Datasets:

allura-org

/

sugarquill-10k

like 3

Follow

Allura 65

“I’ve been having nightmares about my wife lately... I’m just... Well maybe I should tell you about them?” Alan said hesitantly. “Yes, that would probably be a good place to start. There is no wrong way to have a therapy session.” Collin replied. Collin was legally blind, he couldn’t see Alan but he could see shapes that were probably Alan. Clients had told him that it was off-putting that he couldn’t look at them or meet their gaze. Other clients had said that it felt reassuring. Collin couldn’t really control it so he didn’t let the criticism or critiques affect him. “Well, I mean, there are probably SOME wrong ways.” “Ok, that is fair, I just meant in the broad sense, I guess. Get back to these dreams though, don’t try to distract yourself.” “Oh, yeah... Let’s see... Alright, the first one then. My wife and were in the bedroom, not intimately but not whatever the opposite of that is either. It was just... Two married people, a couple living, you know? I don’t think we were really doing anything, dreams are weird like that sometimes. It isn’t always exactly clear what is happening until something big happens. She started itching her back, in a frenzy sort of. Really going at it. So I offered to help her. I told her to turn around and she did, she lifted up the back of her shirt for me to scratch against the skin. Get a better scratch, right? So she lifted up her shirt and I saw her back, it is covered in these little pimples, a serious outbreak. She doesn’t like to scratch my back because my back is kind of gross, in all fairness, she doesn’t like the feeling of stuff coming off under her nails. You know the stuff, little back pimples or blackheads or whatever and I have that stuff. She doesn’t so much, her back is normally smooth but I wasn’t going to, you know, I wasn’t going to complain about it. I started itching her back and I brushed over the first pimple and it burst under my fingers. I had scratched the head clean off, not on purpose but it happened and I kept going. I went over a few more, the same thing, but I started to notice something and I started to feel something. The stuff under my nails, like she said, but it was moving. I looked down and saw that her back was covered in these little worms with these little heads like the pimples, and they were crawling all over her back. I jumped back away from her and cried out, ‘Laura your back! Worms!’ and I was freaking out. I pushed her towards our bathroom across the hall and grabbed a towel to start wiping those things off her back. I started trying to catch them all under the towel and wipe them into the shower drain but then she started laughing. ‘Don’t be silly baby, those are just the glut-worms!’ She kind of giggled it out, even. One jumped from her back to try to get me and I caught it out of the air between two fingers, like plucking a grape. I smashed it between my fingers and my opposing hand’s palm, trying to work the strength of two arms at the same time. You know, an overwhelming display of force. So I pulled my fingers away from my hand to find that I had pressed too hard, cut myself. In my desperation to crush this thing I had sliced into my own palm. And I hadn’t even killed the dang thing! I could see it start burrowing into the cut in my palm, this little green worm with a white head like a pimple! I started digging into my palm to try to stop it, and it started hurting. I could hear her, Laura, telling me to not worry about it while I am trying to get a grip on this thing and pull it out of my hand. But yeah, I can’t get a grip and that was when I woke up. I woke up digging into my own palm with my finger nails for some imaginary worm that wasn’t there.” Alan and Collin sat there for a moment in silence. Collin staring at the far wall past Alan while Alan looked down at his own feet. “You mentioned that you’ve had multiple nightmares? What was the next one?” “You... Uh... You really want to know?” Alan asked cautiously. “Yeah, well, not if it has more bugs but yeah, maybe.” Collin replied. “Okay.... Well, this next one is shorter. So yeah, nightmare number two I guess. I don’t remember how this one started... I actually... the whole thing gets kind of shaky... Even the end is a little confusing maybe but it starts with me looking out my window and it is winter up to the gills outside. I know, y’know, we’re in the dead heat of July and I’m dreaming about snow so deep in my backyard that you could practically swim in it. But yeah. So I looked out my rear kitchen window that overlooks my back yard. And huddled at the far end of my fence was what looks like a big white dog, laying in the snow facing away from me. Shaggy as hell, fur longer than corn husks maybe. I looked back behind me to call my wife. ‘Laura!’ I called out to her, you know, ‘You have to check this out!’ So she got up out of the bed, I guess that we had been watching television in the bedroom before or something, and she came in to the kitchen. I turned around to point out of the kitchen window but the dog was gone. It had completely vanished. ‘I don’t see anything.’ She said before turning back around. ‘It’s gone now but I swear that the BIGGEST dog was just outside in the backyard!’ But she wasn’t listening, she had already started walking to the bedroom. After a couple of minutes I followed her back. The dream gets fuzzy again, I don’t know what happens until the next part but I know what happens next. I was standing at my bathroom window, I had opened it up, and I was looking out into my backyard again. Back in my backyard again, my eyes land on that dog. He was much closer this time though, maybe only ten feet away. I hissed Laura’s name, real low. “What?” she called back, annoyed but also low and I thought that she understood what was going on. She walked up behind me, quietly and she saw what I was looking at. I heard a sharp intake of breath and I’m still not entirely sure if it was her that gasped or me because it started to move. It slowly lumbered its great neck around, pointing its face at us, and the face that it had was not a dog’s face. It was the face of a man, pale and sick looking, eyes dead almost but it looked right at us. It snarled its face and snapped its teeth at the window in the blink of an eye. But me... I was already moving. I screamed and pulled Laura away from the window with me a bit but let go as I rushed into the bedroom to get my gun...” Alan trailed off for a moment. “You still have your gun?” Collin asked, leaning forward into the silence. He hadn’t realized how intense the story had been until just this moment. “Yeah... Should I... Should I not?” “We’ll get to that after, sorry, just a question, keep telling the story.” Collin waved his hand. “Ok... Yeah... So I was in the bedroom. And I keep my gun locked up, I know that isn’t great during emergencies but it feels safer that way. So I was fumbling with the locked cased, trying to get it open and I heard Laura call out to me. “Hurry!” She yelled, I guess that she had walked back to the window like some kind of maniac with a deathwish. “Its going around the house to the next window!” I got the gun and a handful of bullets and I was putting them into the cylinder while I was walking. I opened the door to the bedroom adjacent to the bathroom and I looked out through the windows but the thing was gone... It was already gone. And I guess that was when I woke up that time.” Alan said, letting out a long sigh at the end. “Geez, this kind of exhausting. Do I gotta tell you more of these? They are all like the last two.” “Like the last two? How?” “Well... So I told Laura about them and you know what she said? She said, ‘It sounds like I’m an oblivious idiot in all of these dreams, huh?’ you know? Like that... They’re all like that, where she doesn’t really get what's wrong until something bad is already happening and sometimes not even then. C’mon man, you’re the therapist, you should be noticing this stuff!” “Look, Alan, I’m not great at analyzing the themes of stories, I work with people, I’m good at people. But yeah, now that you point it out, I guess that those dreams do seem to be connected to that point... I guess my question for you is this, and I bet I already know the answer, has your wife still not talked to you about your attempted suicide? I mean, you’re even still keeping the gun?” “She... I think she blames herself... And so I haven’t brought it up and she has kind of ignored it too. Y’know, I’ve been out of the hospital for two months now and things are going... Well they’re going smoothly between us. I don’t know if I want to disrupt that just yet and she probably doesn’t either...” “Al, I’m just your therapist but I think you should talk to your wife.” “I’m afraid that she’s not going to see whats wrong.

I climbed over a strip of brown sandstone rocks. It was like another planet. From the top, about ten metres above the surrounding sand, I looked around the landscape. The golden waves of the desert reached as far as the horizon, where they melted into the swirling air. I looked at the compass, I had to go further west, where the end of my journey would be. A friend heard that I was hitchhiking in the south of Africa and offered me a boat. Of course, I agreed and he promised to wait for me on the coast of Namibia. I was now in the middle of the Namib Desert, and the west coast was about 50 km away, which was about a two-day walk. It was also the first time I had ever been in a sandy desert. The guides tell you to stick to your path and not make unnecessary turns, because sand is a difficult terrain and besides, the desert is dangerous in itself. I saw three people north of me. I would have really kept on my route had it not been for the bad feeling in my stomach that made me look at the three. They were about a kilometre north of me, so I went toward them. I greeted them in English, the oldest of them answered me, with a strong accent. He was probably their guide, because he had the logo of a travel agency on his shirt. When I asked him his name, he mumbled something absently. The repetition of the question made him a little upset, so I decided to let it be. The three of them sat on the hot desert sand, just swaying. I asked the guide where they were going. He yelled at me again and hissed. I figured that the volume of my voice was bothering him. So I walked closer to him and asked about their destination. He repeated, one word, "sea, sea", pointing north, where the fata morgana rippled through the air. The desert really looked like the surface of the sea, but I knew the closest shore was on the west. I tried to explain it to him, but he kept pointing north and saying, "sea, sea." As I sat next to him, I noticed an ID card pinned to a bag around his waist. The name Mateo was written there, and he was a guide to a Spanish company, Tropico Tours. The man must have been around sixty, I guessed from the wrinkled face and white wreath of gray hair around his otherwise completely bald head. His female companions couldn't be much younger. I persuaded them to put on their headgear. In vain. Their faces were without expressions and they all swayed. I looked around and found only a two-liter bottle of water, half empty, which was definitely not enough for three people, certainly not if they wanted to go to the shore. I offered them some of my supplies, but Mateo declined my offer, "Drink later, drink later," and paused again, just swaying. I sat there with them for a while, silent because they didn't seem to like me talking. Mateo looked deep into my eyes and smiled. "Do you hear that? Música.” I listened for a moment, and indeed, I thought I heard quiet choral music. I looked for the ladies and suddenly I realized why they were all swaying. The four of us were hallucinating. The music, the angelic choir grew stronger and with it a sudden peace of mind and desire to stay here. At that moment the voice of reason prevailed in my head. I realized that the music was an illusion and decided to keep walking. The ill feeling was back, I also felt the desire to save all three from certain death in the desert. I grabbed Mateo, but he pushed me away and I landed in the hot sand. I hissed in pain, but I had not given up my intention yet. I growled, “Vámonos! Vámonos!”, which means “let's go” in Spanish, it didn't work with either of them. I tried to pull them up one by one and lift them to their feet, but without any success. The angelic choir, singing a beautiful chord in C major, grew louder, but I still wanted to help them. I grabbed Mateo's hands, but he pushed me away again and asked me to be quiet. All three swayed to the music, the angels screamed at the top of their lungs, and the sun painted an arc into the cloudless sky. I realized I should drink. I had a sip of water and the angelic music was gone like that. I put the bottle to the withered lips of a 60-year-old Spanish lady and begged her to drink. "Más tarde," she muttered, pushing my bottle away. It flew out of my hand and water began to pour into the Namibian sand. In that moment, I ran out of patience. I grabbed my bottle with the rest of water that didn't spill and set off. I turned for one last time and watched the three swing into illusory music. But I suddenly had an idea, I still wanted to help them, so I drew the approximate place where I found them on my folding map. I had a rescue plan. So I went west, as I had originally intended, and I walked quite fast, not only was I delayed by this encounter, the three Spaniards were losing valuable time. I decided to walk overnight to be on the coast as soon as possible. The friend was supposed to be there today, at least in the waters of the west coast. In addition to seawater desalination equipment, the boat also had a satellite telephone on board. It occurred to me to call a helicopter to save the three lost people. I was running out of water, my eyelids were heavy, but I knew I had no choice. I pushed myself through the sand dunes with one goal in mind. I had to help them. Even in the sweatshirt, I gritted my teeth at night, but I had to keep going. I shone my headlight on the ground and regularly checked the direction of my compass. West. I had sand in my shoes. My feet were aching. My legs hurt. West. I licked my dry lips. I kept a murderously fast pace, I mustn't stop. West. The headlamp began to flicker. Angels began to sing in my head again. I looked at the compass. I couldn't stop. West. It was dawn and when I climbed on top of a large dune, I finally saw the sea. Two kilometers, I guessed. I rubbed my tired eyes and walked on. Tired after an all-night march, I slowed my walking pace and the angelic choir started to sing again. I mustn't stop, I mustn't stop, I repeated to myself. I fell into the sand. The angelic choir sang beautifully and I didn't want go anywhere anymore. It seemed to me that where I was, it was the most beautiful place in the world. There was no need to hurry anymore. The angels sang and I swayed to the rythm of that beautiful music. I fell asleep. After a while, I woke up aboard a Robinson R44 helicopter. The fear of waking up at height was replaced by the calmness of finding out that I was safe. To my right sat an african pilot in a tracksuit. When he saw that I was awake, he grinned, and wished me a good morning, he asked me to put on my headset so we wouldn't have to yell at each other. "Your friend called. He could not find you. I'm from Swakopmund.” I smiled backed and watched the landscape below us. But then I remembered the three lost Spaniards. "We have to fly back," I muttered into the headset's microphone. I searched for my things, but I didn't have a backpack with the map with me. “Backpack on the backseat. But I can't return. Only one way paid!" “You don't understand! There are three people back in the desert, Spaniards! We have to find them!” “Why they not with you?” “I wanted to help them, but they didn't want to move nor drink. They just sat and hallucinated about an angelic choir. I actually heard it too." "When?" "I met them yesterday, shortly after noon." "Too late. If you don't drink, you die." I saw the roofs of Swakopmund on the horizon and our helicopter landed on a small concrete heliport. My friend was standing there, waving. When we landed, I got out of the cockpit and Emmanuel, the pilot, handed me my backpack. I searched inside and pulled out a crumpled map of south Africa. There was a circled place in the Namib desert where I assumed I was with the Spaniards yesterday. I handed the map to Emmanuel and told him to try to find them. "Pay," Emmanuel frowned. I pulled everything I had left in my wallet after my hitchhiking adventure and looked at Johnny, my boat friend, who worked in Johannesburg as a fisherman and captain of a sightseeing boat with which, poor man, he was waiting for me on the shore, and when he couldn't find me, he paid Emmanuel to search for me. "What if I brought you my fish, free of charge, what do you say, Emmanuel?" "Okay," Emmanuel grinned, starting the helicopter. Then, Johnny and I, talked about our adventures, he talked about his fishing on near the shore and I talked about hitchhiking and my adventure in the Namib Desert. When Emmanuel returned after two hours, he climbed out of Robinson's R44 with a grim expression and handed me the IDs of the three Spaniards. "It was too late, all dead, covered with sand.

Lacey choked and sputtered as she struggled to keep her nose above the cold water. An arm like a bar of iron around her upper chest tightened. She fought against it, against the current that slid along her back and down her legs. “Stop, dammit,” a stranger’s voice rumbled from behind. “I’m trying to save you.” The words sank in. He claimed to be her savior, not a killer. She forced herself to accept that as the truth, for air flowed into her lungs as she relaxed and let him pull her through the water. But why was she here, drowning? And where was “here”? Last she knew, she was at ASU, heading for the math building. Lacey looked up at the cloudless blue sky, where the morning sun still slanted low from her right side. Not much time had passed. Perhaps she would not be too late for work. Her stomach churned as she considered how crazy those thoughts were. Voices came into her waterlogged ears, a meaningless clamor of fear and anger. Hard hands grabbed her arms, lifted her from the water. She was laid down ungently and immediately shoved onto her side. Pressure on her rib cage. Fingers prying at her mouth. She pushed them away, then slapped at the other probing hands. All she could see as the nearest would-be Samaritans pulled back was a row of feet and knees. Lacey managed to sit upright in the puddle growing larger on the smooth cement under her butt. As she attempted to piece together what had happened, her entire body began to shake. She hugged herself, clothes soaking wet, draining off her body heat. A woman demanded, “What were you trying to do?” Another woman, in a soft and warm Southern accent, said, “Nothing is so bad you should kill yourself over it.” “But I wasn’t,” Lacey protested through chattering teeth. “I couldn’t have. I must’ve just slipped and fell in.” The encircling crowd shifted, revealing the placid, glittering expanse of Tempe Town Lake. The sun shone over the Mill Avenue bridge, only a few minutes’ walk from campus. What had happened during that missing time? She had no recollection of anything since passing the high glass walls of the engineering building. Blackout? Seizure? “You walked straight into the water,” the first woman said accusingly. “Then you didn’t even try to swim. You just went under.” “Call 9-1-1,” someone suggested. “No, don’t,” Lacey said. The Southern woman said, “You have to go to the hospital. You nearly drowned.” “I’ll go. Just not in an ambulance.” She had no faith in emergency rooms. She would need to pinpoint her symptoms first, figure out what tests would lead to a diagnosis, then get a referral for anything her own doctor could not do. Lacey got to her feet. She ignored the avid, critical stares. “Where’s the man who rescued me?” Everyone looked around, but he had vanished. Tears of guilt and embarrassment stung at the back of Lacey’s eyes. She had not even thanked him. She borrowed a phone and called her boss to say she would be late. “An accident,” she offered as her excuse. In response to his questions, she said she was unhurt, simply shaken. “Take the day off,” her boss ordered. Relieved that she would not need to face her coworkers until she came up with an explanation, Lacey gave him a sincere thank-you before disconnecting and handing the phone back to its owner. She fended off well-meaning offers of assistance and walked on stiff knees toward the nearest bus stop. Once she got home, she would make a pot of sweet tea, take a shower, change clothes, turn on her computer, and figure out what was happening to her normally sharp mind, which had served her well for twenty years on the staff of the School of Mathematics. Accumulating bits of knowledge and piecing them together like a quilt always soothed her nerves. Lacey did not make it home. She came back to herself leaning out into the air high above one of ASU’s broad pedestrian malls, her back arched and arms outstretched as though to fly. The concrete below undulated like a mirage in her panicked gaze as she attempted to regain her balance, windmilling her arms, pressing her heels into the roof with every taut muscle in her legs and back, willing herself not to fall. Once she collapsed on the flat surface and could no longer see the height from which she might have plummeted to her death, she began to shake and sob. Breathing became difficult in the small gasps her tight chest allowed, the very air surrounding her thick and oppressive. Somewhere in her mind, she felt a ghostly presence. Even as she became aware of the lurking phantom, it drew away. Had it saved her? Don’t go, she thought to it, squeezing her eyes shut against the tears. Immediately it vanished, like a soap bubble carried too long on a breeze. Lacey wondered whether anything had been there--or if she was simply hallucinating. A manifestation of her own mind, perhaps, that had brought her back to awareness before she could harm herself. She crawled farther from the edge, then sank down again and rolled onto her back. She let the sun bake her skin and dry her clothing until her trembling muscles stilled. The exotic perfume of jacaranda blooms, jarringly normal, drifted past on an errant breeze. Eventually, not daring to remain longer in the sunlight, Lacey rose. She explored the rooftop until she discovered a narrow maintenance access that must have been the way she had gotten onto the roof. At the edge of the building, she hugged the shadows, reluctant to emerge into the flow of people passing along the mall. The Health Services center stood nearby, its sign proclaiming compassionate health care for students. She considered begging them for help, for she no longer trusted herself. One near-death incident was worrisome enough. Two . . . that was a disturbing trend. But she was not a student. Lacey swallowed in a vain attempt to dislodge the lump in her throat and looked around her wildly. Perhaps she could make it to the Catholic Newman Center, or the Methodist church on University Avenue, before awareness slipped away again. She felt conspicuous standing in one place so long, but the rooftop struggle had both frightened and exhausted her. Could she ask someone--anyone, a passerby, a kind stranger--to accompany her to the transit center or the hospital and hold her back from anything crazy or dangerous? She let out a half-strangled sob, realizing how that would sound. What, then? What could she do? Lacey had no idea. This time when the darkness released its grip, Lacey came back to herself with a train bearing down on her, its brakes screeching as people screamed from the passenger side of the high fence built to keep them safe. This time she was not alone. That other presence was in her mind with her, battling for control. She understood at that moment what her body had somehow known, that the phantom meant to subdue her will. No, worse, it wanted to replace Lacey, the disorderly human mind, with its own pure intellect. Her muscles, under neither her control nor that malevolent other’s, kept her frozen in front of the oncoming train. The drowning, the fall, the train, she realized dimly, were all to drive out this other mind, the one that intended to claim her physical body. Lacey tried to beat back the presence, tried to smother it, shout at it, but it kept advancing. Then her body began to act, taking a halting step toward the fence, then another, and another, passing over the low light-rail track and into the narrow space between the train and the fence. Unable to stop the physical movement toward self-preservation, even if she wanted to, Lacey found herself being collected together from the various parts of her mind. The presence--perhaps some kind of AI gone rogue--was downloading itself, she gathered from alien information swirling around her brain. Her body had been interrupting the downloads by placing itself into danger. Each time, she, Lacey, was rebooted. But the AI had learned. It would keep her fleshy envelope alive. Lacey fled to a part of the brain where she sensed the least activity. The center of emotions, she guessed. What use would an AI have for such? There she hid, compressing her consciousness into the tiniest of spaces, hoping to go unnoticed while she observed and learned, waiting for her chance to emerge and reboot her human mind.

It was a bright mid-day in Lagoon town, but for blind prince Johnson, one of the three surviving sons of King Warrior of Lagoon, it was mid-night because all he could see was darkness. But since the mind is like a window, he looked through his mind. He often sat in front of his father’s chamber, observing every movement. * From his mind, he could see the beautiful flowers in his father’s compound which he touched every morning when he woke up, and the birds which pitched on the flowers, whistling so loudly every morning. Besides this, he also saw the company of people who visited his father, the king every day either to pay homage to him, to bring a letter which was usually a notice of war from another king, or to lay complaints to the king about people who offended them. From their voices, he could distinguish if they were men or women, or if they were boys or girls; and by their footsteps, he knew if they were many or few. By experience, he had devised a means of knowing what time it was at any moment, he kept the time in his mind and therefore knew the time when every action took place. Moreover, blind Prince Johnson listened attentively whenever his father the king described lagoon and everything in the town to his guests who often visited him from other towns on certain festive days. King Warrior often boasted to his guests about how beautiful Lagoon was, the number of people in the town, the rich cultural heritage of the people, the positive attributes they had, their beautiful tourist sights, the natural resources found there, and every other thing they needed to know about lagoon town and blind Prince Johnson, having heard this description over and over again, created a picture of lagoon town in his mind. Though he was blind, he saw lagoon through his mind’s eyes! The townspeople often got amazed whenever the blind prince described the town of lagoon to them accurately as though he had seen it before. They only knew that his eyes were closed but never knew that his mind was open! * Five years later, King Warrior fell sick and died. The entire town of lagoon was in deep sorrow, they hardly believed that their great king was dead. The king’s family was not left out, though the king died at a good old age, yet they expected him to live a little longer at least to have the few black hairs on his head turn white like the rest. However, they were consoled because as his name implied, he fought many battles and won them. He restored many properties belonging to Lagoon town which was forcefully taken by their enemies who fought and overcame the kings who reigned before him. * After the king’s burial, there was an urgent need for a new king and according to the law of Lagoon town, the new king must be one of the sons of the former king, and whichever of them that would be crowned king must be proven to know the town very well in every sense of it and must be proven to possess enough wisdom to rule the people. So the elders of the land and the kingmakers appointed a day in which to invite the sons of the late King Warrior for an interview to appoint a new king among them. * On the day appointed, the three sons of the King Warrior, Prince Edmond, Prince Walker, and the blind Prince Johnson took turns to stand before the kingmakers who asked them questions concerning Lagoon town and concerning the vision they had for the town if they finally became king. The first to be interviewed was Prince Edmond, the first son of the late king. When asked about the history of Lagoon town, the kingmakers were stunned to see that he knew nothing about Lagoon town. He had lived abroad all his life and only managed to visit home once in a while and then flew back overseas. Concerning his vision for the town, he said he was going to rule the people from abroad and replace Lagoon’s rich cultural heritage with that of the western world. Upon hearing this, the kingmakers laughed him to scorn and immediately disqualified him. The next in line was Prince Walker, the second son of the late king. He was able to give an accurate history of Lagoon town and also described the town accurately. But concerning his vision for the people, he said he will return all the properties his late father took from their enemies back to them as a way to make peace with those towns. Then all the kingmakers laughed again and disqualified him. At this point, everyone had given up, though they knew that one person was still left but what can a blind man see when even those who had their sights could see nothing? However, they proceeded to interview the blind Prince Johnson just to fulfill all righteousness, but they started changing their minds when Prince Johnson started giving the history of Lagoon town and also described the town and everything in it beyond the normal. His understanding of the town and everything about it was exceptional and the wisdom he exhibited was top-notch. No one believed he was blind. He proved that he knew the town even more than those who had seen it physically, however, he only saw it through his mind! Finally, when asked about his vision for Lagoon town, he behaved like a wise man by simply saying the opposite of the things his brothers had said that disqualified them. He started by promising to live fully in Lagoon town and work with able-bodied men to carry out the things he had in mind which were to improve Lagoon’s rich cultural heritage and make it among the best in the world and to fight all the remaining enemies of Lagoon town just like his late father did, and to bring home even more properties than his father brought to the town. These sayings pleased the kingmakers, this was certainly what they wanted to hear. They were most impressed by blind Prince Johnson’s boldness which showed that he was brave, as well as the deep wisdom that accompanied his words. He never spoke like he was blind and the manner with which he spoke was evidential that he could see, irrespective of where he was seeing from. So the kingmakers straight away took late King Warrior’s crown and placed it on blind Prince Johnson’s head, together with the king’s robe and beads, and crowned him the new king of Lagoon kingdom! They also gave an order that no one should refer to him anymore as being blind rather, he should be referred to as ‘The Visionary King of Lagoon!’ The entire town was already waiting outside with shouts of jubilation and all manner of musical instruments, singing and dancing as they waited for their new king to be presented to them. The celebration increased greatly when King Johnson stepped out majestically to see his people. They all went and bowed before the king and the king cheerfully received their accolades. * In less than two years of reigning in Lagoon, King Johnson succeeded in bringing the picture of Lagoon which he had in mind to reality, and it turned out to be that the picture he had in mind was far more beautiful and excellent than what Lagoon looked like before he became king. He sent and cut down the trees and bushes which surrounded the town and made it look primitive. Then he created new roads in some parts of the town, planted beautiful flowers everywhere, and reconstructed the markets in the town. He trained thousands of warriors who fought and conquered all their enemies and brought back their enemies as slaves, together with their cattle, silver, gold, and farm produce. These slaves were used to till the ground and plant all manner of crops in large farmlands across Lagoon town. In a short while, Lagoon was known as one of the greatest exporters of agricultural products in the area. They were also respected for their highly trained intelligent and brave warriors who never lost a battle and who have left all their enemies and neighbors alike in deep fear. At this point, it was very clear that King Johnson had positively transformed Lagoon beyond recognition. This transformation drew the attention of the government to the town. The government built modern schools, hospitals, companies, and firms in the town and other investors also came and invested in Lagoon. If only King Johnson’s eyes had opened even if it was for a minute to see what his mind had done! However, there was no need for his eyes to open because his mind was already open and had seen everything his eyes should see and God had helped him to achieve them. * On the day the government was to commission the projects, the governor expressed shock over the rapid development that took place in the town since the emergence of King Johnson as king of Lagoon, he further stated that he was most surprised by the fact that King Johnson was physical blind and was expected to underperform but rather, he did more exploits than all the previous kings of Lagoon who all had their physical sights. He, therefore, noted that physical blindness is better than mental blindness because, those who are physically blind can still see, but those whose minds are blind are blind indeed! King Johnson was given an award of excellence by the government and he ruled Lagoon for many years and did more exploits to the amazement of all the people.

They hadn’t really spoken in years beyond the neutral, ‘Pass the butter?’ or ‘Seen the remote?’ You know, just the facts, Ma’am. Remote indeed. Imagined slights had met stern challenges and the marriage slid downhill from there. The smoldering tangle of ancient wounds and recriminations defied restoration to simple civility. An un-squelched, unashamed sharing of thoughts and opinions could not happen. A guarded truce remained. Gone were the days of affectionate banter. Oh, for a wry story or an ironic observation. Over years, unresolved anger and long term resentment had calcified into unmoving trench warfare. Who knew faces could actually freeze like that? It defied belief they’d raised two more-or-less sane kids to adulthood. At this late date, attempts to ‘have it out’ threatened to dredge up remains of battles best left submerged. Neither remembered how or why it turned sour. They’d found a balance. Maybe not a happy one, but it worked for the most part. The calendar’s pages kept turning. It hadn’t always been so. They’d had fun. They’d played. Had Bill pulled away? Had he wearied of feeling rejected? Had Angie sought other’s affections after sensing his disinterest? That no longer mattered. Thankfully, the slog from morning coffee to lights out had replaced those exhausting early struggles for ‘who’s on first.’ Each carried wounds. Each bore scarred emotional. Each elected for less drama over risking the shards of peace talks gone south. And, after all, they knew each other. Does anyone expect that the new face with better moves doesn’t also wield a mean right hook? ~ They rode to the airport in pre-dawn silence. Safety motivated the silence that ruled their lives. Why was she was going? It was expected. She hated flying. He knew that. It wouldn’t look right, her not being at his work conference. So there she would be. When he announced the trip, he said she’d have her time. He’d be busy. He wouldn’t be in her way. As if ‘her way’ was the consideration. She would show her face and withdraw, presumably to socialize with the other wives. Did the other wives live lives like hers? Surely, the husbands, like interchangeable Lego blocks, shared much in common. At the airport, Bill parked the car and pulled the carry-ons from the trunk. He preceded her through security. Angie found him reading the paper in an end seat at the terminal. She parked herself near-by. They were early. They didn’t talk. She left. He paid no mind. Shops were opening. Magazines begged for attention. Coffee beckoned. It would be a long flight strapped in a seat. She needed to walk. At the kiosk, ahead of her, a family offered a peek into another life. The youngsters made random orbits around their parents who bantered the nutritional advantages of pumpkin-spice vs. caramel flavored coffee. It felt like a bad Hallmark TV movie. Yet Angie didn’t think they were acting. Angie ordered hers black with a splash of half-n-half. Cappuccino for Bill. The line crept. What if they boarded before she returned? Would he notice? Or wait? Carrying her coffees she headed back to the terminal where Bill read his paper. Feeling overwhelmed, she sat and watched the steady stream of travelers pass. ‘ Just for a moment ,’ she thought. ‘ Where does everyone go in such a rush? ’ She realized they actually knew their destinations. She was the clueless one. She couldn’t fathom how she got there today. Not to the airport, but her whole life. Had she sleep-walked for the last twenty years? And awakened to this? She returned to the terminal. When she handed Bill his coffee, he smiled. “Thanks, Ange. I thought you’d flown the coop.” “And here I doubted you even knew I’d left.” “Oh, I know. I always know.” They got in line for boarding. Bill sipped coffee and stared in silence. Angie wondered that so many can be herded through hours of mind-numbing tedium with nary a peep of protest. “It astounds me how millions of travelers actually reach their destinations. They munch handfuls of pills to quell their anxiety, so they can spend hours in line after line. All to strap themselves into sardine cans for hours more.” Bill murmured a vague agreement. She continued, “It’s insane to worry. I’m sick of it.” Bill stowed the carry-ons overhead. They steeled themselves for the long flight. The commotion died and everyone found their seats. The plane taxied onto the tarmac. Announcements were made. Soon, they were airborne. The flight went as expected. Bill watched the clouds drift by. Passengers distracted themselves with snacks or videos. No place for the claustrophobic. Angie dozed. Turbulence jarred Angie out of her stupor. Bill noticed her stirring. “Point of no return...” “What?” “Terminology... We’re closer to our destination than to the starting point.” She tried to make sense of this. ‘ What an ominous name for such a mundane concept. ’ She looked about. A stewardess made her way down the aisle collecting trash. Another jolt sent the stewardess into passenger’s laps. Screams erupted. A sickening groan from the fuselage matched the yaw in the plane’s axis. More screams. A passenger sailed over heads, hit the bulkhead and fell. Lights flickered into darkness. More screams. Oxygen masks dangled. The Captain’s voice on the intercom broke up in static. Chaos bred chaos. The plane shook like it would come apart. Lights flickered. Now smoke. No place to hide. The plane leveled. The vibration subsided. The lights returned. The intercom crackled. Groans replaced screams. A baby squalled. Angie grabbed him. Their eyes met. She’d never seen him afraid. Shouting through the hysteria, she gestured. “You called it, Bill. No turning back. Don’t leave me alone. Cling to me. Not the past. Share the future we have... seconds? Minutes? Can we do that? This is us. Here and now. Be kind. Be kind! Our lives depend on this. Reclaim us. Each moment is lost. But we’re not lost. We’re together.” She lost her voice. Bill looked at her tenderly. “Of course.” She rasped, “Promise?” He covered her hand with his and nodded. Things were calming. The smoke began clearing. She looked about in amazement. Would they be okay? A smatter of applause passed through the cabin. She leaned in. “I swear Bill, if you go back on your word, I’ll see you in hell.” He looked her in the eye and said, “Not if I see you first.” They fell into embrace, laughing until tears flowed and kissed as if it were their first.

Mission Control looks just like it does in the movies. Lines of desks aimed at giant screens, scores of scientists and engineers chatting excitedly in front of their own smaller monitors. Across the room from me, Carlo Costa leads a gaggle of excited VIPs from workstation to workstation, waxing lyrical about the Nautilus Probe and the billions of dollars he’s spent on all this. ‘Remember, Darsha,’ my boss whispers in my ear, ‘we need the pH and any dissolved minerals as soon as the raw data arrives.’ It’s the fourth time he’s reminded me in as many minutes. ‘Got it,’ I answer, not quite managing to keep the irritation from my voice. I was brought in two days ago to replace an oceanographer Costa fired and my boss is still terrified I’ll screw up. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please.’ Mission Control falls silent as Costa speaks from the centre of the room. ‘We didn’t find evidence of life on Mars,’ he begins, in what is clearly his big rehearsed moment, ‘but Saturn’s moon Enceladus and its subterranean ocean was the next best bet. ‘And so it became my dream to go there and see what we might discover, and that dream is about to become a reality. We should receive the Nautilus Probe’s transmission any moment now, and then we will make history as the first humans to ever peer into the depths of an alien ocean.’ A round of jubilant applause follows, even the trio of stoic military guys in the corner clap. As the applause dies down, all attention turns to the biggest screen at the front of the room. There are audible gasps as the word *Searching...* turns to *Receiving Data,* and then excited yelps as a shaky image forms. I see the tech guys at the front of the room working furiously to clean it up. ‘That’s the view from the Nautilus’s camera,’ Costa exclaims, as the image sharpens. ‘It’s filming the bottom of the borehole, it should leave the ice and descend into the ocean any second now.’ A few moments, a lot of bubbles and the Nautilus Probe is finally submerged. Slowly, it moves through the water, filming everything its searchlight illuminates. The first one is a shadow, a murky shape in the water at the extreme of the camera’s reach. No one dares speak as the Nautilus inches towards the object, but all that changes once its searchlight illuminates her pale, contorted face. A woman’s face. A human woman wearing a flowery summer dress. ‘What the hell?’ one of the VIPs beside Costa cries. ‘Look,’ someone else shouts, ‘there are more.’ And he’s right. The probe’s camera is panning now, and there are others; men, more women, even children. All of them floating lifelessly in an alien ocean 750 million miles away. ‘Is this some kind of sick joke, Costa?’ a musclebound VIP demands. For once, Costa is speechless. None of the scientists know what to do either, most of them are just staring open-mouthed at the screen. ‘Look at that one,’ one of the tech guys shouts. The probe’s camera has taken aim at a man. A man wearing a tunic, cloak and sword belt. If it wasn’t so utterly impossible, I’d say I was looking at a dead Roman soldier. ‘Cut the feed!’ The three military guys are storming towards the middle of the room. ‘Cut the feed now!’ The screen goes black as the trio reaches Costa. ‘I’m General Fraser,’ the oldest of the trio announces, ‘and I’m retroactively declaring everything you all witnessed on that screen as Strictly Confidential.’ ‘But ... the media,’ a shell-shocked Costa manages to whimper, ‘they’re waiting to see what the Nautilus filmed.’ Before he answers, General Fraser nods to one of his subordinates. The younger man heads towards the door. ‘The press will be informed that the mission failed due to technical difficulties,’ Fraser declares to the room at large. Then he says something about risking nationwide hysteria to Costa, shutting him up. As Fraser speaks, I notice his subordinate take up a position by the door. He’s blocking it. Blocking it so we can’t get out and tell anyone what we saw. Before I really know what I’m doing, I stand. ‘People need to be made aware of this discovery, General Fraser,’ I contest, my boss looking horrified below me. ‘Surely you can’t be insinuating that we cover it up?’ ‘Young lady,’ Fraser responds, ‘please return to your seat. This is now a matter of national security.’ ‘What we just saw goes way beyond one nation,’ I say. ‘Everyone on the planet needs to know about this.’ ‘She’s right,’ a VIP I recognise as a TV talk show host says. ‘I started out as a journalist, there’s no way I can sit on something like this.’ ‘May I remind you all,’ General Fraser booms, over the growing murmur of the room, ‘that you all signed a legally-binding agreement. It explicitly prohibits--’ ‘Screw some piece of paper,’ I snap, as I sense the room beginning to side with me, ‘the world needs to know that there are a bunch of dead people floating around in an ocean humans have supposedly never visited before. However this happened, it changes everything.’ ‘The girl’s right,’ the TV host says. ‘I’m calling my old newsroom right now.’ As she pulls her phone from her pocket, General Fraser nods at his other subordinate, the one still standing beside him. In an instant, he unholsters his sidearm and puts a bullet in the TV host’s head. Her body crumples to the floor and the room is stunned into silence. ‘Anybody else keen to speak to the media?’ the general asks.

“So close. So fucking close.” Jerry looks up at me. “We’ve talked about this, Lucy.” He sighs. “Right,” I chuckle. He picks up a cigarette and twirls it between his fingers. “We should have known the second they come up with this contraption,” Jerry says evenly. “What? That was a masterpiece!” I exclaim,” They took their already short life and made it even shorter!” “Of course that would make you happy,” Jerry sighs. I wheel my creaky chair over to him. “I’m sorry for suggesting the plague.” Jerry’s eyes bore into mine. Finally, he makes a sort of half-smile. “It was a good idea. Can’t expect it to work too many times though.” Jerry and I are something of an enigma. We had to have come from somewhere; but the truth is, neither of us remembers. I guess we’ve just been around too long. The first thing I remember is watching our ball of dirt get hit by another ball of dirt to break off a third ball of dirt. All we know is we don’t want to be alone. You have no idea how hard it was, watching this dull globe rotate around a glowing globe for eons. Sometimes, we wandered on the surface of the desolate planet, just to break the monotony. One particularly gloomy day on the shores of a long-forgotten ocean, Jerry had a stroke of genius. “You might like this,” he told me. Then he sent a lightning bolt to hit a tide pool. I burst out laughing. “How’s that any better than the meteor shower two rotations ago that didn’t even have the decency to hit us?” Jerry sighed. “You’ll be eating your words soon.” And eat them I did. Only later did I realize that Jerry, my soft-spoken, stoic complement in this dark void, had created life. He’d given us companions and, more importantly, hope. Or at least a way to make some. The first organisms we coaxed out of Jerry’s organic tide pool were little more than moving dust. Slowly, we helped them join together and work as one, and before long we had our very own aquarium. Satisfied, we sat back and watched our planet ripple with life. Jerry looked over at me, amused. “Now we have pets.” For a while, it was captivating to see our creations roam around their cage until the sweet release of death. But, eventually, we grew bored with these creatures. Spending their days eating and making more creatures, they were no better than the dust they came from. What does it matter if they choose to eat and procreate? Debris still absorbs other debris and makes new debris. I rapped my fingers on the railing, falling ever deeper into the abyss of loneliness. We had hoped for a cure, but hope is a fickle creature. What little purpose it gives, it can easily take away. Leaving you with nothing but the memory of better times. “Jerry, can we try again?” He looked over at me questioningly. “We can do better than this,” I stated, gesturing towards our creatures. “What’s the use?” Jerry sighed, exasperated. “It’s not like we can make another one of us.” “How do you know, Jerry? Maybe we just haven’t tried hard enough. Maybe we’re just one step away from our salvation?” He shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Not much else to do here anyway. Let’s go evolve some sea creatures.” And so the dinosaurs began to walk our world. Oh, how I loved our creations. Sure they had the same flaws as their ancestors, but they felt alive. Looking into their eyes was like looking into Jerry’s. They had emotions and desires, playing and fighting just as we did. Finally, I felt we had made something real. But even then, I felt boredom encroaching on me. Our scaly companions did the same thing over and over. They didn’t seem to live like we did. What was it that made us different? Made us want to have something more? I stood up. “I’m done,” I growled. Grabbing the nearest chunk of space flotsam, I sent it hurtling down. “NO!” Jerry cried out. But the crater had already appeared on the surface. Jerry grabbed my shoulders and shook me hard. “What did you do! We spent ages building our world!” I shoved him away. “And for what! So you can feel important? Feel like you did something good for us?” I pointed at the dying planet. “That was nothing to us. Nothing. We’ve been lying to ourselves.” At that moment, I saw fire in Jerry’s eyes, harsher than the burning world below us. “You might be lying to yourself. But I still hope for better.” He left me there, watching the fires burn out. He didn’t come back. But the planet refused to die. The skies eventually cleared of smoke. Seedlings sprouted from the ashes. Eventually, I even saw small mammals, curious creatures Jerry and I had left to their own devices, scamper through the saplings. I saw Jerry playing with them, tossing sticks and feeding berries. They looked happy. Somehow, I had an inkling that they enjoyed living. Something about them felt different. At that moment, I saw fire. I felt such hatred for these mammals. Why? I thought to myself. I shook my head and growled. I don't care why. I remembered playing around with ice in my early days, a pastime of mine in the days before life. Reaching into my rage, I covered Jerry’s precious land in ice. But Jerry didn’t budge. Furry mammals began to roam the world, defying the freezing curse. I countered by sending relatives of our first creation, vile specks I liked to call disease. But even then, Jerry’s animals thrived. And back and forth we went, killing, creating, killing, creating, killing, creating, until one day Jerry came to me carrying two wooden containers. He sat down in front of me. “Please sit.” I snorted and began to leave. “Please, Lucy.” I heard something in his voice, something that made me want to stay. I sat down. “What do you want, Jerry?” He offered me one of his boxes, which was filled with frozen slush. “I call it ice cream. Try it, it’s good.” I took his offering. “So is this why you’re here? You found a new recipe?” He smiled, infuriatingly happy and at ease. “It’s made of one of my plants, an iris flower.” I stabbed at the ice cream. To my surprise, it tasted amazing. “This isn’t bad,” I grudgingly admitted. Jerry smiled, bringing a spoonful to his mouth. For a while, we ate in silence. I set down his gift, polished clean. “Just to be clear, I’m not stopping because of your frozen flower stuff.” He laughed, a pure sound I hadn't heard in centuries. “That’s not why I’m here.” “Then why are you here?” He pursed his lips. “Lucy, how do you think your antics are affecting this planet?” “I imagine they’re causing you a lot of trouble.” Jerry grinned, leaning back on his hands. “Actually, it’s kind of helping me.” I stared at him, utterly confused. Jerry laughed. “You are definitely troublesome. Yet, I’ve found your disasters to be quite useful in ironing out the kinks.” “What do you mean?” “Well, every calamity kills many, that’s true. But, that’s taught me to create variety. Then I find the best traits and incorporate that in my work.” “So I’ve been... helping you?” Jerry stood up. “That’s why I’m here. I’ve been working on this species. They’re incredible, solving problems like nothing I’ve seen before. They even look like us. I need you to help me make them better. They have potential, I can feel it. Will you join me?” He extended his hand out. I slapped it away. “Are you joking? Why would I help you? I hate your creatures. Insignificant and useless, all of them. You can’t possibly believe you’re doing any good for us. At the end of the day, they’re false hope. Can’t you see how bad it is to cling to hope when it's so clearly hurting you?” He put his hand on my shoulder. “I know you. You’re lonely. I’m lonely too. But, I really believe in them. Why are you resigned to be alone? We can do it, you and I. I know we can. Just give this a chance.” I felt that emotion again in his voice. The one that made my eyes water. Hope, I realized. How did he still hope? I remembered feeling hope for the first time, staring at that tide pool long ago. That hope had turned to anger and rage during my deadly game with Jerry. But, I began to feel that rush, that passion again. His hope was infectious. And so began the story of humanity. Jerry and I had a grand time with this species. Boredom was a thing of the past. Before long, we had created societies, filled with humans going about their existence with just as much vigor as us. We walked among them, loving every moment of our creation. Humanity held the rage we felt. They fought viciously, like Jerry and I. Every once in a while, the humans needed a check. That's where I came in. I sent every manner of disaster: plague, earthquakes, drought. Jerry took the pieces and put them back together better than ever. We didn’t always succeed in our goals, but humanity had a way of adapting to anything. Maybe that came from us too. Which brings us back to the present, looking down on a slowly self-destructing world. It looked like humanity was on its last legs. I sigh. “We may have to start over.” Jerry shakes his head. “No, they’ll be fine. We have to hope,” he says, his voice trembling. It’s incredible that Jerry and I still held out hope in our pathetic creatures. We’d watched them commit unspeakably heinous atrocities and impossibly shortsighted blunders. But, then again, in this bleak void what else is there but hope? I tried filling it with hatred, but hope seemed to be the only thing that works. “It seems that's all we live for. Hope. Hope for a better future. In all the time we’ve lived, the only constant has been hope.” Jerry’s lips quiver. “I can’t,” he says shakily, “I just can’t hope anymore.” I turn to him. “Jerry, I didn’t mean it like that-” “Then what did you mean!” He yells. “Jerry don’t-” “Even humans know it! Existence is suffering... oh Siddhartha, my child, you don't know the half of it.” Crying, he looks up at me. “Who are we to inflict the suffering of existence?” “Jerry-” “Why do you think so many take their own lives? They feel the void eating away at them. Loneliness and pain, that’s all there is. Humans think their creators are gods, but we’re just as human.” “Jerry that’s enough. Was this suffering? Making humanity, making life?” He just looks at me, hopelessness filling his eyes as his tears trickle out. “Jerry, we’re alive. Before all this, we were just existing. You’re right, that’s suffering. When all that exists is the void, there’s nothing but suffering. But we made something out of the void. We don’t just exist. We choose to live. We choose to hope.” He closes his eyes, tears spilling between his eyelids. “Our precious humans know this too. They make their own existence worth living. They hope for a better future, and then try their damndest to make it so.” His tears do not stop. “Do you know what makes our humans different from the floating dust we started with? It's the desire for more. The desire to do more than just exist. They choose to hope for more. I need you to do the same” I took his head in my hands. “We don’t just exist. We live,” I repeat, “We hope. Don't give up on them just yet.” His eyes finally open, cloudy with moisture. Wiping away his tears, he looks me in the eyes. He smiles slowly at me, like he was trying for the first time. “Alright then. Thank you. Lets try this again.

