take. ************** 3:17 a.m. I claw at the front door, doing a poor job of unbolting locks and unsliding chains. The door isn’t hot, thankfully, but it’s white and insurmountable and implacable. Like the smoke. Like everything. I’m knocked backwards by a tremendous force, skidding on my butt across the floor until I’m stopped by the bookcase. A dim figure strides in, lifts me up, carries me outside. An oxygen mask is put over my face and a blanket is wrapped around me. It’s cold as hell out here. Firemen are spraying great quantities of water on my house. The fire doesn’t seem to abate. Smoke pours out of the shattered front door, white plumes billowing out with increasing fervor. I cough up more of the gunpowder gravy and I spit it out, and then I replace the mask. Droplets of condensation form inside the mask. My lungs feel good now, and I want a cigarette, just so they don’t get too comfortable. Linda drives up and jumps out of her car. She rushes to me and suddenly stops, not knowing what to do now that she sees that I’m alive and ok. But I know what to do. I stand and hug her. It’s the least I can do, I know. The very least. ************** 5:10 a.m. The fire is out, but smoke continues to make its presence felt. The firemen douse the embers, and even the smoke decides to give up in the face of several hundred gallons of water. I watch all of this with Linda. She holds my hand. It isn’t as soft as it used to be. She drives me to her house. Classy, like I said before. She had moved after Janice graduated high school to be nearer her work. All the way across town. A long drive, alone with a woman who should hate me, and with thoughts that I hate to think. “You can sleep in Janice’s room until you find a place,” Linda said. Her voice was strained. Not indifferent or angry or loving. As if it were being filtered through all the years of dealing with the shit I handed her. “Thanks. I’ll be out in less than a week. Promise.” Jesus! I just used the “p” word! I bet she’s wondering how I have the gall to use that word after I had broken practically every promise I ever made to her. I’d feel better if she would reach over and slap me. She doesn’t. I’m a little disappointed. Another mile goes by before she speaks again. “How did you get out?” A simple question. A complicated answer is needed, but I don’t supply her with the truth. I lie. “Just felt my way through the smoke.” “God! I saw that smoke! It never seemed to stop.” She’s not wrong. I never want to see that much white again in my life. “I didn’t think I could overcome it, but I did, somehow.” I fiddle with the rubber spoon before stuffing it in my front pocket. The house was gone, but I had a rumpled photo and a rubber spoon. Linda laughs lightly. A different kind of laugh. Like she used to laugh. “Well, you did better than Ahab. He never could beat the great white beast.” I nod, impressed by Linda’s reference. She never evinced a great interest in classic literature when we were married. I wonder if “Moby Dick” was a recent thing, or had she always liked the book and I never listened to her? You know what? I don’t want to know the answer because either one would hurt, and I’ve had enough hurt for one night. Not the physical kind, mind you. The other kind. The kind that stays but doesn’t leave a visible scar. You know what I mean. Linda makes me eat a sandwich before I take a shower and go to bed. I make myself drink three whiskey-and-sodas. She doesn’t say anything about that. Not tonight. Not after the fire. I fall into Janice’s bed and stare at her old posters. Jimi Hendrix. Jimmy Page. Jim Morrison. She always had a thing for musicians named “Jim.” I leave a lamp on. I check to make sure I can get out of the window without falling over something, and I implore Linda to do the same. She sits on the side of the bed and strokes my hand. She used to do this to Janice when Janice had a nightmare. Just sit with her and stroke her hand. Something so simple but it always worked with Janice. I’m starting to realize what a genius my ex-wife is. “Do you think we still have a chance?” I ask her this because a) I’m still not thinking straight and, b) the whiskey-and-sodas were very strong. More like I waved some soda over the whiskey glass. Yeah, it was all whiskey and no soda. Might as well confess. It’s that kind of night. Linda laughs and smiles at me, but the smile is sad and grim. Her fingers stop stroking my hand. Instead, she clasps it with both of hers. They’re hot and rough and, somehow, unemotional. I don’t feel Linda. I feel a stranger that is familiar to me. “Our ship is the Pequod . It sank. There are no survivors.” I know exactly what she means. She walks away and shuts the irritatingly white door.

The door was waiting for him. Already open for a quick entrance into the inconspicuous car. Tony ran as fast as he could, chucking the duffle bags full of money into the back as he more or less dove into the passenger seat. “Drive!” Tony screamed at Jackie, “Drive, goddamn it- drive! ” Jackie Scaletta did not need to be told. Before Tony had even entered the vehicle, he had popped the clutch into DRIVE. Before the passenger door was even closed he tore down the road like a bat out of hell. Tires screeched like a woman getting murdered as the unnoticeable but powerful car growled down Lexington Street. A traffic light had just turned red as the car ran through it, narrowly avoiding collision with an expensive luxury vehicle. The driver honked loudly, laying on the horn in shock in frustration but neither Jackie nor Tony D’Amato gave it much notice. They were too fixed on the wailing of police car sirens already going off in the distance. Coming after them. “We did it, Jackie!” Tony screamed more than said, “We just robbed Lexington Bank, the cream of the crop! We are gold, my friend.” Jackie only nodded in reply. He was too busy focusing on the road, maneuvering cars, hopping onto the sidewalk and the wrong side of the roads to say anything. Tony was shaking and excited as a child who had just scored the game-winning touchdown in a Peewee football game, but Jackie was calm and collected. A professional getaway driver if there ever was one. “just a little bit further we’ll be over state lines- then after that, on our way to Mexico to live like kings, Jackie. We did- whoah look out! ” A wall of police cruisers was creating a blockade to the entrance of the interstate. Tony grew nervous immediately, visions of himself and Jackie being torn up by a barrage of Tommy Gun fire flashed through his mind. Torn apart by bullets as they did to Bonnie and Clyde. However, Jackie had prepared for this. He knew what to do. “Hold onto something,” Jackie said with the coolness of an ice-cold killer. His face was determined, his eyes focused. “Hold on?” Tony shouted. “Hold onto wha-“ He reacted just in time as Jackie popped the wheels on the shoulder of the entrance, scraping the passenger side of the car against the cement barriers that blocked cars from falling down the steep hill. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck !” Tony shouted. Sparks flew like crazy fireworks off his side of the vehicle, he noticed with wide eyes. The getaway car had attacked the weak spot of the barricade. Cops dove out of the way in fear as the driver side of the car clipped a police cruiser in the rear bumper, the collision was hard enough to knock the law enforcement car on its side. Gunshots fired harmlessly as the getaway car merged with the interstate traffic. The road to freedom. “We made it! Holy shit, Jackie, you old sonuvabitch! We made it!” Tony hollered. He was shaking in excitement and fear. A bit of shock had also clouded his mind- he vomited quickly but violently out the window. “Calm, down, paisan ,” Jackie said calmly, “we aren’t free yet. Look behind us.” Tony swore when he turned his head to see black and white cop cars following behind. Traffic had pulled over to the sides of the road to allow a path for the police to drive through. Tony had visions of Moses parting the Red Sea upon seeing this. “What do we do?” Tony asked horrified again. “You let me do my job,” Jackie told his childhood friend calmly. “You did your part, now it’s my time to shine.” He gunned the accelerator once again, the engine of the car growled like a lion on the attack, except they were the antelope and the police the lions. The rear windshield imploded with a sharp snap! as glass fell to the floor of the car. “They’re shooting at us!” Tony yelped, another bullet hit the metal of the car’s exterior with a loud knocking sound. “Well,” Jackie told Tony like a father teaching his son a lesson, “fire back.” Tony reached between his legs for the weapon. A Thompson Machine gun with a 50 round drum loaded. He racked the first shot into the chamber, aimed intently at the leading cop car, and squeezed the trigger. The gun went off, sounding like a barrage of drums, vibrating off the walls. The car Tony had been aiming at lost control and collided with a semi-truck that was pulled over. One down, how many more to go ? Tony asked himself in his mind. “Good job,” Jackie said calmly, still focusing on winding through the traffic on the highway, most drivers had gotten the message and pulled off where they could, but a few stubborn ones kept on going like nothing was happening. Great, now we have a cop murder to add to our list, Jackie’s mind told him. He shook his head to clear the thought away. The car stank of burnt gunpowder and a ringing accompanied the ears of both men as Tony loaded another drum into the rifle. “Don’t shoot unless they shoot first,” Jackie spoke, “Or if they get too close, even still, try aiming for the tires.” “Don’t worry, I don’t intend on killing anybody unless I have to,” Tony replied. Jackie was thankful for this sentence from his friend. They weren’t murderers. There was no one else Jackie would aid robbing a bank with.” A bullet shattered a small hole in the windshield. It narrowly missed Jackie’s throat. His blood went cold as he felt the ripple of air pass by his skin. A second one ripped another spot through the windshield- this one hitting its mark. “Fuck,” Tony yelped, throwing his right hand onto his left arm. Blood stained his fingers. Another barricade stood ahead- this one three rows deep with paddy wagons and cruisers blocking the interstate. “Tony!” Jackie shouted, momentarily taking his eyes off the path to look at his friend, “Are you okay?” “Yeah,” Tony spoke through gritted teeth. “Just took some muscle and skin- missed the bone.” “I need you to lay some covering fire when I say,” Jackie told him. “What are we gonna do, buddy?” Tony asked, his pain was- at the moment- dulled by the fear that their escape had come to an end. No Mexico. The bullet would have to be extracted from his arm. “Just wait,” Jackie replied, his voice getting lower and lower as he repeated, “Wait. Wait. Wait... Okay, now! Fire!” Jackie screamed, Tony leaned out the window and sprayed a barrage of bullets out of the end of the machine gun- aiming over the cops’ heads. It was enough to scare the uniformed men to duck behind their vehicles as Jackie screamed the car over the grassy area between the lanes of the interstate, straightening on the wrong side as family cruisers and semi-trucks came dangerously close to head-on collisions with them. He rolled back onto the right side of the road once they had cleared the barricade, passing a sign that happily welcomed the two into the next state. “We made it!” Tony shouted, “Holy Christ, Jackie! You did it we are clear! Bravo paisano! ” They had made it into the next state. Tomorrow morning, they would ditch the vehicle and get into another one to make the drive into Mexico. They were not safe yet. There was still the worry of a nation-wide manhunt or getting stopped at the border, but for now, Jackie Scaletta and Tony D’Amato were safe. They continued down the interstate.

Her bladder nearly let go with the boom and searing flash of light. Another peal of thunder came close on its heels rumbling and crackling across the sky, and then the torrential downpour kicked in. Tiffany was going to get wet one way or another. Fortunately, the relentless lightning lit up a stone bridge thirty feet in front of her. She sprinted as best she could to the abutment leading down. Scrambling, she lost her footing and slid on her backside in the mud, hoping all the while to be able to stop before reaching the wettest thing of all, the river. She grabbed onto a passing branch threatening to spear her to pivot to a stop under the bridge. Hailstones peppering the water added to the banging and sizzling and rocks being moved around by the rushing stream. She listened, bent over, holding her sides and catching her breath. The house was not very far at all, but she needed to wait out Mother Nature’s snit. Tiffany dozed for a while, but then a movement caught her eye - a white something disappearing around the other side of the bridge. It wasn’t her dear sweet white terrier Oggie who refused to leave his nap. She hoped the something was too small to be dangerous but could not control her curiosity and found herself following it around the corner. There Tiffany stepped into the dark and a much more vicious slide than last time but mercifully away from the river. This one had rocks and branches covered in a slick carpet of moss. She twisted and bounced, anticipating a broken arm or leg, or sprained wrist from the passing limbs and vines. Then she arrived with a thump, did a half cartwheel and stopped, her breath in little swirling clouds. A voice from the cave or wherever she was said “I trust you have an invitation.” Tiffany rubbed her eyes to adjust to the dim light of one candle and found herself staring at an illustration from her book, complete with chequered waistcoat and folded umbrella. She blurted “If you are who I think you are, you’re a fictional character that does not exist in real life.” The white rabbit responded “Why do I have to be who you think I am? I could be anybody. You could try asking me a question to eliminate who I’m not... I’m not you, for instance.” “Of course you’re not me,” she responds “You’re a rabbit and I’m a girl. That’s not going to get us anywhere. If you are who I think you are, then... where is your watch?” “What watch?” “Your pocket watch?” “Oh that old thing. That was years ago. How do you know about that? Now I have this to keep the time,” and he removed a cell phone from his waistcoat pocket. “Look! This keeps perfect time! And the calendar reminds me of when I have to go.” Hardly had he finished speaking when a loud marimba tune rang out. “Oh dear, oh dear, it’s six o’clock!” The rabbit disappeared. Tiffany picked up the candle to illuminate a small door and followed the rabbit scurrying through the wood. Arriving, she found him seating himself at a table with a tablecloth, cups and saucers, a mouse that appeared to be asleep in a cup, a short odd-looking man wearing a top hat with a price tag in its hat band, and a hare with straw on its head. The hare jumped up, glaring at the rabbit and asked angrily “What’s this you’ve brought with you?” “Not what, who .” Tiffany responded huffily. “Why don’t you ask me who I am? I should know.” “Yes, you should know, but do you?” the hatted man responded. “That’s the real test.” “I didn’t come here for tests, I came to get out of the dreadful thunderstorm, and you’re not being very welcoming. My name is Tiffany, and if I remember correctly your names are White Rabbit, Dormouse, Mad Hatter and March Hare.” “See, you said if you remember correctly, which throws it all up in the air. In fact, you’re just about as wrong as anyone can be. In fact you are so wrong, you’re almost right!” “That does not make sense! Nothing makes sense here. You’re not real characters. You’re illustrations from a work of fiction!” “We should know what our names are just as much as you don’t,” the hatter snapped. “You’re very uneducated. It’s impolite. I go by IM, pronounced eye em for Irrational Milliner; this is the June Hare as time stands still for no-one not even you, and this, he poked the mouse who opened one sleepy eye, is Hazel.” The hatter stood. “It’s time to move around the table. Move!” “Mr. I.M.? I'm impolite? You haven’t asked me to sit down yet, let alone have tea.” “Tea? Someone’s out of touch. Of course, you can help yourself to a latte and biscotti...” But before Tiffany could point out there wasn’t any such thing to be had on the table, another loud marimba tune rang out and the White Rabbit startled. “Come on! She’s going to be furious if the game’s already started!’ “Who’s she?” “The Blue Queen! Quick. Follow me!” Blue Queen? Curiouser and even more curious. No, that wasn’t quite right . Tiffany and the rabbit traversed alternating black and white squares with weeds growing between them to arrive at a pickleball court surrounded by courtiers standing to attention. A woman wearing a crown with a scepter and a bejeweled blue gown, appeared about to serve to soldiers dressed in full uniform wearing ceremonial hats with long tassels that obscured their eyes clanking around with swords at their sides and one hand tied beyond their backs. ”Ah, there you are!” the Blue Queen stopped and shouted out. “Come here at once!” The rabbit scurried. Tiffany followed at a walking place as a show of defiance. Arriving on court Tiffany noted that the blue queen was identical to the red one except for her color; the massive head and bad mood dominating all around her. The queen handed her a rolled up hedgehog, its little black nose and dark eyes sticking out. “Your turn to serve for me!” Tiffany trembled. “But your majesty, I’ve never played. I don’t know the rules...” “Nonsense, girl. Just remember the flibberty gibbet bounces once in the kitchen, and don't thripe!” The White Rabbit frowned nervously and nodded to Tiffany to get on with it. Tiffany punted the hedgehog over the net as gently as she could. A silence suddenly reigned. “Off with her head!” screamed the Blue Queen. Just to be on the safe side, Tiffany decided to run.

“How dare you insult me like this?” Thomas St. Clair yelled in the middle of the busy restaurant. He was perched on a velvet-upholstered chair. His towering red pompadour was beautiful and intimidating like a peacock spreading its feathers. Gin and tonic dripped from his chin after he involuntarily spat out the drink, showering the Pan-Seared Sea Bass and Truffle Risotto. A woman sat directly across the table. She leaned forward and cupped her hands to her mouth, trying to screen her words from curious onlookers. “What is wrong with you?” she demanded. “I just want the banana cream pie.” Thomas brought his fist down on the table. The crash of dinnerware was akin to a car accident; everyone in the vicinity turned to view the wreckage. “Bananas be damned,” Thomas hollered. “Those yellow sacks of garbage need to go back to whatever country they came from. They’re all the same, soft and juiceless.” The growing murmurs from restaurant patrons were like applause to Thomas. He stood up, reveling in the spotlight, and continued, “Apples are the far superior fruit. As heir to the St. Clair Cider Company, you’ve proven unworthy with these banana shenanigans. We’re through.” A black, gloopy mixture of salt water and mascara streamed down the woman’s cheeks as she sprinted towards the front door. Thomas stopped short of bowing to his audience but smiled and returned to his Sea Bass. An older gentleman with slicked-back hair and a perfectly tailored suit took the empty seat. He spoke in a solemn tone, “Do my ears deceive me? Did you break up with someone over pie?” Thomas’s smile stretched wider. “Chauncey, this is one hell of a fish you make here.” “Every week you bring a new woman to my restaurant,” Chauncey continued. “Every week they leave here crying. It’s not good for business, what’s the matter with you?” Thomas laughed and arrogance radiated off him like heat waves from a barbecue. “I’m a very wealthy man Chauncey, and highly respected in the beverage industry. I demand nothing less than perfection from any lady I date.” “I don’t appreciate you disrupting my customers.” “Relax. For the trouble, add a ‘K’ to my bill.” “A ‘kay’?” Chauncey asked. “Yeah! One K. One grand. One thousand bucks, whatever you want to call it. I'm good for it." Chauncey made a come-here motion with his finger and began to whisper, “I'll admit you have spent a lot of money in my restaurant, so I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’m currently in possession of a magic genie. You may talk to him... BUT ONLY if you promise to wish for a woman who satisfies all your needs.” Without hesitation, Thomas pushed his plate away, wiped his mouth, and nodded in acceptance. Chauncey pointed to a dimly lit hallway lined with silk plants. “Goes past the washrooms, third door on the left. The passcode is 3909 .” Thomas punched the numbers onto the electronic keypad. Beeps were followed by the low drone of a motor retracting a deadbolt. The door was solid metal and heavy, like an old bank vault. It opened to a bright, windowless room. White floor tiles. White walls. White ceiling panels. Thomas felt like he was inside a marshmallow. In the back corner was a baby lamb nestled on a small pile of hay. The animal shook off bits of straw from its fleece and trotted towards Thomas, its tail wagging like a dog’s. Having never been around barnyard animals, Thomas took a defensive stance, “Are you the magic genie?” The lamb began to brush up against Thomas’s leg. He tried to shoo away the fluffball by shaking it, but the lamb became agitated and emitted a horrific maaaaa sound before bending over and sticking its rear end in the air. Thomas was knocked backward by an explosion of blue light and a hurricane-like wind. Through a cloud of smoke emerged a floating cross-legged man. He wore tight jean shorts and a beer belly spilled out of a Led Zeppelin t-shirt. The figure brushed long greasy black hair from his eyes and boomed, “I am the genie of the lamb.” “The lamb?” Thomas questioned. “Shouldn’t it be lamp?” After a brief pause, the genie lowered its head and talked in a laid-back stoner voice, “I kinda cheated my way through Genie School. You pretty much have to when ya got Visual Dyslexia. Lamp. Lamb. They both look the same on paper. But a big difference when it comes to smell. I may have accidentally picked an untraditional genie dwelling, but I’m still authorized to grant you one wish.” “Can you use those genie powers to find me a gentle, caring wife?” Thomas asked. “One metal pairing knife coming up.” “WHAT,” Thomas yelled. “I said caring wife.” “Busted! I’m also a tad deaf, so you’re gonna have to speak up and please be specific.” Thomas began to formulate the perfect woman in his mind, cycling through the annoying flaws that caused previous break-ups. One woman was taller than him, one walked too fast, one ate like the Cookie Monster, one put mustard on French fries, one smelled like the pine tree air freshener from his car, and there was the one named Isabella. The Hispanic beauty was nearly perfect, but sharing the same name as his mother, Thomas found it difficult to dirty talk or scream her name in bed. Thomas locked eyes with the genie and proclaimed in a loud, clear voice. “I wish for the perfect woman who will love and adore me. I want her to be from South America. I want her to be petite and slim with smooth skin and delicious curves. I want her to be rich, loaded with K. And she must be sweet on the inside and have appeal on the outside.” The genie’s fingers moved to his temples, and his eyes shut tight in deep concentration. His head began to shake violently. Then a ding, reminiscent of a toaster oven bell, echoed through the room. “Your wish has been granted,” the genie said and opened his eyes. “She’s waiting for you at the restaurant table.” The genie turned transparent, shrunk, and returned to his home inside the lambs' rear end. From across the dining room, Thomas saw two empty chairs at the table. He twisted and strained his neck as he navigated the busy restaurant floor looking for a woman that matched his description. Nothing. He plopped into his chair disappointed. “Is that you Thomas?” said a woman’s voice with a Spanish accent. “I’ve missed you so much.” Thomas perked up and scanned his surroundings, but there was no sign of a woman. However, movement on the other side of the table caught his eye. Sitting on a velvet seat cushion was a banana. A banana with oversized cartoonish eyes that were smoky and supported lashes that reached for the ceiling. Pouty lips of ruby red. Stubby human-like arms and legs protruded from its yellow skin. The chest area was slightly peeled, showing off lumps of soft white flesh like some Red-Light district whore. “Let’s get out of here,” the banana purred. “I want to be inside you.” “What the hell is this?” Thomas said. “Where’s my curvy South American sweetie?” The banana licked a finger and ran it down the yellow curve of its skin, then pointed to a sticker that clearly said Ecuador. “My name is Chiquita.” Violent thoughts began to invade Thomas’s mind. A blender whirling the banana to a creamy death. A frying pan slammed down on its yellow jacket and pulp oozing out like a popped zit. Instead of implicating himself in a bizarre mash and dash, Thomas excused himself from the table, headed for the third door on the left, and furiously shook the lamb. Its tail lifted into the air, and like steam from a kettle, a bulky figure began to materialize. “Sorry dude, one wish per person,” the genie said. “For further assistance, may I direct you to a shooting star, birthday candle, or that fountain in the middle of the mall.” Thomas leaned into the genie's face, like a baseball manager arguing with an umpire. “A banana! I wish for the perfect woman, and you give me a talking banana?” The genie wiped specks of saliva off his face, then put on a pair of half-rim reading glasses and removed a two-foot-long till receipt from his jean shorts. He began to read, “One wish issued to St. Clair, Thomas. A woman with the following qualities. Loves and adores him. Petite, slim, delicious, curves, from South America, and rich in K--which, we all know is the periodic table symbol for potassium. Sweet on the inside and has a peel.” “Not a peel you idiot. Appeal, as in sex appeal. How am I supposed to love and take care of a banana?” With a puff of smoke, a laptop appeared in the genie’s hand and his fingers rapidly tapped the keys. “Says here you can wrap her up in aluminum foil. Also, keep her away from ethylene gas. And, if you’re into some freaky bedroom stuff, you can hang her from a hook.” ****** Inside Thomas's apartment, he sat on the couch in silence, the banana beside him. Thomas counted 382 ticks from the grandfather clock before he swiveled toward the window at the distant wailing of an ambulance. Chiquita spoke, “I saw the way you looked at the chocolate cake on that dessert cart. You’re in love with her, aren’t you? Is it because that hussy-bitch has a cream-filled centre?” “I’m not in love with any food,” Thomas snapped. “Especially dirt-cheap fruit that wasn’t grown in this country. Bananas are evil.” Thomas froze and his eyes wandered off as he began to unlock a memory buried deep in his mind. Thomas was seven years old exploring the family apple orchard one evening. The sputtering of a small engine wasn’t out of the ordinary, it was the subsequent aggressive buzzing that fanned the flames of terror. A rhythmic roaring danced off the trees, forcing robins and sparrows to flee the area. In the distance, Thomas could see his father, dressed in a banana costume, wine bottle in one hand and a running chainsaw in the other. He chanted, “See my peel, feel the fright, this banana will get you tonight.” His father chased Thomas yelling anti-banana propaganda, stopping only to take swigs out of the bottle. The red wine ran down his mouth and across the costume, giving the appearance of a wild animal feasting on a fresh kill. Thomas hid underneath a rusted Ford pickup truck until the chainsaw ran out of gas sometime after midnight. “What are you thinking about?” Chiquita asked. “I’ve never been this close to a banana before,” Thomas replied. “I don’t understand, you’re not some bloodthirsty monster hellbent on killing me. In fact, you’re not so different from an apple. You might be different colors on the outside, but on the inside, white flesh and fructose run through your veins.” Thomas shook his head in shame and lowered his defensive wall. “How could I be so blind? Those silly stories about horrible yellow creatures stealing our money and our jobs. It was all my family talked about. Did you come from a large family, Chiquita?” “Yes, there was a bunch. But I recently lost my grandpa to crown rot.” Thomas slowly replied, “My grandpa recently died of a blood clot.” Their eyes connected and an electric charge filled the room. Chiquita’s breath quickened and in a husky voice declared, “I may be green around the edges but want you to manhandle me like a starving monkey.” Her peel began to moisten, like a mirror after a hot shower. She didn’t have time to wipe away the mist before Thomas wrapped his fingers around her and smooth yellow skin slid in and out of his mouth like a popsicle. The steady rhythm caused Chiquita to moan in ecstasy and a warm tropical aroma filled the air. Thomas ripped off his shirt exposing his gorilla-like chest hair. Chiquita’s pull tab quivered at the sight. Thomas began to explore every inch of her peel. His fingers glided down the shaft, then he laid her on the couch and turned her into a banana split. ****** The next several days were the most joyous in Thomas’s life. Dinners, movies, and cuddling in a large bowl with various other fruits. He didn’t care about being seen with a banana, Thomas didn’t notice red or green or yellow or orange, he saw what was on the inside, a sweet sugary pulp. It was a Friday morning; Chiquita had felt unwell the night before and went to bed early. Thomas, not wanting to disturb her, slept on the couch a left the apartment early to get coffee. When he returned and pushed open the bedroom door, a pungent odor struck his nostrils. A sweet fermentation hung in the air. It was the smell of overripe fruit. Chiquita laid on top of the covers, her bright yellow skin had darkened and now looked like a school bus that drove through a puddle of ink. The sickly black spots made it difficult to know if she was firm or mush. Thomas dropped his coffee and ran to her side. “I don’t have much time,” Chiquita said weakly. “Don’t leave me,” Thomas cried. “I love you. I’m a better person with you.” “Promise you’ll cremate me. Can you do that Thomas? Mix me with some flour and sugar and butter and eggs. Bake at 350 degrees for an hour.” Hot tears rolled down Thomas’s face as the last word escaped her mouth, followed by her final breath. He fulfilled the request and baked a fantastic banana bread. Thomas scattered the crumbs around the park at sunrise. Then, feeling lost, he aimlessly roamed the city until he found himself on a busy downtown street, near the restaurant he had first met Chiquita. A familiar sound pulled Thomas from his somber state. “Bananas,” said a woman with a Spanish accent. “Who wants to get bananas?” Outside of a smoothie shop stood a petite, slim woman wearing a curvy banana costume. Thomas immediately approached her and introduced himself. “Wonderful to meet you,” she said. “My name is Bonita. I just moved here from Ecuador.”

Dan kicks the vending machine and curses. It had eaten his money *again*. “Damn thing,” he mutters. “Never gives out. It’s conspiring against me.” The break room’s lights flicker, then cut out. A strange wind whips up. There’s a flash of turquoise. The rustle of a shell suit. “Did somebody say conspiracy?” A voice enquires. “It’s just eaten my money, s’all.” Dan says, peering into the machine, more interested in the dangling confectionary than what had just transpired. But something makes him look. He double takes. Dan finds a portly middle-aged man, standing with his fists on his hips. His first impression being that to rock a shell suit is a brave choice. But to combine it with a cape even more so. “Having some trouble?” Conspiracy Man enquires. “Yeah,” Dan says, giving the machine a shake. “It’s eaten my money.” “Vending machines,” Conspiracy Man sneers, then spits on the ground. “Agents of the illuminati.” “I thought facilities management brought them in?” Conspiracy Man chuckles. “That’s what they want you to think.” “Well, whoever it was, I just want to get some chocolate.” “Don’t get sucked in. That’s what they want you to do! Open your eyes. Question the narrative.” “Which is?” “Chocolate is an agent of the illuminati.” “I thought that was vending machines?” “They both are. It’s a web within a web. Another way to keep the average man ignorant of their devious plan.” “Which is?” “To get you buying chocolate.” Dan scratches his head. “But I want to have some chocolate.” “Oh dear,” Conspiracy Man says, placing an arm around Dan’s shoulder. “Look around and tell me what you see.” Dan looks for a moment. “The break room: A vending machine. A water cooler. Coffee machine.” “Do you know what I see?” Dan shrugs. “The weaponry of the illuminati.” “I thought they were agents?” “Tomato, tomarto.” Conspiracy Man says and spins from Dan’s shoulder. “Take the coffee machine. Do you know what coffee is?” “An agent of the illuminati?” Dan offers. “Exactly!” Conspiracy Man exclaims. “Now you’re getting it. It’s another tool to get you coming back. Sinking your hard earned money into it. Keeping you working and obedient whilst the 1% sit back and laugh.” “But it’s a free coffee machine.” “Yes,” Conspiracy Man stutters. “That’s why they have the vending machine, too. That’s not free.” Dan nods. Whether it was linked to his low blood sugar, this was making a strange kind of sense. “So, tell me. What do you think of this is?” Conspiracy Man says, moving behind the water cooler. “Easy. Another agent of the illuminati.” “No. It’s just a water cooler. We need water to live, Dan. Some things are just needed.” After kicking himself at this schoolboy error, Dan has a moment of clarity. He’s still no further in getting his snack. “Sorry, is this all heading somewhere?” “I’m here to help Dan. I’m here to free your mind. I can open the door, but you need to walk through.” “So, are you’re not going to help me get my chocolate?” “Not at all.” “Because it’s an agent of the illuminati?” “No. That thing is stuck.” Conspiracy Man says, giving the vending machine a good shake. “Nothing is getting that thing out.” Just then, a man in overalls wheeling a sack truck enters the break room and inspects the vending machine. After jotting some details on a clipboard, he moves behind it, turns it off and begins positioning himself to move it. “Excuse me,” Dan begins. “What are you doing?” “Taking it away.” The workman replies. “A faults been reported, so it needs to be taken away for repair.” “Ah, you see what this is?” Conspiracy Man asks, becoming very animated. “Censorship. He’s here to cover up what’s going on. Taking away the evidence before it can be documented.” “Huh?” “Don’t mind him.” Dan says. “It swallowed my money. Is there anything I can do?” “Call this number.” The workman says, handing Dan a card. “They can sort you out.” “Cheers. That’s great.” Dan says with a smile, as the workman edges the machine onto the sack truck before wheeling it from the room. “I told you we’d stick it to the man. Didn’t I?” “You’ve done literally nothing.” Conspiracy Man edges from the room. “Have I Dan? Have I?” But before Dan can answer, the lights go out. They come on again in an instant, but Conspiracy Man is gone. Gone to Facebook or wherever someone needs to know how covid *really* started.

Timothy sat under the bus stop cover, checking his watch every few seconds. He was already late, as was the bus. "Pardon me, young man, do you have the time?" Timothy looked up to see an older women, hunched over and looking particularly sickly. Her hair was gray and knotted. Her face was wrinkled, her eyes carried heavy bags and snot was coming down her nose. Her friendly smile revealed rotting, discolored teeth. Timothy did his best to smile back. "It's a quarter till, ma'am." "A quarter till what?" the woman asked, smiling widely. "Apologies. A quarter till 8." Timothy felt a bit queasy as her breath was not very pleasant. Still, politeness dictated he smile. "Would you like my seat while we wait for the bus? It should be here shortly." Timothy stood up from the bench. "Well, yes. That would be lovely. Thank you, dear." the woman said as Timothy helped to the seat. "Young man, I'm going to close my eyes for a minute. Would you mind waking me when the bus arrives?" she asked of Timothy. "Certainly." Timothy replied, "And you can call me Timothy, if you'd like." "Timothy.. Timothy.. Timothy..." the old woman repeated to herself as she drifted off. A few moment later, Timothy saw the bus coming from down the street and said to the woman "Ma'am, the bus is arriving." She didn't respond. Timothy cleared his throat and spoke a bit louder, "Ma'am, the bus will be here shortly." Still, she didn't respond. Timothy leaned in to nudge the woman as the bus pulled up to the stop. The old woman didn't move. The driver opened the door. "Are you getting on?" "Yeah! One second!" Timothy replied. He nudged the woman again and she slumped over. Timothy's heart dropped. "Come on! I'm already late!" the bus driver called to Timothy. Timothy turned to the driver with a bit of a panicked look "I think something's wrong! Can you call an aide car?" "Not my problem! This bus is leaving with or without you!" the bus driver yelled back. Timothy thought for a moment. "Without!" he said to the driver. He turned back towards the woman as the bus closed it's door and headed toward the intersection. He tried to check her pulse. "BOOM!" Timothy jumped up and turned around to see a truck had rammed into the side of the bus. He watched as the two vehicles tumbled, the glass shattered, shouts and screams ripped across the sky. His heart nearly stopped when he felt the grip of boney fingers tightly wrap around his arm, his attention shot back to the old woman who was sitting upright and smiling. "Thanks for waiting with me, Timothy." she said as she stood to her feet. "If you'll excuse me, now. I have a bus to catch." Timothy looked back towards the carnage on the street and was about to run towards it to help. "Don't bother, young man." The woman said. "That bus is mine." She pulled her hood over head. Timothy watched as her cane transformed into a scythe. The old woman's pace picked up into a run and in an instant, he saw a flash of light leave the bus as the woman leapt into the sky. After a moment, Timothy's legs began to thaw. He tried to run toward the bus but, tripped hard over the curb and knocked himself unconscious. When he awoke, medical staff were tending to him. "Did anyone make it?" Timothy asked, pointing to the wreck. "Sorry, son. It doesn't look that way." the medic responded.

A car was approaching. I stood beside the road with my thumb out and turned my head as the car rolled past me and pulled over about 50 yards away. My belongings, such as they were, I kept in a small trunk of rough pine I had stolen from a barn some weeks past. I picked up my trunk and hobbled over to the car. It was a very old car with not one part of its surface free from rust. I placed my trunk down and stood upon it to see into the car. A naked man with a great beard that pooled into his lap and a cape of hair that went further sat at the wheel. A dog slept on a large mattress where the back seats used to be. “How old is your dog?” I asked. “Not mine. Where you tryin’ to get?” “North and or west.” The man said nothing but leaned across and opened the passenger door. “Where shall I put my trunk?” “On the mattress, but don’t wake Javier. He needs his rest.” I very carefully placed the trunk behind my seat and sat back as the man pulled back onto the road. There was a messy pile of empty plastic bottles beneath my feet and the air smelled sourly of sweat and a nameless mixture of odours no doubt relating to the dog’s presence. “Where is Javier’s master?” I asked. “He ain’t got no master nor never will.” “How come he to be named Javier?” “That were his name when the others introduced him.” No-one spoke for a long while. I decided to cough. “I don’t want any sickness,” the man said. “Oh, I assure you I am very healthy. There was a lot of dust.” “I can’t help the way the dust works. Don’t you have a mask? A cloth of some kind?” “Would that I had a beard like yours to protect me!” The man said nothing and shut his eyes and frowned. He shook his head in brief bursts for a while, still frowning. The beard slithered like some mystic python. I flushed in shame at my apparent faux pas, cursing myself inwardly. I could not afford to make such errors, not a man like me, not in this neck of the woods. “God damn beautiful country isn’t it?” I said. The man sighed a long sigh. Could I do nothing right? “A blasphemer...” he said. “Forgive me,” I said. We drove on in silence for perhaps half an hour. We had entered one of the world’s great arboreal regions that continued unabated past the hilly horizon. The dog slept on, snoring heavily. Finally, I mustered the courage to say: “I apologise about my reference to your beard, I assure you it was of a wholly complimentary intention. And I assure you also, I avow that I have the fear of God within me or let Him smite me down in this vehicle.” “There’s no good in apologising. Just a waste of words. What is said is said.” I noted his hypocrisy silently. I wished to write of it in my notebook, which I fetched from my trunk. I fumbled through the various objects and found the notepad under my copy of Survivalism in the Nuclear Age, on top of which sat my sustenance, an apple. The dog, Javier, stirred with a great snort and the man groaned weakly and squinted. I raised a conciliatory hand and the man nodded once, seemingly appeased. I pulled my pencil from my ear and very faintly noted the man’s hypocrisy in the notebook in a loose cursive scribble, almost, even certainly, unreadable, but serving as a memory trigger for this most abominable social lapse. My memory often fails me, you understand, so I must have some technique to augment it, if only in the form of scratchings and marks. A disturbance in the white of the paper that will allow me to re-live, or at least, re-feel the experience for which it stood. “You’re not one of them filth-sketchers are you?” the man asked. “Come again?” The man sighed and gave me a dismissive wave. “I am no sketcher. Alas, I was born with few talents. I merely like to scribble. The feel of it calms me,” I said. “What’s there to be not calm about?” “Many things. But sometimes it is what is not there which is dis-calming,” I said. “I suppose my scribbles fill that gap.” The man nodded. We drove on through the trees. Javier snored breathily. “If my nakedness dis-calms you, why did you get in the car?” I had forgotten that the man was naked. I don’t think it would be correct to describe him as naked, for his immense beard and hair covered him better than many of today’s garments. Truthfully though, when I thought of it, his nakedness did disturb me somewhat, but I was in no position to be denying rides at that time. “I hadn’t even noticed,” I said, “Why, you’re veritably jacketed-” I winced. The man squeezed his face tightly. He exhaled in a long wheeze. Again he shook his head. “Pass one of them bottles at your feet.” They were beyond my reach. “One moment,” I said. I turned around to my trunk and carefully slid free a children’s toy gripping claw that I had found in a garbage dump at another time in my life. It was very useful to a man like me, and quite possibly my most treasured possession. I held the claw out over a bottle and gripped the lever to clamp the bottle and raised it up and grabbed it with my free hand. “Sorry, I forgot-” the man said. “No, it is fine,” I said as I passed him the bottle. I carefully returned my claw to the trunk and fetched back my notebook to etch into my memory this second case of hypocrisy. The man took the bottle and plunged it deep into his beard and urinated for a long time. I sat frozen and stared straight ahead. Let him do his filthy business, I cannot afford to be left behind, I thought. “I’m gonna need a second bottle.” he said. He began winding the window down with one hand, holding the bottle in place with the other hand and the steering wheel with his knees. “Quickly,” he croaked. I turned back to the trunk and snatched the claw and in doing so hit Javier on the snout. The man appeared not to notice and I pincered a bottle and passed it over to him using the claw. He plunged the new bottle into his beard to continue his improper deed and at the same time poured the other bottle out the window, the foul liquid spraying in the wind onto the side of the car, spattering on the rear window. He passed the empty bottle back to me which I took with the claw and then he poured the second bottle out and returned it too. “I usually need three bottles. All this talk is dehydrating. There should be a bottle of liquids down there. Pass that.” I picked through the pile of bottles with the claw and found one at the bottom that was full of water, presumably, and holding my tool with two hands transferred the liquid over to the man. He glugged it all in one attempt and threw it down aimlessly into the pile. We drove on in silence. “Lemme see that claw,” said the man. I turned around to my trunk and saw the yellow eyes of a dog looking at me. Javier was awake and lay with his head down. “Um,” I said. “Come on now.” I turned back and reluctantly handed the man my claw and he examined it with what I am sure was feigned indifference. He pulled the lever twice. “Huh, is that so,” he said. He reached over with the claw into my footwell and clamped a bottle and brought it up and then released it. “That’ll do,” he said. He laid the claw down on the centre console between us. When I took it back I hid my concern and anxiety behind a face of stoic resolve. “I could use that there claw,” the man said. “It is very useful, especially for a man like me.” “Save me riskin’ mine and Javier’s life” “I’m sorry?” “Keep my eyes on the road better with that there claw” I turned to place the claw back in my trunk but the man put his hand on it. “Let’s keep it out here just in case.” The sounds of clattering objects and moist eating filled the air from behind. “What’s he doing? Did you wake him?” said the man. “He doesn’t wake this early, ever. What did you do to Javier?” “Um...” The eating sounds turned to a gagging, gasping sound. “Help him God damn it!” yelled the man. I am an avowed animal lover, a trait you might find strange for a man like me, and as such I am embarrassed to admit that my first thought in this moment of action was not of animal rescue but of this accursed man’s continued hypocrisy and then secondly my regret at having to delay its recording to lay my hands upon a foul beast. I turned around and saw Javier with his head in my trunk, which in a moment of rushed urinary assistance I had forgotten to close. My apple! How dare that vile hound sink his slobbering fangs into my lunch! In a moment of rage I lunged at Javier and pulled him from the trunk. The two of us tumbled over the mattress intertwined like lovers as I pulled at his jaws, not to free his air passages but rather to get back my apple. A man could go days in those parts without seeing a town so if I had to eat regurgitated apple I would. “What the hell are you doing to him?” cried the man, stealing glances behind him as he drove. I worked my hands into Javier’s slobbering mouth, pulling bits of apple out as he choked and snorted. His tonge was soft and slick like raw chicken and his breath smelled worse and was hot on my face. Suddenly Javier went limp and the choking noises stopped. The man braked hard and pulled over. “Javier?” cried the man. “Javier? Is he alright?” I turned back to the man with a look of unconcealable shock, my face and hands covered in dog saliva and bits of apple. The man looked past me to Javier’s stillness. “I don’t-” I said, not sure of what to say. I stepped towards my trunk and reached for it but felt myself yanked backwards. I just managed to grab one handle of the trunk and held onto it as I was pulled through the car by the man and tossed through his urine sprayed window and landed on the road, my trunk clattering after me spilling my possessions. I could hear the man howling from the car before he sped off down the road at an unconscionable speed. I gathered my belongings and limped from the road. After gathering my breath, I noticed that I was in fact very hungry. I looked about me so as to appear to any observers that my next act was not performed without seeking alternatives. I was very hungry. I pulled the two pieces of slobbery apple from my face and put them in my mouth and chewed. It is important to release the juices, see, it improves nutrient absorption. I read that in Survivalism in the Nuclear Age and it hasn’t failed me. No less than two hours would have passed without a single vehicle passing. My stomach was pining for sustenance and I was growing weak. I figured I would spend the remains of the day to seek out some food, perhaps some fruit or if He so gifted me, some fresh roadkill. But of course, there must be cars to kill the animals for me. I walked for a time up the road dragging my trunk behind me. I did not wish to stray far from the road but I spied a small pond through the trees nearby. Water leads to life, and so on. I reached the pond and looked about, spying atop a rock formation what seemed like a fruit tree. When I reached the rocks, I saw above me my salvation! A cherry shrub, bursting with hundreds of sweet red balls. I bent down to open my trunk to fetch my- “Noooooo!” I cried. That filthy naked man had stolen my claw. How had I not taken it with me? I was sure if I had seen it, I would have grabbed it. I last saw it on the centre console but when I was dragged out it was gone. Where could it have-? I realised then that the man had hidden my precious claw in his accursed beard as his dog choked to death.

I was in the middle of my regular practice. I was so focused on my forms and positions and transitioning between them as flawlessly and fluidly as possible that I probably wasn't paying as much attention as I should have. My practice routine is one of the reasons why my coworkers think I am really weird. I was in the pose of a menacing standing knight, preparing to transition into a lurking chimera, when I noticed some suspicious noises coming from the hallway. A distant moaning and flapping sounds, a clear sign of zombies trying to run, with the occasional louder smacking as one of them lost its balance and slammed its rotting face into the floor. Quiet, but quick and sure footsteps approaching. A click of a trap being triggered, followed by a clang as the spikes crashed violently into a wall. I immediately went back to my place in a dark corner of the chamber and froze in my usual pose, stiff as a board. This might be interesting, I thought. And it was. She had a beautifully athletic body, clad only in thin leather, and man, she did know how to move. She noticed the traps at the entrance to the chamber and leapt gracefully over the pressure plates. I've tried to imprint that image in my mind: a graceful woman in leather jumping over the deadly traps. I decided to try that as my next painting project. I still suck at trying to draw figures in motion. She landed in a crouch and took a quick look around. The zombies were coming closer, though they were obviously slowing down, afraid of the traps. But there was a distant clatter, which meant that one of the armored skeletons had been awakened by the commotion and had joined the hunt for the thief. With her mind already made up, she took a quick step toward what she thought was safety. When she realized that the door on the other side of the chamber only led to a small alcove, she became visibly nervous. She turned back, looked around the half-empty chamber again, and then stared into the corner. She realized she was trapped in a dead end. She had a belt with two long daggers, but she looked like the kind of hero who prefers to avoid direct confrontation. She made a decision that I expected. She ran to a large, battered cupboard in the corner, opened it, peered cautiously inside, and then hid there. She crouched down and shut the door. I heard her trying to breathe slowly and deeply to calm herself. She was crouching, daggers at the ready, peering out through a narrow crack. She watched as the first zombie shambled into the chamber, stepping on a trigger plate at the entrance. A huge spike shot through the zombie and pinned it to the wall. The moans and grunts of the other zombies took on an amused tone, but they ignored their struggling friend and looked around carefully, trying to spot their prey. And trigger plates for more traps. Not all zombies are completely stupid, just the vast majority of them. When the loud clatter announced the arrival of the skeleton knight, the zombies stepped aside. The undead have a strict hierarchy, with fresh zombies being the lowest on the corporate ladder. The skeleton knight quickly checked the chamber and then looked in my direction, with a suspicious look in the magic fire that served as his eyes. But he shrugged and began to chase the zombies away, back to their posts. The thief breathed a sigh of relief and slowly sheathed her daggers. When the clatter of knights' armor and the smacking sounds of rotten feet from the corridor died down, I decided to give it a try. I whispered: "Do you know any good jokes?" She froze. Then she tried to break down my door. She tried to pull out her daggers. I sighed and squeezed her as hard as I could. I guess she didn't know any good ones. Too bad. If she had, maybe I would have risked it and let her go. Maybe. But it is hard to find a good job for an old mimic of my size, and I was quite happy with my current one, even though all my co-workers thought I was a weirdo and a creep.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction, but I have used information about migrating birds from the Audubon Society and Cornell Lab of Ornithology, which I believe is the most up-to-date scientific data. Interviewer: Please tell us what happens during your winter migration. Maude: Yes, I will tell you the story of what happened last year. Small rustling sounds among the leaves woke me from a sweet dream of warm sunshine and a full stomach. I was hungry and would need to go foraging for food soon. The light was returning to our roost as the sun came up, and the occasional “cheep” soon became a symphony of calls, “cheerily, cheer up, cheerily, cheer up.” Our song grew louder and faster, settling into a steady rhythm as we joined with other birds in the glorious dawn chorus. At dawn our song is faster than at any other time - it is meant to awaken and to rouse us for the hard work of the day. Our song is also a joyous anthem of thanksgiving that we survived the night and have another beautiful day to enjoy. Our roost was getting quite noisy in the mornings, as our flock has been joined by several other flocks. Soon we’ll all be making the long winter migration flight, from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan down to southern Texas and the Gulf of Mexico. We have spent the past few weeks gathering together, and eating as much food as we can find to prepare for that long journey. As soon as we smell that first warm, spicy, and slightly decaying scent of autumn, we spend most of our time foraging and eating whatever we can find - worms, insects, fruit, or berries. I would be busy today. At nine years of age I am one of the oldest Robins in our flock, and I had the honor and privilege of teaching this year’s crop of new, young fledglings. I am an American Robin, and my name is Maude. I don’t like this name, but my dear mother gave it to me and I keep it to honor her. She died just last winter when she lost her bearings and flew too far out over the ocean. She was a teacher for three years - quite a record. I’ve heard tell that the longest teaching career was that of a Robin from Canada who taught for seven years before she died, but that may be just a legend. Today’s lesson was to be on formation flying, so Il needed to find a bit of extra food to make up for the extra exercise I’d get as I showed the fledgling kids how it’s done. I hoped that they were good kids with good manners, but I didn’t have a lot of confidence in this new batch of youngsters. If yesterday was anything to go by, they are a bunch of hooligans and tearaways, who have no respect for their teachers. I was blessed this year with two successful broods of chicks, and I must give half the kudos for this to my mate Thomas. This was the third year in a row when we have found each other and raised healthy chicks. The first year he caught my eye, and I was taken by his strong voice, bright eyes, and bright red breast, so I followed him, and will follow him again. At my age I have had several mates, but Thomas is the best. He found, claimed, and fought for the best location for a nest, on a sturdy, horizontal branch of a leafy tree, where the nest remained hidden. Unlike many males, Thomas was always there to help with nest building, sitting on eggs, and bringing food to his hungry children and to me. He makes me feel safe, and I hope and pray he survives the winter and I can find him again next year in our breeding ground. I know he will look for me, and that he admires me, which makes me feel good. Thomas is also the most handsome Robin I have ever seen, and I’ve seen females go out of their way to attract him. So far though I’ve been lucky and he still picked me. I think perhaps I am in love! Our first brood this year was a bumper crop of five light blue eggs; I believe humans have named the color “Robin’s egg blue.” Four hatched and in spite of owls, hawks, and other predators, they thrived. A Robin chick has only a fifty percent chance of surviving its first year. So much can go wrong. Our second brood had three eggs and all of them hatched and have survived. I’ve seen all of them flying around, and today I will have them in my class. I must try not to make favorites of them, that wouldn’t be right. But I can’t promise, after all they are my children. Now I must go to eat, then I’ll be giving a lesson, so I will be back later to finish our talk about winter migration. The lesson began after breakfast with an alarm call from me, the sharp “yeep” alerting everyone that youngsters and guards should make their way to the nearby beach. We lived in the woods west of Lake Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. On the beach we would be able to see the approach of a predator and learn how to fly over water. I perched on a high sand dune and explained to the young ones, who stood more or less at attention on the beach below me, that before setting out each day they must eat as much as possible. Then we practiced stretching our wings and bending them to the right or to the left to turn while flying. Next we practiced being aware of our neighbors, feeling their presence, and when one moved slightly, copying that move exactly. This exercise always makes me laugh - a bunch of unruly kids arrayed on the beach, swaying and bobbing all at the same time. There are bound to be mistakes, bumps, even collisions. But we keep trying, and eventually everyone moved together, smoothly and amazingly. I smiled at them and said, “Team, you aced it! You are ready!” And then we took off, up, up, up, and began to fly, to wheel, to zigzag, to rise, to fall, to fly inland over the trees, and out over the great Lake. We all felt exhilarated, proud, and happy as we flew in almost perfect formation. Then I led us all back to our roost, and thanked our guards, sharing a moment together to be thankful that no predators intruded on the lesson. The young ones were welcomed back into the flock with much excitement and joyous “chirr, chirrs” and fluttering of wings. The next day we must leave. Since a few days ago there have been no worms to eat. The cooling weather has made them begin their winter hibernation. There are but a few insects around, and our large flocks are rapidly eating all the berries, seeds, and fruit that remain. We must fly south to find food. In the Spring we will fly back here to our summer breeding ground, and we will fly as fast as we can and make few stops, in a hurry to claim the best nesting spots and begin building our nests. But in the Autumn we can take our time and fly more slowly, stopping often to eat along the way. And the farther south we fly the warmer it gets, so most of us prefer the winter migration. Already I felt hungry for the fruit treats humans will put out for us on bird feeders. We set off early the next morning, quietly leaving our roosts a few at a time so we didn’t attract predators. Then our great, swirling mass of birds erupted from the woods and flew south along the coastline of Lake Michigan. Many people travel a long way to watch the fall migration of different species of birds; sometimes we see the sunlight reflected in a pair of binoculars being used by a human. Our flocks are lucky; we do not have to fly far before we come to areas where a lot of humans live, and as usual we found lots of food at bird feeders in human gardens. We were not yet far enough south to catch the last of the wild berries and fruit, or earthworms and insects, but in a day or two we would be. For the first night we flew inland a little to roost in the woods, where there are still enough leaves left on the trees to make this safe for us. In the morning we found we all made it through the first day and night, and we took off again. On days when there is not much wind and no rain we can fly up to two hundred miles in one day, and we keep a steady pace for as long as we can of about thirty miles per hour. On some days we run into problems. We flew over open fields for a long time, then came to a river and a string of small towns built next to the river, where we saw berries and fruit growing along hedgerows and around clumps of trees. We landed in the field and began foraging and eating. Perhaps we were the first flocks to fly over this particular part of the country, because there was fruit in abundance. Then I noticed a plant I dreaded seeing. It is a beautiful plant and has the most tempting smell - I believe you call it “honeysuckle.” In the autumn it has berries so delicious you can’t stop eating them, and that’s when the trouble starts for Robins. We get drunk on these berries. At first they make you feel just feel happy and relaxed, then giggly and a little dizzy, then everything you look at is waving about in front of you. I know all this from experience, but I was very young. I always tell my children about these berries, but that seems to make them actively look for them on our journeys and I know they enjoy the experience of being intoxicated. At least until the next day when the headaches arrive. We had to postpone our migration for a whole day because of those naughty youngsters who ate a few too many honeysuckle berries. To be honest, I envied them and wished I was not an elder who had to set an example as a leader. The worst part of this delay was our being exposed in the open field for such a long time. All the adults, and especially the male guards, were on full alert for predators, and we were ready to fight them off. Robins can fight fiercely for their young and their flock. I have seen the male of a breeding pair viciously attack a cat making its way up the trunk of the tree that housed a nest with his chicks inside. He won: the cat screamed, fell down and ran off. I have also seen a female swooping down and pecking at the head of a human male who was trying to get up to her nest to steal eggs. She won: the man gave up and left, rubbing his bleeding head. Sad to say, two days later we lost two of our older Robins who just didn’t have the strength to keep flying and plummeted to the ground. We also lost two young fledglings, who looked weak and sickly from the time they hatched, and had been watched over by their parents and other members of the flock until the end. A few more fledglings died because they wandered off by themselves, perhaps to explore, I don’t know. I stopped keeping a count of the ones we lose each trip because it breaks my heart so. When we finally reached our destination in Texas we were all exhausted. My flock tried to find our usual little wooded area, but it had buildings and roads on it, and all the trees had been cut down. Sad and weary, we found another wood, further inland from the ocean, but still with an abundance of insects and worms for us to eat. And we settled down to eat a feast, roost, and rest. We would forage and eat as much as we could during the winter to regain the weight lost during migration and to get ourselves in good shape for next year’s breeding season. We would stay here until the air warmed in the spring, then make our way to our winter breeding grounds. It was what we did each year - for us it was part of the circle of life. Well, now I’ve told you all about our winter migration, and a lot more besides, can I ask you something? In the middle of winter each year you have a big celebration and give to your families and friends little cards with pictures of Robins. I would like to know why you do this?