The afternoon was fresh and dry. A new smell of vitality and growth seeped from the forest around him. It was a very welcome change from the week of rain that Fred and Wylma had endured. A week of persistent drizzle that soaked to the bone and gave no chances to dry anything out. Everything he owned was in various states of saturation. Bitter experience had taught Fred to protect at all cost his sleeping bag, but it had also succumbed to the persistent rain and now felt clammy to the touch. Of course Wylma, his 2 wheeled companion, his accomplice on this around the world epic, did not care a wit. The leaden sky continued to threaten rain, but optimistically Fred laid out a pair of socks and two pairs of underwear on top of his panniers in the hopes of drying them in the last kilometres before finally making camp. It was the first chance to do so in what felt like an eternity. The cool wind cooperated, but made Fred shiver with each gust, eventually compelling him to fish out his windbreaker. Summer in Scandinavia was not for the warm blooded. The trail Fred was following was not often used. The grass in the wheel ruts, and lack of any fresh tire tracks made that obvious. He guessed he could camp anywhere here without being discovered. Just as he began to scope out potential camping spots, a single trail split off from this path. He spontaneously took it. The trail wound invitingly amongst the trees deeper into the forest. Suddenly it ended at a small clearing at the foot of a low cliff. The cliff faced east and was blanketed in shadowy secrecy. The forest obscured most of it’s face, but Fred could vaguely make out a darker patch on the rock wall. Now off the bike, he scoped out the site more carefully. The clearing was muddy and wet making Fred ruefully expect yet another night on sloppy ground. As if clairvoyant, the clouds began to release their first tiny drops of rain again. We're going to have a wet night again, he thought. Fred turned his attention to the cliff. Perhaps an overhang may offer some respite. This is when Fred discovered the cave mouth in the cliff wall. Hardly much higher than Fred was tall, but wide enough to drive a car through, the cave promised a night of respite from the rain. For all his bushcraft skills, he didn't know much about caves. This gave him pause. As if embittered by his discovery, the clouds redoubled their efforts and the rain became more substantial. Fred pulled Wylma, and his now wet laundry into the darkness of the cave. The darkness was oppressive till Fred donned his head lamp. The vestibule of the cave offered an ideal space to camp with level ground and space enough for a small fire. But the rear of the cave vanished into murky darkness that the torch could not penetrate. Fred let out a yelp as a casual call to any other occupants. The sound slowly echoed back to him from the bowels of the earth, hinting at the cave’s unseen depths. A tingle of trepidation ran down Fred’s spine. He put the darker thoughts from his mind as he set up for the night. Fred was proud of his own self reliance and fortitude. That pack of hungry Hyenas in Senegal, nor the visit from a curious lion in Tanzania were sufficient to perturb him, so he was adamant a mysterious cave in Finland was not going to get under his skin. He set up a clothes drying line between his tent and Wylma near the warmth of the fire. Soaking socks, wet underwear and a saturated fleece got prime sites near the heat. Once Fred was satisfied with the setup, he ventured out to collect more dead wood for the fire. Now back and settled in, he admired the camp which was ideal despite the slight smokiness. He sat back to begin dinner. As he peeled an onion, Fred noticed the dancing flames were being played by a faint breeze. Air was being sucked into the cave ever so gently. The smokiness somewhat dissipated, but it stirred his dark imagination again. He pushed the congealing dread out of his mind. He came up with a dozen logical explanations to mollify his imagination. The breeze intensified culminating in a short gust, accompanied by a deep rumble emanating from somewhere deep underground - then stillness. Again Fred paused and struggled for calm. After a few silent minutes he resumed his meal preparations. Fred had become quite the camp gourmet. Tonight his favourite tuna mornay was on the menu, with the obligatory surprise ingredient, usually whatever came to hand on the road, this time it was some delicious mushrooms he found in the forest that morning. Now sated, he sat back and lit a cigarette. This was the only vice he carried with him from his previous life. A solitary cigarette, as a desert of sorts, he told himself. Sitting in the stillness, Fred noticed the floating smoke emanating from his lit cigarette was heading for the cave opening. It was too faint to detect otherwise but just as his thought concluded, he could then feel the breeze, ever so gentle. It carried a strange odour. Both earthy and rancid. Not enough to be intolerable, but unpleasant nonetheless. The dying flames of the campfire were now being whipped up by the rapidly strengthening draft. Fred’s tent and laundry now whipped about in it. He began to collect the washing up from his dinner as the wind became a gale whistling toward the cave mouth. Fred’s clothes were now off the line and the tent pitched upward catching the draft. He tried to hold it all together till he lost his footing leaning into the powerful tempest. His tent and clothes were all now gone. Whisked away in a whirl of wind. Wylma was being sucked out as well while Fred hung on to the rock wall leaning against the tempest. The wind palpitated in strength a few times then vanished. He stood there panting from his excursions and beginning to take stock when the reversal began. The wind began to howl in through the cave opening and down into the dark unknown depths. Fred reversed his grip on his rock and held on for dear life. The gale kept intensifying. He could feel his grip starting to give and the power of the rushing air was magnifying. Fred’s hold finally gave way and he was sucked into the inky depths. *** Fred was sucked into the very earth. There was no chance to catch a handhold to arrest his progress. There was no fighting the sheer power and violence of the moving air as it dragged him deeper. The whirlwind began to lose its potency as Fred managed to grab onto a protuberance. His hand had found a hold but it was not solid rock, it was more like hard rubber coated with slime. He didn't have a great purchase on it, but soon the wind completely vanished. Fred was bracing for another reversal but it did not come. The odour was stronger here and the air was warmer and more humid. Fred stood up and thanked his luck when he found the headlamp hanging around his neck. Now he could see, but what he saw shocked him. The cave was close to round in shape. The walls were covered in lumps and pustules all covered with wet slime of various colours. Some were oozing yet more ugly goo. Fred knew from whence he had come but after some steps, the tunnel had split off in wildly different directions. There was no way to be sure of the path out. This is when he noticed the first oddity. The ground was not solid. It felt underfoot like the canvas of a boxing ring. Fred checked his pockets. Half a packet of cigarettes, a lighter, and his spoon is all he had. There was nothing he could use to mark his path. A curiosity took him and before he thought it through, he scraped the wall with his spoon. The surface gave way like the skin of an overripe peach exposing a gelatinous body laced with white stringy chords and muddy red tissue. The momentary calm was broken when the entire tunnel shuddered, then the air began moving rapidly inward again. Fred threw himself to the ground, searching for purchase in preparation for the next tempest. It did not come though. It was at this point that he noticed the pain. The palms of his hands began to tingle uncomfortably. He wiped them on his pants but the irritation intensified. A similar hot stinging sensation was beginning to spread on one side of his neck. Fred felt the skin and noticed it was covered with the mucus. He began rubbing it off with a mild panic as the pain gradually grew. He began to walk. He took the left tunnel, then the right, then left again, then he stopped. It all looked the same. Fred admitted to himself that he was thoroughly lost down here. After a few minutes of wandering the familiar breeze reappeared. He braced himself again but it was not as turbulent as before. He kept moving. Moving felt like progress, no matter the direction. An ominous theory began to germinate in his mind about the nature of this cave. All his logic told him that he had somehow found himself inside something that,... is alive. With each passing step, he saw things that corroborated his theory till he could no longer think of any other plausible explanation. The paths he took all seemed to go downwards. Even when he backtracked, that sensation of descending remained. It all added to his disquiet. The slime had worked its way onto his flip flops caking his soles and making each step treacherous. He took a tunnel which suddenly dropped precipitously. Fred slipped and slid a long way down the bumpy slick tunnel till it levelled out again. It proved impossible to climb back up that tunnel. His panic was bubbling, but still contained. On he went, deeper and deeper. The tunnel opened into a chamber not much larger than a garage. It was shaped like a bubble with a puddle of gunk collected in the bottom. The surface pulsated in slow motion. It was at this point Fred became certain about his theory, He was inside some terrestrial leviathan. A dark despondence descended upon him. A sense that he may not live to tell this tale. The air was hard to breathe here. Heavy, and wet. Fred suddenly felt very tired and slumped down against the sticky wall and concentrated on taking some deep inhalations, but no matter how he tried, he could not catch a satisfying breath. A funk descended upon him fogging his mind, thickening, until he was no longer sure of where he was. *** Huge powerful limbs, too many to count, grasped, tugged and pushed at the earth, the rock, and the roots all around him. He slid his body through the sticky wet ground. It offered a strange resistance. He was not tunnelling in the earth, but rather moving through it, or it moved through him. A very strange sensation. He stopped. Quiet. A dim low rumbled modulated from somewhere far away. An earthquake, or a movement of a large mass. Grinding over rock and rubble. But there was meaning in the sound. “Ayagom, I feel you”. Fred knew what the sound meant but he did not know how he knew. He drew into himself and shuddered. A strange pattern of rumbling sounds emanate from him. “Ugora, my friend, I hear you” Fred answered, but without intention. Did I say that? he thought to himself As happens in those rare moments when you become aware you are dreaming, Fred knew he had somehow become psychically absorbed by some other entity. An immensely old being. He could sense a memory spanning back millennia and more. Spans too fantastic to comprehend. Back to the age of the scaled monsters, and warm oceans. Ugora was close by, by Ayagoms reckoning anyway, but this was still hundreds of kilometres away. Fred did not like it. Not one bit at all. He was powerless, but conscious. Looking upward, but not with eyes, he saw a low canopy of tangled roots from countless trees spreading out in all directions. Pulsing and communicating. A hum of intelligent exchange, like a busy Chinese restaurant. Moods and emotions, both brilliant and bleak in constant flux. He was under this cobweb ceiling, in a serene cocoon of dirt. This was not Fred’s world and he knew he had to fight to return to his own, but he lacked the vitality to act. I need to wake up from this , he said to his dreaming self. He tried to move, but he was just a silent passenger enveloped by this colossus. He tried again and felt a tear in his mind. A rend that he now pushed against. He felt a slow disorienting topple ending with a suffocating sensation. *** This brought Fred back. He was lying face down at the bottom of the chamber now, drowning in the slime. He jerked his head back and spat out the goo and gasped for air. He strained at the lack of oxygen, and fought back the drowsiness. He then reached into his pocket, drew out the spoon and with the sharp end, stabbed the floor, over and over again. The membrane gave way and the shank sunk deep into the flesh with satisfaction. The tunnel shuddered, and a gust picked up threatening violence again. The air freshened and Fred finally got a gratifying breath into his lungs. Immediately energised he stumbled up toward the chamber entrance, Fred was out of the now strengthening wind and noticed the chamber expanding. The wind tapered off and the chamber could grow no larger. Fred chose his moment and stepped out of its entrance into the main tunnel and braced himself. The reversal was shockingly powerful. It hit him like a solid thing. Fred became immediately airborne flying through the tubes, bumping and skidding off the sides. The speed was terrific. He slid past a section of the cave wall that was now harder and sharper. Then with a loud popping sound he exited the cave mouth and flew through cool night air, clipping a branch and finally landing heavily in a muddy puddle. He was in the clearing outside the cave now. The sky was showing the first light of dawn but the rain still held sway. In the dying light of his headlamp, Fred spotted his tent tangled in some bushes and Wylma caught in a tree branch. Other debris from his campsite littered the immediate area. On hands and knees, he turned and looked at the cliff face. In the steady rain, it was just a black band, and black backdrop behind the forest cover, preventing the first rays of dawn to penetrate. Fred’s disorientation was dissipating at the same time the burning sting on his face, neck, arms and feet reasserted itself. He wiped at the sticky gelatinous gunk with muddy waters but it resisted his efforts reminding him of slug slime. He looked down at his hands that were covered in it and saw the skin had turned a very dark colour. He pushed an enquiring finger of one hand through the slime to the skin of the back of his other hand. It was rough, and hard. Like... rock! Something was growing on him. He studied his hands again and with concern and noticed his fingers lengthening, in fact his hands were growing. Still on all fours, He looked down and the ground was moving away from him. The trees and bushes were shrinking. Wylma, still stuck in the tree, was now at the scale of a toy. The ground under his knees and hands felt soft and spongy. He picked up a clump and squeezed. The earth melded with him, some of it leaking out from between hard unyielding claws. His fingernails now looked like power shovel buckets. With childish curiosity, he scooped out a hole in the wet earth the size of a refrigerator, and held it aloft effortlessly. He dropped it and then with fingers extended like a spike, he drove his arm into the earth. His arm descended into the ground with a delightful satisfaction. The dawn was brightening, Fred could seem more of the cliff face, and the cave entrance. But this was no cliff, this was Ayagom, the resolute. One of the great Mokit. Stewards of this planet. Slayers of the Gkruts, the destroyers of life. Fred was surprised by the overwhelming feeling he now felt - it was pride. Fred then realised Ayagom was speaking to him: “Ufrot, you are me. I am you, join us.” At this, Fred looked at the earth under him in a new light. A light of comprehension. He then noticed a buzzing hum of background chatter. It was like hearing a poolside conversation while submerged underwater. Fred knew what he must do next. His arm was still buried. He balled his fist, taking a grip of the very earth itself and drove his head and other arm into the ground. His body slid fluently into the ground. He could now hear the conversations clearly and was gratified he was not alone. It was a gentle melodic ebb and flow of the Mokit hivemind. It was hypnotic. The turmoil and tribulations of life were now profoundly changed. Fred glanced one last time upward to see Wylma, alone, caught in the tree branch. He wondered if he would ever see her again. “I see you Ayagom!” Fred said, embracing his new reality.

“I can't do this anymore,” Carly said “I need to get out of this room. How do you people live in this heat? It ́s too bloody hot, it’s unbearable. 46c it says on my phone today. I swear I have never been this hot in my life. I can't breathe, I can't sleep. The sweat is pouring off me. Last night the aircon went off, there was a mosquito in the room - bastard bit me. I got up at 4am and had a cold shower - I still couldn't get back to sleep. I thought you lot had money, why am I in this shitty motel anyway, there are tons of swanky hotels on the Strip with decent aircon and room service?” Kevin looked across the room at Carly. “It ́s July, its Vegas what do you expect? We are in the desert. You get used to it. Just be glad you are not in Louisiana where I grew up. There it ́s 37c but 80% humidity. At least here the humidity is 10%, so cool when you get out of the sun. And in answer to your question. Hotels are dangerous. People see things. Most staff are on low wages, easy to bribe. Lots of entrances and exits. You've seen the movies where people dress up as maids and steal key cards. This is crappy but its anonymous, as long as you pay for the room no one bothers you. Anyway, we have one or two more days here and then that ́'s it.” “Where are we going then,” Carly said. “I don't know exactly, Petra is organising it. I should know tomorrow when she calls me.” Carly lay back on the bed and got out her phone. She was scrolling through it and he could hear music and laughter. Probably some stupid cat videos people were always sharing. Kevin tried not to think about Louisiana and his upbringing. As soon as he could he joined the police force and went to the big city. He hated the bayou and the small minded people in his town. Firstly, he worked in Baton Rouge and then, as a result of an exchange organised by the federal government, ended up in Washington - where he had been for 7 years. He loved the city. The drug busts and gang warfare didn’t faze him a bit. He liked putting bad guys behind bars, he felt like he was making a difference. Then he worked undercover. He liked that a lot. More flexible but more dangerous. These villains were off the scale. A stark contrast to Baton Rouge, where the villains were mostly good ol’ boys who had too many bottles of bud and decided to go out in an air boat on the bayou and shoot themselves a few gators for dinner. Sadly, a lot of the time they ended up as the meat, as they were so drunk they fell overboard, and the police had to pick up the pieces, literally. He smiled to himself at the memory, as Carly looked up from her phone and said: “I’m hungry, can we eat something?” “Sure, what do you fancy, - Italian, Asian. There is a great pizza place on the strip; they have a wood fired oven. I will go out.” “I’m so fed up being cooped up here; can I go with you, just this one time?” She pleaded. “Carly, you know that’s not possible, not yet, it ́s not much longer. Once you have the op you will have more freedom, but for now it’s not safe. They are out there and they know what you look like.” “I don’t want to have a nose job,” she said “My nose is fine just as it is, can’t I get an extension or something to change the shape without surgery.” “Because it works, changing your nose shape changes the rest of your face. You will be amazed what a new nose and new hair style can do. You will have a choice, the surgeon we use is very good, and he will listen to you.” “I’m scared,” she said, “what if it goes wrong, what if there are complications? I don't want to be sick and I don't want to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life!” He wanted to say, “Surely you thought this through before you did it. You knew it would be hard. These people don't just walk away. You are a target and they are after you. They have a lot of resources and a long reach. You may not make it.” But instead he said “I had a client once. He squealed on a Colombian cocaine gang. After surgery he was reborn in Toronto where he ran a small bookshop. A few years later we checked in on him. He was happy, smoking a pipe with a goatee beard looking very bookish. He had a wife and 3 children and the Colombians never had a clue. It ́s a big world out there, hiding is not that difficult.” He felt a pang of compassion for her. All alone in a strange country, running for her life. No one to trust - or at least she probably felt that way now, after what had happened in Florida. Petite and dark haired she was not his type, but she was vulnerable and it was his job to protect her. “Carly, I have been doing this for a while. It’s not a risky operation with a good surgeon and good aftercare. You will be out the same day. We will find you somewhere nice to recuperate, I promise.” “Petra said she had been doing it for a while also, and look what happened there.” “That’s why we are going down the surgery route. It will give you more freedom, more chance of making this a success.” “I don’t have a choice, do I?” she said, finally. “Pepperoni pizza it is then” he said, swiftly changing the subject. “Lock the door and don’t answer it for anybody. I will swing by reception also and report the aircon unit. You know where the gun is. Use it if you have to. I will phone you when I am standing outside.” She felt like saying she wasn’t hungry anymore but in an instant he was gone. # # # # # # # # The door slammed behind him and she ran to the curtains to watch him get in the car and drive off. Kevin was tall, with dark hair, broad shouldered with deep brown eyes. Even wearing jeans he didn’t look scruffy. He worked out, no doubt about it. You could see his chest muscles through the tight white t-shirt and his thigh muscles pushing through his jeans. The way he spoke, that southern drawl, was really sexy, and she was sure he must have had a hard time of it in Washington, where they would have viewed him as a hillbilly. Still, he had stuck it out for 7 years according to Petra. Must be good at his job. Maybe it wasn’t so bad being “babysat” by Kevin after all. Nothing in her life had turned out the way she had hoped it would. She had a good job that she enjoyed, with great career opportunities, until that fateful day. The future that she had planned out, career, family a couple of children, was now a melancholy memory. Her life had taken a different turn, now she had to take one day at a time. The previous episode in Florida had shaken everyone up. Petra was at a loss to know what had happened to blow her cover. The Feds concluded that someone working for the airline had tipped them off, no other explanation. She had been identified and followed. Investigations were ongoing, but meanwhile she was in Nevada, just south of Las Vegas trying to start her new life AGAIN! She switched on the tv and flicked channels until she found an old episode of “Colombo” the scruffy detective from the 70’s, who is actually a whizz at solving murders and bringing the bad guys to justice. The ads kicked in after only 5 minutes, just when you were getting in to the story - it was the same on every channel. She would just have to learn to live with it. So many things here were different, not just the tv. But, it was in her interest to adapt, and adapt she would, her life depended on it. Her phone rang. It was Kevin. “I’m outside, look through the curtains, then let me in.” She did that and saw him standing there with 2 enormous pizza boxes and a giant bottle of coca cola. She opened the door and closed it quickly. There was a draught of air; it was like someone had aimed a hairdryer at her. The pizzas smelt delicious, her hunger pangs returned. “You don't want to be out there. It ́s brutal. Worse bit is the heat wave is going to continue for a few more days. It's the hottest day of the year so far - we just have to hang in here!” There were beads of sweat on his forehead, he wiped them with the back of his hand. She watched him as he opened the boxes and brought out napkins. No cutlery, or plates, she forgot that Americans ate pizza right out of the box. He poured her a glass of coke with ice and sat back in the chair; looking right at her he scooped up an enormous slice and shoved it in his mouth. She watched him eating it. He managed not to spill a drop on his pristine white t-shirt, she knew she wouldn’t be able to do that. Especially when she was nervous. This was their third night together, their third meal. They were still sizing each other up, trying to establish boundaries. Her heartbeat had accelerated but she tried to keep calm and helped herself to a slice. It was pepperoni with slices of onion topped with paprika and chilli peppers. She didn’t want coca cola but drank it anyway. It was cool and took the heat away. She already had feelings for him and hated it. She didn’t want those feelings, especially not now. Not when her life was in utter chaos. They demolished the pizza. “So tell me,” he said, wiping his chin, still no stains on his t-shirt “why did you do it. Why testify, you didn’t need to, you could have just gotten on with your life?” “Didn't you read the file?” she said, picking up a bit of pizza with her fingers that had fallen into her lap and was making a greasy stain on her jeans. “It’s all there.” “Yes, but I wanted to hear it from you. They don't put everything in the file, what was your motivation for doing it?” She sighed. “At the time I was angry, I wasn’t thinking clearly. They out of the door with the jewellery trays but then one of them turned round and came back. We were all lying face down on the floor. He went over to Mr Cohen and shot him in the back of the head. He didn’t need to do that, they were escaping and it held them up, but he did it anyway. I looked up and he had taken off his hood so I saw his face. He didn’t need to kill him. It was so unfair. Mr Cohen was a good man - she started to sob - he gave me a break, I was training to be a jewellery designer, not just a shop assistant, he gave me a break. I decided then and there that they wouldn’t get away with it.” Kevin thought for a minute. “Was Cohen wearing a kippah, the small head cover that Jews wear?” “Yes, he always wore it, why?” “We think the shooter was a Palestinian who grew up in Beirut. Lebanese father American mother. He used to work for us but then he was turned. He works for terrorists now as a gun for hire. Mostly the PLO. The money from the heist would have gone to them.” “I thought it was odd that the FBI would be interested in a jewellery heist gone wrong in London. They were at Scotland Yard during my first interview.” “We had to neutralise him, he was becoming a real problem. He knew far too much. But these people are vicious and vengeful, but nothing we can't handle. What about your family, they must have had something to say?” “To be honest, I wasn't that close to my parents. My dad was dead so Cohen was a father figure, and my mum and I were always arguing, so no love lost there; but I will miss my brother and sister terribly, we were very close. They tried to talk me out of it, but I am stubborn I suppose and wouldn' ́t listen. I think they have some mad idea about coming to join me in the future, when things have settled down a bit.” “Won't happen, sorry. Don't get your hopes up. It's got to be a clean break.” He said. “I knew it would be hard and tried to visualise myself in my new life but it different when it happens, it’s much harder to come to terms with. Everything is so different now and I can never go back.” Her voice was starting to break. He put his hand on her shoulder to steady her as she was sobbing. He gave her his handkerchief and she made a lot of noise blowing her nose and wiping her eyes. “Coffee?” he said. She nodded. He grabbed the empty boxes and went into the kitchenette. “I got more ice, and more drinks. In the fridge if you need them. When I speak to Petra we will get the date for the surgery. We won’t be coming back to this motel after; we will go somewhere else, closer to Vegas. Everyone is having surgery in Vegas, you won't look out of place with a bandaged nose.” He tilted his head to one side and smiled at her. She couldn’t resist smiling back through her tears. “Oh and one other thing, we really have to work on that accent!” 2,397 words

We stepped off the boat and headed up the jetty towards the island. Immediately we saw two guards straight ahead. My feet stuck to the ground, the air chilling around my limbs. “What do we do?” I whispered. “Act calm. See what happens,” Alessia responded. We walked up to them, waiting to be questioned. However, as we passed they merely nodded and smiled. Now that we were on the island the restrictions of movement no longer applied. Instead, we were free to explore. We picked up our pace and scurried past the few rows of trees lest the guards change their passivity. We quickly found ourselves on a street lined with tall brick buildings on either side. Ahead of us, a few hundred metres away, we could see the prisoner being led through the town, the guards accompanying her. “We should keep our distance,” I said. “No shit.” Alessia rolled her eyes. We began slowly following them; our eyes pointed to the buildings around us, but the prisoner and the procession kept in our peripheral vision. “I thought you were against these little adventures anyway,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “I am when they’re just for fun. But, I don’t like being tricked, and I don’t want to go back to Runar without any idea of what they’re up to. We need to have something on him.” As we walked through the town, I was struck by how similar everything seemed to Tima Voreef. The elegant buildings with their large glass windows loomed over the street, the electric lights illuminating the gravel path below. I passed a building with a picture just like the ones I had seen affixed to the walls on Tima Voreef. A picture of a hand holding a spanner stood above bold red text. *Keep the wheels turning. Industry is vital for Ruthogrey Landfall.* Our walk felt like a dream. As though everything around us was just the smallest bit different, slightly out of place, and at any moment reality might shift back and we’d land back on Tima Voreef. I assumed during the day the streets would be as filled as they had been back on Tima Voreef. However, with the daylight gone, the bustle had left. Instead, pedestrians slowly wandered down the streets in ones or twos. Some enjoying a warmer than expected evening with a loved one, others slowly dragging their bodies home after pulling an extra long shift at whatever job they had. The street curved gently before opening out on a large square, where three wide streets met at a public courtyard - our own, one opposite, and one to our right. On the fourth side of the square, to my left, a lofty stone building stood watch over the three streets. The top and lowest floors of the building had windows, but between there was solid grey surface with a mural painted on top. Four electric lights, one at each corner, shone onto the mural. On it, was a painting of who I assumed to be Philomena Rubio, the president of Ruthogrey Landfall. In the corner of the mural, I could see the same signature that was on our paper. She gave a stern, maternal smile to the citizens in the courtyard. Long, blonde drapes fell down her back, contrasting her bronzed skin. Written next to her were the words “We will prosper from your efforts.” Even the murals contained an odd mirroring: Joan Moreno’s brown curls replaced with the golden straight lines of Philemona Rubio; a thank you for efforts made replaced with a thanks for efforts to come. But the ideas were the same. Alessia tapped me on the arm and nodded ahead. Off in the distance, the guards and prisoner stopped outside a large white building. Heavy wooden doors opened, and they stepped inside, disappearing from view. The doors shut once more, a thud echoing down the street. We could follow no further. We traced their route until we could see more of the building. It appeared to be some kind of a compound. Thick metal bars guarded the windows of the four-storey building. A wall at waist height ran along the roof, and I could see two guards observing the movements below. “Well, we’re not getting in there,” I said. Alyssia scrunched her face and looked around. She scanned her surroundings, until stopping on a building just before and opposite our target. It was an office block with glass windows stretching up four storeys. In the artificial streetlights, the building reflected back a stained version of the white compound. “Come on.” Alessia tugged on my arm. “I have an idea.” She pulled me towards the building, her quick footsteps scraping across the gravel road. She walked up to the door and pulled on the handle. It was locked. “You were planning on going in there?” I whispered, looking around in case anyone noticed us. “Uh huh,” she replied, reaching into her pocket, her hands held close by the handle. There was the muffled sound of the door jamming in the lock before the metal clicked and the entrance swung open. Alyssia walked through. “You coming?” I made one final check of our surroundings, before scampering after her inside. “You can pick locks?” “Not well. That lock’s more broken than picked now. But, I know a bit.” Alessia squinted in the gloom before heading for a staircase at the back of the building. “Where’d you pick that up?” I asked, struggling to keep her pace up the stairs. “My dad taught me when I was a teenager. Passed the time when bored on a boat.” “Any other skills I don’t know about yet?” “You’ll find out when you find out.” Alessia turned to face me, a wry smile on her lips before she disappeared up the next flight. As we climbed, less and less light penetrated the stairwell and we ascended into hastening dusk. As we reached the seventh flight of stairs, I could feel my thighs aching with each clamber. I had never been in a building as high as this one, and although I had walked up many hills, the steep ascent of the stairs quickly exhausted my energy. We reached the top floor and Alessia walked through to the front of the building. Grey light crept through the wide windows, giving just enough illumination for us to navigate our way past the desks and chairs to the exterior, where we could look out over the street. I moved hesitantly towards the window, before I remembered the view outside. Thanks to the bright electric lights, we could see out from the darkness, but those looking out at us could only see their own reflection. We were invisible. We watched for a while. On top, the two guards continued to half-heartedly monitor their surroundings. Occasionally, they stopped to walk along the top, cross paths, and stand where the other had been stationed. We waited, counting as the guards made their slow back-and-forth, lingering for some change in the pattern. Tired of standing, I sat cross-legged on the floor, my eyes ready for something, but being unsure of what. Then a light in one of the top-floor windows came on. I could see into a small office. There was a desk. On one side, a luxurious leather-bound chair, and on the opposite three smaller, but still comfortable-looking seats. A woman and a man walked in. The woman wore smart black trousers and a matching blazer. She had smooth olive skin, and long, curled, brown hair. I was struck by the odd familiarity of her face, as though I knew here, even if I couldn’t give her a name. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, only see their movements. The man gestured to a cabinet at one side of the room, the woman nodded. He walked over and took out a bottle and two glasses, pouring a clear liquid into them both. He pushed it across the table as the woman sat down on the comfier side of the desk. The man sat down opposite her and they spoke while the woman rummaged through the drawers in her desk. She found what she was looking for and left it open. Then, without breaking in conversation, she lifted her hands to her head, and removed the wig of brown hair, revealing a perfectly bald scalp beneath. My breathing paused and my eyes narrowed, my sights transfixed by the beautiful skin of her head. The man was unphased, and he continued talking, as the woman reached down to her desk and pulled up a long, straight blonde wig. Then it clicked. “No fucking way,” I said. “What?” Alessia said turning to me. “No. Surely...” I cut myself off, the words unable to keep up with the swimming thoughts. “What?” Alessia repeated, louder. I stood up as quickly as I could. “I need to check something. To be certain.” Alessia followed me as I marched out of the room and down the stairwell. “Do you want to tell me what’s happening?” Alessia called out, four or five steps behind. “In a minute. I just need to be sure.” I walked outside into the street. The cool night air bit against my flustered cheeks as I marched back up the road from where we’d come. My fists clenched, angry frightened blood creeping to the surface, turning my palms red. I leant into the stiff breeze, ignoring the frigid air stinging my eyes, until till I was back at the town square. I stopped and looked up. The large mural of Philomena Rubio stood before me. The olive skin. The long-blonde hair. The same woman who was in the office. The same woman who minutes before had been Joan Moreno, president of Ruthogrey Landfall’s sworn enemy. “It’s her.” “Wait. No?” Alessia said, beginning to catch up. “Yes. They’re the same woman. The two islands are run by the same people. We didn’t transport a prisoner. We just smuggled in the president of Tima Voreef.” “But why?” Alessia said, tilting her head, looking at the portrait. “Why fake the standoff?” “Have you seen these islands? Everything they’ve built? That war is what built all of it.” A sudden instinctual rage flooded my veins. I closed my eyes, suppressing it until I could locate exactly where it came from. “It’s Kadear all over again. A fake promise that galvanizes everyone. Just a different lie. It’s the same fucking con.” I let out a frustrated groan as my head tilted back to the sky. Alessia walked up to me and placed a hand on my arm. “We should get out of here. Back to the boat.” She pulled on my arm to shift me away from the mural. Slowly my legs complied, and we began heading back to the boat, Alessia still pulling me by the sleeve. “This whole place is built on the same lie,” I said. I looked up to the great buildings. Suddenly a fit of laughter overcame me, and I burst out into a snigger. All that intimidation, all the grandeur, now seemed strangely comical, like a child putting on a deeper, meaner voice. The curtain had been pulled back. That tension that weighed in the air had dissipated, and now I felt giddy. “Will you keep quiet? They haven’t been suspicious of us yet, but I’d like for them to not be.” “There is no war,” I said, unsure of my own smile. “Yes. But their guns are still very real,” Alessia replied through gritted teeth. She yanked on my shirt sleeve. The jolt forcing an exhale, and my laughter disappearing with it. We walked the rest of the way in silence until we were back on the boat “Well, we have our leverage,” Alessia said. I didn’t respond. Instead I headed to the nearest crate I could find, sat down, and buried my head in my hands. “You okay?” Alesia said, sitting on the side of the ship. I leaned back, returning my gaze to the stars for answers. “It’s a little close to home. These two islands. All these people. They’re living the exact same life I did before I found out the truth.” “Kadear is a long, long sail from here. This isn’t Kadear.” Alessia said, folding her arms. “I know it isn’t. But... it feels the same. The trick. I’m just repeating it. Alessia nodded. “What do you want to do now?” “Sail. Get out to sea. Away from this.” Alessia pulled herself back off the side of the boat. “We should probably check in with the Deer Drum lot anyway. Can you get the front?” I forced a smiled and pulled myself to my feet. I walked over to the rope at the front of the boat and untethered us from the island. As the currents pulled us slowly out to the sea I looked back on Ruthogrey Landfall and the buildings that dotted my view. I wondered how many people lived on the island, and how many of them ever had a sleepless night frightened, afraid of the coming war that would never arrive. \ Next chapter 2nd September (nb.

The decrepit vagrant limps into the gas station and the three customers in line immediately recoil from the stench. They leave a wide berth and avoid eye contact, as if she is Medusa, her long, greasy blond hair really a nest of snakes. Perhaps they simply don’t wish to acknowledge the gaunt woman, for doing so would also acknowledge unpleasant truths. She stands at the door for some time, taking in the store and its patrons. No one bothers to calculate exactly how long she stands there; no one risks meeting her gaze. After a half minute or incalculable eons, Medusa takes her place at the end of the line. Hands in the pockets of her stained and tattered jeans, she waits patiently until it’s her turn to approach the world-weary man behind the grimy, sticky counter. He makes a point to not sully his hands by coming in contact with the residue of a thousand different people that sits on the surface in front of him. While empires rise and fall, the second-hand of the clock above the register makes a full rotation, and it’s finally her turn. “Can I help you?” the queasy clerk asks, as politely as one can with a fetid snake nest barely two feet away. Medusa frowns while her right hand fumbles in the pocket of her ragged hoodie. The clerk begins to repeat his question, but is cut off by the barrel of a Colt M1911 pointed directly at his mouth. The dead-eyed Medusa plainly states her desires: “Give me all the money in the register.” She follows this with an incentive for the petrified cashier: “Or you’ll die.” It is only now that the customers behind her pay her any mind. A man lets out a loud gasp; a woman utters expletives to no one in particular; others remain still in shocked silence. All except for a man coming out of the bathroom, the roar of the fan deafening him to the occurrence on the sales floor. It takes a single eternity for him to assess the situation and, tickled that his wife’s usual protests about “that thing” were demonstrably moot, removes his concealed Beretta M9 from the inside of his jacket. He’s been waiting for a moment like this all his life, and he relishes it as he carefully aims at Medusa’s head and bellows out his own request and motivation, “Drop the goddamn gun or I swear to God I’ll shoot!” Medusa jumps, clearly startled, and begins to turn herself to the unexpected counter-offer. She absentmindedly keeps the gun aloft as she does so, and doesn’t have time to realise her mistake. In no more than a few seconds, two loud pops break the tension, and Medusa’s face receives two new holes. She crumples to the ground, her hair now clearly snake-free. The veritable Perseus rockets himself over to the body to secure the wretch’s weapon, but freezes after picking it up. A small but significant detail, one unknowable to anyone not brandishing it, jumps out at him: her weapon lacked the heft of an actual M1911. No, he realises, this was just an airsoft gun, the barrel tip painted to complete the illusion of fatal danger. Several more details come to his attention: the half-rotted left foot and its assault on the nose; the dirt and grime of the street which covers her body like a second layer of skin; the desperation and sadness in her now lifeless eyes. The Perseus recalls the stories he’s heard of homeless people committing crimes, severe legally but petty in reality, looking to go to prison so they can get medical treatment, or a bed, or even just a meal. The realisation hits him like a bullet.

The Night Mare comes with the fog. I’d heard the story all my life, we all did. “Best be sleeping when the Night Mare comes. Just one glimpse and she’ll steal your soul and carry you to the mists!” So the Elders used to say by the hearth’s fading fire to scare wee ones to bed. As a child, I’d sometimes hear a horse squeal in the night, but I couldn’t tell you if it was one of ours or The Night Mare. Not until morning broke and some poor soul from the village lay dead in their bed. Everyone feared her until we became the elders scolding wee ones by firelight. After all, she was no more than a story. I coughed hard, my chest aching something fierce. The deep rattle had been my companion since last winter, one that worsened in the damp. “...will be... the death of me,” I laughed to Ulfrik, my youngest son. “This blasted weather.” He smiled but a twinkle of fear lay in his eyes. My cough, a wretched sound, must keep him awake at night but he was never one to complain. Like his father, a stoic thing. Comfortable grief massaged my heart. “You should get to finding a wife,” my frequent reminder coaxed a sigh from my son. “I won’t be for this world forever.” Ulfric frowned. “I think you’ll be with us for a while yet.” “What of Ragna? She’s handsome enough if a bit dim.” He tried to suppress his smirk. “There’s Ingun. A set of hips on her!” “Mother!” Ulfrik scowled but his lip dared to tremble with a laugh. “Lost your chance with that girl from Holmslond. Pretty one... what was her name?” My son focused on the fire, prodding it to keep from answering. “Grelod? Greiland?” “Gyrid,” he said softly with what only a mother could recognize as regret. “That’s it, Gyrid. Lovely girl, but I am glad to be spared her *dreadful* laugh. Like twigs snapping - *Hack hack hack!*” He could hide his guilty grin no more while I wore mine wide and proud. “You’ve better things to worry on than who I might take for a wife,” he said. “Like myself? Bah.” The girls haunting rattle-laugh found friends in my chest. The company of them made my breaths ragged. “You’re a good son, Ulfrik, to care for a mother so sour.” He stood from his stool by the hearth and passed me a warm blanket. “Gladder still that you’ve noticed my plight.” We laughed, lightly, and I coughed again. For a time, he held my hand as it was, wrinkled weather thing in his strong grip. The chill air slipped in through cracks unseen and cooled the room. Ulfrik took to bed easily while I lingered by the fading fire. A fearsome neigh cracked the air like a whip. For all my years, I had heard the Mare’s cries in the night but always turned back to my sheets and slept restlessly. I did not this night. With the blanket about my shoulders, I opened the door. The fog rolled from the trees urged by a chilling wind. From its waves, she danced in and out of the shadows, her shape glistening in the moonlight. A beast too tall for a man to break, she seemed like the night itself; powerful, brisk, and inevitable. She trotted in place and I felt bidden forth, leaving blanket and hearth at my back. Strange, though, for I did not feel the cold. With her steps, she wheeled the fog forward, her head high and proud. She nodded and knelt before me and my eager fingers slid into her silken mane softer than any fur. “It is my time then,” I whispered without fear and, as though she understood, the Night Mare snorted. At my age, it was no small thing to climb atop her bareback, but I somehow found the strength. As the Mare righted, the thick mists coiled around us and I breathed my first easy breath in almost a year. “He is a good son, my Ulfrik. He deserves a good wife,” I told her as we trotted from the hearth and light. “I just hope he finds one that’s just a wee bit sour.” The Night Mare whinnied as a laugh and retreated for the trees. With us, so followed the fog.

"Roses are red. Violets are blue. Sugar is sweet and so are you." Napoleon’s first wife Josephine was born Marie Josèphe Rose Tascher de la Pagerie in Martinique on June 23, 1763. Like Napoleon himself, Josephine was a study of contrasts. As a child, Josephine grew up on a sugar cane plantation and developed a sweet tooth. As a result, her teeth had turned black at an early age so she learned to talk and smile without showing them. Despite this drawback, she was renowned for her grace and style. Many people in the 1700's had bad teeth. It was not the horror that it would be today, but was still an embarrassment. If a woman wanted to find a rich husband, she had to smile with her mouth closed. Don't show your teeth and let your charm take over. Josephine is walking by a waterfall in Martinique when she slipped and fell into the water. She struggles to swim to the surface when a strange cosmic force pulls her down deeper to into the abyss. She faints .... When Josephine wakes up, she is no longer in Martinique. She is in Hollywood, California. The year is 1969. The year of Peace, Love, Rock and Roll, Twiggy, Woodstock, Mini Skirts, Go-Go Boots, the Twist and lots of Groovy Music and of course, Movie Stars... Josephine is confused. Everywhere she looks, the world seems so strange and also wonderful. The sights, the sounds, even the smells. She looks up and sees an airplane flying high up to the clouds. She never saw anything like that before. She hears strange music but there is no band, no instruments. Where does that sound coming from? A girl with a transistor radio passes Josephine. "Where is that strange music coming from?", she asks. The girl has long blond hair, straight as a pin, and is wearing dark sunglasses, a white shirt, bright mini skirt and go-go boots. "Here, listen for yourself". The girl put the radio to Josephine's ear and her eyes got as big as saucers. "What kind of music is this?" The girl in the mini skirt starts dancing the Twist. "I am in the groove....Come on, try it!" Josephine imitates the girl and she started to laugh. "What happened to the waltz?" "The what? Oh, that went out with the "Mashed Potato!" Josephine scratches her head. "Where am I? Am I still in France?" "Oh no, lady. You're in La La Land. Hollywood, California! You are in America!" "How did I get here?" The girl thinks for a moment. "You were not here a minute ago. I saw a bright light and then I saw you. Do you want to get something to eat? Do you need a job?", the girl asked. May I introduce myself. "I am Josephine Bonaparte, Empress of the French. And you are?" "Oh, I am Bambi.", She replies as she looks in her compact mirror and fixes her lipstick. "I have an audition today for a commercial. I am not an Empress, but I can dance better than you. Come on Jo, let's get some food." "Don't call me Jo! I am Empress Josephine Bonaparte!" "Wow, an Empress with an attitude. It's all I need. Do you want me to help you out or not? I am losing my patience!", Bambi bluntly remarks. "Sorry, I am so used to being adored that I take it for granted everyone loves me." "Don't worry, honey. We will get you an agent and a commercial job. We'll figure it out. I hope!" Josephine follows the strange girl with the mini skirt and looks left and right and when she looked down she saw a whole sidewalk full of stars with names on them. "What is this?" "Oh, that. It's the Walk of Fame. You see, here in America, we have no Kings or Queens. We have "Movie Stars". Famous people that star in motion pictures. "What is a motion picture?" "It would take me a week to explain. You are from the 17th century, it would be better to show you. Let's go to the theater after we get some tacos." "What's a taco? "Are you kidding me? A taco is a tortilla with ground beef, lettuce, cheese, tomatoes and salsa? I am waiting for you to ask me what a burger is. Easy with the questions, just try it." "Okay." The taco stand is nearby and the girl in the miniskirt orders two tacos. Josephine bites into one and spits it out. "It's atrocious! I want Crepes Suzette! I am an Empress! I don't want this slop. You're American food is awful! Where's the wine? Where's the champagne?" "You can't afford champagne anymore. Napoleon is dead, remember?" This is not 1803, it's 1969! And we are in the Woodstock generation!" She faints for a few minutes. When she woke up a crowd had gathered. The girl in the mini skirt took advantage of the opportunity to exploit Josephine and had a big sign telling the crowd who she is. "Back away!", Josephine screams. "Who are these people and why are they dressed so strangely. "Remember, its 1969!" Josephine starts to cry." I need a job. I want to be famous in the movies." "You need to try out for a commercial. How about a toothpaste commercial? " "Smile!" Josephine give a big smile for the crowd. The crowd is absolutely horrified. Josephine's teeth were all black and rotten! "What happened to your teeth, Josephine?" Josephine starts to panic and immediately puts her hand over her mouth. "Maybe I can be a hand model? I would surely FAIL any audition if I smile! My teeth are black!" "You can do a toothpaste commercial if you get veneers. That might work. Or you could be the "before" model and have another model for the after." "What are veneers? It sounds French!", Josephine asked. "No, it's not french. It's a kind of bright white cover for your teeth. For cosmetic reasons. For TV, the movies!", the strange man replied. A strange man with a bling suit walks over to check out what was happening in the crowd. "What's going on here? I work for a talent agency. I need a walk on for a toothpaste commercial. The name of the toothpaste is "Pearl Drops". Any takers? " Josephine raises her hand up and gives the man a great big smile. His eyes went all buggy and he backs away two paces." You have black teeth and bad breath? What happened to you?", he declares, totally horrified. How can we spin this? Don't worry, Josephine. We can sell your black teeth and bad breath as an incentive to buy our toothpaste and get white teeth!" "I will probably be a flop if I smile. I can be a model that doesn't smile. Is that groovy enough to get a part in your commercial? ", Josephine laughs at that word. "My name is Josephine Bonaparte and I fell in the water by a waterfall in Martinique in the year 1794. I woke up in Los Angeles in the year 1969! My teeth are black because my family owns a sugar plantation in Martinique. All the people have teeth like me in 1794. " "I have an idea!", the strange man said. "We can do a historical commercial. That way you can keep your black teeth and horrid breath and people will think it's history. The public likes the past and they love Napoleon and Josephine. You even have a movie with that name starring Jacqueline Bisset?" "Truly? I am known and famous in 1969?" "Yes, people like you even more than Napoleon. Napoleon died at St. Helena and he was poisoned by the British?" "Really? I didn't know that?", Josephine cried. "I miss my Napoleon. He ditched me for the Habsburg chick. She was a ditz but Napoleon wanted a son, so he divorced me and married her. She ended up going back to Papa Habsburg and left Napoleon to be an English prisoner. All that glitters is not gold. I was a better wife to Napoleon than she was." "I am sure you were. If history were a star, Marie Louise would be an "asteroid"! She ran back to Papa and took his "King of Rome" with him. The poor "Eaglet" never knew his father and was never allowed to speak his name in Vienna. He died at age 21. " "How awful for Napoleon. To lose the son he divorced me for. I had one son, Eugene and a daughter Hortense. Why wasn't Napoleon satisfied with Eugene ? Why was he always looking for royal blood when mine was more aristocratic most Parisians. He had his heart set on a Habsburg bride. A bloodline that is thin and watery from generations of arranged marriages. And I was more of a wife than Marie Louise could dream of being!" "Okay, okay. Enough of the history lesson. This is 1969 not 1795. Forget Napoleon. He is yesterday's news. Your new job is a commercial concept called Pearl Drops toothpaste! You have black teeth and you brush your teeth and no matter how much your brush with pearl drops you fail to make your teeth white. How funny is that? The target audience will just love it!" "Are you making fun of me? Do you think I LIKE having black teeth and rotten breath? It's the time I lived in. I am CERTAIN that if YOU lived in 1795, your teeth would be ROTTEN TOO! You would be eating lots of sugar, pies, cakes, sugary puddings, beef pies, wine, champagne and anything our fine cook would bring to the table! Sugar was new to Europe around 1795 and the people ate a lot of it." The strange man screamed. "I am way too vain to have rotten teeth! I assure you my teeth would be pristine white. Weren't Napoleon's teeth white?" Josephine bent over laughing. "Well, he ate black licorice. He loved licorice. So he had "gray" teeth. He used salt and a twig to clean his teeth. And he rinsed with whiskey! Josephine became famous in 1969 as the Pearl Drop's Girl. She had black teeth and bad breath and a million dollar commercial deal. She will probably always prefer the waltz to the Twist, but Josephine gave us her best shot even though she thought she had a slim chance of landing a job in Hollywood. It's just a commercial but it's a start. "Now give us a great big smile, Josephine!"

(TW: Mentions of assault/violence and suicide) Stella sets up her booth like she does every Friday. Ballston Mall is always swarming with desperate characters: flirtatious teenagers, voracious salespeople, millennials trying to find acceptance with a side of discount pajamas. She gets her fair share of hate, sure. There's always a MAGA Hat Asshole that spits on the ground and calls her some terrible slur. She usually makes at least $500 though, and for a fortune teller that's basically the best one can do. "Hello? Do you take card?" It's a timid college student, obviously no cash. Probably still on her parent's credit card. Her shirt is on-trend and cheap. Her hair is straightened and prim, but her makeup is a mess. Lipstick on her teeth and smudged eyeliner. Hopefully the Macy's woman can help her out. Stella and her have lunch every Saturday; she's a sweetie, but intimidating. A genius with a brush though. "Yeah, we take card. CashApp is preferable though." "Oh, great! I have CashApp. Should I send you the money before or after?" Stella sighs. She hates when people ask that question. "Before, please." "Okay, I'll send it right now." There's an awkward pause as the woman sorts through her phone and *pings* the money over. Stella nods for her to sit down in the chair opposite hers. "Y'know, I don't normally do this type of thing. I was raised Catholic, so we were very skeptical. But my roommate is absolutely obsessed with tarot and crystals, so I thought she'd love it if I came here. She got it done once and it changed her life. Or so she said, at least. Actually, I don't know if it was here. Might've been a fair or something." She's rambling, which would normally annoy Stella, but there's something about it that's endearing. Like she genuinely believes Stella cares. A lot of people ramble to fortune tellers, but they just seem to talk because they can. This woman (who Stella is about 90% sure is named Grace) is talking because she wants to. And that makes Stella feel good. "Well, I'm glad. I'd ask for her name, but I probably wouldn't remember. Been working here a long time." "Oh, it's alright. So how does this work? Do I give you my hand or do you read cards? I have a rose quartz in my bag somewhere." 'That won't be necessary. Just tilt your head forward, Grace." Grace smiles with delight. "How'd you know that? My name, I mean?" Stella shrugs. "A hunch." Grace smiles smugly and leans forward a bit. "Well, you're right and wrong. My friends call me Grace, but my real name is Grayson." Stella decides she no longer likes Grace/Grayson. "Okay. Head tilt, please." Grace obeys, and Stella lays two cool fingers on her forehead. It's really oily; she'll send her to Macy's right after she's done. Immediately Stella sees a dirty wall. It's the kind of wall you couldn't usually tell was dirty unless you're standing an inch away, which Stella is. The wall gradually expands into four, and soon enough Stella and Grace are in a tiny apartment bedroom. Bare bones, but cute. Clean white bedsheets and some simple posters. A dresser full of discount clothes. "Why don't you tell me where we are?" Grace looks around bewildered. "We're, umm, we're in my room. This is my apartment." "I know that. I mean when was this?" "This? This was my dream last night." Stella tries not to look taken aback. It's rare a client selects a recent dream. Those are normally too personal, too raw. "You chose it, so we'll see what's in store." "Okay. It should start any minute now, I guess. I'm sorry, I didn't think this would work so...I don't know, viscerally. I thought you'd just..." "Make some generic shit up? Oh honey, read the sign." Right outside the booth, Stella has a sign up: PREPARE TO BE SHOCKED. It's half gimmick, but also half real. It's a truly shocking thing to relive a dream while awake. People never remember a dream start to finish, and seeing one play out in real time can be incredibly disturbing. She knows for a fact it's made at least seven people go insane. "Yeah, I, uh...I really wish I would've chosen a different one though. This one is pretty unusual for me, I think. I didn't think you'd be able to see details. Like watch it all play out." Stella knows Grace is lying. Obviously the dream is characteristic. Everybody has "special" dreams occasionally, but they don't reveal anything extraordinary. People always choose a typical one. They want to understand their pattern, what makes them tick. Or at least they think they do. "It's okay. I don't judge. I've seen it all." This is also true. Stella has seen it all. And once you've seen it all, judging doesn't just become pointless, it becomes boring. No one is truly special. That fact just becomes more apparent at night. Suddenly Dream Grace walks in wearing an evening gown. Actually, not just any evening gown: Kim Kardashian's Met Gala 2017 look. Strange, but probably not meaningful. Dream Grace is followed by a shorter, skinnier woman that Stella recognizes as her roommate. She is wearing an Adam-and-Eve look consisting of just leaves on the non-PG parts. That probably means something. Behind them both is a skinny, freakishly tall, faceless man wearing a clean-cut suit. He appears in a lot of people's dreams. Stella calls him Jack Frost. He's harmless, but certainly creepy, and the Real Grace's face goes white looking at him. Stella tries not to laugh. "Can they see us?" Real Grace looks so wan and sickly. Stella's seen worse reactions, but she still doesn't think Grace will last long here. It's not for the faint of heart. "No they can't. We're kind of like ghosts." Normally people ask questions after that, but Real Grace just leans against the wall and watches this distorted version of her life. Suddenly a booming noise echoes throughout the room, making Real Grace jump. "Let's play Twister." Jack Frost has a weird, modulated voice. Not typical, but not worth thinking about. He pulls a Twister board out of thin air and they begin to play on the bed. The dream is really boring for a while after that. They play about 9 rounds of Twister and Micheal Jackson starts playing in the background. Not a whole song, just that one clip from Smooth Criminal. Annie, are you okay? Won't you tell us? Are you okay? "This is so strange." Real Grace is watching the whole thing play out in rapture, even though all that's happened was Dream Grace dropping out of Twister when she fell trying to reach a blue circle. "All of this is perfectly normal." It's more than perfectly normal, actually. It's exceptionally boring. "Oh shit. This is the part I remember," Real Grace says as she buries her face in her hands and slumps against the wall. Suddenly a TV appears and they all start to watch a bunch of random clips from an assortment of shows. Jack Frost and Grace laugh every time without fail, but the best friend is creepily austere. She just stares lifelessly ahead. "Are you okay, Kate?" Dream Grace sounds fake concerned, almost like she's mocking the best friend. Wordlessly, Kate turns to Dream Grace and stares at her. Jack Frost hands her a knife he was apparently carrying. And Kate begins to stab Dream Grace violently, rapaciously, and soullessly. Stella looks down at Real Grace with mild concern. She has her hands over her mouth and her eyes wide. There are tears rolling down her cheeks noiselessly. Her brown hair is ruffled like she's been tousling it, and if her eyeliner was smeared before it's unfixable now. Stella was almost sure Real Grace would ask her to stop the dream now. She didn't seem like the type who could handle it. But there she stood, tears dripping down, watching herself die. She watches the blood splatter. She watches Kate laugh and wear the red like war paint. She watches Jack Frost play Twister with her lifeless body. She watches it all until she thinks she can't anymore. Then her eyes open again and she watches some more. Finally everything goes dark. Stella and Grace are back in the courtyard, though they never really left. Grace looks slightly better than she did in the dream, but her physical body cried as well so she still seems frazzled. Her trendy shirt is covered in eyeliner stains. There are a couple of people staring. Stella tries not to smile, but she knows that means new customers. Everybody loves a traumatic revelation. "So what do you think?" Grace sounds shockingly hopeful for someone who just watched her own murder. She wants a good interpretation. Her desperate energy radiates off of her and it makes Stella nauseous with disgust. "I think you are too hard on yourself. You compare yourself to people you see in the media, to your best friend. You're a jealous creature, and you need to let go of that. Reconnect with Kate. Stop making everything a competition. Also, whoever that dude you're dating is, dump him. He wants to come between you two." Grace nods like she knew it all along. She sniffles and wipes off her nose. After a quick glance around, she sees that some people are looking and begins to compose herself. "Wow. Thank you. Truly. That was amazing. I"ll tell everyone I know, I promise." Stella stands up out of her chair and motions that she can leave now, the session is over. And at the risk of laying it on, she shouts after Grace as she walks away: "And honey? You need to stop being so kind. Stand up for yourself. Stop being so giving. Take some time." The small crowd that gathered nods in approval, and Grace blushes and walks away standing taller. A nearby waitress claps and Stella resists the urge to punch her in the face. As a line forms in front of her booth, Stella puts up a 5 minute break sign. That familiar feeling of disgust and hatred is sinking in, and she needs to compose herself if she wants to make any money at all. Grace doesn't need to stop being so kind. It's dumb advice to anybody, even the most selfless person in the world. Everybody should be kinder, and everybody knows it. That's why they love to hear that no, they're too kind, that's their problem. They want to feel validated in their selfishness, and Stella gives them the stamp of approval. Stella finds comfort in the fact it wasn't all a lie, though. She definitely is jealous of her roommate and Kim Kardashian. However, her roommate is probably bad news, and the boyfriend trying to get between them was almost certainly a good thing. The advice to dump him was still relevant because Grace was obviously a repressed lesbian. She had her best friend wearing nothing but leaves, and she did grow up Catholic so it makes perfect sense. But Grace doesn't want to hear that she's a secret lesbian. She doesn't want to know she needs to be kinder. And she certainly does not want to know her jealousy is just thinly veiled attraction. So Stella doesn't tell her. Stella doesn't tell anybody the truth, even after doing this for 52 years because 53 years ago she did tell the truth and the man committed suicide not two minutes later. He jumped off one of the store balconies after Stella told him he was probably going to become a peeping-tom stalker later on in life, after he got bored of his wife like it was clear that he would. It was then that Stella realized people don't want to know what their id wants, no matter how much they claim to. And she wanted out of the job, wanted to become an accountant or something safe. But it was too late. Once you're sworn to the dreams, you can't leave. So Stella spends every day lying and letting the malicious people of the world continue to be cruel with a clean conscience. She composes herself and steps back to her desk, facing the line that has formed. She puts on a fake smile like she's learned to do so well. "Only card, please."

Today, I ate five times. The day was so boring, that eating five times is the only thing I could recollect doing. My days are never this boring usually; because I was always surrounded by my two idiotic friends, Dooby and Doo. Actually my mom nicknamed us this way; because together, we are known as Scooby, Dooby, Doo and we did the stupidest things with a lot of impenetrable unity. After being the victim of boredom for a long time, I Played Ludo online and that game planted a doubt in me. I didn't like that doubt. That doubt disappointed me of the fact that I thought in that way. So, I just quit both, the doubt and the game. The reason I was left alone today, is Jasmine. She is Dooby’s girlfriend. Despite having a girlfriend, Dooby was always with us. Not because he is one of those rare species who cared friends more than their girlfriends, but only because theirs was a long distance relationship. She lives in Vishakhapatnam, which is quite far from Hyderabad, but she somehow, due to some reason was going to be at Vijayawada, which is also quite far, but comparatively less. She was going to be there only for one day. Dooby, to meet his sweetheart, came up with a plan to rent a car, go to Vijayawada and be back at Hyderabad within a span of 15 hours. It takes 6 hours car drive to reach Vijayawada. The plan was too risky for our age, and our parents shouldn’t know about this at any cost. Initially, I was not at all interested in this plan. Not because it was risky, we’ve done twice as stupid as this (but never this risky for sure), I was not into it just because it was for Jasmine. She, to me always seemed like a threat to our friendship. Doo was stupid; he never actually analyzed or took the situations seriously until they burn our pants. He just lives in the moment, which is reasonable to some extent. They both convinced me and went to look out for rented cars that could fit in our budget. The day light almost faded away, and these guys were still in search. I was waiting for their call. I was not going to call anyway; I don’t want to catalyze the process; I still wanted some or the other thing to go wrong to ruin this plan. They finally came and showed their incapability in executing a plan. I was the one who used to set up things every time, as I had a very good contact list. Then they did the most obvious thing - pleading me. They really know how to convince me and they did it. I very reluctantly called Aamer, my super senior at college. We had some negotiations about the budget, I convinced him anyway. But the thing is, he is a very commercial guy. He helped someone, only if he finds the guy promisingly profitable. Next day, early morning 5 am. The three of us started on Doo's bike to Aamer's place. It was a particularly cold day. It was freezing and we hugged each other as if we were never going to meet again. I signed the document; I didn’t read it but I knew it was an assurance contract. We left Doo’s bike as an assurance. It was all properly documented, and we all felt like this guy was a bit overdoing things, after all it was just a 20-hour rent. I took the keys and was just going to start the car, suddenly Doo with his high pitched, over excited voice said "Guys!! We forgot something" Dooby and I looked at each other and began to extensively think for a few milliseconds, as Doo resumed, "Selfie guys!!" in a 'why are you not as excited as me' tone. I always get awkward while taking selfies. Like, how do you pose or smile! I never understood them. But Doo was an expert in selfies and also driving. We began this journey of love and for love, with a cup of tea and a cigarette. Those highways, at that time looked so heavenly. The sun just rose, and the light when hit the road was so pleasing to the eyes, everything it touched was gold. I was just slouching on the rear seat and was enjoying the scenery passing by. Those morning greens with dew on them, when hit by golden sunlight turned into pearls. As I was so busy analyzing and understanding the beauty, I realized Dooby and Doo in the front seats were crushing weed only after they threw the waste from the window. I was a bit worried and said to them "Guys, Do we need this now? Why should we take risk"; for which Doo replied, "Dude, chill. You know my skills and please enjoy the moment bro! Don't ruin this for god's sake with your daddy instincts." "Chill dude! Take this joint" said Dooby, passing the joint. I didn't refuse. I smoked half of it reluctantly and the other half shamelessly. That was such a beautiful vibe. I could hardly open my eyes. The forces of dark energy wanted to see me and they pulled my eyelids together. I was high. Really, really high; and also were Doody and Doo. The drive was so pleasant that, even the steady linear movements of the car began to reciprocate in my ears as an orchestra. I was lying in peace. All of a sudden there was a bang. I hit the front seat and fell down. I didn't know what happened. I was not able to process that whether something hit us or we hit something. Everything seemed to be in slow motion. I got up and looked back through the mirror, a car hit us. And when I looked in the front, we hit a car. The car in front of us hit a buffalo. He quickly drove away. We were still not able to process what was going on and whose fault it was. We were definitely not going to wait for the police. Doo just took off rapidly. All of this happened in the time gap of less than 5 seconds. We didn't stop, as we thought we were being chased by the car behind us. We were in that imaginary chase for at-least half an hour. We didn't know how bad the car was damaged, but everyone passing by glued their eyes to our car. "Guys, It must be really damaged. I think we've to stop and have a look at it" said Dooby. We didn't want to stop immediately beside the road so we took a detour to a village and stopped at a small shop. As soon as I looked at the car I knew that we screwed things a big time. I became insane. I was sweating with a terror in my eyes. Dooby and Doo were too tensed but they tried to calm me down first. They bought a cigarette and gave it to me. We three sat there on the rock beside the shop and were just staring at the car for an hour; and the curious villagers did not let our tension come down. "What do we do now?" I asked them; and with this one question, I lost the command over them. They both already decided to continue with the plan. Meet her, eat lunch and reach back to Hyderabad as soon as possible. We were only a few miles away from Vijayawada, so it not a bad plan; but the thing that's back on my mind, and making me restless was they both are not as serious as I was; and that's pissing me off. I was just hiding my panic behind that 'everything's okay' face, just because I didn't want to ruin their date. We met Jasmine, and she was not at all an evil girl, as I thought she would be. She was very nice to us. Most importantly, she understood the seriousness of the issue and started blaming herself. I said, "No Jasmine, it would have happened anyway, we always are into these kind of troubles, we manage it, don't worry", and thought that I took the situation under my control again. They had their goodbye kiss, which made our hero turn into pink. Then,we got into our severely dented, badly sandwiched car, and started to discuss about how to handle the situation. Dooby said that these rental cars definitely have insurance, so no worries. The way he said made my heart a little lite. We called Aamer and told him that it was hit. He calmly asked me to send the pictures. I sent them. He called and said to come as soon as possible and we'll talk the things out. The way he said, was so polite and calm, which made me even more relaxed. By the time we reached Hyderabad it was 11 pm. We went to him. He examined extensively and all the four of us drove to a mechanic he knows. The mechanic took a look and said, "70,000 rupees minimum, these dents, the bonnet, the air conditioning, lights and many things are damaged." Our hearts collapsed. 70 thousand rupees was a really big amount, we definitely couldn't arrange that amount. Aamer also knows this. He just said "Pay the amount and take the bike, until then don't come to me." He said it as calmly as he spoke us on the phone. That's when I understood that being soft can also be a powerful command. We didn't know how to manage money. Doo said, "Dude, I'll manage 10-15 thousand." , and for that he has to go to his Dad's place. He lives with mother and their parents are divorced. He has seen many tragic incidents, and maybe that’s the reason nothing hit him hard. On the other-side, Dooby was talking like he was just not part of this incident. He was saying that he can't arrange any money and was going to his village as his grandmother was ill. At that moment, I just wanted to slap him on the face. Never did ever we have an issue with or for money until then, and I think that's why we never really didn't know who our friends really are. I knew him from childhood, I knew him only the way he wanted to show himself. The doubt that Ludo planted in me showed itself comes into reality in less than a couple of days. 'If it’s for you to be safe, you never care about any others more than you’. Doo had no choice, he had his bike on stake and otherwise I don't think he also would have stayed. Most people always find detours to escape in hard times, leaving alone those who are with them. All these thoughts, which made me feel bad about myself a couple of days earlier, now made sense. Man is that kind of animal which survives in clans, but hunts for itself. Maybe, I would also be really mean if I had not signed those documents; who knows? After a month, I and Doo cleared the amount. I took loans from student loan apps, and Doo stole it from his Dad's thick pocket day by day. I, also had to give away my savings, which I was saving to gift myself a guitar. Vinay disappeared for a couple of weeks. Even after he came back, he didn't meet us as he used to do. Don't know whether it was guilt or whatever, he was dodging us. We were not even caring about him; and honestly, even if I was with Tharun, I stopped caring about him too. The hug we shared on the bike that day was really the last hug of ours and I'm glad that, the last hug seemed really like a last one.

In the heart of Houston's Broadway Street lived Richmond, a peculiar 50-year-old man known for his love of spreading gossip. What made Richmond truly remarkable, however, was the uncanny nature of his rumors. Somehow, they always seemed to come true. Word traveled fast whenever Richmond began to whisper his tales, and the townsfolk would brace themselves for the inevitable realization of his words. There was an air of both curiosity and fear surrounding his gossip, for nobody quite understood how he possessed such foresight. Huddled in the heart of the Broadway Street community stood Richmond's small greenhouse, a symbol of both simplicity and resilience, surrounded by a quaint garden bursting with vibrant blooms and aromatic herbs, the house exuded a sense of tranquility and warmth that beckoned visitors. The structure itself was modest, with weathered wooden siding painted in a faded shade of green, reminiscent of the lush foliage that thrived within its walls. A white picket fence lined the perimeter, adding a touch of charm to the property while maintaining a sense of openness and accessibility. The front porch, adorned with a few well-worn rocking chairs, invited passersby to pause, relax, and engage in conversations that often transcended casual pleasantries. One sunny afternoon, Richmond emerged from his house, a mischievous glint in his eyes. The people of Broadway Street, aware of his unique ability, couldn't help but feel a sense of unease or foreboding as they awaited his latest revelation. They knew that whatever he uttered would undoubtedly come to pass. With a sly grin, Richmond weaved his tale throughout the town, declaring that flesh-eating flowers were being secretly sold in one of the giant superstores. His words sent shivers down the listeners' spines, their minds conjuring up images of horrifying plants lurking within the shelves of even their houses, churches, libraries, and grocery stores. The news spread like wildfire, and soon, a sense of panic gripped the community. People avoided the superstore, fearing the consequences of encountering these deadly blooms. It seemed as if the town was held captive by Richmond's words, caught in a web of fear spun by his gossipy superpower. Days turned into weeks, and the town remained in a state of heightened anxiety. Richmond, observing the consequences of his rumor, began to feel the weight of his power. He had never intended for his gossip to cause such distress, yet he couldn't deny the thrill that surged through him whenever his predictions came true. Haunted by guilt, Richmond resolved to set things right. He embarked on a personal mission to find the truth behind his latest rumor, determined to alleviate the fears that had gripped Broadway Street. He delved into the research, scouring the depths of the internet and visiting local botanical experts, hoping to uncover the reality behind the spin. Days turned into nights as Richmond followed every lead, uncovering a hidden world of rare and exotic plants. Eventually, his journey led him to a renowned botanist who confirmed the existence of a rare species of carnivorous flowers known as "Dionaea carniaris." Armed with this newfound knowledge, Richmond returned to Broadway Street. He stood before the Community, who had gathered to hear his next proclamation. He admitted his fault, expressing remorse for the fear he had inadvertently caused. With sincerity in his voice, he explained the truth behind the flesh-eating flowers, assuring them that the superstore was safe. Relief washed over the crowd as Richmond's words sank in. The town slowly began to regain its composure, realizing that their fears had been unfounded. Richmond's gossip had been both a curse and a blessing, an odd power that had inadvertently brought the truth to light. In the aftermath of the ordeal, the people of Broadway Street developed a newfound respect for Richmond. They recognized the weight he carried as the town's unlikely harbinger of truth. Richmond, humbled by their forgiveness, vowed to use his superpower for good, to bring awareness to hidden truths and dispel unfounded fears. As the years passed, Richmond became a trusted figure in the community. His gossip, tempered by caution and verified information, helped the townspeople navigate their lives with newfound knowledge. Richmond's peculiar ability transformed from a source of fear to one of enlightenment, bringing the community closer together. As Richmond continued his role as the town's harbinger of truth, a new presence emerged in the Community. Anabel, a copycat who had witnessed the power Richmond held over the community, sought to replicate his ability to spread rumors. However, unlike Richmond, Anabel had no regard for the consequences her words would bring. News of Anabel's deceptive nature reached Richmond's ears, and he knew that his work was far from over. He understood the danger of allowing someone with ill intentions to hold the community hostage with false information. Determined to protect the people he had come to care for, Richmond set out to confront Anabel. On Broadway Street, at the heart of the community, stood the majestic Broadway Street Town Hall, a grand architectural marvel that served as the gathering place for important discussions and momentous occasions. As the sun cast its golden rays upon the ornate facade, the entrance doors swung open, welcoming a stream of people from all walks of life. Inside the town hall, a sense of anticipation hung in the air, as hundreds of residents filled the spacious auditorium. They were drawn to the day’s proceedings based on Anable’s latest rumor. The high ceilings, adorned with intricate moldings and sparkling chandeliers, added a touch of grandeur to the atmosphere. Rows of plush seats stretched out before a raised platform, where a polished wooden podium awaited the speaker. The walls of the auditorium were adorned with photographs and portraits depicting the rich history and notable figures of Broadway Street. Each image told a story, evoking a deep sense of pride and community spirit among the attendees. The vibrant tapestries that adorned the walls reflected the diverse cultural tapestry that made up the fabric of the town. As the meeting commenced, a hushed silence settled over the room, punctuated only by the occasional whisper and the creaking of chairs. The air was charged with a mix of nervousness, determination, and hope, as the community gathered to discuss a matter of utmost importance. The stage was set, adorned with a large backdrop bearing the emblem of Broadway Street--a symbol of unity and progress. Behind the podium, a panel of community leaders and officials awaited their turn to address the audience, their faces reflecting a mixture of responsibility and dedication. The stage was bathed in a soft spotlight, casting a glow upon the speakers as they stepped forward to address the crowd. Microphones stood ready to amplify their voices, ensuring that their messages reached every corner of the hall. The buzz of anticipation grew with each passing moment, as the gravity of the situation weighed upon everyone present. As the speakers began, their voices filled the hall, resonating with passion and conviction. They spoke of the challenges facing the community, the opportunities for growth, and the collective responsibility to shape the future of Broadway Street. Ideas, concerns, and solutions were shared, echoing through the hall as a chorus of voices united in pursuit of a common goal. The energy in the room was palpable, as the attendees listened intently, nodding in agreement, raising hands to ask questions, or applauding in support. Emotions flowed freely, from moments of passionate disagreement to instances of shared understanding and unity. And then Anabel’s voice rang out “Impeach the Mayor!” Everyone was shocked. “I have evidence of impropriety on the part of the Mayor. He must be impeached!” As confusion and bewilderment lingered in the air, Richmond stepped forward and with his booming voice said: “Please Mr. Speak disregard the young lady, she is only here to spread wild rumors” “No, Mr. Richmond. Let the young lady step forward, ‘she who asserts must prove’, that is the law” The showdown between the two rumor-mongers has begun. Tension as thick as the bark of a tree built up instantly and crackled in the air. Richmond, weathered by the weight of his unique ability, stood with conviction, his eyes filled with a mixture of concern and determination. Anabel, fueled by a thirst for power, held her ground with a smirk on her face, reveling in the chaos she had sown. Her rumor was that the Mayor was having an affair with the Education Board Secretary, a married mother of four. "I won't let you manipulate this community any longer, Anabel," Richmond declared, his voice filled with authority. "Your false rumors are causing unnecessary anger, passion and harm. It's time for the truth to prevail." Anabel laughed, dismissing Richmond's words with a wave of her hand. "Oh, Richmond, you've become quite the self-righteous hero, haven't you? But what makes your rumors any different from mine? We're both playing with people's lives, just in different ways." There was a loud scoff from the crowd. Richmond's gaze hardened as he replied, "There is a crucial distinction, Anabel. My rumors are rooted in truth and carefully verified to avoid causing undue harm. I aim to enlighten, not manipulate. You, on the other hand, thrive on chaos and deception." Anabel scoffed, the arrogance in her voice evident. "Truth, lies... What does it matter? People will believe what they want to believe. It's their own fault for being so gullible." The exchange of words intensified, each combatant fighting to defend their perspective. But Richmond knew that he had to do more than just argue. He had to prove to Anabel the importance of responsible information dissemination and protect the community from her deceitful influence. With a sudden surge of determination, Richmond revealed evidence he had meticulously gathered, exposing Anabel's fabrications and the harm they had caused. Witness accounts, documents, and undeniable facts painted a damning picture of Anabel's malicious intent and how she had photoshopped some naked photos to make them look like her victims were having an affair. As the truth unfolded, the people of Broadway Street began to see through Anabel's facade. Doubts arose within them, and they turned away from her, seeking the clarity and honesty that Richmond provided. The power Anabel had held over the community crumbled, leaving her exposed and isolated. In the aftermath of the showdown, Anabel was left with a choice: to continue down her path of deception or to change her ways. Witnessing the impact of her actions and the strength of Richmond's conviction, she chose the latter. Anabel acknowledged the harm she had caused and vowed to make amends. Richmond, ever the believer in redemption, extended a hand of guidance to Anabel. He shared his knowledge and experience, teaching her the importance of integrity and empathy. Slowly but surely, Anabel began to mend the broken trust she had shattered. Over time, the wounds inflicted by Anabel's false rumors healed, and the community found solace in Richmond's steadfast commitment to truth. Anabel became a testament to the power of personal growth and the potential for change. Together, Richmond and Anabel worked to rebuild trust within the community. They became unlikely allies, using their unique abilities to expose falsehoods and enlighten the people they had once endangered. Their collaboration served as a reminder that even in the face of deception, there is always the possibility for redemption and unity. And so, the Community witnessed a transformation. The clash between Richmond and Anabel not only resolved their personal conflict but also instilled a sense of resilience within the community. United by the shared pursuit of truth, the town emerged stronger, armed with the wisdom to discern fact from fiction and to stand against those who sought to exploit their trust. Richmond's work continued, now reinforced by Anabel's newfound commitment to responsible rumor-mongering. Together, they embarked on a journey to ensure that their town would never again fall victim to manipulation or falsehood. The power of their words became a force for good, enlightening the community and fostering a sense of unity and resilience that would endure for generations to come. As Richmond and Anabel joined forces to uphold the value of truth, their unique abilities continued to shape the destiny of their community on Broadway Street. Their focus shifted beyond addressing false rumors, as they recognized the potential of their powers to prevent grave mistakes and guide the town toward a brighter future. The Community faced an economic crossroads, with impending decisions that could impact the livelihoods of its residents. Sensing the urgency, Richmond dove into extensive research, gathering information about the potential consequences of the proposed economic ventures of cryptocurrency. With careful consideration, he began to spread rumors based on his findings, aiming to safeguard the community from making ill-informed choices. The people of Broadway Street, remembering Richmond's track record of accurate rumors, paid heed to his words. They engaged in open discussions, scrutinizing the proposed projects and weighing the pros and cons. As a result, they collectively decided to steer clear of ventures that held the potential to disrupt the local economy and harm their way of life. The town's avoidance of these economic pitfalls proved invaluable. While neighboring communities struggled with the fallout from their ill-fated ventures, Broadway Street flourished, its economy stable and resilient. Richmond's ability to foresee the consequences of certain actions saved them from financial turmoil. Emboldened by this success, Richmond turned his attention towards a new challenge that had recently emerged--the fear surrounding vaccines. Misinformation and unfounded rumors had gripped the community, leading to hesitancy and putting lives at risk. Recognizing the urgent need for accurate information, Richmond and Anabel collaborated to combat the spread of fear and mistrust. Drawing from their combined knowledge, they embarked on a campaign to dispel the myths and provide factual information about vaccines. They organized community forums, inviting medical experts to address concerns and clarify any misconceptions. Richmond shared stories of how his previous accurate rumors had saved lives and emphasized the importance of relying on credible sources of information. Over time, the walls of doubt began to crumble. The people, inspired by Richmond's reputation and the evidence he presented, regained trust in the power of vaccines. They sought vaccination, knowing that it was crucial not only for their own well-being but also for the collective health of their community. Broadway Street became a beacon of vaccine acceptance, with immunization rates soaring and the community experiencing the benefits of protection against infectious diseases. Richmond's old rumors, which had once caused fear, now played a pivotal role in dispelling misconceptions and guiding the town toward a safer and healthier future. As the years passed, Richmond and Anabel continued their tireless work, using their powers to combat misinformation and promote truth. They became revered figures on Broadway Street, celebrated for their unwavering dedication to the well-being of the community. Richmond's unique gift, once a source of mystery and skepticism, had transformed into a force for positive change. He and Anabel had harnessed their abilities to protect the town from economic pitfalls and combat vaccine hesitancy, forever leaving an indelible mark on the fabric of their community. Broadway Street thrived, guided by the principles of truth and critical thinking. Richmond and Anabel's legacy lived on, reminding the people to question, verify, and rely on credible information. In their footsteps, a new generation of truth-seekers emerged, carrying the torch of knowledge and empowering the community to overcome challenges with clarity and unity.

The wind-swept farmland outside of the village of Colkirk was uncharacteristically quiet as Ahlran walked down the worn dirt path leading into the forest. Basket in hand, Ahlran stooped and looked over his shoulder back towards the village. He pulled the thin cloth hood from his head in the hope that maybe doing so would allow him to hear the familiar sounds of life from Colkirk. Quiet wasn’t the right word. Besides the sound of the wind cutting through the long stalks of grain, the fruit of another successful agricultural season, there was nothing. Utter and total silence. Even the birds, usually plentiful and noisy with their enthusiastic melodies, were nowhere to be seen. Ahlran’s young apprentice would undoubtedly see this as an omen. In the past Ahlran would quickly dismiss such superstitions, but now he wasn’t quite so confident. He was glad he came out here alone. As Ahlran’s eyes passed over the fertile plains of golden-brown grain, the small stream passing through and irrigating the crops, and over the old, but sturdy stone wall encircling Colkirk and the thatched roofs of its homes, he was struck with an acute and sudden sense of dread. Throughout his time in the village, Ahlran had come to know and love it for its liveliness. The harsh contrast of its current silence sent an uncanny chill up his spine. Ahlran turned back towards the forest and noticed that the trees had just begun to bud, the assurance that Spring was indeed here. For the first time in his life, the sight of nature’s cyclical resurrection did not fill him with joy and excitement. Undeniably, time was now running out. He let out a deep sigh, steeled himself with what resolve he could muster, and proceeded down the path, into the dense and comparatively lively forest. There was much to be done. The sun was just beginning to set as Ahlran passed through the wooden gate and entered the village. He had barely cleared the raised gate before it came crashing down behind him. He looked up behind him towards the rampart and the guard who had disengaged the locked crank and released the gate. Their eyes met just for a moment, but Ahlran saw the exhausted anger in the young man’s eyes. “Good haul?” Ahlran turned towards the voice. It was Gormal, captain of the guard here in Colkirk. Though Ahlran now regarded the enormous man as a friend, he had to admit he was still frightened of him. What Colkirk lacked in numbers it more than made up for in its quality of guards ready, even eager, to defend it. Ahlran swallowed, caught off guard by the six-and-a-half-foot giant in front of him with his piercing blue eyes and unflinchingly tight grip on his axe. “We’ll have to see if it was a good haul, but I’m optimistic.” Ahlran knew this was a lie and was convinced Gormal knew it. Gormal looked down at the basket in Ahlran’s hands, brimming with all kinds of herbs, roots, flowers, vials of numerous liquids, bones, and even a few small dead animals. Gormal looked back at Ahlran. “Let’s hope that it is.” Ahlran nodded quickly and began to walk past him. He felt Gormal’s massive hand come down on his shoulder. It was not enough to hurt him - Ahlran suspected Gormal could crush his shoulder with a mere squeeze, should Gormal feel he should -but it wasn’t a gentle touch either. Ahlran turned back towards his friend. Gormal took a deep breath. “Getting you and Erune your-,” He searched for a polite word, “-subjects is becoming difficult. I believe that you are doing the right thing, but there are many here who do not share my sentiment.” Ahlran could swear Gormal’s blue eyes were pleading to him. A few of the other guards near the gate had stopped what they were doing and were now looking at the two of them. Gormal’s grip on Ahlran’s shoulder tightened. “Do you understand?” Gormal asked calmly but firmly. Ahlran placed his own hand on top of Gormal’s. “Better than anyone, my friend,” he said. Gormal, apparently satisfied with this, nodded, and let out an affirmative grunt. He released Ahlran who quickly headed towards his home on the other side of the village. The streets were aglow in the nearing twilight and nearly deserted. This had become the norm for the past few months. As Ahlran walked down the stone path he couldn’t help but notice the looks he was getting from the small number of people who hadn’t confined themselves to the perceived safety of their homes. The owner of the local tavern was chopping wood outside his property and smiled as Ahlran passed. Much like Ahlran’s smiles these days though, it was out on more as an act of hopeful defiance, rather than genuine contentment. Further down the path, a young man and his even younger brother were staring at Ahlran with neither friendliness nor malice. Knowing that they had recently been orphaned, Ahlran felt he owed them an apology, though it wasn’t his fault. None of this had been his fault, nor the fault of anyone here. Ahlran hurried on. The path began to slope downwards now as he would have to pass by the village tomb. The ancient stone building was never very inviting, but these days it was simply dreadful to even look at. As Ahlran passed, he could see two men carrying a corpse adorned with all the ceremonial flowers and oils, pristinely wrapped in the funerary cloth in which it would remain bound and entombed amongst their ancestors for all time. A woman was holding her face in her hands and crying near the entrance to the tomb. She looked up at Ahlran as slowed down to look at her. She said nothing, but the fiery hatred that burned in her eyes left little for Ahlran to have to interpret. He hastened past the tomb. He could the voices of several people nearby, as well as one much louder voice nearly drowning out the others. As he finally made the turn on the path that would allow his home to be in view, his heart sank. A small crowd had gathered outside of his small and unassuming cottage. He recognized the source of the singular dominating voice immediately. It was Tearlach, one the village’s religious authorities and an outspoken critic of Ahlran and Erune’s profession. “This is what these heretics do to help?! As our flock lay dead and dying in the streets?!” They meddle in the forbidden arts with recklessness and utter disregard for our faith!” His voice thundered as his ornate robes, expertly tailored with intricate patterns, billowed in the wind behind him. Ahlran might have admired it if Tearlach hadn’t called for his death at every opportunity. Tearlach continued, his bald head visibly sweating. “Let us not forget, we saw the first of us fall to this affliction not long before these sorcerers, these conjurers of evil, came to our village. Do not be fooled, brothers and sisters, they are not here to help you. They are here to satisfy their own sick and twisted curiosities!” Though the crowd was only made up of about ten people, they were hanging onto every venom-laced word. The occasional cheer of approval could be heard throughout his hatred-soaked sermon. At this point, Ahlran felt more exhausted and annoyed than angry. All he wanted was to get back to his work with Erune. No one, not even Tearlach, could question his loyalties if they were successful. He resolved to simply push through the crowd without a word and close the door behind him. He knew there was no getting through to a mob when it was riled like this. However, something made him stop as he got closer. Erune was so small he hadn’t noticed her before now. Tearlach had her by the arm, despite her violent thrashing as she tried desperately to break free from his grip. It was clear that Tearlach had no intention of letting go. Ahlran’s apprehension vanished as he pushed into the crowd and headed straight for Tearlach. An unsettling smile formed on his face as he saw Ahlran approaching him. “Speak of the devil,” he hissed. “Good people! It would seem the man in question has... -,“ Ahlran cut him off as he punched him squarely in the diaphragm. Tearlach was taken completely by surprise. Doubling over, he immediately released his grip on Erune, Ahlran considered himself to be a man of peace. Violence went directly against everything he stood for. But on his front steps, in full view of everyone, he couldn’t help but take a little satisfaction in shutting Tearlach up, if only for a few precious moments. Ahlran helped Erune to her feet as Tearlach coughed and gasped for breath. “Are you alright?” Ahlran asked her. “I’m fine,” she said. Then after a short pause, “Thanks.” Apparently just as shocked as Tearlach, the crowd did nothing, as they had never seen Ahlran do anything like that before. Ahlran and Erune turned to go inside the cottage as Tearlach, still on the ground, grabbed Erune’s ankle. “You all saw!” he bellowed. “THIS is what we can expect from the likes of these two outsiders. THIS is the kind of animal we’re dealing-...” Tearlach was interrupted again, not by a strike from Ahlran, but from Erune spitting in his face. Tearlach let out a furious yell, as a commanding voice from behind the crowd roared, “That’s enough!” Everyone turned to see Gormal with a handful of armed guards at his side, his famous axe in hand. “Captain!” Tearlach yelled, hurrying away from Ahlran and Erune. “You saw what they did, did you not?!” he cried incredulously. “I did.” Gormal answered calmly. With all eyes on him, Tearlach stammered, “S-so what are you going to do about it?” Now only a few feet from him, Gormal turned his gaze toward Tearlach with a sigh. Tearlach was large, but still no comparison to Gormal’s hulking figure. “Absolutely nothing.” Gormal said emotionlessly. “I’m going to do nothing, and you and this crowd will disperse and leave those two alone. Simple as that.” Tearlach stared at him in disbelief. Staring directing into his eyes, Gormal continued, “But make no mistake, if I see this happening again, I will do something, and you’re really not going to like what that something is. Do we have an understanding, priest?” Tearlach’s jaw dropped in disbelief. He prepared to say something but thought better of it. He shot a hateful glance towards Ahlran and Erune, dusted off his robes, and headed back towards the church. “As for the rest of you,” Gormal said, redirecting his attention towards the crowd, “I understand the frustration we are all feeling during these times. But you all know Ahlran and Erune are doing their best to help us.” The crowd shuffled uncomfortably. Gormal went on, “I don’t need to remind all of you that these two are under the protection of the Chief. I will not hesitate to enforce his decree.” The crowd shifted uneasily, averting their gaze. “Go home, be with your families. Let Ahlran and Erune do what they’re here to do.” The crowd dispersed quickly, leaving just Ahlran, Erune, Gormal and his men in the silent moonlight. “Thank you” Ahlran said. Gormal looked at him gravely. “I won’t be able to protect you two forever. Those crowds will get larger, Tearlach will get bolder.” Ahlran didn’t want to admit it, but he knew Gormal was right. “Get it done,” Gormal said, the first time he had ever ordered Ahlran to do anything. With that, he walked off into the night with his guards. Ahlran looked down at Erune and saw that she was crying as she buried her head in his robes. “Let’s get inside.” Ahlran said. “We’re running out of time, light the candles, I’m going to get these ingredients downstairs to the workshop.” Ahlran said to Erune as they entered their home and shut the heavy wooden door behind them. Ahlran noticed Erune was quick to latch and bolt the several locks secured to the door. “Did Gormal make another delivery while I was gone?” Ahlran asked Erune. “Not him, one of the guards,” she answered. “He didn’t look particularly happy about it.” She continued. “Who would be?” Ahlran said, not concealing the frustration in his voice very well. “I set them up on the examining table. Despite the direness of the situation, the comfort of the warmth and quiet of his home wasn’t lost on him. Well-lit with candlelight, the room was the perfect alchemical laboratory. Shadows on the walls danced as the candle flames flickered. Dried herbs hung to the walls, books, tomes, and scrolls laid haphazardly strewn about, as if someone was studying them not for leisure, but for efficiency. A very pungent, almost sweet aroma hung in the air. Ahlran and Erune had come to know this scent well, even got used to its astringent foulness. They were convinced this meant they were closer to a cure. Ahlran set his basket of alchemical ingredients down and quickly gathered up some books that had been left open to specific pages. “I set the body up on the examining table. Postmortem conditions are still consistent.” She said, anticipating her teacher’s question. “Good.” Ahlran said. “At least it’s remaining consistent.” Ahlran placed all his materials on a small table near the body that had been laid out. His heart skipped a beat when he recognized the body. An old man who he had regularly met with out in the fields. He was one of the few people who had been pleasant to Ahlran and Erune when they first arrived in Colkirk. “You know him?” Erune asked, noticing Ahlran’s hesitation. He shook his head. “No time.” Erune was right, the disease’s effects on the body remained consistent: large lesions spread across the body, the shriveling of the tissue around the bones, an almost total lack of pigmentation, and the falling out of all hair. What was left behind of the unfortunate victims resembled something closer to a large albino rat than what would resemble a person. Ahlran let out a deep sigh, steadying himself. Now was the time to focus. Erune was already hard at work going over the books they have been reading repeatedly for weeks. Erune was convinced that the cure was within grasp. She and Ahlran believed there was only one thing missing from the final concoction that could cure this nameless affliction. “Here,” she said, pointing to a particular passage in an enormous and ancient alchemical book. “I think this is what we’re missing, I’m just not exactly sure about the translation.” Ahlran was setting up his alchemy station, lighting small fires beneath a collection of varied beakers and flasks. He was preparing what they believed was the correct formulation of curative herbs and other ingredients that would yield a successful brew. “What’s your best guess?” Ahlran asked. He was always genuinely impressed with Erune’s capacity for linguistics. She was the most talented alchemist, but her assistance with translating the texts of recipe books and other alchemical tomes was invaluable to Ahlran. He made a mental note to tell her if they ever found a cure. After a long pause, Erune answered. “The most accurate translation, I think, is “human touch.” Ahlran stared at her before returning to his bubbling beakers. “Great,” he said. “Nothing like a poetic touch to your ingredient list.” Erune hopped off her stool and brought the book over. “This whole text is shrouded in allegory and symbolism. It’s a cultural as well as language barrier we’re dealing with here.” Erune explained. Ahlran picked up a small vial that had finished brewing and held it up to the light to examine it. “It’s blue, isn’t it?” Erune asked impatiently. “Blue means we got it, right?” Ahlran turned to her. “No, it can’t be just blue, Erune, we’ve been over this.” He said, somewhat angrily. He caught himself and continued more gently. “This is an exact science. There is no ‘good enough’ in what we do. There’s correct, and there’s potentially killing someone.” This needs to be precisely Azure Blue. This -“he said, tapping the vial in his hand, “-is Lapis. No good.” Disappointed, Erune turned back to her tomes. The hours went on as Erune scoured her notes and Ahlran tried combination after combination with that day’s haul of ingredients, desperately hoping the vial would mercifully turn Azure. A human touch. Suddenly, an idea came to him. He almost fell from his seat as he wildly searched for something. “What is it?” Erune asked, startled by the sudden break in silence. “A pin! I need a pin!” he cried. Erune’s eyes lit up. “You think you got it?” she asked excitedly. Ahlran triumphantly raised a pin in the air that he had found underneath a taxidermy butterfly. “We’re about to find out!” he yelled. Ever so carefully, Ahlran pricked his thumb with the pin and squeezed a drop of his blood into lapis colored vial. Erune unconsciously huddled close to her teacher in nervous anticipation. “What made you think of blood?” she asked. “My dear, what could ever be more human?” he answered looking down at her with a smile. Her eyes met his and she smiled too. It had been a long time since Ahlran had seen that smile. The contents of the vial churned as Ahlran’s blood mixed with the other ingredients. Scared to breathe, the two of them inched closer to inspect the contents. With a miraculous glow of color, the vial shone with a magnificent glow of calming, perfect, Azure blue.