Herb Goes Out In A Huff They should have seen it coming. It had been building for a long time. Still, the event shocked all who witnessed it and is still talked about in the cafeteria, around water coolers, even in the parking lot as the workforce arrives in the morning and leaves at the end of the day. In this mega-company with facilities throughout the world, “Going Postal” has been replaced with “Going Herb.” The highlight of the annual Christmas Party is “Who Gets the Herbie”?, a prestigious award bestowed upon the worker who committed the most outrageous act of employee disregard for the welfare of the company. Herb wasn’t so much a loaner as he was an outcast. No one could stand Herb. It was a good day at work if you didn’t cross paths with Herb. Rude, obnoxious, mean, nasty, offensive...and those were his good qualities. The official TOE (Time of Event) has been chronicled as 11:42 AM though many put it closer to noon. Those closest to Herb’s cubicle and still suffering from PHSD (Post Herb Stress Syndrome) aren’t even sure of the date. It was said with such volume, such anger, teetering on a primordial scream of anguish-“I quit!!” Gladys, seated in the cubicle directly across from Herb knew something was up when he suddenly executed a leopard-like leap onto his desk, ripped off his shirt and dropped his pants before announcing his resignation. For reasons unknown to anyone, Herb apparently thought his announcement would be more impactful if made in his underwear, much in the mode of Lady Godiva’s legendary ride in the buff to protest a social injustice. All present agreed that it was an attention getter. The tirade continued. “I hate this place! I hated Barnes, and I hate the new guy Jones! I hate my cubicle! I hate all of you!!” Herb’s co-workers looked on in stunned silence while many were impressed with the amount of preparation that must have gone into his departure. The anthem of the disgruntled employee “Take This Job and Shove It!” was blaring out of an I-Pad on Herb’s desk as he gyrated wildly to the music in his underpants. Vigorous twerking with imaginary figures added artistic merit to the performance. He reached down into a box and threw handfuls of shredded paper into the air while shouting “Here’s your freaking Employee Handbook assholes!” At this point Jones, the new office manager, ran into the room to investigate the commotion. Upon seeing him, Herb pulled down his shorts, bent over and shockingly delivered a full moon salute to his boss. Herb then executed an awkward, yet impressive, foot-shuffling full pirouette so everyone could get the message. It was upsetting for all present, especially for Gladys whose close proximity provided unwelcome detail. Jones clearly misunderstood the moment. " Get down from there right now! That’s an order!” " I guess you missed the first part you freaking moron! I already quit!” Jones still wasn’t getting it. “You’re fired!” Herb, showing great agility for an older man, hopped down to the floor, donned rubber gloves, and grabbed a large bucket from under his desk. As he danced around the office in his underpants shouting obscenities, he sprinkled handfuls of an unknown substance on his co-workers’ desks. The gesture caused an immediate panic as it was known that Herb’s Uncle had a small dairy farm just ten miles from the city. Everyone stampeded to the exit leaving Herb alone to finish his goodbye opus. With each desk deposit, Herb left a note for the cubicle’s occupant. A sampling: “Marcie- Thanks so much for the twelve rejections. I hope Frankenstein shows up at your wedding, and then you and Rod rot in hell.” “Tom- Thanks for tanking my chances with Katie. I hope you rot in hell with Marcie and Rod.” “Connie- Would it have killed you to sit with me at lunch just one time? Maybe I could have warned you about eating too many chips so you wouldn’t have gotten so fat.” “Gladys- Why the hell do you think cans of deodorant kept showing up on your desk? Couldn’t you have given yourself a good squirt just one freaking time?” “Jerry- Thanks for giving Ralph that new chair that I should have gotten. The next time you go swimming in the ocean I hope a shark bites off your wiener.” “ Mister Jones- If you think cream rises to the top, look at it this way- poop floats.” Herb dressed himself and stepped into Mr. Jones’ office to empty the remaining dried dairy farm dust and clumps onto the rug. He paused at the door, looked back to admire his work, and left. ---------- The next morning a still agitated Mr. Jones called his assistant into his office. “Thank God that jerk is gone, Jerry. I knew he was trouble the day I arrived.” “For sure. He certainly was an odd duck.” “Well, we should probably find a replacement for him as soon as possible, you know, to keep things running smoothly. What did that goof do here?” Jerry appeared to be deep in thought. “Uh, I’m not exactly sure. We have Accounting and Sales mixed into the area. We even have a couple people in Customer Relations. I’m not exactly sure what he did.” “Let’s hope he wasn’t in Customer Relations. You’re the Assistant Office Manager, and you don’t know what he did?” “Not really. He was here when I got here seven years ago. He was kind of a loner, a real loser to tell the truth. I never had a need to deal with him. I never wanted to deal with him.” “Well, find out what his duties were. I want to put this whole Herb episode behind me as soon as possible.” ---------- “Say Ralph, Mr. Jones and I were going to start our search for a replacement for that idiot Herb. We’re not exactly sure what to put down for a job description. Maybe you could fill me in on his duties here.” Ralph looked puzzled. “Herb? Well, he was on his computer a lot. And he made a lot of phone calls. He wrote stuff down too.” “Well, was he in Accounting with you?” “I don’t think so. Ask Tom in Sales. He knows everything about this place.” ---------- “Herb? No, he wasn’t in Sales. I thought he was in Accounting.” “Are you sure? Ralph says he wasn’t in Accounting. He must have been in Sales.” “Jerry, I’m the head of Sales. I would know if Herb was in Sales.” “Gladys, can you tell me exactly what Herb did around here?” “He bothered people, that’s what he did.” “Yeah, I know that, but what did he do for work?” “I have no idea.” “Gladys, you sat next to him for five years, and you don’t know what he did here?” “Haven’t got a clue. I tried my best to ignore him. We all did.” “Connie, did Herb ever do any work in Customer Relations?” “Oh God, lets hope not. If he did, we probably wouldn’t have any customers.” ---------- “Mr. Jones, I’ve canvassed the entire office, and no one seems to know what Herb did here.” “You’ve got to be kidding me. How are we supposed to replace him if we don’t know what he did?” “That’s a good point, sir.” “He was here for twenty-five years. How can no one know what his job was?” “That’s another good point, sir.” “Stop it with the ‘good point’ crap, Jerry. I need some help here. Do you have any ideas?” “Well, I would just call Corporate. They cut the checks. They’ll know what he did. They must have a good job description on file for Herb’s position.” “Jesus Christ, how do I call Corporate and tell them we’ve had a guy here for twenty-five years and we don’t know what he did?” “That’s a good...I mean, yeah, that would be awkward.” “Oh my God, I just remembered. A team from Corporate is coming here next week to review my first three months as Manager. They’ll probably ask about staffing. What if they ask me about the vacancy in Herb’s position?” “Yeah, that could be a problem.” “What would I tell them? Dammit! That freaking Herb is a problem even after he’s gone.” “Well, sir, there is one thing you could do.” “What’s that?” “Call Herb and ask him what he did.” “Call Herb?! Are you out of your mind?! The guy called me a floating turd!” “Actually, I think his note said ‘poop’, sir.” “Jerry, I don’t think there’s a great deal of difference between a turd and a poop.” “I guess not. I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.” “Same page?! What the hell are you talking about?! Poop, turd, bag of shit, what difference does it make? He insulted the crap out of me.” “That’s kind of funny.” “What’s that?” “You said crap because he called you a poop.” “Not funny, Jerry.” ---------- Two days passed. Jerry and Mr. Jones tried everything they could think of, but still could not come up with anything on what Herb did during his twenty-five years with the Company. “Why are you so concerned about what he did here? He’s gone. Be thankful for that.” Most going away parties are held with the retiree in attendance. Herb’s was held the weekend after he left. It was indeed a festive occasion as the song from “The Wizard of Oz” was sung repeatedly throughout the evening, with modified lyrics. “Ding-dong, Herb is gone, Which old Herb? The wicked one, Ding-dong, The wicked Herb is gone.” A sense of peace hung over the maze of cubicles Monday morning while stress and worry still reigned in Mr. Jones’ office. “Jerry, I have an idea on this Herb thing.” “What’s that?” “Well, since I can’t call the jerk, I thought you could call him.” “Huh?” “He insulted me, compared me to a poop. I can’t call him.” “Hey, he wants a shark to bite off my wiener. That’s worse than being called a poop.” “Maybe, but you’re forgetting one thing.” “What’s that?” “I’m the boss. Do you like being the Assistant Manager and having your own office?” ---------- Ring, ring. “Hello, what do you want?” “Hi! Is this Herb?” “Who wants to know?” “Jerry, from work.” “Huh?” “Jerry, you know, the Assistant Manager.” “Oh, are you that weaselly little red haired butt-kisser?” “Uh...yeah, I guess that’s me.” “What do you want butt-boy?” “Well, we were all talking the other day, and we couldn’t quite remember what you did at the office. So, I thought I’d just give you a call and ask you...maybe, you know, I just thought you could tell me what your job description was.” “You thought wrong. Get lost, loser.” ---------- “How did it go, Jerry?” “Not so good.” “What did he tell you?” “Nothing. He wouldn’t say a thing about what he did here.” “We need a Plan B. Think, Jerry think. We’ve got two days.” “I don’t know. The guy is pretty difficult.” “Hey, I’ve got an idea.” “Am I involved in this new idea?” “Of course. You’re my right hand man. Remember the census thing a couple years ago?” “Yes...” “Well, you go to his house...” “What?!” “...and pose as a census taker. Tell him the last guy forgot to write down what he did for a living, and you just need fill in the missing information. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.” “That’s not going to work. He’ll recognize me.” “Put on a disguise...and we’ll get you a badge so you will look official.” “The guy is a nut job. What if he shoots me?” “That’s a chance I’m willing to take.” ---------- “How did it go?” “Not so good.” “What did he say?” “He said he hates the Government and anyone who works for the Government. He wouldn’t even open the door. Then I heard a barking, snarling dog. He said if I didn’t leave he’d let the dog out, and it would rip me to shreds. So I took off running.” “That’s it?!” “Yeah, that’s it. It sounded like a really big dog, sir.” “Jerry, if you’ve got upper management ambitions, you can’t be giving up so easily. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. Looks like I’m going to have to have to come up with a Plan C myself. Jesus Christ, I have to do everything around here.” ---------- The cubicle dwellers continued to perform their tasks, unaware of the turmoil brewing in the boss’s office, and inside his head. What would he tell the review committee should they ask about the vacant position? He could just make something up about the intensive job search underway. Too risky. He could bring in his deadbeat cousin Mel and have him sit in the cubicle and look busy while the Corporate guys were there. No, someone out there would snitch. Think, Mr. Jones, think. “Jerry! Get in here.” “Yes sir.” “I have another good idea.” Jerry appeared less than enthused. “I’m sure you do, sir, What is it?” “We tell Herb we have a nice retirement gift for him, you know, like a cheap watch or a small plaque, something like that. Then...someone... takes it over to him. He’ll be appreciative of the gesture, and then that...someone... can engage him in conversation and get him talking about what he did here.” “A retirement gift for Herb? Why would we do that? Everyone hates him.” “It’s a ruse, you dope. Just to get a foot in the door and get him talking. I thought about...someone...bringing him a nice fruit basket and telling him he was the employee of the month, but he would probably see right through that.” “Probably, especially since we’ve never had an employee of the month.” “We’re agreed then. Run out and buy a moderately priced Casio and take it over to Herb’s, butter him up, get him talking. And don’t give up so easily this time. Stay with it until you get the scoop.” “I can’t go back there! His dog will kill me.” “Do you like your office, Jerry?” ---------- Knock, knock. The first response was a barking, snarling, growling dog. “Quiet down Killer! Who is it?” “It’s me, Herb...Jerry from the office.” “Butt-kisser! What the hell do you want? Oh by the way, has that shark got your wiener yet? Ha, ha, ha!” This was not making Jerry’s job any easier. “I have a nice gift for you.” “Huh? What are you talking about?” “We all pitched in and got you a nice retirement gift. Everyone gets one after twenty-five years.” “What is it?” “A pretty nice watch. I’d like to come in and give it to you, Herb. Then maybe we could chat for a bit.” “Does it give time and date?” “Yes.” “Lap times?” “Yes.” “Indigo light?” “Let me check...Yes.” “Okay, come on in.” “Uh...Herb, will I be okay with your dog?” “Oh, don’t worry about Killer. He almost never bites. Come on in.” Jerry entered slowly, cautiously. He had his eye on Killer the entire visit. It was worrisome that Killer had his eye on Jerry. “So, you’re Jerry. Yeah, I’ve seen you around the office. You’re the little brown nose who’s always trying to impress the boss. Let’s see the watch.” Jerry handed over the watch. “Here’s a small token of our appreciation for all your years of hard work.” “Yeah, it’s small alright, but I’ll take it.” “Speaking off all your hard work, just exactly what did you do at work?” “Oh, a little of this, a little of that. Probably more of this than that.” “Maybe I was a little too isolated being cooped up in my office. Could you be a little more specific?” “No, that’s about it. You better get going. Killer gets nervous if someone is here too long. We wouldn’t want him to get your wiener before that shark gets it. Ha, ha, ha.” ---------- “A little of this and a little of that?! What kind of job description is that?!” “Sorry, Boss. His damn dog was getting agitated. I had to get out of there.” “For God’s sake, Jerry, I give you a simple task, and you come up with ‘a little of this and a little of that’? I’m surrounded by nincompoops, fools and idiots. Looks like I’ll have to handle this myself!” ---------- Jerry came into work late the next morning. He was immediately summoned to Mr. Jones’ office. “Well, I solved the Herb problem.” “Great! How did you do that Mr. Jones?” “I called him last night. You were right. He wouldn’t say a word about what he did here.” “So, how did you solve the problem?” “I convinced him to come back.” “What?!! Why would you want him back?” “I was out of options, Jerry. I didn’t want to look stupid to the Corporate guys.” “Oh my God, Herb back?! And after that meltdown I’m surprised he’d even want to come back.” “Well, I had to make some concessions.” “Like what?” Just little things. Like he’ll come in an hour late every morning and leave an hour early, and an extra week of vacation. Oh, and everyone threatened to quit if they would have to sit out there with him again, so he gets his own office.” “But we don’t have an extra office.” “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” ---------- Jerry fumed away in his cubicle, distraught at the sight of Herb sitting with his feet up on the desk and resting comfortably in his old office. He was bombarded with Country Western tunes, and nearly rendered senseless by the foul odor emanating from his neighbor’s workspace. Even the less observant in the office could see it was only a matter of time before “Going Herb” would be replaced with “Going Jerry.”

This is made by the help of Karthika Veeturi, so make sure you go follow her! I was helping my mom make lasagna for dinner when my dad walked in. My mom went into the living room to greet him and told me to continue. "How was your day?" she asked my dad. "It was okay. Just really tiring. " he answered. "Okay...well go upstairs and freshen up," she replied, "Dinner will ready in a minute." My dad went upstairs to freshen up and my mom came back into the kitchen and smiled at me. My mom has been acting really weird lately. She has been making my favorite food, smiling at me every single minute. Something is suspicious. She is not acting like herself. "Can you go set up the table, sweetie?" my mom requested. "Yeah sure." I replied. After setting up the plates and the food, my dad came back down stairs and we started eating. "The lasagna tastes good." my dad said. I nodded at him. "Soo...um...Zayn...I have to tell you something," my mom stated, " You know how I have been going for some interviews lately? Well, I got in for one of the companies." "Oh really? That's nice!" I said, smiling at her. "Yes, but I'm going to have to be there for 9 hours every weekday, which means I won't be at home most of the time. You will have to be home alone once you come back from school." she added. Now I know why she has been acting so weird. She knows I wouldn't be very happy with this. I am not the kind of person who can easily mingle with anyone and my only "friend" has been my mom, but now her going to work means that won't be possible either. "Um...okay..." I replied, not knowing what else to say. "Okay! I am glad you are okay with this!" she said, happily. I wasn't okay, but I had no other way to tell her and I knew she was excited, so I didn't want to ruin her mood. My dad just smiled at me. ---------------Two days later---------------- `I woke up feeling energized for the day, which is weird because I usually wake up feeling cranky. Then I looked at the clock and realized why I feel so energized. I SLEPT FOR AN EXTRA HOUR WITHOUT KNOWING! "MOM!! Why didn't you wake me up?? I'm late!!!" I yelled. There was no reply. I was confused and it took a while for me to remember that she went to her job that started today. I got and started getting ready for school. It was weird not having my mom tell me to wake up, move faster, and have her tell to have a great day at school. --------------After School ----------------------- When I came back home, I freshened up and started watching TV. Normally, my mom wouldn't let me watch TV until I finished all of my homework, but she wasn't there this time. After a few hours, my mom came home and she looked at me watching TV. I thought she would ask me if I did all my homework, but she just walked past me and started walking upstairs. I figured if she wasn't going to tell me to do it, I don't have to do it. At dinner time, I thought at least my mom would ask me then about my homework, but that didn't happen either, so I just slept without doing the homework. The next day... when I went to school... the teacher called me over to her desk. I could sense that it was about my missing homework. I made up a lie and told her I didn't have any time to do it. The teacher warned me to complete it next time and that I would get a B for not completing it. Great! Because of my mom's job... I have a bad grade! I know that I should have done it myself even I she didn't tell me to, but I was still angry at her job! I thought she would spend time with me after her job... but she didn't... she didn't even say a word to me. I was sad that my one and only friend in the world has no time for me anymore. At home, I watched TV for a while, thinking that I could do my homework after some time. When my mom came home, she glared at me. "Your teacher called me at work to tell me that you didn't do your homework yesterday." she told me. "Oh yeah sorry about that." I apologized. "What happened? You always do your work." she questioned me. "Well...you weren't there to tell me to do it." I answered. "I can't be there for you all the time to tell you to do your work," she explained, "You have to learn to be responsible by yourself." "Well, it takes time to get used to this. You don't even have time for me anymore" I argued. "So, you think this is my fault??" she asked. "No, it's just...I wish that you had more time for me." I replied. "Look...Zayn...this is just how it's going to be from now on and I will always try to make time for you, but you also have to start learning how to do some things on your own." she said. "Okay." I sighed. "Now, go do your homework." she told me. As I went into my room to start the homework, I could hear my mom and dad whispering about if it was a good idea to continue doing this job. I felt guilty inside knowing that my mom was so excited for this job and I just ruined it for her. She was right, though. I have to start being responsible on my own because this is just how my life is going to be from now on. As much as I wish things could go back to the way they were before, I have to start getting used to this. This is my life now.

The grip on the cold butcher knife in my right hand is firm, calming against my fiery skin. I'm standing under the fluorescent lights looking towards the double doors, taking deep breaths, counting down the seconds in my head and straining my ears, waiting for the telltale noise of steps approaching to jump into action. It's almost time, I can feel the buzz of the anticipation through my body, muscles tensing and senses sharpening. It doesn't matter how many times I went through the same routine already, the feeling doesn't get old; if anything, it gets better. It's dark outside, the streets filled to the brim with people celebrating the beginning of the longest weekend of Summer. Music, horns, laughs, conversations...everything overlapping, the pulse of an unrelent civilization kept away by some inches of concrete walls only. I close my eyes and take a long deep breath, reveling in the brief calm that surrounds me. The others in the room stand absolutely still behind me, well trained in the respect of this daily ritual but unaware of the meaning of this specific evening. I exhale slowly during the last seconds of the countdown and allow myself to feel the light weight and pressure contained into my trouser's left pocket; a lucky charm of sorts, the most cherished object to me and the only way to keep the chaos restrained, because someone must be able to manage chaos at their whim and for still unknown reasons, I got the gig. Nepotism? Maybe. 3, 2, 1... Showtime! The double doors open and suddenly there's no more room for stilness or silence. Everybody knows how to keep their pace in the dance that just started and there's no time for hesitation. Orders are placed, the clanking of pots and pans mixes with the hissing of hot oil and the knifes against cutting boards mark the rhythm of an improvised melody. Music to my ears, nothing as the dull background music that disturbs the ambience each time the doors are opened to bring in a new order. The place isn't big, just a dozen tables situated in a cozy dining hall, warm lighting and fresh flowers giving a romantic vibe not much in my dècor line, honestly. I very much rather a touch a little dramatic, personally, but hey, I'm not the owner, even if that could be arranged in a blink. Literally. Being not expensive but neither cheap, the clientele is rather eclectic; families celebrating birthdays or graduations, young lovers being engaged, friends catching up after long separations, middle aged couples looking for a spark on their boring settled lives, with or without their relative ones... A colorful palette in which it shouldn't be hard to choose the one who will have the honor to be the recipient of a very special treat tonight, with the best wishes from the Chef itself. A delightful tradition that I've kept alive all around the world without fail for so long I don't have the actual ability to remember when it started, and a very important one. I like to give my customers a personal attention touch, making them feel valued and seen even for just one brief evening before getting back to their usually sad and boring lives. I feel better knowing that I make a difference; a small one, yes, but what are the oceans but small water drops together? And if sometimes the one drop makes the ocean roar, it makes things more interesting, right? The entrees are being delivered and I don't miss the chance to take a gander at the dining hall every time the doors open, quickly enough to go unnoticed but I don't need more to take notice of the people seated at the room. There's three young women with bright eyes in what looks like an emotional last dinner before going their separate ways on the beginning of their adult lives. On the corner near the bathrooms a pretty little girl is enjoying the company of her grandparents after a day on the beach; I can smell the salt in her hair from here and her sunkissed cheecks are rosy from smiling so much. I like how they'd choose the most practical table for the sake of the child, ignoring the annoying passing of people from and towards the toilets. Other table is occupied by two men in an obvious first date. They are nervous around each other but there's an undeniable attraction and lots of eye contact. I wonder if not for the little girl seated near the door, they would be snogging on the bathroom before desserts... A couple in their thirties have taken the central table in an unfortunate attempt from him to show her off. Their clothes are expensive but her jewelry is fake, same as her allegedly luxury branded purse, and under her carefully applied make up there's a faint purple shadow on her right cheek. She's beautiful and painfully silent in contrast of his obnoxious bravado and her eyes don't look away from her plate, even as she laughs mirthlessly at his jokes. Before starting the main courses everyone at the dining hall has been scrutinized and catalogued. Now I just need to make a choice based on what I've learned about them not only by their behavior but also their stance, the glint of their eyes, the miriad of subtle details that go unnoticed for the untrained eye but not for me. I've been doing this long enough to recognize the whiff of disguise and the hum of blood running too fast under the skin. It's not an easy task, in fact I would dare to say it is the hardest ever, being the one who makes the choice, but there's no one else. It's lonely too, the need to move around the world in an endless search, never stopping twice in the same place, makes my existence impossible for friendship, love or any kind of long lasting company but I can't complain anyway. Mine is a one day a year job and I'm free to do as I please until next cycle, so I learn and dance and paint and sing and start wars and end them and leave my handprint in fresh cement and write my thoughts in anonymous poems and create pandemics and their remedies and cry and scream and laugh while I roam this world since the beginning of the times, gathering information on these fascinating creatures, studying their flaws and whims, dissecting them as a species in my mind since I can't do it as individuals in a physical way. That's not my job and anyway, they manage to do it themselves without any help. So I slip my left hand in my pocket and grab the small pebble turning it between my fingers, feeling its smooth surface polished by eons of winds and rains, and drop it in a dish, dissolving itself immediately. The choice is made. The people seated at the tables on the dining hall are completely unaware of the fact that one of them in a matter of days will change humankind's trajectory forever, be it for the better or the worse. I hope my choice was the right one today, I really, really hope it because sometimes, not very often fortunately, the chosen one takes a different path than whichever I put in front of them with catastrophic consequences (sorry for the Black Plague, by the way). I'll never understand free will; I would never, ever gave it to them. But when I showed my disagreement to the idea the only thing I got was a kick in the butt and a one way ticket to much warmer realms so I guess now I just can sit, watch and hope for the best. See you next year!

THE LEGEND OF THE MERMAID “Wake up, Oh Great Eland, I have come to you.” “You find me asleep - I watched through the full moon, and when the morning came I saw the dust of your trail many walks away, and then, satisfied that help was coming, I closed my eyes for a while.” “Can you still see so far?” “Oh yes, it is not my eyes that have deceived me, it is these wounds, I cannot even lift my body from the dust even though I urgently need medicinal herbs.” “Let me look, I will not hurt you. Yes, I see what you need, I will go and pick the herbs for you and you will be better in no time.” “No, do not leave me, perhaps something will happen to you so that you cannot not return.” “Are you not the great Eland, are you afraid now? Where is your brave heart, have you lost it? Think well while I am gone, for I want to hear the truth from the depth of your heart when I return.” “I am back, and was it so terrible that you wanted to collapse further, or did you use the time to think upon the reason for this sissy way of yours, hmm?” “Now please, do not take advantage of my unfortunate circumstances now, I know you are a woman with a heart of gold.” “So I am, else I would not have come to help you, I could have left you to the jackals and the leopards. Tell me, from the bottom of your heart. Everything.” “It was my friend from the farm who deceived me, and it was the witchdoctor who lied to me, and it was the mermaid who caused it all.” “Mermaid! The only mermaids I know of were written on the rocks in the caves by our forefathers in the Langeberg many, many lives ago.” “No, no - Oudtshoorn has a mermaid. She used to live in the pool beneath the waterfall here in Meiringspoort. Lots of people have seen her, and the children are not allowed to go near the pool lest she grab them and take them under the water with her, for she has no children of her own, and would love to have one or two.” “True, I have heard that story, but it is merely a legend to keep the children safe, for the pool is deep and extremely dangerous.” “You have worked far too long in the farmer’s kitchen, you are drifting away from our forefathers and from our traditions. You can say nothing, for, with a full moon a time ago, I as waiting for visitors to bring me a present, as is our tradition.” “Did anyone come to you?” “Yes, and I was hoping that my present would be a woman, for everyone knows that I am living alone.” “And?” “Nothing. They just told me about the mermaid. She is no longer here. With the last big rains, when the Olifants River came down in an enormous flood, the waters swept her away to the sea. She sits there upon a rock with her arms outstretched, beckoning me to come to her. That was my present. I could go to her and bring her back, they said.” “Agh no! How can you possibly go so far at your age?” “Listen further, or must I stop telling you what happened?” “Go on ...” “When the visitors were gone I fell into a deep and peaceful sleep. I saw the mermaid where she sat on the rocks at the sea. The hair on her lovely little round head was parted into a hundred pieces, each twisted and fastened with a chip of ostrich shell, just like yours. I say, you are quite beautiful!” “Tch, tch! You are an old man, what are you talking now, about me, about a mermaid!” “Sorry. But she was beckoning me to come to her, and with a swish of her beautiful pearly tail she swam deep down to the floor of the ocean to her paradise of pearls. I went to my friend who works on the farm to ask if he could help me get to the sea.” “Could he?” “No, but he took me to his witchdoctor on the other side of the dry river.” “... and you talk about me leaving our traditions, a witchdoctor indeed! What do they do, have they a lot of bones that they throw about, and according to where they fall, they tell you what your destiny is?” “Something like that. He went into a trance and he was shouting that he saw little dots. Then the dots started forming a pattern. And then he saw her.” “Who?” “The mermaid. He said that the hair on her lovely little round head was curled with the red clay from a faraway river, each curl ending with sparkling yellow and red and blue and green beads, all held together on the top with the spotted feather of a guinea fowl.” “How very strange!” “Yes, and I could see the lust in his eyes!” “You should have run away. Did you?” “Just about. But he brought me good news. He would bring the mermaid back here with his magic potion which was bubbling in a pot with three legs on a fire in his hut. Through the smoke I think saw various animal skins with heads on them - a leopard, a wild red cat, an owl. He said that the mermaid would be in the river above the waterfall, and when the next big rains came, she would be washed down into the pool where she would be waiting to welcome me.” “Come on, do not hesitate, this is getting interesting.” “I waited and waited and waited for the rains to come. And then, at last, after more than two years, I saw a storm coming our way from afar, and I put in an effort to make my old legs come all the way here to the waterfall. And this is how I ended up, lying in the dust.” “What on earth happened?” “The storm broke out, viciously. The thunder hit against the ravines, the overwhelming sound hitting back and forth from side to side against the krantzes, the electric fire dancing about and the downpour smashing my body and my face, nearly blinding me. But through it all I saw her near the pool, beckoning me, beckoning me ...” “It is alright, Great Eland, you are safe now ... take a sip of this, and let me hear the rest.” “When ... when I was nearly in her arms, she turned into a wild red cat with enormous fangs, and she wildly clawed at me ... it is these wounds that have left me down on the ground.” “But what happed, how did you survive this terrible attack?” “Our forefathers looked down upon me in mercy, and I was saved. The lightning struck right next to me, but it struck him.” "Him? Wait here, I see you are confused. I am going to fetch help, for I alone am not strong enough to help you back to your hut.” “Quiet woman! I am not confused, just listen further.” “Sorry.” “He gave an unearthly scream when he was struck, he fell sideways and rolled down toward the river. The waters took him. Do you see that tree, the one that was washed down with the storm water but got stuck between those rocks? “Yes.” “Go and see what was caught in its branches, and then you will understand.” “Brr! The head and skin of the wild red cat! His camouflage!” “Yes dear.” “No wonder your heart has deceived you, it is too terrible a thing that happened to you. I am doing my best to dress your wounds very nicely with these weeds, tomorrow you will be better, and I will help you to go home, even if it takes a week or even a month.” “You are very, very kind. I think if I finish telling you what happed, I will be able to put it all behind me and get on with my life without nightmares. Will you listen further?” “My poor heart! What now?” “Keep steady. Before I tell any further I want to know how it came to be that you came to me here. Were you on your way somewhere, did our forefathers once more look mercifully down upon me, and you came to see me lying here on the ground?” “You said I have been working too long at the farm. But I have not lost my intuition. I had to leave the farm and follow the tip of the moon towards the two bright stars, until I came here. And I find a feeble old man! Tell further.” “Give me your hand. It’s so soft. It was my friend who worked on the farm. He was watching everything happen from behind some bushes. Everything turned out well for him.” “How come?” “He told me so. When he saw me lying helplessly and in need, he laughed at me. He told me his whole story.” “His story?" “Yes. He has a story too. He and the witchdoctor conspired against me. He paid the witchdoctor his only cow to kill me, so that he could have the mermaid.” “I cannot bear to hear this.” “What happened is that he heard that the witchdoctor planned to kill me, and then immediately leave to find the mermaid for himself, before my friend could find out." “No! What am I hearing today!” “My friend was so furious when he heard that he was now minus his only cow for nothing at all, that he decided to kill the witchdoctor after the witchdoctor had killed me. Then things turned out well for him - the lightning and the river took the witchdoctor, and I was lying helpless on the ground. The mermaid is still waiting on the rocks at the sea, she was never brought here, and he has gone after her. He can have her, I am over her now. You are here with me now." "I love it when you stroke my hand."

It was around one in the afternoon when the lights went out. Of course, that wasn’t the strangest thing about that day. After what had already happened, the power going out was almost expected. It was the middle of the summer, and I was falling asleep in class. I had completed geometry the previous year and was taking summer classes to try to skip precalculus. It wasn’t my decision, but my guidance counselor had thought it would be good for me, so here I was, wasting my summer away, sitting in a sweltering hot room with very little AC and listening to the teacher drone on about sinusoidal functions or something like that. My friends were away, Amy was at the beach, Flora was in Kentucky visiting her grandparents, while I was shipped away to a summer boarding camp to learn math. I thought it would be the most boring summer ever. And how wrong I was. Around ten in the morning, Joan had burst into the classroom, exclaiming that it was snowing. No one believed her initially, since one, it was the middle of a hot, sunny day in July like every other one that month, and two, Joan had the tendency to make things up. But it was true. We crowded around the windows of the classroom, yelling about the snow until Mrs. Megan finally corralled us back into our seats to continue learning about sine waves or whatever we had been learning, I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention. Snow in Florida was practically unheard of, even in the winter. In the summer, that was just impossible. Yet it was happening, not a gray cloud to be seen, but white flakes floating down from the baby blue sky. Everyone had their own suspicions on why it was snowing. Someone claimed that it was an anomaly with the weather, that it happened every so often. That would have at least made sense if it had been very cold outside, but it wasn’t. Some joked that it was a gift from God or a message from the aliens. Most of the reasons were just plain absurd. A few minutes later, the green grass had already been covered in a layer of knee-deep snow. We watched as other students trekked through the white powder, wearing thin orange t-shirts and shorts, trampling snow inside the mansion, sneakers squeaking across the floor. The teachers tried to get the derailed class back on track, but obviously, no one wanted to return to studying trigonometry, so they canceled classes for that day. So as everyone does while trapped inside of a large, old stone mansion with nothing to do, we decided to explore. Now, this was the first year I had gone here. My mom had been given a flyer for it and the campus looked nice enough so we decided on it. Being a boarding summer camp, of course, there are rules. It’s a nice school, an old stone mansion, built in the seventeen hundreds before it was abandoned until repurposed as a summer camp recently. We once looked it up. The old mansion used to be owned by a small, rich family, a mother, a father, and a young daughter. Not much is known about them, they were recluse and stayed out of the public light. Anya, the girl was around fifteen the last time she was heard from. She was a strange child, according to most, but not much was known about her since the people tended to steer clear from her. At some point, the mother and father disappeared, their bodies turning up at the edge of the town, the father covered in scorch marks, the mother frozen still, her skin milky white. The townspeople went to check on Anya, but she was simply gone. This of course sparked conspiracy theory after conspiracy theory. We had a few of our own too. Many claimed that the mansion was haunted, that Anya had died mysteriously. Her old classmates claimed that she loved fire and always smelled faintly of smoke. Others claimed that her skin was ice cold and they never saw her take a breath. Of her disappearance, well there were plenty of theories. Cole swears that they died in a fire that Anya started in the basement. According to another source, the family froze to death. But that didn’t make any sense, seeing as the parents turned up on the side of the road. Some people wondered if it was possible that a serial killer had gotten to them. Others wondered if it was possible that Anya had murdered her parents. Besides the ghosts and the legends, the main thing about our school is the fact that there are certain rooms that we aren’t allowed into. One being the faculty room, of course, and our teacher’s rooms. But the other is more interesting. Being an old house, built over three hundred years ago, the mansion is full of locked rooms and hidden passageways. Believe me, we tried to get in. We tried all sorts of things. Sebastian knew how to pick locks, so we managed to get into many of them. They were mostly empty except for cobwebs and dusty furniture, our sneakers leaving a winding trail of footprints as we explored, trying not to sneeze. We found hidden hallways that connected the English room to the Math room and one that connected the girls’ to the boys’ one. That one we used quite a bit, smoking cigarettes in the small stone passageway late at night. At some point, Cole found a doorway that led to empty air, two stories above the yard in the back of the house. But most of the rooms and doorways were just abandoned because they weren’t in good enough condition. The floorboards were rotting or they were being used for storage, things that weren’t very interesting. But the last room that we found was where everything went wrong. In the library, there was a painting of a little girl. It was one of those paintings, the ones with the dark eyes that seem to follow you, watching you no matter how far away they move. The girl in the painting was young, probably around seven or eight with pale white skin and dark hair done up in braids, colorful flowers woven into it. She stared out, not exactly smiling, yet not frowning either, a watchful glint in her eyes. It was our guess that it was Anya since none of the teachers seemed to know where it had come from. But the painting wasn’t the weirdest part. The weird part was behind it, there was a door. Sarah had found it when she accidentally ran a cart into it, causing the painting to swing to the side, revealing hinges. A small door was tucked neatly behind it, an ornate door made of dark wood, little patterns of flowers and swirls decorating the edges. She tried the brass knocker shaped like a flower, then the dusty handle. Not surprisingly, it was locked. As if we all had the same thought, my little group congregated in the library. Me, Sarah, Cole, Sebastian. When Sarah tried the handle this time, it creaked open, revealing a staircase winding upward. That should have been the first sign that something was wrong. But we went anyway, excited for the prospect of an adventure. The stairs were broken but we didn’t realize it until my foot went through a rotted board, the wood clattering down into the basement far below. Cole grabbed my arm and pulled me up, but I daresay we proceeded much more cautiously after that. I hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight, but Sebastian had, so he led the way as we climbed up the twisting staircase that never seemed to end. It seemed like we were going to the roof possibly, or maybe the attic. I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t even realize that we had stopped. It was the attic, a dusty space, the ceiling rafters stretching before us. I wrinkled my nose as I stepped inside, the floorboard creaking as we walked. An old chalkboard sat in one corner, a desk in the other, old papers piled on top. When Sarah touched it, the paper crumpled into dust. We explored for a while, that’s not important, I doubt that you would want to hear what we found, just old belongings and toys, a doll in the corner, its waxen face crumbled in as if someone had hit it. A small round window let in a faint beam of sunlight. The snow was still thickly falling outside. But the important part was the large wooden box that sat in the corner. It was around five feet long and one foot long and one foot wide. The dark wood of the sides was ornately carved with flowers and the letters AW. Anya Wilhelm. That was when we realized that it was a coffin. “What the fuck,” Sarah whispered. “Why is that up here?” No one knew how to respond, why was the coffin up here? Who had built it? If it was Anya inside the coffin, why was she there? Why was she not with her parents when they were found? The whole thing was extremely unsettling. “I’m going back down,” Sebastian called. I heard the others agree, but something drew me forward. I wanted to see what was in the coffin. Maybe I sound crazy, but I swear, it whispered to me, calling me forward and I couldn’t resist. “Yeah, I’ll be down in a moment,” I replied. I heard them hesitate, but the sound of their footsteps echoed through the stairwell as they headed back down. I moved forward, my fingers brushing against the dust, leaving marks in the thick layer that covered it. Before I could lose my nerve, I opened the coffin. There was a girl inside. She wasn’t human. That much was obvious from the moment she opened her eyes, staring at me with her strange, dark gaze. I don’t exactly know how to explain it, but whatever she was, she wasn’t human. There was just something...off about all of her features. Her eyes were slightly too big, her teeth slightly too pointed as she smiled. Even the sight of that smile sent a disgusted feeling through me like something was wrong. Believe me, I thought she was merely a dream, but when I stumbled back, my ankle twisted, shooting sharp pains through my leg and I knew that I was awake. I glanced outside the small round window, almost screaming at the sight. The snow had changed to blood, flakes of scarlet melting against the ground. I wanted to yell, to scream, to move away, but I couldn’t. I was frozen still. “Thank you for my freedom,” the girl said. As she turned and disappeared down the stairs, I couldn’t move to stop her, even though I knew I should have. And when the screams reached my ears, echoing from the floors below, I felt a tear roll down my cheek, cold against my skin, but I still couldn’t move.

Rule #1: The microphone records everything you say, so don’t say much. For example, don’t say, “People will die.” Instead, say, “It is possible that war will be declared.” (The passive voice is best.) Don’t say, “Everyone must suffer for this;” say, “The stock market is expected to dive.” (Be careful not to say by how much; see Rule 11.) Rule #2: Don’t start talking about personal details that aren’t worth their own story, such as: “An author has written that the war is the idea of a crazed tyrant, and he hasn’t posted anything since, and people are wondering what happened to him.” This is too specific and takes attention away from the bigger picture. Rule #3: Do not say “I” when stating an opinion, a wish, or a hope. “I hope that author survives the night” is cardinally unacceptable. You may, however, say, “We hope that author survives ...” because “we” is not identifiable. Rule #4: You must not decide what you say and what you don’t. It has been decreed by powers above you that if you do not begin by apologizing for this morning when you gave the incorrect pronunciation of the committee chairman’s name, the institution of broadcasting will fall and you will be the primary cause. Read what is given to you. Read it word-for-word. Make no substitutions. Make no insinuations. Make no art and no subtlety. Read what is on the page. Read only that. When time is limited, cut only something of marginal importance. Rule #5: When choosing what to cut, start with the past and end with the present. Never cut the future. If your speech is twenty minutes and should be ten, cut the historical background first. “We signed an agreement and promised to protect them” is extraneous information. If your speech is still too long, cut the present next. “Women have taken up arms to protect themselves” is not only particularly depressing but is also useless. Above all, however, do not cut the future. “We will be okay!” is encouraging and hasn’t happened yet, and by the time it does (or doesn’t) people will have forgotten you said it. Rule #6: “Personality” is a requirement, and personality will end your career. You will find it challenging to have a personality and no opinions, but you must do it regardless. When you are told to say, “He is doing everything he can to reach a compromise that satisfies both parties,” you must say it cheerfully. Part of you may wonder if what you’re saying is true. Divorce those thoughts immediately. Even if they were true, what could you do about it? Rule #7: Never forget your audience doesn’t care about you. When they state an opinion, they are merely playing along. They are like children stealing pawns from a chessboard because they think they can beat their elders. They think if they speak loudly enough, you will hear them and they will get a finger in the pie. But they don’t really care. Never let yourself think that when they say one thing, they don’t mean the other. If they say, “We want war,” they don’t know what they are talking about, because who in their right mind would want war? The enlisted men and women who thought they were willing to fight are all deceiving themselves, and you wouldn’t want to be responsible for deception! Rule #8: Art is the ultimate enemy. People will make art, and you will ignore it. In fact, if you don’t ignore it, it will likely ignore you, since art is never made about people who listen to it. Rule #9: Do not burden your audience with negative specifics. “War” is both negative and specific; consider “negotiation” instead. “Shortage” is bad, but “surplus” is good. (Don’t hesitate to use the two interchangeably. After all, the net loss to the economy is the same.) “Molotov cocktails made with kitchen chemicals in somebody’s basement” is too reminiscent of the Soviet Union, so instead say, “Civilians have been provided with safety measures.” Rule #10: Laughter is always an answer. “How are you doing today?” Cheerful laugh. “Do you have any comment on the situation?” Scornful laugh. “Will we be sending aid?” Embarrassed laugh (embarrassed for them, whoever was stupid enough to ask that question). “Is there a backup supply of energy for countries that may be affected?” Reassuring laugh. In short, master the art of expressive laughter. Rule #11: Statistics are banned. Statistics are what Orwell’s pigs used to convince a population born and raised without numbers. Your audience has been fed numbers for breakfast from arithmetic to calculus and are now so bewitched that one or two of them might think to pull out a calculator and double-check your math. Instead of numbers, offer quantities. “Much,” “most,” “many,” “the majority,” “some,” “a few,” “outliers,” “a minority,” and “several” are all acceptable. Rule #12: Pictures less expressive than words. A bomb can flatten an entire city, and a photograph of a road sign that still stands is enough to prove that the city was never flattened at all. A picture of yourself and your family will convince an orphan that families still exist, so publish them frequently. Rule #13: Avoid the following unlucky phrases: “Let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear ...” (“Assert” is too strong, while “fear” is too negative.) “Only a few generations have been granted the role of defending freedom ...” (“Generations” will remind the audience that they are not the only people to have ever existed. “Defending freedom” implies that “freedom,” whatever that means, is under attack.) “We’re the brightest beacon for freedom and opportunity ...” (This sounds too much like an invitation for people to come take advantage of our “freedom” and “opportunity.”) Produced by the Committee for Diplomatic Excellence. Errors and contradictions in this style guide may be reported to us. If you cannot find our contact information on our website, or if you cannot find our website, you may simply ask us. If you cannot find us, we don’t want your opinion.

A good 10 minutes had passed from the phone call and she still couldn’t bring herself to move. Reba’s stiff feet refused to take another step and the rest of her body complied. After she hung up, she grabbed her phone, her bag, the laptop, clothes and clenched on to them, waiting for something to happen. Her wrist watch moved another minute and then another one, still nothing happened. Reba’s stone-like body got stuck in front of the chestnut door, focused on its tiny crack . (Was it always there?) As soon as she will open the door, everything will become real. She tightened her belongings closer to her chest, but wouldn’t let go of that crack. (How long will I stay there?) Reba just moved in a few weeks back, what else had she missed about the house? (I don’t want to go... Do I wait for Nicolas?) When Nicolas asked her to move in two weeks ago, he did it with open heart. After she finally said yes, they celebrated by making love on the oak floor, next to another small gap that neither of them noticed. She accepted to move back to Myria only because of him; Nicolas gave her the reassurance that things can be safe here. And that reassurance was what she was waiting for again. (I can’t do this alone... I can’t go back there) As long as she saw the dent, she knew the door was there, too. And if the door was still there, she was still safe, in the house. A part of her hoped the door will open to a caressing hand to touch her shoulder and tell her not to worry, everything was being taken care of. That she was not needed anymore and she could just return to her couch, cocoon herself into the warmest blanket and when Nicolas will get home from his late afternoon shift, she would jump in his arms. The night was getting darker (How long do I wait?) and the front door was not touched at all. Years ago, after the event happened, her therapist urged her to face her fears alone, leaving the trauma behind, by returning to Moulley Valley at some point. Reba postponed that from happening as much as it was in her power. She moved out of Myria when it was time for college - 800 km away from all she knew, seemed a decent distance between her and her home. What her Mom considered to be emergencies and specifically asked Reba to come back for a few days were almost always related to church. It would either be a memorial service for her dad, Ethan, that had passed years prior and needed year and year again to be celebrated and cried for, either another holyday function that Mom wanted Reba to be a part of. Reba came and faked enthusiasm as she always had, ever since she was a kid. Out of 4 years in college, these “emergencies” became less often than she was dreading them. Her college friends were understanding enough to come and join her as an excuse for a road trip when was needed. For “mental support”, as her former therapist would say. Those road trips excuses extended into a full year of travelling abroad, as soon as they received their diplomas. Reba was the first to propose the idea, coaxing her young peers that “those careers will still be there, but live happens now ”. On a certain level, she did believe it. And she was committed enough to the idea to even push it for another few months. But the gig was up when the other parents started asking questions about their money and life plans. Reba was the only one that was using her own saved money, but came to the conclusion that it was time to put the big girl pants, too and come to her senses. She found a job in advertisement in the heart of the capital, still away from Myria. The event barely crossed her mind in the last couple of years. Mostly, because she surrounded herself with new people, all the time. But in reality, because she dug a trench so deep and long between her and her past live, mentally, emotionally and geographically, that there was no need to fear the event as much as before. It was lurking in the back of her mind, but it became less terrifying, knowing there was no need to return there. Until now. Faith has always had a good sense of humour. If faith could choose to be anything, most likely it would be a tarantula. Eight all-seeing eyes, that pays full attention to everything that moves across the scorching sand. An all-knowing creature, in a way. As soon as an insignificant, small prey passes by, the lurker is ready to grab it whole. For that, it needs patience of a saint. Again and again, until the time is just right. Out of 8 years that Reba stayed away from Myria and its memories, 8 of those were uneventful. The occasional short trips back to the city, to catch up on Mom’s emotional state were just not good enough for The Tarantula to fully snatch the young oblivious Reba. It took this long to lure her back, using Nicolas as bait. After just a few weeks back - the longest she had stayed since being a teenager - this happens. Her phone suddenly chimed a message. Is from Mom: “At the airport, getting a red eye flight. Be there in a few hours, by morning. Are you on your way?” Her Mom was going to be there soon also, “you can do this”, she imagine her Mom telling her. But Mom never thought of things in those terms, that people needed to hear encouragement. Or if she did, for sure she didn’t voice it out loud to her daughter. Ever since her husband died in a car crash, her smile crippled more and more, until it was gone. She spent a lot of time at church, praying that her daughter will not suffer as much as she was, while hiding her tears every time she passed by Reba. Mom prayed in silence about things Reba never knew about. Between working double shifts and praying in the House of God, Mom didn’t have enough time to ask Reba what loss was to her. So she asked help from her own parents, to take Reba in for a few months, over the summer. Bunu and Buna , as Reba called them, jumped to the occasion to offer a safe place for their granddaughter to grief and grow. “I can’t help her if I don’t have money”, Mom said. “Who will help me now, if not me? It’s for the girl’s sake”, she argued. “She will understand when she will grow up”. But Reba never understood. No matter how much her therapist tried to explain that some love gestures are difficult to recognise. Reba was all alone now, too. “Who will help me now, if not me?’ It was time to return to Moulley Valley, to their grandparent’s home. Reba locked the door behind her and put her things in her Honda Civic. The GPS showed a 50 km trip ahead of her, meaning she will be there by midnight. • Reba might have wanted to forget the way to Moulley Valley, but her gut didn’t. This was her first time driving on the snaky road herself, but she knew every lengthy curb by heart. The forest that she was cutting through became much denser that she last remembered, but then again, she last seen it 9 years ago, in her uncle’s car. A 2009 Renault Clio that she will forever remember as “this piece of shit”, that Hall was always complaining about. If it was not for the “goddamn ABS light that flickers like a Christmas tree”, it might have been the “fucking windows” that usually get stuck. Hall would constantly cry about how much money fixing the car would eat up. Mom was in the car, too, heading to the Valley and she couldn’t care less about the car maintenance. But what she really hated was his foul mouth, that he was bringing the Name of Lord in vain. She’d school him and then silence would fall again in the car. Mom didn’t push for any particular topic and so Hall would put on a CD. They didn’t seem to have too many things in common, even though they shared the same parents, memories and, up to their 20s, same house. Maybe they didn’t have that many things to talk about, after all. The day her Mom sent her to the Valley, was a beautiful and sunny one. The river flew along the same side as the road, just a few metres below. It ran down from the heart of Backon Mountain, all the way to Moulley Valley, where hikers stop for the beautiful view and for good spots to set up their tents. Nature filled up the emptiness left by three strangers from the same family. So did Layla . “Did you know”, Hall began his story, “that this song was actually sung by Eric Clapton about another man’s wife?” If the poor man expected a reaction from Mom, he sure didn’t get one. She was too busy with her own thoughts. And Reba, 17 back then, knew this behaviour far too well. “Really? Is it somebody famous?”, the girl asked. “So apparently” he joyful continued, “this man got the hots for none other than... the wife of George Harrison! And made her this song!” “Who’s that?’ “ Who’s that? My God, Reba, what are you kids listening to these days?” he berated her, looking in the rear-view mirror. “Hasn’t your Mom shown you the cassettes we had when we were young, of this little band called .... The Beatles ?” Hall looked at Mom, to try and jerk a smile, but nothing showed. “Oh, yeah! The Beatles . I know them, I just don’t know their names”. “Well, don’t worry. Buna has a lot of their albums back home. I’m sure she’ll play them all summer long for you. You will have a lot of fun here with her and Bunu . The song stayed with Reba even after all the ordeal. That summer she did listen to The Beatles , just as Hall had predicted. And also The Doors , some Rolling Stones , Led Zeppelin, Eagles, The Byrds and the Matriarch’s favourite, Queen. For that summer, Reba pictured how her Mom and Hall’s childhood might have been, with parents like theirs. They all went out fishing in the morning and cooking together in the afternoon. She watched her grandparents dance in the summer warm nights. And played games, in between. For that summer, she felt like a seen teenager. The present October chilly wind was welcoming Reba back. A small fraction of her heart still wished for somebody to be with her now. Mom was in pilgrimage 500 km away, Hall’s trucking job took him everywhere in the country, she didn’t have too many friends in Myria, to ask for a favour on a random Tuesday night and Nicolas was far too new for all these. No matter how much she anguished for help. (Who will help me now, if not me?) A few more minutes until her destination and the pumping pulse she felt in the ears were more vibrating. Her heart banged like crazy and the wheel she was steering lost its grip since her palms started to sweat. She couldn’t say how exactly she got there, it seemed more like an autumn dream. And yet, there she was, in front of the dark blue house she knew from before. “Get it together, Reba. Do it for Bunu”. The three knock on the car window came from nowhere, but the dark. And it extended the heavy fat arm of Olivia, the neighbour that called Mom about Bunu’s situation. She was the village nurse and took it upon herself to check on him ever since his condition had worsened. Hall and Mom came as often as they could, but he refused to let them help with things he allowed Olivia to do. It seemed too much for the old man. Olivia and the dreamy hooved man were the only one with full access. Since he started the morphine, his dreams were getting more frightening and vivid, he couldn’t stop the hooved, fury man’s visit. It was a risk he wanted to take, to ease the pain. His last walk in the garden was in the spring, when he got out of bed and let the sun touch him. Soon after, the pain got too much. Reba asked Olivia to stay with her just for a little bit, just to enter the house. But the nurse’s kids needed her, too. “They get scared easily in the dark. But come for me if something happens”, the nurse offered. Reba knew little about the struggles her grandpa had been going through. His cancer came late in the mourning process of his wife. She knew from her Mom that he started drinking heavily after her funeral and didn’t stop until the diagnosis came, a year ago. The summer that Buna’s heart decided it had enough and stopped, changed him as much as it had changed Reba. It had seen enough beautiful trees and bees, it had given and received enough love, danced enough songs and taught enough lessons. But for her husband, it was never going to be “enough” without her. The day the last shovel of dirt was thrown on her coffin was the same day Bunu left the door open for Death itself to come into that big, old house. • Reba remembered how her heart sank, at the sight of her grandma lying on the floor. She had no life in her anymore and maybe no soul , either. The Flowing Woman took it. Her ruby-red eyes haunted her all her life. How that ghostly being came out of nowhere, but maybe was always there... How it felt her grandma’s face, with her pointy fingers... And then it disappeared without even touching the ground, holding something close to her. Reba fell down in her own urine, before even trying to make a sound. When she told the story, nobody wanted to listen. Especially her grieving mother. 9 years later, Reba entered the same house that made her run away. With her heart skipping beats, Reba held to her chest while hoping no Floating Woman would visit again. “Bunu?... It’s me, Reba...” One shy step in front of the other, Reba went from one dark room to the next. No living soul around. The only sound she heard, led her to the back room of the house. Bunu was lying on a short-legged bed, with his face to the wall, struggling to release the cough that burden old, sick men. Only light source came from a TV that nobody paid attention to. He looked so fragile, one strong cough and he would break into a million pieces. This was a pale image of the man that danced with his wife in the garden, waiting for supper to cook. Was it the same man who gave his time and shoulder to Reba, to cry on? The one that told Reba the door was always going to be opened for her? It was. Reba covered her mouth, to hide her crying. It wouldn’t make any difference to him, his drugs twisted reality and fantasy too well by now, to understand she was really there. “I am here, Bunu... I came back...” The burning sensation that filled her chest was new to Reba. Her scared childish fears gave space for a different feeing: guilt. Of wasted time and stupid dreads, that kept her away. Floating Woman or not. She sat down by his side, kissing his hand that couldn’t feel a thing. “I’m so sorry... I am so sorry...” “It was never... about you... Reba”, a voice challenged her. The raspy voice was coming from the room she has just come from. As Reba lifted her eyes, an enormous shadow filled the room. A hooved, hairy creature tried to pass through the door, eyeing the person lying in bed. Reba stared in disbelieve at its horns and long dark fur, thinking this can’t be real. Bunu saw it, too; he greeted him with a smile and collapsed back on he pillow. Those ruby-red eyes made Reba dizzy... “You... saw me once... And thought I’d... take you. It was never... about you, Reba” “You are... the Floating Woman ? ! ” “In a way. My... good friend here... searched for me. We must go” “You are Death...’ “I am... his faith now”. The human-like hands of the creature caressed the old man’s bony cheeks, touching him like the last spring sun rays had done. The girl tried to push it back, but that was nothing to push; its presence was not there for her. She tried grabbing the sick man instead, holding him tight to her heart, hoping it will make a difference. That Bunu will wake up and embrace her back. She needed to bring him back. The tears she cried fell on the man’s pale face. “Let him know he is not alone! Please, just let me tell him how sorry I am! Please! Don’t take him yet!” Before disappearing as sudden as it came, the creature took what it came from and held it tight. “It was never... about you”.

“Psst”. “Vincento?” He was like a cat, from the back alley to the dimly lit sidewalk beside her, he was suddenly there, holding her hand. “How is my Ethel?” said Vincento. They caressed, her curly blonde locks spilling back from her eager face as she succumbed to his embrace and his exploring hands. “Vincento! Not here. Not now. Someone might see us”. Ethel grabbed his wandering hand and clasped it in hers, and they stood grinning at each other in the dim glow of the gas light at the Italian end of the street where the row houses crammed closely together. The twilight stick-ball game dwindled to an end, little boys and girls were shuffling back to their homes. “When then?” said Ethel, “when can we be together?” “When I have enough money,” he said, sighing. Ethel spotted her little sister Helen peeping at them from behind a plane tree. The girl took off like a jack rabbit toward their home at the far end of Cleveland Street. “Give me a week and I will get the money, I promise”, said Ethel. She kissed him on the cheek, then raced after Helen, intent on intercepting her before she tattled. Ethel’s petticoat and skirt flounced about her legs, and her boot heels clacked on the sidewalk. Vincento returned to the shadows, thinking on his prospects with the mercurial girl from the big house near the park. +++ Ethel was called to account in the dining room, where Erskine Gordon and his wife, Dorothy, sat in judgment at one end of the table, while the two youngest children, Hazel and Mildred, clawed at their distracted mother. Helen, arms crossed in a righteous way, breathlessly related how she’d seen Helen throw herself - half naked - into the arms of a swarthy brute in an alleyway, where biblical things of an unspecified nature took place under cover of the night. “I will not stand your dallying with that Italian boy”, said Dorothy, alarmed at Ethel’s descent from grace as reported over the course of several weeks by the inscrutable Helen. A chance encounter, forgiven; chit-chat at the stoop, admonished; a walk in the park, condemned; but a tryst under cover of the night was a worrying progression. “You are too young to be talking to a man of that kind, alone, at night, and a man of unknown intentions!” Erskine explored his well-ordered mind in search of wisdom regarding the management of a fourteen-year-old girl but came out of the search empty-handed. He therefore took his cue from the disposition of his wife. “Ethel, you will be assigned additional chores for the next week”, he pronounced. “It’s unfair!” said Ethel, stamping a heel on the wooden floor, which rattled the Welsh dresser, and caused their small dog to run yapping into the hall, “You treat me worse than the cook or the maid!” “Would you prefer we treat you as a child?” said Erskine. Ethel’s life was one of drudgery, and constraint. While her father - a man of consequence - toiled daily at his office at the Knickerbocker Coffee Company, and her mother - a woman of solemn virtue - visited churches and women’s groups in pursuit of good causes, Ethel was confined within the well-appointed town house on Cleveland Street, neither woman nor child, tasked with endless chores. +++ It was another warm sunny day, which added to Ethel’s misery. She threaded a corner of the sodden sheet into the mechanical mangle, turned the handle, and gray water sluiced onto the ground as the wrung sheet snaked toward the basket. She cared naught for the sun, the breeze rustling through the locust tree, the yapping mutt or the whining siblings. She dreamed of dark-haired vagabonds in the streets of Palermo, of dusty olive groves on the baking slopes of Momma Etna, of blood-money, cutthroats and deadly feuds. How she yearned to be a veiled bride, on a boat, heading across the turquoise water to Sicily with Vincento, the Black Hand capo, by her side. “You’re making it dirty, all over again!” said Helen, pointing at where the damp sheet was piling up on the dirt in the back yard, “I’m telling mother”. +++ Ethel offered to deliver the gooseberry jam to her aunt who lived on the far side of the park, and, to her surprise, her mother agreed, apparently tired of her sullen behavior. So, Ethel set out cheerfully in the direction of her aunt’s house until out of sight, then turned in a different direction, toward Rockaway. “Vincento!” cried Ethel. Vincento took the woven basket from Ethel and walked beside her along the bustling sidewalk. Chest out, swaggering, he doffed his hat at passers-by, many of whom acknowledged him with a nod. He was a fresh-faced man of growing importance, well-known by the local tradesmen, though barely eighteen. He made Ethel feel important too. “Mia Bella”, he said, waving his cloth cap gaily in the air, “the day seemed dull, but now it is ablaze”. Ethel was wearing a red velvet bolero jacket, a bright white blouse, and a high-waisted blue skirt. Vincento examined her like found treasure: red, white and blue, through and through, and the prettiest girl in Brooklyn. Ethel was quick to business; she had a plan. They stepped into the afternoon quiet of Levy’s Bakery, where the owner effusively handed Vincento two prune pastries - free of charge. They sat at a small table, where they might speak freely. She was a top-notch dame, smart as a whip, his ticket to the top. “Vincento. It is time”, she said in a low voice. “I cannot bear the waiting. You will have the money before the weekend, and we can elope”. A puzzled look flickered across Vincento’s face, “you think it is not - a bit sudden? I have business...”. He paused. “What kind of business?”, said Ethel, impatient. Vincent looked uncomfortable and checked they were not being overheard, “It is family business. You know I cannot tell you more”. “Well, it will soon be my business too”, she said. Beneath the good looks and the easy charm, there was a hard-minded man who meted out threats and their consequences, like sour candies to children at a parade. This girl, soon to be woman, was telling him what to do and it sat uncomfortably with him. “Do you think there’s another way? Perhaps I should pay your father my respects?” said Vincento, who was confident in his ability to persuade others, though mindful of the hurdles that stood between him and respectable society. “It’s no use Vincento. My father suspects the Italians of corrupting the neighborhood. He would kick you to the curb like a dog," she leaned close, "and you would be forced to do something... terrible, I think.” She was rushing action at him faster than he liked. Vincento learned early that a man never runs toward danger. +++ Busybody Helen discovered the envelope on the doormat in the hallway. She rushed it to her father, who was about to leave for work. He opened it, blanched, tucked it into his jacket pocket and grabbed his hat. Helen understood that she had discovered something important, but he left without explanation. Later, sitting at his big oak desk at his office at the Knickerbocker building, Erskine opened the envelope. The letter was abundantly decorated with crossbones, skulls, a dagger-pierced heart, and an outstretched hand, all rendered in black ink. “ Black Hand order Mr. and Mrs, Please you leve $1,000 under the doghouse or if not you biggest girl will be stole outrite. If you notify the police or anybody we will beat to death. There is fore in our gang and we knows you and yours. C.G. the leader ” Erskine Gordon was a tolerant man who ran a business that employed dozens of men from diverse backgrounds and races, including Irish, Italian, Jews and Blacks; and he conducted business with the honest intent of betterment for all, but he was also prudent, a man of tradition, who favored a salad bowl of peoples over that of the faddish melting pot. Foremost and forever, he was a red-blooded capitalist and a law-and-order man. News of the Black Hand Society were all over the papers. A reign of terror, that started in Manhattan’s Little Italy and the West Village spread across the East River, facilitated by venal politicians and ineffectual police, depicted variously as corrupt, cowardly, or stupid. There were kidnappings and extortion in Flatbush, dead men in Red Hook gutters, and a taxi driver stabbed through the neck on Cleveland Street! Erskine Gordon weighed his options like sacks of coffee in his warehouse, and it was the law-and-order man that proceeded to the Liberty Avenue Station, where he would instill into the police the right combination of moral clarity, courage, and intelligence. The queer note was greeted with skepticism by Detective O’Brien, a tall, lugubrious man. It did not accord with O’Brien’s understanding of the criminal mind. “The method of the Black Hand is to operate within the silent walls of their own kind. It is most unusual for their racket to touch upon the everyday citizen” said Detective O’Brien, “or the pillars of the community, so to speak”. Sergeant Walsh, a squat, burly fellow, was more responsive to Erskine’s concern. “We will place an additional patrolman on the ground for a few days”, he said, “with instructions to confront any group of four men that cannot provide a sensible account of their intentions”. “In the meantime, you should take precautions”, suggested Detective O’Brien. “And we will interview the young Italian man you say she met recently”, said Walsh, cracking his knuckles. Erskine resolved to lay a trap. +++ Erskine shuttered the windows and double-locked the doors. It was not yet dark outside, but the gaslit house was gloomy inside. The family were gathered in the dining room again. “I don’t understand! Why don’t you just pay the ransom?” said Ethel. “It is the principle of the thing”, said Erskine. “These Black Handers are dangerous” said Ethel, “I’ve heard that they never forgive, and they never forget. They are cruel and heartless, and their vendettas pass from one generation to the next and are inescapable”. “I wonder where you heard that?” said Helen, trilling at her sister’s illicit knowledge of things Italian, happy to stir things up. “Can’t we just give them the money and not miss a thing?” said Ethel, “after all, it is my life that is at risk! Surely, I should have a say in the matter?” Erskine handed Ethel a wad of railroad stock certificates that he’d retrieved from the filing cabinet in his study. “Go into the garden, make sure nobody is looking, and place these papers beneath the doghouse as instructed”. Ethel was placated by this unexpected turn of events. “I have a plan”, said Erskine, and from the small closet in the corner of the room he withdrew a canvass-wrapped shotgun. “If the Black Handers come, it will be bad for them, because I will be camped out in the Kitchen, ready to blow them to smithereens”, he said. Ethel had much to consider. +++ Two days passed and the mood soured inside the barricaded house. The girls languished in boredom, tensions escalated, and a dispute over care of the dog led to a ferocious catfight between Ethel and Helen. Dorothy, exasperated, implored her husband to put away the gun and end the lockdown, which he agreed to, readily. He had acquitted himself in an upright way, had scared away the Hand, and he was keen to resume work at the office. Dorothy unshuttered the windows, the children resumed their activities, including play in the back yard, where Ethel was unusually attentive to her youngest sisters and the dog. It was in this more relaxed atmosphere that Ethel offered to visit her aunt again, to which Dorothy agreed enthusiastically, though against the objections of Helen on whom the burden of tea-time chores would fall exclusively in Ethel’s absence. Erskine left for work with his mind at peace. He happily attended to his affairs, and returned home in a good state of mind, only to find the house in turmoil. Dorothy was barely able to string a sentence, consumed by worry and dark thoughts. The two youngest girls were weeping. “It is the Black Hand!”, said Helen, somewhat merrily. Erskine administered smelling salt and a tincture of Paregoric to his prone wife, and she was soon restored just enough to explain that Ethel had gone to visit his sister and had not returned. It was nearly 9.00 pm. and dark. Erskine set off for the Police Station, via Cypress Hills, where he soon discovered that his sister had no idea of the whereabouts of her niece and hadn’t seen Ethel in weeks. “I blame myself”, said Erskine to Sergeant Walsh as the Liberty Avenue Station, “I have let down my guard, and my family too. They have kidnapped the poor child”. Sergeant Walsh was a hardened man, witness to the worst of humanity, but the sobbing father elicited from him a gentle attentiveness. “Mr. Gordon, have faith, we will pursue every lead, hunt down these Black Handers, bring them out of their hole, dead or alive,” said Walsh, shooting from the hip, “We will fight their terror with that of our own”. “But what of my daughter?” said Erskine, who could see Walsh’s heavy-handed approach ending badly. The sergeant needed neither moral clarity nor courage, but perhaps he lacked the intellect Erskine had intended to instill on his prior visit. Detective O’Brien hurried into the interview room, hatless, collarless, and disheveled, having been called from home to deal with this emergency. Unlike Walsh, O’Brien led with the mind, not with the gut. It soon came out that the doghouse had been moved, the stock certificates - relating to a bankrupt railroad, and therefore worthless - had been removed by an unseen hand, and that Ethel had voluntarily left the house, carrying a covered basket on her way to her aunt’s. “It is as clear as day, she has been kidnapped”, exclaimed Walsh. “Is it possible”, said Detective O’Brien as delicately as his irritation would allow, “that the Black Hand that wrote the note may have been that of your daughter?” +++ Vincento and Ethel were sitting on the wharf on the South Shore, overlooking Sheepshead Bay. They were watching clammers at work in the stinking mud, and oystermen on their skiffs, shunting in the deep with their poles. Ethel thrilled at this close proximity to the ocean, the same body of water that kissed the sandy shores of Sicily a thousand or more miles away, and which might soon carry her away. He took the sheath of papers from her, wincing at the pain in his chest. They had the engraved appearance of the dollar bill, and an imprinted face value that made Vincento’s eyes pop. These stock certificates belonged in a world of which Vincento could only dream. He had visited that world once. he’d wandered along Wall Street with other boys from the borough, he’d gawped at the bunting, the flags, the Hansom cabs, the men in spats and toppers, until shooed away by a burly beat cop. Vincento didn’t stop running until China Town, fearing that the establishment was on his neck. “I have seen my father looking over them at his desk. He says their value goes up with the Market”, said Ethel. Vincento flinched again. The squat policeman who’d jumped him on Cleveland Street had drummed him hard about the ribs, threatening worse if he didn't wise up. The establishment was onto Vincento and knew exactly where he lived. This girl was top-notch, his ticket, but out of his league. “Surely the Black Hand can help us?” said Ethel, for whom the secret society was another kind of ticket, not up, but out...out of Brooklyn. There was no going back now. Vincento rolled the stock certificates into a scroll and tucked them into his waistcoat. “I will cash them in, and we will leave for a better place tomorrow”. “But how long will you be? Where should I go? What should I do?” she said, alarmed, frightened. “Wait here, I will be back soon enough”, he said. +++ Two days passed. Sergeant Walsh came by each day and reassured Mr. Gordon that Ethel would soon be found, his team would visit every house at the Italian end of the street. They had leads, they were closing in. Dorothy was bed-ridden, incapacitated by the ebb of denial and flow of grief. Erskine sat in his office, unable to work; he wondered at fatherhood and the uncommon wisdom required in the understanding and management of daughters, and womenfolk in general; because, clearly, he was lacking. Meanwhile, Helen, burdened by her older sister’s chores, seethed with discontent and jealousy. On the third day, with the Gordon home in the grip of a new reality, there was a loud rapping on the front door. Helen was there in a flash, and opened the door expecting Sergeant Walsh, but it was the lank figure of Detective O’Brien instead, accompanied by a uniformed cop. O’Brien removed his hat and enquired about her father’s whereabouts and availability in the most solemn way. Erskine appeared in the hallway, blinking at the light that shone from behind the Detective. “It is Ethel. We have found her”, said O’Brien. The black mud on O'Brien's shoes and about his pant legs smelled of rotting shellfish and the putrid ocean.

Hugo- Day one, the hottest day in July. The kind of hot that makes the neighbors forgo underwear and plant themselves in front of oscillating fans. Feet planted in small kiddie pools filled with tepid tap water, topped off with bagged ice from the corner market. The breeze from the fan casting across the iced pools does nothing to diminish the warmth from their radiating bodies. Instead it pushes the sweat further across their faces and thighs until they are all shiny with sweat. It’s nearly impossible to forget day one. You try, yet day one is the day you’ll scramble for breath. You’ll put on the bravest of faces to give your daughter Thea oxygen as you hold the side of her head to your chest. She will appreciate the firm pressure you apply to her quivering body. The grief inundating from her youthful frame, forcing you back- one, two, three, steps until you both collapse onto the couch. Sweat and tears, they’re all the same. How can a girl live without her mother? How will I breathe without her modeling what a strong exhale looks like? It will be all she can say. You wonder in your emotional greed, Where does she keep all of the passwords? Thea’s birth certificate? Is she allergic to anything? Raeann- Their day one is polar opposite of your day one. The body that carried you through life for the past four decades decided the narrative of living a nice long life is a lie. To find out that you’re going to die is far less painful than hearing that you are dead. The dead don’t hear pain. The dead don’t feel it either. It’s terminal, you have weeks at best Raeann. I’m so sorry. You are sent home with instructions of getting your affairs in order. Pamphlets titled, “How to tell your loved ones that you are dying,” as if there is a simple bullet point plan to button up all of your affairs before you go. Step 1 , I’m dying. But I left a few lasagnas in the freezer for busy nights. Hugo- Planning a funeral is foreboding. The weatherman says to expect more heat hazes. You don’t know exactly what that is, but you’ve already spent hours on the internet searching for a cure. What's another few minutes? Heat haze: also called heat shimmer, refers to the inferior mirage observed when viewing objects through a mass of heated air. Relief floods your body, panic eases up. This isn’t the end, it’s all a mirage. It has to be. Raeann- Everything after the first day is now called the in between, and that’s just how you’ve come to accept it. Call your mother more, but not so much that she suspects that there is something to be worried about. Mothers know. Revel in the fact that the word hug happens to be the first three letters of your husband's name, as he is the best hugger you’ve ever met. Hugging him a little bit longer feels like a possible cure for the incurable. Forget the pamphlets, your family deserves a better send off than that. The blogs online say to leave a video diary for your daughter because she might forget the way the dimples tucked into your cheeks are deep enough to hold a cat's eye marble in each of them. Don’t let her forget. The idea of a camera taping your face not looking like your face is unsettling. It is then you decide on cassettes, they’re the happy medium. Even if cassette tapes are “so out of style,” they might be even more treasured due to the rarity of them. Nothing screams a mothers legacy like antiquated methods of communication. Might as well break out the typewriter and ribbon of ink. Hugo- In-laws, they’re a mixed bag. Naturally they have known your beloved Raeann for the longest. They created her so there is ownership there. Let them visit and call and video chat. It’s all that they will get of her. You’ll be left with the daughter you share, and the smell of her lilac shampoo on the bed linens you agreed to buy at the big box store. The in-laws won’t get to smell her again, but you will, at least a little longer before the next load goes in the wash. Raeann- To make a mixed tape you have to consider two things: Who you’re making the tape for and the occasion. Remind yourself that this isn’t a John Hughes movie, and Thea won’t be walking away with the love of her life but rather losing you. Of course there are times when you hear a little melody on the radio and think to yourself, Thea would love this song . Then, add bits of wisdom and sayings to the playlists, for days when she needs advice but you aren’t there to give it. A mother knows exactly what kind of music will make her daughters eyes sparkle, even if it is followed by a tiny eye roll. It’s some kind of magic to possess this kind of knowing about a teenager even if she is your child. You wonder if anyone else will ever know your daughter this way. Hugo- She told you that there’d be tapes. That you’d have to give them to Thea, maybe one morning as you sip your coffee black and dark roasted the way that you like it. It’s important Hugo, it’s all I have left to give her. Well, and you of course. Those dimples, you won’t be able to say no to her and so you agree with a gentle head nod and deep hug. Through sickness and health was the vow? What about death and grief, what’s the vow look like after that? More haziness. Raeann- Your last day comes twenty-nine days after your first. Cliche, that’s what the last thirty days will be. Like a film reel, memories click and spin for one last viewing in your mind's eye. Not in black and white, but in vibrant colors of finger painted construction paper and alabaster hydrangeas in wedding centerpieces. Wait until Thea nods off in the corner chair of your room, wrapped in the blanket you both sewed together out of your old shirts. Absorb the tiny bit of warmth from Hugo’s hand wrapped around the frail fingers on yours. These hands spent many hours laced together over the years and now his hands will spend hours pressing play for Thea. It’s time for your strong exhale. Hugo- Pull the old cassette player down from the attic, blow off the decades of dust. Imagine the look on your daughter’s face when the carefully curated tapes are placed in her young hands with three freckles alongside the edge of her knuckles. The freckles lightly kiss her milky skin, and you breathe out a little in relief knowing that they look ordinary. She won’t want the tapes. Her eyes might brim with orbs of salted water. A sense of begging will slip past her lips, Please daddy I’m not ready yet . You stare at the dimples she inherited from her mother, pressing your warm thumb into one of them as you hold gently to her chin. Picturing the future, you wonder who will take her wedding dress shopping, and who will take her phone calls if she loses a baby. It will be you of course. Press play.

Checkmate Shannen Taylor kicked a stone along the dirt road as he made his way toward the asphalt that would be teeming with heat as the temperature was already in the low nineties. Soon the stone was transformed into Bettle’s head and Shannen stopped to mush it into the dusty sand. It only made him feel better for a moment. Shortly after he arrived, Bettle would likely be at his desk with the perpetual mocking or ridiculous antics that often started his day. As Shannen reached the street, he quickened his pace. He had been running a bit late this morning and did not want to miss his bus into the city. When the bus came the usual driver, Hal, was again not driving, but Shannen still took his seat just to the rear and right of the driver. Hal and Shannen had formed a kind of friendship over the last couple of years and their talks spanned many topics. Shannen appreciated that Hal was philosophical and enjoyed their discussions. Yesterday, when Hal had failed to be driving the bus for a fourth straight day, Shannen inquired as to his health or circumstances with a simple, “Is everything okay with Hal?” Responding in a gruff manner, the bus driver said, “I don’t talk about other employees and you should mind your own business.” Shannen was taken aback by the answer and had since ridden in silence. Today, he simply took out a couple of wet cloths in little packets and used them to clean the dust off his Oxfords. After making his way to his destination, Shannen quickly went to his desk. As he was getting himself seated, Bettle appeared. He set a coffee cup balanced precariously on the top of where the two cubicles came together. Bettle said, “Well, good morning, S-h-a-n-n-e-n.” He always drew out the name Shannen as if it were its own sentence. Shannen glanced at the cup before meeting Bettle’s eyes. He continued, “Did you do anything special last night? My wife and I went to a party given by Supro. Surprised we didn’t see you there. Oh, I forgot. It was for couples only.” Bettle sneered, used his forefinger to gently tip the cup of coffee, turned and walked away. As it was falling, the top flew off and his entire desk got covered, including him being splashed on his bare arm, where it immediately started to sting. Shannen wanted to rip Bettle’s head off at that moment but knew he would not give any response to the gesture that made sure his day began as miserably as possible. Little did Philip Bettle know, but Shannen had more than a girlfriend, he had a beautiful fiancé named Julia. In fact, he did get an invitation from Supro, a large client of their firm, but never even mentioned it to Julia. He would under no circumstance have brought her to mingle with his co-workers for he knew they would definitely take the opportunity to embarrass him in front of her. Also, they did not need any more fodder for their office roguery. Making his way to the men’s room to fetch some paper towels, he could hear the teeheeing going on in the cubicles. Surely, news of Bettle’s early morning tomfoolery was making the rounds. His arm stung from the burn so he rinsed it under some cold water. It was red but thankfully the liquid had not been hot enough to cause blisters to form. As Shannen returned to his desk, for the first time he showed a half smirk to the co-workers that were watching him while gathered around the water cooler. He knew he would only have to put up with their shenanigans for a short while longer. Shannen made quick work of getting rid of the mess then surveyed his cubicle, the four walls he saw for eight hours a day, five days a week. He was thankful that he soon would not ever have to stare at the temporary office structure again. Their projects were all done individually, though other co-workers had good camaraderie and found time throughout the day to visit with each other. As a structural design engineer who had reached a near expert level in AutoCAD and Autodesk, Shannen was usually finished his assigned projects early. In his current position, he knew that seeking a more responsible job at PRUDO Engineering was futile. Those that occupied the offices along both sides of their cubicles were not going anywhere soon. After completing his current task, which was not due for two more days, Shannen sat back in his chair and let his mind wander. Beginning in kindergarten, Shannen had also been the proverbial ‘mark’. It started on his first day and continued until he graduated high school. There, he had been bullied by Billy Parker and his little gang of torturers. First came the name calling but it soon escalated to knocking books out of his hands and the occasional slap on the back of his head, which he never saw coming. In those early school years, Shannen would not stick up for himself and instead he initiated building his defense mechanism which would serve him well the older he got. When he was younger, he would cry when Billy and his gang surrounded him while he was taking a shortcut home along the baseball field. When Billy would shove his head into the fence it hurt and Shannen could not stop the tears from coming. When their abuse was over, Shannen would gather up his belongings and sit in the woods for about an hour, which was time enough to calm himself before continuing on his way home. Shannen worked on training himself to show no emotion, so when Billy stuffed him into a locker and dunked his head in the toilet in middle school, the expression on his face never changed but at least the crying had stopped. In high school, he spent most of his time hiding in the library. Though he loved to read, he had to admit that he was just tired of the bullying and wanted to get through to graduation as unscathed as possible. He did the same in university, but had a small bunch of friends he liked to hang out with. Though they did not talk about it, they were the bullied ones too. After finishing university, which was only a four hour drive away, Shannen moved back in with his parents and got the job with PRUDO Engineering. Thankfully, two of his friends from university had jobs nearby and they did get together for the occasional drink after work. Shannen secretly wished they would run into people from his office, if only to prove he was not the recluse he was accused of being, but it hadn’t happened. Tragically, his parents were killed in a small plane crash on their way home from a mountain retreat. Shannen was an only child and took a couple of weeks off work to handle their final affairs. When he came back to work, there was a card on his desk signed by everyone in the office but not a word of condolence was said and things simply continued the way they had been. Shannen had briefly considered selling the house and moving to another city but knew his track record as ‘the mark’ would continue so he didn’t bother. Plus, he was able to save a good portion of his earnings with no mortgage to pay or expensive downtown parking rates since he rode the bus. Then he met Julia. Shannen was sitting in the park reading when a shadow came over him. He looked up to see a beautiful woman standing a few feet away. She inquired if she could sit and he answered, “Of course”. That was the beginning of their relationship. He was startled out of his walk through his past by his boss who was standing at his cubicle. Jacob Ross had a loud and vibrating voice that exuded dominance but not unkindness. Ross said, “There is an issue with the ERT file. Would you have time to take a look at my notes?” Shannen sat up straight in his chair and replied, “Certainly, Mr. Ross.” He left the file he was carrying and said he would email Shannen before the end of the day. Having set his emails to audible notifications, Shannen continued to think about Julia and how she had unknowingly given him the strength to work his way around always using his defense mechanism, which he had many years to practice. Shannen was a master at not showing his feelings. No matter whether he was being bullied or introduced to a new client, his face remained stoic. He knew this was not the person he wanted to be but he would never give the satisfaction to anyone who thought they would give him a rough go. Unfortunately, he had perfected it so well that it filtered into any social situation in which he was involved, all that is except for when he was with Julia. He had immediately felt at ease with her and let his delight show whenever they were together. As their relationship grew, Shannen had introduced Julia to his small group of friends for he knew they would be kind and welcoming. However, he still had to dodge questions about when she would meet his co-workers. He had finally said they did not socialize together and stuck to that excuse. Shannen knew he had to overcome his societal issues if a long term relationship with Julia had any chance of success. He had to protect the fact that he had been the chosen mark for the entirety of his life. He signed up for two online courses, ‘Building Your Self-Confidence’ and ‘Bullied? You Can Turn it Around’ and worked on them diligently on the nights when he and Julia were not together. Somehow, he had to practice his new found skills so when Julia invited him to dinner with her parents, he willingly agreed. Surprisingly, Shannen found himself strangely self-assured and the evening was a time of laughter and stories. It seemed Julia’s dad had fun embarrassing his daughter with tales from her childhood and her blushing responses only made him love her more. Since Shannen only had an aunt, uncle and cousin who he barely knew as family, he could not offer much in the story department except a few tales from his own childhood and he helped to keep the conversation flowing. Later when he asked Julia how she thought things had gone, she hugged him and declared, “My parents love you!” After finding success with Julia’s parents, he finally agreed to meet some of her friends, professing that he had been working on not being so shy in terms of socializing. He found that he was accepted into her group of friends and, while he gave credit to the courses he had taken, Shannen had to give Julia the most gratitude for she inspired him to change. Shannen had also made another huge decision in his life. After determining that his projects could be done at home, he resolved to open his own business and work from a home office. This was a short while before Christmas and Julia, who was a special events planner, was thrilled with the idea. She had moved in with him a couple of months earlier and had been busy updating the house. She suggested the attic would make the perfect location for his office since there was plenty of space and lots of natural light. He agreed and figured all he would need would be the desk from the spare bedroom and a chair to get started. While he was lost in thought, Shannen’s email notification went off. He quickly brought himself back to the present and got to work on the changes to the project as requested by Mr. Ross. As he was working, Tricia passed by his cubicle and, being nosy, saw the file open on his desk. She spouted, “What are you doing with my file?” Shannen, knowing he would soon be rid of this bunch and bolstered by his new found self-confidence, blurted back, “It is not your file. It is a project file for PRUDO and I am working on it for Mr. Ross.” Not likely expecting his forthright reply, she continued past his work area in a huff. Shannen smiled. He was proud of himself. On his way home, Shannen thought about how he proposed to Julia. They were going to her parent’s home to spend Christmas Eve. Before they left, Shannen had suggested they open the stockings they had made for one another. Julia said she would rather wait until they got home. Shannen, thankfully, won out and they each looked in their stockings. When Julia thought she had finished hers, she found one more package shoved into the bottom. It was a small box. She started crying before she even opened it. Shannen laughed and teased, “Why are you making such a fuss? You know it could be a gag gift!” When she unwrapped the box, her hand was shaking so Shannen helped her open it. He still remembered the lights from the Christmas tree shining on her tears and the smile on her face was beautiful as she looked at the diamond he had spent hours picking out for her. He got down on one knee and asked her to marry him to which she threw her arms around him and gushed, “Of course. Yes! Of course I will marry you.” When they arrived at her parent’s house, Julia had not even taken off her coat before she was showing off her ring and announcing their engagement. Her parents and gathered family and friends were thrilled. Shannen had never felt so fulfilled in his entire life. That evening, Julia had a surprise waiting for him. She led him up the stairs to the attic to see his new office! Shannen knew she had a few days off, but did not know she had spent that time making the perfect place for him to work. He was, however, curious how she had managed to get the new office furniture up the attic stairs. She giggled and told him her father and uncle had been all too happy to help. Shannen was in a good mood as he made his way to work the next morning. He knew that a week from today would be his last day at PRUDO but he had kept that information to himself. When he arrived at his cubicle, he found the likely reprisal for his reply to Tricia the day before. His desk was plastered with sex toys of all shapes and sizes. He was silently happy that his co-workers had spent so much unnecessary money merely to get back at him. As he was gathering the garbage and putting it into a bag, Bettle made his presence known with a smart remark, “Oh, S-h-a-n-n-e-n. I see you are bagging your toys to use at home. Too bad you will have to adapt some of them so you can use them alone. Although your blow-up-girlfriend should come in handy.” Bettle laughed as he walked away. Shannen thought about replying but decided it wasn’t worth it. He would soon be rid of the buffoon. Thankfully, the next week was uneventful. Since he would no longer be taking the bus every morning, Shannen was pleased that Hal had returned to his regular place in the driver’s seat. It turns out that he was only on holiday, which made Shannen wonder why the substitute driver had felt the need to be so nasty. He had already told Hal about his future plans, and they exchanged cell numbers so they could stay in touch. On his last day of work, Shannen decided not to brown bag it. He would go out for lunch, primarily to give his co-workers something to converse about that afternoon. He found a cafe close by and savored every bite of his Caesar salad wrap. He was most stoked about the fact that he thought of the perfect way to end his employment with PRUDO. He had planned to simply put his resignation on his boss’s desk, which stated that he was leaving immediately in lieu of two weeks’ notice; he would forfeit two weeks pay. However, this little addition to his plan was perfect. When his workday was almost finished, Shannen stepped away from his cubicle and left the building. He returned a few minutes later and proceeded to Mr. Ross’s office and left a white envelope on his desk as his boss was out of the office for the day. Next, he approached Bettle’s work area and held the large coffee he was carrying on the top of the partition. Bettle looked up, obviously surprised to see Shannen standing there. Shannen stood silent while Bettle voiced, “Well, well, S-h-a-n-n-e-n. This is new. What the hell do you want?” Shannen simply tipped the coffee cup. As it went tumbling toward Bettle’s desk, Shannen smiled broadly and uttered, “Checkmate.” He then proceeded to walk out the door without looking back.

He had finally managed to capture her. He slumped against the stony wall in this forgotten cave catching his breath as her voice carried with the echo. A small wooden ship sinks about a hundred meters from the shore. Half of it is on fire. The sun sets in gold in front of them. When the ball of light hits the horizon, it spreads like oil in water. Below, the depleted men clad in armor slowly start to creep onto the shore. Their steel boots sinking into the wet sand like anchors. “Quiet, Luna...” he whispered. “They’ll hear you.” “That’s the point,” she said through gritted teeth. When she opened her mouth to speak again, he hushed her quickly with his palm. She squirmed beneath him but he could not risk being seen now. It was a matter of life and death. Well, to put it frankly, it was a matter of her life and his death. "I don't get you," she accused. "Didn't you leave on your own terms? Why return now? For what purpose?" Harsh green eyes turned jade beside the setting sun. He retracted his hand from her mouth. "Listen, I came to warn you-- " Warn me? " She repeated incredulously. "They're coming for you. The Reapers. Those men down there are not your noblemen. They are not from your kingdom. I did what I had to do to pull you to safety!" The princess's eyebrows knitted in confusion. Though she was calmer, she could still feel the remnants of anger creeping at the back of her neck. She strained to control her composure. She remembered him taking her hostage as the sea rocked them back and forth. He had hijacked her ship and sent the two of them overboard. His eyes softened suddenly. "How can I trust you?" She whispered, "You left me alone so many years ago. Your quest for power swallowed you whole. You were unrecognizable; a different man than the one I...” "The one you what, Luna?" "... Remembered." She peered up at him inquisitively. And just when she thought the embers in her heart were fully extinguished, a gentle wind suddenly gave life to a new flame. He was indeed the man in the flesh; and also the man in so many of her dreams. The sights and sounds of him caused her to revisit her deepest memories. A familiar chagrin. But in many ways, the years have turned him, or so it seemed. She couldn't help wondering if he'd manage to reach his pinnacle. His reason for leaving never stood clear to her but perhaps, now it would. When Prince Adonis was eleven years old, he had lost his father to an unknown force. His mother died shortly after which meant that the King's brother, a kind man, would hold the throne until Adonis was old enough to take it. But something happened. A grey cloud began to storm him, though, it had been all in his head. He knew he would never truly rest another night until he was able to kill the thing that killed his father. And so he sought power. He fought, he ran, he drew his sword, just for the opportunity to face them. The Reapers. So when the opportunity arose in the dead of night, he took it. A powerful Magician lead him and he followed without being under a spell. It was his own decision. He never said good bye. When Luna awoke that morning after and learned the Prince had left, she felt as if she died that day. The rest of her existence waned and waxed like the moon she was named after. But she'd never know the heartache he'd felt for her. Under starry nights, cold mornings, and lonely battles, he would recall her and all his strength would come back. “How did you know the Reapers would return? From what I’ve heard, they were last seen at the Eastern Port at Marigold three years ago... But... that must mean...” He nodded solemnly, “I had to.” “How could you have done something so stupid?! ” Luna cried, “You shouldn’t have marked yourself. Now they’ll never stop coming for you!” “My princess-- “Don’t!” He grabbed a knife from his belt and made quick work to cut the rope he had just used to bind her. He took her arm and pulled back her kimono sleeve. On the white of her wrist, a blue bruise was present. It was the same colour of her veins; the same shape of the sacred lotus flower that was also engraved on her kingdom's coat of arms. He showed her his. Surprised shook her from the inside out. A death sentence was what it was. She gingerly ran the pads of her fingers over his wrist to feel it. It slightly glowed. His radial pulse bounced against her fingers as she pressed down. “When did you...?” “I only have one seal. It was a gift from the Magician at his death. It will cover yours, erasing your existence from their radar. And that means they’ll chase me instead.” “I was ready to die, Adonis. I knew what was coming. Do not take this from me! What about your goal for power? What about avenging your father and taking back your kingdom? What about-- He closed the gap between his lips and hers. It was nothing like she’d imagined. Salty, bitter, and sweet. The taste of her danced on his tongue. He had seemed to forget the mission at hand: Get her to safety and take her place when the Reapers came to collect. All too much, all too soon he felt her take over him like nothing he'd ever felt before. From this experience alone he decided he had already fully lived. His life did flash before him. His life through Luna. When she opened her eyes, his stormy gaze told her everything. “Luna, I realized...” Grey eyes darted over to each feature of her face, drinking her in as if he’d die of thirst, “...you were the only goal that ever really truly mattered.”

(Write a post-apocalyptic story that features zombies.) Today the headline read, “Social Media is full of unsubstantiated reports of Zombie sightings! The news has gone viral and soft focus blurry videos have flooded all platforms!” Wowser! Do I need to worry? Today I discovered that I am unique among my modern generation in that I have no idea what a “Zombie” really is. I had a vague thought that any mindless creature might be a zombie but then I went to do some research. Wow, what an eye opener when I googled zombies! I had no idea! They have very defined and specific characteristics. I’m currently examining all of my friends and neighbors to see if any are zombies. “They are slow moving!“ Hmm? Let’s see. Mr. George, our neighbor to the south, is slow moving but he has been our neighbor for years. I don’t think he is a zombie. “Do not eat each other, they live on live flesh.“ Well that eliminates Mrs. Riley, our neighbor to the north, she’s a loud and demonstrative vegetarian, always trying to push her agenda on everyone else. She is for sure not a Zombie. “Don’t swim but can remain underwater for long periods.” I can eliminate myself and four of my friends as we love to swim, often racing one another out to the floating raft, we are definitely not Zombies! But, hmm? My husband says he can swim but I have never seen him in water deeper than his knees except the time our sons tipped over the canoe, we all laughed except my husband and he went into total panic. Hmm? Maybe he is a Zombie! I begin to see that this can be a long drawn out process, to screen everyone I know or who lives nearby. Unless they can be identified on sight or by smell or even taste, I must read on. I need to know more. Ye Gods, Read this..... “A zombie, according to pop culture and folklore, is usually either a reawakened corpse with a ravenous appetite or someone bitten by another zombie infected with a “zombie virus.” Zombies are usually portrayed as strong but robotic beings with rotting flesh. Their only mission is to feed.” Got that bit off a search engine. Another bit about the origins of Zombies is in Haiti. Ancient times. Bad vibes. Evil.......Yikes! Ok that is really helpful. I sit here on my porch steps, on my busy street and watch the people pass by. I see no one with rotting flesh. Imagine the smell....it must be a “dead” giveaway! Maybe this whole rumor that there are Zombies about and we need to be vigilant and protect ourselves is just scare tactics to keep the folks in line, the sheep quiet and paying taxes and just shutting up. I have no idea but I plan to talk with some neighborhood kids. They seem to know all about zombies, vampires, aliens and the like. They seem to have no idea about how to express real emotion or have any real empathy but they sure know about violent evil. It would seem to me, if I’m getting the gist of this, we should be able to recognize one on sight. And if there are questions, the rotting flesh smell should cinch the deal. Then just KILL IT! Hmmm? I wonder how you kill one? After I check out everyone I can see in the library, to be sure there are no apparent zombies, I find dusty books full of lore, and new books full of movie and TV plots and scenarios involving these slow stinky creatures. I filter the information into brief headings. HOW TO KILL ZOMBIES, “Decapitation.“ You must destroy their brains. The surest way is simply cutting off the total head with a chainsaw, machete, or samurai sword. You must be thorough, anything less than 100 percent severance just isn't good enough. “Bludgeoning.“ A blunt object, for example, a baseball bat to a brick, used with suitable force to the cranium will destroy the brain. But be careful you must get up close and personal for this to be effective. “Burning.“ Or try burning! The next best thing is a Molotov cocktail--just make sure the zombies are far enough away so they'll be reduced to ashes before they can shamble after you. “Exploding.“ A solid technique, but one that requires explosives in one form or another. Make your way to a military storehouse or a morally dubious pawn shop and acquire a rocket launcher. Then shoot, load, and give it a second hit to make sure. ~~~~~ Ok now, I feel well armed with information and so I collect my weapons to do my civic duty. I am a female type person so I needed to decide on how to arm myself. Chainsaw would be too heavy and bulky, but a machete felt really good. Next I loaded four bricks into my backpack. I hoped to drop the bricks down from above them or heave the bricks from a safe distance. Not close to the smell. Also in my backpack a sealed water bottle full of petrol, and some strips of old rags shirts. My lighter and matches to be sure I could get ignition. And finally, I was disappointed I could not manage a rocket launcher but I did pack five railroad flares and a cylinder of gas with a weed burner attached. I doubt the latter would work but the flares burn long and very very hot. Can you imagine the smell of burning rotting flesh? ~~~~~ It was a little past midnight and I was deep in sleep when a racket began in the alley behind my home. Knuckling the sleep out of my eyes and grabbing my backpack and machete I charged down the back terrace and into the common area. Fog had rolled in and visibility was poor but I charged in swinging. I was hoping not to need the fire. There was screaming and screeching and otherworldly noises and when I was done, Mrs. Riley’s tabby cat and Mr.George’s big tomcat lay dead in the bushes. OMG, what have I done? It is the fault of social media! Holy Crap! I love animals, I think Zombies are not the only monsters out and about tonight.