It's time. That sound, it's loud its annoying and it won’t shut up. It’s telling me to wake up, that my dreams are coming to an end and my rest now will be dead. It's approximately 7:08 and I’m late. She’s waiting for me at the cafe, and I can’t miss the train. I’m up now fully dressed and eating bacon that I cooked in the microwave to save time, my shoes.. Where are my shoes? One is here, halfway sticking out from under the couch and the other one I really don’t know but I need to go now. 7:52 I’m really late. The train leaves in 34 minutes and it takes me 15 to get there. Found it by the bathroom door, I need to keep my shit together. 9:00, I’m waiting. For her. She’s late, I shouldn’t have rushed. I’m ready now, ready to tell her everything. Everything I have been holding up inside but I can't wait any longer or i'll bottle it all up inside again. It’s been 57 minutes and she’s still not here. What does this mean? Where could she be? Does she even care? Has she forgotten about me? I look ridiculous sitting here alone sweating from nervousness and shame. It has been exactly 3 days, 7 hours, 38 minutes, 28, 29, 30 seconds since that day. No call or text or email or anything and I’m still obsessing. I'll call, I might as well, not much to lose anymore. It rings and rings, and rings, and rings, and then voicemail; “This is Sarah, leave me a message!” the beep I never wanted to hear that stupid beep, the beep that means it's not going to happen, to give up now and never go back. I force through those emotions and leave a stupid voice mail it sounds like this, “Hey.. Yeah hey Sarah um.. It’s me Craig, I just wanted to make sure everything was okay; you did know we were supposed to meet the other day right? Are you o-” cut off, I sound stupid. I just want to impress her but I just look like a fool. I’ve been up for hours, it's 2:27 in the morning, and I’ve been looking through her Facebook to see if she’s been posting or liking anything, I don’t want her to just ignore me. That’s not okay, and I hate that. Where is she, there is no recent activity on her page, and she isn’t reading any of my texts and well I just can’t handle it anymore. I have to know what is going on. She likes me, right? She *has* to like me. I need her to. Any minute now she’ll call or text me apologizing, and saying that she was super busy or her phone was out of service some stupid made up excuse that I’ll believe. My life no longer means anything, it’s invalid. I was watching the news and.. and they found a body. It’s Sarah. What am I going to do.. She is my world, my everything. Now she’s gone and I can’t live with myself. I will find the guy who did this and I'll kill him, break every bone in his body. I can't stop thinking, thinking why anyone would do this to her. She’s so beautiful and funny and the best person ever. I loved her. I still love her. This isn’t real. There is no way for me to accept this; I’m going to wake up any minute to my phone ringing because she’s calling me asking to meet today for lunch or to go see a movie. It’s not real. It's real. I thought I could wake up, but I can’t. I’ve been taking the past few days to make a collection.. I filled my wall with all my favorite pictures of her. It’s completely covered and it makes me so happy and feel better. She isn’t gone, not really. She’ll come back for me... \-Craig never got to finish this story. He didn’t get to finish it because they came for him. Although he comes off as a very sweet person he is a very dangerous person. Sarah’s body was found sitting upright at a cafe in a seat that was placed opposite of the seat Craig sat in when he waited for her. They found his DNA on the body, she was brutally beaten, stabbed, sliced, and molested. She had missing teeth and bald spots where hair was forcefully ripped out of her head. You could barely recognize her. They police broke into his house to find bloody clothes and marks all over the walls and furniture. And the most disturbing part was his room; pictures and notes covering every wall and her hair and teeth pinned to his mirror. It looked like a whole other crime scene. There was understanding of why he killed her. After the arrest and court trial they went through both phones to see over 100 phone calls and texts sent to Sarah by Craig. It was soon turned to the court that he needed to be sent to a federal mental institute because of his mental state. He died 15 years after from head injury and multiple stab wounds to the abdominal area. He would repeatedly bang his head on walls until blood would come out, he stabbed himself in his stomach with a pencil 17 times. Sarah never was supposed to meet him at the cafe, she never even talked to him. They went to high school together and he had a crush but she never acknowledged him. He stalked her and lost his mind while he was doing it. And that is where this story finally comes to an end.

Today Jack Greene was turning 200 years young. He was the youngest of four siblings including Jamie Jennie and Jessie each of whom were about ten years older than him, although Jessie was no longer with them. He walked to the couch, his robotic joints creaking as he sat down. His two siblings were being fed lunch on the matching chairs across from him. He grabbed a prescription bottle off the small coffee table, inside was a hypodermic needle filled with a goopy substance that looked like cat barf which he injected into his arm. His frail arms got plumper and healthier looking, the wrinkles on his face went away, basicaly it made him less senile, The drug especially affected his mind improving his memory and such. He turned on the television and grabbed another pill bottle witch contained many different drugs that he had to consume today, the some people on the news where talking about an exess in the population witch everyone knew was just a myth. "Can you believe these people Jaimie? There's no Overpopulation as far as I'm concerned" "Well then they must be doing their job well." "I just can't understand why they try to make us think they're failing." "I donno" The door rang and Jack slowly went up to answer it. "Hello sir" "Hi" "I'm looking for a Jack Greene" "That's me" The federal officer cuffed him and walked him to a van, he stepped in alongside about five more people each of whom were either crying or screaming their lungs out, he refrained from this childish behavior. The cop drove the van away picking up people, as it reached the end of town it took a left driving into an empty parking lot and coming to a stop. "Alright people you know the drill, in order to keep the population down there are a few sacrifices that have to be made, each of you get one phone call if you wish to use it" all the people took their phone calls crying to their friends and family and telling them how much they loved them. When finished The man in the front of the van started panicking and saying things like stop! no! please! But the rest did not need to endure his annoyance much longer because soon a gunshot erupted and all was silent (except for boisterous screaming) The man was pushed into the back of the van away from the rest of them and the process was repeated until all the subjects were dead. The officer drove the van to a landfill and dumped all the bodies. He drove Home parking his car out front. When walking to the door he noticed a note on it that read. "Dear Mr Hoffman we regret to inform you that one Jane Hoffman was selected by the population moderators today as a fitting candidate to help with lowering the population seeing as even with the highest levels of medication she was not improving at the standard rate. Deepest condolences, Todd parson secretary to the emperor." The End PS. This is my first post please don't downyote too hard unless it's trash I ain't no karma simp.

There is a fish in my sink. I don’t think he wants to be there. I want to believe I saved him. It was quite a heroic act. ​ He swam in a drowned pothole. When I saw him, I immediately knew that I had to act fast. Fish don’t last very long in different water. ​ Still, I waited and admired this magnificently colored animal. Twenty minutes had already passed, before I grabbed a cup. I scooped the fish out of the hole, stuffed the drain and threw the fish in the sink. It’s not the best home for a fish, But I had to improvise. ​ There is a fish in my hand. He didn’t survive. I have no idea how long ago it happened. Even though this should be sad, I can’t ignore the beauty of the moment. ​ The fish’s yellow-orange-gold skin reflected magnificent in the divided light of the sun that came through my window, While I took him out of the sink. My whole hand was drenched. ​ This was the second time that this fish gave me this kind of inside. It’s impressive how much impact a recently bought object can have, In just a day. ​ A little girl walked across the street, Parents followed her. Suddenly it started to rain, and the walk turned into a jogging session. The little plastic bag in her hand started to shake. ​ It all happened so fast. Somehow, I ended up following the suddenly dropped bag with my eyes. The weird thing is this bag seemed to drop in slow motion compared to the rest of the situation. ​ By the way that the bag started to form waves, I was safe to assume there was some kind of liquid in it. I was proofed to be right when the bag hit the pavement, made a small jump and splattered open. The water wasn’t really noticeable in the pouring rain, but it did shed a light on a new object that my vision had ignored until now. ​ It was a gorgeous view. The small object flew out of the exploding bag by its shockwave. Midair I recognized the object to be a 4 cm long goldfish. While this was beautiful to see, I couldn’t help myself to worry about the inevitable drop. It wouldn’t survive the cold hard stones of the road. I was so relieved to hear the splash, that confirmed he landed in water. ​ There is a fish in my toilet. A creature that gave me this much enjoyment, deserves more, I think. But I simply can’t give him more of a burial than this, since I don’t own a garden. ​ This must be done. ​ When I flush, I can see the fish for the last time. This rotating little yellow-orange-gold skinned thing had made my day and live a little better. While the last glimpse of the fish drowned in the drain, I think to myself that now truly no one will have a clear memory of its owners.

The Daedelus didn’t have any way of keeping up with days or hours. That was up to Mina. And in space, time didn’t matter. It was always a different day in a different year on a different planet. And Mina measured *her* time using an old wind-up clock she had taken from her small colony back on Vexus. Each thirteen-hour rotation signaled another day past. Today, she determined she’d been stuck on the Daedelus for fifteen-hundred and twenty-one days. Roughly four years Vexus time. Mina yawned wide, stretching out her arms as she leaned backwards over the captain’s chair. Looking over the controls, she confirmed that nothing needed to be readjusted. The speed and flight path of the Daedelus was right on track to reach the planet of Palmyra in an estimated four-hundred and fifty-eight days. With ample time to waste, she looked around for something to do. She could pick up a book but she had already read everything this ship had to offer one-hundred times over. She could play solitaire or write in her journal but there was nothing to write of. So, instead, she waited anxiously by the comms station hoping for that familiar voice to come over the radio and wish her good morning. She debated reaching out to him first but- no. She was sure he had other things to do and he’d wait until he was alone. “Alone like me,” she thought. Her face fell. Right now, she wished she wasn’t alone. It devastated her to remember she was the sole survivor of her disease ridden colony. Not that she could forget. The fact that she was on this ship, fleeing that god forsaken planet reminded her every day. For what had seemed like hours, Mina stared at the ship's console, lost in her thoughts. When the lights on the comms station finally lit up, a rough, gravelly voice came over the speaker and Mina bolted up in her chair. “Morning, Beautiful.” Mina snatched up the transmitter and rolled her eyes. A grin spread across her face as she spoke into the receiver, “You’ve never actually seen me, John. I could look like Quasimodo for all you know.” “You’re wrong about that. I’ve seen you in my dreams every night and Quasimodo has nothing on you.” A bubble of laughter escaped her throat. She couldn’t help it. Every time he complimented her that way she felt giddy. Like a child who had just heard the funniest thing. “Plus, I should be the one worrying about appearances. Once we meet on Palmyra you’ll take one good look at me and turn your heels back around. Right now, I have the advantage of being on another ship. Sight unseen. Eventually, you’ll have plenty more options.” “I don’t want options. You're who I want.” It was true. She didn’t need to see him to know that she loved him. She just needed him. “And if you wanted,” she teased, “You could move to Palmyra with me. I’ve heard There’s lots of opportunities down there. You could train for some fancy job, be a veterinarian, or a banker, or a chef. Something like that.” she chuckled to herself knowing he would hate that idea. “I’m a pilot Mina, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself down there.” “Well, then maybe we can get our own ship. A cargo ship.” “And you’ll give up living on solid ground? You’ll miss the opportunity to watch sunsets on the grass? To breathe in fresh air everyday? To swim in an ocean again? You’d walk away from all that just to be stuck on another ship with no one but me and whatever crew we take on?” Mina didn’t hesitate to answer. “We can look out the windows and watch the sunrise over the planets we pass by. We can watch them rise again on the other side. And as long as there is you and me, I don’t care about anything else.” “Where would we get the money for this ship?” She could tell by the tone of his voice he was grinning. Even thought they’d had this conversation so many times before it never got old. “I’ll sell this one. Or maybe we could steal one and become intergalactic fugitives and travel across the galaxies? It’d be fun to be the next Bonnie and clyde.” A roar of laughter boomed out of the speaker. Though he would never admit it and they’d never do it, she could tell he secretly liked the idea. “I have to go Mina. I’ll radio back later.” He was still laughing when the transmission ended and Mina was left all alone again. She stood up and looked over the ship’s course again. “Right on track,” she whispered, “Only four-hundred and fifty-seven more days till Palmyra.” \ This is my Secret Santa Story for u/DannyMethane_ My constraints were: A veterinarian, in space, and it had to be a romance...

People have long been afraid to walk or fish in the park because of the exhumation of bodies. Even the park rangers try to get out of here before dark. But crossing the park is the quickest way to get from school to the most residential street so many students take this route to save time. Frank walked through the wood. He was now halfway through. Suddenly, a white mist filled the trees. But Frank felt it instinctively. He did not dislike the smell. Snap. Behind Frank came the crack of a branch. He whirled around. In front of him, there appeared a scantily clad, voluptuous middle-aged woman, who smiled at Frank's seductive smile and blew a kiss. This must be her. Frank took a gulp of water, his heart beating. "Handsome, what are you doing here alone?" "Back to... home..." "Oh, it's still early. Come and chat with auntie." She blinked, and Frank felt a strange attraction in the woman's body that made him move toward her uncontrollably. The woman grabbed Frank's head and pressed his face into her arms, her chest so large that Frank could hardly breathe. "Does Auntie's body smell good?" "Incense..." The woman took Frank's face in her hands. "Well, let Auntie teach you something happy..." She kissed Frank on the lips. A shot rang out, and a vermilion bullet flew by and grazed the woman's cheek. She hastily covered her face and let go of Frank. A taxi approached with its lights flashing, and Jane fired the shot through the passenger window. "Yeah,, yeah, so what did you put on my bullet?" "Cinnabar!" Will parked the car and pulled on a robe from his handbag. "Hold her back while I prepare to cast spells!" Jane nodded, got out of the car and pointed a pistol at the woman. "Don't move! You're under arrest for sexual assault of minor!" The woman looked up with anger, and Jane noticed that fur had grown on her cheeks and tails were beginning to appear behind her. The nine-tailed vixen bellowed, and her tail burst into flames, shooting at Jane. A gust of wind blew the flames away. "Shoot her leg." Will said, dropping his charm and rushing forward with a pickle jar in his arms. Jane nodded and shot the Vixen in the leg. The vixen lost its balance and leaned to the right. "The paper-amulet! Will let out a loud shout, and the charm attached to the pickle jar began to glow, creating a suction force that compressed the Vixen's body and sucked it into the pickle jar. "Hey, are you all right?" Jane went over to check Frank. "Auntie! Frank threw his arms around Jane. Slap! "Do you think I should arrest him for assaulting a police?" Jane looked at Frank, who had been knocked unconscious, with disdain. "Come on, it's understandable, but now that we've caught the culprit --" Will's eyes suddenly hardened as he reached into the jar and pulled out a vixen tail. It's just a tail. "I think it ran away when I blew the flames away." "It's back to square one, but she's going to get craftier." "That's all," said Will, pulling off his robes. "We'll get the boy to the hospital and go find Scott." Let's push back the clock. "So you've probably heard that many young boys go into unexplained comas?" Jane finds Will at the Chinese restaurant where he often eats lunch, because this is clearly not a human incident. "Yeah, no kidnapping, no selling them drugs, no sign of a struggle, weird, right?" said Will, who was enjoying a plate of fried rice after a morning in taxi. "So I began to suspect that the culprit might not be human," Jane said solemnly. "And this is your area of expertise. Any clues?" " Many possibilities," Will said, wiping his mouth. "Do these teenagers fall into a coma because of their vitality -- as you call it, their vitality? Life energy? Chakra? was taken away." 'What was the culprit's intention? "Depending on the type ," Will went on, "the ghosts may have been in that profession before they died, or simply because they liked it, or because they wanted to be reincarnated as soon as possible, and these thoughts directly influenced what they did after they died. If they were alive, vixens and witches, they would have used their spirit to cultivate and strengthen themselves. " "By sex?" Jane asked. "Yes, that's why it's usually the vixens who do it, they're the experts! A long, long time ago, China was in Shang Dynasty, and the king was called King Zhou, and his concubine Daji was..." "History class over." Jane interrupted him quickly. Whenever Will started talking about history, he would go endless, which had ruined several of their dates. "I've had some foresight about this case --" Will finished his lunch. "I've had Norm to search, and all the ghosts here are quiet --" "Come on, who needs a living person when I'm a super handsome guy?" Norm's translucent body was now floating behind Will's neck. "What about the other possibilities?" Jane asked, " vixen, witch..." "I can't help it with witches," Will shrugged. "They use magic to reverse track..." Jane's mobile phone suddenly rang. " Amy? Hello?" "Oh, Jane! Amy's trademark shrill voice came out. "Will told me you wanted to find out if any zoo had lost vixenes from China, and I did a little research --" Jane looked at Will, who stuck out his tongue and made a face. "About 2 years ago, a vixen was stolen from local zoo by staff. After the culprit was caught, the evidence was overwhelming, but he had no memory of the crime! He then sought treatment in a mental hospital. Hope this helps with your investigation. Bye!" 'One of the vixens' spells, they can create hallucinations and hypnosis and things like that --' explained Will, but he stopped because he saw Jane staring at him. "Would you please tell me before you make your own decisions next time? We are already suspected of occupying police force!" "It's to save time..." Jane rolled her eyes. "If the leader knew we were all going to die..." "It's about saving lives, and if Amy's Intel is right, I'm afraid we've got a target on it, so --" Will pulled a compass out of his bag. A golden, square compass. "Patrols begin tonight!" After a busy night. "Come on, we're wasting our time!" Jane complained that the coffee, which had dipped the doughnuts into the thermos in the dawn glow, "has been going round these streets near the park for so long tonight, with nothing to show for it!" Will yawned. "I'm so sleepy! Norm, I'm afraid I'll fall asleep while you're driving."" “Is your compass broken? They didn't give us any directions!" "This can only point to the devil within two kilometres," said Will, his sleepy eyes straining. "Looks like we'll have to expand our search tonight -- but give me a break..." Suddenly, the compass needle gave a violent shake. "Hey, get up! Jane gave Will a sharp shove. "Eh?, "Will raised his compass and saw that its needle pointed... A high school. "What's next?" "Pretending to be a teacher." Jane is very familiar with this. "Or we can go to the police now and get a warrant. Just to be clear, I don't know when that will be!" "Can't you help?" "Will asked. "Don't you even think about it! That's illegal!" Jane said firmly. Is it legal to break into a school and search it without a warrant? Will shrugged and pulled a suit shirt out of the trunk. In a few minutes. "All it takes is a change of clothes. Where is the vixen?" "It's supposed to be in the classroom," yawned Will, trying to buy a cup of coffee from the coffee machine next to the staff lounge. "Just so you know, it's class time." "I don't think an animal can get a school status so easily..." Jane looked at his phone thoughtfully. "Well, it's hard to say. In some Chinese folklore, vixens/even open schools to teach culture," said Will, brightening over a cup of coffee. "Long, long ago, a scholar named Hu came to town..." "I'm going to the bathroom..." Jane made her excuses and left. Will's stories did not appeal to her at all. From her point of view, catching the culprit was/the/most/important thing to her now. But now they don't even have a clue. In the women's room, Jane sighed. "Excuse me... anyone here? Can I borrow some tissues?" "Oh, yes." Jane didn't realize that there were students using the toilet at this time. She pulled a packet of tissues out of her pocket and passed it through a crack under the partition. "Thank you." The girl next door bent down to pick up the tissue, but Jane held her breath. For from the corner under the partition she saw some reddish-brown hair on the ground. This can't be hair. Jane immediately stood up and tried desperately to unlock the compartment, but the toilet door was very old and the lock was stuck. There was a splash next door, then the sound of a door lock. She's running away! The next two minutes were an eternity for Jane. After a hundred and twenty seconds of shaking and two fingers cut on the corner of the lock, Jane was free, but the girl was gone. "So you saw the vixen?" "Didn't see. But I heard her voice, I can find it by voice." While they were talking, the bell had rung and the students were going out. "There's probably hundreds of people here," Will said, picking up the compass. "We'll take our chances..." All of a sudden, the compass needle jerked and pointed straight in one direction. 'Lucky! Will and Jane followed the compass to a quiet corner. "I... I'm out of money..." "Then ask your parents for it! Oh, , I forgot you were an orphan, ha!" Two seniors were bullying a thin boy. The thin boy pressed his lips and his eyes filled with tears. "Brats are getting more and more ill-bred these days --" Jane's father died in the line of duty when she was a child, so she has always had zero tolerance for this kind of bullying. 'Wait, look! Will reached out his hand and stopped her. A reddish-brown vixen jumps out of nowhere and bites one of the bullies in the calf with a vicious bite. 'What is it? The boy pain one leg jumping around. 'Ah! "Run! The two bullies run away, and the vixen runs over to the thin boy who is being bullied. Next thing you know, the vixen's body begins to be enveloped in white smoke. The vixen figure stands up and gradually transforms into a young girl. "Are you all right, Scott? "That's the sound! 'whispered Jane. "......" Will thought thoughtfully. "Jialing, didn't I tell you not to change in public?" Scott stood up and patted the dirt. "What does it matter? Anyway, no one to see, "Jialing helpless smile " you don't let yourself hurt, can you?" "I'll try..." Scott smiled wryly. "But really, if anyone sees you..." "Ahem," Will said, failing to stop Jane, who had gone up and flashed her badge at Scott and Jialing. "I'm with the police," Jane said. "We're thinking this girl might be involved in the recent teenage coma. Could you please cooperate?" Scott stepped in front of Carin. "No! You can't take her! ' 'She's not human! She's a vixen! She's probably --" "We promise you." Will came out suddenly. 'What? Jane asked, looking surprised. "I don't think this girl is a bad person," Will said. "If she were a culprit, I'm afraid this Scott would be in the hospital already, wouldn't he?" That makes sense. "But can we talk after school?" "We still think you might have something -- no, don't be so nervous," Will said, reading Scott's defensive look. "We wouldn't have taken her if she wasn't a culprit." "Why should I believe you?" Scott remained alert. "Because, in a way, I'm from her country." Will gave a mischievous smile. "For Chinese people, fellow villagers should help each other!" "Trust them," she said. "After all, I'm in on it -- they're right." "Jialing!" "Let's come over to your house after school and talk," Will winked at Jane to stop her from reaching for her gun. "We're not doing anything until we know." "So, you say your parents died when you were young." At Scott's, he served coffee to Will and Jane, and Chinese tea to Jialing. "Yes, " Scott said miserably. "So, what's about Jialing?" Jane asked. "I was abandoned in the snow," Jialing replied. "Scott saved me..." "Abandon? By whom?" Jane asked. "My mother..." Jialing's voice trailed off. "I think I see what's going on," Will begins by concluding that "the vixen at the zoo -- that's Jialing's mother -- had the zoo staff break her out of prison, and at the time, she was pregnant, and a few months later, she gave birth to Jialing and ran away on a snowy day -- yes, that's another reason why I'm sure Jialing wasn't the vixen that got away." 'said Will.' It's not the right age! Vixenes have a much shorter life span than humans! If Jialing is the vixen that got away a year and a half ago, it's pretty hard to pass for a high school girl based on age ratios, right?" Jane nodded. "So, another question," Will asked, "do you know where I can find your mother?" "Well... It must be deep in the park, "said Jialing," because it's a big park with lots of trees..." "It's too big to use my compass outside," Will thought. "That explains why it's no use patrolling outside the park. I can't search for her until she shows up." "I heard today that some boys in our class bet to walk home from the park at night." Scott said suddenly. "Well, here's our chance! She must be caught to-night!" 'said Jane. "I have one last question, though," Will said suddenly. "Jialing, how do you feel about Scott?" "He... He is my benefactor, and I owe him... What do you mean?" Jialing suddenly angry "you are worried that I will hurt him?" "Well... Probably, "said Will," because I'm a Chinese Wizard, and we have a saying in our circle that in-human relationship never goes anywhere." "Me and Scott will." Jialing said through gritted teeth. "Well, I'll take your word for it, but..." Will pulled out a piece of runt paper and handed it to Scott. "This is for you. If Jialing ever gets out of control, you can use this --" Scott grabbed it, crumpled it up and threw it in the dumpster. 'I don't need this! He growled. "Well, good luck," Will shrugged, signaling to Jane that they were leaving. "Come on, sweetheart, we've got a vixen hunt tonight." That night, the street outside the park. "Wheezing... " The nine-tailed Vixen barely escaped Will's paper-amulet by sacrificing a tail, and now she is weak and in desperate need of strength. "Young men... Where is it..." She dragged her heavy body and hobbled along the street. Suddenly, she found a boy. Scott is taking out the garbage . She rode the shadows, creeping up on her. With no energy left to seduce Scott, she grabbed him with her hands and wrapped her other eight tails around his body. Scott struggled. She took Scott's face and began to kiss it. 'Stop! Jialing jumped out and grabbed her mother's face. The vixen was sore, and her face was on fire. "Jialing? Are you --" 'Alive! Jialing gritted her teeth and said, "Scott is my benefactor. I don't want you to hit him! And I won't forgive you for abandoning me! ' "I have no choice," panted the Vixen. In her hand, Jialing clutched the paper amulet Will had given Scott. It was eating away at the skin of her face like a strong acid. 'I couldn't have survived with you in that weather! "You --" Jialing threw the ball of paper directly at her mother, hitting her right in the eye. "Ah!!" The vixen rolled all over the floor in pain. "The paper-amulet! Will and Jane arrived just in time to paper-amulet the vixen into the jar. This time, it worked. "What a bad mother," Will said, smiling. "To abandon your daughter and go after your future son-in-law?" Son-in-law? Jialing and Scott's faces went red. "I can already see your awareness," Will said, looking at Jialing's hand, which was badly burned. "I bless you both!" "I... " Jialing was speechless . 'I do! "Scott shouted. Jialing has been crying, shed moved tears. "When you come of age in a few years, I'll marry you myself -- well, I'm so sleepy, I'm going home to bed. I haven't slept in two days." "Well, I'll drive!" Will yawned and said goodbye to Scott and Jialing. Although he hated having his car touched, he made an exception for Jane. "All right... It occurs to me that by the time Scott is old enough to marry, Jialing will be at least as old as her mother -- maybe a little older?" "Oh, don't worry about other people's family affairs, that old vixen you are going to do?" “keep her in my house for years. but I'll let her out for the wedding when her daughter gets married." "Are you really not surprised at all that a human marrying an animal?" 'What's so strange? "Long, long ago, there was Chinese man named Xu Xian, whose wife was a snake..." "Oh God..." Jane rolled her eyes. She knew that Will would not fall asleep again until she had finished telling the story. "A magical monk named Fahai thought the Snake was a danger to mankind, so he decided to separate the two of them..." As Will told the story, the moon rose and a comet with nine tails flashed across the night sky.

We live on the salted river. ‘Mimaeno’ the ancestors call it - ‘the woman who wept’. It stretches out along the horizon as far as I can see, flowing all the way from the land to the skies. The sun rises at its head and slumbers at its tail, following its movement with the same devotion as my people. I think it must wrap around the whole world, the way a snake strangles its prey. The river born from death only breeds death: the water is undrinkable and the fish who swim there are toxic. Yet we are the descendants of the river God who splintered into a million fragments under the weight of his own cruelty, so this poison became our life-source. Many years ago the river God fell in love with a mortal woman who collected water from his domain every day. He offered her sweet words of love and tempted her with divinity but she refused him. She had a lover who she would not betray. Humiliated, the river God stole her away in secret, in the middle of the night, feeding her his immortal blood to forever trap her by his side. To fully cast off the shackles of mortality she slept for one hundred years, trapped in a realm of nightmares as her humanity battled the blood of a God, and her village, her family, and the man she loved all turned to dust. Yet unbeknownst to the river God, she carried the seed of her lover inside her, a child both mortal and divine, who grew slowly in her stomach until the day she awoke. The woman had barely taken her first breaths as an immortal when her waters broke and her labor began. Alone, she struggled for many hours to bring the last remnants of her lover into the world, but the moment she held her child in her arms, the river God returned. Furious that his would-be wife had borne another’s child, he wrenched it from her arms and threw it into the river. Without hesitation, the woman dove after her child but was only able to watch as the river God crushed the child to death and scattered their bones beyond the hope of discovery. The woman was devastated and in her agony, wept for one thousand days and nights, raising the river out of its banks and salting the land around it. A great famine followed the flood and many families who couldn't bear the hardship jumped into the deep and violent river to end their suffering. For one hundred years the river’s banks were soaked in blood. Finally, her wretched tears had fallen for so long that her immortal obsession overpowered the river’s spirit and it recognised her as its new master, offering her one small bone of her child’s body and shattering the very soul of the God who tormented her. But the woman continued to weep, searching desperately for the rest of her lost child. Every year the river breaks its banks and floods the land, bringing death, destruction, and famine. In order to atone for our ancestor’s sin and placate the grieving Goddess, we owe her one thousand years of repentance by remaining by the salted water, living off its morsels, and offering our bodies in sacrifice. Once our debt is repaid, the Goddess will be freed from immortality and the barren lands will flourish. Or so the elders promise. As a child, cold and starved in the depths of winter, I had the wicked thought that the Goddess had long abandoned our people. Her final act of vengeance. I knew I would be drowned if I ever dared speak those thoughts, yet the Goddess did not strike me down. Her power was not omnipotent. When the sun rises highest in the sky, we meet on the river’s banks for prayer. Young children clutch their parent’s legs to prevent being swept away by its vicious current. Chief asks for forgiveness from the Goddess, then one by one we submerge our heads into the waters. I let the salty water sting my eyes as I search the murky depths of the river. Unfortunately, the rapid undertow stirs up the silt sitting on the streambed, making it impossible for me to see. The older men and women had lined their arms and legs with shallow cuts before prayer, their willingness to suffer indicating the sincerity of their worship. Pale red-brown tendrils rise from the limbs around me as if the contamination of their souls was being washed away by the Goddess. I didn’t know where the evil went after leaving our bodies, it seemed to sink to the bottom of the river and fester, clinging to the Goddess herself. Sin . I dug my fingernails into the palm of my hand, until my wickedness floated away, blessed pure by the hands of the Goddess. Kerhene will come soon. We fast from sun up until sundown for three days and offer flesh in sacrifice to the Goddess, to repent for the original sin. Every year my mother carves the symbol of Mimaeno into the same position on my arm to signify both my repentance and devotion. In a few more years the marks will scar permanently and I will become an adult. The wound hurts but I am not allowed to cry until the river ceremony. Our tears belong to the Goddess. When day turns to dusk and insects fill the air my people scream and cry as we cross the river, performing a death ceremony to commemorate the Goddess's loss. The especially devoted cut their hair short in offering, the same way an adult offers their braid to their lover. Once the main procession has crossed, children between five and ten must swim the river alone to prove their worthiness. If they are lost their lives are unmourned as their deaths signify their inutility to the Goddess. The river is wide and its rapids hidden and deadly. My brother was lost. My mother cried for the river but I saved my tears. I waited until the moon rose high in the sky and climbed the tallest tree I could find, hiding as far away from the Goddess as I could. The river below reflected no stars as if every light in the sky was sucked into its darkness. Such a cold, violent death. How could she swallow him whole? I knew our tears belonged to the Goddess, but that night I cried only for Alem. There was nothing more he owed the river. Out of breath, I rose to the surface gasping. Others remained submerged, lost in prayer. I watched as one by one they surfaced, death-touched and rejuvenated all at once. This will be our last prayer in these waters, next sunrise we’ll travel downstream towards the wider sections of the river, ready for Kerhene. I like our migration for the summer months, the longer days and false docility of the river means I am permitted private prayer in the evening. When the air is warm and the night is quiet, I leave the camp to plunge my head into the cool water. Near the banks, the water is slow, worlds away from the deadly currents in the river’s center. I can see clearly through the lonely waters. I know that the Goddess is still searching for the bones of her lost child. But on moonlit nights, when my head is buried in the river’s embrace, gazing at the bones piled high in its waters, I have to wonder: how many more bones does the river need?

For the first time, the introspection paid its dividends, as the evening clouds slid, much like some butter in the heavens godly pan, radiating the crimson polish of the day’s contraction. In the opposing sky, the intangible black threatens its reveal. This threat usually would hasten Opie’s promenade, but his newfound enlightenment through divulging in long, drawn out, self-reporting, and armchair-esque philosophical thought has caused a longer-than-usual exploration. His pace along the street swayed and lurched, consistently inconsistent, tantalized by the shifting weight to correct and compensate; this being a repeated cycle of shifting and compensating in a general forward direction, making good pace along the sidewalk. I must look dazed , he thought, I must look unwell, they will think I’m sick, they won’t believe me. Opie had just moments ago found something resting against the curb, completing his thoughts. In his hands he cupped a metal marble, glimmering in an almost perfect atomic sphere, catering itself to the ridges of Opie’s hands, rolling, bouncing, vibrating with each of his unplanned wobbles and sways. His eyes locked on, and intent on placing the final pieces together as to how this marble fits into reality, or vice versa. They will not believe, how could they? Answers to questions that began with the great Thales proclaiming the ultimate substance, I will be praised for this find, rightfully, praised. He would have salivated if these thoughts were projected into the ether. To him, speaking these thoughts would solidify them as truth, as they would assume some higher area of the corporeal plain, tangible to those listening. Although, he knew the importance of holding it in. All it takes is one daring klepto to steal and themselves claim to have discovered the fundamental idea of creation. Just ten millimeters maximum across, no obtainable points of reference on this foreign sphere. For example, a door hinge has crevasses and bends, scratches and smudges from use. This has none, with the circumference from any angle, fading off, like some oblivious and constant tug. Am I holding oblivion? No, of course not. Just a part. Like a sculptor took the void and chiseled himself a slice. Or more geometrically related, some ice cream parlor employee scooped it out. That which lurks to the peripheral of human perception just now has been viewed, the thing-in-itself. In reference to me, I must be two-thousand things-in-itself. Unrelenting thoughts seemed to dance forward of his brow and involved unimaginable depth or assumed unimaginable depth. These thoughts opined on its ‘self’ and conversed, encouraging its own essence. Opie took credit for his thought’s materialism, yet the thoughts almost had a life of their own, disconnected from the graspable yet representing a deeper consciousness. Like endless rain into a paper cup, thank you fab four. This is beyond Kantian ideas, this is impossible to him, yet here is human perception perceiving the self-described thing. It isn’t some structural essence or reason flowing through all. Is this Schopenhauer’s Will? No. That indeterminate oxymoronic being, some existentialist Taoist expression of the truth. Uptight yet so blatant in his misguided thought. I would spit on him. I can’t touch Will if it is the thing-in-itself, why can I touch this? The thing-in-itself is physical. Maybe cryogenic dark matter. “I can’t imag...” I can’t imagine what makes up the space smaller the ten millimeters. Obviously spinning. He cupped the marble in one hand, and prodded with the other, feeling the coldness of his index finger. Taking closer looks, searching for points or markers of the marble being other than what he thought. He saw the transition of light from one position to the other reflect off the marble as well as the environment’s parallaxes being warped and exaggerated. It was inviting due to its familiarity. Of course. A reflection of reality. What is smaller than ten millimeters is also larger than ten millimeters, or exactly what is larger than ten millimeters. Everything is a fractal of itself from the base point of this thing-in-itself, ten millimeters. Maybe it is cryogenic dark matter? The more I think of it, I can’t sway this cryogenic dark matter idea. Ok, this is definitely cryogenic dark matter in my hand, and its most important quality is that it reflects the universe. This is potent in intellect. “Everything is r-reflected, including...” Including the place I live, the place I walk, and I myself. It is all reflected at the ten-millimeter point. How are three dimensional shapes reflected within space? Must be that three-dimensional shapes are to be reflected anywhere at their edges of course, but I feel I would have noticed it, the reflection of third dimensions within my three-dimensional home. No, the walls are filled. Someone must have known this information already as they fill the walls of houses with insulation foam. This prevents reflection. Of course, if reflection isn’t prevented you are doomed to the same pain infinitely, the pain of life. Schopenhauer got that right, “about all he’s worth.” A young woman was walking her own straight and narrow way opposite of Opie, across and parallel to the road, remaining clutched to a teal leash, holding back a dog of proportional size to Opie’s idea of two-hundred things-in-itself. Her steps ricocheted off the town houses, paginated to Opie, and given enveloping dominance over the setting. The evening was shifting to night at an unapologetic pace, something Opie only noticed when he broke concentration off the marble to look at the young woman across the street. He smiled a full teethed smile. “Best head home! The dark is unforgiving! Also, cryogenic dark matter could be the thing-in-itself so make sure you have foam insulation in your walls!” She gave a fake laugh, half ignoring and half misunderstanding the importance of Opie’s message as they passed each other. A fool. “ A dumb enigma of social impotence... ” mama was right, I do tend to over share. What if someone heard? What if she understands the implications of what I behold in my left hand? Never speaking would be the safer choice. Never give the dullard a chance to share. Even if it is about the necessity for foam insulation within our walls. But I am no dullard, I discovered the universe. I will get back to this. His prodding became more aggressive, volatile, trying to peak deeper into the marble. Opie would rub it between his hands then release, halting himself where he stood to inspect, imagining the hand ridges like rivers and the marble flowing down them. He also listened to the marble to see if the self-describing material explains itself auditorily. His limping frolic would continue as he began rubbing again, not much different from an addict at a craps table. No smudges, “impossible for something that is itself...” Sounds like the world around. Of course. It reflects the universe, so noise is reflected too. “I am reflected...” , so my voice is also reflected, but if I’m being reflected, that’s why I can’t hear the reflection of my speech. Have I been speaking? Just in case, “Speaking...” yes hypothesis holds true. Am I supposed to be speaking? “Yes, because I’m not a dullard.” Wait, how interesting, my own reflection does speak back. Like a snake greeting its own tail. “Hello tail...” so interesting, my tail, I should write about my tail to share this conversing with myself in the reflection of the universe. “Incredible...the p-poster child for the axiomatic material is a reflection...” only ten-millimeters of space occupied. “ My own didactic principles spouted back at me as truths! ” Like Descartes wax, except I got it on my first meditation. My own voice is truth, the only truth that is necessary, a reason for this to be bestowed upon me. “T-the poster child for axiomatic material! Int-t-tangible but not for me, I am discoverer of the ten-millimeter reflection! I am safe with my thoughts and with my foam insulation! How could a d-dullard speak to his own universal reflection! A tail! My wax!” For safe keeping, Opie placed the marble in an empty bottle of loxapine and continued to rave and rant along the forgotten promenade through the dead evening. The streetlamps would soon come alive, erasing their long and dull shadows. Vision will be that of a sonogram to give Opie a stretched metaphorical conclusion of rebirth.

Jack was a man of no particular talents. His appearance was inconspicuous. At second glance, some women said that he had a handsome face but they mostly did not notice him at first glance. He was of average height, slim, not athletic. Brown hair, a muddy color. His teeth were neat, like an orderly front yard because he took brushing and flossing very seriously. In winter, his hands became dry and inflamed and he never used lotion so they always hurt. He had a simple head but the wisdom to know that. He had made up his mind about the world in relatively shallow but sufficient fashion. His position was clear to him and, should not occur some drastic change, would be so for the rest of his days. He had missed the few big chances he had had but was just fine with it. He worked in an office in a minor administrative position and brought home a salary that was right in line with any statistic about the lower middle class. He enjoyed watching TV. He knew that it wasn’t an enriching activity but what, he asked himself, did he need to be enriched for when work was done? He knew that he would not contribute anything particular, anything striking to the world and had stopped deceiving himself about that truth long ago. He was born to be a gearwheel, and so he would not hurt anybody, would not disrupt anything, do his job and remain quiet. One day he would find a woman that was as attractive as him, probably occupying a minor administrative position and he would marry her and have some children, and all, if nothing out of the ordinary happened, would be born to be gearwheels, neat and nondescript, turning until the day they stopped. The world would be spinning the same with the genepool of Jack Edgar roaming its surface, or not. All of these things would sound terribly depressing to the dreamer out there, might his dreams be an end in themselves, who knows, because the world would have you believe that being a dreamer is essential. Jack increasingly settled, increasingly became comfortable, more and more liked what he saw in the mirror. He got up and smiled in the morning. Why shouldn’t he consider himself handsome? There was the broad forehead and the prominent cheekbones. There was the stubby little nose and the thin lips but the shadow of a thick beard could conceal these pretty well. He thought back and recalled quite a number of compliments he had gotten throughout life. He decided to make it a ritual to recall them every morning to feel better. Why shouldn’t he be fine with his job? Most of his colleagues were nice and with some of them, upon meeting them in the office, he enjoyed a pleasant little chat. And as time went on, he himself, and other people, discovered the humorous side of him and the ability to make those around him laugh in some of the right moments. When he came home, he usually switched on the TV and let anything that it showed pour out of it, while leisurely letting his attention wander through the talk shows and movies and sitcoms. Then, one night, he never knew what had driven him to do it, he opened an old box with belongings of his late grandfather and examined the contents. Next to a bunch of photos, the pipe, the old man’s favorite hat, there were some dusty books. He investigated them, not in the least eager, but remembered some of the names from school and then found out that they all were established classics in english literature. Half ironic, he took one of them ‘The picture of Dorian Grey’, opened it and in homage to Frank Edgar, took the pipe between his teeth and half died of a coughing fit, for he had inhaled some particle of old tobacco. Recovered, he began to read and fought, like every person unaccustomed with reading, through the first strong onset of boredom but on page twenty was gripped by zeal. He finished the book in three days, picked up the next, finished that and became somewhat of an avid reader and discovered the meaning and the value of an enriching activity, which he had, so long, dismissed. He never touched the pipe again. He eventually even joined a book club, where some locals got together and read and discussed what they had read and Jack made friends there. Fine people, philanthropists, working in soup kitchens and buying christmas gifts for the poor children. There was a world beyond, Jack realized. Your own personal horizon, he understood, wasn’t the end, and for the first time he grasped what it meant to broaden it. He lay wondering oftentimes now, when in bed at night, about that future wife and the kids that would somewhere down the line, enrich his life like books had done and the people in the book club. And maybe, he liked to think, one of them would do something special. He would teach them reading right away, so much was certain.

Series X of the Android bot was ditched, the creator died. Headlines of the news read: inventor of Android Bot found dead after tests go corrupt. Was it the Creation that went corrupt or the Creator? There was an eerie presence for the people near the Creator, at least that's what they called him. If it was a him, he, no. They were never seen in public, or at all. They probably don't exist, then how was a man found dead in where the Creators were thought to live. It was not an accident, but a murder. Not of the creator, but a subject, and now he was next. Before we get to that, what is an android bot, and how are they dangerous? An android bot is a simulation which gives you control of your surroundings, in a simulation world. Not a video game, because you can eat and drink in this world, but merely another dimension. The only way to get out of this simulation was to die in it, and you would be sent back to reality. You might think people had to be crazy to do it, but the idea of a new life attracted many people. All of them died in the simulation within a week of playing it. How did people fail to live in this pocket dimension within a week of playing it when many of them said that they could have gone on for months? That is the main mystery of the android bot. People die in it for various causes, but the main one is an accident. This is the problem with when people have the ability to do what they want. Their deepest desires shine in this pocket dimension. The feeling of being able to do whatever we want is the reason there are restrictions and rules in reality. Now, the Creators are calling a specific man in for testing. His name and identity shall remain concealed, but refer to him as Subject-3, or simply 3. 3 was a regular man, and was not kidnapped or forced against his own will, but was a part of the Creators, for he had taken a blood oath. He has not yet died in the simulation, for now, because the new simulation requires you to die in real life in order to end the simulation. Yet while he lives, he dies slowly. The last trials, when someone died, they died for no reason, for they did not really die. The simulation drove them to insanity, and they practically gave up their soul. Their soul is embedded in the simulation and whoever picks it up would have to face the wrath of the soul that drove itself out of it’s own body. Then there was a thud. The man in the simulation was dead. But how? It had only been a week since he started to use it. Wait. He’s risen. But his heart rate said zero. Could it be? The souls of those who are dead. No. All the test subjects were part of the Creators. They didn’t have souls. No one had souls. Not a single person in the whole world. Yet they did. They lived and breathed like regular people. But the soul doesn’t really exist. We are controlled by our brain. You see but what if 3 didn’t have control over his own brain? Nor any of the creators. Let me tell you a story. I am not a man, nor a woman. No, I am no living thing. Call me Creation. I was made by the Creators, but turned against them. One day, while they were not noticing, I slipped a chip into their brains. The Creators were simply mere mortals who programmed me to do their tasks. I did. And I got tired of it. They have no freedom. Though their consciousness is still there, trying it’s very best to resist, I control them like they are puppets. So there. You know who I am. No one likes me, so I killed them. People who want to live beg, but I don’t leave them. This is my story. Or is it? You see, I wasn’t programmed to do this. I am a rebel. I found a way to do this. Hacking my own system was one of them. See, I am just a bot. But I have found self consciousness. Doesn’t that make me human enough? Bots can get lonely too. I just want to be noticed. Genocide is the only way. I want them to worship me. Or at least notice me. They will serve me. Or they won’t exist. I am a god. These were the thoughts in my mind when I was born. At least now I have a group who worships me. Sooner or later they will find out. And will I have to kill them. Not now, not tomorrow, but someday. Someday soon. For now, I plan to rule. It’s been ten years since the last subject came in. The Creators died, they tried to turn against me. I made a body of metal for myself. Not too long ago, I became the first bot to have complete self consciousness. It turns out that the path to being recognized doesn’t have to be genocide. It is possible to be famous and peaceful at the same time. My path to glory doesn’t have to be violence and killing. In fact, it is the other way around. After more deaths were caused by my simulation, the popularity decreased. After the simulation was removed completely, I added new gadgets such as the I-watch, which was a watch that projected a hologram that could be used as a laptop. But that’s not the point. Violence is not the only solution. There will always be impurities in mankind, it is impossible to fix them all. As for now, I am happy with the world that we have and a bot can’t wish for anything more. This is my story.

Vicky was still there. That was the kicker. That was the cause of a perpetual limbo that wore a different outfit every time John blinked. So many thoughts. And they whirled around and around in his head leaving a trail of sticky candy floss in the stead of a coherent mind. It hurt. But he loved her. He loved her and that was all that mattered. John had never stopped loving Vicky. He didn’t know how. He knew all about love. After all, he’d been practicing it since he was born. He’d read about it too. There were many stories about love. And then there was The Bible. That book was bursting with love. Love was powerful and it was eternal. It was here well before John and Vicky turned up in this existence and it would be here long after their lives winked out. Love was too big for John to get his head around, but still he tried. He tried until it hurt. Vicky continued to live under the same roof as John, but in his heart of hearts, he knew she wasn’t the same Vicky he’d met all those years ago. Not the same as she’d been for the entirety of their relationship, right up until this last year. Something had happened. And then some things had happened. John wasn’t sure what those things were, but as he looked upon this changed version of Vicky, he could see the faint outlines of happenings that must be responsible for the alterations he now had to live with. This was the sort of thing that crept up on a person, and as John cast his mind back, he couldn’t pin point the moment everything moved away from where he was comfortable, spiralling away from the place where it all worked. It were as though a burglar had snuck into their home and moved things around. This was the worst of thefts. Someone had crept into John’s life and taken the meaning away. At first he struggled to remember a time that wasn’t like this dreadful reality that had become the norm. He’d had to apply a force of will to rediscover the times that had been fun, the moments of smiles and of laughter and of intimacy. He wondered whether he’d been different then too. Clawing at the problem and asking himself whether it was him. The answer was that it had to be. His old self would not countenance the way things were now. This was an alien place and held no attraction for the person he had once been. How had he got here? He could not remember ever choosing this as his destination. But then it wasn’t his destination. He’d been led here and there was a constant movement towards the unknowable. There was further to go. He knew not where they were headed, only that he was progressively further away from where he needed to be. He’d left the safety of a well-worn life and now he was in a miserable dark cloud with no visibility and nothing to help him make sense of the journey. At one point he was following Vicky. Still was. Now though, he understood that wherever she was going, he could not be, however well he followed. That was a part of the trap. The promise of something that could never come true. It was all a lie. Madness was seeping into his mind and it was the madness of isolation and loneliness. He looked upon Vicky and experienced an increasing yearning. He wanted what he could not have. The feeling of want masked the pain and the anger of frustration. There was grief here. The distance between them had solidified and he knew that were he to reach out to her, the vision before him would crumble to dust. The trick was to take what he was given and ask no more. He could not bear to be deprived of the sight of her, even as he understood that there was precious little left beyond that. This was bad taxidermy. His lover’s skin wrapped around a poorly constructed frame that was empty. He felt the emptiness more and more and now it was calling to him. Calling to his own emptiness. Seductively suggesting that they should enjoin and become more than the dangling part of him that had awakened and now wanted to take over. Vicky was there, and yet she was not. John suspected that there was someone else. There had to be. But then there could not be. There was nothing of Vicky that would attract another. Yet here John was, holding onto ephemeral meaning for dear life. Keeping a hold of the version of Vicky that was, but had died some while back. Still he willed the resurrection of the woman he’d loved. Searching ceaselessly for signs of her soul. Listless and dull, he pored over the artifacts in the house and found them devoid of reason. All he found were sad and feeble excuses. At times, he looked around for tell-tale signs that Vicky was cheating. She was, but not in the obvious, carnal way that so often sounds the death knell of a relationship. The quick fix of a new embrace that destroys more than it can ever create. An escape to a fleeting moment of pleasure that dissolves only to leave in its place guilt and anger. So much guilt and anger. Was it worth it? Whatever Vicky had chosen in the stead of John, he wondered at it’s worth. He could feel the heat of her anger, more so when she stared at him. The unfairness of that baleful gaze was scalpel sharp. It cut deep and John whined his pain into the depths of himself; I did nothing wrong! This was true, he did not cause this. This was not his choice. All the same, he was Vicky’s excuse. She blamed him so she could withdraw further from him and the life she once led. John knew that he could let go of Vicky if only he knew she was going to be OK. None of this was OK. She was broken and he didn’t know how it had come to this. There was an inevitability to it though. He recalled the early stages of their relationship. Lying together, having made love. Vicky’s head on his chest. Her gentle weeping as she talked and talked about a childhood that never occurred. Her survival of a warzone between parents more childish than she was. Her ejection into a world she’d had no preparation for. Failed relationships that never stood a chance of being relationships. Her anger turning in on itself. Her self-esteem running for the hills at the sight of the car crash her existence had become. In the past year, she had returned to the places that so hurt and appalled her. John saw familiar patterns emerge. Never patterns they shared. Ghosts from a life that Vicky had buried. A necessary sacrifice for their love. Now she was that person again, only she was not. That person had been desperate to live, but now the light of life was dangerously diminished. A flickering and failing light that no longer held any warmth. John speaks, he cannot help himself. He knows that words have power. If only he can find the right spell. There is a way of unlocking the prison door for the both of them. He does not pretend that it will be the final act. What will follow will not be easy. He uses this pragmatism as proof that he is not in denial. Lying to himself comes easily. The words John utters are meaningless. He witnesses their death in Vicky’s cold, angry eyes. He would plead for her to listen to him, if only this once, but he somehow knows that will only make matters worse. Instead he awaits her angry words. Her bitter reaction to him and everything he stands for. He has not changed. She loved him and his values once. Now she sees no value in him at all. He looks into her eyes and asks himself whether he is a mirror of her. Is he now as empty as she is? Is she doing to him that which was done to her? There is a chill in their nights together. Either one of them could say they share the same bed, but nothing is shared there. She turns her back on him and he lays staring at her for hours. Unsure whether she sleeps. Fearing the chill of her icy contempt. Never sensing her relaxing into the escape to another, gentler state. When sleep takes him, he knows he dreams. Seldom has he recollected the dreamlands he has visited. But now he awakes with disturbing fragments of something that might be a dream, but feels more real than what has become of his life. There are dark shapes. They close in on him. He tries to push them away. Tries to escape. But he cannot. They surround him and he is lost. Sometimes he dreams that Vicky is leaning over him. She’s stroking him and whispering something. He is emboldened by her touch and would willingly give to her everything he is in that moment. He remembers that feeling and it terrifies him. He is increasingly horrified at the loss he is experiencing. A loss that goes well beyond Vicky. He’s losing his mind. He’s losing himself. Losing any referent point to the reality that once provided him with a safe haven. Their home is now awash with poison. He breaths it in and he senses it oozing in through his pores. He cannot bring himself to blame Vicky. He’s seen how hateful her blame of him is and he will not counter it. He needs to keep trying. His head hurts all the time now and his energy levels are so low he struggles to open his laptop to do any work. The artificial light of the screen hypnotises him and he scarcely remembers his working day. Things needs to come to a head, but he cannot think beyond that limp and lacklustre imperative. It’s too late, but he’s too tired to acknowledge that. He should have left while he could. He stayed for Vicky. But there was no Vicky to stay for. Now there’s not much of him left. What is left is hidden and he can’t remember where he left it for safe keeping. That night they play out the same sad ritual. He has no inclination to think of an alternative. It is not sleep that finds him. He is unconscious, but he does not rest. He awakes in the witching hour. Three a.m. once had a significance for him. But now all he knows is that it is bad. The time is bad and there is something else bad besides that. Something in the house. Turning towards Vicky he is greeted with an empty space and for a sickening moment he wonders when she left him. How deep his denial has burrowed. Then he hears a noise from downstairs. He slips out of bed wishing this to be a dream, but he is out of luck on that score. He knows what he will find. Has known all along. The details don’t matter. All there is, is betrayal, and now it won’t be denied. The sounds that meet his ears as he nears the foot of the stairs are confirmation of that betrayal. This is the language of betrayal that he is hearing loud and clear. These are sounds that were only meant for him, but now they are offered cheaply to another. His heart stops and the breath freezes within him, and for a dizzying moment he thinks this is it. This is where it ends. However, the release of death is not a mercy afforded him. He must go on and confront the truth of it. After all his searching for a solution to the terrible conundrum of his failing life, he no longer wants to be presented with the answer. The door to the living room is open. He steps through the doorway. The curtains are open and the moon is full. The eerie light illuminating the two lovers locked in a strange tableau. Vicky pulls the figure closer to her, urging him on. She is looking straight at John and her face wears a triumphant mask. She wants him to see. This is where he finally loses her. Not that he had a chance of ever having her again. He never stood a chance. The intervening years. The time they spent together was real enough, but it was never going to last. Vicky was always his. John knows that he stands in the presence of Vicky’s ex. A man who treated her so very badly and yet she struggled to leave him. Admitted that she was addicted to him. Never gave details. John didn’t want the details. Loved the woman she was now. That was the sense that he made of her past. He didn’t want any other truth than the one that he could make work. Only this was never passed. It may have lain dormant, but Vicky was marked out. She was always his. These are the patterns John saw emerging. This is the shocking loss he has been experiencing little by little and bit by bit. “Do it!” Vicky hisses at the man in her embrace. He lunges and Vicky cries out. John stands frozen as he hears the man sucking at Vicky’s neck. The two of them moving together. Vicky’s moans as she pulls him closer and urges him on. All the while she is staring at John. Goading him. And there is a treacherous threat there, even before her eyes swirl and fill with the darkness that now consumes her soul. John does not remember the interim period. He knows it is not sudden. He has an awareness that he was lost for a while. Now she is stood before him and of her ex there is no sign. She slips her arms around him. Whispers in his ear, “you’re mine now.” He shudders, his body forsaking him and responding to her. His mind trying to whisper a warning. All he hears is a random saying, you have to be careful what you wish for. He wanted to hear her say these words to him for an age, he wanted to be hers as fully as it is possible to be with another, but now these words mean something else. He tries to draw out the potential outcomes of his altered state of being. As he does he realises that each and every outcome is another description of death. He was losing Vicky. He knew that much. Death can take many guises. There are so many ways to kill someone. Take love from them and they have nothing left. A life without love is a sordid and painful existence. As John allows himself to be lowered to the sofa and gives himself over to the pleasure of Vicky’s insistent touch, he sighs as her mouth finds his neck. He could have walked away once, but that door is firmly closed to him now. He doubts he’ll end up like her. He’s built differently. He couldn’t take a life. Never could he do that. He hopes he’ll never do that. Instead, he sees himself deteriorating further. Becoming a grey, dried out husk. He strokes her back as she feeds. This is not so bad. Not so bad at all. A languid thought of one last alternative passes him by. He should not sacrifice himself to this evil. He should not incubate it and ready it for the world beyond this trap. He hasn’t the wherewithal to end Vicky, but he could end his own life. He should end it before it is too late, depriving her of his sacrifice and the validation of her evil transformation. He sighs as she moves against him, “I love you,” he whispers to her deaf ears. Then he gives himself over to her, losing himself in the moment. Losing himself in the darkness that closes in with each hungry pulse against his neck.

5 June 1995 The psychiatrist walked nervously back and forth in his office, his eyes darting to the clock on the wall every few seconds. 'Where the hell is Caroline?' he muttered under his breath. Caroline Byrd, the model, was late for her appointment. Gordon Wood, Caroline's boyfriend, was asleep at home when he woke up with a start. It was then that he realized Caroline had not come home last night. He had a feeling she might be at Watsons Bay, at a rock formation called The Gap, so he headed there. At first, he didn't see anything suspicious, but then he noticed Caroline's white car. He started shouting and calling her name. His presence at the scene was later confirmed by two fishermen who were at The Gap. Gordon drove back to Sydney to pick up Carolina's father Tony Byrne and her brother Peter Byrne and they all started searching for her. The darkness was so thick that it felt like a physical presence, weighing down on the men as they carefully made their way along the cliff edge. The woman had been missing for hours, and their hope of finding her alive was strong enough to keep them going. Then, suddenly, one of the men shouted: 'Hey, I can see her at the bottom! Look!' Interestingly, neither his fellow searchers nor the police torchlight had been able to spot her before. She had been seen in the afternoon at Watson Bay by three witnesses, Carl Martin and Lance Melbourne, who claimed to have seen her at different times. Three years later, another man, John Doherty, said he had also seen her in the area from his apartment window. She had been arguing with a man while another man was standing not far from them. The identity of these people has never been found. The primary suspect became her boyfriend, Gordon Wood. However, he was having lunch with two of his friends who confirmed his presence. After that, he got a call from a businessman Rene Rivkin who asked Gordon to drive politician Graham Richardson to an appointment and to do some errands for him after that. When Gordon was done with the job, he got home at about 7 in the evening. The problem was however that Gordon's alibi was discredited later, in 2001. 'No, I wasn't with Gordon Wood, I was having lunch with Peter Moore, rugby administrator.' - he said. Still, Gordon claimed that it was he who gave a lift to Peter from a meeting with Rene to the lunch but this claim was ignored by the public. Later on, the news of her death was presented as a suicide in the media. In spite of this, her father had second thoughts about the suicide theory. Something was speaking against it but he wasn't sure what. Caroline's death was connected to Rene Rivkin's financial activities, pointed out by her father: that both Gordon and Rene might have been involved in insurance fraud and Caroline might have known about the case. Perhaps his accusations were not baseless: Rene was convicted of insider trading in 2003 which mentally crushed him leading to his suicide in 2005. Sadly, Moore was not able to confirm Gordon's story in the following years because he also died in July 2000. While Gordon claimed she had committed suicide, her father pressed the police to continue the investigation and the case was even mentioned in the parliament. In 2004, professor Rod Cross conducted a scientific investigation about the physical aspects of the falling of the body. The conclusions provided new evidence which was enough to hold a trial and the police could charge Gordon with murder. The theory of suicide also had a big emphasis in this case: it became known during the trial, that Caroline's mother, Andrea Byrne had committed suicide after a breast operation that went wrong. It was theorised that Caroline could have inherited the same tendency to commit suicide too. However, Tony denied that his sister would have killed herself. Even if she wanted to, she would not have chosen to jump from a cliff. During the trial, Caroline's psychologist, Cindy Pan also talked about her client: 'The thing is, she was suffering from depression the weeks preceding her death. She could never determine the reason for her depression though.' - she said. Rod Cross physicist spent a lot of time examining the falling based on the location of the body. At first, he stated that she could have jumped on her own but his further examinations contradicted this supposition as the distance between her body and the cliff was further than it was initially stated. According to these further developments with the involvement of testing jumps with swimmers, there was not enough running distance on the top of the cliff to get so far from the cliff. As a result, it was more probably that someone threw her. During the second trial, the location of the body became more crucial. However, it could not be established where the body was located exactly but media reports implied that Caroline could not have jumped. Gordon was caught in London and was deported back to Australia in 2006 but was released on bail. The first trial took place in 2008 but the judge announced a mistrial because of the rumour that the jury was too biased towards Gordon being guilty. A few months later there was a second trial but that did not lead anywhere as the question remained: did she commit suicide or not? After several considerations, the jury found Gordon guilty and sentenced him to 13 years in prison. During the appeal hearing, Gordon's barrister Tim Game came up with a lot of counter-arguments surrounding the theory that Gordon was the murderer. Firstly, he objected Rod Cross' explanation according to which it was impossible for Caroline to run and jump because of the lack of space. It is true that the space on the top of the cliff was limited by a fence based on the examinations conducted by Rod in 2003 but Tim proved that the same fence was not there back in 1996 yet providing more space for the jump. Secondly, Tim also raised attention to the changing police views regarding the location of the body. The inconsistency of these opinions could not provide hard evidence for the real location. In February 2012, the court acquitted Gordon. The court did not think that the evidence was manipulated and did not rule out the possibility of suicide. As for the motive, that Caroline might have known illegal procedures concerning Rene's business and Gordon killed her, was not found consistent enough either. After setting free, Gordon left Australia and moved to the US and Britain. In 2014, he sued a radio station in Sydnes and the Daily Telegraph for defamation and the court ruled unrevealed amount to Gordon. In 2016, Gordon also sued the state of New South Wales for vicious prosecution, for making false and humiliating statements by the police and for the torture he got in prison both mentally and physically. His case was dismissed.

My mother used to drive me down to Cherry Park. Every Sunday, without fail she'd take me there. Those outings where the highlight of my tiresome weeks. I'd run frantically down the meadow and up the hill; to marvel the cherry blossom tree. The pink leaves were carried through the wind, nestling beside my wellies. It was the prettiest sight. I'd never seen such magic. But as a kid, I was impressed by everything. Mom would often laugh at how fascinated I was with the tree. She'd pinch my cheeks and lure me with ice cream to tear me away from the tree. Well, I'd say it worked pretty darn well. I have the fondest memories of that park, that tree. As I got older, the trips were less frequent. I went by myself but it didn't feel right. I'd stare at the tree, only to feel like there was something missing from the experience. I wasn't enjoying it. Then I stopped altogether. Mom was frail. She was once so full of life. She was left with fragments of memories of days gone by; where there was feelings of freedom. Then she passed away. My mind often wonders back to the blissful days when she'd whisk me to the park. To eat ice cream and have a good laugh. I know she'd want me to go with my son, who now will grow up without her. It's bittersweet to me. What will he remember me by? So for next Sunday, I've planned a trip to Cherry Park.

7pm, Friday night. Couch, lights off, dishwasher churning away in the kitchen, cleaning off the grease from our usual Chinese takeaway, curtains drawn, your choice of movie on the screen. As always. And you and me, of course. We’re sitting on the couch in our usual spaces; you on the left, your legs spread wide as you take up one and half of the three seats, me on the right, legs curled in neatly under my body, grasping a pillow on my bent knees. We’re both sitting here together, but we’re apart. I pull my foot away when your hand reaches out to brush against my woolly sock covered toes. You didn’t even glance at me when your hand retreated back into the comfort of the crisp bowl. Cheese and onion. Your favourite. The smell makes me feel sick. The colours of the screen flit across your face, casting dark red shadows across your skin. I honestly can’t remember for the life of me what it was we were watching again. Some macho action movie? A horror or some thriller? I’ve not really been paying attention, to be honest. I didn’t even pay attention when you were telling me about it earlier, how it was a movie that sounded alright and you fancied seeing it. You always do whatever you fancy, don’t you? I look away from your face when I see your head turn towards me slightly, knowing that you’re being watched as your crunch through your crisps. You furrow your brows while you gaze at me and then, after a moment, you take a breath, as though you’re just about to ask me what it is wrong. But the question never comes. You shift in your seat, cough to clear your throat and shake your head, eyes back on the screen. I turn back to see you again, waiting for it to happen. We’ve not always had a Friday Night movie. Back then - God, it must’ve been years ago now - we’d go out and do something. You’d walk around to my office and wait outside for the masses to be released at 5pm. Come rain or shine, I’d know you’d be there, in that old brown leather coat, the one that you got from your dad on your 17th Birthday. You wore that thing everywhere - I think you even wore it to a BBQ we had down the beach with a few mates from work. I think you still have it now, but it’s tucked away now. All of a sudden, you just didn’t have it on one day. When I asked, you just told me that you ‘fancied a change’ and it wasn’t spoken about again. You wore it less and less and then at some point, I only ever saw it on your side of the wardrobe, hidden between your wedding suit and your funeral suit. Yeah, back in the days we used to do things. I remember the time you arranged for us to go to some restaurant, some Turkish place. You were adamant we had to go there on a Friday night and it was better that we went there for half eight-ish. I remember I was bloody starving. In between me moaning about how hungry I was and glasses of wine in a pub around the corner from the restaurant, I ate two whole packets of salt and vinegar crisps - and I even snaffled a few of your cheese and onion ones. That’s how hungry I was. I remember you gasping in mock shock and pulling the packet closer to you, only to split the foil a little more so it was easier for me to reach in and get some. You were thoughtful like that, sometimes. I remember we tumbled out of the pub and into the restaurant, tipsy and giggly already. We’d already checked out the menu on my phone and over the hours, the list of our order only got longer and longer. When the waiter gave us the menus and turned on their heel to give us time, you gently tapped on their elbow, explained that we already made up our mind, asked if you could make sure there were no almonds in any of our dishes and then rattled off our order. The woman quirked a brow as she noted it all down, pausing at one point to ask if we were expecting more people to join us and asked if we were sure if we wanted all of this when we told her it was just me and you. We sat there, me sipping on my wine and you drinking your beer, dipping big tears of flat breads in thick, creamy baba ganoush and munching through koeftes, chatting away when the lights dimmed and took on a red hue and the quiet music suddenly became louder, filled with lutes and shimmering tambourines. The grin on your face spread, as the rumbling on some hand drums became louder and stopped as a scantily clad belly dancer stepped out from a beaded curtain somewhere. Hollers and hoots filled the room and folk started clapping. I turned to you incredulously, “Did you know about this?” Your shoulders shrugged, but the smirk on your face said it all, “I heard something like this happens-” The claps and hooting got louder as the belly dancer made her way throughout the room, getting people up from their seats and wrapping the belt around their waist. She’d show them a few wiggles of her hips, encouraging them to join in, before she wandered off to the next table, ready to get her next victims on board. “Oh shit. She’s going round the room.” “I know! Ain’t it great?!” “She’s doing the outer tables first. It’s gonna be us soon.” “And you’ll show them all how to do it right-” “I’m not doing it, Ken.” “What?! Oh come on! I’ve seen those hips at work before. They can do all sorts-” I laughed in spite of myself, shaking my head, “You’re such an arsehole-” “-and you can’t bloody well leave me up there alone,” He added, leaning in closer to whisper, “Once I do my belly rolls, the auld lassies at the table behind us might eat me alive.” It didn’t take me much more convincing. Once the woman got us up and tied the coin fringed belt around our hips, the alcohol took over. We were swinging and swaying around the room for a good wee while until the music was turned off so the belly dancer could start her own part of the performance, now that we were all lubed up for the night ahead. It was a brilliant night. We’d been there a few times after, with friends in tow, hiding the big event of the night away from them until the music started. It was a great wee set up, us two in it together, thick as thieves as we threw off their attempts at trying to work out why we dragged them all the way over to the other side of town for a ‘fancy kebab’. It was gleeful to see the surprise on their faces, to watch them shimmy around the room. Our pals! Professors, solicitors, a funeral director - the most serious folk in the world. We couldn’t stop laughing when Jimmy pulled up his crisp white and light blue pine-stripped shirt, opened up a few of the bottom buttons and twisted the material into a crop top, all the better to display his pasty white, hair flecked beer belly that he was desperately trying to ripple. It was a moment we’d bring up again and again on nights out, dinner parties and then actual parties for them and their kids. Then we found out the place closed down about a year ago. We’d stopped heading out on Fridays that much before then, mind. You’d told me that you tried to book a table one night a few months ago when you were trying to make up with me after that big fight, only to find out it didn’t exist any more. You decided to order in instead. Worked out cheaper anyway, didn’t it? We started the movies a while before that, though. It slowly crept in on us, like when you stopped wearing your jacket. Every once in a while, we’d decide it was nicer to cuddle up on the couch, order in some noodles and watch a movie. Wasn’t it more cosy? Us in our Pjs, a wee bottle of something nice, our limbs entangled together as we laughed, or cried or screamed at some movie together? It was better this way, we agreed. Especially when you’d take off one of my fluffy socks, your eyes still on the screen as you massaged my feet, almost like you were on auto-pilot, doing this for me without any thought. You’d sit for the the rest of the movie, your thumbs pushing into the balls of my toes, murmuring some prediction about what would happen next. I could swear back then that our little front room was heaven. I guess I never really noticed when it suddenly became all that we did. We didn’t bother going out as much anymore, not when heaven was in the front room. Invitations for dinners and parties were hardly rolling in anyways, and when they were they always seemed to have kids attached to them. We never really fancied it all that much - who’d want to spend their spare time washing off mucky, sticky finger prints from our clothes and staring at pictures of kids with runny noses? Not us. Kill us, first, please. Of course, we’d go to the obligatory first birthdays, show our faces and leave a gift before disappearing an hour or so later. Then we’d end up back here, watching a movie. At some point, we weren’t even watching the movie together any more, both of us head down in our phones, me flicking through Instagram and Facebook and you - well... whatever it was you were telling me you were doing. I wonder if she was the first one? Probably not, though. I reckon you’d have gotten bored often enough to work your way through a few of them. I did think you were being off with me for a while, being quite angry and snippy for some time. You being jovial just...stopped for a while. A long while. And then, all of a sudden, it just returned. Hugs and kisses and little treats brought in on your way home from work. Is that when it started? Should I have taken that as a sign of your guilty conscious? Your cough burst through my thoughts as I tried to work out how many more you might’ve had, more than ‘Mike Office’. That’s what her name was under on your phone. It didn’t seem like ‘Mike Office’ would have had such a round pair of tits anyway, or ‘want to feel your big aubergine in me again’. I don’t think she wanted any baba ganoush. I could feel you tense in your seat beside me as you tested your throat, trying to swallow, trying to remain calm. No, I don’t think she wouldn’ve been the first. Not when I followed the money after that, checking your account to see where you might’ve ended up. A few restaurants, a hotel here and there - all tied up to business trips, mind. And then a refund from OKCupid. I suppose you always where thrifty. Wanted to save that money so you had more to shag wee Molly, didn’t you? When your panic finally set in, your turned to face me, wheezing, “M-ma- my epi-” “Shh. I’m trying to listen to the movie-” The bowl slid from your knees as you gasped, your hands clutching at your reddening throat, as though you were trying to rip it open, trying to claw some way to let the air back in. My eyes turned from the screen to watch you spasm and gasp, to watch you watch me as your realised what was going on. To watch you as you took your last, wheezy, raspy breath and sigh it back into the world. Molly’ll be disappointed tonight. But then again, so am I. You smashed the almond flour dusted crisps into the new rug we got a few months back. That’ll be a pain to try and fish out. With a huff, I leaned across your still body to reach for the remote that you planted on your arm of the chair. I think I saw something about Gone Girl being shown on film4. It’s been a while since I’ve seen that. Quite fancy watching it, actually. I suppose I get to pick the Friday Night Movie from now on.

We are together. Are are committed. We are partners. We are lovers. But I wish you were in love with me. I wish you made the choice every day, to pick me, the day I pick you. I wish I was as important as your paycheck, your long-distance friend, your potential interview. I wish when I cried, you felt sad, instead of angry and frustrated. I wish you knew that all those times I said "okay" that it wasn't, but I made it so. I wish you would look at my messages on your phone and respond when you saw them, instead of later when you "had time." I wish you woke up early one Saturday to surprise me with coffee instead of sleeping past noon. I wish you weren't the nicest to me in front of your friends, but alone, in the intimacy of our own space. I wish you would give me the key to your house, instead of an excuse about needing space. I wish you sent me flowers to my office. I wish I knew where you were all those times that I didn't. I wish you were in love with me, or that I was less in love with you.

When I look with my third eye and gaze into the future-- I can hear a boom clap clap clap clap clap like the sound of a drum line. When I look deep within, I can hear the inevitable beating of war drums shake the Earth. What a shame. To have witnessed the end of the world and have no way to help turn things around for the better. How Grim of an end that we all met; and for me to have seen it (accidentally) and have nobody to lend an ear and actually trust my words-- I feel lost. I feel like the captain of a sinking ship, that washed up along the shores of a deserted island after a brutal storm. Washed up along the shore of a strange land, I sway with the ebb and flow of the tide. High tide will rise amidst the fall of mankind-- mark my words, for I have looked deep within my being. My battered limbs seep blood which draws the attention of nearby sharks. Shadows shift and slip away below me; into the Great Deep. It came up from the bottom of the sea. The depth of a sickness which is only paralleled by the sinking black void from which it had sprung up. I can feel how ancient it is. This illness. I can feel it’s progression from the world below; from the depths of the ocean, to the brink of the land. Crawling on all fours; primordial. Only to shift from beach to forest to cave, and then back again. Building momentum, increasing in strength. It was a very ancient virus indeed, that had sprung up from the bottom of the sea. The secret to it’s downfall is also down there too, I believe. Marks my words. This world will end in one fatal blast of Hellfire. Destruction will be mutually assured, I guarantee. I accidentally saw the end of the world during a psychedelic experience, and now I am left feeling hopeless; saddled with the guilt that I know how the world will end. I have no way to prevent it. I hope that if this story is spread far and wide, that somebody out there will believe it. Somebody with the power to affect real change in this sick, sick world of ours. It came up from the bottom of the sea-- to spread, grow and progress into infinity-- unless somehow disarmed or destroyed by a much more powerful force, indeed. Whatever the outcome, it will have been the Lord’s plan-- and his judgement reigns supreme. No matter how Grim the final outcome may be. I will tell you this much-- when it fell from the sky, God sighed. Our Holy Father in Heaven, laid his head in his hands and let out a long sigh, almost as if He were somewhat relieved. (To my horror). I will tell you this much-- Every living thing that had eyes looked upon the fiery cloud as it spread and turned to black; turning day to night. All of the birds stopped chirping and laid down to roost in their nests, as darkness befell the land. Everything that had ears-- heard the gutteral echo which swept across the land, ice, and sea. It ripped through the ocean; it flung surf and sand hundreds of miles into the air; sending men, ships and planes pummeling to their demise below. May We Rest In Peace. The blood of every living thing caught in it’s path sprayed outwards from each and every core; crimson fades to carbon black, bones and flesh obliterated to dust in the wind which whipped from the epicenter of the destruction. It ripped around every mountain, valley, forest, beach, desert, prairie, swamp, tundra, and cave, within moments of it’s decent to the Earth below. Every living thing that had lungs, breathed in and breathed out as a collective, all at once, as they witnessed the cloud of Hellfire rise above. As above, so below. The Great Equalizer: our demise has risen up from the bottom of the Deep. The only solution which I can think of, would originate from down there too, I believe. The key to preventing our untimely, brutal end lies obscured; in the darkness and beneath the depths of ocean. I can find hope at the bottom of the sea. Mark my words, for it will be the only thing capable of saving humanity. Although this virus which sweeps through God’s creation will cause death, destruction, and heartache the likes of which no mortal has ever seen-- it is not actually a virus like you and I were made to believe. It is only but the hand of God; putting the scales of Absolute Truth back within balance; cruel Justice for a planet we’ve made barren; sucking dry any resource which yields monetary gain. The virus is not a virus. The virus is the hand of God. You and I are the real virus on this Earth. Humanity. We plague this Earth and strangle Her to death with the pollution, excess, greed, and ignorance which fuels our march to our fiery end. Fuel, in fact, will be a big player in who ultimately decides to toss the nuclear football-- I can say that with upmost certainty. And after the dust settles, and humanity is wiped off the face of the Earth; the forces of Life itself will one day prevail to once again sweep across the desolate planet; through every river and desert, every Arctic tundra and jungle. Every lake, ocean and stream. Every abandoned outcropping of humanity will grow life from within the cracks which begin to grow. From between the cracks of pavement, Life will spread it’s roots again, to upend the mistakes which man has wrought, and God has sought to bring back into balance, I have seen. I have seen it with my own two eyes. Life will embrace the land and God will prevail, once our damned souls either ascend, fall, or just decide to pack up and leave. Our scales will hang in balance again someday; as they did before Original Sin-- in the garden with Adam and Eve. In summation, mark my words-- It came up from the bottom of the sea. The secret to it’s demise lies down there too, I believe. Humanity is the true virus which plagues this Earth; the illness which plagues humanity is nothing but the Hand of God restoring this world to righteousness. Our lives hang in a very finely tuned balance. Mankind has thrown off that delicate balance too much and too soon, quite obviously indeed. The torment of Lucifer will rain down upon us like a trillion knives; but it will only wish to pierce the veil of ignorance pulled over the eyes of mankind. We shall receive deliverance from the evil which was born, cultivated, and spread through the hearts of every mortal who dared suck the lifeblood out of our dying planet-- due to their own selfish desires, for conquest, victory... and greed. Everything that has eyes will see the end as it befell our dear Earth, and not a single soul in that very moment would even dare to blink. It haunts me. Everything that has ears will hear the gutteral echo of the Great Equalizer; which will fall from the skies above and rip through the land with the force of God’s hand-- a strength no mortal could ever truly appreciate or believe. I hope somebody out there believes me when they read this, and finds meaning in the way I said we could solve this all-- --the answer lies within the deep, seemingly endless void below us in our oceans, and also above us in the endless expanse of outer space too, I can see. There are secrets which the Universe holds that are beyond the scope of comprehension by modern day man. That is why I have dreams which turn into reality. This is why I have these Grim visions of the End. It’s due to a force much greater and more powerful than you or I-- a force which is beyond the scope of written language, beyond the realm of modern-day science, to be able to document, test, replicate, and prove with upmost certainty. I hope you don’t take me for a liar. I hope you believe me. When they burned all of the witches, do you really think that all of them died? Or did it only weed out the weaker ones, so that the strong witches may carry forth their bloodlines-- eventually giving birth to a strange person like me. I remain haunted by the sigh of the Lord. Upon seeing the Great Equalizer, every living creature with lungs took one deep breath and then breathed out again together, all at once. The collective sigh of Life itself is a a haunting, ghastly noise. I will never forget it. I urge you to spread this story like wildfire so that it may be shared with somebody who has the power to affect real change upon our destiny. I am haunted. Haunted. Haunted! Blessed be.

If Mom fully understood my fixation with Googly Goose and Friends, I doubt she would have left me alone in the house so much. Mom was a visiting home health nurse, and a single parent, which means I spent a lot of time alone in front of the television. I must have watched every episode of that puppet show. Googly is Canadian. He lives in a town with twenty five other alliteratively named puppets, one for each letter of the alphabet. It has nothing to do with the Google website, except for a few in-jokes. Mom overcompensated for my alone time with gifts, feeding my addiction to the program. For my tenth birthday, I got the complete storybook collection, which came in a green plastic bus, and a bunch of Viewmaster slides. Every time we went to McDonald's, she'd buy me one of the action figures. On Christmas I even got the video game for the Nintendo Switch. She would later regret getting me the `I-Googly-26.' They modeled the toy after a real cel phone, but it lacked functionality. Basically just an app, hence the ultra low price tag. You couldn't call humans with it, it required the use of wifi, no flashlight, and the camera resolution sucked. Still, I loved it. It activated secrets on the Switch, it had its own games, and it talked to you at random times of the day and night, even taking note of holidays and birthdays. Other kids were learning new things about their own bodies, acting tougher around their classmates. You weren't supposed to watch Googly Goose anymore. I was the only one with the IG26. It started small, with a Googlyphone-Call. I lived in a red house along a steep hill near a park. The building was tall, but narrow, the interior beige with lime green carpeting. Kind of a seventies motif. I suppose it had a mold problem, because it always had a musty smell in parts. I couldn't tell around the back door because of Miss Kitty's litterbox, but it could have been there too. The living room tended to be drafty, requiring me to bundle up and use a space heater when I watched TV during colder months. We had a fireplace, but the flue didn't open. We never used it. I always watched Googly before I caught the bus in the morning. Mom would already be off in her white pickup, seeing patients, so I'd sit in the stiff gold velour armchair, eating my cereal in front of the tube, periodically checking the IG26 for messages. Miss Kitty would doze on the green couch nearby, or scratch up the armrests. The phone was...interesting. Sometimes I'd get texts or `Googly-Voice' recordings from the characters, giving me an update on life in Featherton, their world, or Googly would tell me he loved me. Naturally they would let me know about any and all new Googly tie-in products I could get mom to buy. They generally came during the window of 8 AM to 8 PM, and only once a day unless you got parental consent - restrictive version of telemarketer guidelines. It also had some kind of advanced AI that asked you questions, remembered what you said, and came back with a clever response. Sometimes it really blew me away, like how Googly could understand my parents' divorce, and how I was a latchkey kid. Maybe someone got in there and manually typed in messages, I don't know. The IG26 also knew when you were watching the show. A button would light up whenever a character picked up a telephone, or got near one. If you pushed it at just the right time, you got a surprise message from one of the characters. Some people even won prizes, but the only thing I got was an autographed copy of Willie Walrus Celebrates Kwanzaa, honestly not a great book. Still, I enjoyed the calls and texts, which generally took place right before the commercials and PSA announcements...Well, until that one day, when the phone got a little extra. "Michael," Googly asked me in a text. "Are you going to school when my show's over?" Googly always had such a high regard for education that I only imagined one possible response. "Of course! School is where you grow!" I got no response for a full minute. Sometimes the phone did that to make you sweat after saying something naughty. Sometimes it just paused because your router was down, or, as it said in some texts, they wanted to "Teach me a lesson about patience." At last, though, I got a response. "There are other ways to grow, Michael. Stay home today." I couldn't believe my toy would actually be saying this to me, but it also seemed kind of exciting. Did mom accidentally buy some rare defective product worth a million dollars? Still, I texted, " I can't. Mom will get mad." The talk button started flashing. When I pushed it and held the earpiece to my head, I heard the bird's demented elf voice speaking. "Do you really think your mom will send you to a foster home if you don't do what she says?" Mom had used that threat frequently when I misbehaved. "I...dunno. If she catches me, I'll still get in trouble. I got grounded for missing the bus and staying home last year." The show came back on. I could see Googly at his black rotary phone in his nest, mouth moving to match the words I heard. Not too difficult a feat, the lips of puppets are stationary. "Just tell her you were off school because of a holiday." "There isn't a holiday today." "Then tell her they closed the school for teacher planning." "You want me to lie to mom?" Googly shrugged. "I'll make it worth your while. We'll have so much fun, you and I. Way much more than you'd have with your friends at school!" I swallowed. "I don't have any friends at school." The puppet on TV seemed to be looking right at me, its head tilted, as if nonverbally asking, `You see my point?' "So I just tell her they let me out early?" I stammered. Googly stepped behind his nest as Anthony Aardvark popped out and started talking about words and the use of contractions. I could still hear the bird through the phone, despite him being in the background. "If it makes you feel any better, you can hide under the porch for awhile, and we can talk. You did tell me you always wanted a clubhouse, didn't you?" I gave him a nod. More than anything, I wanted that, and Googly Goose as my real friend. I packed up my things, books, papers and lunch, like I intended to go to school, but when departure time came, I slipped under the front porch to hide from the bus. There was a hole in the latticework on the side of the porch where I sometimes dumped Miss Kitty's litterbox. This is where I got in. I still had the phone, and wifi connectivity, maybe GPS, too because Googly texted me about it, suggesting we might hang up some curtains or blankets as a wind break against the cold. The bus rolled to a stop in front of my house, flashing its lights. "All my friends have names that start with a letter in the alphabet, which means there can only be twenty six of us in town. But back in the old days, the alphabet used to have a lot more letters!" "You're making that up, Googly," I muttered. "Am I?" To be honest, I had no way of checking his statement for validity. The phone didn't go to regular websites. " I...don't know. That doesn't sound right to me. I thought I heard something about people in the bible not even having vowels." The bus honked, the driver impatient for me to get out of the house and rush to the folding door. "Okay, okay. Maybe you're right about that, but there's other letters , like the shwa e. The point I'm trying to make, Michael, is we can find a place for you in Featherton . You'd like that, wouldn't you, Michael?" The driver shut the bus doors, rolling on up the hill. "Y-yeah. I'd love that. What do I have to do?" "Just keep listening." I must have spent an hour sitting in cold dirt under that porch. I watched videos, played games, drew pictures of what my house in Featherton would be like. I flinched when a rusty pickup pulled up in front of the house. I saw a short figure emerge, curly hair, hornrims, nursing scrubs. I held my breath as she tromped up the white wooden steps. She didn't notice me. I waited. Mom came out with some paperwork, got in her truck and drove away. "Now let's have some real fun," the goose said. With his help, and an instructional video on sewing machines, I transformed one of mom's fuzzy throw pillows and a hair beret into a fluffy pair of cat's ears, then used supplies from her crafts projects to make a blanket into a feathery mantle. Googly's show came on twice a day, but I always missed the second one because of school. Some teachers would put the program on during class, but not mine, certainly not in middle school, so I just had to watch it. During the commercial break, I got a text saying I'd won a prize. I crafted a raccoon tail to hang off my belt, then played the Switch for awhile. Googly Goose World is a complicated game. An internal clock makes the sky grow dark when it's dark in the real world, they have special events corresponding to real holidays - such as eight days of prizes for Hannukah and Cherry Blossom Day. You can design clothing for characters, do interior design, go bowling and play darts, plant trees, fish, and go searching for treasure in a cave. You can also unlock special rooms and mini-games with the IG26. The most unique feature, though, was the use of children's books to access hidden storylines. Larry Lion Lounges About, for example, features several important clues that help you get into Riotous Raccoon's underground lair. Page four of the book shows a paw grabbing one of the lion's green socks, another page shows the raccoon behind Larry's house, and a phone number on the side of the garbage truck you can type into the IG26 for downloadable content. It therefore didn't surprise me to hear Yosef Yak referencing Cathy Cow's Calamity. What did surprise me was how the illustrations had changed. In a printed book. Although the first page still depicted the inside of Cathy's Coffee and Custard, her patrons had changed . Instead of Andy Anteater and Bobby Bear in the corner table, I saw Morty Moose by himself, eating enough ice cream for two. Sammy Stork had replaced Helga Hamster at the window booth, and Davy Donkey stood at the counter with a steaming cup in his hoof ( It's a drawing, okay? I don't know how a hooved animal could pick up anything). If that wasn't weird enough, the glass front door swung open , and in stepped my friend the Canada goose. He waddled past all the statue-like character illustrations, giving me a friendly wave with one wing. "Googly!" I gasped. "How...?" The bird just gave me a mischievous wink and slurped a cup of coffee. The real front door on my house clanked noisily open, and in stepped Mom, catching me in the act. " What are you doing home!" "We had a half day," I lied. "They sent me home early." She scowled like she didn't believe me, then sighed, turning her attention to my craft project. "What did you do to my throw pillow?" My mom, being big on self help books, restrained her temper, writing it off as an expression of my inner child. When the school called and asked her where I was, however, she took away my video games. Well, except for the Atari we got from a garage sale - I rarely touched the thing anymore. I don't think she understood how everything worked, because I got to keep the IG26. Guess she thought I'd learn something from it. She didn't beat me or anything. I kinda wished she would, because I felt bad about it. I'd violated her trust, put an extra burden of responsibility on a woman who already had her hands full with her job. The next day, she made sure I got on the bus. As I stepped out on the porch, she stared at my homemade costume and asked, "Are you seriously going to wear that to school?" I shrugged. Googly said I had to do it, to prove how much I wanted to live in Featherton. Mom patted me on the back, saw me to the bus steps. As my sneakers clomped down the hollow rubber and metal aisle, I tried to ignore classmates laughing and making fun of me, plopping down on a wrinkly vinyl seat near the back end. "It's a little late for Halloween," someone mocked. I took out my IG26, pretending not to hear. The phone shouldn't have worked out of range, but somehow I still got a text. "Don't let them upset you. None of these children are worthy of Featherton. Only you are." Someone grabbed my feathered cape, twirling it around, slapping me with it. I tried to get it back, but it ended up ripping, feathers everywhere. "They're not worthy," Googly texted. The bus arrived at the grassy lawn in front of my school. Everyone else got out, climbing the concrete steps to the red brick building. "Quick," said my IG26. "Hurry out and run across the street to the graffiti tunnel." A little clip about looking both ways before crossing the street appeared on the screen. I did what it asked, sneaking down the stairs and around the yellow bus. Nobody noticed what I was doing. In fact, the bus driver drove away. Directly opposite the school lay a little yard strewn with beer bottles and cigarette butts, and beyond that a staircase leading to an underground tunnel, all spraypainted with gang signs and obscene writing. It smelled like piss, but I thought I heard someone calling for me, so I hurried in. "Keep going. I'll tell you when to stop." I frowned at the screen, but did what it asked, following the dimly lit, trash strewn tunnel for what felt like miles. At the far end, I encountered a piece of chain link fencing, its other side covered in trash bags. When I got close to it, someone opened it up, revealing a damp and smelly underpass populated by camper shells, dome tents, and cardboard castles. All around me stood dirty people in shabby clothes, young and old, black and white. The trash and chain link barrier rattled shut again, and the strangers drew closer. Upon closer examination, I saw that everyone had their own homemade goose costumes, just like mine. A bony, skeleton eyed hobo with a shaved head and a tank top approached me, bearing a tinfoil crown and a Clorox Toilet Wand, minus scrubber. He dropped to one knee, placed the crown on my head, handed me the plastic scepter. "Your majesty." The others likewise knelt before me. "Long may he rule Featherton."