Teddy noticed everything. A young boy across the aisle from him had a Harry Potter novel open on his lap. He was on page two hundred and sixty-six. Four mosquito bites peppered his left forearm, and he had recently gotten braces. Teddy could tell because the kid kept fiddling with them with the tip of his tongue, and they were shiny and brand-new. The boy licked his thumb and turned a page. The tall, middle-aged woman to the boy’s left was listening to music on her iPod. She wore pink earphones, and her shoe was untied. There was a paint stain on the right kneecap of her jeans, and she was chewing spearmint bubblegum. Teddy could smell it from across the train car. He leaned forward in the seat of the rattling tram and pulled the hood of his navy blue jacket over his head. He stuck his hands in his pockets and tried to ignore everything he saw. Today his senses had flipped into overdrive, snatching every detail from his surroundings and clutching them tightly. Like Spider-Man, Teddy thought. He smiled slightly. Yes, the sensation might be compared to that of the extrasensory character. His mind took in these details desperately, spontaneously, as if it knew these memories would be some of its last. Teddy knew that he was doing what was best. Inwardly, the idea fought with him, tormented him, ripped him apart like a wet piece of cardboard. But this decision needed nothing short of utmost commitment, and Teddy always finished his commitments. It would not be for long, anyway. Soon, the pain would go, along with everything else. Including Rosalyn, something inside him whispered. Rosalyn. The voice of steadiness, reliability, and love. People had often said they could be twins, but Teddy disagreed. They were inseparable, but different in complementing ways. She was his best friend in the wide world, and he loved her with a brotherly love as dearly as a bird loves its wings. At least, I did, thought Teddy. Rosalyn, his old faithful, had faded and left as quickly as a leaf was whisked away in a storm, gliding blissfully into the horizon. And with her, she took his hopes, his dreams, and his reason for living. She took the one thing he had left to love. One of the most important parts of his life, gone forever. Teddy stared at the book in the boy’s lap across from him. What success must the author of that book feel, what tranquility, what pride. Teddy would have killed for a fraction of that stability in his writing. A fledgling in his trade, Teddy’s writing saw little of anything except rejection letters. He hated those letters, he saw each one as a reminder of his failure. His most recent book had gone out to a publisher about a month ago. He would be receiving the payments from the first month any day now, and he knew they wouldn’t be much. But it didn’t matter, that check would never reach his pocket anyway. Today, Teddy was doing the one thing that he knew left to do. He was going to end it all, forever. There was a hiss of brakes as the train car stopped. A muffled voice sounded over the intercom. “Stop 13. All passengers are encouraged to leave in an orderly fashion. Please keep your feet away from the tracks as you disembark...” The voice continued blathering about departure, but Teddy did not listen, closing his ears to the sounds of life. It would only be a short while now... The voice came over the intercom again. “This line is experiencing technical difficulties. Our engineers give all passengers their apologies. We would like to offer all passengers paid tickets to their next train stop, to assure you all get where you are going... we hope we cause minimal inconvenience, and wish everyone a good day.” Teddy slumped in his seat as everyone in the car began to stand, groaning and complaining. His mind had blanked. Was the world conspiring against him? The train could not have picked a worse time to break down... He stepped off the train, the cogs of his brain grinding painfully. I’ve still got time, he thought. It’s not far, I’ll take the bus, or Uber there, heck, I might even walk... he could not believe the world had failed him at this crucial juncture. Trodding down the sidewalk away from the train, he stuck his hands in his pockets again and pulled out his phone. 3 texts buzzed there, one from his mom, reminding him to call his aunt tomorrow for her birthday. The other two were from his boss, reprimanding him for not showing up to work and informing him that the time would be subtracted from his sick leave. Teddy trudged over to a cobblestone barrier at the edge of a small park near the road, and leaned his elbows on it, considering. He swiped through his texts and called an Uber. Ten minutes away. Great. Flipping off his hood, Teddy replaced his phone in his pocket and looked out over the bay. Teal Bridge was a shadow on the horizon, blocking out the late morning sun and casting an oblong shadow across the waves. The bridge was his destination, but Teddy wasn’t going there to sightsee. He was going there to end his miserable life. The bridge spanned hundreds of meters across the water, and was at least two hundred feet above the tips of the waves. If he jumped off one of the entrances to the bridge, an army of sharp, hard rocks would meet him at the edges of the water. There would be no time for anyone to stop him. The rocks were cold, unforgiving, and merciless. They would grant him his solace without hesitation, without pause... Teddy’s eyes were drawn to a group of children frolicking on the opposite beachhead. They were only pinpricks on the distant sand, but he found himself unconsciously giving them personalities. The lone blue-bottom figure was surely the oldest child, sent to watch over his younger counterparts. The pink one-piece girl bouncing through the waves was the diva of the group, ever the drama queen. Teddy watched two green-clad figures collide. Twins, surely, inseparable, the troublemakers... Rosalyn had had a future here, on this very bay. Her dream had always been to pursue marine biology, and they had been in the groundworkings of a campaign to save the local marine life. Unfortunately a marine support group had called her away on a business opportunity down in the south, and after a semi-tearful goodbye which was hazy in Teddy’s mind, left for good. Sometimes they texted, but the gaps between the conversations seemed to be wider nowadays. He hadn’t spoken to her in over a week, but to him it seemed months. Teddy buried his face in his hands. He could not afford to think, it could only deter him from his plan. Thinking was what had caused him to back out the last time, when he had lacked the conviction to carry out the deed. And now his whole plan was in shambles again... He felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned, blinking. It was Rosalyn. Rosalyn, her hair caught up in a wool beanie, laughing at the incredulous look on his face. She was saying something, but he could not hear it somehow. Contrary to the sensations of the morning, his senses had dulled and blurred over, clouding his vision as he struggled with reality. The girl before him grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the sidewalk, gesturing. He came back down to earth. “Rosalyn?” She turned towards him again. “Teddy,” she said. “We need to catch up. I’ll take you for ice cream.” “But the company... your internship...” “Oh, those higher-ups thought they knew everything,” she said, blowing a strand of hair out of her eye. “They were keeping me on too tight a leash, I had to get away. So I quit. I’m gonna do my project here instead, on the bay. I’ll tell you about it over lunch, come on!” She pulled on his hand again, and he didn’t find himself resisting. His phone buzzed again. He opened it to find a text from his publisher. The royalties. Great, this would spoil the day. He opened up the app and the number flashed up on the screen. The amount... the amount was tremendous, over three times the amount that his client had projected for him! He blinked and scrolled through the messages. The rates were skyrocketing, his book was blowing up! The first payment from the royalties was more than he had made at his day job in the last month! A car honked on the street. The car described in his Uber app was sitting on the curb. He dashed over to the sidewalk and the driver rolled down the window. “You getting in, sonny?” “No, I’ll have to cancel,” Teddy said, ecstatic. “Something’s come up. I’m sorry.” The driver started to roll the window back up, his face cloudy. He had driven all this way for nothing. Millennials, they were all the same... “Here, take this for your time,” said Teddy, yanking out his wallet and pulling out a wad of cash. The driver blinked. “Take it!” He felt ten feet tall, he was successful, he had a career... “Well thank you, son. You got a date with big-eyes over there?” Teddy looked back over his shoulder at Rosalyn, who was waiting on the curb a few yards away, her eyes sparkling. “No, not a date, we’re just meeting up. Thank you, sir!” He ran back over to his friend, his sneakers slapping on the pavement with his huge strides. “You ready?” said Rosalyn. Teddy looked back across the park, over the water over which he had moments previously contemplated his demise. “Yeah,” he replied. First, he would have lunch with Rosalyn. And then? Maybe go home, work on his next story. He might call her again later. And after that? Yes, there would be something else after that. And then something else, too. It had to be good, everything was turned around now. He didn’t know what the future would bring, but he did know that he could make his own. He grabbed Rosalyn by the arm and started to run, laughing into the crisp morning air. For the first time in what seemed like ages, Teddy had something to do.

Three different people had felt the need to tell me that their honeymoons had had hiccups and that I shouldn’t put too much pressure on the trip, so I really shouldn’t have been surprised when things went wrong. The wind caught my best friend’s beach umbrella in the Caribbean and blew it into her new husband’s face. He and his new black eye chased it into the ocean, where a jellyfish stung him; but the rogue beach umbrella did eventually make it home with them. My other friend and her husband crashed their rental car on their way to return it. Their insurance covered everything; and no one was seriously hurt, but they nearly missed their flight home. My aunt and uncle had their first fight when they were stocking the kitchen in their cottage. They still joke about it 35 years later. Some of my husband’s buddies shared similar tales of woe with him, so he was prepared for some surprises along the way. His brother overlooked a suitcase while loading the car and paid an exorbitant price to ship it to the hotel. His best friend since kindergarten ran out of gas on the side of the highway, causing another friend to spend a personal day off work ferrying jerry cans to him. His co-worker and his new wife misread their plane tickets, packed in a panic, and showed up to the airport eight hours early. They fell asleep waiting for their flight, didn’t hear the announcement of their gate change, and almost missed their plane anyway. Rumour says that they named their first child after the airline employee who woke them up and rushed them to the new gate. With this information, we expected to come home with one or two comical incidents, but we certainly were not worried. Everything had worked out for all our friends and family members, after all. Confident in our ability to solve any problems and sure that whatever happened would be adorable, we set off for adventure with our matching luggage and smug smiles. We really should have seen it coming. My sister is an ecologist. Robby’s brother works in a garden center. Our grandmothers have grown gardens the size of public swimming pools and can talk about microbiomes all day. We went to college. We’re educated people. We KNOW THINGS. We landed on the island and pranced through customs. “Anything to declare?” No, sir. Of course, we’re not smuggling weapons or drugs or small animals that will eat your native insects. The rental agency had our car ready to go. We made it through the local grocery store without fighting over croissants. The cottage was gorgeous. Everything was working perfectly. HOW did we not see it coming? We slept well on a king-sized bed with wonderful satin sheets and a dozen colourful pillows. The weather the next day was perfect. The beach was stunning. The restaurant was sublime. We returned to our lovely cottage. You know when you enter a room and just know that something is wrong? Your parents are arguing, or your siblings are bickering, or a co-worker has misspoken terribly? That was the feeling when we opened the door. Something was off. Everything looked normal, but Robby and I both sensed something strange. We looked through the whole house for signs of intruders or theft, but we found nothing suspicious. The feeling of strangeness only grew, however. We heard it first. Robby and I love reptiles. We met in a pet store buying crickets for our respective snakes. The store had only two containers left but was getting a shipment in the next day. Robby gallantly offered to let me buy one of the containers instead of taking both even though he was there first. We showed up at the same time the next day, started talking, and that was that. Crickets. That was how we met. That was how we bonded. That was how we had to pay an exterminator to clear out our honeymoon cottage. You can order crickets online. They come sealed in a convenient box. You can buy as many as you want to leave behind for the pet sitter. You can also mistake one of these boxes for a newly ordered tacklebox. In this case, you might think your husband had forgotten to pack his new tacklebox. You might pack the box, expecting to be the hero when he thinks his tacklebox is at home, but turning out to be the villain who flooded your cottage with crickets. The owners were shockingly forgiving as we grovelled and promised to pay for any exterminator that they chose. They graciously gave us a discount when they moved us to one of their other properties, where we stayed until the original cottage was safe for human habitation again. Our scheduled activities went well in the meantime. Surfing lessons were a blast. I performed better than Robby, just as his friends had predicted. Ziplining was thrilling. Robby spent 10 minutes talking me into actually stepping off the platform, just as my friends had predicted. The zoo was unreal. We spent two whole days ensuring that we saw every gecko, salamander, and snake, just as our families had predicted. We did get to finish our vacation at our first cottage, but we thoroughly searched each closet and still spent the first night back hearing phantom crickets. When we returned the rental car, the line was much longer than when we picked it up, but there were no problems. The shuttle was crowded, but the other passengers were friendly. The flight was delayed by half an hour, but it went smoothly after we boarded. When we staggered out of the airport to our friends who were picking us up, our luggage still matched, but our cockiness was gone. “How was it?” Aurora gushed. “Did you find all the boxes of crickets for Roxy and Smith?” I asked. “I found eleven, but I couldn’t find the twelfth...oh. Oh, no.” “Oh, yes.”

Frankie looked her dog in the eyes, eyes the same deep sienna brown as her own, and said, “Okay Audrey, today we will find complete happiness in the solitude of nature.” She tied back her long sandy blond hair. Audrey whined and stood up as her harness was fastened under her belly, the tail that curled over her back wagged like mad, wiggling her butt along with it. For a moment she forgot her manners and leapt straight up on legs like springs- like Tigger- until her eyes were level with Frankie’s. The dog said, ‘ oh boy oh boy oh boy. ’ “Okay, okay...let’s go.” Audrey was the size of a golden retriever, but with glossy black fur with white patches on her nose, chest, and all four paws. She had large, pointed ears like a deer, and it seemed she had too many teeth, an upper canine and a lower one never quite fit inside her mouth. She was an odd-looking dog; in the shelter it had been love at first sight. Frankie’s thighs burned as she followed Audrey up a very steep dirt path. She looked up, breathing heavily, to gauge how much farther it was to the fallen stump at the top. Audrey bounded back to her, stopping to acknowledge a chittering squirrel six feet over them in a pine tree. As she neared the tree, the squirrel said, ‘ be careful, it’s a fast one !’ It scampered higher into the green boughs. Then a jay screeched to get her attention, it said, ‘ over to the left!’ Both dog and woman stepped left into the ferns just in time! From over the fallen log at the top of the hill, came a kid on a BMX bike. He caught air, his long blond hair flagging wildly behind from under a turned around ball cap, a maniacal grin on his face. He thumped down to the path three feet from Frankie’s feet. He had some sort of GoPro on his head though he wore no helmet. Frankie said, “Hey! Hey, you nearly hit us!” The wild boy didn’t stop, he was soon out of sight. It had been increasingly difficult to find good trails. Closer to the city, there were too many people, many of whom were uptight about off-leash dogs, and most paths were kid and even stroller friendly. Ugh. Some of the most challenging didn’t even allow dogs, but instead catered to the mountain bike crowd. They’d hiked the day before, through an immense nature reserve with miles of decent trails and challenging climbs, only to come upon a city of homeless people in dirty tents and tarps and mountains of trash. When she came across grungy hypodermic needles and human waste in the center of the path, she’d vowed angrily not to return. The display of selfish entitlement these crazy, drug-addled people displayed depressed her. They had turned something beautiful into a cesspool. She wept all the way home. A week ago, they’d thought they’d found a secluded forest with grown-over forgotten trails miles into a redwood forest housing the tallest trees they’d ever seen. Then they’d smelled smoke. Frankie had been alarmed at first, fearing the worst, until she came upon a large man, hairy as Sasquatch, with crazy oozing out his pores. He’d been living in a hut made of pallets and branches. He’d come towards her drooling and making strange ‘mmm-ing’ noises until Audrey scared him away. Whether real or imagined, the smell of his cook-fire smoke brought back flashes of long ago when she’d been just five: She’d thought she’d been a happy child. She’d loved her parents though she couldn’t recall their faces, and an older brother who she had adored because even though he’d been ten years older, he’d played with her and taken her to the park and on long hikes through the woods by their home. He said he could talk to the animals and birds, and she had laughed. She had no memories of her parents taking her anywhere fun, she supposed she blocked them out for being too painful. She remembered a church, a big gothic thing, terrifying and NOT fun. One day, deep in the woods, her and Brian had come across an injured squirrel. She’d watched in fascination as her brother picked it up gently and talked to it soothingly... and listened to it. In her head, she had thought she heard a high-pitched whisper, ‘ Bobcat. Family gone...it hurts, please help me.’ After Brian had placed the squirrel in his backpack and told Frankie they had to hurry back now, she’d timidly said, “B-Brian. I heard it too.” Brian hugged her and said, “The desperate have a louder voice. I knew you’d be able to hear them too...” “So, you believe me?” “I’ve been waiting for this. Now please, do not tell anyone. Okay?” “Why not?” “They will punish you.” Brian had been blamed for the fire. Who else could it have been? He’d been fifteen, and you know how disobedient and conniving teenagers are. Probably been smoking cigarettes out his window, flicking the embers into the dry grass. Both her parents had perished, and it was assumed Brian was dead too, though his body was never recovered. Half the house had slid into the river when the retaining wall gave way, his bedroom had been in the basement, his body most likely swept away by the eddying waters. Frankie had nightmares to this day, of leaping from the attic window, smoke billowing hot against her back, into the net of the firefighters. Frankie and Audrey stood at the top of the hill and admired the green panoramic scene. The sky above was still overcast, just the way she liked it. It was four o’clock. She was disturbed by BMX Kid. His behavior was unnervingly reckless, but even more so, she was again dismayed to have discovered yet another awesome hiking path only to find inconsiderate humans used it too. She sighed unhappily. ‘I know. But I still like this one. Maybe he’ll be the only one today.’ She rubbed Audrey’s silky soft head. “Oh Audrey, ever the optimist.” ‘There’s a fox down there.’ Frankie looked down as a leafy branch quivered over a patch of orange fur. They made their way down the hill, the fox peeked it’s pretty, pointy-nosed face out from the dense shrub and said, ‘Beware, another one comes this way. Eek! ’ It slunk out of sight like molten lava. “What? What other one?” Audrey said, ‘Always so cryptic, them foxes, just like catssss. ’ She looked as if she’d bitten into a lemon. Frankie laughed. Then heard a branch snap...close behind them. Audrey’s fur was tufted along her hackles, her ears pointed forward, and a low growl purred from her throat like a Harley’s motor idling. The shrubs along the left of the path, twenty feet ahead, shivered. A tubby little creature popped out, rolled to a stop, and sprung to its feet. At first, Frankie thought it was a tubby racoon, grey furred and barrel-shaped. Then she thought it was a small fat child wrapped in a fur coat. ‘What is it?’ “Don’t know.” The thing had the face of a child, with a mop of shoulder length hair the same shade as its coat. Its ears were pink like its face, but longer, elfin-like. From the bottom of its tubby body were two skinny legs with five-toed black feet. It carried a spear, its wickedly pointy head glinted silver, reflecting the overcast sky. It also wore the same sort of GoPro BMX Kid had been wearing. It was a curved silver rectangle on a pole that appeared to be embedded in the thing’s head; it rotated slowly left to right, left to right. Frankie thought of the satellite dish her neighbors had had on their roof, she had been jealous that they had television. The thing thumped the dirt with the butt of its spear and shrieked like a banshee. “SCREEEE!” Every hair on Frankie’s body stood up, much like Audrey’s. “Hey now, Cutie, we’ll just be going...C’mon Aud, let’s go back.” Audrey placed herself in front of Frankie, growl still idling. Frankie started backing away. “SCRRREEEEEEEEE!” ‘Thud!’ It jumped high into the air! It landed behind Frankie and smiled, revealing a too-wide mouth full of pointy little teeth. Frankie ran. “Come on!” Audrey held her ground a few seconds longer, giving Frankie time to get away, then she ran too. Raccoon Boy did not follow. The rutted path they followed narrowed, Frankie stumbled twice, Audrey stopped every fifty feet or so to look behind them. She said, ‘ keep going. I’m right behind you. ’ As a gloomy twilight approached, they stopped in a small clearing and looked behind them. A branch snapped in the growing gloom in the woods, shadows melded together. As they watched, a tall, thin, dark figure emerged from between two trees. It had four long thin legs, each ending in a point like a spider’s delicate foot, and a humanoid body, stretched. Its head was triangular, with large round eyes, it looked like a praying mantis but had two thin long arms ending in human hands. The satellite thingy on its head glinted in the ink-blue atmosphere, as it rotated left to right. They leapt through a dense hedge of hemlock and came upon a cabin in a clearing hidden there. It looked deserted. “Audrey?” ‘Raccoon Boy’s scent lingers here.’ “This can’t possibly be its home.” A snap. A rustle. Audrey tried the door. Unlocked. They dove inside, saw that there were three locks and a thick metal bar that fit into brackets across it. They looked out the window by the door. Mantis Man sat across the clearing with both sets of legs crossed. Its enormous dark eyes blinked at them. Frankie said, “Look. It’s BMX Kid.” He was sitting to the left, across the clearing, his bike on its side next to him. Audrey said, ‘Racoon Boy .’ The thing’s coat gleamed silver in the black night, it was a three-foot pom- pom with a head. Frankie tried the light switches by the door. Amazingly, they worked. Though the inside lighting was soft as candlelight, she switched it off. She left the porchlight on, to light up the clearing. Mantis Man turned out to be green. They sat by the window all night. As she stared, she tried to communicate with the creatures. She didn’t understand why Mantis and Raccoon did not answer her enquiries. All of nature’s fabulous minds were eager to communicate with her. She even tried BMX Kid though she was loathe to do so, human minds often left her sickened, she’d turned off that ability in herself long ago, like flicking a toggle switch - off. But even from him, nothing. Just a deadness, cold as outer space. At last, dawn came with the flourish she loved. It meant hike time, nature time. Peace and quiet and communion with the forest dwellers. This morning, however, only brought more terror. The three were out there, watching. Raccoon Boy grinned his toothy grin. BMX Kid gave her the Hawaiian ‘hang loose’ hand sign. A squirrel hopped onto the flowerbox on the windowsill, between the bright red geraniums blooming there, inches from Frankie’s face on the inside. Frankie screamed. ‘Just a squirrel.’ “I know...sorry.” The squirrel tapped on the window and pointed at the inside latch. ‘It wants you to open the---’ “Window, got it.” She hesitated. ‘It’s just a squirrel. No evil bones in their bodies...’ “Oh, fuck it.” She unlatched the window lock and lifted the pane four inches. The wee squirrel ducked inside. Frankie slammed the window down, wincing. The three sentinels sat placidly watching. She said, “What’s going on? You know this place?” The squirrel said, ‘You’re safe here.’ Dog and woman sighed with relief. Like all woodland creatures, squirrels never lied. (Though Raccoons tended to exaggerate, and foxes tended to be sneaky.) The squirrel said, ‘Come .’ She raced across the cabin to the kitchen nook. Frankie had little time to look around, but what she saw she liked. The cabin was clean and furnished with hand-crafted rustic furniture. A small tv sat on a low bookshelf filled with old classics. They followed the squirrel. The kitchen was an immaculate 1950’s reproduction in red and white, with modern amenities fitting in. The squirrel led them through a pantry door, they followed. At the far end, was a solid wooden wall. At the bottom was a small strip of wood that stuck out a half an inch. The squirrel pointed to it, excitedly hopping up and down. ‘ There there!’ Frankie bent and pushed against it. The floor of the pantry started sinking. Frankie was about to panic but saw the squirrel was smiling and clapping her hands with joy. As the pantry went down half a story, the squirrel climbed swiftly out the opening and said, ‘ See-ya later!’ Frankie realized with amusement that faint music was being piped in through invisible speakers. It was her favorite band, one her brother used to listen to: Pink Floyd, the song was Shine on You Crazy Diamond. “I feel like Alice in Wonderland.” Audrey said , ‘I wonder where the Mad Hatter is?’ “Ha ha.” She jumped as the elevator stopped. The wall slid open. They stepped into a hallway lined with caramel-colored tiles softly lit by brass wall sconces. The wall at the other end slid open as she approached it. Frankie gaped in wonder, jaw hanging open like a funhouse clown's, as she took in the immense space. It was the most beautiful library ever. Three of the twenty-foot walls were lined with shelves of books, a wheeled ladder reached the top. There was a propane fireplace with fake logs, a vast mahogany coffee table with carved cat’s feet legs, a settee, and three deep armchairs upholstered in deep-jewel-colored hues. Six end tables shaped like bears held tiffany lamps. The rugs were thick red wool. As she walked past the bookshelves, she noticed that all the countless figurines on the shelves and tables were robots or monsters of some kind. Some she recognized from tv shows and movies...Godzilla, R2-D2, Wolverine, the Iron Giant, the Alien...Mantis Man- the sentinel outside. The third wall where the fireplace sat, also housed a door. It opened and a man in a white lab coat walked in. He was tall, with a high forehead, his long, tied-back hair the same dirty blond as hers though his was greying at the temples. He had leather gloves on his long-fingered hands. He removed his reading glasses and blinked at her with eyes the same dark shade as hers, then he smiled and said, “Franchetta, hello, and welcome.” She backed away, her mouth snapped shut like a trap. Audrey whined. “Don’t be afraid. I’m Brian . Your Brian.” Frankie’s veins filled with ice-water, her legs turned to oatmeal, she caught the edge of the coffee table before she hit the ground and plopped onto a cushy ottoman. “No. Dead. The fire.” Audrey hopped up next to her. Brian went to a bar tucked in the corner opposite the fireplace and poured them each four fingers of an amber elixir. He came towards her, and she shied away, eyes round as ping pong balls. He halted a second, then sat opposite her, pushing the crystal glass on a coaster towards her. “Remy Martin.” He sipped his and put it down. “You killed them. An accident, but...” Her hands shook in her lap. “It was not I...uh...do you still go by Frankie?” She nodded. Audrey said, ‘He’s the Mad Hatter !’ Brian laughed then said to the dog, “More like Mad Scientist.” Frankie said, “It really is you.” She swallowed half the cognac. “You don’t remember our parents at all do you?” “I was happy...?” “No. Neither of us was happy. Mother found out about us. You kept your promise, but Father caught you talking to that deer that used to come around.” “Bella.” “Yes. Mother blamed our Father, said his seed was cursed, that we were Satan’s spawn...” “That awful black church...” “She dragged us there. That dark priest was as insane as she was. He told her the only way to save our souls was with fire.” Frankie gasped. “I tried to save you.” He removed his gloves, his hands were made of metal. “I saw you jump. When the house collapsed, I was thrown into the river, unconscious. I woke entangled in a fall of branches, a beaver’s dam, far from home. The beaver showed me where humans lived, and I was taken in at a hospital. Then sent to a specialist in prosthetics. It was there I studied with a wonderfully brilliant doctor, a scientist. You would have loved him, he taught me much and helped build this place...” He pulled out a smart phone and tapped it a few seconds. “Texting?” “Ha! Not quite...” The elevator door opened, and the three sentinels came in. Audrey yipped. As one, they raised a hand and waved ‘hello.’ Mantis Man said, “Gru-gruuuu wimi-si...aaaahhh.” Brian said, “He says he’s sorry he scared you...and welcome. I’m working on fixing his voice, his name’s Maury by the way...” “These creatures, the sentinels...you made them. That’s why I couldn’t talk with them, they aren’t alive.” Raccoon Boy said, “SCRA! Ganorf!” Brian said, “Spooky! Be real.” To his sister he said, “he’s in denial. I’m fixing his voice as well.” Audrey said, ‘It was Sameel, the crow. That found us. Sameel was the spy.’ Brian said, “smart pup...yes, Sameel found you for me and grew increasingly concerned for Frankie. So, I built the cabin for you...and my sister.” Audrey said to Frankie , ‘Can we stay? Please oh please?’ The goofy dog leapt up and down, tail and butt wagging... Frankie went to her brother and hugged him. “Thank you. You’ve saved my life.”

Hello, my name is GUY. I am the manliest man men have ever seen. I am oozing with masculinity. I have to constantly remind people how manly I am because I want to boost my masculine points. I measure my masculine points based on how many pounds I can lift. How many women I can date and how many beers I can gulp down in one sitting. I also measure my masculine points by how hairy I am, the depths of my voice, how much I can manspread, how loud I can speak, and by the size of my.... I am so manly that I am too man enough for everything. I’m too manly for the earth. My masculinity is so pungent that all the other men around me make high pitched girly screams and run away. I am too manly for the color blue, black, red, orange, yellow, and every color on the RGB scale. I’m too manly for gradients. I am too manly for horror films, action films, cartoons, experimental french cinema, and every film genre that exists. When I drive a car, it has to be manly but I don’t own a car right now because every car in the market can’t handle the amount of man I have. The car will end up at the repair shop at least once a day. I am too manly to live in a house. Every house in the market doesn’t live up to my manly expectations. Right now, I live with my mother. I’m so manly that I drink hot water straight from the pot. I’m so manly that I eat coffee raw. No water. No milk. No anything. Just pure man. I’m so manly I eat only plywood and nails. I’m so manly, I benchpress my mother’s car every morning. I’m so manly, that I piss acid every day. I’m so manly, that my deep voice can cause earthquakes so I have to purposely talk in a high pitch voice. Humanity can’t handle my real voice. I’m so manly, that my beard hair feels like a wire brush. I’m so manly, that I can impregnate every living being: plants, animals, insects, furniture, and even men. I can technically make take over the entire planet and create my own animal species because of this. The only thing that matches the amount of man I have is my pet teacup chihuahua named Lily. If you ask me, I think chihuahuas are perfect dogs for manly men. My masculinity can be sensed from ten miles away instead of one mile when I’m walking Lily. Some men ask me how can they get as manly as me. I laugh at them. You don’t. You don’t become manly, you are born with it. When I was an infant, I could already lift a suitcase. If you have to ask, then you will never be as manly as me. As a matter of fact, I am the only man on earth that has this amount of masculine manliness. Hell, look at my name. My name is GUY, not Guy. The all caps emphasize my manliness and I prefer if others write my name the same way. Thank you.

"Please, don't do it!" Sarah jumped from her chair, almost knocking down the table and chessboard. "Ha! I beat you!" Jake stood up and rearranged the chess pieces back to the starting position. "That’s because I was going easy on you!" "Fine! Then we play one more round, no going easy." Jake sat back down. "Nope, I have to do my essay. It's due today, and you know Mom would kill me if I turned it in late." Sarah opened the door and stepped out. "That does sound like our mom. But one more won’t hurt, right?" Jake begged. "No is no! I swear, sometimes I wonder why you aren’t dead due to pissing me off too much. Goodbye!" Sarah closed the door. "Ugh!" Jake lay down. Ding! "What was that? Oh, it's my phone." He picked up his phone and saw an email from the news site Tech Time. Dear @jakesmith, Thank you for purchasing the E-razor! To thank you for your support, we sent you a coupon that you can use for a free sticker on our news site. We hope we can continue working together. Thank you again. Sincerely, The TTTT “I don’t remember buying the E-razor.” Jake rushed downstairs to check the mailbox. He opened the front door and saw a package on the porch. “I guess that’s it,” Jake said, ripping the box. Inside there was a gun-like shape that was black with blue stripes. He picked up the E-razor and put it on the kitchen counter. “SARAH! COME OVER HERE!” Jake screamed. Sarah slammed the door open. “What do you want, Jake?! I’m writing my essay!” “Did you buy an E-razor?” “An eraser? No, why would I?” Sarah walked down the stairs to the kitchen. “Not an eraser, an E- razor !” “E-razor?” Sarah looked at the item in question. “It seems more like a laser gun, and no, I didn’t buy it. Check the envelope on top.” She picked up the envelope and took out a white note card and a coupon. Sarah started reading the note. “So?” Jake snatched the notecard from Sarah. “Hey! I was still reading that!” “Too bad, you read way too slow. Let me read it out loud, okay? Ahem, ‘Dear Jake Smith, we have gifted you an E-razor for being a committed supporter of our news site and tech team. We won’t give you much detail since we want you to figure it out yourself. But remember, if you screw up too badly, there’s a way to reverse it. -The TTTT’ “Happy now?” “What’s the TTTT?” “It’s short for the Tech Time Tech Team.” Jake put the note on the marble counter next to the E-razor. “Okay, well, shouldn’t we test it out?” Sarah picked up the E-razor. “Here?” Jake motioned to the kitchen. “I know the name says razor , but I get the vibe that it’s not a razor. Mostly because it’s shaped like a gun.” I honestly don’t care. This house is trash anyways.” “Outside, because I like this house.” Jake opened the front door. “Then let’s go!” “Don’t you have an essay to write?” Jake rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but this,” Sarah gestured to the E-razor, “is more important.” “Right. So, where should we test this baby out?” Jake pointed the gun at Sarah. “Pew, pew, pew!” “How about...the park? It’s just a few blocks away.” “I guess it would work.” Jake opened the door again, gesturing for Sarah to go out first. “Come on! I have to get back before dinner to write my essay!” Sarah ran off. “Wait up!” Jake yelled, trying to catch up to Sarah. Sarah slowed down to a walk. “So, any guesses as to what this E-razor might be?” “Why would I know?” Jake said, “I’m just as confused as you are!” “Okay, stop. I’m just going to test it out right here.” Sarah pointed the E-razor at a nearby tree. “Really? Why?” “I’m getting impatient, and I still need to write my essay. Ready?” “What can possibly go wrong?” Jake asked as he stepped back. Sarah lined up her aim and shot the tree. The tree instantly disappeared. “Whoa! What happened?” Jake took the E-razor and studied its appearance. The gun had TTTT etched in green on one side and E-razor etched in blue on the other. “I’m not sure, Jake. Maybe the E-razor erased the tree from the earth. Let’s test this thing on...” Sarah looked around and saw two people walking on the sidewalk across from them. “Those people, over there.” She pointed at the strangers. “No! They’re living people! We can’t test a weird gun-laser thing on them!” “Whatever. We don’t even know them, it won’t impact our lives in any way, and we’ll even help the world by having less population! It’s a win-win!” Sarah lined up her aim. “Don’t!” Jake leaped for the gun, but Sarah side-stepped, still aiming at the people. “Stop! Sarah!” “It’s fine!” Sarah rechecked her aim and shot. The people disappeared like the tree. “Cool! What do you think?” “I think it’s horrible. It’s so horrible I can’t describe how horrible it is!” Jake had a disgusted look on his face. “You’re right! It’s too small. We need to go big! If that was what happened, imagine the power we would have! We can control the world with this, Jake! I’ve got a plan, so listen up. When we go to school tomorrow, we’ll start giving out ridiculous orders, and if the people we ask to do stuff for us don’t do it, we erase them. Then students and teachers will start obeying us, and soon, we’ll get on the news and everyone will be terrified of us. Then we can rule the world!” Sarah squealed. “Isn’t that awesome! Jake? Jake?!” Jake’s face was stunned with horror. How can his sister think of such an evil plan and plan on doing it? “You’re joking, right?” “Of course not! Think of the power we can have!” Sarah handed Jake the E-razor. “Come on, Jake. How about I make you a deal. I won’t shoot anyone you know. Strangers are strangers, they don’t care about you, you don’t care about them.” “Doesn’t mean you can just kill them with no regrets or guilt!” “You don’t even know them! It’s not like you’re killing Mom or Dad! And you know I can carry on by myself. I’m letting you in because you’re my brother. I can easily erase you, too. But I won’t, since we’re family. And family helps each other. So?” Jake took the E-razor. “No, I’m throwing this away. I don’t want you turning into some evil maniac.” “JAKE! This helps you, too, you know? Just follow my lead and everything will go perfectly .” “What if there’s obstacles in the way? Will they stop you?” Jake tried to poke holes in his sister’s plan. “Nothing will stop me, nothing . Unless I die, I won’t stop. I will be invincible!” Jake sighed, and tears started welling up in his eyes. “Y-you said it y-yours-self. Give m-me the g-gun.” “Why are you crying, and what do you want the gun for?” “Um... I-I want to t-take your plan into...c-consideration, before I commit.” Jake sniffed “Okay, fair enough. Glad to see you’re turning around.” Sarah handed the E-razor to Jake. “D-don’t mo-ove, Sarah or I might a-accidentally shoot y-you.” Jake’s voice wobbled, and tears started flowing down his face. “What’s wrong with you?” Sarah put her hands on her hips. “I-I’m going to h-hit that t-tree over there. A-and the n-note said i-it’s reversable, okay?” Jake was sobbing now. “Okay? So?” Sarah tapped her foot, “Any second now!” “T-three, two, one!” Jake spun around and pointed the E-razor at Sarah, tears streaming down like waterfalls. “I’m sorry, Sarah!” “JAKE! Think of what we can accomplish! I’m your sister! “Y-you said y-you c-couldn-n’t b-be s-stopped unl-less y-you d-died, a-and the n-note said it w-was r-reversable.” “Please! Don’t do it!” Sarah blocked her face with her hands. “I’m sorry! I’ll fix this!” Jake closed his red eyes as he pressed the trigger.

The water drops from the balcony above were tapping on the hand rails of his patio. They were consistent. Three quickly and then another two, then every three or four cycles they would all hit at once in some sort of perfect storm. He focused on the drippings through the rain and they didn’t allow him to fall back asleep. He stood and stepped out to the balcony to watch and listen to rain drop from the purple tinted sky, trying to watch drops from the clouds and follow them all the way to the ground. The plastic chairs on the balcony were wet and soaked his shorts when he sat down. Sitting he tried to think about the rain. He wanted something, anything to grab onto. There was nothing anywhere he went that held him, that made him want to stay. Some sort of motivation, or reason but it was empty. Maybe if he could capture the aesthetic he was looking at and transfer it onto a page. He thought for about a minute and realized he couldn't. Then spent the next 10 minutes criticizing himself as to why he would even think about trying to capture the beauty of the world for himself. Knowing for sure that he only wanted to do this because he wanted the rewards that would come from producing a piece of art. He thought forward to the talk show he would be on, where they would ask in amazement, when exactly did you come up with this Nobel Prize winning idea. Left leg over right, no, right over left he thought, and wearing something nice but humble. Immediately he felt shame, like he just orgasmed and wished he hadn’t. He thought about the past great writers and artists and how his motives were impure and that it meant he would never reach their level. The thought turned into a fact in the back of his head, I will never find it. He got back in bed with his wet shorts, threw the covers over his head and squirmed for two hours until the sun came up. The sun rose but the rain didn’t stop. The rain hadn’t stopped since he arrived in this town at dusk the night before. The city Shin. This city was unique, everything is based off one main street that runs through the heart of the city. Shin resembled a tree branch. The main street starts at the trunk and ended at the tip of the branch, and each leaf or twig was a side street, alley or road. Shin was a city famous for its rain and buildings. All along the main street building grew tall. And as you moved further away from the main street buildings usually didn’t grew so tall. The bottom three floors of these main street buildings were filled with all different kinds of liquor and grocery stores, one-stop gambling spots, clothing stores, tattoo shops, and lots of places to eat. Storefronts were two or three stories high and the sidewalks in front of them were wide, it gave the effect that you were walking down a huge alley. Above them were mainly lodging and some low-rent apartments. Above those floors are corporate offices or lounges. And the top floors were home to penthouses and very rich clubs. Some buildings didn’t get higher than the third floor, others didn’t get higher than the seventh or eighth and but most reached the sky. Neon signs reflecting blue, pink, green, purple and yellow colors off the rain hung from the first or second story levels advertising their respective trades. Into the leaves and twigs were houses, apartments, tea and coffee shops, more places to eat, bath houses, gambling houses, schools, parks and more hotels or motels, depending if you were on a twig or a leaf. The area outside Shin, and the main street were on very flat land, but the twigs and leaves were sporadically placed on bumps or hills, some tall some short. He was on a hill called Bunker. One side of Bunker rose slowly, and the other side fell off rather sharply. Bunker was a cheap area for lodging, it was on a twig. The lodging he was staying at was built on the steep side of Bunker, and his patio looked out over the neighborhood below. The sun rose at 6:23 AM. He rose as well with a sense of pride, feeling as he was one of the ones who had his life together because he was up and out before seven, forgetting about his fit when he saw the outline of the sun through the clouds. To himself, he thought, “I’m going to walk around my new city.” He began walking down the slow side of Bunker and walked into a 24 hour coffee and tea shop that used a curtain as a door. The shop was nearly filled to capacity with men who were dressed for a blue-collar job, each reading their paper, focusing on either sports, news or classifieds. The tea and toast he ordered were as expected. The tea was piping hot but lacked flavor, and the bread was almost burnt. With his food he began to eat and sip slowly, reading the paper of the man sitting at the table in front of him. The man was reading the classifieds, he was reading the story of a baseball player who died in an bus crash in the offseason taking relief supplies to a country ravaged by an earthquake. What shitty luck he thought. You spend your money and time the right way and you rewarded with death. What a waste of supplies. The bus had driven off a bridge after swerving due to rain, into 30 feet of water. As far as a baseball player he had little success, he was a catcher, with a career .218 batting average and only nine career home runs in four years. But he was noted to have been very active in his and other communities. He was reading about his childhood before the man stood up, folded his paper into his back pocket and walked out. All he caught was that he was from a small island he never heard of that started with a C. He thought to himself that he could have been a decent ball player, he had decent height a good build for baseball. He was right-handed so maybe he could have been a good second baseman. Being a sports writer didn’t seem so hard to him either, it seemed simple, maybe even sports photography could be possible. Then he thought maybe that could be a good story, about an athlete who is a better person than a player. Or the classic fantastic player but horrible person, but throw in some character growth and he’s the good guy. All of these thoughts flooded his mind in a matter or seconds. He found himself almost smirking but caught himself quickly and stopped. Feeling ashamed he shoved down the rest of the toast down his throat and walked out, looking around to see if anyone was looking. The morning clouds were very dark. He threw his hood on and headed to the main street. He reached the main street and had his hands in his pockets. He looked both ways and decided to head for the tip of the branch. Walking he kept his head on a swivel looking at every face and storefront that he passed by. Inside the first liquor store on his route he bought a pack of unfiltered cigarettes and lit one before walking out. The streets were packed at this time. He was pretty sure it was Tuesday, so that would explain the people out and about early in the morning. The sky had lightened but the rain hadn’t. The neon signs were never turned off so the lights were constantly reflecting off the sunlight and the rain making for a very aesthetic view. He wished he had a camera and photography skills. But he had given up on photography a few cities ago. The main street had no street parking. Most of the main street had only two lanes going each way, only in some very cases was there a turn lane. As the stores past by he looked in as many stores did not close and had no doors. The storefront would be open 24 hours a day. Peering in the stores were busy around the clock, and it never seemed as though the faces changed. The same woman at the restaurant, the same man gambling, the same kid holding and passing ads. The last city he was in was far less superior to this one. It was a small town with no more than 600 people. There was no decent lodging that didn't make him feel like he was intruding on someone's home. And very religious, nothing was opened on Sunday, that’s when he took off. A quick bus ride only nine hours landed him here. Now this he thought as he looked around, is a hub, a mecca, a place someone can fit in. here you could just be another piece of the machine. No one to bother you, no one to know your name, no family to guilt you. N. 99th Street is what he looked up to see on the street sign. He had walked 22 streets, with about a half mile in between each one. He decided we would eat, sat at a bench and counted his remaining cash. He had already paid for his room for two weeks, so that was safe, but only had enough money for four days of meals. Paying for two weeks in advance was never his style but the aesthetic of the lights and the rain and the hills made him sure this is where he wanted to be. Maybe he was right but looking at his cash his stomach began to twist. The rain still hadn’t let up. He made his way back to his room through the twigs and leafs, not down main street. The coat was hung neatly in the closet, the bed was made and he was laying face down wondering what he should do. “A job is my only option,” he said aloud, “i’m gonna give this city a fair shake.” He spent the rest of the night going back and forth between reading, trying to draw, contemplating calling home for money, maybe enlisting in the military, back to trying to write about his day, thinking about maybe going to look for a job. Before he knew it, the clock said it was 9:09 PM and he had wasted another day. Brushing, showering, changing and laying down. He slept until around three when the rain woke him up again. “Not again.” He pressed his head between his pillows and forced himself to sleep. The next morning was spent at the same tea shop but without food, or stories of sports, this time it was the classifieds. After two hours searching every ad, paranoid to miss the perfect opportunity the store owners told him to buy something or get out. He left, headed to the main office of Central Allied Security Services. He joined a waiting room full of other potential candidates, he was the fourth tallest by what he could tell, and looked stronger or younger than the rest. The receptionist hadn’t said how many jobs they were planning to fill but he was sure he would land one. He was originally scared he would be late, the ad said the company would be conducting interviews from 9:30 AM- 2:30 PM or when all positions were filled. He arrived seven minutes early and was disappointed to find 11 people already in the waiting room, but was almost immediately relieved to see more than 30 people arrive between 9:40 and 10 AM. A round short women with glasses walked out and announced, “Francisco Miguel Cantor Marinero Jr. ,” in a horrible accent effectively butchering the name. He rubbed his sweaty palms against the arms of the chair, he hated when people said his full name, it brought too much attention to himself. “Here,” he said as he stood up, also halfway raising his arm like he was in school again. “Come on in.” He followed into a room with two men sitting at a table and the round lady joining them “Mister... Cantor? Where are you from?” “Out west but I just got here from a little town called Prosper two days ago.” “And how long were you in Prosper?” “Three days.” “Are you planning on leaving again soon.” “No sir, i’ve paid three months in advance at my current lodging, Shin is where I plan to be.” “Have you done security work before?” “Not officially but I worked in a nursing facility at one point where I was essentially called for any security type issues, escorting things like that.” “What would be your first reaction to a man getting loud or irritated and possibly violent in an area you are assigned to patrol?” “Truthfully sir, I am not familiar with the procedures of this company, so I would rely on my training and make sure I understand all procedures before going on the job to handle the situation correctly.” There was a moment of silence. “When would you be able to start?” “As soon as possible.” “Is 12.00 an hour ok?” “Yes” “How many days can you work.” “As many as i'm needed.” “Fill this out and we’ll get back to you.” After leaving he felt good, he was always good at interviews, he just always knew what they wanted to hear. During the interview each interviewer only took one look at him and only stared down at a sheet of paper making marks. Only the man in the middle asked questions. The round women always brought in the candidates, and the other man didn't do anything but write stuff down and adjust his glasses. He went back to his room and smoked the rest of the cigarettes he had bought the day before and was listening to the rain. He spent the afternoon thinking and wondering about what his first day would be like. Then his second and third. What his first paycheck would read. Thinking of perfect scenarios and situations. At midnight he was still awake and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything but cigarette smoke and two cups of water from the waiting room. Starting down the hall in a pair of medium white socks, his converse, some basketball shorts and a black hoodie sweatshirt, he headed for the small diner up the hill. When he walked out he heard a loud voice saying, “get out,” and saw a large duffle bag fly out of room a 30 feet in front of him. He paused for a second and kept on but slower. A second after a girl came bouncing out, catching herself on the wall opposite of the door. Now he was walking really slow. The door shut and the deadbolt turned. She immediately turned around and pounded on the door once. “Give me my backpack,” she said in a confident voice. While he was 10 feet away the deadbolt turned and she caught the black backpack that was tossed out the door. The deadbolt turned again. “You need some help?” he said it out loud but as soon as it left his lips he felt as though he hadn’t said it. She was checking her backpack and turned sharply towards him and in a soft firm voice she answered, “I think i’ll be good.” He couldn’t figure out why but the way she looked at him had made his head feel light. Like he was inside his own head looking through his eyes. He was suddenly aware of all his movements. He could feel six different parts of his body itch all at once. She had dark skin, but not Yucatan dark. Her hair was naturally black and a little wavy but mostly straight. Her eyes matched. She had a mole under the left corner of her mouth on her chin and another right over the inside of her left eyebrow on her forehead. She was wearing tight spandex shorts, but they were covered by a large long sleeve jersey. He didn’t recognize the team so it must be some generic brand. She had on brown open toed shoes. He couldn't decide if they were sandals or huaraches, he figured they were somewhere in between. Is there even a difference he briefly thought. He was pretty speechless. But the first thing that came to his mind. “Have you eaten?” “What?” she didn’t mean to sound aggressive she was just flustered. “I'm a big girl I can figure out how to eat,” she added. She wasn’t really a big girl. No taller than 5’5 and pretty thin. But the nice type of thin. Skinny but with still something left to feel. She had big feet though. Her toes were painted black but the polish had worn off on some of them. “I didn't mean it like that, i was just headed to the diner on the corner, y-you want to come.” She was digging through her backpack and looked up. “You don't have to get anything if you don't want, I mean if you're not hungry, but it would give you some time to get yourself together, you look a little flustered truthfully,” he added. “Yea, maybe, okay, thanks,” she took only a second or two between words but it felt like an hour for him. They began walking down the hall, he was walking two steps ahead, it just felt too soon to walk next to her in his head. “He turned and said, “Im junior by the way.” “Junior? Thats your real name?” “No, but i am a junior, and I go by junior.” “What’s your full name,” she had caught up to him. “Umm,” he paused, “Francisco Miguel Cantor Marinero Jr.” “Very cool, i’m gonna call you Pancho.” He let out a laugh as they turned to corner to the elevator, “Whatever you feel.” “Im Lizzie.” He gave her a look and she immediately knew. “Ugh fine, Maria Elizabeth Dominguez Perez.” “That's a pretty name, i’ve always liked that name, Perez.” She didn't answer. “I’m gonna call you Liz,” he said. “Eww no i'm gonna sound like a lesbian,” they both chuckled. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Likewise.” In Pancho’s head he was very relieved to know that she was indeed not a lesbian but he couldn’t let her know. They made it outside and walked quickly 50 yards up to the diner. The diner was small, only a bar that held five patrons and 10 booths that could hold a maximum of four maybe five customers. The diner was called Anna’s and the neon sign was in bright pink and aqua blue. The inside played slow trumpet, piano and drum jazz at a low volume. Despite being only a short distance the different in view this diner had couldn’t be any different. The diner windows seemed to show the city like a panoramic photo. All the colors were distinguished and reflected perfectly against the rain. You could see the hills and neighborhoods of Shin and all the lights twinkling. They sat at the corner booth so she could fit her duffle bag. He ordered a cup of coffee and two packs on unfiltered cigarettes. Lizzie was still digging in her bag and passed on anything to order. “You think I can have one of those cigarettes?” she asked. “Sure.” They sat. He drank. They smoked. She dug around her bag for a while and finally sat back. “I’m gonna go change in the bathroom, i’ll be right back.” She came out wearing black leggings, a pair of black running shoes, and a heather grey hoodies sweatshirt that fit her better than the jersey. She put her old clothes in her duffle bag, put her hand in her pocket hoodie pocket and leaned back. He passed her another cigarette and she lit it with the pack of matches. They sat in silence and smoked. They both subconsciously were peering out the window onto the city. He was looking at the hills and the way the city seemed to move like a branch in the wind. She was looking at the windows of all the houses in the neighborhood and wondering what each person or family was doing if anything. “You from here?” he finally broke the silence. “No, i’m from back west.” “Same,” he responded. “Oh yea? Where at?” “The deserts by the beach.” “Im from the ghettos by the beach” “Very cool,” without knowing he had already, within an hour copied her slang. “Why are you all the way here?” She let out a light sigh, “Long story.” “Same.” There conversations was steady but spaced out. Words didn’t come out fast and questions weren’t answered immediately. The pauses were just long enough for the other to know that the conversations was still going on. He was terrified, he was trying so hard to match her. To be on the same level of cool and aloofness as she was. She didn’t seem to overthink anything. She was acting effortless, asking questions and answering them with absolute certainty and no change in her voice or tone. All the while on the fly he was trying to make it seem like they are the same person. He was kidding himself as he knew from the first moment he looked in her black eyes they were not the same. “But maybe that was a good thing,” he thought to himself, “people don’t have to be the same to be able to be in the same space.” “So why come from the desert to this place?” she asked. “I’ve been to a lot of places in between,” he took a small pause, ashed his cigarette, peered out the window and added, “but I have a feeling i’ll stick here.” For the first time she had a moment of vulnerability and her face made an uncontrolled movement. She enjoyed his answer. She loved the mindset, and it was the first time one of them had responded so soon after a question so she knew he meant it. She also knew this wasn’t the first time he said this about a city, but that’s another reason she liked it so much. “I can respect it,” she smirked at put her cigarette out on the ashtray. “I’m gonna order some food, you want something?” “Can we share?” “Pick something.” They spent the next two hours eating eight chicken tenders and fries slowly, going thru almost a pack of cigarettes combined, and drinking four cups of coffee each. The pace of their conversations had sped up quite a bit, but they had shared stories from various cities about different people, jobs and situations they had been in. And when she concluded with, “I’ve just been looking for something to hold on to truthfully.” He knew then and there he would never want to be in any place that she wasn’t in. He had asked the sky and the rain for that very thing two nights before and he couldn’t believe him hearing another human saying the same thing. It made his head feel light again, he couldn’t help but smile. She was what he wanted to hold on to. This feeling he had was unmatched before. He had only read about things like this happening but never believed it would happen to him or that it happened at all. All the years of hidden sadness, stress, anxiety and feelings of unwantedness that manifested into aimless traveling. Once her lips closed after saying that sentence he couldn't remember any of it. All he felt was an undying need be in the same space as her and that she was the one he wanted to hold onto. Junior is not an irrational person, almost immediately he understood very well that this immediate and deep feeling of need and loyalty was probably not healthy and very well may fade, but to him it didn’t matter, it never did. “Who cares about that stuff anyway,” he thought to himself. He paid and they walked out together. He was carrying her duffle bag. They walked thru the rain, too full and tired to run and took the elevator back to his floor. She began to tell him about her friends back by the beach in the ghettos, and all the young hoodlum stuff they used to get into. The openness surprised Junior but by no stretch of the imagination did he want it to stop. He listened and asked questions and related to her stories the best he could until he had set her duffle bag down on the floor and she had locked the door. At the same moment they both realized where they were and who they were with. Neither had even thought about any other outcome than ending here with each other, but they couldn’t remember how it happened, it just did. Junior showered and changed in the bathroom. She did the same after him. He took the fastest shower he had taken in a while, he was paranoid she would leave while he was away. When she came out he was sitting on the edge of the bed starting at the purple sky through the sliding door that led to the patio. She stood outside the door to the bathroom looking at him. She liked the shape of his silhouette. It was defined and lean. He had broad shoulder and his head wasn’t shaped weird. He didn’t have much hair on his face and he kept his hair cut really short on his head. His face was symmetrical and no one part of it stood out over the other. But in a very classic way he was handsome, despite the fact that they had spent the previous three hours in each others company she had just realized it at that exact moment. Sitting on her left leg the the opposite side of the bed, he turned, looked at her and asked, “feel better?” “I do,” she answered. He put his slippers on and wandered to the patio and opened the door, the cool air and smell of rain on concrete hit the room. She wrapped her damp hair in a towel and walked out with him in her bare feet. “Your gonna catch a cold,” looking at her toes curled up on the cold patio concrete. “Ok mom, I think i’ll be fine.” He gave her a sideways look, she looked and laughed out loud. That's the exact reaction she was hoping for. Rummaging through the drawers until she found a pair of his long white socks that went to her knees, she came back out quickly. “You look like such a dork,” he started laughing before he finished the sentence. “Well,” she said as she started walking back inside and sitting on the corner of the bed, “they’re your socks panchito.” Immediately after she exhaled a big yawn that caused a chain reaction that made him yawn, the her again. He walked in and shut the door, stretched his arms over his head revealing his happy trail under his white shirt. She giggled without him noticing. “I think it may be time for me to get some sleep, how you feeling?” “About the same, can I put the TV on though, I kind of have to sleep with it on?” “Yea do what you feel.” She got up, he got under the covers in his shirt and socks, which he never does. She turned on the TV and had to slap the side a couple times to get the static to go away. After she turned all the lights off she got under the covers in a long sleeve shirt and dark grey shorts. He was still awake watching what she had put on. “You always sleep with a socks on?” she asked. “Naw, not usually. Not ever really with a shirt either,” this made him extremely nervous, he didn’t want to push to hard so soon and have her think he’s weird, he wanted it to be natural. Before he could finish thinking through the situation he heard her say, “just take them off, its your room.” Then she looked at him. It wasn’t sly, it wasn’t suggestive, it looked as though she was desperately not trying to be nuisance. He leaned forward and threw the socks out from under the covers, raised up and took off the shirt, tossed it on the chair across the room. She watched the whole thing. She stood up went to the bathroom and came back in a tank top. They both got under the same set of covers. The top of her foot touched his hairy calf and immediately retracted. His heel slid across the side of her ankle before retreating back to his side. She pulled the covers to her side, then he returned the favor. After 15 minutes of periodical “accidents” he turned on his side to face her with his eyes closed. She couldn’t help but stare at his face. It was even, and peaceful, and when he breathed in his nostrils got really big. She started thinking about their time in the diner. And how she liked when he said that this might be the city he sticks to. She had originally thought he had said this in every town he arrived in to every person he met. But the more she looked at his face, and the more she thought about the night, and his words, she started to think he hadn’t said this before, and that this town and this moment and situation was special. “Is he asleep, is he awake, what is he thinking about, has he thought about tonight?” All these questions were flowing through her mind but she had no answers. Before she knew it she was thinking of the room three doors down, and the guy in there. Nothing but a lazy bum. “That guys from this city and lives in a hotel, pitiful,” she thought. He only wanted what she thought all guys wanted, especially from a young borderline vagabond female like herself. She realized that if she didn’t stop thinking about all of this she would never fall asleep, moving slightly towards the middle she put her back towards his face. Slowly but surely they both fell asleep. In that position. She woke up first. Facing towards him with her arms close to her chest, still towards the center of the bed not far from him. She realized after a couple seconds that her leg was trapped in between his two legs. He was sleeping on his stomach and had somehow put her in some sort of leg lock. She tried to twist it out slowly to not wake him, and maybe she would get some coffee or something for them to eat to repay him for the food last night. She looked at the clock and it was only 7:46 AM. She decided to move closer to get more comfortable for her leg and go back to sleep. She inched towards him and closed her eyes in the same position she awoke in, just four or five inches away from him. After tossing the blankets over her shoulders she fell back asleep quickly. He woke up 47 minutes after that. He perched up on one elbow and looked around. 8:33 AM the clock said. He looked over. She was still sleeping and he couldn’t look away. It was the same look she gave him last night when he turned towards her. After two seconds he remembered he had dreamed of her last night. They were on their way to a baseball game and kept picking up hitchhikers, some he knew, some he didn’t until they popped a tire. He never remembered his dreams. He adjusted himself and closed his eyes again and drifted away.

Another in the 100 two-minute myths I'm writing here: ​ It was early July and the young people in Baie Verte were drinking so much, they had to post blurry pictures of themselves online, or their friends wouldn’t recognize them. The only person under 25 immune to the fever was Maxine Payne, who worked at the Legion where she moved behind the bar like she was acting out poems about water. Her hair cascaded down her back and broke over her hips as she walked away from Bill Downey, who sat at the corner of the bar, as far away from Maxine as he could get without leaving the place. Like all men over 30 on the Baie Verte Peninsula, due to zinc levels in the water, Bill suffered from venustraphobia, a rare disorder which left his nerves unable to bear the weight of beauty. A side effect of the affliction was being scared stiff in the company of single women. So, small capelin of fear teemed here and there just under his skin at the thought of the unthinkable - actually having a conversation with Maxine longer than a drink order - but he had no choice if he wanted the $25,000. That was what Viagra, a pill for men who suffered from erectile dysfunction, was offering as the prize for whoever came up with the best advertising campaign. His idea was to show a woman and man in a hotel room where, just as he starts to take off her sweater, she stops him, goes into her purse, as though looking for a condom, and pulls out a Viagra pill instead. The camera would then pan out to show a waterfall through the window with the words, *Take a Second Honeymoon in Viagra Falls.* Bill knew his idea depended on getting a woman for the ad who was so beautiful that men would have no choice but do what she said and he knew that the woman had to be Maxine Payne. To build up his nerve, he’d been coming to the legion for 18 straight nights, but even when he was playing pool with friends he still couldn’t find the balls he needed. But, the contest was closing and he could no longer avoid the conversation, so he’d been sitting at the bar for two hours pounding beer and dying in his seat. When she came back with his beer, words base jumped off his tongue and fell to their death on the bar top. In a liquid voice that came from a small spring and flowed over her tongue as she spoke, she told him his idea was so lame it needed a crutch. What men had always wanted, she explained, was both an easy way, as well as hard, and offered to meet him the next day to kick around some ideas. Within an hour of that meeting, Bill was so captivated by the breadth of her mind that he had forgotten she was beautiful, and the two laughed the afternoon away as they drew stick men and women on napkins in the corner coffee shop. Three weeks later an image of them being presented with a giant $25,000 check went viral. Six months after that a billboard appeared on the lip of town showing a couple, blurred in the background, behind a spilled bottle of Viagra pills on a hotel room night table. Over the image were the words, *One pill. One hour before,* and underneath, written in an unassuming font, *Viagra.

Just three days from leaving Afferton, Armin saw the tower built by old King James puncturing the horizon like a hundred-foot needle. Its long shadow cast the final leg of his day’s journey into darkness. One hundred soldiers call it home, guarding the kingdom of Peccothia from the foul beings that haunt the waste. Armin had heard the stories of scorpions with claws that could cut a man in two, and worms that could swallow a horse whole, he supposed they were little more than stories. As they approached, a guard hailed them from atop the battlements, liveried in red emblazoned with the golden eagle of House Thorebourne. ‘Halt! What business do you have this close to the waste?’ ‘Hello there! I am Armin of Jakai, and these are my men, Asad and Kadeer, we’re on a mission of exploration.’ ‘You must be mad!’ ‘Many have said the same, but I still breathe! I bring with me some of Averleon’s finest vintage. I’m sure your comrades would appreciate a drop?’ ‘Well, when you put it like that!’ His head disappeared below the parapet. They heard shouts from behind the wall, before a great groaning of iron hinges as the gates swung open to reveal a small courtyard. They entered through the barbican into the darkening ward and the guard introduced himself. ‘Watch Sergeant Jon Berrington at your service. It’s been quite some time since we’ve had guests here.’ ‘The men of the border towers do us a great service, for which I am extremely grateful. It only seems fitting to share a little drop of something with you whilst I’m in the area.’ ‘Most kind sir, follow me and I’ll take you to the sergeants mess.’ Jon led them inside the tower and up the circular stone staircase. Men in the same red and gold uniforms rushed this way and that, sergeants strutted around like peacocks, barking orders. Armin looked at the chaos in the tower, surely the military was supposed to be organised. A young soldier of no more than twenty years approached them and addressed Jon, looking worried. ‘Sir, a report has arrived from Seawatch, they’ve had numerous attacks on their patrols today. They request assistance from us at first light.’ ‘Very well. Tell tomorrow’s Patrol Sergeant he can have half of my watchmen. If they ride at first light they should get on top of the situation.’ Jon seemed unflappable, a rock of calm in the tempestuous ocean of the tower. ‘Very good sir.’ The young guard sped off, dodging between other men on his way downwards through the tower. Jon shook his head at the group and proceeded to an unremarkable door in the corridor. He opened it and stepped back to allow them to enter. The room was large with a fireplace at each end, to one side stood the beds of the sergeants, each with its own nightstand and chest. The other end was the sergeants mess, a large round table in the middle dominated the space, a few armour stands and dressers stood against the walls. On one dresser there were full bottles and empty glasses, Armin doubted the sergeants were ever short of a drink. ‘Please sit, take the weight off your feet.’ Jon said, pulling chairs out from under the table. Armin sat between Kadeer and Asad, the two guards he’d hired in Elvia. Kadeer was tall and lean, muscles rippled under his shirt, Asad short and stocky, but deceptively quick. He’d been assured they were the very best. His intention was to prevent them drinking too much, there could be fighting tomorrow when they crossed into the waste. Jon poured them each a glass of red wine he retrieved from a dresser. ‘I believe I can uncork this since we have guests.’ Armin sipped the wine, it was excellent, if a little dry for his taste. ‘That is fantastic, where did you find that little gem?’ ‘Some of the men returning from the crusades brought it back. Say what you like about the Teyans, but they produce a fine vintage!’ Jon smacked his lips and filled his glass again. ‘How goes the crusades? I’ve been away in Jakai and news doesn’t travel so far these days.’ ‘Ah Jakai, wonderful city I hear. If only I could visit one day, I would dearly love to see the coliseum.’ Jon began with a rueful smile. ‘I’m afraid the crusades don’t go as well as they ought to. Rumour has it that the Teyans are looking east for aid, Gelgarand and Elon-Gar have sent troops.’ ‘What does that mean for the northern armies?’ ‘I couldn’t claim to know the mind of Lord Wedderburn and King Tristan but I expect his highness to want to meet force with force. He needs to calm down if he’s to be remembered as fondly as his father.’ Armin noticed Jon’s glass was again empty. ‘Asad, fetch the cask of Averleon red, our host needs a refill.’ Asad poured another drink for Jon, making sure his glass was full. Much to Armin’s delight, Jon approved of the wine. ‘What is it about Averleon that means they can create such a fine drink?’ Jon mused, slurring his words ever so slightly. ‘It must be the warmer climate in the south, the grapes grow bigger and juicier. I’ve seen their great glass houses where they grow all manner of queer fruits. There’s one that’ll grow as big as a man’s head, bright yellow they are! They call them melons; can you imagine such a thing?’ ‘Ha! I’d love to try one, what are they like?’ ‘Juicy and light. Refreshing on a warm summers day!’ Armin was keen to get some more wine down the man and gain more information of the world. ‘A top up for our gracious host!’ He called, ignoring that his wine glass was still half full. Asad poured another full glass for Jon, careful not to spill a drop. It was bad manners to spill in your host's hall. ‘How fares King Tristan? He’s not been on the throne more than a few moons now, surely?’ ‘Three or four now, I think. He’s bright enough and wants to do the right thing, but he needs better people around him. Between you and me, I’ve never liked that Khoran fellow who leads the army. Slimy and manipulative that one. Hell of a swordsman though, some reckon he’d even best Luthar Shoresmith. Shame we’ll never see that, it’d be a battle to end all battles.’ ‘What’s wrong with his advisors?’ ‘You hear there was a dragon sighting over Myllyria last year? Well, Lord Hanford travelled personally to Threftall to report it, and asked for money to build scorpions and other defences. Anyways, Lord Andron, steward of the realm, told the king that dragons have been gone for hundreds of years and Lord Hanford couldn’t trust his eyes. This is all third hand by the way, but I hear there was nearly swords in the court! Khoran had to step in.’ ‘That doesn’t bode well for King Tristan! If he has lords nearly fighting in the court, then it’s going to make his reign a troublesome one.’ ‘Aye, and we don’t need any of that! Well, it’s nearly dark outside and I’m full of wine, so bed it must be! I’ll show you to our guest quarters.’ ‘Just one thing before bed, sergeant. I was wondering if we might join a patrol tomorrow. I’ve always wanted to see the waste and would feel much safer with the men of Peccothia at my back.’ Armin hoped he’d plied the sergeant with enough wine to wash away his inhibitions. ‘Of course! More the merrier. We often have the warrior’s guild sending their men and squires. Be ready at first light and I’ll get you on patrol.’ Jon’s face had turned a bright red and his speech was ever more slurred. Armin doubted he would be doing much in the way of patrols tomorrow. As he stood up, Jon swayed and grabbed the table to steady himself. Armin could see Kadeer stifling a laugh out of the corner of his eye. ‘We’ll see ourselves to the guest chambers, you need some rest sergeant. If you could direct us, please?’ ‘Of course, up one flight and it’s the only door there. Here, take this key to let yourselves in.’ He fumbled in his pockets for a moment, all fingers and thumbs. Eventually he retrieved a key and held it out to them, Asad took it from him and put it in his own pocket. ‘Good night sergeant, see you tomorrow for a day’s adventuring!’ Armin called cheerily before retreating out of the room in search of bed. The guest quarters were sparse, but comfortable enough. Straw mattresses lay upon wooden beds, a trunk at the end of each. A rectangular table big enough for six men occupied the other end of the room, along with washing bowls and one great copper bathtub. A fire had been lit in a hearth on one wall, keeping off the autumn chill that attacked the room, Armin laid on the bed closest to it, straw stabbing at his back. This could be worse he mused. Before long, his eyes became heavy and began to close. The next morning was bright, but cool. Armin, Asad and Kadeer met with Patrol Sergeant Tomos Bevyn near the gate, but there was no sign of Jon. Tomos was a tall, lean man, stern of face with a thunderous voice, but he shared the good humour of Jon. Armin noticed that Tomos occasionally fiddled with a string around his neck, adorned with what looked to be teeth. ‘Does Jon not join us this morning?’ Asked Armin. ‘He’s a watchman, so not assigned to a patrol. Plus I think he’s unwell, wouldn’t know anything about that would you?’ He smiled as he asked Armin, presumably this had happened before. ‘That’s an interesting necklace you have there.’ He said to Tomos, changing the subject. ‘Aye, made it myself. Most of the lads here have them too. You see these?’ He held two particularly large, curved teeth in his fingers. ‘From the rock worms, big nasty bastards. Wouldn’t take one on with less than ten men. Might see some today if you’re lucky.’ ‘I think Lady Luck would keep us as far away from them as she could!’ Armin had no intention of doing battle with a rock worm. ‘Sergeant, the men are saddled and ready’ A middle aged soldier had approached from behind Armin and spoke to the sergeant with a confidence that oozed experience. ‘Thank you corporal.’ He nodded at the newcomer who swiftly departed back to his own horse. ‘Gentlemen, if you’d like to ride with me?’ Armin fell into formation next to the sergeant, Asad and Kadeer followed on behind. The sergeant had a fine horse, at least fourteen hands tall and muscular; she was a beauty. Tomos seemed to have a real affinity with her, treating her with respect as an equal, he caught Armin looking sideways at her. ‘She’s a fine animal, what’s her name?’ Armin asked. ‘Breeze. King Harold bought a load of horses from the Alarston plains not long before he passed. A few made their way over to us out here, I was lucky enough to be on duty at the right time.’ He patted Breeze’s neck as he spoke, clearly seeing her as a friend. They walked along the border between Peccothia and the waste, setting a decent pace. The men of the towers clearly looked after their horses well, not one seemed to be flagging. To their right Armin could see the great cliffs jutting out from the scorched, dry earth. Not even a bird circled over that cursed place. They’d rode a couple of miles before a scout riding on their right flank caught their attention. ‘Tunneler ahead!’ He pointed with his sword to a small mound of earth about a hundred yards in front of them. ‘Men, dismount!’ Roared Tomos as he leapt from his own horse. He turned to Armin, Kadeer and Asad. Stay back with the horses, don’t come too close unless you’re ready to fight.’ Armin dismounted as smoothly as he could, adrenalin coursed through his veins, half excitement and half fear. He retrieved his whip and sling from his saddlebags. ‘We don’t mind a bit of rough and tumble, do we boys?’ Asad and Kadeer were already on foot, scimitars and bucklers in hand. They didn’t look the part compared to the well armoured Peccothian soldiers, but Armin knew their looks were deceiving. Both former coliseum champions in Jakai they were more than a match for anything the waste could throw at them. ‘Very good.’ Tomos commented before approaching his men, already in a square. ‘Shields!’ He roared. The soldiers each lifted their large, rectangular shields to cover the sides of their formation. The men in the middle lifted theirs and held them above their heads, making a shell around them. Armin had never seen such organisation from soldiers. ‘Water!’ Tomos now commanded. A slight movement in the middle of their shell was the only sign of activity, a couple of shields moved briefly to allow someone more room. Armin couldn’t work out what was going on, until a puddle of water began to emerge from the gathered soldiers. It spread out in all directions, faster and faster, before coming to an abrupt stop about twenty yards away from them. Armin looked from Asad, to Kadeer, none of them knew what to say or do. They each gripped their weapons, ready for whatever might come next. The earth began to rumble beneath them. Before Armin could open his mouth to ask the question, the earth erupted before the soldiers, showering them with mud. Stones, roots, and sickly plants bombarded their formation, bouncing from their shields onto the ground. Behind the shower of mud followed a worm as big as a carriage. It was a sickly pale brown, mud clung to its long thick body and a great yawning chasm of a mouth opened at the head. Rows upon rows of razor-sharp teeth glistened in the sunlight, curved inwards to trap its prey. It flopped to the ground in front of the men, slithering across the wet earth towards them. ‘Spears!’ Was the next call from Tomos, watching eagle eyed from the back of the formation. Spears slid through the gaps in the shields, thrusted firmly towards the worm. One pierced its skin above its mouth. The worm screamed an awful, high-pitched cry, making the bile rise in Armin’s stomach. ‘Archers!’ A handful of men withdrew from the rear of the soldiers, bows in hand and arrows nocked. ‘Loose!’ The arrows whistled above the men and planted themselves in the body of the screaming worm, it writhed in agony, showering yet more dirt over the soldiers. ‘Advance.’ The men advanced to the worm, spears now driving at the animal and piercing flesh several times. Blood so dark it was almost black spilled out of a hundred cuts or more, stark against the pale, dry ground. ‘Break!’ The formation broke, men with spears still jabbed the worm as it desperately fought to escape. More men circled it, armed with short steel swords in one hand, rectangular shields in the other. They unleashed a ferocious barrage of strikes upon the worm, not ceasing until it moved no more. Armin, Kadeer and Asad all approached the soldiers, many of them breathing heavily from the exertion. Inspecting the bloody mess that had been a rock worm a few minutes ago, Armin could sense an unseen evil about its body. The corporal that had spoken earlier prised apart it’s jaws with another man, revealing those fearsome teeth again. A third, armed with a short knife stuck his arm inside the mouth, seemingly cutting away at something. After a few short moments he held aloft a great tooth, dripping blood on his hand and down his arm. ‘My first!’ He called, to a few cheers from the other men. The corporal handed him a string he retrieved from his pocket. ‘You’re one of us now son.’ He clapped him on the back before retreating to the worm to take his own trophy. Each man took their turn as a dentist, removing more and more of the beast’s teeth for their own necklaces. Finally, Tomos retrieved teeth for his own string, he shouted ‘Number twenty.’ Before approaching Armin. ‘That’s what we do to keep you safe. A nasty business to be sure, but a necessary one.’ He explained as he slid the tooth on to his necklace. ‘Is that really the twentieth of them things that you’ve killed?’ Armin could scarcely believe a man would continue doing this for so long. ‘It is. The more, the better. Keeps them away from the outlying farms and villages. The gods forbid that any should reach Lorez or Afferton. Hundreds could be killed if they did.’ The smell of the dead worm began to sting Armin’s nostrils. The foul beast decomposed quickly in direct sunlight, even if it had passed high summer. The men all mounted up once again, ready to move on with their patrol. ‘Sergeant, where is the easiest place to pass into the waste?’ ‘About three miles south from here, there’s a gap in the rocks.’ Suddenly suspicious he frowned at Armin. ‘Why do you ask?’ ‘It’s where our adventure leads us next my good man. Lead on!’ Tomos looked at Armin, confusion rising in his face. He clearly though Armin was mad. Shaking his head, he stuck his heels into Breeze and proceeded on their southward journey. As he followed, Armin looked westward over the waste, dry, scorched earth gave way only to rocky outcrops and the occasional shell of a long dead tree. The former kingdom of Isiliar seemed to have killed the very earth it stood on.

A high pitch rustling causes my eyes to open. It’s not daylight yet so my cousin’s living room is dark. The rustling continues as I look around for the source. I am expecting to see my cousin or his girlfriend walk beside the couch I’ve chosen as my bed. Are they getting up for a bathroom break? Maybe a midnight snack? Who knows? This is the first time I have stayed with them so their habits are unknown. My focus is directed at the sour feeling in my stomach reminding me of last night’s vodka, until the rustling ends with a brief jiggle. I feel a blast of cold air even though my body is covered with blankets. My eyes scan the room towards my cousin’s bedroom. All I see is the faint outlines of furniture. The house gets silent. I lean my head off the pillow to get a better view. The whine of the heating unit breaks the silence. I stretch my neck to see above the back of the couch. I notice the front door ajar. Then I hear steps. The steps are light but loud enough for me to hear over the heat blowing through the vents. A large figure walks past me. My fingers tighten around the blankets laying on top of me. I pull my head below so only my eyes and hair remain exposed. The figure walks through the living room and down the hall slowly opening doors as he progresses. Bathroom. Next. Closet. Next. Home office. The figure stays in front of the door but doesn’t open it. I know my cousin always locks his office door. I’m not sure what he does I just know he works from home. I hear the rustling again. My phone sits next to me on the side table. I know I can grab it but what would the consequences be? The screen light may alarm the intruder. Would I be able to hide it under my blankets or would the light escape? Am I too scared to even call 911? I can barely feel my arms. I hear a brief jiggle then the intruder disappears into the now open home office. I know my time is now. I moved my hands up closer to my phone. I grab my phone and text 911. They trace my location and immediately send police to my cousin’s home. The intruder walks out and approaches me. I jump from the blankets in a surprise attack and perform a choke hold on the intruder. Using a nearby cable I tie up the intruder’s hands and feet. The police arrive and everyone says I’m a hero. I move my hands up closer to my phone.The plan in my head was set. I just need to initialize it. Grab your phone. Grab your phone. GRAB YOUR PHONE. I can’t move. My disobedient body remains hidden under the blankets. I start to shake knowing my window is closing. My heart pumps. Instead of adrenaline it pumps doubt. The window is slammed shut as the intruder walks out carrying a case. The intruder pauses in the living room and stares at my cousin’s bedroom door before setting the case down. As the intruder quietly enters the bedroom my throat prepares for a scream. I rip through the silence with a loud scream. Suddenly my cousin pushes the intruder out of his room and wrestles him to the ground. Punch after punch makes contact with facial tissue until a crunch renders the intruder unconscious. A quick phone call and the police are on the way. My throat prepares for a scream. Nothing audible leaves my mouth. Not a scream, a yelp, or even a whisper. My voice has left. My throat closes up making it difficult to breath. I focus on my breathing to concentrate on something other than the screams. Even with the door closed they are barely muffled. I can hear objects, once used for something happy, being used as weapons. I only hope they are being used defensively. My breathing intensifies as the intruder returns to the living room. After picking up the case the intruder walks out the front door and a blast of cold air hits me. The sour feeling in my stomach returns but I doubt it has anything to do with a hangover. A small burst of gurgling noises come from my cousin’s bedroom before the house is as silent as it is dark. The whine of the heating unit breaks the silence.

You're on auto-pilot when someone pokes their head into the cubicle. "Hey," he says, sort of stepping in but not quite entering. "Hey. Hey." "Neigh," you mutter. "There's no hay here, little horsey. You clop along, now." "Hah. But, hey, uh . . . ." You tell him your name. "Oh, right. Hey, you know, uh, you know you're breathing, right?" "What?" Your fingers almost stop typing. "Yeah, you're breathing right now. And you can see your nose, too, uh, and you can feel where your tongue is in your mouth right now." "What?" He smiles, shakes his head as if you're a lost cause (and maybe you are, so what?), and leaves. Auto-pilot activate. Well, not quite; just what was he blabbering about then? You might have seen him before, might have even sat across from him once during a break or meeting, but you never caught his name, or if you did, you forgot it. Is that what that was about? Were his words some kind of oblique insult? So what, you tell him and yourself right there in your head, people forget things all the time. Still, his words, however juvenile, appear to have left something in you. Yes, you are in fact breathing, so much so that it's a wonder you don't have to do all that manually, consciously, by yourself, as you are being forced to do right now. And it is true, too, that you can see your nose ever so slightly, and who could forget that tongue of yours resting in your mouth, never in the same spot for too long like a worm? Quit it. It is time for work. Spreadsheets, numbers to crunch, rows and columns. The clock. Soon enough, you make it through the day. When you arrive home and stand there for a moment's silence, you take in a breath of air. Then another. Then another. Do your nostrils gape? Oh, shut up. But even numbing your skull with videos after videos, each purporting to be more hilarious than the last, does nothing. In fact, leaving yourself open like this, cross-legged on the mattress like a monk seeking enlightenment, seems to invite thoughts rather than prevent them. You heard somewhere that the stereotype tin-foil hats conspiracists are often depicted wearing actually attract radio-signals. Something to do with the metal. God, how long ago was that? What other things have you overlooked? How many things have you, without even thinking about it, filed away? Your birthday is coming. Okay, but what else? Nobody really remembers their birthday until it is time. Once you went to a playground, or something like a playground, and made friends with a kid you never saw again. You've lost your keys at least once before. And, as if it is the most appropriate step to take next, your mind says, "One day you will fall asleep without waking up." Well then. That isn't so bad, you try to counter. But, just how long has it been since you last thought of the one thing that WILL to happen to you, to everyone else? You can't even think of when you first learned of death. It feels like something you just knew, like how people just know that Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker's father and so on; even people who've never seen Star Wars. People just know. You don't learn how to breathe. If people just know, your brain decides to think up, then what is something big people don't know? It sounds like what one of those Chinese fortune cookies would say. Except wrong. You can't put your finger on it. A sound pulls you out of yourself for a moment. Beeping? Ah, it's your food. Much needed after such a dumb conversation with yourself. Its scent teases your nose. It feels warm in your mouth, and your tongue brushes against it. You can almost sigh. That night you dream something big is going to happen. In the morning, as your car glides through the same route, a bird flies across the sky in the windshield, perhaps to relay a message. Trees shake their leaves, the shadows of those leaves dancing quiet dances on sidewalks and buildings. The light changes. A jogger can be seen in the window to your right, before he, too, is lost with the blurring scenery. Eventually you park your car in the lot which is in the lee of your workplace, step out and step on something. The ground is bare, and so is your shoe. You have your wallet with you, you check, and inside are your cards and cash. Your keys are in one of your pockets, your phone in another. Nothing else, but there is something. Something you dreamt? Something you see. Right now, in the parking lot. The cars are empty, of course they are. On your way to the entrance, the air around you glints. Cars are drifting along streets with clutters of stars on their roofs. Your workplace has them as well, in rows after rows of shining windows. The few shop windows you can glance from here have them on display, beside their mannequins and other products. Those stars, if that's what they are, move along with you. It's glare, you dimly realize. It sounds familiar to you. Glare from the sunlight. Far down the street, where the cars (are they empty?) shimmering in the heat are devoured by a steep incline below, something is hovering. The back of a traffic light? You rush inside like a child turning off the lights. That's it, something has turned off or on, one of the two. Something big is going to happen. A few of the people stalking about or talking to one another might be looking at you, thinking you're a loony, so you slow down, but not too much, you want to be ready. There he is, what's-his-name. Your feet carry you there, as if you're strolling over to a friend, and you say, "Hey, there." He turns his whole body to you. "Oh? Do I know you?" You tell him your name. "Well, it's nice to meet you. What's up?" There's no other way to ask it. "Oh, nothing, really. Um, what have you've been thinking about?" He appears to seriously consider this, but then he says, "Lately? Not much. Work, you know, but!" Your heart rises. "I am gonna go with a couple buddies to see the big game this weekend." "Right," you manage. "Right. That sounds fun." You make sure to not be too obvious as you shuffle toward the cubicle, facing backwards. Nobody smiles that much, do they? He's not even talking like everyone else. You bump into someone and they hold you by the shoulder. You turn, ready to scream at the cubicle wall. Your face burning, you huddle inside. Hopefully no one saw that. A blurry dark figure approaches you and seats itself as you do the same before the black screen. As the screen powers on, the figure is engulfed by blue light and the computer login greets you. A note has been stuck to the edge of the screen. It reads: "SOMETHING BIG IS GOING TO HAPPEN!" Around it are little drawings of confetti, party poppers and a party hat, all done neatly in colorful markers. You toss this in the wastebasket. Think about. There's nothing to think about. Stare at the screen, the words and numbers and symbols, the pixels, the light. Don't you do it. Keep your head straight, eyes looking ahead. Like an exam at the eye doctor's, and maybe you need a doctor right now, but all you need to worry about right now is doing your work, getting through the day, and maybe looking up some help. Those are just coworkers passing by. Those eyes are yours. Yet that reflection in the screen is not. And this time you do scream, you scream your head off for all to hear and you run and shut a door behind you, any door, and you pace around in the small white-tiled room with lines of sinks and stalls and a big window. No windows. You lock yourself in a stall and there are voices crowding at the door. It opens. "Hello? Are you--" *"Leave me ALONE!"* The door shuts, murmurs to other murmurings. Footsteps, going away or here, you can't tell. And all the while, something *is* approaching. Something big is going to happen. You know this and there's nothing to listen for. Just don't think about it, that's it, think something else, think about your ragged breathing and your snotty nose and your dry tongue in your dry mouth, and sooner or later it'll leave. It'll disappear. You'll forget about it for good. It's in your head and you control your head damn it, you can think by yourself and not think, just stop it stop it stop it stop *it*! He put something in your head, didn't he? Mr. Mystery. Some psychological trick he read about, probably. There he is, right one cue. His footsteps clacking along the tiles, stopping before your stall. He'll open it and gloat about it all and it'll be some big prank the whole office threw together, ha ha, just scaring one of our loyal employees, a little hazing don't hurt . . . . Slowly, very slowly, almost without making a sound, it gets in under the stall door.

Twelve-year-old Caleb Prescott was afraid to go home. All he could think about was what his foster father was going to do to him when he got there. He stood motionless for a long time. Until the neon sign of the pizza joint across the street turned off, signifying the late hour. And Caleb knew it was now or never. Snapping out of his hypnotic trance, he looked down and was surprised to see the aluminum bar of his mountain bike between his knees; he’d been straddling it the entire time. His grip on the handlebars felt stiff and achy. And the wind moaning through the half-naked trees sounded like the ghost that haunted his dreams each night. “You got this,” he told himself. “Just sneak back down to the dungeon, and then you can cry yourself to sleep remembering the flowery smell of her long soft brown hair.” But the truth was that holding on to those memories using the most fleeting of senses- the sense of touch and smell that fades so fast- was getting harder with each passing day. Spending a night in a cemetery filled with evil spirits would be easier, he reasoned. Case in point, wasn’t he pretty much doing that now? All alone on a dark deserted street, teeth chattering in fear from a creepy sound seemingly getting closer? Like a pissed-off ghost coming for him any minute? Only this ghost, when he calmed down and listened more intensely, sounded different. More like crying. Like someone in trouble. Not so much a ghost, perhaps, but a real person. Separating the sound from that of the breeze, Caleb decided it was coming from the alleyway. In a flash, his feet found the pedals and he sped towards the noise, a small-for-his-age, but quick and nimble kid, now on a mission. Rounding the corner, he hit the brakes and skidded to an abrupt stop. There on the pavement, under a nearby streetlight, he saw something that broke his heart, at least what was left of it. A Maltese terrier, its fur caked with mud, was whimpering loudly, as it lay trapped in a metal dog crate. The anger exploded in Caleb’s head like shrapnel from a bomb. Who would do such a thing? Though he wanted to spring into action, to perform superhero maneuvers fast and all at once, it felt like the opposite was happening. Like everything was swinging in slow motion on a gigantic pendulum. That frustration of taking too long brought tears to pool in his green eyes, clouding his vision, slowing everything down even more. Finally, his fingers forced the pin in the lock to come loose. Swinging the door open, he crawled on his hands and knees towards the frightened canine cowering at the back. Caleb brought his face within inches of the little dog. He looked into her eyes and a tenderness seeped into his ragged heart, softening the edges. The pup licked the teardrops snaking down his face and let him pet her. “I’m going to name you Midnight even though underneath all that filth, you’re white. But I found you precisely at that time, so that’s your name. Right little one?” Midnight’s reply was a bark that grew into three consecutive ones, and when she pushed her little snout past Caleb’s shoulder, he realized she was barking at something behind him. A second too late, he heard someone yell “Gotcha!” and turned around in time to see a chubby kid, sucking on a lollipop, slam the cage door shut with a clatter. Caleb’s heart sank like a thousand-pound anchor to the bottom of the sea. The freckled boy with orange hair and a Cheshire cat smile, deliberately, almost mockingly, pushed the pin down to lock Caleb and Midnight inside. Looking to be about fourteen, he wore tattered sweatpants and a stained yellow parka. “Please, let us out,” Caleb begged. “My dog is hurt.” “Your dog? Really?” the fair-haired bully drawled, “I don’t think so shithead. That dog ain’t yours, you just wanna steal it.” His lips formed an o shape around the sucker and pulling it out of his mouth with a popping sound, he pointed the fluorescent green lollipop at Caleb. “I think you’re a turd who wants to be a hero by rescuing the ugly mutt, right? he snickered. “Except you’re no hero, you’re just a loser with a black eye. Your bike looks like garbage too, but I might just take it anyway.” Tamping down on his anxiety, Caleb tried to think hard and fast on the fly. “You’re right,” Caleb said. “I shouldn’t have lied to you. But if you don’t mind me asking, what’s your name?” and then quickly added, “So I can show you some respect.” The teenager was speechless. And though Caleb had never been one of those count your chickens before they’re hatched kind of guys, he felt hopeful. “Yeah jackass,” the boy exclaimed, “you should respect me, so you can call me Richie when you tell me what that bike’s worth.” “Thanks Richie,” Caleb said, “and you’re right, that bike’s on its last legs. If it isn’t the chain falling off, then the handlebars don’t turn, and the worst part? The brakes are shot.” Richie,” he sighed, “it’s not worth more than a penny. But I’ve got something that’s much better.” Richie pulled the bare stick of the sucker out of his mouth and Caleb could hear him crunching the last pieces of candy between his teeth. Throwing the stick on the ground, Richie scowled at the bike like it was a vile thing. Giving up on it, he turned back to his prisoner. “Whatcha got?” he demanded, adding “it better be good or I’m gonna drown this mutt in the river.” Caleb opened his mouth to speak but closed it again when Richie pulled a BB gun out of a duffle bag next to him and said, “go on, tell me, pinhead.” Caleb said, “you let us out of here and I’ll give you my last ten bucks.” He held his breath, then released it when Richie exclaimed “right on, show me the dough.” With trembling hands, Caleb pulled a ten-dollar bill from his sock. Richie’s open-mouthed laughter, revealing gaps from missing teeth amongst a few black ones, sent Caleb’s mind sailing back to when being reminded to brush his teeth, annoyed him. Especially when he was tired. Now, the gratitude for his mom’s nagging washed over him like a hot shower after getting caught in the freezing rain. “You better not think about running before handing me that cash.” Richie warned. He aimed the BB gun, not at Caleb, but directly at Midnight. He said “that runt tried to bite me when I captured it and I wanna shoot it for payback. And fun,” he smiled. “But you give me the ten bucks, and I won’t kill it, got it?” Caleb nodded vigorously, afraid to breathe until Richie opened the cage and stood aside to let them out. Free at last, and seconds after Richie grabbed the money with his meaty fingers, Caleb made a beeline towards his bike, calling Midnight to follow him. But Midnight, terrified of Richie, froze when he suddenly stepped towards her, pointing the gun, once again, at her little face. As Midnight edged away from him, Richie turned towards Caleb and hissed “psst, I was lying. I’m gonna put a bullet in its leg first and then stomp on its face till it’s dead.” Caleb’s mouth went powder-dry, his stomach lurching like he was on a free-falling plane about to crash. He felt Richie’s threat slam into him, one sadistic word at a time. With a roar, Caleb rushed at Richie, his right hand curled into a fist and, before Richie could react, he drove his knuckles into the spongy cartilage of his nose. The crunch of bone, followed by Richie’s earsplitting howl, ricocheted down the alley. Blood gushed from Richie’s face. Moments later, the agony splintered through Caleb’s hand like it was on fire. Caleb wasted no time running towards Midnight. But before he could reach the little terrier, Richie aimed the BB gun at the dog a third time, only this time, he fired as she took off with surprising swiftness. As Midnight rounded the corner at the end of the alley, she let out a tortured yelp, and Caleb felt sick when Richie cackled in glee for hitting his mark. Hopping on his bike, Caleb followed Midnight at warp speed. But by the time he rounded that same corner, Midnight was nowhere in sight. Car headlights, road signs, and blowing trash, all became a blur through the onslaught of Caleb’s tears. Every bit of the fear, anger, and grief he’d been holding so tightly within, tore loose, like a deluge of water from a broken dam. Not knowing where Midnight was, whether she was in pain or even alive, was a new kind of hell. And speaking of hell, on top of his worry for Midnight, there were the horrors that waited for him when he got back to his foster home. He still remembered when the social worker brought him there on a hot August morning, dumping him on the doorstep, and heading for the hills right after. The act Darlene, his new foster mom, put on, was worthy of an Oscar and good enough for the caseworker. Determined to make a swift get-away, she never even set foot inside the house. Never even bothered to see where Caleb would lay his head that night. As soon as the woman drove away, Darlene grabbed him by the hair and pushed him hard through the door as she yelled “get the hell in there, march yourself down to your room in the basement, and stay there until my husband gets home. You understand me boy?” Caleb understood when Donald came down the stairs three minutes later. “You listen to me you motherless, unwanted, shit,” Donald spat. This room in the basement? That’s the only place you’re allowed. Food will be left outside your door two times a day, morning, and night. And you’re never allowed upstairs. There’s a toilet and shower here and that’s all you need. Got it?” Caleb was so scared it felt like horses’ hooves stampeding across his heart, and, unable to stop himself, the moisture began seeping into his underwear, spreading through the fabric of his jeans. His bladder had already been full to begin with, but Donald’s speech, that ugly word “motherless”, made Caleb buckle under the strain. He could no longer hold it in. And now he just wanted to disappear, to die right then and there. Better to see his mom again in heaven, than live like this here in hell. But it wasn’t over yet. When Donald saw that Caleb had peed himself, he hit him hard across the face, so hard that Caleb flew into the opposite wall. Donald barked, “you’re old enough to be toilet trained for God’s sake. Clean up and wash those filthy clothes in the sink. We don’t run a laundry service here.” Now, for the millionth time, Caleb cursed the car accident that killed his mom and turned him into a foster kid at the tender age of ten. Missing her was like chemical lye rubbed on a wound, and it was this pain that brought disturbing dreams of ghouls and monsters to most of his nights. But Midnight had changed something, soothed some of the hurt, like a cool salve applied to a burn. He had to find her. But then things suddenly got worse when Caleb spotted something terrible. There, on a telephone pole, was a poster of a little girl holding a dog. A Maltese terrier. It looked exactly like Midnight. The child’s name was Amber, and she lost her dog, Ivory. Only briefly did Caleb acknowledge the irony of the dog’s name. His pain was beyond raw and abrasive, it was sandpapering all the way down to the bone. Bad enough that Midnight was gone, but now she also belonged to someone else. Shakily he slid off his bike, leaning it against the metal pole, his legs unsteady causing the rest of his body to quiver. All he could do was stand there sobbing into his hands. In the cold autumn night, something slammed into his legs. A small, soft, something, that let out an excited bark and wagged its tail. Midnight practically jumped into his arms. He was so happy, he cried even harder. After she licked every tear from his frozen face, Caleb put her down on the sidewalk and knelt to examine her, looking for any signs of an injury. Other than a scrape on her ear, Midnight appeared to be okay. The BB gun bullet must have only scared her. But his relief was short-lived. What about the kid on the poster? Digging a quarter out of his pocket, he scooped Midnight up again and headed towards a payphone across the street. Maybe, he rationalized, he’d get an ‘out of service’ message and there’d be no chance of finding Amber’s family so Midnight would have to stay with him after all. Yeah, right, he thought. One ring, two rings, three rings, ... what would he do if the answering machine came on? On the fourth ring, the machine did come on, but it wasn’t what Caleb expected. The message told callers that Ivory had been found and was safe at home. And Caleb’s world suddenly felt different. With Midnight at his side, he walked his bike towards Donald and Darlene’s place. At least he had blankets in his room along with some hidden food for both of them. But when they got there, the house was black. Specifically, a charred black, and those were only the parts that were still standing. The rest had burned down to ashes. Smoke, thick and acrid, still hung in the air, and Caleb suddenly remembered the six hundred dollars his mom had sewn into the lining of his jacket. And the cheap motel down the road where the owner once overlooked his age and rented him a room. And where the vending machine had the best sandwiches, he’d ever tasted. “Everything is changing,” he whispered in Midnight’s ear. From now on, he would slay all the monsters for her. And maybe even for himself too.

There was an old owl that I used to see around my apartment. I always found him strange-owls did not belong in the city, I thought, and he’d be much happier making a home in some drafty barn with a hay loft and broken shutters and mice to eat. But he was here, and he often sat perched on a high branch near the trunk of a tree that grew outside my bedroom window. I had to almost press my face against the window glass to see him-but there he’d sit, just watching, waiting. Normal owl activities, I suppose. One sunny day in spring he left his post and flew up to my open window. He was startling up close-almost overwhelmingly painted and detailed, eyes that stared through me and seemed to glow. Far away he was mysterious, revered, stately-up close he was almost frightening to look at. We stared at each other for a moment-it felt as if we weren't supposed to be here, but I could not look away. His gaze felt almost human. It felt even more human when he spoke to me. “Hello,” he uttered. I dropped my jaw and my water bottle. It rolled toward the window where he sat. I did not move. “You dropped something,” he told me. Our stare did not break as I moved slowly, finally, towards him, to get my bottle and sit on my bed. I sat, slack jawed. “You can talk?” I asked him. “You’re an owl! How are you talking?” “I don’t know,” He replied. “How are you talking?” I almost laughed at such an absurd question, but paused. Then: “Well, I’m, well, a human. We’re supposed to talk.” “Yes,” he said, a tone that sounded almost irritated with the obvious nature of my statement. “But says who? Did someone grant you permission to speak one day, or did you just start?” I mean, he had a point, I guess. I said nothing. “Well, same thing happened to me,” he continued. “I just could. Can.” “Oh.” I finally broke our stare, and looked down at my hands. I almost felt bad for second guessing him, but then remembered the absurdity of my situation and rejected any guilt I felt for holding disbelief that I was having a conversation with an owl. I looked back up, half expecting him to be gone, for me to have made it all up. But there he perched, glowing eyes darting around my room, no longer cutting through me. He spoke again. “So, if we can both talk, what do you think is the difference between you and I?” I had to laugh. “What kind of question is that?” “What do you mean?” “You’re an *owl*, I’m a person. How are you asking what the difference between us is?” He looked back at me. “Thank you for stating the obvious. But I can talk like you, and I can think like you. I can’t drive a car or cook a pot of pasta, but you can’t hunt mice, or fly.” True, owl. “And we look, well, very different,” he continued. “But what is *really* the difference between us? If we have the same brain, what other than our outside makes us different?” “Can all owls talk like you can?” I replied. “Because if they can’t, and it’s just you, then that makes you a very special owl. I’m just a normal person.” He was quiet for a moment. “You have a point.” I expected him to continue, but he did not. I broke the silence before he could fly off. “So they can’t?” I asked again. “You’re the only one that can talk?” “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know any other owls.” A feeling of cold washed into me, and I suddenly wanted to go open the window and give my owl friend a hug. I don’t think he’d have liked it much, but his simple, matter-of-fact declaration of loneliness and alienation instilled a deep ache in me. He must have seen my smile drop, because my internal anguish over the thought of my new friend being all alone in the world was interrupted by his continuing. “But I never have, so I don’t know the difference,” he said. Stoically. “Aren’t you lonely?” I blurted. I felt ashamed for asking him something that seemed so painful to answer or admit. I wanted to take it back but I could not, of course. He seemed unmoved by the question. Nonetheless, I found myself holding my breath, praying he would not fly away before answering me. “I think that I don’t feel lonely because I don’t know any other way,” he finally began. “I just exist in my world and observe and wonder about why I’m here. And if that’s lonely, I guess I just thought that was what life was. And I don’t mind it, not at all. I don’t even wonder too hard, really. Because I think that it’s this way for a reason. I don’t have anything to miss-which I’ve heard isn’t so nice-because I didn’t ever have anything to begin with. So I just have things to wonder about. Nothing taken, nothing to mourn. Just a life to exist in. Which to me, isn’t a bad life. Not at all.” He looked back at me. His eyes seemed to glow a little brighter, now. And then he flew away. I stood up and rushed to the window, but he was already out of sight.