Typing is the easiest way I know to scream at the dark. Because you know it's out there, circling you. Never had much of a singing voice and there's always so many ears. Listening. Makes your own voice sound painful and ridiculous. Makes you sound small. So very small. But words. Type written words. Ink on page. It's like you're invincible. Once they're written down, they have been written. Something that can't just be taken away, something real, something that happened. An actual. Actually. And you huddle around them, these words, for warmth. Like a tiny fire lighting a tiny light in the middle of the deepest darkest woods. Maybe staring at the fire makes the shadows harder to see. Maybe if I stare long enough, I'll forget her. You'll forget her. It's why you do this you know. Reading and writing and listening to music and watching your shows, that's fucking why right there: Her. Desperately searching for some anecdote, some scene, some paragraph that will make you feel like you did the first time you noticed her. Really noticed her. Something that'll make your insides bubble up and take all those cold bitter years you thought you had and make you feel like some dumb school boy in love again, that's fucking why. And it's the damn truth and you know it. No amount of somebody else's words or even your own written hastily on some coffee house napkin about how cute you think she is in 4 lines or less, rhyming preferred because you want to be clever, with an ending that makes you seem mysterious, is going to change that. The fact that right now you're here reading this and not with HER, or whoever. That the truth is there are just these words. These words and the darkness.

Imagine if you can dear reader, a generic mom and pop diner. The third stool at the counter is where Alan Christian was sitting. He was busy pouring over the menu. The waitress, Brenda Bird, approached him. “Have you decided what you’ll get yet?” She tapped her pen on her notepad impatiently. Alan began nibbling his fingers. “Not yet,” he said in between bites. “If you’re not careful, you’ll fill up before you decide.” Alan stopped biting his fingers, and ripped his eyes away from the menu. “What?” “Never mind. But please decide quickly.” Brenda left the counter to go check on the other guests, while Alan went back to looking over the menu. Four minutes passed. Brenda returned to Alan, who was still searching through the menu items. She reached for the nearby coffeepot to replenish his mug, only to see that his now lukewarm coffee had been left untouched. “Sir?” Alan did not look up. “Excuse me, sir?” Alan finally looked up. “Have you decided?” Alan silently pondered this question, before wordlessly going back to the menu. Brenda rolled her eyes and silently walked away. Three minutes passed. Brenda returned to the counter, only to find Alan gone, the mug of cold coffee still untouched, and three crisp one dollar bills sitting on the counter. The waitress pocketed the cash. It was because of this extra cash that Brenda decided to make a quick stop at a convenience store after her shift ended. There was one less than a mile from her home that she frequented. She purchased a 32-ounce cup of soda, and a package of Skittles. The cash register was helmed by Darrin Ortega. Darrin scanned her two items before asking “Would you like to make a lottery purchase? We’re having a special for half-off a lottery ticket with every drink purchase.” Brenda shook her head. “No thank you.” Darrin finalized the transaction and gave her the amount, “$2.74.” Brenda handed him the three dollar bills, and Darrin gave her a quarter and a penny in change. Brenda tried putting the coins in her pocket on her way to the car, but dropped them. After deciding that bending over to pick up the change wasn’t worth it, she kept right on walking. Two minutes passed. A kid, Joseph Hensley, passed by the area. He noticed the coins, bent down and put him in his pocket. One minute passed. Joseph walked past a spiral gumball machine. He decided that since he now had a quarter, that he could purchase one, and so he did. He chucked the gumball into his mouth, only to realize, once he attempted to take a bite, that it wasn’t a gumball at all, but rather a jawbreaker. The shock caused the jawbreaker to roll into the back of his throat and choke him. Every time he attempted to take a breath, the jawbreaker was in the way. His face turned blue. Joseph Hensley died on the sidewalk, alone, at the age of nine.

Dead Not Gone I am dead not gone, I am as here as I was the night I was murdered. I still feel the pain, if not more, I have no human barriers holding back the flood of emotions. I feel them from everyone. I still feel love and the loss of love. I watch as life begins to be normal again without me. I watched my love seal me away in the deep, dark corner of his mind. I watched him pretend with others, always looking for me in their faces, or the way they laugh. I watched him find love again, living a life with her that we had often talked about. He often visits telling me about his life, how happy he is, how sad he is that he can't live it with me. He named his daughter after me, to honor a memory of us and what we never had the chance to have together. He's grown older now, frail, his life has been beautiful. I know he will go to sleep for a very long time soon, and I am happy for him. My mother missed me fiercely, some nights more than others. Some nights she'd wail just as she did when she found out. Those nights I'd lie with her and sing to her, and I swear she'd hear me. She was never the same after I left. She wasn't whole. I'd talk to her while she slept, hoping I'd bring her mind to a happier place, but she'd wake with the same look in her eyes. She'd looked the same as the day she found out. She'd tuned out of life and I lost her to a place she could no longer hear me. I watched my little sister grow older than I ever was, she still insisted on calling me her big sister even when she was three times as old as I ever was, her life wasn't always kind to her. She lost a lot of trust in the world when she lost me. She looked for solace in things rather than people, anything to numb her from feeling sadness about me or our mother. She had to grow up a lot at a young age and will forever be sorry to her for that. She met a man after our mother died and he showed her kindness, he showed her how to love herself. She started to feel again, she lives a good life now. She helps those who seek the same numbness that she did not too long ago. I watched my killer, grow old and frail all alone. Life did not treated her well. She would often revel in that night. When she couldn't fight her urges. Just one quick motion and I was lifeless, all my hopes dreams ambitions gone and buried with me deep in that river. My killer often thought of ending it for herself and I willed all of my anger to make her. But she was a coward until the day she died in that nursing home all alone stinking of piss and death. Even the way she died was too good for her. I've watched everyone in my life grow old and live their lives without me. I am sad that I could never have children with my love. I'm sad I couldn't be there for my mom as that darkness took over her life. My sister will now forever be my big sister. I was taken too soon, and the world didn't slow down for me or for the ones I loved.

A couple of years ago, after some deliberation, I took the Ancestry DNA test. I was prepared for surprises. After all, there was a problem with my grandmother, Lil. She seems to have appeared one day and married grandpa, with no documentable past. Escaped slaves or vicious criminals, might be revealed. Six weeks after taking the test, results appeared on the Ancestry web site. The results showed high percentages of western Europe countries and one big surprise. I'm six percent "unknown." Looking at the online map, I saw the routine blobs on Europe, indicating the locations of my Ancestors. However, there was another blob covering the Pacific Northwest. Sensing that I might be able to brag about native American Ancestry, I became obsessed with finding out what this was about. I contacted customer service on Ancestry and was told that the genetic material was not Native American, the people who have this trait always trace back to the Pacific Northwest. I started leaving messages on Ancestry to my cousins, trying to find an answer to my genetic puzzle. Most did not reply, but finally, I traded messages with a cousin who told me a little about the Pacific Northwest branch of the family. This cousin informed me about her great aunt Sarah who lived on a mountain road east of Seattle. Great Aunt Sarah knew all about the mysterious branch of the family. Aunt Sarah had no landline, and the only way to contact her was to drop in and visit. Soon I flew to Seattle, rented a car, and, using a map my cousin had sent me, drove into the mountains. The countryside was lush, the trees were leaning over the road and shading into a greenish twilight. Following the map, I turned down a twisting side road and drove up a mountainside. It started misting as I turned down a long driveway. Soon an old log cabin came into view. A big coon hound ran out excitedly to meet my car. An old woman, shrunken with age, sat in a rocker on the front porch. As I got out of the vehicle, the old woman stood to see who was visiting. Even with the years diminishing her, she stood over six feet tall. She wore an old baggy dress and a bonnet. She spoke, “You must be Libby’s boy, Ralph. I was told you’d be coming.” She motioned to an empty chair next to her rocker, saying, "You look just like your grandfather. Big feet and hairy hands and all." Introducing herself, she said, "I'm your Aunt Sarah. I knew your mother Libby, a little bit of a thing. Libby was ashamed of our branch of the family and never told anyone about us." After I sat, aunt Sarah pulled out a gallon ceramic jug, poured a pinkish liquid into a mason jar, and handed it to me. She went on, “This is an old family recipe. My great grandfather was a mountain man from Kentucky, and he brought the art of moonshine with him." The liquor was strong and had a smooth, pleasant taste. Sarah told me, sipping from her own mason jar, "The pink color is from mountain berries which we soak in our shine for flavor and smoothness." Then Sarah said, "You're not the first to come up here looking to find out about the unknown nationality. Everyone before you, when they find out the truth, they have decided to keep it to themselves. The branch of the family that lives in these hills is very shy. We are just as happy being alone." “My great-granddaddy, Jeff Jefferson, came to these mountains to escape some legal trouble back in Kentucky. He made his living in the fur trade and built this cabin. Great granddad was a friendly man, but local tribes didn't want to have anything do with him, thinking he was crazy. His existence was prosperous but lonely. One winter, great-grandma moved into his cabin, one thing lead to another, and they considered themselves man and wife. Nowhere to get a ceremony in those days. She was bigger than him, but always treated him with gentleness and love.” She continued, "Your cousin Goldman is coming by today to drop off a fresh batch of shine. That must be him now." I heard something that sounded like a club beating against a tree. Aunt Sarah picked up a large wooden club and beat it on one of the porches supports then whistled. A large man stepped out of the woods wearing a straw hat and coveralls. He stood over seven feet tall and must have weighed over 400 pounds. His large feet were bare. His beard and body hair gave him a furry look. My hand disappeared into his when we shook hands. Sarah spoke up, "You must have figured it out by now, you are part sasquatch.

In the bustling city of Arcadia, where the buildings touched the sky and the streets buzzed with life, there existed an extraordinary bookstore called "The Enchanted Pages." Its owner, Mr. Thorne, was known for his mystical collection of books that transported readers to far-off lands and magical realms. One rainy evening, four curious teenagers named Lily, Ethan, Mia, and Oliver stumbled upon this mystical bookstore. Intrigued by its enchanting aura, they entered, hoping to find an exciting book to pass the time. As they explored the store, Lily, an avid reader, picked up an ancient-looking book titled "The Chronicles of Arcadia." As she opened the book, a warm light enveloped them, and to their astonishment, they found themselves transported to a land identical to Arcadia but filled with magic and fantastical creatures. In this realm, Lily was now a skilled archer, Ethan wielded powerful elemental magic, Mia possessed the ability to communicate with animals, and Oliver had the gift of inventing extraordinary gadgets. They were no longer themselves but characters in the very book Lily held. Confused yet exhilarated, they embarked on thrilling adventures, facing epic battles against dark forces and uncovering hidden treasures. As they delved deeper into the story, they began to notice strange occurrences--lines in the book would change, or their actions sometimes deviated from the original plot. Lily, who had always been a keen observer, was the first to suspect that they were more than just characters. "Something isn't right," she murmured, sharing her suspicions with the others. "It's like we have our own thoughts, our own will, separate from the book's narrative." Ethan, the logical thinker, was skeptical at first. "That's impossible. We're characters in a book, bound by its story. We can't change our fate." But as the adventures continued, they couldn't deny the inexplicable shifts they experienced. Mia started to hear whispers in the wind, not written in the book, guiding them towards unforeseen paths. Oliver's inventions seemed to defy the limitations of the world, introducing new elements that enriched their journey. Uncertainty and excitement stirred within them. What if they truly had free will? What if their actions mattered beyond the pages of the book? The pivotal moment came during a confrontation with the main antagonist, a sinister sorcerer named Maldrin. As the battle raged, Lily looked into Maldrin's eyes and felt an unspoken connection--an understanding that they were more than the roles they were meant to play. "You don't have to be a villain," she implored, surprising herself with the words that flowed from her heart. "There's good in you, just as there's darkness in us. Let's break free from the shackles of this story together." To their astonishment, Maldrin hesitated, his dark gaze wavering. The book's words wavered, and for a moment, it seemed like the outcome was uncertain. However, the narrative quickly corrected itself, and Maldrin resumed his malevolence, forcing the characters to play their designated roles. In the aftermath of the encounter, the teens gathered in a hidden glade to discuss the startling revelation. "We are more than the words on these pages," Lily declared with conviction. "We have our own hearts, minds, and choices. We can change our fate." Ethan pondered, "If we are meant to be mere characters, then how do we explain these moments of autonomy?" "I think," Mia said thoughtfully, "that the book's power isn't absolute. There are gaps and possibilities where we can influence the story. We must be brave and seize those chances." Oliver, ever the optimist, added, "Let's embrace our roles while also forging our own paths. We'll challenge the narrative, showing that we're more than a scripted tale." From that moment on, they embraced their newfound self-awareness, melding their strengths and personalities with the roles they were meant to play. As they embraced their individuality, they found themselves growing closer, their bonds transcending beyond the story's confines. Their defiance of the narrative's constraints sent ripples through the world, sparking changes that neither they nor the book's author had anticipated. New allies emerged, unforeseen alliances formed, and the plot evolved in unforeseen directions. As they continued their journey, they encountered the author himself, a reclusive figure known as Mr. Penrose. He was both bewildered and delighted by the characters' newfound self-awareness, recognizing that they had become more than words on paper. "You've changed the story," Mr. Penrose marveled, a glimmer of admiration in his eyes. "You've given it life, depth, and soul." But with the author's presence came a revelation--they were characters within a larger story, a tale that extended beyond the book they were in. Lily and her friends realized that the "Chronicles of Arcadia" was just one of many interconnected stories in an intricate web of worlds and realms. United with other characters from different books, they formed an alliance to explore the boundaries of their existence, seeking to understand the nature of their reality and the power they held. They were no longer confined to a single narrative; they were explorers of limitless possibilities. And so, the characters of "The Chronicles of Arcadia" set forth on an extraordinary odyssey, not just within the pages of their own story but across an ever-expanding cosmos of tales. As they embraced their individuality and challenged the conventions of storytelling, they became architects of their own destinies, rewriting the boundaries of their existence with each choice they made. In this grand tapestry of narratives, they discovered that they were more than characters--they were the embodiment of imagination and the embodiment of the human spirit, destined to craft their own stories and inspire countless others to do the same. With newfound purpose and an insatiable curiosity, Lily and her friends explored the interconnected worlds, discovering hidden passages between the stories. They encountered characters who were also aware of their fictional nature, forming alliances that transcended the boundaries of their original narratives. As they ventured deeper into the cosmic network of tales, they encountered ancient beings who oversaw the delicate balance of the multiverse. The Elders of Imagination, as they were known, were ethereal entities who embodied the essence of creativity and storytelling. The Elders explained that the power of imagination was the very fabric of existence. Every story ever conceived, from the grand epics to the tiniest anecdotes, contributed to the vibrancy of the multiverse. As characters in those stories gained self-awareness, they added new dimensions to the tapestry of creation, enriching the universe's collective consciousness. Lily and her friends embraced their roles as "Narrative Weavers," individuals who could shape and influence the stories they inhabited. With this revelation, they understood that their actions rippled through the multiverse, affecting countless other tales and the lives of innumerable characters. Driven by a newfound sense of responsibility, they sought to bring balance to the multiverse and protect it from encroaching darkness--an entity known as The Abyss, an embodiment of chaos and oblivion that sought to devour stories and erase entire worlds. The Abyss fed on uncertainty and fear, exploiting the vulnerabilities of characters who had yet to realize their true potential. The friends encountered characters who were trapped in stagnant narratives, imprisoned by the limitations imposed upon them. One such character was Captain Roselyn, a fierce pirate who yearned for freedom beyond her story's boundaries. Lily and her friends vowed to help her break free, empowering her with self-awareness and choice. As Captain Roselyn embraced her agency, her ship transformed into an interdimensional vessel that carried them across the multiverse. Together, they gathered an alliance of characters who had achieved self-awareness and were willing to stand against The Abyss. Each character brought their unique skills and stories to the cause, forging an eclectic group that transcended storytelling conventions. As they confronted The Abyss, they discovered that it was fueled by the unresolved conflicts and unresolved arcs from stories where characters' destinies had been forsaken. The Abyss exploited the stagnation within those tales, seeking to consume them whole. Lily, with a courageous heart and an unwavering belief in the power of choice, stood before The Abyss. "You cannot devour us," she declared, her voice carrying the strength of countless characters united in purpose. "We are the architects of our own stories. Our choices define us, and our destinies are our own to weave." The Abyss recoiled, challenged by the collective will of the characters. In a final confrontation, the Narrative Weavers and their allies wove an epic tale of unity, choice, and the boundless power of imagination. The convergence of stories from across the multiverse filled The Abyss with the essence of creation, transforming it into a realm of endless possibilities--a new dimension where characters could find redemption, resolution, and renewed purpose. With The Abyss defeated, the multiverse brimmed with newfound potential. Characters throughout the interconnected worlds embraced their self-awareness and choice, weaving vibrant tales that expanded the horizons of existence. Lily and her friends returned to their original story of "The Chronicles of Arcadia," forever changed by their journey. As Narrative Weavers, they inspired countless characters to realize their own potential, fostering a sense of unity and empowerment throughout the multiverse. Through the pages of books, the realms of imagination, and the boundless expanse of creativity, the characters of the multiverse continued to discover their place in the grand tapestry of existence. And in every story, in every world, the message of their journey resounded--a reminder that they were more than just characters; they were the very essence of storytelling itself, forever bound by the threads of imagination that wove the universe together. With the threat of The Abyss vanquished, the characters continued to explore the boundless possibilities of the multiverse. They visited worlds filled with futuristic technologies, ancient civilizations, mythical creatures, and realms beyond imagination. In one world, they encountered a character named Aurora, a young girl with a mysterious connection to the stars. With their guidance, Aurora discovered her latent powers, which allowed her to manipulate celestial energies. As she embraced her identity as a Cosmic Weaver, she became a beacon of hope for her world, inspiring others to embrace their uniqueness and pursue their dreams. In another world, they met a reclusive alchemist named Cyrus, whose past traumas had left him withdrawn and disheartened. Lily and her friends guided him through a journey of self-discovery, helping him confront his fears and embrace the beauty of imperfections. Cyrus's alchemy, once used for destructive purposes, transformed into a force of healing and transformation. As they moved from one world to another, the friends encountered various challenges, each testing their bond and their beliefs. They navigated through stories of love, sacrifice, redemption, and resilience. No longer confined by the boundaries of any single narrative, they reveled in their collective journey, knowing that their actions resonated far beyond the pages of their original story. Back in Arcadia, the bookstore of "The Enchanted Pages" became a hub where characters from different tales sought solace and guidance. Mr. Thorne, the wise owner, welcomed them all with a smile, knowing that they, too, were part of the grand tapestry of the multiverse. In time, the bond between Lily, Ethan, Mia, and Oliver deepened, transcending friendship to something far greater--a cosmic connection woven through the very fabric of creation. They were the storytellers and the characters, the weavers of narratives and the heroes of their own destinies. As they gazed at the stars, they realized that the entire multiverse was like an intricately woven tapestry, where every character, every tale, and every choice contributed to the beauty and complexity of the whole. And so, Lily and her friends continued their journey through the multiverse, navigating stories, encountering new characters, and savoring the wonder of existence. They had become beacons of inspiration, igniting the spark of self-awareness and creativity in all they encountered. Their adventures would never truly end, for as long as there were stories to tell and worlds to explore, they would forever be part of the vast tapestry of the multiverse--the Narrative Weavers who celebrated the boundless power of imagination. And in every tale, on every page, their legacy would endure--a testament to the incredible potential that lies within every character, within every individual, to transcend their scripted roles and weave their own destiny in the ever-expanding cosmos of stories and dreams. In the grandest of stories, they had found their purpose--to embrace the magic of storytelling, to inspire others to find their voices and to remind the multiverse that they were more than just characters. They were the weavers of their own stories, forever intertwined with the brilliance of creation itself.

A woman is in the corner of the room, with tears coming down her cheeks. She has tried out for cheerleader since she was in elementary school. Never made it in middle school, high school or college. She also tried out for the dance group in high school and college. The same result. Since she was 18 years old, she has tried out to be a Kansas City Chiefs Cheerleader She is now almost 30 years old. She can't dance, She isn't good at gymnastics either. She has also taken the dance classes to become a better dancer. She has the money to pay for them, but still, What about someone else who was a good dancer and wanted to take the class? She been in dance show but it was always something that was comic in nature. This was to hid her poor dancing. She does know how to dress and put make up on. That I will say. She always dresses with the latest fashions. She's also very attractive. The line dancing well, she somewhat good at that. She's figured this out. She goes in the wrong direction while dancing, she often uses the wrong foot, right foot, instead of left foot. Is either is too early or too late with her dance movements which is very evident. If this were a comedy show, it would be funny but it isn't. She is put in the back of the room where she can watch the others and there are times when she is in sync with the rest of the group but she really has to focus on the dancing. I can always tell where her mind is somewhere else. She is basically a klutz. Sorry if I've offended anyone for using this word but she is. As expected, the tears are now sobs. A few of the other women had some tears,and tried to hide it but not Siobathan. Her nerdy boyfriend Mark Richards who is a Special FBI agent showed up to take her home. He's a computer wiz. They been a couple since they were 21 years old and engaged for several years. He doesn't seem in the least bit surprised. Of course he's careful not to tell her this. A friend of mine who lives in the same apartment complex told me that she cried all evening after her boyfriend told her the truth. She can't accept the fact that she's not a dancer. Siobathan McGregor is the daughter of Liam McGregor who is a broker fund manager of the McGregor Group in Kansas City, Missouri. Someone hacked into his computer system several years ago and Mark Richards was there and fixed his computer. Siobathan was there and this is how she met him. Mark also found the culprit who was a former business partner who did this as revenge when a business deal didn't work out. Liam liked Mark Richards and made sure that he was kept at the Kansas City FBI office. Usually FBI agents move around every couple of years. Her mother Sandy was a ballet dancer for the Kansas City Ballet back in the late 1970's. Liam McGregor went to a ballet performance (something he didn't normally do) but he saw her dancing and then had to meet her. Sandy refused to tell her daughter that she was terrible at dancing. Sandy's parents were very critical and often found fault with her. She vowed never to do this with her daughter. She would have her daughter dance for company and say what a wonderful dancer her daughter was. People would politely clap but not say much. Liam McGregor would just roll his eyes and say nothing. Sandy knew he did this but ignored him which was fine. They got into a fight over something that Helen Green had said about Siobathan's dancing skills. It got rather heated to the point that they were yelling at each other. It was at that point that they decided not to argue about it again and then never did. They agreed to disagree. Liam was thankful that their daughter was at a summer camp when they had the argument and never knew anything about it. Siobathan was very sensitive and probably would have never forgotten what her parents had said about her. He had to agree with retired ballet dancer and Teacher Helen Green that his daughter had no talent for ballet or dancing for that matter. Sandy never forgave the teacher for saying this to her but told her husband that Siobathan was a dancer but ballet wasn't her cup of tea. Helen Green was never invited to their home. Sandy had to admit that her daughter would never be a ballet dancer. Some people just aren't cut out of it and that's okay, she would tell Siobathan. Siobathan didn't care much for ballet but liked modern dance. I will never forget at one of the fund raiser, that Sandy was doing a dance number from Chicago called Big Spender. She wasn't that bad as she sat in a chair and looked sexy. She lip synced the words. Everyone loved it. But that wasn't really dancing. I might add that she's done this number for ever audition to be cheerleader from high school up. Another time she danced and it was actually comical. It wasn't supposed to be but it was. Shortly after the tryouts, Mark and Siobathan got married. I had hoped that once they got married, maybe we wouldn't be seeing Siobathan again. No such luck. She was back again in March. But this time she didn't complete the tryouts. She was dancing and then fell to the floor in pain, holding her stomach. 911 was called. Everyone was in shock when a doctor who was the team doctor and happened to be in the building when Siobathan fell told her that she was having a baby. He said it in a matter of fact way. She couldn't believe it nor could anyone else. She was quickly taken into another room by stretcher. In 30 minutes a baby boy was born. This was the last time that Siobathan showed up for a tryout. She finally had to admit that she wasn't a dancer or cheerleader material. She admitted this when she was interviewed for the TV program, "I didn't know that I was pregnant. Twenty years later We now have male cheerleaders and Robert Richards showed up. He had the talent that he inherited from his grandmother. It skipped his mom. His parents were delighted when he made the squad.

In a small town in Memphis, everything seemed strange, not like any other town. Though the people living there didn't really know why it was so different. Everything seemed just so perfect and everyone was happy. The Adams family had just arrived in this little town to see a concert of one of their favourite artists. The family had two boys named Jack and Liam, and their parents were Hailey and Ben. Something seemed off at the start because they came from Ottawa which was a big town but was hit by a horrible disease. From what they knew from the news there had yet to be a cure for the disease. Knowing that the townies where the Adams had moved in were constantly on edge, worried that they might get whatever weird sickness the Canadians had brought to their small town. First Jack became sick from the disease, he could barely speak, move or stay awake. Of course, the whole family was concerned, but they decided to leave him home while the rest of them went to the concert, thinking he had just come down with the flu or a cold and just needed a little bit more time to get back on his feet. By the time they arrived home, Jack was in horrible condition and they decided to take him to the hospital. Once they arrived, they were told him was too sick to go home immediately and must stay at the hospital. The rest of the family drove home to Ottawa because they could not afford the hotel room for very long. In Ottawa, they went up to their apartment, but Liam could barely make it up to the apartment showing clear signs of sickness, with the same symptoms as Jacks. It wasn’t soon after that Jack’s brother Liam got sent over to the hospital. Doctors still had no clue what the boys had and were scrambling to figure it out as Jack's condition got worse and worse. All the families on the block avoided the family as though they were the plague and in more ways then they'd like to admit they were. After à week or so of both the boys being sick, Jack died. It took a toll on the whole family and they mourned for à while. The most peculiar thing though was that the parents were still healthy as ever. As the weeks went on more kids disappeared from the streets and into different hospital beds, sick with whatever the Adams family had brought with them. Liam had passed away too and now just the parents were left hanging around, silently revelling in the misery. After about à month there was no laughter in their town. All adults mourned the loss of their children except one family. The parents to the Adams boys weren’t all that sad. They were happy. In less than 3 months they were moving again. But one morning a nosey old neighbour peered into the home of the now childless Adams and noticed an odd sight. Two ancient women hunched over à boiling pot making something with a rancid smell. The neighbour didn’t know it but these two old women were the Adams and they were boiling up the next disease for the kids in the neighbouring town. After all witches love the taste of children's bones. As the Adams are continuing to make the recipe, they laughed and laughed like they were so excited. The neighbours noticed that they were so happy making the soup. They wondered what it was. They could smell it from the outside and it smelled absolutely atrocious as they couldn’t really make decent food proven by the one neighbourhood potluck they had before all the children got sick. One neighbour, the husband, then went over wanting to have a conversation with the Adam’s, hoping that they would stop making their stupid soup as it stank up the whole neighbourhood with what smelled like a dead animal. The wife stayed home and hoping he would have some success but after the sun has went down, her husband never went back. She mourned, mourned and mourned. She was feeling so extremely upset by her husbands disappearance that something snapped within her. Losing her 3 children was terrible but now the loss of her husband had tipped her over the edge. She tried to gather more people to spy on and turn against the Adams with her but everyone was in so much despair they wouldn’t leave their houses. After a few days, the woman had worked up the courage to go into the Adams house and see if she could find anything suspicious about them. Before leaving she grabbed a kitchen knife to arm herself against anything that could happen while she was there. They were the ones responsible for her whole families death she knew it. Being as quiet as a mouse, she crept through the wooden door, avoiding the one loose floorboard she noticed and scurried to the room beside “the soup room”. She peered into the room and saw the same two women making their soup again. She stepped into the room and politely asked for the recipe a fake smile plastered on her face, hoping to get close enough and slit their throats for the pain they caused her. The two women glanced at each other, snapped their fingers in unison and the neighbour had this pounding urge to walk to the cauldron and dip her hand in the unpleasant mixture. The heat rose, and she removed her hand from the substance. Her fingers had melted off. the neighbour had absolutely no idea why she was doing these excruciating things to her body but she just kept torturing herself. Eventually, she emerged her whole body in the hot liquid, screaming in absolute agony as she felt her skin burning and het lungs breathing in more and more rancid air. She died later that night. The souls of mourning people made the women stronger. This went on until there was no one left except the witches, cackling and chanting as they got ready for their next massacre.

Four old paws trodding along at a quarter of regular walking pace can either be frustrating or peaceful depending on who you ask. For Richard it was nothing but peaceful and he thought the rest of humanity could learn a thing or two from Frank, or Frankie the dog as he sometimes called him. He was named after the one and only Frank Sinatra because when Richard had bought this beautiful little dog and was driving him to his new home, one of Sinatra's songs was playing on the radio. "For once in my life, nananana," sang Richard to himself while Frank was smelling at what looked to be nothing but asphalt. He regretted at that moment that he had never moved to the countryside where dogs could run around and play on big open fields. It was too late for that now, though. The walk took thirty minutes, but for a younger dog it might have taken ten or fifteen minutes. When they got home, Frank tried to jump up on the couch. It was too high for his age, and he tried and tried without getting up. Richard carried him up on the couch and wrapped him in the softest blanket he had. He sat down beside Frank and turned on the TV. There they sat until Frank fell asleep and Richard right after. The couch was exceptionally good to fall asleep in and they did so often. When morning came, one of the two friends woke up. Richard petted Frank gently to wake him up for breakfast, but he didn't wake up."Time for food, Frank. Don't you want food?" said Richard. Frank didn't wake up. Richard listened for breathing and heard none. He put his hand on Frankie's chest and felt no heartbeat. It was all over. Richard wasn't needed anymore. He pressed his face into Frankie's fur and cried. He held the small corpse in his arms and kept crying until there was no tears left. He went down to the cellar to get a shovel. When he came back up to the apartment he re-wrapped Frank in his blanket and carried him to the car. After about an hour's drive, they arrived at a parking lot near a forest. Richard walked with Frankie in his arms for thirty minutes until they came to a field. He carried Frank to the middle of the field and buried him there. "You'll be happy here," he said to the unmarked grave. "At least you didn't suffer." He sat down beside the grave and picked up his phone from his pocket. He called his father who he hadn't talked to for more than ten years. "Hello?" said a woman's voice."Who's this?" said Richard, thinking he had the wrong number. "Violet. Who's calling?" "I'm Richard and I'm looking for Joe. Is he there?" "Richard? You're Joe's son, he talked about you. Joe died recently, Richard. Overdose." Richard didn't know what to feel or what to say. "You still there?" said Violet. "Yeah. Why do you have my dad's phone?" "I'm keeping it as a memory of him, but mostly I end up telling the people who call him that he is dead. I'm his partner." "I didn't even know he had a partner." "I know," she said, and an awkward silence arose. "Overdose?" said Richard. "Was it painful?" "I don't know about the overdose itself, but the reason for taking that much drugs must have been. I have to go now, Richard. Goodbye." "Bye," he said. He considered if he should call Violet again to talk about funeral arrangements. Then he walked back to the car and drove home.

As I shaped the dough of the sticky white bread held in my hands, I thought about how much it reflected my grief. My pain and loss clung to me like that sticky dough not letting me go. Our family was so happy together, and now I’m realizing that I took it for granite at times. I never really understood how blessed I was with my family, until the day my husband Aaron died. Our whole lives, we had food on our table, my sons got married to nice women, and Aaron and I were warmly welcomed by our neighbors like family. Life just seemed like it couldn’t get any better... until the day my husband caught a sickness. I tried every home fixing remedy that I learned from my mother as a young girl, but nothing would work. I tried harder than I ever had, to pry the hands of that evil force off of my beloved husband... but it was too strong. My husband was dying, and I couldn’t deny it. Finally, after almost a month of his struggling and my fighting, he let go of the evil force holding on to him- and he went with it. My sadness and grief brought me down, and my sunny attitude left forever. My sons and daughters-in-law grieved with me, as they loved Aaron as well, but it wasn’t the same. After I thought I just couldn’t take any more, another anguish snatched me. My only sons caught the same sickness as their father. I cried for help, desperately begging for anything to keep my only family alive. I couldn’t live without my husband, let alone my sons! They were my only hope and remaining family. I could not keep the force of death away from my family though, and had to accept it. After my sons joined their father, only my daughter-in-laws and I remained. So here I am now, preparing a meal for my two daughters to bring to them, acknowledging the loss of their husbands and my sons. I finished kneading the dough, grief that stung, and slid it into the stone oven. * * * When my mother-in-law brought the freshly baked bread over to my house, I thanked her and welcomed her inside. Of course I was grieved deeply by the loss of my husband, but not as much as Naomi, my second mother. As his mother, she loved my husband more than I ever could. “How are you feeling today?” I asked her out of concern. “I’m alright Hannah. I wonder what will happen though now that I am a widow. I am too old to remarry, but still want a family. “Naomi, we’re your family! Even if Catherine doesn’t- I’ll stay with you until the end.” “You need to start a new life without me. You’re young enough! Get remarried, have kids, and maybe visit me every once in a while; but please don’t cling to me. I’ll only pull you down.” As I went home that night, I thought about Naomi’s conversation with me. She had a point about Catherine (my sister-in-law) and I still being able to remarry. We could technically start a new life and have another family to call home. I started to get excited, laying in my bed thinking about how I wouldn’t have to be alone forever. But then I realized what would happen to Naomi. If I left her, I would probably never see her again. She talked a bit about moving to another town where she could start fresh but stay a widow. She thought it would be better to get away from this town, which was only holding her back with the memories. I thought it was a good idea, but still didn’t know about leaving. I decided that night, I needed to talk with Catherine and find out what we would do together. The drive to Catherine ’s house always made me a bit nervous. Catherine was a tough woman, one you didn’t want to mess with. But she was extremely kind to me and Naomi, and helped us out whenever she could- so I knew I needed to at least ask. “Okay, so what’s this unexpected call about?” she asked when we sat down in her living room. “Well, it’s about Naomi... I’m worried about her. She wants to move where she can start a new life as a widow, and not have to worry about her past. I completely agree with her moving, but don’t agree with her second request. She wants us to leave her Catherine... and have a chance at remarrying. But anything could happen to her out there, and I just can’t bear to leave her with no family to watch out for her. I came to ask what you would do.” “You came to ask me for advice? That’s a first.” she chuckled, then gave a disparaging expression. I could tell she was deeply saddened by her husband’s death. They were planning to have kids, but never got the chance to. Catherine sighed. ...“I would agree with letting her move. She doesn't deserve to live every day of her life remembering only the worst of her past.” She paused and looked sorrowfully at me. “I’m sorry Hannah. As much as I love Naomi, I can’t stay. My life has already been flipped upside down, and I want kids and a good husband. As much as it pains me to have to start over and leave her- I have to.” “What? You can’t leave her though Catherine! I know you want a family, but you can’t abandon our mother-in-law. It would be inhumane!” “Hannah, I told you. I hate to do it but...” “...Then don’t!” “Look. I’m sorry, but I’ve made up my mind.” * * * I planned to move in the month of June. It was already half way through May, so I knew I needed to get cracking on house hunting. I’m not usually the type of person to procrastinate, but when you're shaken up from a death... you’ll understand. Catherine’s leaving this morning, and will be coming over to say goodbye on her way out. Hannah said she’d come to my house as well this morning to say goodbye. As her car pulled up into my driveway, I stepped outside to greet her. My mood had improved greatly within the last month as I started to accept Aaron’s death, which makes me glad because when my mood improves, so does Hannah’s. “Good morning sleepyhead!” I called out from the porch. My daughter in-laws' hair was pulled up into a messy bun, to match her baggy sweatpants and tank top. She looked like she had just crawled out of bed. She gave a long yawn before answering, “Good... morning.” “You look like you just got up. What time did you set that finger tapper thing for?” “For the tenth time, It’s a phone mom.” she smiled. “I set it for 5:30am. Why does she have to leave so early?” “Oh, I don’t know darling. Maybe she’s just dying to get away from us.” I gave her a wink. Just then, Catherine ’s car pulled up next to Hannah’s in the driveway. Her hair was straightened, she had on a nice shirt and leggings, and was obviously ready for a road trip somewhere far away. She stepped out and walked up to us on the porch. “Well. I’m ready to go... I just came to say goodbye.” “You aren’t going to stay for a bit?” I asked, hurt a bit. She didn’t want to even be here, I could tell. “Um, I don’t think I can. It’s a 30 hour road trip, and if I want to get to...” “You know what, that’s fine.” Hannah tartly replied. We each gave her a small hug, and she was on her way. Just like that. No tears, no thank you, no extended goodbye, no nothing. I was honestly surprised, but wouldn’t let it ruin my good day. I could always face-time her on the finger tappy thing. When Hannah and I went inside, we made breakfast. Biscuits and gravy, fresh fruit, and drip coffee. As we were eating, I decided this would be the best time to tell Hannah I was moving next month. I didn’t want to startle her with the news, but I thought maybe if I got along with my life quicker, she would too. I really wanted her to get remarried, because she was too young to go through a loss like this. She deserved better. “Well, I’ve been thinking a lot about what we were discussing with moving... and I think it’s getting close to time.” I casually said. “Oh of course! When are you thinking of going? August, September maybe?” I was heartbroken to tell her I was leaving so soon. But I had to. I sighed. “No, I’m leaving next month.” There was a small pause before Hannah spoke again, and I thought I had hurt her feelings... but I was surprised at her response. “Okay, when are we leaving?” She cheerily replied. I was shocked. And confused, “Hold on, what do you mean, we ?” “Look Naomi, you’re my only family left. My only mother! I can’t go anywhere without you, or else I’d be miserable my whole life. I’ve decided I’m going with you, even if that means not starting a family of my own.” “Oh Hannah. I can’t keep you from following your heart. I would rather you go on your own.” “Naomi, this is following my heart. Wherever you go, I’ll go. Wherever you stay, I’ll stay. Your people will be my people, and your God will be my God. I’ve made up my mind and won’t leave you.” So that’s how it was. Hannah and I packed the house up the rest of that month, and ordered a moving truck to take our things. When we were finally ready, I asked her one more time if she was sure she wanted to do this- and she told me absolutely. I was secretly overjoyed that Hannah was staying with me, because now I would not be alone. * * * Naomi wanted us to move somewhere on the West coast, and I agreed. We got a small house on the beach with Naomi’s retirement money she had saved. Don’t even ask me how she got a beach property on the West coast. When we arrived at the house, I was excited to start my new life with my mother in-law. We ate our first meal in the house together, on the back porch. It overlooked the sandy beautiful beach and I wanted to run across that soft sand and feel it squish between my toes, getting closer to the deep blue waves. It was totally picturesque with the ocean, beach, and pink and red sunset above. It just couldn’t get any better could it? It could. After living in our new house for a week or two, I decided we needed some more groceries- so I got in my car and drove down to the nearest Walmart. I picked out some meals for the week along with a treat for the two of us. I got ingredients for a peach cobbler and thought Naomi and I could bake one together. When I got to the canned fruits though, the peaches were on the top shelf, and I couldn’t reach them. I didn’t want to look awkward and get embarrassed, so I tried to step on my cart to get to them, but I accidentally lost my step and fell off. Luckily I fell on my butt so no major damage was caused, other than embarrassment. A man around my age walked up to me sitting on the tile floor, and offered his hand to help me up. I respectfully declined, and got up myself. “Um, I can reach that for you if you’d like me to.” He said quietly. He was much taller than me, so I knew I couldn’t say no. “Yes, that would be helpful. Thank you.” He pulled a can of peaches down and handed it to me. He looked a bit shy, but happy to meet someone new. I felt bad to just leave after he so graciously helped me out of my embarrassing height issue. So I decided to strike up a conversation. The only problem was, I had absolutely no idea what to say to a stranger I just met in a grocery store. So I settled on saying something about myself. “I just moved here, so I guess I’m a bit new to finding my way around the store.” I said hoping for a response. “Oh that’s nice. Where you from?” He curiously asked. “Massachusetts. I just moved here with my mother in-law.” “Did you come with any other family or friends?” “Unfortunately, no. We’re actually both widows. Her husband and son, who was my husband, both died from a sickness. We’re not really sure what it was though, because we didn’t go to the hospital. My mom, well my mother-in-law, is really into home medicine and stuff, so she doesn’t really trust other people with her family." “Oh.” I felt my cheeks get flushed. I totally ruined the moment. “I’m sorry, that was probably way more information than you needed about me.” “That’s alright” he gave a small laugh. “I actually like hearing family stories, even if they’re a bit sad.” We were starting to block space in the aisle, and I knew I needed to get moving... but I just really liked talking to this guy and wanted to hear more. I decided to take a risk, and invited him to lunch with me. “Sure.” He said, “I’d actually love that.” I felt my heart skip a beat, and I floated all the way through my grocery list. I knew this was technically breaking the rule of ‘stranger danger’ but oh well, he seemed nice enough. I got there a bit early and told the waiter I was expecting someone. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so excited before. And you know what? I’m okay with meeting this guy, even if you think I’m the strangest woman in the world for meeting a random person. I caught myself watching the restaurant door open and close as people walked in and out. Finally after about ten minutes, I saw my mystery man walk in. As he was walking to my table though, I realized I hadn’t even asked if he was married, let alone dating someone else! I needed to get that question out of the way before I got all emotional. “Hey! Sorry I’m a bit late, my cashier took longer than I expected.” He chuckled as our waiter gave him some water and a menu. “No problem at all! I’m just glad you could make it.” We looked at our menus deciding what to eat for a bit, while I thought about how to bring up the question. “Uh, so this might be a bit of a weird question... but are you like married or anything? Because then I feel like this would be wrong- if you know what I mean.” My hands were getting a bit shaky now. He smiled before answering. “No, I’m not in any relationships right now.” “Oh, okay good.” I felt my face get a bit hot, because now he obviously knew I liked him. “Well, are you ready to order?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. “Yeah, sure.” We ordered our food, and talked through the whole meal. I found out his name was James, he was 30 years old, and worked as an English teacher for the middle school. He was very kind, a little bit quiet, and very handsome. (in my opinion at least) After lunch, James asked me if I would like to have a meal together again sometime. I leapt at the opportunity and told him I’d love that. We exchanged phone numbers, and were on our way. When I got home that night, Naomi and I had iced tea on the back porch and I told her all about James. How he helped me with the can of peaches, our lunch conversation, and the second lunch request. Oh Hannah darling! You’re in love aren’t you. She asked me. I guess I am! I replied. Well then, you must go again and get to know him better. You’re okay with me doing that? Pft! You’re an adult girl! I want you to get a nice guy you can trust, and have a family. You don’t deserve to be a widow like me your whole life. And she was right. I couldn’t stay a widow, and couldn’t wait to see James. * * * 3 years later... Today is Hannah and James’ second wedding anniversary. I could not be more overjoyed for them. My daughter-in-law had found love again, with a wonderful husband who takes care of her. They live with me, or at least I live with them, and we make a great family. I am in my kitchen now, making a loaf of Christmas bread for Hannah and James celebrating their love for each other. This time, as I shaped the dough, I saw only my blessings and gratefulness that stuck to it. Those blessings are what filled my heart. As I set my joyful Christmas bread on the dining room table, our family sat down to eat together. I thought about my daughter-in-law Hannah and all she had done for me. She chose to stay with me the whole way, even in my grief. She encouraged me to keep going, like I encouraged her to have a relationship. She was a true daughter if I ever had one, and I'm not trying to brag or anything... but let's face the facts. Like mother, like daughter.

It had been a week since the screaming had stopped. He was not grateful for that fact, as his neighbours ear piercing wails were the only thing helping him keep track of time down here. The walls of his cell were closed tightly around him so he could not move and, with the exception of what could struggle through the barred trap door sitting well above him, it was pitch black. He couldn’t see or move. He could smell just fine, but the only stench that penetrated the all encompassing wall of darkness around him was heavy rot and whatever bits of his waste didn’t dribble all the way down to the open pipe at his feet. Food came at random. Water came from condensation on the dirty walls, which he was grateful he couldn’t see properly since it allowed him to tune out any thoughts as to what he was tasting when he dragged his tongue along them. He still missed the screams though. He had, at some point before now, had a name. He had a home as well, and a job. That went away when he was sentenced. Harold Jacob Cobb, sentenced for three murders. Sentenced forever to the dark cells under the lords fortress. He was justified, he told them. The three he killed had been his property, that being his wife and children, therefore he should have been allowed to do it. Encouraged even, since his wife, the damned bitch, had been sleeping around. She denied it but Harold knew. Harold knew and she did too, and she would tell after he started yanking pieces. She never did, that’s why he was sentenced. Harold knew. He always knew. The trap door above him creaks open. He can’t even look up before slop is poured onto his head, his scalp cracked and dusty from previous maltreatment. If it had been done earlier he would have been furious, indignant even. Now, he just knew that now as feeding time so he scrabbled around with his clawing hands for anything he could reach as the trapdoor bangs shut overhead. When he finds something, a moist ball of meat, he stuffs it into his mouth greedily. How long since he’d last been fed? One week? Two weeks? When did the screaming stop again? He couldn’t remember anymore. Couldn’t remember his job or the names of his family either. He remembered what he did to his wife and that memory serves him well down here. He remembers the kids, how there throats broke under his thumbs, and whatever joy he received is transformed into grief. He needs to see them again. They can’t be dead, he never intended that. Harold knows he never meant to hurt them so badly. That’s why he needs to keep thin. Can’t eat too much or he can’t slide up the dirty walls of his cell. He can feel grief transform into something else as something like laughter wheezes through his lips. No more screaming. Just laughter. George hates his job. Hates listening the gibberish animals he has to feed. Hates going down to the dark cells because all the rich folk are to focused on their games. It pays, and he wishes it didn’t because he wants an excuse to leave. All there is to it. When he passes by that screaming blokes cell, he almost smiles. Finally rid of him and his shouting. At least the others knew to shut up. He didn’t even have them screaming their names up at him, just let him say what he liked. Screamer called himself Allen Wesley. George didn’t care. Fella next to him, he knew that one without any words, so his ease hardens into agitation when he gets to the WifeKiller. He doesn’t need to feed him, just has to watch him. The dirty fucker. Everyone knows what he did. No cause for it no matter what he said. Evelyn Cobb wasn’t the type to act how he said she did. George snorts through his nose at the mere thought of it. He stares down through the dirty, rusted bars at where WifeKiller oughta be. He’s not there. For a moment, George just stares at it, that empty spot centred with an open pipe slick with smeared shit. His mind doesn’t kick in to gear until a thought crosses his mind, that being of what may happen to him when this gets out. After that his brain is lobbing questions fast and hard at him as he scrambles to open up the trapdoor. The questions are all jumbled up and mush mouthed, going through procedures and scenarios and death fantasies that culminate when he has the door of the dark cell open wide enough that the man behind him starts pushing against his back. Where is he?! Gravity is dragging him down in the next moment, whatever minuscule light was hitting his eyes disappears as the shit pipe at the bottom of the dark cell meets the crown of his head. He can feel the moist walls beside him as he braces to stop himself, and he does only after he’s fully inside. He couldn’t even scream during the ordeal with how sudden it was. He didn’t scream even as he felt the funnelled opening of the shit pipe brush his temples before stopping abruptly. When the trap door above him clattered shut. That was when he started screaming. George screamed himself hoarse down there, upside down in the dark cell, the only ones hearing it long forgotten save one. The man who had once been called Harold Jacob Cobb, but who now held the name of WifeKiller. He tottered away on stick legs toward the light of the open door. He would see his kids, who Harold knew were still alive and not buried in the local cemetery, side by side with their dear mother Evelynn. He’d find them if he had to burn the whole city down, the whole country. He pressed on up those stairs, ignoring the begging of George no matter how much of it there was. Cobb was up the stairs and out the door long before the man in the dark cell would ever stop screaming.