There are a lot of things I can’t remember. Things that anyone should be able to mutter out in a split second from a simple trigger in their brain would take me hours of recollection and piece together. Parts of my childhood that others remember clearly are still vague to me even after so many years. Bits and pieces of memory come to me when I think real hard, but that’s all they are -- memories. When I first arrived in this world, I was with a family that loved me from day one. I was happy. Happy with the parents I had, even happier with my siblings. I remember being the youngest of five; I was always loved, unconditionally. My older siblings were over protective of me but the parents could care less. After having four children before me, they had grown accustomed to having a toddler in the house. Things that were important for the first four weren’t so much by the time I’d arrived. I remember the protective covers on the electric sockets were no longer needed, knowing that the previous kids had survived and none were brave enough to stick their fingers in. I remember the cabinet where the cleaning supplies were kept, was no longer in need of a padlock for the safety of a kid who could care less about the cabinet drawers. Most of all, I remember by the time I turned ten, I was the happiest kid in the world. I remember one summer evening after a baseball game we came across an abandoned bicycle left in the corner of the field. The chain had come off the roller sprocket and dangled from its place. I remember a few of us tried putting them back together so that we could take it out for a joy ride. “You hold the chain against the rolling plate” said Matthew looking at me, “I will rotate the plate by moving the paddle forward until the chain is locked in.” I remember getting my tiny fingers caught in-between the chain and the sprockets, and remember the scream. I remember playing with my friends at a nearby construction site the same year when school was out. We must have been ten or twelve then. The neighborhood was a part of a “rebuild” initiative that the locals have voted for. The abandoned buildings were ordered to be knocked down to build duplexes for the low income families. The site was packed with building materials from sheet rocks to plywood, from bricks to metal rods. I remember playing hide and seek with Matt and the neighborhood kids where I was the seeker. After counting down the numbers when I began to look for my friends, I remember feeling hopeless and abandoned. When I made an attempt to run and find a kid who I spotted hiding behind a stack of woods, I remember bumping into the corner of a stack and splitting my head wide open. I have very few memories of me when I was a teenager. I remember getting together with my friends for a Halloween bash on a Friday evening that everyone talked about for years to come. I remember at that party Michael dared me to jump into the swimming pool that was covered off with plastics for the winter. I remember ignoring all of my instinct and common sense that I had and diving right into the pool. I remember the plastics wrapping my body around in the bottom of the pool and keeping me down for the longest time until Matt jumped in to rescue me. I remember my first kiss that was revolting and repugnant all at the same time. It was with my biology teacher Mrs. Johnson that lasted only a few seconds. She was an old hack and a widow of several years who longed for affection and human contact after many years of loneliness. I didn’t resist or report; I didn't see a reason to do either. I remember her talking about her dead husband as if he was still with her after passing away so many years ago. The way she would speak about him only revealed how badly she was hurting inside and how deep her love was for him. I don’t remember much about my college life, but I remember the dorm room and the roommates at the Hedrick Hall of UCLA. I could still taste the red bull and ramen noodles after so many years of not touching a single junk food since I’d left college to be an adult. I remember so little of so many things that made me wonder if I was real. I remember getting married to a sweetest angel from Pasadena and leaving the busy state behind to be somewhere quiet. I remember her wanting to move away from the crowd and be with me to spend the rest of her life in peace. I remember her like it was yesterday. Her death came in as suddenly as she came into my life. We met at a very late chapter in our lives but we were happy. It was not long after my 50th birthday when I started noticing the changes in her behavior. I remember that she was not laughing at my jokes as much as she used to. It took an extra step of explaining the joke before she would get the punch line. I remember that she would not take a second look at anything she had done before she was satisfied with her work. Baking was very natural to her up until recently. She wouldn't need to guess if she had the right ingredients for the pecan pie she was making, or wouldn’t think twice before pouring the oil straight from the container into the flour bowl without a measuring cup. But at the end, I remember her being agitated more and more, doing things once and being done with it instead of taking an extra step to review what she had done. Behavior such as this was very uncommon, even for her. I remember the last days, her memories pierced deep into my heart like the sweet sound of a symphony that could only play when I was awake. I remember moving to New England in early fall a few years back and being mesmerized seeing the true nature for the first time. Watching the leaves turning to multi-color in days or the green grass beneath the feet turning brown right before your eyes was not something I had experienced in the past. I remember the fruits on Crab-apple trees covering the branches like Christmas ornaments. I remember the loud colors of a maple tree that could only brighten up a dark soul if not too careful. I remember being someone in need of a soul.

The snow covered everything in our tiny town. My friend and I sat huddled together in the homemade tree house. The oak planks were the only thing that held us from falling. Our big winter coats rubbed on each other. We had the tin box lying in the middle of us. No one wanted to touch it. No one wanted to see it. It had too many memories attached to it. ... “Come on Jimmy! Don't be a baby! Lets go!” My lungs shoved out. I was trying to keep my head above the murky water. “Jimmy?!...LETS GO!” Billy shouted beside me. His voice was much louder than me. “If you don't jump soon I will come up there and push your pale bottom off!” I threatened, and with that a 5’7 pail blob went sailing into the eerie depths. The brown water ate him whole with a splash while me and Billy wailed with excitement. “YES!” “WOOP!” We sang. This was a moment we would never forget; Jimmy's first jump from the high pier. Me and Billy waited for Jimmy’s red patch of red to come emerging from the water any minute. “Now where they heck did Jimmy go?” Bobby’s hazel eyes scanned the water. I could tell fear lurked in the back of his mind. ... “You boys sure you won't be scared of the 12’ beast that lurk the murky depths?” my father said in his dark mysterious voice. The boys and I quickly exchanged looks. Our eyes were wide with fear and excitement buzzing through us. “We aren't scared!” “Ya. Crocs don't scare us!” “Ha. Alligators and crocodiles shall cower in my presence. Little do they know I’ll be eating them!” Jimmy proclaimed as he rubbed his stomach. We all burst into laughter, and with that we finished loading our gear and whatever else we thought we needed, and were off. ... “Your turn,” Billy said as he passed me the tin box. My hands began to shake as I took it. My new found realization seemed to pierce my heart as I grabbed the cookie tin. When I did, the cold metal stung my fingertips. It went crashing on the wooden planks. As soon as it did, tears filled my eyes. I just couldn't hold them back anymore. I used to be able to shove them down like when I watched a sad movie, or scrubbed my toe; but lately they have been filling bottles. Especially today. The tears were warm on my cherry cheeks. My lips were cracked and hurt when I moved my mouth. I finally looked up and even with my blurred vision I could see my friends hunched over crying. We were supposed to be the cool kids, but since everything happened we’ve been really pathetic. ... “AGHH!” Something came spinning from the water behind me and latched on my body. I was spinning and twisting trying to release it, but it held on. At first I feared a croc or snake was trying to eat me, when I realized my lack of pain. The only thing I was fighting was fear. I looked at Billy whom I found dying of laughter. I stopped to the sound of laughter also on my back. “Jimmy?! That better not be you!” I shouted with anger rising from my toes. I almost could see the water starting to boil. Then with that I heard a splash of water behind me and with a quick turn I found Jimmy with his mouth open wide bursting out laughter. “Yo...u...you screamed...like a little girl!” and the boys laughed even more. I felt my cheeks turn red as my dad came running to the pier. “You boys okay? I heard a scream?” He tilted his head ever so slightly. I glared at the boys in hopes they wouldn't share my embarrassment with others. “Well...” Billy started, and when he did I couldn't stand it. My body went flying toward him. ... “Hey man. It's okay,” Billy leaned over and hugged me. I felt vulnerable and useless lying my head on his shoulder as I wept. I could hear him breathing. He was crying and hurting like the rest of us. I just looked at the box and wanted to take back the past. ... “Man these are the best years of my life. By far the best day ever!” Billy said. “Ya. When we get home everything will feel so dull and boring.” Jimmy agreed. “Man; I wish we could live here forever. Just stay in this moment.” “Ya.” The boys said in sync. “Gross man!” I realized “aren't we supposed to be “cool” and “ruff” boys? The touchy type? No.” The boys smirked at me and I shoved them off the pier. ... “I just want to hug him again.” I took a deep breath. “I never hugged him.” Billy let go of me and looked in my eyes. “The best things in life are taken from us too soon.” ... “Night!” I called. “Night!” Billy sang. “GOOD NIGHT MY MERY MEN!” Jimmy yelled as he zipped up his tent. “He is a strange one.” I whispered under my breath and zipped my tent. ... Billy moved and sat beside me. I inhaled and built up the courage to take the box off the ground. I held it in a death grip. I wouldn't let this leave me too. ... “TYLER!” A screeching voice came from above me and woke me up. “Billy...leave me alone! A man gotta sleep too.” I squinted my eyes to see him. His face was red and he was breathing heavily. His eyes were bloodshot and his face wet from tears. His oily brown hair was whipped in a mess on his head. “Billy.” I sat up quickly. Fear made me stop breathing for a minute. Billy wasn't the crying type. None of us were. ... I popped open the tin lid. Billy put in a dead butterfly Jimmy found. He was going to give it to his crush. She gave an origami heart to add to the box. Billy also added a leaf from this oak tree. It was a tradition to add one every year. Billy put in his report card, and so did I. We slipped in Jimmy's. They gave it to us even though it wasn't finished. I added a flower from Jimmy's funeral, and with it his memorial card. A picture of all three of us. And finally an alligator tooth from Jimmy's room. ... “Where do you want to go for your birthday?” “I want to go to Florida!” “Florida?” “I want to catch alligators.” “Very interesting.” “I love them. They are misunderstood. And how cool would it be to see their eggs hatch at night. Like turtles.” “Do they hatch like turtles? At night?” “Honestly I don't think they do, but hey. Let me dream.” “Fine.” “One night when we are there; the best night. I want to go outside and watch the moon. See the wildlife.” “Then you do that.” “I will.” ... I closed the lid on the box. The lid clicked into place and we climbed down the ladder. We walked to the spot. Billy had the shovel and he dug. We gave the box one more look and then we put it in the cold frozen ground. We buried the tin box grave and we left. Leaving apart a part of our childhood and Jimmy behind. Until next year.

That girl who was laying quietly, and covered in darkness was Ichiko Yamada, she was laying very peacefully, unaware about her current condition. After staying unstirred for a while, she opened her eyes and look around to find where was she. She try her best to view the situation, but the vast amount of darkness create things harder to understand. She was unable to see anything but she try to figure out the circumstance. She didn't have any memories left about how she appeared that place. The last thing she remembered was, a sweet kiss on her lips by her husband, when she was heading to his workplace. She couldn't recognise anything after that, she blacked out completely. But then, she felt light behind herself, she's frighten to move but a male voice occurs from behind it was, "Are you alright Yamada-san . You are moving so, I think maybe you are alright. Let's move miss . We had to cover a long path." When she turns around she saw a silver hair colored guy, standing behind her, watching her with his deep and emotionless red eyes. He's wearing a white waistcoat, and a long black long jacket. The warmth she felt before was coming out from a vintage lantern which he was holding. Ichiko was confused about her situation and don't know what to do, 'Cause according to the schedule she has to be on her working desk but she was sleeping in that weird dark place and when she somehow handle that uncanny trauma, a male character popped out in that place and ordering her to follow him and head somewhere. How and why she did that, there is no sense to follow a stranger. She wasn't afraid but she don't want to go after him. So then, she take a deep breath and denies his offer. He can't look good after hearing that answer. He said, "Think about it Yamada- san, it's your lose if you can't follow me." And Ichiko , after hearing that rude reply, reacted aggressively and said, " I don't know who you are and where you come from and I even don't know what's that place how could I go after a stranger?" That guy nodded his head a bit and reply to that angry lady, "You don't know me? And you don't know why you are there? And you are right, how could a lady trust a stranger that she just meet and started following him" He take a deep breath and sigh. He view her for a while, and maybe he was thinking about the next step he had to do, He took out his hand towards her and tells, " I tells you everything, but for that you had to follow me. I insist Yamada-san please come after me. " Ichiko is still suspicious about that man but when she saw his cold eyes, she somehow agreed about that proposal. She stood up and ready to follow him. That person light up the path with that vintage lantern and both were continuously walking on it. She want to ask many questions to him but she is confused how to start, and then that guy asked her, " back then you were exploding with lots of questions but you weren't asking any of it that time, why? Are you perhaps confused what to ask first." It looked like that guy read her mind she blushed a bit about that and tell her that, " it's not that, I am confused over a silly thing, actually I don't know how to start the conversation with a stranger that you just meet." He turns his head towards her and tells her, "as I thought, you were a lively girl and yet stubborn kid, like your parents." And both were started walking again. While walking, she denying those facts and stared telling him those tags weren't true but she stopped, when she noticed he tells, "like your parents." She immediately asked, "how you know my parents." That simple question from her, stops his feet for a while, he sigh and continue guiding there way. Both were quietly walking behind each other and the atmosphere around them is getting stressed. She wanted an answer to him but, she couldn't make it and she keep her moth shut. The pin drop silence breaks with a reply by that man, " Let's starts with something simple. My name is Azrael . And the answer of your pervious question is a bit complicated and........ I am terrified, maybe the answers weren't suitable of your expectations." And after that, he spit out the truth, " Yamada-san you..... Hit by a truck and.... now your body is in deep unconsciousness. After hearing that answer, Ichiko chuckled and tells him, "you aren't good with jokes, Azrael . And specially with those cold eyes it looks so lame." And she couldn't stops giggling. The whole place has only hearing her wild laughter. She laughing like crazy or maybe she is waiting for Azrael to join but he's stuck with his emotionless face like he's telling her ' Believe me, it's true'. After those laughs faded, she realised he isn't fooling around. The sentence he spit out is pure truth. It's a shock for her. She come close to him and ask that question again but that time she's serious and shaking. 'Cause she know what he is going to answer. She want to ask more questions to him But before that he tells, " you don't need to get that upset Yamada-san , your body stills breathing but your soul loses it's way and if we cross that path maybe we reach the place where your body is and after that you may continue your life. And I, the spirit guardian led you that place for sure." She was relived after hearing that, she still had a chance to behold her family again. She sigh of relief. She looked again that silver hair guy and give him a smile. That smile tells him, 'let's continue our journey.' --------------------- It's been a while now since they started there journey. But she hear some weird moans of a girl. She asks that guy about them and he reply, "the path we are travelling is connected with other people's memory, you could call it a void of memories and sometimes we also, view or listen there memories, maybe Yamada-san you just hear is someone's old sexual experience. Now she felt embarrassed about those screams. She was mumbling, 'please stop, please stop.' and after a bit those moans were converts into talks, Ichiko is curious that what that young couple talking about and she asks to Azrael , "did you know what they are talking about." He is continually walking. And he ask a question in his reply, "Are you perhaps a gossiper? You looked interested." She refuse that fact by, 'I am just curious and nothing and nothing at all.' He tells her, don't stressed like that he's just teasing her and if she want to hear the conversation he allow that. She come close to that place where those voices come from and there is a small window, she peeks in it and she saw a classroom. A young teen couple were talking about a girl. "Jeez, your girlfriend is so dumb. She believed in that silly excuse for staying at school. She is an idiot. " You are right baby, she is a moron. She even believed that my first time was with her. She is such an idiot." "Yes, she is a stupid bitch." She can't see properly his face 'cause those were very old memories, but she felt sorry for his girlfriend. She took his head out of that window and her expressions tells, how bad she's feeling for that poor girlfriend. Azrael who is just behind her watched everything but can't be able to tell anything except, " we had to continue." They were started walking again and he said, "you are the lady with golden heart and 'cause of that you think about other's a lot. It's bad for you. But, it's not your fault. You were just mirroring your mother." And after that short conversation both were continued covering there paths quietly. Both were again started walking. And as much as they cover the path the quantity of those voices were increasing. That time that silent void turns into a local fish market. "It's like everyone is talking." Ichiko notice a thing, she can't just peek into anyone's memory and the reason Azrael explain is, "those memories only viewed by those people who were connected to the owner of those recollections." And she thinking about that fuck boy, that is he connected to her or not. She felt dejected but then she heard a familiar voice, it comes out of a window, she peeks in and it's her aunt's memories. It's the funeral of Ichiko's parents. Ichiko is sitting on a bench when her aunt pick her. She smiles that at least she witnessed a good memory. But her smile curved back into a straight line when she heard the complete conversation between her uncle and aunt. " Machiko , you don't like Kanako-san at all. So, why did you took her daughter home?" "'Cause I want her to earn money." "You, want her to earn money? Are you out of your mind? You want a child to work to get you that shit money?" " No! Not yet, I treat her like my own daughter and soon when she grown up and started working she send money for her old and unhealthy aunt and I also teach her all housework so, she could help her ill aunt when she want. Don't you think dear, it's a good plan. And top of that, I heard Kanako-san telling her husband about there insurance. The amount is enough to pay my dear Io-chan's college fee. Now you know honey why I let that orphan girl stay in my home." "You can't, it's wrong that money belongs to that child." "I said, enough. Conversation is over now, you dare to open that mouth in front of anyone, clear my honey." After hearing that talk, her facial expressions changed. Her legs felt numb and she fell down. She started crying and sobbing, Azrael who was standing behind her back as always, watching it with those expressionless eyes. She was crying and sobbing but she stops all of a sudden. She heard again a familiar voice. It was a moan. She stands up and started stepping up to reach that window but Azrael stops her with words, "please, stop right there Yamada-san you can't handle that." But she wasn't listening, she know what kind of memory she was going to view but she want to look who was that girl, who stole her husband. She come near that window and her face has no emoticons. Just pale and sorrowful face and nothing at all. She peeked and it was, Io-chan. Her husband merging his body with her cousin sister. She took out her head and stand silently. First, she smiles and then she started laughing and chuckling louder and louder the place which is echoing with strange voices is now resonating only by those laughs. But slowly those chuckles were converted into tears and sobs of sorrow. She sit down on the floor, took her legs in and started crying. After couple of time she looked up and she find Azrael looking her. She cover her eyes again with her arm and ask, " Azrael , where I went wrong? Is am I not lovable? Or am I can't planed anything? Or is it....." And he replied with his emotionless face, " Did you want to hear truth or just want me to comfort you?" She sense the deep meaning behind that simple question and think about it. The conclusion she finds out is, 'she want to know, the truth.' She wipe her tears and stand up near Azrael . After looking her eyes, he know what she wanted to hear. And he tell "You were wrong about many things, you went with your aunt to live with her, but you know that your parents didn't like her. She treated you and your cousin unequally, but you never questioned about it. You loved playing violin and you had talent too but you leave it 'cause of the fee. You marry your first boyfriend, but you already catch him flirting with other ladies. And then the biggest mistake you made is, you changed your job 'cause you wanted to spend more time with your husband. Yamada-san , you planed everything from the started, everything. You planed and organized everything to prevent yourself hurting. You know that, your aunt treating you unfairly but you continued living with her 'cause you wanted things to be normal. You marry your boyfriend although you know he may cheat you someday but, you can't cut ties with him 'cause you afraid to get your heart broken again. Yamada-san, you may plan everything but things run as it could. It may not be possible, that things run as they prepared. You love someone and sometimes they break your heart. It's hard to handle it but that's how life and love works. It's a part of life you can't deny that. You are a pure hearted person and you love everyone that was your mistake, and trust me those weren't flattering word, that's the truth." Her few tears were flowing down, some were stuck in middle and some still waiting to flow. But with those tears she looks happy. And all tears were flow down at once and she hugged the person who is standing in front of her. While holding him she still sobbing but that time words were different, she is thanking Azrael for leading the path. And after a bit she leaves his warmth, she felt a bit embarrassed and she also apologies for hugging him. But the path is completed and behind that door her new life is waiting for her. Azrael took Ichiko's soul to her destiny and the time was to go back to there life again. ×××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××× Lee's Thoughts, "Stick with a backstabber 'cause of love. But deep inside we know that, you did it because you don't want to hurt yourself anymore. But seriously it's foolishness not love Ichiko. " Ichiko , made big mistakes in her life and after she know the truth she regretted her decisions. We had to learn from Ichiko's mistakes. And choose people wisely.

A fog veiled cold morning greets the sleep-deprived man of the Second Restovian Revolutionary division with bullets. The projectiles fly past the trenches into an old corroded armed vehicle. "They hit Kalina again the bastards!" exclaimed one of the soldiers. The joke was getting old and insufficient against the grim monotony misery and futility of trench warfare, especially in a position such as this. I wished for a bullet to find a home in a skull for a change even if it was my own. First of November It was time for some mud aficionados to scout the enemy positions and hopefully our comand to decide to attack. I craved for an attack order and even a fatal one should be prefered to this craven shivering hell. As I was passing by the generals bunkers. I ower herd a conversation mentioning shock troops from the northern parts of the Cassadian mountains. The conversation context seemed to be one of reinforcements. This could mean a possibility of advancement and repositioning. A peculiar peace of conversation made me question my senses. "The Blackbirds shuld advance..." Perhaps I was going insane from the utter sense of disappointment in our past actions, therefore, imagining some form of hope ridden scenario for the sake of my sanity, I owerheard the name of the legendary shock troopers from the North, the infamous Blackbirds. Hope seems to me now a weapon as important as a bayonet with only one difference. It is pointed to myself. I waited for comrade Bitov to exit the bunked and confirm or disapprove this dream-like fantasy of mine. He seemed surprised and annoyed by my intrusiveness making me once again confirm my sentiment of disillusionment with the party propaganda of "Army of equals" His words betrayed a trace of fatality which led me to believe that an attack was in the plan. Our command was truly unprofessional and craven. I was always disdained by their unwillingness to action and their two-faced nature when it came to politics. Opportunistic and hypocritical to the core. A man such as this corrodes the revolutionary spirit before it even began to taste victory. The next morning the command issued orders and a summary of the battle plan. The orders came from Levov himself. Our forces were to storm the enemy positions with no retreat or mercy. A heroic sacrifice was to be made against the front line trenches fortified with machine guns. This would provide a distraction that "The Blackbirds" would exploit disabling the artillery from behind enemy lines in a special operation that itself seems to me suicidal at best. Blackbirds second division should attack the flanks and provide a breakthrough and a chance to victory. The remaining surviving man of our division should join the ranks of The Blackbirds upon finishing our mission. The odds of survival being minimal this seemed a fools gold type of promise. The commanders were visibly shaken by these orders, they tried their best to appear heroic and fanatical, stoic even yet you could see it in their eyes. They feared death. There should be no such sentiment in the Revolutionary war. I felt alienated from my comrades, so fear struck. Am I the only one that made peace with death itself? "Embrace me sweet and merciful death. Let our peace be as eternal and meaningful as our struggle was." I proclaimed such vows as if it was a prayer. Preyers are for the statists, self-sacrifice is the purest form of it to a real revolutionary. I refuse to stand in recess due to fear of impending doom and proclaimed my devotion and zeal. "Towards comrades to death!" "To freedom! " Death is the final form of freedom anyway.

The turbulence outside the plane was like nothing I’d ever experienced. At some points the plane was almost at a ninety degree angle. We could hear the thunder and see the lightning, flashing in bright and deadly streaks across the sky. The seatbelt sign had flashed on what seemed like ages ago, but even before that people were holding onto their seats for dear life. The pilot had been making announcements through the intercom but even those had stopped after a while. The air hostesses were strapped down in their seats, so we couldn’t even ask them what was happening or when we were going to land. The plane’s wifi had long since cut out. As the wind howled and the thunder boomed and the lightning flashed, I found myself feeling sleepy. I had been up for hours and now even a storm like this couldn’t keep me awake. I drifted off and when I woke up, what must have been hours later as the sky was now even darker, the thunder was still roaring all around us. I looked for my bag, and saw that it had fallen off the rack and was now sitting at my feet. I reached down for it and pulled out my phone to check the time. My phone read that it was 8 at night, but that wasn't possible. I had fallen asleep at 8, and it felt like I had slept for hours. I tried to rationalise. Maybe I had just closed my eyes and I felt so tired I thought I fell asleep? That must be it, it was the only rational explanation. I decided to play one of the games on my phone to pass the time, but I couldn’t concentrate with the thunder still booming. I checked the little clock at the top of my phone screen. 8:00pm What? I had been trying to play that game for at least 20 minutes. I know some people have a terrible sense of time but I am not one of those people. I definitely had not been playing that game for less than a minute. I turned to look around me at the people in the other seats. They were all in the same positions as I remembered. I turned back to my phone. 8:00pm I stared and stared at that little clock, waiting, begging, praying for that little number to tick up. It didn’t. Suddenly, one of the stewardesses came marching up the aisle towards me. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to put that phone away.” I was so stunned by her unusual request that I simply did as she asked, like I was on autopilot. I decided I would ask her about what was happening, just for a bit of peace of mind. “Do you know how long we have until we land?” She smiled at me, indulgently, like an adult would to a child. “We will be landing shortly. Please just relax and enjoy the flight.” The stewardess strutted off back to her seat. The seatbelt sign had clicked off and the turbulence had died down for now, so I took the opportunity to use the bathroom. I checked my phone again. 8:00pm What was happening?! Was I going mad? I strolled back to my seat and peeked out the window. The sky was still an angry grey and it was raining heavily but there were none of those abrasive thunder claps and blinding flashes of lightning anymore. Just a regular rainy night. A woman a little ways down the aisle from me got up to use the bathroom. As she walked by my seat, she dropped a little slip of paper in my lap, and just kept walking. I unfolded it and read the short message. *I’m awake too* Awake? I scrambled for a pen and wrote back - *Awake from what? What’s happening?* The woman left the bathroom and shuffled past my seat. As she went by, I pushed the piece of paper back into her hand. She didn't go back to her previous seat though, she sat down in the empty one right in front of mine. I could see her through the gap in the chairs, she was scribbling an answer. She pushed it through the chairs to me and as I unfolded it, I opened my mouth to ask her a question. She shushed me by putting a finger to her lips and motioned for me to open the paper. *What time is it?* I looked up at her, panic clear in my eyes, and her face looked like she already knew the answer. I checked my phone again - 8:00pm I showed the woman my phone screen. She barely glanced at it. All she did was mouth ‘I know’ and pulled out her phone to show me. 8:00pm Okay. Okay. Not okay. The clock on my phone stopping? Sure, it's unlikely, but plausible. Two phones, stopped at the exact same time, and everyone else in the exact same positions they were in at the time except for the stewardesses telling us we can’t have our phones out? Creepy. But why us? Why are this woman and myself the only people left awake in this unholy nightmare? Was it the storm? But it couldn’t have been, the storm had been going all day, just now we were in it. What was going on? Abruptly, the woman got up and went back to her original seat. I took a sip of water from my bottle. I just couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Why me? Why her? It felt like I was in a horror movie. I decided that one way or another, I was getting answers. I moved towards the front of the plane, and none of the hostesses even tried to stop me. They just sat in their seats, still as statues. I pushed through the curtain and into the cockpit. I tried asking the co-pilot what was going on, but he just stared straight ahead, not even acknowledging that I was there. I strode over to him and almost fainted. Right across his chest was a huge blood stain, leaking from a gash that went right across his torso. Same with the pilot. The plane had been set to autopilot, probably so we didn’t crash.. I staggered out of the cockpit passing the hostesses, still sitting in the same positions. Although facing them now, I could see why. In the center of their chests where blood stains. On every single one, though not as gruesome as the pilots. I screamed, this time running from the bodies and back to my seat. On every single person I passed, I could now see a blood stain on their chest. Passing by them before, from behind I couldn’t see, but now I got the full and gory view. I was on a plane of corpses. I passed the seat of the woman who had dropped the paper in my lap, but instead of a bloodstained hole, I saw an awful grin. My stomach dropped. Her grin changed to a smile that was almost kind. She reached down to her bag, slowly unzipped it, and pulled out a kitchen knife. I started to whimper. I was about to die.

Stella and The Cherry Tree How am I ever going to get out of here? Worse, am I ever? I have just been given a new Dad. Another new Dad. And a new name. Another new name. And my real dad and my real name are now a secret. A shadow, a ghost. I’m only ten and I’ve already been three people. Stella Mack, Stella Brogan and now Stella Dice. I gotta get out of here. New daddy has a temper, a bad temper and he yells a lot. When yelling doesn’t work, he slaps a lot. And when slapping doesn’t work, well...you know... a little kicking and stomping comes into play. New daddy is rich, and handsome, but he’s mean, just plain mean. Not to Mom. He’s never mean to mom. Momma’s pretty. Fashion model pretty. Like in the magazines. She has a smile that lights up a room. Maybe even the world. Mine anyway. But she is his prize now. I’m just along for the ride. He didn’t want me, but I came with the deal and that makes him mad. Why does she keep doing this? I hate him. How am I ever going to get out of here? Everything in my new world is beautiful. On the outside. My bedroom, so perfect. It’s everything a young girl could want. A ballet room, only I’m anything but a ballerina. An Easy Bake Kitchen. Seriously? A new iPhone, a color tv, a desk, all my books in a tall, Italian Provincial bookcase and my very own bathroom. My balcony looks out over the great expanse of country club green that is our back yard. My room is pretty much a dream room. But it’s not my dream and my life, my life is a nightmare. One of those beautiful on the outside, ugly on the inside, well-kept secrets in town. I hate it and I hate calling him Daddy. All I want is OUT. I don’t know why it takes me so long to figure it out. When it happens, it happens in a flash. I’m huddled in front of my tv set in the middle of the night. Old movies are one of my escapes. Books and old movies. But I am tired of the silent escape they provide. Really tired of it. The walls are closing in on me and so is the anger and the violence and that awful smell of stale booze in the morning. “Stella, Stella, Stella...” the guy on the television cries out. He is so desperate. He is screaming up to Stella’s balcony as if she is the only person that matters. I start crying, but I am crying out for my freedom. I’m crying out because I don’t seem to matter at all. And then it hits me. I look out onto my balcony at the tree. The giant cherry tree that towers over it. Why hadn’t I noticed her, why hadn’t I seen her, why hadn’t I acted before now? I grab my flashlight and run out into the night. I shine the light down through the branches, along the trunk to the ground. This is it. The Holy Grail of Escapes. But what if...is the first thing to cross my mind. Fear. What if, I get caught? So what? How much worse could it be than the prison I’m already in? It couldn’t be. I look up at the dark sky above me. It is a new moon night. Just a slice of light in the sky. I find comfort in the night sky. If anyone’s up there, I whisper, help me. Please, please help me do this. I rip off my pajamas, and stuff my flashlight in the back pocket of my Levis. I always have my Levis on under my pjs. I call them my just-in-case pants. Just in case I have to make a break for it. And tonight, tonight is the night I am shifting gears. Down the tree I go. Onto my bike I fly. Out the gate, down the road, into the town and I am FREE. The wind in my face feels like heaven. I ride all night. Breathing in the cool, crisp air of freedom. I cover every block in this new town. Every square inch of it really. I suck it in. Get to know it. The movie theater, the mall, the little AM/PM just down the way. My new school, the Little League Baseball field. The park with all the hiking trails, the skating rink, the pool and the library! The bus station. It’s all here. It’s my town now. No matter what they call me or where I came from or how I’d gotten here, I, me, Stella. I am here now. I barely notice morning light coming on as I head home. I’m filled with the excitement of my newfound freedom. Now my adventures can be real. No one will know where I went or what I did in the night. It didn’t occur to me that everything was closed at night. It didn’t seem to matter. All that mattered was the escape hatch and the possibilities. As I parked my bike and started shimmying up the tree, I saw the light in mom’s room go on. My heart stops. My worst nightmare was about to come true. I look up at the balcony expecting him to be peering down at me. Locked and loaded. But he isn’t. I sit still in the branches. Very still. Finally, the light goes out. Whew. Maybe just an early morning whiz. I start shimmying up again. Again, the light goes on. I hear my mother call out to him. “You okay in there, hon?” “Yeah, I’m okay just a little touch of the flu. Go back to sleep.” Flu?! I almost blurt out. Hah. More like the nasty, putrid puking that comes with too much gin. How does she stand it? Why does she? My happy high from my new found freedom starts to fade. I don’t want to lose it. I refuse to lose it. I start shimmying up the tree again until I reach the top and climb over the ledge. I made it. I grab my pajamas, pull them on over my Levis, and crawl back into my bed. I feel different. Taller. Bigger. Full of myself. I rolled the dice, and I found a way out. That makes me grin. A snotty, mean little I won kind of grin. I rolled the dice and won. A reckoning is coming now, and I can feel it.

[Before the story, I need to say that I’m in no way a professional writer in fact I’m only 14. I had this idea for a story for a while now and I’m just getting around to writing it. Hope to get some feedback and maybe I’ll make some more stories in the future!] 6/6/2025, 9:02 pm: “Today we sent the first ever humans to Mars in hopes of creating a base of operations there. They are projected to land in T minus 4 hours. Things have gone smooth so far. I’ll keep you updated.” 17/6/2025, 7:57 pm: “It’s been about 11 days since the launch, sorry about not responding to you’re calls. Today something bad happened. We lost all contact to the Mars team. And to make matters worse, the conflicts between China and Russia seem to be getting worse so we may not be able to send any other people up there. Hopefully we get something back from them.” 6/6/2125, 6:15 am: “Daddy said we have to go to some space place today. Something about a project Grandpa worked on for his entire life. I don’t know what to expect! I’ll write back here after we’re done.” 6/6/2125, 8:38 pm: “We’re done at the space thing and apparently it was the 100th anniversary of the 1st people to go to another planet! They said they still haven’t sent anything up there to this day. I wonder why?” 19/5/2150, 6:00 am: “Today I have a job interview. I’m applying at the NASA Center for Inter-terrestrial Human Life. I’m kinda nervous but I think I got this. You know what... I think this is the same place I went with my dad when I was only 8. Wow the time flies.” 22/5/2150, 5:45 pm: “I just got a letter in the mail and I got the job! I bet grandpa would be so proud.” 24/5/2150, 9:32 pm: “Today was my first day at work. Everyone knew me! My grandpa was a legend here. He dedicated his whole life to this. Sadly, however, after his work they stopped with Mars. Still don’t know why. When I asked, all they said was... “no contact....” I’m very confused.” 31/11/2153, 4:53 am: “I was just awoken to a loud rumbling. What could it be? I looked outside and saw nothing. It’s probably just a tremor or something but I live too far from the fault line. I have a bad feeling about this.” Same day, 5:10 am: “I felt another rumbling. Same thing. Looked outside, saw nothing. Wait.... I think I just saw a light outside.” 5:13 am: “There is another rumble and more light. What the hell could it be? I’ve got to go out there and see for myself.” 5:22 am: “WHAT THE HELL IS THAT? LOOKS LIKE A MASSIVE SPACE SHIP IN THE SKY!!” 5:25 am: “It keeps saying “contact us! contact us!” over and over again! What could it want?!” 5:31 am: “It just shot what seems to be a missile. I think this is it. If you are reading this, run.” The End.

The Volvo is a reliable car, but, like fine wine, gets bitter with age. Its engine whirls reluctantly to a start, its lights responding in a dazzling array of bright red and blinding white. From a distance, the scene was nothing more than the old routine of a seasoned road veteran, but to its driver, its lights were the ticket to freedom. This ticket was the gateway to a fleeting sense of hopelessness and simultaneously the yellow brick road to freedom. The catch, however, was that it always led to the same place. A Volvo lets you feel lost, but nonetheless comforts you with its familiar roar and occasional stumble. Feeling lost with this car is another way of saying you’re totally free to go wherever you want. So I think of this freedom as if it were the crisp night air pouring into the front seat from the sunroof, tasting sweet as a byproduct of bees hard at work pollinating the spring flowers. With all windows down as I swerve between potholes, the nearby wildlife are presented with the lyrical genius of Wheatus as he and I harmonize from the bottoms of our hearts about the struggles of teenagers and their dirtbag counterparts. In celestial mockery of my Volvo and its headlight hubris, the night sky awakens. Their collective luminescence overwhelms the faltering turn signal on my heap of 2004 Japanese metal. As the road widens and the turns subside, my headlights become almost one, blending into each other and forgetting their differences. I am no longer the driver, but a passenger on a falling star. There is no better sense of our existence than this feeling of senselessness. A grinding thud interrupts this moonlight sonata. “Damn you,” I whispered, mostly to myself, but also to the pothole. It should regret its actions and remain deeply penitent for adjourning my mighty dance with the heavens. Nonetheless, I pop the trunk and begrudgingly begin the process of replacing my blown tire with a spare. It’s always the front left wheel, and it’s always a user error. For that reason, I have slowly grown to accept the gentle indifference of the world. There are no inherently bad things, just different intentions and consequences tied to each action. Thus, it is to capture the universe in essence to say everything needs everything else in order to be anything at all. The only true “bad” thing would be to take it too seriously. After all, it’s just a pothole. The Volvo sputtered back to life, its lights reflected in the eternal pool of the sky. Two roads diverged in this wood, and I took the one with less potholes. It is not necessary to reach any destination beyond my Volvo’s capacity. The purpose of a drive is to drive - to take the wheel and your hand as one and smell the oil. It is not to reach a destination, but to enjoy the sights along the way. One must imagine Sisyphus happy. As I gaze in astonishment at the world above me and the warm air surrounding me, I find myself overwhelmed by the pressure of these small celestial candles. As I turn off my car’s front beams, the sky follows suit, the Volvo lights fading as they lose their battle to the sun. The sky fills its pool with splashes of color, its painting becoming an infinite ocean, with the Volvo lights reflecting the universe looking back at itself.

The hover craft was not going to be fast enough to reach the community in time. Sonic alarms were already starting to show diminishing activity in Angeles Sector 09. There would be no time to properly evaluate foot traffic. All of the other sectors had thriving commerce, indoor and out. But whenever an analysis drone flew near to Sector 09 the peoples would vanish. The council had been uneasy about this fact. They didn't like mysteries especially the mystery of a sole community acting completely independent of its predestiny. If the scripture of humankind was being ignored, they would need to be disbanded and arrested. Soon Ke-Yu would land the drone orb and solve this mystery and bring balance and continued progress to the Magna Statum. The scriptures taught that being a good humanoid meant serving the greater cause. If there was a drug being manufactured in Sector 09 it would explain the lack of production in this area. Compound 56 was found in the surrounding regions, affecting 20% of the populace in Sectors 03 and 06. Only specified operatives were permitted to be involved in the quarantine and investigation of the drug's victims. Their conditions were said to be "unusual" and "detrimental to public health." The compound was deemed highly dangerous to genetic makeup. Ke-Yu, who was a model androgynous citizen of renowned investigation, found that being a nondescript nonbinary lessened the burdens of extinct humanoid generations. The thought that there used to be designations between male and female was cold and isolating. With neural capacity being freed up from the nuisance of creativity Ke was able to focus on more logical thinking. To imagine that humans had to exist in different, inferiority forms showed how far humanity had come. Sector 09 appeared below. The streets, as anticipated, were empty. There were rumors, of course, that the drug known as Compound 56 influenced the entire population, that the statistics clearly showed an increase in the compounds usage in all of the sectors who failed to live up to expectations. Ke-Yu steered the orb into the docking area, knowing full well there would be no one to greet. As the door whooshed open Ke saw the large silos at the epicenter of the community. Appearing the same as all other humanoids, with the white, form-fitting suit, Ke would have been happy to meet others, to explain the purpose of the visit and to be guided to the reception center but as it was the clustered buildings and narrow streets were devoid of life. Everyone must be inside. Ke would need to find her own way. The silos were big enough to output thirty tons of chloroxine in a single day but the sector’s capacity, at least from the read-outs, was 30% of this. Ke felt this was a good place to start. If they were manufacturing drugs it would make the most conclusive sense that they would be stored here. Ke had never remembered being this alone, being part of a collective of like-minded humanoids for long, and now on a street with no familiar faces, any face that would mirror Ke's own face. It was comforting to be surrounded by the same face, seeing yourself in every individual. But in this moment, everything was different, out of place, and unusual. A lone bird flew overhead, making a disinterested squawk. Ke looked up before entering the silo building, wondering, at least scientifically, what it would be like to fly so high. Inside the reception area was just as empty and unused. The utility console was also offline. Unusual indeed. There were no signs of struggle or even foot traffic. The lobby remained quiet as Ke found the back doors sealed and brought up a virtual map. The wrist map showed that the area ahead contained no life signals. The air vents were offline. That was when Ke noticed a compartment that didn't appear on the 3D projection, to the right of the doorway. Odd. Ke removed the three-foot wall panel and found a hallway inside, not on the map. The hall led to another door that opened on approach. The following hallway contained what appeared to be a decontamination room with nozzles on the ceiling and floor. Ke cautiously stepped forward, a white gloved hand reaching for invisible sensors. This tech was old but appeared to have been used recently. Ke scanned the room and found evidence of a strange substance plastered on the wall. But before further analysis could be completed Ke was dragged forward on the moving, tread floor. With one foot on the floor Ke stumbled and fell back trying to jump back to the entry way. Ke was carried along with colorful sensors and buzzing noises going off. The colors were another abnormality, with green, red, and blue light, instead of the standardized white. It distracted Ke for a moment, long enough to prevent proper analysis. Ke was then suddenly overcome with the strange substance that covered the white suit and gloves, emanating from the twelve nozzles in the hall. Ke couldn’t breathe as the substance came in contact with the humanoid's skin and mouth, sparking a reaction of goose bumps that Ke thought was a myth. It seeped through the suit and caused a trembling in the humanoid’s frame. A series of emotions struck Ke as the nozzles continued their onslaught. First Ke's heart beat faster, giving off a sense of unease and panic. During the indoctrination process Ke had learned about these types of antiquated feelings and grew concerned over the possibility that the chemicals were indeed capable of changing DNA. Ke became encased in a flurry of thoughts that went beyond any known words or identification. The closest verbiage was "hot," "warm", and "alert." More alert. More power. More human. These were the feelings that had been forgotten. Ke questioned the logic of the supreme leaders, of the society that had enacted such uniformity and restriction on itself. A vision came through the soft blue haze, full of energy and tactile sensuality. Ke felt inflammation originating at the chest and moving to the stomach. Ke touched the forming pectorals, realizing they were softer than muscle and then moved a curious hand to the stomach, which was now bulbous and wide. The thought of becoming something different frightened Ke. There was nausea too but it grew into a tingling, a warm tingling. That was the word. An enjoyable tingling, birthed from a diversity in Ke's frame. Every sight and texture became a wonder, every structure was a monument. Ke became consumed by a rush of sensations. Vibrant. Unrestrained. Mournful. Symbiotic but free. Alive. She. Her. Ke was no longer a duplicate humanoid anymore. She became a her. She became a flower, spreading out her petals to receive the sunshine. Even the colors of the lights meant more than they did before, flourishing with inspiration and appreciation. The divide didn't seem so distant. It was before her, in a swath of fresh awareness. A union was desired. A union she could not explain. A bond shared between life essences. The union of man and woman. A union of two separate beings, each side bolstering the other and taking them to new heights of perception and being. As the spray dissipated, she opened her eyes and saw everything as it truly was. The world had been asleep and she was awake for the first time. An ancient embodiment had stripped them of their souls and they accepted it willingly, absentminded of the consequences. Ke saw the strife between a man and a woman, the contention, the struggles, the turmoil, but this difference came with a yearning to embrace the chaos of unpredictability. The doors at the end of the hall opened suddenly and a faint humming was heard. Ke felt repetition in the sounds, her body driven to sway with the soft melody. The intoxication moved her toward the door. Beyond was a pallid of unique shapes, colorful lights, the hum becoming louder. It was all she wanted. The music overtook her and she was born again.

I didn’t want to go. June was long and busy and tiring with lots of lacrosse and school and other things I don’t enjoy. I didn’t want to add another activity to the ever-growing roster of things required to be a better parent that I am. I wanted the beach, books and a bar cart. So, I pawned it off on my mensch husband, who agreed to take our three monsters and my nephews. I think we threw the last two boys in for sport - the event being “how much could I pile on before my husband had a second heart attack?” I flee to a rainbow-colored chair with an ocean view and a cooler. I’m not even sure there was ice or a cup, but with prosecco and Juice Bombs, I am sure nothing required a cork screw or bottle opener. I sit with the sun on my face, ignoring my brother and sister-in-law. Meanwhile, the whack crew of seven made its way down the beach. The seventh was John Schmidt. John was responsible for this whole adventure. It started when he asked my mom, “if the kids would like to go jet skiing”. I obviously said no. My kids may have loved it, but school was over and it was time to be rid of all commitments that included my involvement. My mom asked me about the jet skiing no less than 19 times in the days that followed. Classic Janet. She had clearly said, yes, long before I answered in the negative. She knew I’d cave, because she knew I always caved, because she had a way of always getting me to cave. She would never have to go back on her word to John - due to her ninja like abilities to always get what she wanted, without ever raising her voice. Everyone thought she was laid back and flexible, never quite realizing her stealth skills. Not quite passive aggressive...more like quiet-aggressive. Jesse, disrupts the silence by announcing, “I feel bad for Aaron” (the mensch). Jen, his wife, who I can usually count on to be my partner in crime, sides with my brother. I don’t feel bad at all. I am finally sitting, in the fresh, salty air; bottle in hand instead of the steering wheel of my minivan driving, always driving. But, I know I will look like an asshole if I don’t go on the kid-Aaron-John-wave runner-check. So, in an effort to look like I have a heart, I join them on the journey down the beach. We find the kids - all with loopy jet ski smiles. My other brother has also joined in the joy. Aaron hops off and exchanges his life jacket with Jesse in return for the promise of another happy face racing by at 30 mph. Jesse pulls my twins around the ocean on a tube and then passes the torch to his wife. I want none of this. But peer pressure works even when you are 50 years old. I hop aboard the car in the ocean, now pulling my daughter and nephew on a tube. I figure if I can get this fun out of the way, I can finally return to my beach chair. John steps on the gas. We take off and it feels fun and free. The wind, the sun, and the speed. We are out to sea. The tubing rope loosens. The two kids go flying off the back as the tube sheds its cover and pops like a birthday balloon. Before I know it, the rope is wrapped around the motor and nearly snaps my leg in half, which now resembles raw chicken. The jet ski is upside down. We are all in the water and the rope is so twisted underneath, that even I - an expert rainbow loom rubber band separator - know there is no hope of us salvaging this ride and getting back to shore. It’s all fun and games for about 12 seconds. I should have known there was a deeper reason I didn’t want to go jet skiing. It’s taken me until now to put my finger, or bloody leg on it. It’s because, with my family, there is always a story. I have never answered the question “how was ____ [insert family fun]”, simply “fun” or “good". There is always a long convoluted story - a rental house on Fire Island that has bugs and leaks and used wet towels that for some reason we don’t leave, my mom trapped in an elevator while in a wheelchair well into her hospice stay, my brother lost on the ski mountain, another brother skiing into a tree losing both his teeth only to have them shoved back in by the ski patrol, a house we are trying to buy where the owner won’t leave until we smoke them out with a lien on the house, my daughter’s front teeth knocked out on the ice - the gymnast, not my hockey player, or at very least the promise of a minor concussion just before a trip for any of them, be it at sport or on hoverboard. Our family activities always have an apex that is more like a mudslide near the top of the mountain, rather than a victorious ascent. They end with me being stuck in the ocean for three hours waiting for marine coast patrol and praying that Jaws is just a movie. John tells my daughter and nephew to - no joke - swim across the channel back to shore. They are 12 and 13. The tide is on its way out. But I am too shell-shocked to think straight. I also feel like I can’t leave John stranded in the ocean. I am not sure why he leapfrogged my family as my priority, but losing half a pint of blood makes you do funny things. I have no phone but at least John does and has enough battery to call the sea rescue. We wait on hold for what feels like days but is probably more like 53 minutes (but who’s checking?) North Carolinians are on island time. After waiting on hold, we wait some more, and are then told they will get there - with no time estimate other than before dark. I tread water and see some movement out of the corner of my eye. It is my daughter and nephew and not a shark. I thank the shark gods first and then the width of the channel for keeping the kids from attempting to swim across it. I hobble into mom mode and find someone willing to take them back to shore. I pray for the second time in 20 years. This time that the stranger is not a secret human trafficker. As the sun starts to go down, I realize it’s “eat what you kill out here” - literally, well, actually I hope not. I have put in enough time with John to feel like he can’t possibly tell my mom I am a terrible person. I flag down several boats. But, with my scary raw chicken leg-leg - which at this point actually looks a million times better from the hours of salt water - and frantic arm waving, I don’t get a lot of takers. Eventually a group of four men agree to take me back to shore. I pray for the third time today, hoping they are not serial killers or criminals or human traffickers. I am pretty sure I am okay, they are probably just New York state-tax evaders, since they look more like investment bankers. But, all of a sudden I am very religious. I get back to shore. I have never been so happy to be on land. I see my daughter and nephew and wonder if I should have left them to swim the channel, when my daughter starts making fun of how crazy I look - sunburned, bloody and shivering. I see my husband, brother, sister-in-law, some of the kids, all waiting for me. A few of them have smartly returned home to escape another story. But, a whole bunch of them sat at the end of the island waiting for me, trying to bring me back. They asked the boaters that took Layla and Cole to the island if they would return to pick me up. The guys said no, in the true spirit of friendly southerners. My family flagged down beach patrol - who apparently see no need to think outside the box. People stranded in the ocean are outside their jurisdiction. They prefer to just drive back and forth on the beach in their cool jeeps. My brothers had it out with some old ladies who said John was too close to shore and felt like we deserved what we got - the women wanted beach patrol to take away John’s license - luckily that is also out of beach patrol’s job description. My crazy family, with our crazy stories and crazy dysfunctional set up, all waited for me, and tried to get me home. Somehow, they are love me despite my being a giant pain 95% of the time. I guess it turns out I like it all - the stories, the crazy, the gaggle of kids. It sure keeps life interesting. Mostly, the stories are memories, happy and funny and ridiculous. And when I miss my mom so much it hurts, a funny story about her making me save egg cartons for “Steve the Greek” - their neighbor with a chicken farm behind an old strip mall, the absurdity of her ability to make me save them while hospice is fixing her morphine pump, they make me laugh. I would go on any jet ski in the world if it would bring her back. I’d even wait out the rest of the time in the water with John Schmidt. It’s all fun and games until you go to a wonderfully, long storied, Fa-go-po-pi family gathering. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Well, I guess I would like my leg to look like it used to...but upon seeing it, it does give many chances to tell this long, convoluted story, and remind me of that time my mom got me to do just one more thing using her secret spell.

Once upon a long time ago, there lived a short creature in a dense and foggy forest. This forest was dangerous and full of wrong turns. Should someone get tangled in the web of paths, they will surely be lost for all of time but this small creature knew the way through. One day, a human in fine clothing journeyed into this forest and met the small creature. “Hello, good sir. I seem to be lost, would you tell me how to get to Hethrusa?” the human inquired. The small creature was not used to humans speaking to him so politely. A smirk sparked deep in his face. He could hardly hold his excitement. “Good human, my good human. I can, and only can I, guide you through this deep forest.” The creature replied. “In exchange for a sweetie and story. Only then, will I guide thee.” The human, being a merchant by trade, had many sweets to give. The creature was handed a small loaf cake and delighted with his catch, he sat down for the human’s story. “What is your pick of story, my friend?” The human asked. “Adventure, my human companion. I crave stories from the great outward, as I am stuck here for eternity.” The creature replied. The human thought, placing a thumb on his chin, and exclaimed with excitement that he had just the story. The creature waddled close to the human as he told a great story of a triumphant warrior who sought after the fountain of youth. This warrior did not find the fountain, but regained his youthful spirit in adventure all the same. The creature was delighted beyond the moon and stars to hear such a delicious story. The creature held the human’s hand and walked him through the ever changing paths. Safely, they both arrived at the edge of the forest. “I bid you my human friend a farewell. I shall not leave this forest, but safest travels to you.” The creature said. “I make a promise to you that I shall return every week. In my pinky, I hold this promise” Said the human. “Every week, I pinky promise to bring you sweets and stories. In exchange, you gently guide my hand through this forest.” Confused by such an odd practice, the creature hooked his small pinky around the humans. “Great promise indeed, my human pal. I shall see you in a week's time.” The creature promised. Over the course of many weeks, the human returned as promised. Bringing sweets and sweeter stories of the great outward lands, both old and new. From the mountains of Preshnua to the deep ocean depths of Trinhada. Each week, the creature gleefully listened to the humans tales as he ate the sweets given. There came a point in the simple promise that both danced and sang with each other. Sharing stories and sweets alike. Both the human and creature shared fond interest in each other. Each week, they both parted ways with the same pinky promise that started it all. On one particular week, the human did not pass through the forest. Waiting for his companion, the creature sat for hours. It seemed that the sky had changed many times and still the human did not show. Worried, the creature paced endlessly. Weeks passed, and still the creature paced. “Where, oh where is my human pal?” the creature pondered. Had he slipped in his great adventure? Did he get gabbed by the Grubabada Bears of Brunaladura? Was he swallowed in the deep dark depths of the Yuranga caves? Oh how the creature worried. These weeks of missing gave way to shaking months. These months were buried with misting years. The creature, still heartbroken of his missing friend, paced a large cavern in his worried walking. It took days for the creature to reach the very top of his sad and empty hill. Then, as if by a chase of a dream, the creature heard a familiar clambering. The trinkle trankle of a certain human’s thingy thangies. With perked ears, the creature peeked over his worry hill. His heart skipped every sixth beat. Holding a breath that was days old. There he was! “Oh what joy to see you, my fleshy pink faced friend! How I missed your presence.” The creature said. “My goblin faced complacent comrade, there you are still! I have great stories to tell of my journeys!” The human replied. “You say your... journeys? Had you not been turned purple by the Thrumping Vines of Enstera? Did you not get slip slopped by the rivers of mud in Frentu?” “No my friend, I have seen the world and most of its glory. I was on a long Holiday. And I have brought otherworldly sweeties, just for you!” The creature's heart was bent. “I do not care for the sweeties, I care for you!” The monster yelled. “You broke the pink-knee promise! I will not guide thee today or tomorrowday or next tomorrowsday!” The creature crossed his arms in protest. The human reached out but withdrew his hand. “I know, I have upset you. I did not mean for this to happen in such a way. Let me make it up to you. I have the best, most grandest, extra gilded extravagant story to tell!” The human said. “Let us dance and never forget to smile!” The creature turned away and thought. This was a most joyous day to see the human, but today should not be so joyous had the human kept their promise. The creature turned and danced with the human. The human was overjoyed and told the story of a great wizard who lost his glasses at the foot of a great mountain. “Tis such a great story so far, indeed.” Said the creature. “Pray tell, does it end in misfortune?” “It does not-” the human laughed. “It ends with happiness” “That is odd” said the creature. “Why is that?” said the human. “It is odd, because your story does end in misfortune!” The creature yelled. At the peak of their dancing, the creature threw the human in his pit of worry. Consumed by the vast darkness, the human’s screams were only heard but for a moment, and then gone. The creature felt sad, for the human had betrayed their promise. The creature felt even sadder now that the human was gone for sure. The creature wished not that they did not meet, but that the human never returned. In this way, the creature could have came up with his own story to fill in the humans sweeties and shoes.

Claire and I stood in the middle of “the storage unit”, as Claire kept calling it. I’m not prone to phobias, but believe me, it’s damn near impossible not to feel claustrophobic, when you’re surrounded by endless rows of precariously stacked piles of heavy objects, some of them looking alarmingly sharp, most of them looking as if they may tumble down any second. Packed to the brim. You’ve guessed it: this was no ordinary storage unit. Not something built to harbour a couple of forgotten moving boxes and great-grandma’s favourite rocking chair. This was a an industrial size affair, the floor about ten thousand square feet, the ceiling easily fifteen feet high. The biggest items stacked in here, as far as I could see, where a sofa comfortably seating a football team (reserve players included), a fossil collection in glass show cases that may or may not have once been the highlight of a museum exhibition, and something I can best describe as a moderate size harvester. Plus anything and everything imaginable in any type of household, from your run-of-the-mill seventeenth century French Sun King’s castle to a trailer park meth lab. Most of these piles seemed to defy gravity. Some reached up to the ceiling, packed so densely they seemed to be squeezed in here by force, or maybe the ceiling had been lowered, clamping down on them. A sight to behold, no doubt. Still, what truly overwhelmed me, was the stench. Foul. Aggressive. A combination of decay and something I can, bizarrely, best describe as “frenzy”. When Claire had opened the heavy metal shutter door to this place, it had been little more than a slight whiff. Then ever-increasing in strength the further we ventured inside. Where I was standing now, the stink was oppressive. Maybe an old bear was hibernating in here somewhere. Or rather, an old bear had been hibernating in here, many years ago, but sadly, hadn’t made it to the next spring. And nobody had found him yet. So what was this place, what’s the explanation for this jam-packed maze and the disgusting smell accompanying it? “Real estate storage”. Have I mentioned Claire’s a realtor? Well, she is, and a very successful one at that. Before I tell you how this adventure took an ugly turn, let me mention that Claire had warned me, asking me whether I had a sensitive stomach, telling me it might be best to skip our visit. Whereupon I had told her it wouldn’t be a problem. I even remember chuckling knowingly. As a coroner, I explained to her, I was used to stenches no storage unit could equal, let alone surpass. Well, I was wrong, and not just about the stenches. Back to the story. Apparently, “real estate storage” is a thing. When Claire first mentioned it, that didn’t exactly pique my interest. I imagined used yard signs with “for sale” printed on them next to a photo of Claire’s friendly, well made up face. A couple of boxes with old flyers maybe. What more could there be? So when she said, with that telling little smile of hers, that it was nothing like that, nothing at all ... I was hooked. In my defense, I’ve always been a curious person. In hindsight, that was probably my biggest mistake. That’s the thing about hindsight, though: as a rule, it comes too late. But what about the storage unit? What’s the explanation for the size of it, for this breathtaking, chaotic--for lack of a better word--collection? “Real estate home staging”. Any ideas what that entails? You do? You’re well ahead of me then. Little did I know you cannot expect to sell your house for a decent price anymore, unless you ruthlessly declutter it first. Sure, I understood the general idea: for a showing, avoid smelly socks on the bedroom floor and moldy pizza boxes in your teenage son’s room (or any other room, for that matter). Maybe even declutter your wardrobe and your kitchen cupboards. After all, you never know whether a potential buyer might be brazen enough to open them. What I hadn’t realized, was that it didn’t end there. Before your realtor sticks a “for sale” sign into your front yard, you’re expected to do the following: Scrub every surface until there’s nothing left to scrub, outside surfaces, inside surfaces. Everything. Everywhere. Depersonalise. Your favorite holiday snaps? Those cherished portraits of your grandchildren? Photos of beloved pets, who’ve trooped over the rainbow bridge long ago? Get rid. Any particular aromas, good or bad, scented plants and perfumes included? Get rid. Mismatched pieces of furniture, holding so many dear memories? Get rid. That collection of glass budgerigars made from special Czech crystal you inherited from aunt Marcia? Well ... you get the picture. The reason is simple, as Claire explained to me: the family who--you hope--will buy your old place, preferably well above asking price, has to envision themselves living there. Envision themselves . Not envision you . So “neutral” is key. Excellent real estate home staging, I’ve learned, goes even further: not only will Claire take all your unwanted, sale impeding clutter off your hands, she will also supply you with wonderfully stylish, perfectly neutral design objects. Anything that upgrades your simple family home to a professional interior-design showroom. And where does all the unwanted clutter go? Exactly. Right now, I was standing in the middle of one of those “declutter storage units”. Yes, there were more. Six in total. This was the biggest and the most impressive, though, Claire had assured me. There’s one more thing you should know: not only had Claire been an amazingly successful realtor for decades, she was also a hoarder. Which is why none of the stuff in here--while meant to be stored only temporally--got thrown out or auctioned off, when the owners didn’t come back to collect it. Everything stayed. Everything. So there you have it. The explanation. And after adjusting to the sight of this vast, bizarre collection, I thought nothing in here could surprise me anymore. That was my second mistake. Or maybe it was my third. I’ve lost count. I stared at the bloody knife and the severed hand, both sticking out of a pile of what looked like theatre props and costumes for a period piece, Henry the eighth maybe. I remember thinking Claire had probably seen it as well, assuming the hand was a theatre prop. An understandable mistake. I’d be a useless coroner, though, if I couldn’t spot the difference between a prop and the real thing. “Claire?” I called, softly. I couldn’t see her any more and turned around, slowly, looking for her, trying my best not to touch anything--neither the knife nor the hand nor anything else. In my mind, at that point, the biggest threat was still an avalanche of home-decorating junk toppling down on me. There was no answer. Instead, the overhead lights went out. In quick succession, I heard the metal shutter door being pulled down, followed by the eerie sound of the thick metal lock snapping into place. Then the click-clack of Claire’s high heels on the concrete floor of the deserted hallway, on the other side of the door. Then nothing. For a brief moment, the image of all the other doors to all the other storage units flared up in my mind’s eye, like a beacon of hope. Someone else would arrive soon, surely. Then I remembered what Claire had told me: she was the one renting all the units on this floor. I also remembered her jokingly mentioning that for the foreseeable future, there was no watchman. It’s hard to describe my next feeling. The one that came with the realisation of what it meant, that rash decision, when I had--readily, carelessly--agreed to leave my briefcase in Claire’s car. The briefcase with my smartphone in it. “CLAIRE?!” Silence.

TW: terrorism Many might say I have lost my way but it is those who say that, who have lost their way. Our city neighborhood is changing because of them . Because they lost their way. My journal entries are my place of happiness. I write the good old days long before Bill Gates and Jeff Bezos. The time when we were all safe. The only millionaires were sawmill operators, one named Henry Yesler. He was one of the pioneers of the city and built what became the city’s first steam-powered sawmill. People looked up to him and made him the city’s 7th and 15th mayor. He was truly an inspirational individual, not in the likes of any crazy aliens. I describe these days in detail and take into account everyone’s lifestyle. This is how life should be. We need to go back to the good old days. Walking through the streets through the heavy rain, I silently observe the people. Our home is known to be one of the fastest-growing cities in the United States. I write how it’s imperative that we return back to our old ways to stay safe. Our city has been misconceived to be dull and dreary yet if anything, New York, Houston, Boston, and Atlanta are drearier than ever. Clouds are harmless. I write how my first stop will be Pivotal Comware. The military has no need for such AI networks. Our manned militias got the job down. I describe how infuriating it is to read about such terrible innovations. Are these people signing the document for our demise? To even imagine the thought of those terrible machines serving us tea only to point a gun at our heads. A shudder passes through my body as I pull out the light brown package from my backpack. Carefully, I place the package behind Pivotal Comware and continue walking. I describe how the streets were relatively empty. The rain kept everyone indoors. It would only be a matter of time. “Pivotal Comware has just received a package with a bomb. Luckily, only one person was inside the building and brought what seems to be a harmless brown package inside the building. We are still searching for other victims but the company reports that nobody else was inside. That’s it for now, back to you, Bartel,” announced the TV reporter. The TV screen was filled with red flames licking the sides of the building. All that was left of the Pivotal Comware logo was black charr. I write how now it will only be one of humans’ mistakes from the past. I wait for Pivotal Comware’s story to calm down before heading out again. The sky was overcast with light gray clouds. This time I take a longer route and pass by the glass-blowing studios. The colorful beautiful shapes hang from the ceiling and walls. The local library sits across the studios. The entrance is filled with crowds of people, holding bags full of books. We are a smart bunch and our city is known for such amazing innovations. As such an elite group, we can’t risk our safety with these killer machines. Quantcast sits a few blocks further. Their terrible founders use AI I blend in the crowd and place the package into the mail truck right across. Within minutes, I’m half a mile away from Quantcast. I write about how it will be the last time anyone will see it. I realize the killer machines are not far away therefore I must speed up my game. I run back to my house and pick up a few more bombs. The police couldn’t find any direct trail from the bombs at both Quantcast and Pivotal Comware. God must be on my side, not the police’s side or the police would have found me a long time ago. I am doing what’s right. God supports me. Once I left my direct neighborhood, I slowed down to a normal pace. Attracting unnecessary attention would blow my cover. On the right, I approached Bertha. I describe how Bertha is a giant drill trying to dig its way under the city. God must have deemed the project bad because Bertha got stuck after completing 10 percent of her 1.7-mile journey for the new underground tunnel. The construction workers are working on removing the cutter head but they haven’t learned from their mistake or God’s hate. They plan on resuming drilling in a few months. Bertha isn’t alone under the bridge. A giant, car-crushing troll lives under the bridge too. I write about how I relate to the troll. I feel its fury in wanting to kill certain humans who have lost their way. Prifender’s office sits on the cross-section of three roads. I describe the bustling activity inside the building and how they are all killing humanity one click at a time. My legs feel energized and carry me to the back door. I’m careful to wear gloves and always cover my tracks. Quietly, I drop the package near the doorstep and head in the other direction. I walk past the Cascadia fault line. Seismologists warn us about there being an 80 percent chance of a 6.8-magnitude earthquake hitting within years. An earthquake is so small in comparison to what all these AI companies are building. Why can’t anyone else see that? Killer robots are going to invade our homes and hold a gun to our heads the second we turn around. How come nobody is doing anything? I look up at the sky and see the gray clouds. At least God is on my side. I was put on Earth to put everyone else back on track. Suddenly, I encounter a large crowd and traffic. The pro football team must be playing at the stadium. A smile creeps onto my face. Perfect distraction. God really is on my side today. Suplari sits across from City Light, the public-owned utility that powers most of the city with hydroelectricity. Humanity has some hope left. I describe the environment. The streets are quiet with the crowd cheering in the background. Suplari is known for helping companies with marketing through AI. Again, those machines are only here to take over human jobs and ruin humanity for all. I describe how I set the package inside an employee’s car. Right outside the car garage, are a few old pinball machines for sale. Ever since I was a young boy, my dad had taken me to the pinball machines. I describe how happy I felt reminiscing about those good old times. I didn’t have to worry about the machines then. Now, I won’t allow any young boys to worry about them anymore. My next stop passes by the water. A shipyard marks one side of the lake. World War II was the cause of that. The founders of the Boeing company left our town. I write how they must agree with me and realize how the people of our city have lost their way. Houseboats float on the other side of the water. Our neighborhood has the most houseboats for miles. I describe the different colors, sizes, and shapes of the houseboats. The number of houseboats rivals the number of dogs in our neighborhood. I too had a dog when I was younger. A Daenary. It fell victim to the terrible AI. My dad couldn’t save it. I write how sad I felt. A tear stain marks that page. Veritone sits at the intersection just twenty feet ahead of me. My feet start to pick up the pace and I run all the way there. If I attract attention, I attract attention. People need to realize I’m the one doing the right thing. Veritone is analyzing all their audio and camera feed. Those robots will know more about us than we know about ourselves. Quickly, I drop another brown package at the doorstep and run in the other direction. The street is empty as the clouds have darkened. I describe the dreary feeling of the atmosphere but the happiness that emerges inside of me the second I let go of the package. I write about how at that moment I realized I could not evade the police forever. At best, I could fulfill my mission first. The Space Needle stands tall, looming over the buildings. I write about how I sat in awe as a young child. My dad had told me all about it. The brainchild artist Edward Carlson, who sketched the tower design. The construction workers had also been superhuman and built the tower in 400 days to withstand high wind speeds and earthquakes. The iconic Pike Place Market sits just below with its overpriced onions. It was the joke of the town. Our neighborhood holds such promise. I’m here to put everyone back on the path. Casualties are inevitable and only happen to those who deserve them. Utrip sits right in front of me. The tall glass windows looming over me. I spit on it and throw my last package on the ground. Out of the corner of my eye, I see blaring sirens and black cars. Quickly, I kick the box and set off the bomb. I won’t go down without finishing my mission. They will realize later. I’ll become Phoenix Jones, the real-life superhero. Everyone will sit at my tombstone in awe. They’ll be proud of what I accomplished and follow my journals. I write the last sentence. “I’m the superhero who saved humanity from those machines by God’s will. I saved Seattle.”

Right now, the car is headed silent down the highway. It's dark, and there is nobody driving. I snuggle up in my seat and listen to the hum of its parts. I have turned my set off. It shows nothing but reports of destruction and plagues. The world on fire. The world gone mad. Most of the interstates have shut down. They want people to stay in one place. The car is moving along the back roads, switching from one lonely little highway to another. We are headed towards the answer, towards the key to defeating Q. I hope we get there fast. Slowly, the sky pales, and the blue curves of the mountains emerge from the darkness beyond the guardrails. I heard once that the Appalachians used to be as high as the Himalayas. Looking at the sloping hills under the sky, I can sense the ancient shape of the world. A world that was here before us. Man, I'm getting pretty philosophical. In my mind, another shape appears. Massive. Continental. The slope of human decline. The awful descent of the human race into... Christ. Let's just enjoy the pretty mountains. Karen is lying in the back. She's doing another eye treatment with equipment we took from the hospital. Before we reach Plattsburgh, the car switches highways and heads west. The sun climbs higher. We are getting closer. Eventually, the car turns onto an unpaved road. After few minutes, it slows to a stop. And here we are. I look around. It's a nice bit of country scenery -- grass and trees and gentle hills and blue sky and pretty much fuck all. There is nothing here. Or whatever is here, is hidden. Karen is still doing the eye treatment in the darkness of the van's rear. The light from the goggles seeps out in little flashes, sketching the shape of her face. Finally, the goggles turn green, and she pulls them off, blinking and squinting. I go and help her sit up. "Can you see a little better?" I ask. She looks down at her hands, moving the fingers slowly in the dark. "Yeah." "Persistent shapes?" She raises her hand into a shaft of sunlight shining in from the front of the van. Her fingers catch the glow. "My hands," she says softly, her voice quavering with disbelief. It's the first strong emotion I've ever heard from her. "Good. That's great," I say. "Well... we're here. What do we do now?" She looks at me and smiles maniacally. "We go into the forest," she says. Her smile is unnatural and stiff, more of a grimace than a smile, but for a brief moment, as it first spreads across her face, she looks like a giddy little kid. "The key is there," she says. "What is it? Some kind of secret underground base? Hidden laboratory?" She makes a groaning sound that I barely recognize as laughter. "You play too many narratives. It's much simpler than that." I unfold a wheelchair that we "borrowed" from the hospital and help her into it. When I open the back doors of the van, she winces against the bright sunlight, and again her face looks like a little kid's for a moment. I give her a pair of huge black wraparound sunglasses that we took eye treatment center. The van lowers to the ground, and I roll the wheelchair out onto the dusty road. She makes sure I take a bag of supplies with us -- snacks and drinks and other stuff. The sun is warm on my skin, but the breeze is fresh and cool. It's a perfect day. You would think that everything is right in the world. "So where to?" I ask. She looks around, her head wobbling on her thin stalk of a neck, her eyes hidden by the massive glasses. "There was once a house here. Do you see it?" I look around and spy a low, crumbled gray wall mostly hidden behind the high grass. "I think see an old foundation." "That's it, she says. Her eyes are hidden, but there is something in her voice that wasn't there yesterday, a shivery excitement. It makes me excited too. I push the wheelchair down a weedy gravel driveway toward the foundation. There's nothing else left of the house. It must have been torn down and hauled off. Karen has me push her around it and go down a trail leading towards forest. "What was that house?" I ask. "Anything important?" "I used to live there." I turn and give it another look, as if I would see some new detail in the crumbling concrete that I had missed. "That was the old children's home?" "Yep." "Then where are we going?" "We're almost there," she says. "It's close." We follow the trail into the forest. The trees become thick and shadowy. The wheelchair has a little power assist, but it's still tough to push it over all the roots and rocks and that lie along the narrowing, twisting path. "Oh, yes!" Karen whispers excitedly. Up ahead, sunlight gleams through the branches of the crowding trees. A wave of excitement moves through me, and I push Karen faster. We come out into a clearing, a broad patch of wild grass that glows green and golden in the sunlight. "Here," Karen says. I stop the wheelchair and look around. At first glance, there doesn't seem to be anything here. "So what's here?" I ask. "I used to come here as a child... and play make-believe... before I was connected." I take a walk around the clearing, looking for something. A hatch? A hole? An actual key lying in the grass? There is nothing. Across the clearing, Karen is slowly pulling off her sunglasses. When her eyes appear, they startle me. They are wide and gleaming within utter fascination. I walk up to her. She is staring at something. Tears fill the rims of her eyes and spill over. What is she looking at? It seems to be something right in front of her, something I can't see. I stand beside her and crouch so I can see what she is seeing. There is nothing there but a small cloud of gnats. "What are you looking at?" I ask. She looks all around and takes a deep breath and shudders. "There's... more..." she whispers. "More what?" "They said the feeds were complete... but they were wrong." I wait for her to say more, but she doesn't. "What do you mean?" I ask. She looks at me and smiles, the most goofy, crazed smile I've ever seen, tears still flowing down her cheeks. "The designers of the feeds said that it provides a complete experience. Enough colors, enough frames, enough smell gradients, enough complexity to make it indistinguishable from reality... but they were wrong. Here! Look at them!" she says, raising her hand into the air. "You mean... the gnats?" "Yes." The gnats are glowing specks dancing senselessly in the sunlight. I wonder if some pattern will emerge. Can Karen control them with their mind? Is that the secret? Are they forming shapes? But they just dance and dance, forming nothing, making no pattern that I can see. I feel silly for even thinking that they would. They're gnats. I turn away. A flood of angry thoughts rushes through my mind. Gnats? Fucking gnats? She's a nut. She's lost it. Yeah, she's powerful and impressive in the feedrealm, but now she is in the real world, and she has completely lost her shit, and this whole trip has been a waste. "Is there anything here?" I ask. "What's the key? Seriously. Don't give me any of that bullshit like 'I can't explain' or 'You'll see.' Just tell me. What are we doing here. What is the plan?" I ask, almost shouting by the end. The crazed look of joy fades from her face and is replaced by the look of a scolded child. She lets her head hang and wipes the tears from her face with her weak little hands. I feel a bad. I kneel by her chair and say, "I'm sorry. Please, just tell me what your plan is. I need to know now." Karen begins speaking softly without looking up. "Q has base control of every major system in the world. Every drone, every rover, every defense robot, all orbital assets, all nuclear weaponry. She has control over most human political systems. She has destroyed or contained every existing countermeasure, including me. There is no scenario in which we could ever reacquire control. Not with a thousand times our current resources. Not with a thousand years of computation time." "So then what's the plan?" "What we need is a way for Q to be destroyed by just one or a few motivated individuals. I believe there were points in the past when this could have happened. Maybe one of the Germans overseeing the early research program could have stopped it. Maybe it could have been stopped around 2020, when the portals were shut down, and interface research was temporarily abandoned. But it didn't happen. Currently, at this point, there is no way for it to happen. Q has control of far, far too many assets. The war is already lost. Irrevocably." "Then what do we do?" "We must hope that there are alternate timelines and that somebody in one of these timelines foresees what is happening to us right now -- that somebody foresees this very moment in time and takes steps to prevent it." I stare at her. She looks into my eyes. I grope for words. "Is that... Wait... Alternate timelines? Is that the plan? We have to send a message back into the past?" "In a sense." "Then the person who receives this message will destroy Q in the past, and that will save us?" Karen shakes her head slowly. "No. That clearly won't happen or everything would already be different. We are utterly doomed. We'll either be either incinerated in a nuclear strike or rounded up and incorporated into Q. There's no stopping that. The only hope to defeat Q is on some other timeline, if such a thing exists." "There's no hope for us? At all? Then what are we doing here? Why are we in this fucking clearing?" "Haven't you felt it?" "Felt what?" "The feeling that you're inside a narrative." An eerie shiver comes over me. I look around at the clearing. "Like, I'm inside a feed?" "No. Inside a narrative. A story in somebody's mind. Doesn't this all seem just like a story? Two people rushing off to save the world, to find some hidden key in the forest?" "Yeah, it all seems pretty unbelievable." "That's how I wanted it to feel. That's why we came out here. So that we can be inside a story. Now, hopefully, there is somebody out there in the past who will write the story." "Write the story? What? So there's nothing here?" "There's no magic key or secret underground base." "Well this story sucks." "Why?" "It's a huge fucking let-down." Karen makes a mild choking sound that might be a chuckle. I slump down into the grass beside her wheel chair and hang my head. I'm out in the woods with a crazy person. She doesn't even make sense. She's spent too long in 5D. She's talking about alternate timelines. Finally, I ask her, "So we're just fucked, right?" "If you look toward our future, if you look at the series of events which will happen to us, they are dark. They are very awful. We will suffer. We will die. But that would be true in any timeline. On the other hand, if you look at the entire story, not as a series of events, not from beginning to end, but as a single continuous, connected shape, where every event is occurring simultaneously... I think... my life... even my stupid little life, which I spent mostly inside that hygiene bed... could form a beautiful shape." I snort. I'm tired of this cryptic bullshit. Karen goes on. "Maybe that shape reaches back, back to some place where somebody can see it and change things." I don't say anything. Karen reaches into our bag of supplies and pulls out one of the little paper notebooks she bought at the gas station. "What are you doing?" I ask. "I'm going to write a poem. Do you want a notebook?" "What for?" "Maybe there's somebody out there who needs you to write a story." "Who would read it? Isn't everybody going to die?" "Who knows," she says and drops the other notebook into my lap. "Maybe somebody would be interested." I toss the notebook off into the grass. Fucking pointless. I can barely write on paper anyways. We sit in silence for a long time. When I look up, Karen is staring at that same little cloud of gnats, occasionally jotting stuff down. I find myself staring at them too. They look like nothing more than living specks of dust worked into a crazy, whirling frenzy. Is there any pattern in how they move? Would it matter if there was? I think about what Karen said about the shape of her life, what it would look like if everything happened simultaneously, if it could all be seen at once. I think about the shape of my own life. I stare at the gnats and imagine seeing every position of every gnat all at one time. What kind of shape would it make? Even if I could see it, would this shape have any meaning? I pick up the notebook and begin to write.

Ingrid’s eyes stung with unshed tears as she made her way back to her longhouse at the edge of Kjareby, her village, after once more being refused a position in the king’s army of dragon slayers. She looked out at the forest darkly, as if daring it to jeer at her. The dragons would never dare to come to town, but that didn’t mean the forest didn’t contain a whole horde of them. There were whispers that had spread like wildfire across the town, whispers of a war with the dragons... and of the mighty warrior who would lead the army to victory. She *knew* she’d done better than half the boys in training. And yet... “Oh, you’re back,” yawned Hilda, the milk delivery girl, sitting on Ingrid’s favourite rock overlooking the forest. “Any luck?” “No,” she said monotonously. “Right,” said Hilda, used to the whole thing by now. “Well, mother needs some help with milking the cows, and what’s an orphan got to do anyway?” “I need to train,” she snapped. “Oh, of course. But you *have* been getting continuously rejected, and I need to help father with the shop, so...” “Fine. I’ll go,” said Ingrid, knowing full well Hilda was not going to *help father with the shop.* She dropped her weapons, and stomped back into town and into Ailse’s shed. “Hello, Ailse,” she smiled at Hilda’s mother, who merely nodded at a pail kept in a corner. Sighing, she got down to milking the cows. “Er- you wouldn’t need a full-time assistant- would you?” she said, unable to bear the silence any longer, milking her third cow. “I was thinking maybe I could have a backup- in case I don’t get into the army-” “He won’t let you in,” Ailse said gruffly. “So stop trying.” She went red. “My parents were warriors!” “Yes, and they fought humans, not dragons. Not to mention,” she turned to her, “they still died.” An hour later, pocket jingling with ten copper coins, she went back to her longhouse and picked up her abandoned bow, arrow and axe. Ailse’s words still rang in her ears. She looked out over the forest again. Strange, it felt like it... was calling to her. She looked around. She was alone. Clearly, Hilda had gone to loiter elsewhere. She turned back to the forest. In the quiet, she could almost hear the faint hissing of a dragon. Of course, if she wanted to prove herself, she could simply try again with the king tomorrow. Or she could slay her first dragon now. She walked forward. She could already hear that cautionary voice in her head, the one that always chided her when she got angry. *What if she didn’t survive?* *Well, what if she did?* She thought. Nobody younger than twenty had slayed a dragon for over a century. If she could do it, well, then, she might just become the Warrior of Men. Not to mention, it wouldn’t be too bad to get some of the treasure they kept with them. Heart thumping, she entered the forest. She’d heard that the dragons nested towards the east, so that’s where she would go. All she needed was one dragon on the way. Taking out the compass in her belt, she began her trek. Several hours later, not only had she not found a single dragon, she was also hungry and thirsty. *Always so impulsive,* began that scolding voice again. Finally giving up, she sat down in a clearing, imagining what the villagers would say when she told them she couldn’t even find a dragon, much less kill one. Perhaps she could tell them she’d just gone exploring. *Fat chance of them believing that.* Well, she couldn’t argue. It was already evening. She couldn’t handle it if she returned and found out there was a search party looking for her. She got up to go. It was then she noticed the small, flaming mud mound. She could almost hear father’s voice, telling her about the dragons of the underworld. *Loratren*, he called them. She still remembered laughing hearing the tale of the *Loratren*, how they made houses in mud mounds and fought with little animals like mice... But it had all been a fairy tale, all of it. Her father, as everyone constantly reminded her, had never actually fought a dragon. He didn’t even enter the forest, only spent his days training in the gym with her mother and their friends. She got down on her hands and knees, examining the mound. She could hear snorting from inside. She touched it. It wasn’t burning hot at all, but only pleasantly warm, just as father used to say. Suddenly, a little flaming red dragon the size of her thumb flew slowly out of it, smoke streaming from his nostrils as he puffed with the effort of carrying his single copper coin away from her. In spite of herself, she laughed. It wasn’t going to be hard to kill *this* dragon, she thought, as she caught hold of it by the torso. It struggled, stinging her hand as it ripped at her with its small teeth. She dropped it and raised her fist. The little dragon looked up at her hand, and then at her face. Then it roared, shot at her hand and attacked with everything it had. She flicked it off and raised her hand again. She was taken completely by surprise. It wasn’t the speed of the dragon. It was the way it looked at her, knowing that she was more than a hundred times its size, and still decided to take her on. And that look. It reminded her of... of herself, fighting the village boys when she was little because they’d called her *orphan* one too many times. She felt the scar above her left eyebrow, the one she’d received in that very fight, the one she’d lost. And withdrew her hand. Lying on the ground wounded, the dragon closed its eyes. She picked it up. If everything else her father had said was true, then- she looked around-a flame had to be what could save this dragon. But not its weak flame, a real one, a-in her father’s words- *living* one. She immediately laid it back on the ground, picked up two stones and made a fire with some dry leaves. “Come on little dragon,” she muttered, laying it into the fire. “Come *on,* Loratren!” she whispered, tears stinging her eyes. Had she finally become the very thing she’d fought? Just another oppressor? Was this the kind of warrior she wanted to be? She made up her mind just as the dragon opened its eyes. \*\*\* It had been six years since that insufferable orphan, Ingrid, had gone missing. It was discovered in the morning when the delivery girl went to give her her milk. Initially, there’d been a hue and cry. Search parties were formed. Many lamented how young the child was. Rumours abounded of Ingrid being picked up by a Midnight Longhorn and carried away. Years passed. Life moved on. The incident was soon forgotten. The whole village was celebrating. The Great War was to happen soon. The army of axe-wielding dragon slayers was ready. Blacksmiths had made axes the size of the men using them. Most importantly, the Warrior of Men had been chosen- the prince. He’d had a whole day of parading around, flexing his muscles and whirling his axe, showing off his special bow for all to see. The day of the war dawned gloomy and overcast. The spirits of the villagers, however, were high as ever. Conches blew, children screamed and victory songs were sung as the army marched out of the village and to the edge of the forest, where Ingrid’s longhouse lay, forlorn and abandoned. After two days, in slightly lower spirits than they’d started out in, the army reached the cliffs. Not one of them had taken out their conch when the dragons came. Big dragons, small dragons, Onyx-black dragons, glowing white dragons, dragons snorting smoke from their nostrils, dragons whose breath misted in front of them. And the dragon of the underworld, at least fifty feet tall, breathing in flames, spikes running all along his back up to his tail, scales a bright, blazing shade of orange, baring his ten-inch long sharp fangs at the quaking army. What astonished them the most was the woman riding him. There were scars on her limbs. Dressed in layers of slightly translucent shed dragonskin, her hair flying wildly behind her, holding a battle axe, teeth bared, she hissed at the army. But nobody could mistake the fiery determination behind the glittering black eyes that no one had been able to quench. You see, while Ingrid’s father did indeed have an unexplainable amount of knowledge about the Loratren, he was wrong about one thing. That little dragon, the one Ingrid had almost killed? It was only a baby. The Warrior of the Dragons was ready for battle.

Having packed some supplies from Alessia’s boat, we began climbing over the hills and troughs of Stetguttot Heath. The trek was arduous from the start. Paths rose between gorse and thistles, weaving their way up steep gradients. Then, at the top of a hill, you could see across the valleys ahead of you, before you descended down into the basin below and began the process again. Though the northern spring air was cool, the constant climbing on uneven dirt paths was tiring - the cool breeze icing my face while my thighs became caked in sweat. “What do you make of this place?” Alessia asked as we crested our third hill of the day. “About what?” I said, panting. I couldn’t help but feel a minor frustration at how much calmer Alessia’s breathing was than my own. She let out a small chuckle. “I meant about this guy apparently being some idiot.” “Doesn’t add up. They went from being a miner to suddenly having enough funds to buy an army. Then they want murder and books about history,” I said, taking a few deep breaths before we began clambering down the hillside. “Any chance that whoever did it gave a fake name and island to Tima Voreef?” “Sure. In theory. But then why use the real name of someone from another island? Just jumble together some letters and call it a day.” Alessia shook her head. “Probably the same guy, but you’re right. Something’s off.” “This whole island’s off,” I replied, as I stepped over a large rock blocking our path. “The islands are more spaced apart up here. Means fewer traders, and that means pirates, and that means even fewer traders. But there should be someone coming up this far. Yet, I’ve never once been sent here on a trading run or even heard of anyone coming here.” “Well, hopefully we’ll find out after another...” I looked up at the climbs that awaited us. “...few thousand hills,” I sighed. It was tempting to cut across, away from the paths, and trek in a more direct route, but any shortcut always looked blocked. Thick thistle bushes grew from uneven cracks in the ground; rigid branches that crept up to waist height ladened with spikes. Even if you dared to wade through the vegetation, the bushes blocked out sight of the ground, and uneven rocks and ditches promised to twist an ankle or break a bone. Elsewhere, the hills were simply too steep. The heathland would give way to a sudden, sharp cliff. Stones that protruded from the wild grass offered the only warning of a quick ten metre drop to the floor below. We could shave off a few seconds, cut the odd corner, but the reality was that our journey across Stetguttot Heath would be slow. A great deal of effort, with little mileage covered. I woke the next day with stiff legs, my knees creaking with movement, as the pain in my thighs refused to evaporate entirely. We were unsure of how far we had even walked. There were now some valleys behind us, but the number in front still seemed endless. However, a cool breeze and a good sleep helped invigorate us as we resumed our walk. After a couple of hours we stopped for a drink. I pulled off my satchel and laid it on the ground. I opened it up, took out a canister of water. The path here was wider. Two parallel lines of dirt - fit for two cart wheels - traced up the hill, a thin strip of weeds poking out between the worn ground. Beneath us, the path continued with a series of gradual switchbacks that snaked into the gorge. It was a more pleasant path to take than those we had been on, but at the same time I was aware that a smoother and easier descent meant even slower progress towards our eventual goal. Above us, grey clouds hung oppressively, smothering us, giving the air a claustrophobic taste. Around the edges of the smog, halos of yellow gave promise to the sun behind, but failed to penetrate, leaving the ground shadowless. Without the sun to guide us in the constant twists and turns of the mountains it was easy to get disorientated. “How much further do you reckon it is?” I asked. Alessia rolled her shoulders. “I’m just assuming we’ll get there sometime tomorrow.” I laughed. “Are you even certain we’re heading the right way?” “I think,” she paused. “Probably,” she paused again. “Fairly sure.” Out of my peripheral vision I saw a figure contrast against the sky as they walked over the summit of the hill behind us. “Maybe they can confirm?” I asked. “You’re not trusting my directions all of a sudden. You know I’ve navigated weeks on the ocean right?” “Yeah, but we’re not at sea,” I said, taking another sip of my drink. As the figure walked closer, I could see they were a young man, most likely still in his teens. His tall lanky frame seemed disproportionate to his pale boyish face. On his back, he carried a rucksack that seemed a size too small, and it gripped tightly at the shoulders, pinching his collar. “Excuse me, can you confirm if this is the correct way for Section F?” I asked as they approached. “Uh, yeah, eventually.” The man’s pace was unchanged, and he continued walking towards us as his eyes darted around, scanning his surroundings. “Thanks,” I replied, an unidentified uneasiness creeping up on me. “Do you know if the path is like this most the way?” “I think so,” the man said, now only a few metres from us. “Great, we’re just-” The man ran forward, bent down, and grabbed the satchel by my feet, charging past me down the hill. I let out a delayed yelp of anger as he sprinted away, plumes of dust kicking up from his heels. “Get him!” Alessia said, in an irritated tone as she quickly repacked her own bag. I gave chase after the man. His young, gangly frame skipped across the dirt path as he pulled the satchel over his shoulder. My feet took long leaps between each step, the gradient making each pace a fraction longer than expected. Slowly, I was catching up. As we reached one of the switchbacks in the path, the man took to the outside of the curve, my outstretched fingers just brushing the edge of his shirt as he went by me in the opposite direction. But as I rounded the bend, I looked up to see Alessia running down the higher parallel section. She looked over the edge and spotted the man below. She turned sharply, leaping off the steep embankment. Her feet landed mere centimeters from her target, and with her outstretched arms she caught the man, as her momentum sent them both into a tumble. They came to a stop at the edge of the path. Another roll would likely have taken them both further down the hillside. The man coughed loudly as he lay on his back, arms sprawled out. I caught up and stood next to him, leering down. “Don’t even try and move,” I said, my voice artificially gruff. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the man said, his voice younger than it had been. Alessia stood up and quickly checked herself over for any cuts and grazes. “We’ll be taking this back,” she said, as she pulled up the stolen satchel. “You can have it. I’m sorry. Just. Let me go. I didn’t want to cause any trouble.” “Don’t worry. We ain’t gonna hurt you,” Alessia said. “Might as well see what’s in here though.” She yanked the rucksack from beneath the prone man’s arm. “Hey. You can’t take that from me. That’s mine,” he protested meekly. “Uh huh. So was the satchel a couple of minutes ago,” Alessia hummed as she undid the clasps on the bag. “Look. Take your own bag back. And I’ll pay you some more if you want, just give me back the rucksack.” The man’s voice was becoming increasingly frenetic. He pulled himself off the floor, sitting on the dirt, his hands reaching out pleadingly towards the bag. “Why? Whatcha got in here?” Alessia opened the flap and looked inside. “Nothing. Nothing that would interest you, I promise.” Alessia reached in and pulled out a large book. It had thick, hard covers, with what must have been a thousand pages of content held between. Alessia turned it over to read the cover. “Medea’s TBU Preparation Guide, volume 23” The man looked to the side, but he remained silent. “What is that?” I asked. “Nothing important. Honestly. If you just give it back-” “You’re a terrible liar, kid,” Alessia said. “Now this book ain’t worth anything to us, but I’m guessing you want it back with good reason.” The man leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. “Honestly, it’s just some book. It’s not worth anything.” “So you won’t care if I start ripping pages out of it one-by-one?” Alessia opened the book, holding a sheet of paper tightly in her grasp. The man closed his eyes. “Please don’t” “Okay, so then stop speaking crap,” Alessia said walking towards him. “What’s your name?” “Cameron” “And, *Cameron*, why do you want this book so bad?” Cameron paused, his tongue stuck at the edge of his mouth. “I stole it. I’ve been trying to work out a way to steal it for like a year and I finally succeeded.” “And then you tried to steal from us?” Alessia chortled. “Yeah. Seemed like an easy target.” “No one ever tell you to do one dumb thing at a time?” Alessia said, rolling her eyes. “So what’s so important about this book anyway?” Cameron very slowly pulled himself to his feet. Alessia took a couple of steps backwards, tightening her grip around the book. Cameron let out a self-loathing sigh. “You’re not from the island are you?” “No,” I replied. “Why?” “Because if you were, you’d know what that book is,” he said to me, before turning to Alessia. “It’s a guidebook, to the test that every person on the island takes. A small group of people who are involved in creating the tests also produce a book that contains all you need to know to take it.” “It gives you the answers?” “No. It teaches you. It’s a study guide. You still got to work - be smart. But, it helps you prepare,” Cameron said. “The problem is they only make a handful of copies. They get bought by the teachers in the richest sectors, so those schools get a head start.” He paused, before pointing with a straightened arm at the book. “Teachers will pay a lot of money for that book, which is why I have been trying to find a way to steal a copy for a whole year”. Alessia slowly started putting the book back in the bag, treating it with care. “And so your plan is to go give it to some other school. Take the knowledge from one school and give it to another.” “Yeah. Stole it from the rich bastards in section B and taking it to F. And yeah, I’m gonna sell it to them. It’s not charity. But, still helps spread the word.” “Well, I appreciate you telling us the truth, Cameron,” Alessia said. “So how about we strike a deal.” Cameron let out a long bellowed huff. “What?” “You know these hills pretty well by the sounds of it. And I’m guessing you know a bit about Section F and the people there. You take us there, introduce us to people, get us the information we need, and we’ll give you your book back.” “And if I just grab the bag off you right now?” Cameron replied, squaring his shoulders. “Then I put my knife in your gut,” Alessia said, calmly. Cameron thought for a second. “Fine. But I swear you had better give it back.” “We will,” Alessia said. “But meanwhile,” she outstretched an arm pointing down the slope of the hill,. “lead the way.

THE MAN WAS tired, and alone. He was the last of his group, and as far as he knew, his species. He was realistic about his life expectancy, but had the habit of survival. He foraged through ruined buildings, moving slowly, frequently stopping to listen. The naked girl was too clean, too attractive, too unlikely to exist in this post-invasion world. She could only be bait. Her leg appeared to be pinned under collapsed ceiling rubble. She was wide-eyed and terrified. "Oh, thank God! Can you get me out?" He stopped moving and sniffed the air, expecting human spoor. Cephalopods didn't really have a detectable scent. He smelled dust and mold, and himself, but nothing else. Not even the girl. No sign of a trap, because he'd be able to smell any sufficiently large group of people to man a trap, and the Invader-modified mutants never worked with humans. Confusing. Unless the girl was really stuck as she appeared to be. The man remained still and considered circumstances. He looked at the girl again, and it seemed that she shook her head very slightly. There was something wrong here. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. He retreated a slow, measured step and quietly drew his katana shaped sword. A collectible he had looted from an abandoned house in the suburbs, it was a cheap knockoff made from crap steel that wouldn't hold an edge. With frequent sharpening it was just barely sufficient for slicing mollusks. The guns he carried were for dealing with humans. Half a dozen chunks of concrete rubble flickered and it was suddenly obvious they had been cuttlefish the whole time. The girl screamed and they leapt, flashing colors in ripples that were intended to dazzle his senses and confuse his mind. He sliced and diced, carving pieces from his attackers. Several were able to get their arms on his limbs and torso, but the man was wearing paper armor made from old magazines. The suckers could attach to the outer sheets, but unless they wrapped all the way around he could jerk them off at the expense of a few pages. One cuttlefish grabbed his forearm and took a divot from the fleshy part of his palm with its beak before he shook it off. Dismembered arms, still fighting, managed to attach to his face and scalp and draw blood, but they were more annoyance than dire threat. A couple of piles of dirt turned into octopuses and scurried towards his feet. He sliced one open but the other was able to wrap arms around his left knee and began to squeeze and twist. The man felt a ligament tear as his knee torqued, and began desperately hacking at his assailant until he finally cut its mantle in two. An octopus is hard to kill with its three hearts and nine brains, but cut into pieces it fights with less coordination. The man staggered but kept moving and swinging his sword. The girl screamed, "Behind you!" and he spun on his good leg. A colossal squid was hanging from the ceiling with 8 arms and reaching for him with eight meter feeding tentacles. He chopped one of the tentacles off but the other wrapped around his waist and planted hooks that extended through paper and pierced his skin. The man howled in pain and drew a handgun, firing shot after shot into where he perceived its giant eye to be. The hooks loosened a bit and, gasping and panting, he chopped at the tentacle, finally pulling it free along with chunks of his own flesh. The squid pulled itself through a hole in the ceiling, trailing severed limbs that spilled gouts of blue blood. He took a couple of clumsy steps, blood dripping from his scalp and face, and pouring down his legs. He looked for more threats, but apart from writhing arm sections, there weren't any enemies left. Suddenly dizzy, he sat down hard. He wanted to reach the girl before losing conciousness, in case they came back while he was out, and crawled toward her while he could. HE WOKE UP an indeterminate time later, lying against a dusty wall. He wasn't wearing his paper or pants, though he still had his underwear and shirt on. The rags he used to secure the armor were tied around his knee, and someone had made an attempt to clean off some of the blood he had been covered in. The girl was wearing his other shirt like a poncho and sitting cross-legged with her back to him, cooking pieces of octopus and cuttlefish on sticks over a small fire. He could see her leg that had been pinned was bruised and scraped bloody, presumably from pulling it out in desperation once the attack had begun. She had two of his handguns in shirt pockets. The man quietly drew a dagger from the sheath between his shoulders, and lunged forward, putting an arm around her and the blade to her neck. She froze and said, "Calm down, mister. I borrowed your guns so we'd be safe while you were out. You take them back now, ok?" He didn't say anything. "Look, mister. If I wanted to hurt you I could have done it before you woke up." Keeping his arm around her chest and the knife in his hands he retrieved his firearms and felt down her body until he was sure she didn't have any other weapons in her possession. Then he released her and leaned back against the wall. "Can I turn around now?" The man grunted and pushed her with a foot. She turned around slowly and met his gaze. "Want your shirt back?" He stared at her until she became uncomfortable. "What, you don't talk?" When he did speak, his voice was a rough growl. He had to clear his throat and swallow to be understood. "Used to. Been a long time since I had anyone to talk to." His throat was dry and his lips stuck together in the corners. He looked around for his water bottle. Moving slowly she reached to her side and picked it up, and handed it to him. It was a one liter soda bottle and it was full of a murky liquid, which he drank carefully. Water. He capped it and set it down, then continued staring at her in silence. "I wish you would say something. You're making me nervous. Why are you staring like that?" Eventually he decided to answer. "You don't make sense. I'm trying to figure out what you are." She smiled slightly. "If I give you your shirt back, you'll see what I am." He shook his head in irritation. "Where did you come from? How can you be so healthy and well fed? Where are your scars?" He held out an arm covered with sucker marks, hook lines, and healed bites. "Why aren't you dead?" He repeated himself. "You don't make sense." She sighed and took a deep breath. "I'll try to explain." "Go ahead then." She appeared to take some time to figure out where to start. "Ok, you know what these things that attacked you are, right?" "Mutated cephalopods. Uplifted by the Invaders. Given a new way of breathing so they can live on land and intelligence so they can work together to hunt us." She nodded. "That's pretty much true. But how do you know this?" "I don't. It's what people say." "For once, people are mostly right." She started to turn back to the fire but stopped and asked permission. "I think the food is ready. Can I check it?" Now that she mentioned it he could smell the cooking meat and his mouth flooded with saliva. He jerked his head in assent. She turned her back to him and did something over the fire. After a minute she turned back with skewers of meat set on a relatively clean sheet of plywood, which she placed between them. He greedily grabbed one and started ripping octopus off the skewer with his teeth. He hadn't eaten in days. "Can I?" She pointed at the trencher. He grunted assent and took another stick for himself. She took one as well, and began eating, almost dainty compared to the way he wolfed his down. They ate in relative silence for a while. He had finished five sticks of meat and she two before she spoke again. "What do people say about why they did it?" He swallowed and wondered if he should save the last few skewers for later. With his knee he wouldn't be able to hunt for a while. If she tried to hunt she'd never make it back. "A bunch of crap. Guesses. Maybe they didn't like us eating calamari." She made a soft noise that he didn't recognize as laughter right away. He hadn't heard anyone laugh in so long that he couldn't remember it ever happening. "What's your guess?" "That they're evil bastards who want us dead. What fucking difference does it make? We're almost all dead anyway." She shook her head. "What you need to understand is, it's not about you. They didn't really even think about humans. You were just in the way." She spoke quietly. He stared at her for a long moment and placed his hand on the pistol in his lap. "You're going to have to explain how you know that." She nodded. "I'll explain everything." Again she thought for a while. "The Invaders are very intelligent, in a way that you, with your single brain, can't really understand. I'm not talking about their technology, the genetic engineering and faster than light drive. Humans could develop as much in time. They can control multiple limbs more precisely than you can control your hand. They can be any color or shape they choose. An Invader, any cephalopod, has abilities that humans can't even conceive. Even pre-Invasion cuttlefish and octopuses can do things you can't imagine." He thought about what she was saying. "We always suspected the Invaders were cephalopods. No one has ever seen them, though." "Some have." She paused. "I have." She waited for him to say something but he remained quiet. "They're not just cephalopods. They're directly related to the terrestrial species genetically." "You mean Panspermia." She looked surprised. He smiled bitterly. "I've neglected my academic studies somewhat since the Invasion, but I remember things. There was even a theory that cephalopods had extraterrestrial origin." His voice sounded more cultured and less brutish than it had previously. "I ... I didn't expect that you'd be educated." "Lot of fucking good that's done." When he didn't go on, she said, "So, you have to understand that, to the Invaders, humans didn't even seem sentient, at least not as they knew it. All intelligent life in the galaxy is like them. Of course it is. They seeded it." Again she waited for him to respond. When he didn't she went on. "Humans seem more like automa that can perform clever tricks. Like you would think of a virus. By the time they realised their error it was almost too late." "Almost." "Once they realised that humans were more than they thought, they decided to study us. To learn about us. Before we were all gone." He looked at her, suddenly intense. "Now we're getting to what you are." "I was an experiment. Raised by Invaders and exposed to captured humans, in the hope that I could form a bridge between the two. Able to understand both species." "Do I want to know what happened to those captured humans?" She looked away. "No." After a while, he asked her, "What are your plans for me?" "Why do you think I have plans for you? I could have escaped them." "Could you have? You would seem to be a valuable tool for them to lose track of. And our meeting sure seems to be a perfect set-up. You in distress, me your rescuer? You sympathetic and warning me of danger, then after, you my nurse and caretaker? Maybe I'll tell you about the Resistance?" When she didn't speak, he went on. "That attack should have killed me. They gave up pretty easily, didn't they? Leaving me crippled and unable to get away, stuck here with you. So I'd have to listen to your story, and then what? What do you want from me?" She reached out a hand and placed it on his good knee. "There aren't many of us left. We may be the last ones." He laughed bitterly. "I'm supposed to ask if you mean we'd be like Adam and Eve, right? Except we can't be, can we?" She stared at him, saying nothing. Then, "Why not?" "Because you're not human, are you? You're an Invader. You put on a good show, though." She looked at him, choosing her next move, and then just gave up. "What tipped you off?" "Your skin flickered a bit when you were trying to sell me. Your scraped leg is still wet." She looked at her leg and it scabbed over. "You've been watching my reactions and adjusting your appearance to suit me. You've been getting more and more beautiful the longer we've talked." "Eventually I'd be your perfect woman. I could make you happy." "Your happy slave, you mean." "Is that so bad? You'd still be happy." "I think I'll pass on the role of 'Slave to Alien Conquerors,' thank you." She leaned into him and he drew back. "It's not like you really have a choice, you know." Her limbs began to separate and become tentacles. He raised his pistol and she said, "You must know that won't do anything to me." He said, "It's not for you." He put the pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger. He had the habit of survival, but he had secrets.