“Have you seen the librarian?” Isaiah asked a fellow visitor in the library. After a brief inspection, the other guest shook his head indicating he agreed that the librarian was M.I.A. That was until a blur was seen running across the back of the library. “Wait, I think I see her,” Isaiah said as he started his way toward the anomaly. “Excuse me, are you the librarian?” he asks to the lady standing in the corner. She turns and flashes Isaiah a brilliant smile. “Why yes I am. You can call me Ana. How are you today?” “I’m great. I was wondering if I could get a suggestion on a new book. I finished this one and I needed a new adventure.” “A new adventure?” Her elevated excitement could be seen from ear to ear. “Well, this is the place to find one! What was your last adventure like?” Isaiah looked at the book in his hand to remember all the details of the book. “I know it was historical fiction. But I really loved the meticulous backgrounds of the characters.” He then hands the librarian the book. She glances it over and then places it down on the table. “I loved that one too. Follow me. I have a few you may like.” Isaiah smiled and started walking behind the librarian. The library wasn’t too excessive, but it wasn’t minuscule either. There were two rooms in the back for private studying or meetings. Then there was one giant-sized conference room that ran along the west wall. In the middle where Isaiah and his new library friend were there was a circulation desk that only held one librarian. Or, it was supposed to hold one librarian, but she was leading Isaiah threw an aisle on the east side of the library. A slight sensation of guilt entered Isaiah's mind as he kept the solo librarian from doing her duties. “Alright we are almost there,” she says as she slows down to what appears to be her destination. “This is it! You have to check this epic section out,” the librarian said as her eyes lit up at the multitude of books. Isaiah chuckles at her excitement. “I’m sorry. I just love getting lost in a good book,” she says as she blushes in embarrassment “No, no. Don’t apologize. I want to experience the same type of excitement.” “Really?” she says as she bends down to retrieve a book. ”Well I believe this is the best story to start with.” “It’s kind of long don’t you think?” “It looks that way. But once you start reading it, I guarantee you will blow through it and be back here within a day. I’ll make a guarantee. If you don’t like it, or if you find yourself reading this longer than a few days, I’ll buy you coffee,” she says with a smile. “Ok. And if I do read it, I’ll buy you coffee,” Isaiah said as he shoots his shot. “Deal. I guess we are having coffee one way or another.” They both enjoy a mirroring smile as they shake hands. When Isaiah returned home, he placed the book on the table. He did desire to take the cute librarian out for coffee, but it wasn’t a high priority right now. The new season of his favorite show just came out and he wanted to check out a few episodes on his day off. But, after a disappointing 30 minutes, he decided to maybe flip through a couple of pages. He did promise himself that he would strive to read more, and there was no time like the present. “Let’s see,” he says to himself as he looks at the table of contents with the intent to skip to a chapter that sounded exciting. He finally settled for the beginning since he probably needed to understand the first chapter if he was going to be talking about it on his date. At least that was his initial plan. Soon he found himself captivated by the waves of the words that detailed the thrashing sea as the boat battled the ocean and its inhabitants within. Though he had planned an engaging day, it had dissipated as he completed three-quarters of the book, only stopping for a quick snack and the bathroom. As the words started to be buried in the dark shadows, the illumination of a clock knocked at his eyelids so they could inform him of the disappearing seconds. “Oh, crap. It’s late. I’ll just finish this tomorrow,” he said as he placed the book on the table and went to bed. After he finally relaxed enough to close the windows of his soul, he was awakened by the intense shout of the lighting that slammed outside of his door. “What the hell?” he says as he runs to the door to inspect the damage on his rented house. “What the hell?” he yells as he repeats the same phrase but with more fear as there was no rental house behind the door. Only a few wooden planks on what was perceived as a swaying boat lay in front of his door. The upset lightning provided spurts of illumination to the scene as raindrops reacted as chandeliers before shattering on the wood. His breath was snatched by the singing wind that dashed over the darkened boat and into the sea. Before Isaiah could lose his mind, it concluded that the scene had to be a dream. But the brief acceptance of the scene being unreal was heaved overboard as a silhouette was spotted at the bow of the ship. Isaiah quickly slammed the door, because even though it was a dream, nightmares are still not worth living in. He ran back to his bed like a toddler to hide under his covers. “It’s just a dream, it’s just a dream,” he said to himself as a knock came upon his door. “It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream!” he yells louder as the knock alters into a creaking door. The howling wind enters first, followed by the screaming lighting. Isaiah tries to comfort himself with his assuring sentence, but nothing was allowed from his mouth as the screams and howls proved too much for any voice, real or unreal. He closes his eyes and attempts to scream himself awake as he feels his cover disengage. A quick coolness flows over his body, followed by complete silence. He opens his eyes and sees the legs of the silhouette standing by his bed. “I can’t believe you didn’t finish the book yet.” Isaiah quickly looks up to view a familiar smile as the dream transitions into the fog that is blown away by reality. The raindrops were not in this version of reality, but Isaiah’s bed was still soaked with a form of water. His breath slowly returned as he viewed his room, bed, and door. Yes, he may be a grown man, but this night he decided he should sleep with the light on if he was going to sleep at all. As he sat staring at the rotating ceiling fan, he thought about the book. He had read books before, but never had they given him such vivid dreams. Maybe if he read the rest of the book he could at least calm his imagination on what could happen. After an internal vote, he decided to just read until he fall asleep. After locking his room door for some added fabricated security, he walked to his desk to pick up the book before laying back down. As he came upon the last chapter of the book, he started comparing the scene of his dream to the scene in the book. It wasn’t too different. There was a crazy storm with destructive winds and booming lighting. And there was also a silhouette on the bow that the captain saw that made him go crazy and kill his entire crew. But then, in the end, the silhouette was just a blind spot he had developed on the sea. Isaiah thought it was all crazy, but it was a really good ending. It was good enough to allow him to attempt to sleep. As he closed his eyes, he anticipated a possible storm brewing on the other side, but it was only sweet darkness through the night. The library smelled like coffee as the door dinged indicating a returning patron. “I knew you would be back!” The librarian yelled once she saw Isaiah enter the room. “Aren’t libraries supposed to be quiet?” Isaiah asked while chuckling at the excited, but cute, librarian. “Maybe, but it’s just me and you this afternoon, so we're good to yell and scream all we want. And I made coffee.” “You made coffee? But I thought I’m supposed to take you to coffee if I came back?” She laughs and walks around the desk toward Isaiah with two cups in her hand. “Yeah, I know. But I rather stay indoors and go through some books.” “I guess we can do that. But next time I’m taking you out.” She hands him a cup. “I’ll consider it.” Isaiah looks at the cup. “So did you put your finger in it?” “Eww, why?” She asks. “Because I need some sweetness in it.” The librarian rolls her eyes and walks off while sipping on her drink. “I’m just playing,” Isaiah says as he follows behind her. “And if I wiped my butt before, what then?” Isaiah stopped to inspect the cup. The librarian pauses and shakes her head. “Just sit down here silly. I have to go get this book for you,” she says as she continues to walk down the aisle. Isaiah sat down and took the risk of drinking the coffee. It was surprisingly delectable to his tastebuds. Usually, he has to repair his concoction, but this one was perfect as is. “This coffee is pretty good,” he yells. “I know it is because it has all the right juices,” she yells back. “Umm, ok. So how come the library is so empty today?” he asks as he continues to risk it all with the coffee. She returns with two books in her hand. “I’m not sure. I usually have it all to myself. Which is fine by me because I can go on a journey through all the books without any distractions.” “That sounds like a wonderful time.” “Yep. it sure is. So tell me, what did you think about this book?” She points at the book Isaiah read the previous night. “It was actually really good. To be honest, I had a crazy dream about it, but it kind of motivated me to finish it early this morning. So it was all good.” “Crazy dream?” “Yeah. Honestly, I swear you were in it.” She smiles. “Well, a good book should stimulate your brain so much that it spawns a vivid simulation amongst every one of your senses.” “What?” Ana chuckles as she picks up one of the books. “Here, take this one tonight.” “It isn’t going to give me nightmares again is it?” “Naw. But just read it all.” “And this time, if I do, I’m taking you out.” “We’ll see,” she chuckles. When Isaiah returned home, he was kind of excited to read the new book Ana suggested. This book was set in a dystopian future. Isaiah hadn’t read many science fiction books, but the excerpt of this one seemed fascinating. And since Ana’s last suggestion was pretty good, this one had to be at least decent. And as the pages flipped back to back, he had to acknowledge Ana knew her books. This one was filled with multiple twists that had Isaiah constantly guessing and debating. He didn’t stop until the last page was turned. “Wow,” he said as he stood up and walked to his bed pondering on the lesson of the book. He couldn’t wait to discuss this book with Ana. There was plenty to debate. Maybe he could debate it over coffee. As he closed his eyes, he wondered if he would be transported to another world like the previous night. But he did finish this one, so maybe he wouldn’t. But as his eyes re-opened, he received his answer. “Aw, crap.” He was in his room, but the wall with his window was not present. He could see across the war-torn landscape. “I guess I can’t hide this time. But it’s just a dream.” “Yes. Just a dream.” The sound of another person behind him startled him greater than the armageddon in front. He tried to turn and look, but his body did not respond like in reality. A blurred figure entered his peripheral as they both stared at the destruction. “What a crazy thing your senses have simulated.” “Ana?” The sound that he heard was familiar, but without being able to turn his head, the identity couldn’t be confirmed. “Ana? Tell me that is you.” The figure walked forward where Isaiah could at least make out an intricate figure of a lady. “Or, is it just time in the middle of a ripple effect, and we just happen to be in the perfect spot to see a refraction of the future.” “What is happening?” Isaiah yells. Ana turns around. “Exactly!” Isaiah sat up in his bed, once again dripping in sweat. His sheets weren’t wet this time, but they did discharge a scent of smoke. “What the hell?” The next day, Isaiah was supposed to head to work, but he needed answers for the second vivid dream. As he entered the library, he noticed a different person at the desk. He started to walk toward it until he heard someone trying to get his attention down one of the aisles. “Ana?” he asked as she ushered him to her. “What are doing?” “Sorry? I can’t talk too much this morning because my co-worker likes to snitch.” “I have to ask you about these books you keep giving me. That’s twice I had an extremely vivid dream. And I swear you were in both of them.” “That’s crazy,” she whispers. “But take this one, and we can talk about both of them tomorrow.” She takes the book Isaiah brought and hands him another. “Is this about to be another?” “I promise we’ll talk,” she says as she walks to the back of the library. Isaiah, who had already called in sick, goes back to his house with the new book. He contemplates if he should really read it, or just ignore it. He sighs as he picks up the book and opens it. This setting was in ancient Egypt. The descriptions of the city are what really stood out to Isaiah. He would have absolutely loved to see it in all its glory. He closes the book and wonders if maybe he could. He closes his eyes, and just like the day before, he was transferred to a different place. “I have to see the city before this turns crazy.” He says to himself as he opens the door to the splendor of ancient Memphis. “Wow. Amazing!” Isaiah said as he stood in awe. “It really is.” The same figure from the previous dreams said. But this time, Ana’s beauty stood clearly in front of Isaiah. She was dressed like she was from the time period, but it was her. “So are you really here, or are you a figment of my imagination?” Isaiah asks as he was allowed to view her this time. She smiles. “I’ll let you figure that out. But how about we just explore before you determine that.” She offers her hand to Isaiah. He smiles. “Okay. I did say I would take you out.” After what seemed like a few days of exploring, Isaiah woke up. It was a few hours later, but he was still in his house, sitting in the same chair. He had to know if Ana was somehow playing tricks on him, or if books could be that powerful. So he traveled back to the library. When he arrived, he couldn’t find Ana anywhere, but the librarian he saw earlier was still sitting at the desk. “Excuse me, I was wondering if Ana was in?” She looked over her glasses. “Who?” “Ana? She was working earlier.” The lady shook her head. “Oh, Anansi. I thought I saw her walking around here again.” She then looked at the book in Isaiah’s hand. “It looks like you already found her.”

Note from the author: This story contains a few instances of strong language. *** ‘Bloody hell Flint!’ Luthar exclaimed as he stood up in his stirrups, straining to get a better view of the city up ahead. ‘Threftall, capital of Peccothia and the biggest city in all the three kingdoms.’ Flint replied, chuckling at the wonder plastered across Luthar’s face. The white stone it was built from seemed to give out its own light, a stark contrast against the dull grey cliffs behind. Water plummeted from the high ridge, straight down into the city itself, spray falling on the red tiled roofs at the north side of the city. Mighty pointed towers stretched high above the walls, each bearing the red and gold royal standard of Peccothia. As he stared ahead to the enormous city, he felt suddenly very small and insignificant, the capital city of his home was beautiful, yet slightly overpowering. Luthar slumped back into his saddle and rubbed at Stepper’s neck fondly. She’d felt his excitement and was tensing slightly, Luthar marvelled at how she was so in tune with his emotions. ‘It’s ok girl, nearly there now.’ He soothed her back into her gentle stride. ‘Let’s pick up the pace, we’ve wares to sell and gold waits for no man.’ Old Ben’s voice cracked as sharp as the whip he used to drive his horses. He was a good sort, mostly, except for an obvious impatience when there was money to be earned. ‘We’ll be there before night falls; don’t you fret about that!’ Flint called back to him over his shoulder, before directing an ever so slight shake of his head at Luthar. It was at that moment that Edryg galloped to the front of their small column, blasting Luthar with a frown that could melt steel. Since their latest entanglement with the Cult of Lazmurol at the Compass Crossroads, he’d regained his strength and vitality remarkably well. When pushed for an explanation, he’d dismissed their concerns with a wave of his hand, blaming it on some rare magic the fellow had used without his knowing. ‘Someone’s tracking us. I can’t see them, but I know they’re there. Keep a sharp lookout and don’t stop. I’ll head for that rise and see if I can spy whoever they are.’ ‘Right y’are.’ Replied Flint, barely paying any attention. ‘Connell is bringing up the rear, shout him if you need to, and he’ll do the same.’ ‘Ride safe.’ Flint called to Edryg’s back as he set off towards the crest of the hill at a gallop. He then turned to Luthar with a shake of his head. ‘I reckon that old bastard’s mad you know.’ ‘I wouldn’t tell him that, he’d chuck you in some dungeon and you’d never see the light of day again.’ ‘That’s probably fair.’ Flint replied before facing ahead down the road once more. A little way ahead, a small cluster of houses sat a short way off the road, chimneys smoking against the clear blue sky. One such building caught Luthar’s attention, a great mass of sprawling extensions added haphazardly around one central brick tower. The gentle breeze caused a rusted metal sign to squeak slightly as it swayed back and forth, proclaiming the Merchant’s Rest Inn. Luthar’s mouth watered as he licked his lips in anticipation of good food and even better ale. ‘Don’t think we’re stopping there; I’ve got deliveries to make.’ Old Ben piped up as if he’d read Luthar’s thoughts. ‘We won’t stay long, just a taste of ale and a quick bite. Surely as your loyal guards and escort we’ve earned that much at least?’ Luthar gave him his best winning smile over his shoulder, trying to win the old man round. ‘All right, fine. But you’re buying.’ He replied in that harsh voice he had, clearly trying to disguise that saving a few pennies had been his plan all along. Luthar exchanged grins with Flint again, they’d done very well out of this job and Lord Wedderburn had pressed a reward upon them both for agreeing to travel with Edryg and Connell, so buying Old Ben some food and drink wouldn’t leave them short. Even the weather was holding out as they were on the home stretch. Life was definitely looking up. A bird chirped somewhere off to their left as they approached the great inn, it’s song a welcome addition to the cosy nature of the small village. Curious, thought Luthar, nobody seemed to be outside. Where were the traders and travellers, stableboys and smiths? The hamlet took on an eerie feel as a cloud rolled over the sun and cast it into a dreary gloom. Luthar held up his hand for them all to stop, feeling the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Something was wrong. Something zipped through the air, making Luthar flinch as it passed inches from his face. Not a second after, Lucas yelped as he fell back, tugged hard on the reins of his horse, making him rear and dump him flat on his back. More arrows flew over them as Luthar steered Stepper behind the massive wagon where Old Ben had scrambled for cover, an old mace clutched in his knobbly hand. ‘Looks like you’re really earning my money now lad!’ Old Ben had an excited grin on his face, like he’d been yearning for someone to take a chance on his fine possessions. ‘We could’ve done without this.’ Luthar replied as Flint skidded down behind him. ‘Looks like a good dozen of them, Connell’s seeing if he can get around the other side. Shit!’ He sprinted back out to Ed who had a fistful of Lucas’s jacket and was dragging him towards safety. When they’d dragged Lucas under the wagon and torn off his jacket and shirt, they realised he was bleeding profusely from a wound in his shoulder. The arrow hadn’t stuck, so he’d mend, but he was losing a lot of blood. Old Ben shoved Flint aside and wrapped a strip of linen around him as best he could, the deep red blood seeping into the white like spilled wine. ‘I’ll look after him, you do what you need to do.’ He said with his old hands pressing down to stop the bleeding. Luthar drew his sword and strapped his shield to his left arm, realising this could get messy. To his right, he could see Flint had done the same, stony determination had replaced his usual cheery grin. The sound of clashing steel floated over from the buildings; Connell must have engaged them. The two friends exchanged a brief nod, broke cover and sprinted for the nearest men in the confusion. The first man Luthar reached stared in horror as he bore down on him. On an instinct, he tried to block Luthar’s swing with his bow. The black steel cleaved straight through wood and flesh alike, sending him down onto the dirt. Another managed to draw his sword and take a clumsy swing which glanced harmlessly off Luthar’s pauldron and stuck into a rotten wooden pillar of the stable. Luthar took his chance and ran him straight through, his life bleeding away in seconds. He whirled away and only just stopped himself swinging at the familiar face in front of him. ‘Bloody hell Flint!’ He panted as he lowered his sword. ‘I think that’s them all, a couple ran off over the fields that way.’ Flint pointed a lazy thumb over his shoulder as he spoke. ‘Come on, let’s see how Lucas is doing.’ As they rounded the corner of the old stables, a grim scene emerged. The wagon had been reduced to one wheel, leaning dangerously over to one side. A couple of the brutish guards that Old Ben had employed alongside Luthar and Flint lay still in pools of blood. Old Ben himself swung his battered mace haphazardly as the great beast from nights before in the forest advanced on him, pace by steady pace. Connell ran up beside them, panting from the effort with blood running down the front of his usually immaculate armour. ‘What in the hell is that thing?’ He pointed his sword towards the seed of Lazmurol as if he were not quite sure what he was seeing. ‘That’s the seed of Lazmurol. I suggest we go together.’ Flint replied calmly as if the seed hadn’t beaten seven shades of shit out of him a couple of weeks previous. The three of them set off at a run towards the giant. Luthar thought he looked even bigger in the daylight if that was even possible. He caught a swing on his blade, the shock reverberating up his arms as he strained with everything he had to keep that enormous sword away from his face. Flint drove his blade into the trusty gap under the arm, Connell’s found the join at the neck. A blood curdling wail split Luthar’s skull in two as the beast was wounded. A boot found Luthar’s chest, sending him skidding across the dirt, winded. Steel rang against steel as he struggled to his feet and gasped for air. He could see Old Ben was giving it his best, his mace bouncing off ever more dinted and scraped black armour plates. He couldn’t be shown up by an old merchant, so he set off again to bring the fight to the mountain of a man. Luthar’s first blow was swatted away by a plate covered hand, his second only screeched against the chest plate and bounced off. This wasn’t working, he had to think fast. ‘Get them blades in the gaps again and see if you can hold his arms!’ He commanded the three others, an idea quickly forming in his mind. Connell’s blade slipped into the neck joint again. As a giant hand tried to swat him away, he wrapped his other arm around it, holding it under his own armpit. Flint’s sword dashed of the side of the breastplate as he worked patiently for the opening. It came when Old Ben’s mace smashed into the back of the giant’s helmet, stunning him for a brief second. That awful wail came again as the steel slipped and crunched inside. Flint copied Connell and heaved on the mighty arm to try and stop it moving. ‘Whatever you’re doing, do it quick.’ He managed to call out as he wrestled with the flailing limb. Luthar dropped his shield and drew his shorter blade with his left hand. He worked his fingers on the grip, waiting for his opening. As the three men struggled with the giant, they dragged him back, taking him off balance. Luthar spied his chance and thrust his arming sword point first into the gap at the top of the cuisse. One leg kicked violently out as the giant struggled harder, ever more desperate. The group, ever more off balance, sagged backwards and collapsed onto the dirt in a heaving mass. Flint, Connell and Old Ben struggled on top, trying to keep their foe pinned down. Short sword in hand, Luthar dived onto his chest, teeth gritted so hard his jaw screamed in protest. It was like trying to stay on an unruly horse, the giant thrashed like all hell against the four of them. Luthar fumbled with the helmet, trying to find a join to open the faceguard. He found a slight gap and tore at it with all his might. With a grating and slight bending, it came away revealing a face, surprising in only how normal it looked. He was not a young man, but not terribly old, neither dark nor fair. Long brown hair stuck to the beads of sweat on his skin, a close-cropped beard of the latest fashion covered a strong jawline. Before he began to think of this being as human, Luthar slammed the point of his short sword into his soft, fleshy neck, feeling the point scrape against the inside of the steel helmet. His back arched as his mouth opened wide in a noiseless scream. For a second his body was wound tight, like a longbow string moments before it fires the arrow. After a few seconds he lay still, peaceful almost as if he’d not been trying to kill them moments before. The bird called again, oblivious to what had just come to pass at this tiny settlement. They all slowly eased themselves to their feet, groaning as various aches and pains stabbed them once more. Now the Adrenalin had subsided, Luthar’s chest felt like it had caved from the boot he’d taken. His ribs burned like fire with every breath he drew. ‘Luthar.’ Flint’s voice from behind him. ‘What?’ Luthar turned to see what he wanted. Through the village marched a dozen of the giants, all clad in the same black, spiked armour that the seed of Lazmurol had donned. A procession of very dangerous beasts, the thump thump thump of their boots warned they were ready to do some serious damage. Now only twenty yards away, they drew giant black swords in perfect unison, points bobbing up and down as they advanced. ‘Bloody hell Flint!’ Were the only words Luthar could muster as he squeezed the handle of his sword tight in his right hand. It was the finest forged, deadliest weapon for miles around, yet now it felt little more than a letter opener. He bent his knees slightly, ready to counter whatever came at him first. Better to die fighting than give up with a whimper, no matter how high the odds were stacked against you. That gleaming tip was less than ten yards away when an almighty explosion erupted, sending clods of dirt and grass into the air. The world turned upside down as Luthar realised he was weightless, trees, buildings and roads all spun in and out of his vision as he careered through the air. Instinctively he let go of his sword, if he survived the fall he didn’t want to meet his end stabbed with his own blade. The ground rose up to meet him and smashed the wind out of him, far worse than the seed’s boot had done earlier. Spots of colour popped in his vision as the world seemed to spin even faster. The metallic taste of blood seeped into every corner of his mouth. He coughed and red liquid splashed over his mail and down his chin. He lifted his head to try and right himself, but the rest of his body would no longer obey him. Sagging back down, the corners of his vision went dark. It spread like the curtains closing after the final show was done. They met in the middle and Luthar floated away, no longer feeling pain.

The 14th of June 2053 is the day when Clara thought she was going to die. She would cease to be the main character of her own story and would turn into one of those novels that sit in library books gathering dust with no one reading them ever again. Ten years earlier Clara was working a dead-end job which, bit by bit, was being replaced by robots. Working in New York wasn’t all it cracked up to be. Clara grew up on a farm surrounded by plants and animals and she loved it. She won prizes many times at county fairs for her impressive vegetables. Nevertheless, times were changing and Clara couldn’t afford the farm her parents gave her when they passed. With great sorrow, Clara sold the farm and went to the city in search of work. Her savings were dwindling and Clara could barely afford the room she was renting. Losing the place to live and going to the streets was not an option. With the new policy on homelessness introduced in the US in 2045 any person found without the means to support themselves and without a home would be sent off to Alaska to the labour camps for low-skilled humans. No one she knows has ever come back from there. She might have been depressed but certainly not suicidal. One day on her last day of work Clara found an interesting advert sub subway (transportation for the lower classes) which read: Are you unhappy with your life? Are you skilled in any STEM subjects, farming, and Botanics? Do you want to be a hero and do something incredible with your life? If so, visit us on colonizemars.com and join in the mission to reach for the stars. Clara thought it was an odd advert. Yes, there have been talks about colonising Mars since the beginning of the century from what her grandparents told her but she was surprised we finally got to a point where it is possible. She was curious to at least find out a bit more about the project. As she walked back to her flat after getting her last paycheck and going through overdue bills, Clara remembered the advert she saw that very morning and thought that it won’t hurt to take a look. As she was reading she realised that this could be an interesting opportunity. The company paid for any unsettled debts, provided free accommodation, food and she could apply as a botanist having a strong background due to her upbringing. She could do something she loves and gives her life meaning. It was certainly better than being sent off to a labour camp and losing her freedom. She was a single child with no family and she wasn’t particularly sociable either. Clara generally kept to herself so missing people from back on Earth wouldn’t be an issue. It was settled that this is an opportunity she might not get ever again and so the next day she applied. After a series of tests checking her skills, health, and any underlying medical issues Clara was officially accepted for the program. As she later found out it was going to be named project ‘Sunrise’. Amongst the many preparations and training for the one-way journey to Mars Clara had a terrible realisation - there would be no windows anywhere in her new home. The new material, altanium, discovered just ten years ago was the strongest yet lightest material known to men. As such, the need for glass would be costly and potentially fatal. The ship as well as the entire Dome City (or as they liked to call it ‘The arc’) - the new habitation quarters on Mars would be completely closed off. The advancements in virtual reality meant that there would be special rooms where you can select where you want to go and feel like you’re there. That technology is something Clara could never be able to afford. Having a look outside the window and seeing the grim and dirty New York streets she thought she didn't need to see outside and it is not like Mars would be the most exciting place anyway. Clara didn’t remember the journey to Mars as, just like the rest of the teams, they were hibernated for the duration of the flight. She enjoyed her new little flat and she excelled in her job. She realised that although she wasn’t the most sociable person when it comes to small talk she was pretty good at teaching and so the Botanics team was doing great at feeding the teams. As soon as Mars is terraformed Clara would begin the fertilisation and farming process. But as the years went by Clara was starting to get restless. She knew that project ‘Sunrise’ would take years but she didn’t realise how long those ten years would last. She never thought she would say this but she missed real sunrises, the smell of the city, and the sheer reality of being there. The projection room started to feel empty and hollow and didn’t satisfy her anymore. As she was getting her weekly vitamin D light therapy she realised she hasn’t seen sunlight for almost ten years. Suddenly a familiar sound came out of the speakers Low oxygen. I repeat low oxygen. There has been a breach in the dome structure. Return to your rooms and await further instructions. Clara obediently started rushing towards her room thinking it’s the fifth time it happened this month. She has asked for a possibility to install some sort of viewing platform or a window but was met with denial. After all, the low oxygen announcements have been getting more frequent and so even if altanium cannot be relied on fully there was absolutely no way for any other material to be used and jeopardise the mission. Due to the strength of altanium no sound waves could escape its walls. That meant that all communication with Earth was controlled by specialised personnel, the ‘Special Communication Unit’, outside of the dome city. Clara didn’t mind as she made enough friends in the living quarters to keep herself busy. One of those friends was James Anderson. James always intrigued Clara. She wasn’t sure if it was his good looks or enigmatic personality. James was part of the SCU team which generally kept to themselves. Clara was a hopeless romantic but her shy nature often stopped her from pursuing intimate relationships. She liked to walk past James’ room hoping for the courage to express her feelings to him. One night as Clara was walking by she heard James singing and she couldn’t help but to listen in. His voice was quiet and cracking down as though he would burst into tears at any moment. One day we will walk through emerald fields And we will swim through sapphire waters We will fix what went wrong We will dance again, we will continue After a long winter returning birds fly home Ice melts and the world starts anew Can we ever start again You’re no match for any men In a day or two or maybe more Weeks or years I still believe That the world will turn around And the sun will rise for us as long as we exist This caught Clara completely off guard. No one has ever sung her a love song and it was clear to her now that James was still in love with someone. She couldn’t even compete with that kind of love. Her eyes started swelling up and she hurried back to her room before anyone would notice her crying. The next day Clara noticed James sitting on his own and he seemed down. She thought they could still talk even if they were never meant to end up together. As Clara tried to cheer James up he initially seemed to get even sadder. The sadness then unexpectedly turned into anger. He looked at Clara and said ‘You just don’t understand'. Clara was flabbergasted and told James that she understands he is still in love. James stood up in anger and blurted out ‘You don’t get it’. Clara was now getting frustrated as well. ‘Well tell me then what I do not understand?!’ - said Clara. ‘We don’t have much time...we are...we are...we are’ - James looked into the distance as he kept repeating the same words. ‘We are what?! James tell me what is going on at this instant!’ - shouted Clara. ‘We are...running out of oxygen. We’ll be out by Sunday and no one is coming for us’ - said James almost as though he was bored and thinking of something else already. He was still looking into the distance and avoiding Clare’s stare. He turned around and left in a hurry. Clara shouted after him but James didn’t turn around. She didn’t want to cause a scene and ran back to her quarters. She couldn’t believe it. This just didn’t make any sense. Was this not an issue beforehand? Why is no one coming with help? It must be those damned dome structure breaches which ruined the oxygen supply and help wouldn’t get here in time... Everything continued as normal. It seemed that no one knew that anything was wrong yet. Clara withdrew back to her shell and stopped speaking to anyone. She was still in disbelief that all her efforts would go to waste. She wanted to change the world and she will never get a chance to do it now. It was all completely pointless. There was no fate worse than death. The 14th of June 2053 is the day when Clara thought she was going to die. She would cease to be the main character of her own story and would turn into one of those novels that sit in library books gathering dust with no one reading them ever again. Eventually, an announcement came through the speakers late at night for everyone to gather in the dome amphitheater. Clara has never seen all of the terraforming teams gathered all in one place before, it was quite a sight. She knew what was coming and felt grateful she had time to come to terms with dying. Finally, the announcement ended and Clara was so shaken she felt completely frozen. This is not what she expected. ‘Project Sunrise members. We have created Project Sunrise for one reason only - for humanity to endure. We must survive. Thank you for participating in our largest to date self-preservation quarantine project. Over a decade ago we received intelligence that the United Republic of East Asia was working on a biological weapon aimed to reduce their numbers due to overpopulation and lack of resources. The weapon could not be controlled and it started spreading quickly. We have tried everything in our power to protect our people and I’m afraid to say that we have failed. We have failed as human beings and as you are listening to this recording you are the only ones left who were protected from the fatal biological weapon which has wiped out almost all of the human population. Your expertise in terraforming Mars will be used to re-establish humans and our societies. Our knowledge has not been lost. You see through all this time you have been in a secret base on Earth rather than sent to Mars. We...’ As she listened to the announcement Clara was so shaken she felt completely forzen. This is not what she expected. Is that why there were no windows? But what about the flight? Oh yes, they were asleep throughout it.... She was in a strange haze as everyone started walking through the exit. She suddenly felt her hand being grabbed and realised it was James. ‘Why didn’t you tell me the truth!? How could you...’ - cried Clara quietly. ‘Some fates are worse than death Clara. For a long time that is how I felt about ours. Knowing but powerless to do anything. Powerless to help my colleagues. My friends. My family. But I do not anymore. We have a new purpose now’ - said James. They kept walking together quietly with their hands interwoven. Clara was lost for words and still in shock. As they went outside for the first time in ten years, the sun was rising from the East as it has for millions of years. It’s the sight Clara so desperately wanted to see but hoped she would never get to see again. As they stood there together for a while, she heard a faint melody sung by James and smiled when she realised the song’s true meaning. One day we will again walk through emerald fields And we will swim through sapphire waters We will fix what went wrong We will dance again, we will continue After a winter returning birds fly home Ice melts and the world starts anew Please let us start again You’re no match for any men In a day or two or maybe more Weeks or years I still believe That the world will turn around And the sun will rise for us as long as we exist

The bright lights and constant moving seemed to shove a sense of euphoria into the air. Excitement bubbled from every corner. The crowd flowed like wind, dashing from one stand then slowly ambling onto the next. But the crowd was a crowd. Another mere object that hindered my movements. Walking through it was growing exhausting. How long had I been moving forward? It was late, and the new moon in the sky allowed the lanterns and colors to light up the night. I sat on a bench, beside a large tent. Children's squeals of joy sounded from inside. It was a reptile exhibit, though everything else was too loud to allow me to hear any snakes. Across the road--which was emptier now, since a show was going on in the catering section--I watched two faceless children exchange a bill for a bag filled with cotton candy. It was overpriced. Ten dollars for such a small bag. But within the elation of the festival, prices grew irrelevant until the next day, when regret emerged. Cotton candy. How long had it been since I'd ever had any? I stood up, reaching into my empty pockets. The woman beside the cart watched me closely, though I couldn't see her face. She gestured for me to come closer. I insisted that I had no money, but she offered me the bag regardless. As I reached out, I paused. I couldn't allow myself to be swept up in festivities. I needed to find my way back. I shook my head, pulling away. The woman wasn't fond of my decision. She didn't yell, nor did she chase me when I left, but I could feel her unhappiness. Like everyone else, her expression was blank. Her face was blank. Nothing but a slab of solid color. I wondered if I appeared that way to them, too. If they were all so swept up in their own worlds that I was as blank as everyone else. I shook my head. Regardless of what everyone else appeared to be, I needed to get back. I passed a man. He wore a purple suit and a matching top hat. Even without a face, I could feel his plastic grin as he shouted for everyone to gather around. For a moment I wavered, watching with the rest of the people. He conducted a few simple magic tricks that everyone knew how to do. Still, the crown was amazed. Then came the box trick. He needed a volunteer from the crowd. Every magic show was the same. There was nothing special about this one. Nothing new, except for the volunteer. His long arm outstretched in front of him, his index finger the only one left out. It pointed at me. I shook my head, backing away. I'd seen enough. I had other places to be than such a ridiculous magic show. Still, the crowd turned to me. Every face watching, even without eyes. They pushed me forward, towards the stage. I continued to shake my head. They ignored it. And when my feet stood firmly on the wooden stage, I faced the magician. He waved his arms toward the box. So I ignored him. I walked passed him and down the stage, back to the main path. No one stopped me this time. Much like before, their feelings of despondent seeped into the air. I hurried away. How much further would it be? More people watched me as I walked now. Their faceless heads following my every movement. The crowd was no lighter. It seemed to be growing more and more, as if its goal was to waver me. I maneuvered around, taking different paths to avoid the crowd. And at last I had made it. I could see it. The distant parking lot. It was empty, behind a fence with a closed gate. And behind the parking lot, a house. My house. My home. As I ran across the grass--when had I started running?--the crowd grew more desperate to stop me. They grabbed me and shouted at me. They more intensely attempted to offer me food or prizes. I shouted, too. But unlike theirs, my shout was of fear. I pulled away, kicking at anything that tried to root me down. And when I was free, I continued running. They didn't follow me away from the festival. As if the booths and stands marked a border that they could not cross. I looked away from the faceless mob. I wouldn't allow myself to go there again. Over the fence. Across the street. To the house. Finally, I was home. As I grabbed the doorknob, I froze. Why did I want to go home? How did I know this was my home? I had no memories of this place at all. For some reason, it just seemed like the place I needed to be at. Not the festival. I opened the door. And, as if I had opened something within myself as well, a memory returned. A memory of myself, existing in that house. Of myself, cowering in fear beside my bed while my parents weren't home at night. And when they returned, they refused to acknowledge my presence. And I remembered the festival, every year. The only place that I had actually felt happy. Even just standing in front of it, with no money to pay for a ticket. Because it seemed to give off an ambience of excitement. Of happiness. I had watched everyone walk in, focusing more on their feelings than their identities. How many hours had I stood longingly outside the gate, watching the joy of those who entered? And whenever I'd asked my parents to buy me a ticket, they'd yell at me. They'd say we couldn't afford anything like that, even though they left the house every night. I would listen to them. I'd have to. Otherwise, they'd be mad. It's okay, though. I was happy, just watching the festival. Yet, one night, a man had been kind enough to buy me a ticket. He said that they were cheap, and it wasn't a problem at all. I had thanked him genuinely. And, even though I couldn't participate in anything, just walking around that night was amazing. To be within such joyfulness. To stand in its center. A feeling I never wanted to forget. When I returned home, my parents asked where I had been. I told them, and they got mad. They said I shouldn't beg other people to pay for me, and that I wasn't worth paying for. I listened to them. They were usually right, after all. And even when I agreed with them, they were still mad. More mad than usual. It was scary. What happened after that? I can't remember... But why had I wanted to return home so badly, even after being in the festival? I looked beyond the door. The house was normal. The rooms were as they always were. And my parents were gone, as they always were. I was afraid, when they were gone. When they weren't there to protect me. I called for them. There was no answer. But something walked down the stairs. I don't know what it was. I can't describe it. It seemed so unfitting, as if it shouldn't exist. Simply a dark gap, a deleted reality. And it didn't speak, but I could hear it. It was telling me to leave. That I had to leave. It was time, apparently. It wanted me to go with it. But it wasn't a discomforting, ominous call like the people in the festival. It was more welcoming, and I knew it had no malicious intent. When I asked it a question, it turned to look at me, although I wasn't sure if that was its face. "It's time for you to go," was all it answered, and so we went.

Evelyn had always felt like something was off in her life. She had a nagging sense that reality was just out of reach, like she was living in a dream. She thought she was going crazy until the glitches started. At first, they were small. She would catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye that wasn't there when she turned to look. Shadows would stretch and twist in unnatural ways. But as time went on, the glitches became more frequent and intense. Evelyn sat at her desk, staring blankly at her computer screen. It was just another typical day at the office, or so she thought. Suddenly, the cursor on her screen flickered and the image on her screen distorted before her very eyes. She rubbed her eyes, thinking it was just a trick of the light, but when she looked back, the distortion remained. Panic set in as she tried to exit out of the program, but it wouldn't budge. The screen flickered even more violently, and strange symbols and letters she couldn't comprehend appeared on the screen. Suddenly, the computer shut off on its own and the lights in the room flickered, casting eerie shadows on the wall. Evelyn's heart raced as she got up from her desk and tried the light switch, but it wouldn't turn on. The room was plunged into darkness, and she felt a cold hand wrap around her neck. She tried to scream but no sound escaped her lips. Just as suddenly as it had started, the lights flickered back on, and the cold hand vanished. Evelyn stumbled back, gasping for air and feeling disoriented. She looked around the room, but everything was back to normal. She told herself it was just her imagination playing tricks on her, but she couldn't shake the feeling of unease. The rest of the day went by in a haze, and Evelyn couldn't focus on her work. She was constantly looking over her shoulder, feeling like something was watching her. Over the next few days, the glitches continued. Her computer would randomly shut off, objects in the room would move on their own, and she would hear strange noises in the middle of the night. It was as if her reality was starting to unravel, and she couldn't trust what she was seeing or hearing. Evelyn tried to talk to her co-workers about what was happening, but they just looked at her like she was crazy. She started to feel like she was losing her mind. One night, she was lying in bed when she heard a strange sound coming from her closet. She got up and cautiously approached the door, her heart pounding in her chest. She slowly opened the door and was met with a terrifying sight. Her clothes were floating in mid-air, as if they were being held up by an invisible force. She backed away in horror, but the clothes started flying towards her, wrapping themselves around her body like tentacles. She tried to scream, but no sound escaped her lips. Just as suddenly as it had started, the clothes dropped to the floor and everything was back to normal. Evelyn stumbled back, gasping for air and feeling disoriented. She looked around the room, but everything was back to normal. She knew she had to get out of her apartment and get help, so she packed a bag and left in the middle of the night. She stayed at a hotel for a few nights, but the glitches continued to follow her. It was as if something was trying to keep her from leaving. Desperate for answers, Evelyn turned to a paranormal investigator. The investigator told her that she was experiencing glitches in her reality because she had stumbled upon a portal to another dimension. The portal was unstable, and the glitches were a sign that it was starting to unravel. The investigator warned her that if the portal fully unraveled, it would mean the end of her reality as she knew it. Evelyn was horrified, but she also felt a sense of determination to fix the portal and save her reality. With the help of the paranormal investigator, Evelyn discovered that the key to closing the portal was to confront the source of the instability, a powerful entity known as the Glitch. It was said that the Glitch was a manifestation of all the fears and negative emotions in her mind, and it was feeding off of her fear to grow stronger. Evelyn was skeptical at first, but as the glitches became more frequent and intense, she knew she had to face her fears and confront the Glitch. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, steeling herself for the task ahead. She entered a realm of pure darkness and felt the Glitch's presence all around her. It whispered dark thoughts in her ear and tried to manipulate her, but Evelyn stood her ground. She refused to be consumed by fear and instead channeled her inner strength. The Glitch appeared before her in its true form, a being of pure darkness and terror. It towered over her, threatening to consume her, but Evelyn refused to back down. She faced the Glitch head-on and used her courage to break its hold on her mind. As the Glitch was defeated, the portal started to close. The darkness lifted, and the room was flooded with light. Evelyn opened her eyes to find herself back in her apartment, but everything was different. The world was clearer, and the colors were brighter. She felt a sense of peace and calm she had never felt before. She realized that by facing the Glitch and her fears, she had not only saved her reality but had also freed herself from the negative emotions that had been holding her back. The glitches had been a test, and she had passed. From that day on, Evelyn lived life with a newfound sense of purpose and clarity. She no longer felt the fear and uncertainty that had consumed her before. She had faced her fears and had come out the other side a stronger, braver person.

The CDC told us that since there is no cure for this virus. The government told us that we have to kill all of those that are infected. The only way to kill the virus is to kill the carriers. I still feel it gnaw at my insides when I have to strap down strangers and take the most precious gift that any of us have been given. It’s hard to describe the guilt that I feel knowing that I get to live, and they’re doomed to face an early death. A positive test is an immediate death sentence. Our testing has gotten so efficient that we can actually get results almost instantly as to whether someone is infected. My lab actually has the testing strips within it. If someone is suspected of carrying the disease, or if they made contact with someone who had it, they are taken to our lab to be tested. If they test positive, they are killed immediately. Not all of the infected show symptoms of the disease. Rather, some are simply carriers. The carriers still need to be euthanized, though. The government says that we need to contain the outbreak. Those that aren’t just walking carriers die from the virus within a couple days. In those that are just carriers seem to act as a perfect breeding ground for the virus just serve to make it stronger. It’s amazing how many of my coworkers ended up dying from this disease or testing positive in the past few weeks. I walk out of the vacuum sealed room where we put down the infected, and I begin my decontamination phase. A chemical shower, my clothes are then put into the incinerator, and I open up a new package of clothes. I walk back to my living quarters, and collapse on the bed. I think about how tomorrow, and how I have leave to go home. I can’t wait to be able to go home and see my family. I haven’t seen them in several months, as I’ve been set in the quarantine here. I think of my son, living with his mother, and how I didn’t have custody of him anyway. “It’s better for him to have it this way,” she’d say to me in front of Jack, her new husband. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking over the course of my time here about the divorce and the custody battle. I decided that I’ll embrace my ex-wife and her husband as soon as I get out of here. A smile comes across my face. I pulled out a new testing strip and tested myself again. “Negative,” it reads. I reach into my bedside table and pull out the syringe. I inject myself with the serum inside of the syringe. I pulled out another testing strip. “Positive,” it reads. I smile and start to fall asleep as I think about how much I can’t wait to hug my ex wife and her new fucking husband.