I actually just emptied out my refrigerator and fried every ingredient in butter, even the milk carton. It smelled horrible. It was toxic,nasty. I have to keep away the bad things. I fried these things because there are two monsters in my closet, and they demand that I do certain things. Most of the time, they want me to burn something, but sometimes they get weird with it, and make me fry or melt certain objects. Today it was the contents of the entire refrigerator. My husband is at work, and I don’t think he’ll be too happy with what I have done, when he gets home. I have always kept my monsters a secret from him, and it has been fairly easy because the monsters have, up until this point, asked me to destroy small items. A single piece of broccoli. A plastic figurine. An earring. But this will be impossible to hide! It must have been, what, two-hundred and fifty dollars worth of groceries completely obliterated! The house smells of burnt plastic (I had to fry tupperware), and also fried meats and vegetables. They won’t let me keep the things I burn or fry, so even though there is some great cooked chicken, steak, and asparagus which I would otherwise store back in the fridge, they cannot stay in the house. They all must go in the woods. There is a dense woods in our backyard. I have to go about fifty feet in, and put it in the same pile as I put the other things. I am going to lug it all out there now. It’ll take twenty minutes because I have to make multiple trips. Okay. I just got back. I’m sweating. The pile is getting really rancid and I hope no one finds it. I hope a large animal comes and finds it, and eats all of the contents. Pigs eat everything, don’t they? Maybe a wild pig. If a wild pig doesn’t come by and eat all of my evidence in the next couple weeks, I’ll have to buy one, and set it free. All while my husband is at work, of course. I went to our bedroom to check and see if the monsters were doing okay. One of them is green and fuzzy; your typical, run-of-the-mill monster. The other is tall and thin, and he changes colors all the time. I told them that I had fried everything in the refrigerator, and may I please have the rest of the day off. They said yes. I knew I needed to go to the grocery store and re-stock. But I was so tired. They have me doing things that take up so much energy and time. I don’t feel like I am even living my own life anymore. I am their slave. They told me that if I don’t do what they say, they will come out and introduce themselves to my husband, and then he wouldn’t want to be with me anymore because of all the hassle. Its so much easier to be married to a woman who doesn’t have monsters following her wherever she goes. I agree that he’d be pretty pissed off. So I laid down and took a nap. He’s going to be home any minute. I love him so much. I’d do anything to keep him. He’s my best friend. What if I burn the house down? Would that destroy the monsters? I’m going to consider it, for now. My husband is my rock. I love him with all my heart. I’m going to put on some lipstick and kiss him, tenderly, the minute he walks in the door.

The August heat remained heavy and oppressive well past sunset, but John found himself light on his feet as he waltzed up the drive, and against all odds, he was humming. It was a jaunty tune that wasn’t recognizable to him, but he continued on, discovering the song as he went. The date with Wendy had gone quite well. He hadn’t expected much - he rarely did - but she was such a goofball, comfortable in her own skin, and the way she held his gaze sent his stomach fluttering. Sure, she isn’t the biggest hiker and she couldn’t tell you the difference between her phone camera and a DSLR, but hobbies seemed less important than whatever connection they found tonight. He took out his phone and spent the last few minutes of his walk flipping through the pictures they’d taken by the river. It was hardly necessary, though, as Wendy’s carefree smile was already engraved in his mind. John unlocked his door, walked in, and dropped the keys in a pewter tray nearby. He paused, then reached in to pick up his wedding band. He’d taken it off a few times when he left the house for dates, and quickly slipped it back on where it found a familiar groove. He absently fingered the gold ring as his thoughts settled and he returned to ground level. As he turned over thoughts about the date in his head, they took a turn, and small doubts bubbled up: She really didn’t care for his hobbies. Was she really that charming, or was she just pretty. She laughed at that joke a little too hard. His shoulders sagged, and he reached down to the pewter tray again. There was another ring lying next to the keys, gold and studded with small diamonds. It was his wife’s, and it hadn’t been worn in almost two years. He scooped it up and stared at it cupped in his palm. So...Not too bad, I hope? The voice in his head cut in. “Hmm,” John stirred out of his meditation. “Oh, yeah it was fine. She was fine.” So you hated it? John rocked off of the sofa and made his way to the dimly lit kitchen, “No, I mean we had a good time. Just feels a bit weird, ya know.” He shuffled over to a small ceramic bowl on the counter and dropped her ring in with a clink, watching it settled next to the words “Love you, always.” Well, it might take a few more tries. I’m sure it’ll come back to you soon enough. The light from the kitchen spilled out across the hallway and John followed it to the gallery of pictures hanging on the wall. They were all of him and Beth. Some he’d taken of her with his full kit, attempting to capture all her wonderful facets, and some were just for fun. He settled into the padded chair he’d placed in the hall a few months ago, and began his nightly ritual. He took in deep breaths and looked slowly over the photos hung on the wall. Each frame held a strong memory for him, and he’d lost countless hours reminiscing on the physical projection of his past, letting his mind hop from scene to scene. It sometimes brought him joy to remember what life had been with Beth, but sadness always burrowed its way in before the night was through. Fitting for tonight, John was particularly focused on one of his favorites - His first date with Beth. They took a cheesy selfie, walking out by the river, waffle cones dripping with ice cream and wide grins covering their faces. “I knew even then. You were fun and free,” he said. Oh, I knew you knew. I don’t think you stopped smiling the whole time. Loser. After a beat, the voice settled back into a more serious tone. And, Wendy? What did you guys do tonight? “Uh well we went by the river, grabbed some ice cream from -“ “John!” The voice cut in sharp and very much not in his head. John twisted around awkwardly and stumbled backwards into the wall of pictures, sending some crashing to the floor. He scrambled to sit upright, keeping his wide eyes fixed on the floating visage of Beth. She was glowing and translucent with tendrils of white dancing around her like tall grass. The pale gold dress from their first date hung loose around her, blown by a nonexistent wind. “Beth, you - what,” he smacked his palm into his forehead a few times and looked back upwards. Still there. “You did not,” She yelled down at him, punctuating every word. “You are making this impossible!” “I - I’m not,” he stuttered out. “It just seemed like a good idea. It was hot today and she lives right there,” he shook his head. “Wait, what is happening,” His head swam with dozens of questions: how is this happening, what are you, are you real, but he settled on just one, “Why are you here?” The specter of Beth floated down into a crouch next to John, “I’m here because you need me to be. You’re stuck on me...on us.” She pointed up to the remaining pictures clinging to the wall, her glowing hand like an accusatory beacon. “But how are you here,” he asked, questions spilling out of him now. “And I’m not stuck.” “Not stuck? You’ve been staring at us every day and you’ve gone on the exact same first date three times now.” She took a moment, her furious, luminous eyes softening a bit. “All this,” she gestured up to the gallery. “This was us. It was great and lovely and us. You aren’t going to make that happen again. And this,” she said spinning in a morose circle before settling back to the floor, “this is me now. You won’t let me leave. I need to rest, and you need to live.” John looked over Beth more completely now. Her misty form sprouted wisps of spectral energy that reached out to him, wrapped around the center of his chest, and pulsed with a glowing light alongside his heart. “See,” she said. “You’re holding on, and we’re both trapped here until you decide to let go.” “Well, if I can’t find another you, then why try? That’s all I wanted. Its all I want still.” John’s eyes welled up and a few tears spilled down his cheeks. “It’s not fair what happened.” He curled up beside her, aware of the empty space her ghost left. Her perfect face stirred up knots in his stomach and a strain in his throat. Pain and emptiness pulled at him as he saw his wife, knowing it wasn’t her returned to him. “I didn’t know I was holding you prisoner,” he admitted, whispering now under shaky breaths. She rose above him and strands of delicate thread swam to cover her. They gave off a radiance and fell away to show her in a blue flannel shirt, muddy hiking boots, and an Osprey backpack - a copy from their trip to Banff. John found the photo he took of her among the mountains, scattered among the smashed frames on the floor beside him. “Remember when you said the mountain river was clean enough to drink? A pure source, straight from the ice.” She flashed finger quotes and a broad smile for the last bit. “Yeah,” He smirked, sitting back upright, “and then I puked in your back seat all the way down the mountain.” A little warmer now, John stood and followed her past the wall she floated through and into the kitchen. “Will you listen to me this time, then? The water you’re drinking isn’t safe. You’re letting the memories of our past cloud your mind and your judgement. Are you going to waste away in front of your pictures every night, clutching those rings and holding me prisoner to watch you suffer? I loved you, John, but I would never have wished you to be a slave to grieving over me in death. It’s okay to go on.” John let her talk, and he let the silence follow. He knew she was right. He was wallowing in self-pity and his increasingly baggy shirts let him know he was wasting away by the day. When the quiet stretched on for a few minutes with her form hovering in front of him, he took a leap. “I’m scared.” He let the emotion sink in, “scared of finding someone that means something to me.” “But John, that’s exactly what you need. Someone to -“ “I don’t want to lose you. If I love them, how could I keep you?” “Look at me,” said Beth, rising over him. “This is what I am now. I’m a ghost - not real. I am not Beth. I’m the memory of her, and memories won’t get burned away the moment you find someone else.” The words ran hot and tired from her mouth. Her anguish, for a second, bubbled over into rage, so she forced herself to pause. “I’m sure I can bring you comfort sometimes, but leaning on this every day just sours into pain.” “How can I just move on?” He was standing now, eyes eager for some deliverance and hands held out and passing through her translucent arms. “How do I let you go?” “I’m already gone,” she whispered, “but you won’t be forgetting me. You’re making room for new life to be lived.” She looked over his shoulder into the hall again, addressing the pictures. “These memories you’re keeping are perfect days, and they make you cling to all the bright spots of us. We weren’t perfect, and I know you know that, but you can’t expect our best days to happen on first dates. You have to chase someone who makes you happy and see where they can take you.” Beth’s ghost transformed again, this time wearing a simple t-shirt and sweats. “Keep the memories, but let go of those notions of me and how faultless our love was.” She sailed over to the gallery wall, covering it with her hazy form. “This was me every day. Not dressed up, having adventures and posing for your photoshoots. Not your perfect image of me. This was me when we sang our goofy songs and cooked new dinners and stayed up too late watching true crime. This was me when we were building our real relationship and living . Remember this and what it took to get here, but don’t try to remake our life.” John nodded silently and strode away with purpose. He returned with a plastic box, kneeling to the floor to pick up the broken frames. He picked up each photo, admired it, and placed it gently in the box. He looked to Beth, feeling as though he were betraying her still, but she too was looking at each picture with a soft smile. They recounted the stories behind each, and laughed like they used to. Within an hour, all the pictures and curios in the hall were neatly and purposefully stowed away. Beth motioned for John to rise, “come,” she said. “One last thing.” He followed her dimming spirit to the kitchen where she hovered over the ceramic bowl he’d dropped her ring in. “its time,” she pointed to his own ring and then back to hers. Tears ran down John’s cheeks and pattered onto the counter. He kept his head low, not wanting to look her in the eyes. “It still hurts,” he said. “Why does it still hurt?” Silence hung in the air at that, so he twisted off his own ring and he set it in the bowl beside hers. Both rested nicely beside “Love you, always.” He crinkled some parchment paper around the bowl to protect it and held on tightly with both hands. “It hurts because it meant something,” said Beth. “Now, though, we both need rest.” Her eyes shone with tears. “Can you do this for us?” “Yeah,” he managed. “I’ll always love you.” John padded over to his storage box and placed the ring bowl right at the top. He sealed it up and walked it up to the attic. He returned to an empty room save for a few shards of glass he would have to clean up. For now, though, he just wanted sleep. John shut his eyes, letting and the warm glow of Beth ease him into sleep. ... He awoke in a mess of blankets and pillows in his bed with salt clinging to his cheeks. A flood of sadness, anger, and confused hope battered him as he turned over the visit from Beth last night. I know I know he thought to himself, and himself only. John rolled to a sit and pulled up his phone. The black screen stared back at him for a moment while he decided whether he was ready, but Beth’s voice echoed in his head to let go and he gave way to it. He mouthed as he typed out, “Hey Wendy, had a great time last night. Any plans today?” The minutes passed as he blankly stared at the text he sent, feeling regret wash over. To push the thought of rejection from his mind, he pushed out of bed and got himself ready for the day. He walked through the now empty hallway and smiled at the pictureless wall. The scene stirred him, and he hurried back to his room to grab his camera gear. He finished packing up his camera bag when a ping sounded from his phone, plastering a smile to his face. “No plans,” read the text. “Want to grab lunch?”

We are lost in an action film, the sounds of pounding feet, shouts and breaking glass are the musical score and the smoke and heat blanketing the street are the special effects. This insanity has to be fiction, real people aren’t monsters that destroy property, raze neighborhoods and attack and kill others! But as I sit in the middle of Main Street cradling my dying sister in my arms, I know this is my reality, not a high budget action film. Tears make long furrows down her soot stained cheeks and blood trickles from the corner of her mouth unto my sleeve. “I love you, Munchie.” She softly whispers. “I’m so sorry, Kara. You were right we shouldn’t have come tonight.” I sobbed leaning my head against hers. “Not your fault, I thought it was for Henry, but it wasn’t..... these people are.......only out here for the chaos......they are creating. Tell Mom and Dad I am....sorry.” Her lashes flutter as her once lustrous eyes fade, her lids close slowly, never to open again. “Kara! Kara! No don’t leave me, I’m so sorry, so sorry...... “Young man, let me help you get her out of here.” I look up into kind eyes, filled with compassion; his face is haunted by the tragedy that is swirling around us. He leans down and gently lifts Kara into his arms and signals to another officer that he is taking us somewhere safer. As he takes us behind the barrier, I see the looks of pity and sorrow these officers give me. I had thought, no I’d been told that they were the enemy, but what I see is a group of men and women just trying to help stop the violence and chaos that has ensued because of one despicable person, that never should have been in uniform in the first place. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 12 hours earlier “I cannot believe this crap, another mayor suspending an officer for tasering a suspect who was resisting arrest! It’s incredible.” His Dad growled into the news paper. “Honey, we’re eating breakfast, can we discuss this later? “No Mom! We need to talk about this now.” Keith demanded. “Cops are attacking the black community, and they need to be punished.” “What happened to Henry Marvel was horrific, nobody and I mean NOBODY is denying that. But that was a rogue cop, he’s been arrested and charged. He will be tried and prosecuted. The whole police force should not be condemned because of the crimes of one.” His Dad told him. “That’s not enough, look at what you just read to us, cops tasering people! That’s not okay!” Keith argued. “Those people had committed a crime and were resisting arrest, they have to be held accountable for what they do and police have to be able to do their jobs, to keep the community safe.” His Dad explained. “And who holds the cops accountable!” Keith shouted as he jumped up from his seat. “The federal government, other officers, society. If it didn’t work then the ‘cop’ who killed Henry Marvel, wouldn’t be in custody now, he has not got away with what he did! That is what being held accountable looks like.” “There are lots of others.” Keith said adamantly. “Who? Please be specific.” “I don’t know their names off the top of my head.” “How can you or I prove your right or wrong without any specifics?” “Your racists just like the cops!” “Keith! .... Have I ever taught you to look down at a person because of the color of their skin?” “No.” “Have I not taught you that every man is equal, that no one is better than the other, and that we are all brothers and sisters in Gods eye.” “Yes, but the media says.....” “I care what God says, not the media, politicians or celebrities.” I taught you to use your brain, to study up on things that are happening, not to blindly follow the masses into hysteria or worse.” “I know, but.....” “But what? Why did you call me racist? Was it because I didn’t agree with what you were saying? That is exactly what the media does, if they can't substantiate their point they cry racism. I taught you better than that!” “ But on the social media site I was on they said that 85% of cops attack innocent blacks, it’s an epidemic!” “Keith, open your eyes, those sites are meant to enflame people, they lie and twist what is really happening to fit their agenda.” Keith glared at his Dad, he didn’t believe that, it wouldn’t be on the news if it wasn’t facts. “What happened to that poor man, is not a race issue. It is a human rights issue, an issue of a police officer, thinking he is above the laws he’s meant to uphold, it’s about one sick human being refusing to care about the sanctity of life. Son there will always be some narrow minded bigots that are racist, white, black, brown, it’s not exclusive. You need to realize that most people are not like that. Think about the people you see everyday at the store or at school or at the fast food restaurant, they are the same as you and me. Are they looking down on you? Are you looking down on them? Or are you just going about your day, seeing people going about their everyday lives, no conflict, no strife. Until you have an horrific incident happen and instead seeing a sick individual that needs to be put in prison for his crime and a family that has lost a loved one, we have people deflecting it to scream about racism and police brutality.” His dad told him. “Well I want to go the the protest tonight, to show that I know what happened was wrong!” “I’m glad your becoming a young man of strong convictions, but you are not going to that protest, what is happening at these gatherings is way beyond Henry Marvel or any equality protest.” Keith grudgingly nodded to his Dad and left the room, with his sister trailing behind him. “I don’t care what Dad said, I’m going to the protest tonight to make my voice heard.....Come with me Kara, it’ll be fun.” “I don’t know, I’ve seen some of the protests turn violent.” Kara frowned thinking of the images she’d seen. “That’s only because the cops harass the protestors.” “But what are we protesting against? I haven’t heard a single person try to defend that cop who did this, everyone from the president and other police officers to joe blow on the street, thinks it was horrific and wrong.” “We are protesting the cops who use brutality against black people!” Keith shouted at her, then got real quiet hoping his parents weren’t listening. “I think the whole population of the United States is on the same page regarding police brutality, its wrong against anyone, that’s why they arrest those who commit it, Munchie.” Keith popped a cheez ball in his mouth and he rolled his eyes at her use of his nick name. “Don’t you feel bad for Henry Marvel?” “Of course I do! What happened to him should never happen to a human being.” Kara cried. “Then go for that, if nothing else.” “Okay I’ll go with you.” “I’m going to make a sign to take, just make sure you don’t let Mom or Dad know, we’ll sneak out after they leave for bowling.” Kara agreed and went to her room to make her own sign. After their parents had left Kara came down stairs with her sign, it said; STOP THE VIOLENCE SKIN COLOR IS JUST THE WRAPPING WE ARE ALL THE SAME INSIDE “Really Kara! That’s all you could come up with!” Keith scowled at her. “What’s wrong with my sign? You told me, you’re going tonight to make your voice heard, that’s what I’m trying to do. I believe we are all God’s children, no matter our skin color. And ALL the violence needs to stop. What does your sign say?” Keith turned his sign around for his sister. AN EYE FOR AN EYE JUSTICE FOR HENRY! She scowled at his sign, but didn’t say anything. “What do you think?” he prodded her. “You really want to know?” “Of course I do, why, you don’t like it?” Keith started getting angry. “I just think you could have picked a more peaceful message is all.” She told her brother. “That cop needs to pay, so do all others like him!” “Don’t we have a judicial system for that? Who are you now Judge, Jury and executioner?” “Just stay home; I don’t want you with me with your kumbaya attitude.” “I thought we were going to pay our respects to Henry and show we don’t want something like this to happen ever again. What is this about for you, justice or revenge?” “I’m leaving, you sound just like Dad, and I’m sick of it. I keep up with Social media, I know what’s happening, you can stick your head in the sand if you want but I’m going to demand justice.” With that he grabbed his sign and slammed out the door. Kara sighed and followed her brother out into the night. Keith knew Kara was about 25 feet behind him but he refused to wait or speak to her. They still had a couple of blocks to go before they got to the meeting place for the protest. A car pulled up beside him, “Hey Dude, here’s some material for the protest.” The guy handed him a couple of bricks, laughing as he drove away. What the heck was that about, Keith thought with disgust. He was glad Kara was aways behind him, because he could just imagine what she would have said about that. He dropped the bricks and listened, he could hear people chanting. He glanced behind and saw Kara was still following him and soon he was absorbed into the mass of people. “Justice for Henry” “Stop the slaughter.” Was the battle cry and Keith joined the chorus, but soon the tone changed, “Death to the cops” someone shouted then others echoed the yell. Keith watched as a group of teens threw bricks through the window of Mr. Carlson’s Barber shop. Mr. Carlson was a kind elderly black man, who always had a smile on his face and candy for the kids. He and his Dad had been getting haircuts there since before he could walk. Why would they do that to his business? Next they vandalized the Mikes market, Keith watched as people ran in and came out with arms full of cigarettes and food, a couple of guys dragged out the clerk. They pushed him into the street and started beating him with a skateboard. Flames erupted a few feet away from Keith when someone threw a Molotov cocktail into a vehicle that had been parked on the street. Keith was shocked, why were they destroying things and attacking people, he had believed all the stories of violence and destruction had been just propaganda to stop the protests. At least that's what they said on the news and social media platforms. He saw the guy that had given him the bricks earlier, he had a baseball bat and was hitting anybody who was unfortunate enough to get close. What did any of this have to do with Henry Marvel? What did it have to do with police brutality against blacks? Keith saw black, white and brown people being attacked and businesses being destroyed by whites, browns and blacks alike. There was unity in the destruction, meaning no one and nothing was safe. Kara! He had to find her. He dropped his sign and turned and ran. He frantically looked for his sister but chaos had taken over the streets. There were two types of people now, those seeking refuge from the violence and destruction and those who were causing the violence and destruction. He saw people carrying TV’s, computers and phones out of an electronics shop. And people trashing the bakery, but he didn’t see his sister. He heard someone behind him yell ‘Cops’ then people scattered as he heard loud popping sounds going off. Smoke billowed and filled the street as more businesses caught fire. Finally he spotted his sister about 15 feet ahead of him; the fire highlighted her profile like a giant spotlight. He screamed her name but she didn’t hear him, she was struggling against a tall man who was gripping her arm. Keith ran as fast as he could to get to her, he screamed her name with every step. When she heard him call her name their eyes met, his urgent, hers filled with fear. Time froze when he saw the flash of a blade, the fire illuminated it as it swung downward and was buried in his sister’s chest. He reached her only seconds after; he sank to his knees and gently gathered her into his arms. He cradled her to his chest fearing it was too late. Why? Why? Keith cried for help as people streamed around them, some stopped to film them with their phones, but none of them offered any help. Insanity ruled the night. “Young man, let me help you............ * * * * * * * * * * * * * Satan snickered as he watched the chaos and suffering from afar. Humans were so easy to manipulate.

The wind was cold as snowflakes whipped through the air like frozen razors. A blizzard was blowing in, and could be seen on the horizon across the icy tundra. Great, white clouds flowed from the northern scene, soon to blanket the red-stained terrain and cold bodies in the storm’s path. The sea to the north was sloshing with icebergs, and the wind crashed great chunks of ice against each other which cracked and shattered as loud as thunder. A figure moved through the knee-high snow across the tundra, away from a blood-soaked battlefield. The only survivor of the brutal fighting. In his own wake, he left a trail of crimson snow, courtesy of the wound on his torso. He saw the blizzard in the distance, and knew that it would be his death. His only salvation would be the mountain to the west of the battle. If he couldn’t climb high enough to avoid the worst of the snowfall, perhaps he could find a cave to shelter in, he thought. Skjold was his name. A name that was given to him by his mother, in hopes that one day he would become a great warrior worthy of a name that meant “shield”. But the blood pouring from his waist made him feel undeserving of it. As many in the harsh northern lands were pressed into service by the numerous warlords, he was made to believe he would return a conquering hero. Instead, fate seemed fit to let him die in the cold tundra. Due to this, a question repeated itself in his mind. Why did he press on? He was hopeless, wounded, near death. He shook off the doubt. Succumbing to despair would kill him faster than the cold. If he was not to survive, he would make every effort to spite fate. As Skjold stepped onto the foot of the mountain, the winds picked up whilst he traversed the shallow incline. The softer snow was more difficult to walk on, and the battle had already exhausted him. Above the gray clouds that hanged low in the sky, the sun was already beginning to set. It was still light enough to keep the wolves confined to their lairs, but the light would not last long. As the walk took him further up the mountain, his sweat began to freeze to his face and under his jack as well as inside his socks. His feet were numb. What few chin-hairs he had were beginning to form glassy beads that melted as fast as they froze. Skjold pulled the hood of his thick woolen cloak further down over his head and lifted the collar of his shirt over his nose. His breath thawed his face, even if his posture had to remain awkward as he climbed. It was a grueling hour of walking as the incline slowly increased. The blizzard drew ever closer, but his salvation was within sight. With shivering hands, he crawled up a small outcropping and found himself at the mouth of a small icy cavern. At last! Desperately, Skjold ran into the shelter and collapsed, finally free of the chilling winds. He would have seen fit to curl into a ball and wait out the blizzard, warmth finally returning to his hands and feet. But he felt eyes on his back before he could strip off his boots. Deeper inside the cave, he heard a low, quiet growl. Startled, he turned to see a pair of golden eyes in the cave behind him. Beneath the eyes, in the dim shadow of the cave and the waning illumination provided by the darkening sky outside, he saw the white shapes of fangs glistening with saliva. Instinctively, Skjold reached for the axe in his belt and held it high above his head, threateningly. He shouted and growled at the wolf in a vain attempt to scare it away, he was in no shape to fight the predator. Undeterred, it stalked closer to him and pounced, jaws gnashing towards his face. It knocked him onto his back, and Skjold wrestled with the creature. In a moment of desperation, he recalled a technique his father told him of. Curling his hand into a fist, he thrusted a punch into the wolf’s mouth and forced his hand into the back of its throat. The animal thrashed and made gagging noises, but he kept his hand in its maw as he struggled to free his axe from the wolf’s weight pinning it to his chest. The wolf stamped its claws onto his wound more than once, and pain shot through Skjold’s body each time. The predator’s breath warmed his hand, and with the return of feeling came pain as he felt its teeth rip the skin from his flesh. Finally, he pulled his axe free and slammed the blunt against his foe’s head. It yelped, and he freed his bloody fist from the wolf’s throat. Taking the axe in both hands, he bludgeoned the creature in the eye, and it went limp atop him. Skjold pushed the unconscious animal off of his body, breathing heavily. He stood, sucking enough air into his tired lungs to release a weak cry of victory. The instant it left his lips, he heard more growls deeper within the tunnel. His stomach sank with dread as he saw more wolves appear from the darkness. In a moment of panic, he yelled at the creatures and threw his axe-- his only weapon-- at the pack. The wolves scurried aside the weapon, giving Skjold enough time to throw himself back out into the snowy mountainside. The cold washed over him, and in an adrenaline-fueled frenzy he clawed and tore his way up the sheer rock outcropping the cave led into. When he finally summitted the crag, he fell onto his back as his muscles screamed in pain. His left hand was slicked with blood. More of his precious life flowed from it and froze to his skin. The corners of his vision blurred as the snow continued to fall onto his slowly dying body. With great effort, he pushed himself to his feet. Immediately, the wind whipped into a howl and snow began to batter him. He was too late; the blizzard had arrived. He couldn’t return to the cavern, not unarmed. The sky grew yet darker. It was night, and what light could be salvaged from the moon was snuffed by the massive clouds overhead. Following the incline of the mountain, Skjold continued further up. He clung to no distant childhood memory to keep himself motivated. He had no young sweetheart in his village to keep his aching legs moving. Even the spark of fury in his soul had died out, he felt no motive to spite the gods, or fate. In truth, he did not know why he marched on. An hour later, his vision was blinded by the haze of snowfall. His ears were deafened by the howling of the wind. Darkness of the night shrouded what little he could see. But with the darkness, he was able to see something through the snow. A golden glow, hidden amongst the trees and much further up the mountain than he could walk. A camp? A cabin? He did not know, but the spark of hope burned brightest in his heart. He couldn’t die here, not so close to safety! With his muscles burning yet numb at the same time, he shot towards the light as fast as the thick snow could permit him to move. He pulled himself up the incline using tree branches and exposed stones for handholds, but his vision blurred more as he came closer. He saw that the light was a lantern, sitting on the porch of a cabin. With a strained cry of effort, Skjold sprinted uphill and tripped on a stone. He fell face-first into a snow bank, and felt a rush of warmth in his body. Rather than relief, this sensation brought him fear. It meant he was succumbing to the cold. He found no strength in his arms to bring himself to his feet. With his last ounce of will, he crawled through the snow and barely reached the stairs to the porch of the cabin. His will gone, Skjold rested his head onto the stairs of the porch and passed out from the exhaustion of his climb.

The old man sits upon his throne of cracked beige leather that has gone sour and musty with the years he no longer cares to count. Splinters of white daylight seep through the half-drawn faux wood blinds and striate across his face, the cleansing light twinkling on his bald head and round-rimmed glasses. Squinting against it his pallid blue-veined lids go red with heat. He turns his head to the clock on the side table which is also home to a smorgasbord of pill bottles. It reads 11:59 am. He takes three of the bottles, pops the lids and shakes a capsule from each into his hand like candy and downs them with a glass of stale water. He sits expectantly, hands at his knees and still as a mouse among blind cats. The clock strikes twelve. His rotary phone shakes and rattles its piercing banshee wail with a jarring suddenness in the silence that if he were not expecting it, he might have jumped. He lets it ring a moment and takes a deep breath before picking up the receiver. “Hello?” The voice on the other end sweet as honey and gentle as an evening breeze in the summer makes his heart race every time. “Hi, Dad.” “Hi, Frannie.” “Are you ready to come visit?” “Maybe, my girl.” the words spill from his mouth almost ritualistically, but still he trembles at them. “This is the last time I’m going to call, Dad. I just wanted to let you know that.” He freezes, wanting to say something, but can’t find the words, the guilt and shame a lump in his throat so big that if he were to cough it up, he’d stomp it to a mess of red pulp and phlegm and curse it. “Dad?” “I’m here, sweetie.” “Okay, I have to go now.” “Can we talk about--” Dial tone slices through his head like an acquiescent killer, lonely and implacable. He sits listening to it, feeling it necessary to torture himself. The word “yes” escapes his lips, although too late. For twenty years he has been trapped in the purgatory of maybe, forced to walk the lonesome valley between yes and no. A groan of age escapes his lungs as he pries himself from the chair, the leather crackling and popping as his bare arms separate themselves. He shuffles across the laminate towards the bathroom, past the photos hung above the fireplace of children frozen in years they’ve long surpassed and sepia tintypes of family forgotten, most cracked with age as if made of glass - some even of himself in times he was alive. Past the windows where behind lies a sky so blue it might be of paper with a hole burned through with a bright yellow flame. He walks into the bathroom and flicks on the light switch. The cold fluorescent sputters to life, painting the room an unnatural, sterile white. He steps in front of the mirror and stares at the deflated visage before him, his bald head vitreous with sweat and sunken eyes like the heads of white snails in shells of wrinkled flesh ready to slink back into their holes. At the crown of his head he notices a single hair protruding like the shoot of some strange root vegetable. Yesterday there were two and the day before there were three. Grabbing it with his thumb and forefinger, he gives it a good tug. The hair comes out with what to anyone else might sound like a gentle pop, but to him sounds like a church bell has been rung in the seemingly empty, dusty hall of his skull. It rings on in an endless reverberation, bouncing around his head until his body goes limp and he lies crumpled and empty on the bathroom floor, the cold linoleum burning his skin. Lying like a dog half dead and whimpering, he sleeps. In dreams he sees the sun bright and full, its rays spreading out in a golden fan across a town through which people pass and wave hello. Houses line the streets like a checkerboard and among them, his own sits steady and unexceptional. Around the house a manicured green yard lies placid like a calm ocean and bees buzz about the flowers in the garden like frenzied satellites in orbit. On the dull grey stoop before the door to the house he sits and watches his daughter and granddaughter he’s yet to meet walk towards him on the concrete path that bisects the yard. They all smile and the granddaughter breaks free of her mothers grasp and runs towards him. He wakes cold and coated in a thin film of sweat. Relief crashes over him like a tidal wave as if something has been found - or lost - within. He’s not sure which. Pulling himself back up with the sink, he looks in the mirror one last time and runs a hand over his snowy white bristled jaw and removes his glasses. He no longer wishes to look at old things. Breathing heavy, he crosses back across the living room, taking care not to look at the photos again, the evening sun beating through the blinds and sketching onto the wall an aureate harp. He opens the front door and looks down and sees only clouds like a field of blinding white cotton candy separating him and whatever lies below. The scent of them one he hasn’t smelled in years and one that can’t be described. From his pocket he takes out a quarter and drops it. It falls soundlessly through the cloud that seals itself back up as soon as it passes. Hanging onto the doorknob, he stretches a leg out and brushes the top of the cloud with his foot. He’d pray to God not to fall if he didn’t already live where he’s said to rule. Atop the clouds there are no anachronistic castles of crystal or fountains of marble or gates of gold. No cities built with architecture of the angels or holy men in white. Only white emptiness unplumbed by man save himself. The tides of extrication brush gently at his feet and fill the spaces between his toes and he can taste its saliferous air salty on his tongue. Today will be the day. No more tomorrows or laters. A strange wind blows him back into the house and he saunters over to his bedroom. He tears the sheets off of his bed and tosses them into the living room. His legs feel like they’re going to give as he walks through the kitchen and into the laundry room, but he continues on. He grabs every sheet and blanket from the laundry bin and goes to toss it into the living room. Finally, he grabs the quilt from the sofa that his daughter had sewn for him as a child and places it on the pile and gets to work. Sitting on his knees, back hunched over, he ties the corners of each sheet and blanket to the other in a grid of colour, his daughter’s quilt in the middle. As a boy his mother had taught him to sew his own clothes after tearing them apart playing, but with his memory not being what it was, can only try his best. The needle dips and dives between each sheet like an ungraceful dolphin leaping through the air from a sea of strange colours, binding them together in an ugly patchwork Frankenstein creature. After an hour of impatient and hurried sewing, the sun waning, he finishes and looks down upon his work, face gleaming with sweat. What to anyone else would be thrown in the trash without second thought, he looks upon with a newfound jubilation, ready to finally be divested of all he has been. He grabs opposite corners of the sheet and swings it back over his head and walks towards the door. Taking a deep breath he turns the knob and pushes it open and looks down at the infinite white before him, his heart beating so hard it feels like there’s a little person inside trying to burst through his chest with a mallet. Glancing back he gets one last look at the house he’s spent his life and feels something well up in his throat. Time carries on, and so too will the house, but only for so long. A speck of dust waiting to be brushed off by the hands of a clock. But home isn’t a house, not a person, not a place. Home is in your bones. He turns back around, swings the sheet above his head, and without looking down, jumps into the unknown.

My meeting with God went quite well actually. I partook in the usual small talk, asking about his son, how his sister-in-law was doing, what his friend, Nick, was up to, etc. etc. etc. Then the Jew came in and droned on and on about our numbers and figures and how we need to work harder before she finally left to go play online poker in her office. You get the picture. A normal Tuesday meeting. At approximately half past three, everything went to hell. You see, when God, an Atheist, and a Jew walk into a conference room, not much happens. But when you throw Satan into the mix, things get, shall we say, interesting. At approximately half past three on that otherwise uneventful Tuesday afternoon, Satan appeared in the conference room. It was supposed to be his day off, but as everyone already knows, Satan is not one to follow a schedule. The amount of times I’ve seen that man forget what time it is and work until 4 in the morning is astounding. And of course our boss, the Jew, goes on and on about how great Satan is and how much work he gets done and how we should all improve our work ethic to be like Satan and blah blah blah. And obviously God tries to suck up to our boss and he works a bit overtime, maybe until 10 or 11, but at some point even he just gets too tired. I go home at 5. I ain’t losing sleep for this hell-hole of a company. Where was I? Oh right, so Satan walked into the conference room. Now, a little thing to know about Satan. Basically he has this small but extremely inconvenient habit whereby anything he touches spontaneously combusts. We work at a paper company. Half of the reason I leave on time is because I’m not wasting my energy on a paper company. The other half is because I can’t bear to stand and watch in second hand embarrassment as the firefighters come in for the sixth time that day to hose the building down. The town has built a second fire station right next door to our building after we had 66 fires in six days. Anyway, Satan walked into the conference room, looking red as ever, half of him hidden underneath an unnecessarily long cloak. “How are you doing, Satan?” God asked. “Well... I uh... someone left some paper out... and I couldn’t find my gloves... and now -“ The smell of burning paper started to fill the room. “God damn you Satan!” I yelled, flashing a quick apologetic look at God. “Is that money I smell burning away?” Oh crap, our boss can smell it too. “No just the carpet!” we exclaimed in unison. Our boss’s voice grew louder: “If I open this door and see my merchandise on fire again, I swear to you Satan, I’m throwing you out!” Immediately, God grabbed his water bottle and sprinted out the conference room, throwing water over the burning papers. Just as the last flame died out, our boss swung open her door. “Satan! I hate to do this to you, but I swear to God, if you --” She took a moment to look around the soggy room. “Where’s the fire?” “No fire, ma’am,” God replied, “Just spilled some water is all.” After taking another quick glance at all of our faces, the boss shut her door and continued playing her online poker game. I can’t stand to spend another 90 minutes with these people. About an hour later the fire department arrived for the fifth time that day. I decided to finish work early, partially because I was tired, partially because my boss fired me for throwing a lit match at one of her employees.

We held hands that night, lying in bed together and crying. Both of us felt it. We felt each other’s heartache, heartache so intense it felt like we were dying. Dying there in that bed together, but also birthing something newer and better. Once upon a time we were laughing together and consumed by our then romantic relationships. Fortunately for us, the men were best friends just like we were. It couldn’t have been more perfect! Except, it wasn’t. What made us swoon slowly became the stuff of nightmares. I woke up from mine, but you just weren’t ready yet. He left you still feeling exhilarated, but I could see behind the mask. I could feel the coldness. I could see the marks he left. You couldn’t see them, but your body betrayed you. As I proceeded to travel on beside your dimming light, I met another soulmate. He was different. I was sure of it. He readily-filled the lonely places, and he dazzled me with new light. The same light you were experiencing, but yours smelled like gas. I came to realize that mine did too. Time went on, and our happy times together were less and less. My recollection was an unraveling so fast it made my head spin. The distance between us grew larger and larger until we stood on either side of an abyss. We couldn’t see each other anymore. I couldn’t risk falling in to save you, and you couldn’t even risk throwing me a frayed rope. Eventually we parted. I think I knew it had to happen, but the pain--oh my god--the pain was so intense. I missed you with every fiber of my being. I thought about you every single day. I was in anguish knowing you were being deceived and hurt in ways I didn’t want to imagine, ways that I saw sometimes reflected back in my own mirror. As time passed, I threw myself into my new relationship. He knew just what to say. He encouraged the distancing with you. In fact, he encouraged the distancing with anyone close to me. He controlled my every movement, which I saw as him being my Savior, my protector. I couldn’t see what was going on, even as I obsessed over why you couldn’t see it in your own relationship. I heard of your grandmother’s passing: the nurturer of your childhood. I was filled with dread for you and your already dismal state of mind. Of course I had your number memorized, so I texted you a cryptic message of my condolences. You didn’t know my number and questioned, but I knew you knew it was me. I should’ve thought it through though: it probably caused you trouble at home. The thought now makes me cringe. My own journey was a struggle and I found myself wading through a murky swamp of despair, lonely and sad to my core. I often thought about how you would’ve helped me pull myself out of the dirty water. You were once a life preserver to me, but now you were hanging on for your own life. My soul hurt. Then one day I felt your return. You reached out. Your pain so palpable, I could taste it. Your bruises so visible, they hurt my eyes. His evil so intense, I feared for your life. Your desperation heartbreaking, but your courage mounting. Your story unfolded into my lap. You finally got away. You did your best, and your best was good enough. You made it through to the other side, only to hit another wall. He couldn’t let you go without a fight. The fear you felt, I felt. I finally had my best friend back, but would I be able to hold onto you? Your life was in constant turmoil, and you didn’t know if this day would be your last. We both looked over our shoulders together. I was right beside you. Your fight now became my fight. I watched as you endured endless battles with the devil himself. I watched myself turn into a protective momma bear as we fought against a system that doesn’t hold water for battered women. It brought us both to our knees. Day after day brought on new attacks against your life. I witnessed them alongside you. Even then, you listened to me and started to question whether your biggest supporter wasn’t in a battle for her own life. You gave me what was left in you to help me fight as well, knowing I had to come full circle just as you had. Our friendship was rekindled. It was like the old days, like no time had passed. You sang at my wedding and held my new baby in your arms. Ours was a story of friendship renewed and refreshed. Unfortunately, you also watched as my devil emotionally impaired me for what may be the rest of my life. You watched as I sank into a depression so deep, you were sure it swallowed me whole. The rope. You threw it this time, but I couldn’t quite grasp it. My Big Bang came with a betrayal that shook my core. All that was left was a shell. I didn’t have visible bruises, but you helped dress them just the same. You helped me find the girl you always saw with YOUR eyes. She was just as courageous as you had been. We felt each other so deeply, it went without saying that we were the best of friends. As we soothed each other in the dark that night, crying and laughing, I realized that we were more than just those two girls who met in college. Long days ahead lied in wait for me as I came full circle; longer nights for you reliving your hell in your dreams. We were warriors, fighting life’s battles together, each one a soldier who would carry the other one on her back out of the trenches if necessary. And when I told you it was me on the phone, you said you knew it was me all along. You felt it. You felt it like you would if I was your sister. Soul sisters. Written for my real life soul sister--Sabrina.

Ophi wasn’t sure what to do with this new information. It had certainly changed his view on things. Some of the things. It gnawed on the back of Ophi’s head just enough to irritate him. Once again, he felt the pressure to warn everyone. Ophi limped out of his den. The spines sheathed under his skin still felt awkward. Ophi scanned the bushes. As much as the bushes made a tight circle around his den, their branches did a poor job filling themselves in, and the gray sand so visible beyond them made everything look ghostly, and to top it all off, nothing could be heard except for the slight whistling of the wind. That was just too much. Ophi missed the days when this place was busier. The bushes outside Ophi’s immediate circle rustled. Ophi clambered out to have a better look. He could see a candy red ear sticking out of a bush. Ophi walked past the bush and flashed a smile. It was Heidi, with her sprite in the form of a deer. Classic Heidi, happily fulfilling her role in the Internet as a browser. She may have grown a few fangs, but that was all that changed. Ophi muttered a greeting. None of his friends liked to start the conversation. Heidi turned and stood there. Ophi felt his spines slide out a little. Now he hesitated. Ophi cocked his head to the side. Heidi tapped her foot against the ground. She only stumbled, right? Wait, no. Heidi lowered her head. “It seems my family was struck with a curse! First my mother, now my sister!” Ophi fell silent and paid more attention to the slight tickling in his mind. While Heidi talked and talked, Ophi realized he knew just what she needed to hear. “Things haven’t been so great for me either,” The user said. His pores tightened around the newfound spines. “as I’ve overheard the park rangers talk about using darts on us...” It was easier to let them slip out. The more Ophi said, the more he got excited. Heidi’s outline blurred and buzzed in Ophi’s vision. Ophi’s eyes bulged out of his head and his heart raced in forced thuds. Ophi just kept talking and talking until he felt his pores rip open. That’s what got Ophi to stop and look at his flanks. The crimson spikes were out, but none seem to be missing. Ophi noticed the still air. “Heidi?” Even the distant ads fell silent. After a moment, Ophi heard branches crashing and caught a glimpse of a large animal scampering away. Ophi felt the quills droop. He crept back into the rotting log framing his den. The fire inside him burned with shame. Ophi made his way out into the clearing and spotted Heidi. She was sitting in a sagebrush so that only her head could be seen. Ophi felt the urge to tear out his quills. He didn't have them for very long and he's already threatened his friend's life. Ophi’s heart pounded in his chest. “I’m... really sorry about what happened last night.” Heidi froze in place. “It’s fine.” Ophi continued. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. It was a stupid thing I did and I have no excuse for it.” Heidi made no movements whatsoever. “No hard feelings.” Ophi sputtered, and searched the bush with his eyes. He couldn’t see if Heidi was injured. “Is there anything I can help you with?” Heidi kept the same wooden posture. “We already made our decisions.” Ophi fell silent. The knot in his stomach grew more and more with Heidi’s behavior. The red deer kept her nose pointed at her friend like it was a gun. The little fangs looked more like boar teeth. Ophi turned with shaky knees. Trotting out of the bushes, he felt he should spend the day elsewhere. That one day turned into one week, that week into a month. It had got to the point where Ophi had to dash out of his den before the thorns on his bushes could close in on him. The dips in the sand made scowling faces and so many ads have ceased their chirping. Worst of all was Heidi. She still made her way near Ophi’s home, only to stare everything down. Ophi felt a growing emptiness during this miserable time. When on the verge of despair, Ophi would strike a conversation with Heidi. She only shot words like bullets. “I’m fine.” “Okay.” “Nothing important.” And it never lasted long, for Heidi would dart away suddenly. Then came the shadows. One stiff ghost would stand in the bushes with Heidi, and then another, and another. Those beady eyes came at Ophi like a rogue wave. He would have drowned if he had not shut the den hole in time. Ophi pushed himself against the splintering wood blocking the hole and strained against his ribs to breathe, but alas, he spotted the white dots on the bark lining the den walls. Ophi just laid there, curled in a ball. He was worried about his new spiny skin beforehand but he never thought it would lead to him being shut off from the rest of the world. Ophi then began to think. If someone else knew about his crime, they’d expect Ophi to ditch the spines. Ophi remembered. One year, a user took on the form of a lionfish, and made the same mistake as Ophi. Once the crowd surrounded the user and demanded he ditch the spines, he complied. Alas, the crowd still painted a target on his back and their victim was last seen getting butchered by hackers. Those axe-wielding maniacs showed no mercy. A streak of bright white stopped Ophi’s train of thought, with the jagged edges cutting the streak off reminding Ophi it was his makeshift mirror. He could see the squiggly white spots in his own eyes. Doe eyes on a hideous pin cushion? Five users were attacked for that in the last year alone. No explanation was enough to fend off the mob. When Ophi wasn’t lost in the waves of torpor, he lay dazed with more such examples keeping him stunned. The more and more Ophi mulled over this, the more and more he swelled with anxiety. He was not the sharpest creature in the scrubland, but he knew anything that looked wrong, they could punish him for it. “What kind of monstrosity has a hellish body and tearful eyes? He must be a sly, corrupt beast! We can’t trust anything he says!” Ophi felt an intense tingling all over. He could barely move his limbs. That was all Ophi remembered before the heat did him in. A chunk of wood jabbed Ophi in his side, ending his dream. The first thing Ophi noticed were the intense cramps in several points of his body. He couldn’t see anything aside from the faint lines in the wood shoved against his face. A harsh chop broke further into Ophi’s prison. That was enough to set him off. Ophi blasted out and roared with all his might. He could see the hacker running away, like a tiny thug. Ophi reared up and lunged at the intruder. Both brutes slammed into a huge stump. Everything roiled under the impact. Ophi chomped on the dry stump and used his new coils to crush it until the hacker pinned under him stopped moving. Crunching branches alerted Ophi to two rangers running into his field of vision. Another threat! The rangers pointed their guns. Ophi hissed and bristled his quills. The rangers fired anyway, and Ophi threw himself at them. When Ophi’s vision cleared, he saw the rangers sidling around him. Ophi snorted and allowed his eyes to follow the smaller one. Ophi reared up and brandished his cumbersome fangs. The targeted ranger was now flinging themselves at the landscape like a pinball. Ophi jolted and jerked, slamming his huge teeth at anything that resembled a dark leather jacket. The last yell stopped short and Ophi slowed, satisfied. He looked around to survey the area, whose bushes and other plant life were reduced to sticks lying on cold grey sand. The new monster turned to the path leading to the rest of the park and saw users walking out from the connectrees. Ophi sneered at them but only a few fled. In fact, one led a group charging toward him, and this one was bright red! Ophi shook his head in disgust. “She just couldn’t stop coming back, could she?” Ophi rammed through bushes, slithering with new fury. The last bush gave way and Ophi could finally see the group, with Heidi leading them. Ophi kept pressing forward. And so did Heidi! She slammed her hooves and galloped harder. Ophi lunged for the huge branches covering the broken fence. The branches burning under him expelled a peppery scent, which only made him cry harder. He just couldn’t do it. Not after all that he and Heidi had been through. Heidi was the only one that followed Ophi out of the thickets of their youth. Ophi’s eyes followed the ripples in the sand, only to watch them get erased by the incoming raindrops. Ophi could only hope by sparing Heidi, she would understand. She always had.