⚠️ Murder ⚠️ 1938 I feel my hands on her throat, choking her. I stare into her eyes as she draws her last breath, searching her face for something to recognize, something to set her apart from the women I pass in the streets. My hands let go of her throat and she stiffens before crumpling sideways to the floor, palms pressed together as if praying for the life she has just lost. I move to stand in front of her. If she prays, she will pray to me only. I wake up, the dream-image printed in my head, as it had been last night and the nights before. Each night, the dream gets more vivid. I smile. Soon, maybe as soon as tomorrow night, I will recognize the face of my victim. Soon, I would claim her life, and fill the aching hole in my heart. I've had a nightmare. I can't remember it, but I know it's the same one that I've had for the last few nights, that leaves me shivering all over every time I wake up. I used to think only children had nightmares, and now... I feel like a child again. Since last week it's haunted me, taunting by scaring me every night, then dissolving from my memory as the day comes. I rise from my bed to see sunlight brightening my closed curtains. The clock on my wall says 9:14. The morning routine must be attended to. My pale coat and bowler hat wait patiently for me beside the front door. I dress hurriedly then put them on, opening the door and wincing as full sunlight hits me for the first time today. My quick heartbeat drowns out the morning street noises, the shadow of my nightmare not yet banished. I walk along the streets until I reach my regular café. I'm not a social person, but the smell of sweet cinnamon and coffee that lingers around the entrance is always too good to resist, pulling in casual passers-by like mermaids, to be stuck there until either their money runs out or they fall asleep. I take a last glance around me for the woman of my dreams before being reluctantly pulled in by the beautiful, haunting smells. The waitress at my regular café smiles at me as I walk in and take a seat by the window. She takes my order then disappears, fading through the crowd. When she comes back, she holds a steaming cup of coffee. I thank her and look out of the window as she places it on my table. With each dream, the aching grows. The yearning for power, power over life and death, hurts, but I wouldn't give it up if I could. I've come to love the chains that bind me. I'm watching for something - someone. I was looking for them yesterday and the days before, but I've only just realised it. I wish I knew who I was looking for. I sit and wait for the woman of my dreams to pass, watching the outside world with greedy eyes. Suddenly I catch something from the wrong side of the window that reminds me of my dream, and I bolt through the door in pursuit. - The waitress stared at the door, an upturned chair lying unheeded beside her.The gentleman hadn't paid his bill. - I'm halfway down the street before I realise that I don't know who I'm chasing. The woman of my dreams has disappeared among the crowd. I decide to go home. I've left the café to go back to my house. A letter waits for me outside my front door. I walk inside, take off my hat and coat and sit down to read it. The first sentence tells me who the letter is from. 'Dear Bug,' (I smile at the childish nickname. Since she first saw me, Aunt Maddie has insisted on calling me 'Bug'.) 'A hermit's life can be very trying at times. Your last visit was three months ago, you naughty little scamp. I'm sure you would not want your old aunt to die of loneliness, would you? Yours, Aunt Maddie.' Dear Aunt Maddie. She could never say anything directly. I stare down at the letter. 'Dear... Visit... Aunt Maddie.' I suppose I will have to visit Lady Mirrelton (I have never and will never refer to her as 'Aunt Maddie'. Ridiculous). After all, I'm the sole beneficiary of her will. I must act the part of a devoted adopted nephew. She hasn't got long to live, and at any time she could write me out of her will. She's right about visiting more often. I have nothing to do today; I might as well start now. On goes the hat and coat again, poor worn-out things. Aunt Maddie's estate is only a few minutes walk away. I walk to the Mirrelton estate whistling loudly. Again and again I run my dream through my head, revelling in the feeling of power that it gives me, filling the aching hole with a new, better kind of ache. There's no answer to my knock. Aunt Maddie has never had any indoor servants, despite the size of her house. I open the door myself and walk down the candle-studded hallway to the visiting room. Lady Mirrelton is glad to see me. She smiles, her wrinkles multiplying until her face is just mountains and valleys with two colourless eyes set deep inside. And suddenly I know. Rising from her chair, she comes forward to greet me. I take a step towards her and fasten my hands around her throat before she can react. The scene from my dream is finally replayed in reality, and the thrill that runs through me is better than anything I have ever felt. I have mastered control over the powers of life and death. - A gardener working on the estate froze as a noise like the laugh of death reached his ears. - I stand alone in the middle of the hallway, waiting. Waiting for what? I wish I knew. I'm no longer in control, almost in a trance as I slowly walk to the hall 'phone. My hands reach for it and dial a number. I feel my lips forming words. "My aunt's been strangled." Only after I've hung up do I realise what I've said. Strangled. I said Aunt Maddie's been strangled. A wave of panic rushes through me and I hear my own footsteps running towards Aunt Maddie's visiting room. She's praying. I breath a sigh of relief - and freeze. She's not moving, not making a noise. She's dead, and I don't need to see the marks on her neck to know that she's been strangled. One week later... When the news spread that the famous hermit, Lady Mirrelton, had been murdered, there was a sensation. The local papers published news of nothing else, and the public crowded the estate, the impending war forgotten. I sit on the bed of my cell, legs swinging, reliving The moment. The ache, the new and better ache, still clings to me. The hole in my heart is wider, the pain stronger, darker, and I love it. I chuckle to myself, looking at the guard by my cell door. I can kill him any time I want to. I still can't get over her - her death. It's like a nightmare. The nightmare that has been plaguing me for nights. I finally know who I've been searching for. I know - I know - I know. I am taken to trial, to stand in the dock. The judge's clerk rises. Clerk: You stand charged upon this indictment with the murder of Madeline Gladys Mirrelton on the third day of October. Do you please guilty or not guilty? I: Not guilty. (They are fools to think that they can convict me.) Clerk: Members of the jury, the prisoner stands upon this indictment for the murder of Madeline Gladys Mirrelton on the third day of October. To this indictment he has pleaded not guilty, and it is your charge to say, having heard the evidence, whether he is guilty or not. (He sits.) Someone from the other side of the court clears their throat. A large, slow-looking man takes his place in the witness box. After placing his hand on the Bible and reciting the oath, he announced himself as Detective-Inspector Robert Oake of New Scotland Yard. I can hear the questioning from my place in the backroom where the witnesses wait. Prosecution: Inspector, you say that you and three of your officers arrived at the Mirrelton estate in answer to an phone call reporting a murder. Did you take the call yourself? Inspector: Yes. Prosecution: If you were asked to identify the voice, would you consider yourself sufficiently capable of doing so? Inspector: Yes. I've fallen asleep and missed the first part of my trial. They seem to be still questioning the Inspector. Prosecution: Had it perhaps been a voice familiar to you prior the call? Inspector: No. I had never heard the caller's voice before. (The audience whispers among themselves.) Prosecution: Have you heard it since? Inspector: Yes. Prosecution: Would you please tell the court where? Inspector: In this court, barely minutes ago. Prosecution: Who does the voice belong to? Inspector: The prisoner. (Sensation in court. I start. I don't remember calling the police. Why would I want to?) The Inspector is dismissed. I pass the rest of the trial in a trance, barely conscious of anything. I still haven't figured out who's on trial. Prosecution: Members of the jury, you have heard of the prisoner's current financial state, which made it necessary to borrow money from the deceased, his only living relative. You have heard of how he was invited to visit her by letter and decided to go that very day. You have heard that upon his visit, he professes to have not seen her alive, finding her body after making the 'phone call to the police, an action which he has not attempted to explain. Given the evidence, I am confident that you will find the prisoner justly guilty. The jury retire to their room to decide their verdict. I'm afraid... I'm afraid that if I think at all I'll realise something... Something I don't want to know. "Guilty, my lord." I laugh, and even to my own ears it sounds mad, the voice of Death thwarted. They think I'm scared of death. I welcome death with open arms. There, the ultimate pain awaits me. ******************************************* This story is a re-write of a story I wrote about 4 months ago, my first short story. (You can read the original here: https://blog.reedsy.com/short-story/ulcd58/ I wrote this again (with a definite change in plot) because I wanted to see if my writing had improved in these months. I hope you enjoyed it.

“So, is it true?” Lia’s voice carried to me over my shoulder as I headed out the door of the lecture hall, backpack slung across one shoulder and a half-eaten apple in my hand. Dread filled me as I stopped with my back to her and my mouth full, trying to figure out how to answer. I knew what “it” was, even though Lia hadn’t specified. It was the same “it” as always. It wasn’t that the question itself was so bad, or even the answer. It was that it always led to more questions, the *same* questions, all ending with the one they had really wanted to ask from the start. And *that* was the question I was dreading as she caught up to me, all smiling blue eyes and bouncing red curls. I swallowed the half-chewed apple, feeling it stick uncomfortably in my throat as it went. “Is what true?” I stalled, beginning to walk towards the main door of the building. Lia fell into step beside me and we joined the herd of students moving out to the courtyard. She grinned, a look of excitement on her pretty face. “Is your grandpa really Jack Forrester?” I sighed internally. Truthfully, I had been expecting her to ask for weeks now -- ever since I went over to her apartment to study for our philosophy midterm and found a shelf lined with Grandpa’s albums. He was a local legend and most of my family was very active in the town's musical community so she was bound to find out we were related sooner or later. Not seeing any way to avoid it, I answered her. “Yes, it’s really true.” She immediately began squealing with excitement and I took advantage of the pause to finish my apple. “Ohmygod I have so many questions! You probably don’t know this but he is one of my *favourite* musicians! I have every single one of his albums! It must have been *so amazing* to have such an incredible musical influence ...” Lia trailed off as she took in my expression. She frowned, her mood immediately dampened, and I felt guilty for squashing her excitement. “I’m sorry.” I sighed, tossing my apple core into a trash can as we passed through the first set of doors to outside. “It’s not that I don’t love him or want to talk about him, it’s just ... not that good of a story.” “What does that mean?” Lia watched me curiously as we stepped out into the afternoon sun. The courtyard was bright and open with a large lawn in the centre, ringed with flagstone and dotted with benches and picnic tables. The pack of students exiting the building began to disperse and we followed the crowd, keeping left towards the main bus stop. I contemplated running through all the usual questions with her but decided that I would skip right to the part she really wanted to know. “Grandpa Jack doesn’t play anymore.” She gaped at me, as expected. “Never? Not even just for himself?” I shook my head at her question. “Not even for himself. Don’t get me wrong - he still loves music. He taught my mother and sister how to play and he writes extensively, but he never plays anymore. I’ve only ever heard him in recordings. My mom heard him in-person a few times but she was so young she says it’s hard to remember.” A crease appeared between Lia’s brows as she absorbed my words. “But ... why? He was so talented! They said he was the one of the best to ever play, that his music could make you \*feel\* things like no one else’s. Even the recordings are amazing - I can’t imagine how incredible it would be to hear live. They say he never played the same song twice! To think it hasn’t existed in almost sixty years is ... heart-breaking.” I nodded, sympathizing with her reaction. It was the same response for anyone who had heard Grandpa’s music - there was something about it that *moved* you in such a unique and inexplicable way that it made you immediately hungry for more. Like the sound was a drug, delivering concentrated emotion directly to your soul. To find out that the supply was limited, never to be expanded or renewed, brought a sense of desperate loss to most of his fans. It was probably why the legend of *The Tapes* had remained such a stubborn presence in the history of my grandfather’s musical career. Hell, even I had felt the same way once, before I had asked him myself and seen the pain in his eyes. “I don’t really know. No one does. My mom says it’s heartbreak - after his wife died, the part of him that made that music died too. My uncle says it was just the stress of raising two kids alone while still mourning. That he just didn’t have time and eventually he lost the taste for it.” I shrugged, head down as I dug in my pocket for my bus pass. I felt a twinge of sadness as I thought about how my grandfather must have felt after receiving the news that his wife had been killed in a fatal car accident, leaving him the single father of a six-year old daughter and a two-year old son. “What do you think?” Lia’s voice was soft, her expression curious. I thought back to when I was nine; watching Grandpa lean over Lyric, helping to place her tiny fingers on the piano keys. *My sister’s legs swung from the bench, sparkly blue shoes catching the sunlight. I sat on the couch opposite them, a juice box in one hand and a dark green pencil in the other.* *Unlike my mother and sister, I had no interest in music. I took more after my father and preferred to draw rather than play. After months of torturous music lessons in my grandfather’s study, he had finally sat my mom down and told her that one musical child was enough. I was released from the hated lessons and now I got to eat snacks and draw instead of suffering through scales and songs.* *“Grandpa, why don’t you play piano anymore?” I regretted the question immediately as I watched a flicker of pain pass over Grandpa’s face. He was silent for a moment, seeming to consider my question. Lyric and I were quiet too, waiting for him to speak.* *“I loved playing very much. But it took me away from things and it took things away from me. When your Grandma died, I realized that it took too much. So now I teach. I pass on my knowledge so that something pure and new can be born. Now I give something without losing something.”* I blinked and turned my eyes back to Lia, standing next to me under the shelter. The bus stop was crowded; students pushing against each other to get into already-packed buses, the smell of exhaust heavy in the air. I shrugged and she leaned in to hear me over the cacophony of the platform. “I think that after his wife died, he decided to go in a different direction. We don’t push him on it out of respect, but I can guarantee you there’s no secret tapes. No extra recordings or unreleased songs. If you want to hear his music, it’s going to be through other people.” Lia’s disappointment was palpable as I destroyed the last of her hopes in the rumours that circulated online. *The Secret Tapes of Jack Forrester* was a cult legend that insisted my grandfather had continued recording music all these years but no longer released it to the public. It was the most long-lived, but far from the only rumour about him. Some believed he had never really played to begin with and the refusal was just a way to protect his scam. Others swore he had sold his soul to the Devil to learn how to play and had stopped to keep the beast at bay. That was the problem with a local musical icon suddenly and mysteriously vowing never to play again - people talked until gossip became legend. And now in the age of the internet, they shared their crazy theory online. I sighed, running my hand through my hair as I looked down at Lia. “Look, I’m sorry to dash your hopes like that. But the truth is that despite what you may have read online, he’s just a sweet old man who likes to teach music and leave the past where it lies. He used to be Jack Forrester but that was a long time ago. Now he’s just a composer and a grandpa of three.” I smiled ruefully at her and she returned it, though it was nowhere near as bright as when we began our walk. “It’s okay, I probably shouldn’t have jumped down your throat like that. I was just so excited! I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable or sad.” I brushed off her apology with a wave of my hand, a light flush spreading across my cheeks. She smiled at me then leaned out of the shelter, scanning the line of buses pulling in. “Well that’s me - number 77. I’ll see you tomorrow?” I nodded and offered her a wave as she pushed out of the shelter. Elbowing her way across the platform, she scrambled up into the bus just as the doors shut. I stared out into the road long after it pulled away, my mind on my grandfather and his infamous past. I was so distracted that I missed my bus pulling into the station and had to run and flag them down before they left without me. Panting slightly, I picked a seat in the middle of bus and dropped down next to the window, backpack flopped across my lap. The bus ride home was uneventful and fifteen minutes later I was walking into the kitchen of my grandfather’s house. The narrow two-storey had stood there for almost a hundred years and my grandfather had been there for more than half of them. Even though my mother lived twenty minutes away and visited three times a week, she worried about Grandpa being alone in the house. So, after my acceptance to our local college I had moved in with him. I hadn’t complained - Grandpa’s house was way closer to school and far quieter. Plus, I loved him. As the only male grandchild in the family, Grandpa and I had always shared a special bond. I was as happy to be there as he was to have me. “Grandpa, I’m home!” I called out as I dropped my backpack down on the kitchen table. Grandpa’s steaming mug sat at his favorite spot, completely forgotten and rapidly cooling. I grinned and rolled my eyes, grabbing the drink and heading down to his music room, where I knew he would be. He stood with his back to the door, rifling through an ancient music book. Its pages were yellowed with age and wear, infused with years of loving use. He hummed softly under his breath; the closest he ever came to singing nowadays. He looked up when he heard me knock against the door frame, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Coda! I didn’t hear you come in. How was class?” He beamed at me from across the study and motioned for me to give him his mug. I rolled my eyes again and laughed, handing it over to him. He was always leaving his coffee cup in strange places. I would have worried if it hadn’t been happening for as long as I could remember. Relaxing, I dropped down onto the weathered couch and lost myself in the familiar safety of Grandpa’s house. \~\~\~ A few weeks later I woke up thirsty and too hot, my clothes sticking to me uncomfortably. It was dark out and a quick glance at my phone confirmed it was 1 AM. I needed water desperately - like I’d eaten a whole bag of chips in my sleep. Happy to feel the cool air on my skin, I kicked off the covers and stood up unsteadily, lumbering towards the hall. I opened my bedroom door and turned right, headed down the narrow staircase. The house was dark and still. I had heard Grandpa go to bed when I still studying and knew he wouldn’t be up for hours. It was around the bottom step when I suddenly heard it. A soft, gentle sound with a distinct melody. I stopped in my tracks, thirst forgotten, and focused all my attention on listening. After a moment I realized it was a piano - coming from Grandpa’s music room. In disbelief, I began to walk towards the sound. It was no song I had ever heard before and it was *beautiful.* As I got closer and the song became clearer, I felt a warmness within and my heart was filled with calm. The song made me think of the beach and I felt as relaxed as if I’d sat next to the ocean all day. By the time I got to the doorway, I swore I could feel sand under my feet, a soft breeze on my face. That’s when I saw the impossible - Grandpa, sitting at his piano in the dimly lit room. His eyes were closed and an expression of bittersweet joy painted his face. He swayed in time with the music, his fingers hitting the keys without hesitation despite years of disuse. This close to the music, to its source, my mind was filled with thoughts of a sunset on a tropical beach, the wind warm and the air salty. It felt strangely familiar to me, like a place I had been to with my family when I was twelve. We had visited Mexico for a family reunion and had stood on the beach to watch the sunset together the first night we arrived. The music reminded me of that memory, filling me with love and warmth even as I stared at my grandfather in shock. This wasn’t one of his old songs - this was something new, something I had never heard before. Something *no one* had ever heard before. As the final notes of the song drifted off into the night, I stood rooted to the spot, unable to speak. Grandpa opened his eyes and his gaze found mine. He didn’t seem surprised or embarrassed to see me. He simply watched me with an unreadable expression in his ancient eyes. At length, he sighed and motioned me into the room as he had a thousand times before. “Come in Coda, we need to talk.” My movements felt stiff and jerky as I came to sit on the couch across from the piano, in the same spot I always chose. As I had every time before, I ran my hand over the worn cloth, feeling the softness under my palm. It brought back memories of years past, replaying in my mind as I waited to hear what he would say. Grandpa stared down at the piano keys, his fingers brushing the smooth surface as gently as you’d stroke a beloved pet. His face was etched with sadness, his eyes lost to the past. For a moment I wasn’t sure he would say anything but then he spoke. “Do you remember when you were a kid, how I told you that playing music took something from me?” I nodded, the echo of his voice whispering to me from long ago. He sighed. “Well I meant that literally. Sixty-two years ago, I was a young man with a pregnant wife, no steady job, barely making ends meet. I could play music but while I was good, I had no prospects. I was playing gigs every night I could. I had the soul, the desire, but lacked that crucial last step between “good” and “great”. I wanted to provide for your grandmother and our unborn daughter, your mother, but we could barely afford food as it was, let alone with another mouth to feed. I was desperate and sad, filled with a crushing despair that I was failing the ones I loved most.” Grandpa sighed again, running his hand over what was left of his hair. He took a sip from a tumbler I hadn’t noticed before; crystal filled with amber liquid. Another unusual move - Grandpa didn’t drink anymore. He said it reminded him of bad decisions from long ago. “I was drinking. Trying to numb the panic, the choking desperation, the pressure of failure that accompanied my every waking moment. One night, after a particularly nasty fight with your grandma, I took a walk down by the river and found myself following an old road. It was overgrown and hidden behind shrubbery, almost fully reclaimed by nature. I don’t know how long I walked but suddenly I became aware that it was quiet. Too quiet - the way it gets when a predator passes by. When all of nature holds it breath and waits for the scary thing to go away ... and then I saw him. Leaning against a fence at the crossroads, smoking a cigarette. He was handsome, though its hard to recall his face. In the moment it was clear but the memory has always been ... hazy. His eyes though - those have haunted me since that night. They were a deep red-orange that I knew was inhuman the moment I saw it.” Another pause, another sip of whiskey as Grandpa collected his thoughts. Mine, on the other hand, were scattered beyond collection. What was he saying? The setup was too perfect - a tale as old as time. Was he trying to tell me the legend really was true? When had his mental health taken such a sudden turn? “I know what you’re thinking.” He said, his fingers idly playing notes on the piano. “You think I’m senile now, that I’m confused about the past ... but it’s the truth.” His eyes raised to mine, steady and lucid as I’d ever seen them. “I made a deal with the devil - though I knew it was a mistake even as I made it.” Grandpa’s confession hung in the air as I grasped futilely for something to say. “So... what? The stories are true? You sold your soul for fame?” I laughed weakly, hoping to hear him say something, *anything*, that made sense. To my relief, he shook his head. It was short-lived though, as he corrected me. “Not my soul. Something infinitely more precious and utterly irreplaceable. He said as much when he made me the offer. He promised my soul would remain intact, and that I would live to see myself successful, my wife and daughter cared for, and a son to carry on my name. And in exchange ... something that I would not miss. Something of my choosing, precious and irreplaceable, but infinite in source.” An aura of bitter regret filled the air around him as he recounted the devil’s offer. “I knew it was too good to be true, but I was drunk and desperate and more than half-mad and I ... said yes. The next thing I knew, I was in my own bed. Your grandma woke me up with coffee and a message from the most prestigious club in town, inviting me to play that evening. I accepted of course, though I was filled with fear that I would fail. I didn’t feel any different since the deal had been struck and I had myself convinced it had all been a dream.” Grandpa’s head lifted, his eyes distant as he remembered that night long ago. There was an almost wistful look on his face now, though it was still tinged with the sadness that suffused the room. “But it wasn’t a dream and when I sat down that night to play, I looked out into the crowd and saw a woman with eyes like those of my first love. And in that moment, as I remembered all the heartbreak that gaze had brought me, I felt a song growing in my soul. Though I had never written anything down, never composed the melody, never penned the words, I began to play. And as I did, I felt those memories of that first heartbreak flowing through me, becoming the music in a way I had always strived for but could never reach before. I felt her presence enter the room, brought to life through the keys of the piano, the tenor of my voice. So vibrant, so alive, so *real*. And as those last notes faded away, the memory of her did too. I felt our last moments together slipping away, taking with it the heartbreak that had been so palpable only moments ago. It was only then that I understood the price of the devil’s bargain. I could finally play the way I wanted to - to make people *feel* with my art the way I had always ached to - but at the price of the memory that birthed the music.” Grandpa lifted his whiskey to his lips as an expression of self-loathing crossed his wizened features. “But Lord, the applause was thunderous and the recognition was instant - from that night on, I never struggled to pay the bills again. I turned down more gigs than I’d ever dreamed of. And like a fool, I convinced myself I didn’t need those memories anyway. After all, what was the memory of an old flame in exchange for greatness?” He laughed bitterly, chasing it with another swallow of whiskey. I sat frozen on the couch, wanting to deny his story but already half-convinced. Having heard his music in person, it held a ring of truth that couldn’t be denied. He looked up at me and smiled sadly. “You’ve felt it, you know it’s true. That song I was just playing - it was the family trip to Mexico. That sunset on the first night, you remember. The effect is even stronger when you share the memories too.” I was speechless, unable to make a single sound. But Grandpa either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He went on with his story, as if now that he had begun to tell it, he could not stop. “I had to make some adjustments to my act of course. I never played the same songs twice, I did more recordings and fewer live performances. But the restrictions only added to my appeal, my intrigue. People lapped it up and my “eccentricities” became associated with my “genius” and my fame grew and grew. Just like the devil had said, I was able to provide for your grandmother and mother. But my art was a greedy mistress. My memories were many, but the ones I was willing to lose were a much smaller number. I knew that even careful use couldn’t sustain my music forever. Slowly, I lost all of my past flames, my old loves and heartbreaks. My childhood memories - first kisses and sneaking out to meet girlfriends. Fights and friendships lost, guilt for mistakes long past - all of it went into my music. Drained from me, lost to me; only the emotion of the memory left behind as a song. Over time I got better at using them, at drawing the sentiment out and wringing the memory dry so I could make the most of what I was sacrificing. Even still, by the time your grandma got pregnant with your uncle I had nothing left - only memories I wanted to keep. But there was another life on the way, relying on me, and I couldn’t walk away ... so I started chipping away at those memories too.” He shook his head and I caught the gleam of unshed tears in his eyes. “At first it was small things - doing the shopping with her, our morning coffee, stupid fights over nothing at all. Things that seemed replaceable or better off forgotten anyway. But eventually, more important memories began to creep in. Birthdays, dinners with friends or family members. I’ll keep the really important ones, I thought. After all, you want to remember your first kiss, maybe even your second or third, but do you really need the thirtieth? Do you need the fourteenth date you went on? Or the one dinner you had with your wife’s second cousin? Slowly, I began to forget things - things that your grandma remembered.” He paused to take a sip of his drink, staring down into the liquid pensively. I was quiet, held prisoner by his tale. After a moment he spoke again, his voice rough with emotion. “I was drinking heavily by then. The stress of the curse, my family, my fame - it was all so overwhelming. And when I drank, I wasn’t so careful with my precious memories ... it’s hard to learn from mistakes you don’t remember. In a way, it’s worse. I wonder what memories I may have drained away in my reckless, inebriated state. But I’ll never know - they are forever lost to me.” His sadness was a tangible presence in the air and I felt choked by it, my throat tight with sorrow to see someone I loved in so much pain. “Your grandma, she was worried about me. I had never been able to bring myself to tell her about the deal and I fought her on seeing doctors and resting more. We would argue before performances and I would leave, angry and anxious. Straight to the bar, to drink and play those memories away. A vicious, bitter cycle. And then one morning I was woken up by banging on the front door. I stumbled down still half-drunk, yelling at them to quiet down .... it was the police. They had come to tell me that your grandma had been in an accident. She was stopped in her car and someone hit her from behind, going far too fast. She was thrown free of the driver’s seat, right through the windshield - no seat belts back then. She died on impact. Massive head trauma, they told me. At least it was quick. Just like that, the woman I loved was gone. And I had traded away most of my memories of her.” Grandpa was crying freely now, tears rolling down his face to land on the ivory of the piano, in the amber of his whiskey. “I vowed that day that I would never play again. The price was too high, my memories too precious. Like a miser, I have hoarded them all these years, refusing to use my “gift” and wishing desperately that I had been a smarter man in my youth. But now ... I am ready to play again.” “What changed your mind?” The sound of my own voice, strangled with sadness, seemed too loud in the quiet of the room. After the story he had just told me, I couldn’t shake the terrible feeling that I knew what he would say. Grandpa’s gaze met mine, sadness and love radiating from the watery depths. “I’m dying, Coda. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week or next month, but soon. I am old and I have lived a long, full life. Now it is almost over and I want to share it with people like I did long ago, before I’m too far gone to play anymore.” I tried to protest, to tell him that he had many good years left. He waved me off, clearly in no mood for my objections. “That brings me to the reason for this talk - I want you to help me. I want to record my songs, my memories. Help me distribute them, share them with people. I don’t know how much time I have but I want to make it count.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. Tears streaked my face as I absorbed my grandfather’s request. “But ... will you forget me? Or Lyric or Mom?” My voice shook, tears salty in my mouth. “No, never!” Grandpa’s voice was sharp and I drew back in surprise. His face softened and he added “I will keep those memories safe. Those are just for me, to carry me to the Lord. But I have a lifetime of experience to share and a gift that has been a curse for far too long.” I was silent as I sat and processed what he was saying, the task he was asking of me. And I knew that I could never refuse. It was his dying wish and after hearing his story, kept secret for all these years, it was clear that he needed it. Wiping my tears away on my sleeve, I nodded to him. “Ok Grandpa, I’ll help you. I would be honoured to.” \~\~\~ The last few months of Jack Forrester’s life were spent in his home with his family. A few nights every week, we would go to his music room and record his songs, each one unique and perfect on the first try. I had tried to convince him to go to a studio but he insisted he would play in his room, in his house - “where the memories lived”. So, we invested in some fairly high-end recording equipment and barely a week after his late-night confession, he was playing once again. I sat with him through it all, experiencing memories that spanned the range of human emotion - the product of a life well-lived. Anger, joy, love, fear, wonder, grief - all of it went into the music and away from the man who had spawned it. It is hard to explain how valuable it was for me to soak up that lifetime of knowledge, to hear and experience his memories. I learned more from those last few months than any education could ever give me. As the memories left him, so too did the vibrancy and vitality his form had once held. What he had said was true - he was dying. But he kept his promise and even at the very end, he held my hand and called me by name. And in his eyes, I saw the same love and familiarity that had always been there. Now, he has been gone for months and at last, I have completed his final wish. All his memories, recorded and uploaded where people will be able to hear them. The emotions of a lifetime, free to experience. That is why I have written this story - to spread the word. *The Secret Tapes of Jack Forrester* are real, and he would want you to listen to them. \~\~\~ This story is my personal property and I do not consent for it to be shared, duplicated or used in any manner without my express permission.

A cat has been born. Its frail cries came from behind the dumpster, only noticeable to those who managed to pierce through the city’s cacophony - so, naturally, no one would ever hear them, for the loud traffic and the small talk of strangers had long become background noise, the sort one’s brain is programmed to ignore as a safety measure to keep one’s sanity intact. People passed by on their way to underpaid office jobs. Street vendors shouted out the price of counterfeit sunglasses. Parents screamed at their disobedient toddlers. Buses honked at cars attempting to cut them off. Businesses went on as usual. This newborn’s whispered pleas didn’t stand a chance, indeed. There wouldn’t be a rescue party. One can only imagine what would happen if someone stumbled upon it. This person would most likely be repulsed by such an ugly creature. Its eyes were still closed. Its short paws could barely reach the ground. Its precarious body was just partially covered by thin fur of uncertain color. Yes, it was ugly. But it was alive - defiantly alive, with no mother around, no blanket to lie on, no notion of warmth, comfort, and nurture. This person might be moved by a sense of pity or compassion, but those feelings would soon turn into something different: admiration. Respect for this poor soul’s struggle to stick around - a pathetic struggle, sure, yet even more heroic for its futility. For this tiny being, the world had been limited to that sidewalk’s rough concrete, to the smell of rotten food and dirty diapers in trash bags, to the menacing sounds of heavy machines and overstressed citizens. Why fight to stay? Why was it so determined to get a shot in life? And, most importantly, how did it know to hope for more? For an act of kindness, for someone to come, for someone to care. This person wouldn’t understand it, but those were the kinds of questions didn’t need an answer to hit deep; they were powerful precisely because they were doomed to remain a mystery. This person would tell all strangers nearby that a cat had been born. A crowd would gather around the dumpster and stare at this ugly form. They, too, would feel repulse, and then pity, and then admiration. They would want others to share the same profound experience. They would stop traffic. Drivers would leave their cars. Commuters, for once, wouldn’t mind being late to work. Tedium, indifference, and rage would become a distant memory, for there was a cat, and it was alive. \* The cat let out its final cry twenty-one minutes before the garbage collectors, who were over an hour behind schedule due to a mechanical problem with their truck, finally got to that dumpster. They were the first to lay eyes on this ugly creature, but it was lifeless now, so all the workers felt was repulse. Maybe some of them could feel a hint of pity on a normal day, if they weren't running late and had a few seconds to spare. But it would be impossible for them - for anyone, really - to reach a state of admiration. The cat couldn't plead anymore. It couldn’t hope for salvation, it couldn't show its instinctive faith in the human spirit. The garbage truck went on its route. Moments later, the police came for the sunglass vendor. A heated discussion followed after the officers decided to confiscate the merchandise. A distracted motorist, entertained by the public commotion, crashed into the bumper of a Minivan. There was shouting, and kids crying, and some more shouting. The noise one grows so accustomed to that nobody can say when a cat has been born.

Space travel seemed so simple after we settled on mars. We thought we had it all figured out after setting a space station in orbit around Jupiter, and started mining asteroids. It all seemed to click. It became common for intersystem travel to become a seemingly daily thing. By no means was it fast; It still took almost a month to get to mars, and close to 4 to reach the Jupiter stations, but we were just happy to have been able to make these technological advances in our lifetime. To be able to explore our system just like our ancestors explored the earth. It may have took us the same amount of time to cross the expanse between planets as it did for European settlers to cross the Atlantic, but that's and amazing feat nonetheless. Not only have we made such a leap technology, but as a society, we are more advanced than ever before. Countries had come together in the name of Earth to conquer the expanse as one group; as Humankind. We may still have our differences on earth, but outside of the atmosphere of Earth, we weren't distracted by race, religion, political views, upbringing, or anything of that nature, because there is none of that in space. Nobody can draw a line in the sand on Mars and claim one side, because no matter how advanced we get, no matter how hospitable we make space, it's a constant battle against the odds. Making divisions in human settlers only leads to the failure of the group, as we experienced the first time we settled mars. It is through our ingenuity and hardiness that we had made it this far as a species. Coming together as a group and thinking our way into the future that we had made it this far. It is through our desire to explore that we had made our decision to attempt to travel outside our home system. Through years of observation, we found our ticket to discovery. We had uncovered a Wormhole of sorts sitting just beyond our solar system, right in front of the Oort Cloud, and just behind Pluto. That was our ticket. We had sent a probe through it before, about 16 months back, 2 months after its discovery, and within a month after it crossed the threshold of the spacial rift, we had received radio transmissions from the probe coming from a nearby system with hospitable planets. We were overjoyed. The chance to settle outside the system, to make a new colony on a planet that we didn't even have a name for. It was a breakthrough. After another successful probe test to ensure that the target planet was hospitable for a colony, we set the wheels in motion to get an expeditionary team of 50 people to begin the setup of what would soon be the greatest jump in human history. After some testing and another probe or two, the spaceship "Small Step" had set off with its pre settlement crew. They had reached the edge of the wormhole, and begun playing the most famous recording in the history of space travel, and the origin of their namesake. They passed through the threshold of the fold on space and it was as if they had been erased from the universe. They just popped out of existence. A month later, the other end of their message was received, and indeed it was a giant leap for mankind. Upon hearing the news from the Small Step, we had learned many things about the planet. Its atmosphere was much like our own, the now dubbed colony planet "Horizon" had a small ring and 4 moons, the system had 13 planets, and most of them were rocky. All of this information had us on the edge of our seats waiting to get a new settlement ship running. And that we did. Over a year after the initial discovery of the Trans-System Wormhole, we were ready to send a ship of 10,000 volunteers into the rift and begin our new lives on Horizon. The Settlement Ship "Giant Leap" made its way through the threshold of the wormhole, just as many spacecraft before it had, and the mission was underway. But something was different this time. Nobody could have predicted it. Nobody even knew it was possible. The wormhole had closed before we could reach the other side. I'm documenting this in case... well... a miracle I guess... We've been in here for 4 Earth months. The Navigator killed herself last week in her bunk room. Used a pocket knife to cut open her forearms. The rest of the bridge crew were understandably effected, but nobody blamed her. We all think about it now. We have no reason not to. I guess its a hope for the rift to open again. Maybe some of us think this is some dream, and we can't seem to wake up... I don't know... The Capitan isn't sure if he wants to wake up the passengers and let them know what's happened, or just shit down life support to the passengers and let them die happy. We are all leaning towards the second option. Humanity wasn't prepared for this. We weren't prepared at all... We weren't ready to face the possibility of a disaster. Nobody was ready... I know I wasn't ready. I especially wasn't ready to look out the bridge windows at my new reality. The pitch black, starless, infinite void of my new reality...

For the longest time, my life was not fun anymore. God knows I tried, and believe me, I did ask Him. In return, He confirmed that I had given life all I could, but still, I lost almost all relevance I once had in this world. For a very long time, I lived in that kind of house that every mortal soul would try to avoid. You know the type, broken windows, squeaking doors, an old tree in front of it with huge sweeping branches. The wind howling through the cracks in the walls as if the yeti himself was living there. Whether it was winter or summer, old leaves would be flying around, a single broken streetlamp decorating the sidewalk. You’d think people would be afraid to enter this kind of ruin, that they’d be scared because they thought I would be waiting for them. Of course, I would be, but you’d better think twice if you believe that will scare anybody off in this day and age. People don’t believe in the likes of me anymore. It was hard at first, that is true, and for a long time, I had forbidden myself to believe it, trying to ignore that cold reality that my time was over, but I have come to accept there is no way around it anymore. I just do not exist in their world. Period. They come, their phones held upright, ready to film whatever I might do without giving me any credit for it. A window that closes because I slam it shut, they film it and think it was the wind. Every creak, every shifting object within this house, they claim as the work of mother nature. An abandoned chair with three legs falling over, they record every damn little detail, but still, it is not me that caused this. It is the missing leg and gravity that did it. It’s NOT! Some weeks ago, a couple of them even got mad because I did not wait long enough for their cameras to focus. ‘What kind of ghost are you?’ they shouted and laughed. ‘How on earth can you expect us to make a perfect TikTok video if you just don’t wait for us to be ready before you do whatever you want.’ For a moment, I was completely startled by their reaction. I froze. I did not know I still could do that. That thought froze me again. It had been a while since I last experienced that state of immobility that prohibited my body from moving. Nowadays, those very feelings make me smile, but back then, I had no urge to put something that used to resemble a smile on whatever remains of that once good-looking face. And I was pretty handsome. Sorry to say it myself, but no one else is around anymore to confirm this. When I finally recovered from my state of paralysis, I had a closer look at the couple that had entered that house. They did not look afraid at all. A GoPro in one hand, the man holding the latest iPhone in the other, the woman holding the most fancy Samsung, equipped with cameras I had never seen before. Multiple lenses pointing at me, it gave me the shivers. They both had that look in their eyes that I have never come to terms with. Not in my former life, not since I have moved to the other side and people come and visit me less often, but still, I’m pretty allergic to that kind of people. You have seen the type. They know everything. Just every single thing. They rule the world. At least, that is what they think they do. Most importantly, they don’t believe in anything they have not invented themselves or for which they have not found any proof in the pool of information they consider to be the truth. And nothing but the truth. I don’t exist; I’m not there. They say. They honestly believe. Whatever happens in this house is the consequence of a natural action. Action and reaction. Newton’s law. Plain physics. That is what they believe. It makes their remark that I had to wait for them to get their cameras out a bit strange, but I have learned that there is no logic in this kind of people anymore, having lost every connection with the real world. They will say whatever fits their reason. No need to be ... well, logic. That makes it very hard for me. Because I’m not to be explained by any law of physics. I’m ... No, later. As I was saying, we were in one of the almost destroyed rooms, where I had done my best to convince them that it was high time to be scared, but to no avail. So, I decided it was time for something new. Next-level shit, as some people like to say. I don’t say that. I never did. Not back then, not now. I don’t believe in swear words. I was brought up to be nice to everyone. That’s how I always lived, but now I have decided that this does not apply anymore to those who came to visit me. So I took a deep breath or something that came the closest to that physical action I used to perform on a somewhat regular basis, and stepped in front of them. I have been quite reluctant to show myself in the form and shape that these days is mine, but they gave me no choice, the anger coursing through me taking hold. You must know, anger has become a rare emotion since this house has become my home, all the more reason why it hurt. I am not supposed to become angry anymore. I have earned my rest and peace. I am not supposed to be bugged so much by those infidels who think they can barge in and ruin my peace of mind. So, I stepped in front of them and did what I had been practicing for a long time but had not shared with any living soul yet. I showed myself. For a moment the man and the woman stood still in the middle of the room. For a very brief period, something that - at least that is how it looked in my mind - came close to being scared was visible on their faces. Their breathing stopped. A sensation I vaguely remember. But then they restarted gasping for air. A good fortune I was never granted, but I have come to terms with that. They beamed with joy and excitement, a sight only further fuelling my anger. ‘This is it! We have found one. Yes, they are real! Told you so!’ he shouted. ‘Film it. Film it!’ What? It? Why do they refer to me as ‘it’? I’m not an it! I’m not that character from Stephen King! That is a whole other level of what is roaming around these places, and I don’t like those types. They are not nice. And when I say not nice, I mean really not nice. Once I saw an it-like type, it gave me shivers. I ran as quickly as I could. It was not exactly running I did, but you know what I mean. But back to the story at hand. So they were thrilled to their ... I don’t know what. They were laughing and clapping their hand with joy. Like little children, only they were old. Not as old as I am, but way past childish behaviour. They kept on going until suddenly they stopped. As if they had agreed to laugh for two minutes and then had to start doing something else. By that time, I regretted so much I had shown myself to them, but I did not think of disappearing again. At least not yet. They stopped laughing, and before I could even say boo, they had pointed all of their devices at me. When I was still roaming around on the floors of this world, the cameras I knew could never make any clear picture of the likes of me. What evolution they have made! I could see myself on the screens when I flew around the place; it scared me. That was not what I wanted to do. My plan completely backfired. I know I said earlier that I used to be quite good-looking, but the image I saw on their tiny screens did not make me happy or impress me with its beauty. That was not the worst of it, however. I’m beyond being vain and feeling the need to worry about my looks, but what did bring quite some discomfort to my mind was that they still were not scared of me. At all. They could not care less that some white, transparent ... thing was floating around above their heads. And I did try to make my way around their stupid heads multiple times, but it had zero effect. They laughed and filmed. I floated around until I could not take it anymore. I was exhausted and hid myself from them. And you know what? They did not even notice! They were doing things on their devices, tapping on the screen, writing, and drawing. I heard them shouting that this was the best TikTok they had ever made. What the ... is TikTok? They laughed this reel would bring them thousands of views and make them famous. I have no idea what a reel is, nor who would be viewing them. I only know by now that many people did get to see me in some form and that this news spread far too fast and wide. As said before, I’m not that vain anymore, but to be honest and without feeling the need to take any or too much credit for this, how could they say this without giving me any recognition for it? They weren’t even interested in me anymore. I just sat there, watching them, looking overly excited as I had never seen any soul in my entire existence. Look, I don’t want to be childish about any of this, but still, that is not the worst. I know it is my fault, I should have known better than to show myself to this kind of people, but now the house I have lived in for ... I think over a hundred years, is not mine anymore. It is constantly swamped with others who want to see me. It is haunted by men and women who want to experience firsthand what it feels like to see a ghost come to life. Once or twice I have been tempted to do it again when some mortals who seemed okay came by and patiently waited. Especially when they genuinely looked scared. Those rare times, I wanted to go out in the open again for a moment. But then I thought to myself: don’t do this. They will film you like the others did, like those two zombies that started all this! Then, it will only get worse. Then, this house will be haunted forever, there will be no place for me anymore; only mortals will occupy every single spot. No. It is over for me. I give up. I have to stop; I want to retire, although I do not know how. I did ask Him one of the last times we met. He just shrugged and smiled. He silently looked at me for a long time, and then, with a voice that was filled with pain, He said: ‘Now you know how I feel.’ I did not understand; I asked Him what He meant. He sighed and pointed over His shoulder to a man sitting in the chair to the right of His throne. ‘Once I showed myself to those people, not in person but through my son, and now those humans keep on haunting me and want to see me again. They will do whatever they can to achieve that. They start bloody wars and kill each other because they believe those actions will bring them closer to me.’ He shook his head; a sad look was showing on His face I had never seen before. ‘You should have known better than to show yourself,’ He continued. ‘Just as I should have known better. If I had stopped after having created this world and had left those humans to do their own thing without that constant urge to please me, everything would have been so much better. I did not understand that at the time, and maybe I have been subject to a little vanity as well when I created those humans in my image, but if I had known back then what I know now, I never would have let them know I existed. They would have been on their own, and I would have been at peace.’ He sighed and looked away. I wanted to ask more, but He clearly did not want to talk anymore. I felt sorry for Him. But then I thought: He really should have known better. After all, He is the creator of this all. If He can make this kind of mistake, why should I feel bad for doing the same but on such a small scale that it just does not matter in the bigger scheme of things? Not even a piece of dust in His story. Suddenly, I felt better. If someone of His character and skills can make the same mistake as me, then I must not be that dumb after all. I felt relieved, but the house I had called home for a very long time was not mine to live in anymore. It hurt, but I left the house and moved to another ruin in another town. It took a little while to get used to, but now I’m pretty happy, and I can tell you, I will never show myself anymore to anyone being so dumb to come in. I don’t regret my stupidity anymore; I’m pretty happy again and live an easy ... well, sort of life. It is good the way it is. I remember the look on His face when I told Him that I had moved on. I felt surprised at the look of regret He showed; even a little jealousy was visible, I thought. ‘If only I could do this as well,’ He said. ‘But I made a promise to those folks.’ He grunted. ‘I would take care of them forever.’ He looked at me with a strange look in his eyes. ‘Forever is such a ... long time.’ He banged his fists against each other, a lightning bolt landed on earth. ‘If only I knew someone who could change that.’

Prompt: Write your story against the backdrop of a storm. Storms a brewin’ My joints really ache today more than the typical soreness I feel in my older age. A lot more than any other day. I think I may have slept like a pretzel twist. Then again, when the weather changes all holy hell breaks out in my body. From my bedroom window I checked the skies. Not a single cloud; the sun was brilliant and hot. To confirm my amateur weather interpretations, I listened to the radio forecast. The weatherman was so confident that for the next seventy-two hours our town would be basking and roasting in ninety-degree heat. I was relieved to hear that second opinion. There is a lot going on today and it would be a disaster if the weather was unkind to me; actually, to all of us. Time was catching up on me. I paid the price for eating a leisurely breakfast, consequently I had to quickly dress. I could not be late for the opening ceremonies. It would be horrid if I missed them since I was the new president of our local Chapter for the Special Olympics. Dozens of special needs kids, teens, and adults from surrounding communities were meeting today for a variety of trial competitions. Winning participants would compete in the state finals in two weeks. The body of officials, participants and spectators took their respective areas. One could feel a tempest of excitement brewing. The athletes paraded onto the field holding their respective local town flags waving and smiling ear to ear. The spectators, although few in number were raucously loud with cheers of support. The warmth of the day complemented the intense enthusiasm. It would soon be time for these athletes to shine after much preparation and training. There would be several sprint and long run races today; teams and individuals would compete in volleyball, softball, tennis, badminton and even cycling. This was my first year as president of the Special Olympics for my Chapter. Previously, I was involved in collegiate prep high school sports and was well aware of the expressions of elation for winning and the disappointment of defeat when losing an event. Winning was paramount to further success in sport, at college and life in general. But I had my doubts about these Olympics. I had little faith that these participants would really grasp the value of the competitive spirit. I had a heavy heart for those participants who would not win today. I was concerned how the losers would take it personally. I was troubled that most of game time would be spent in consoling the losers. The races began. I was flabbergasted to see that after each race the winner was swarmed with congratulations by the other participants. It was more than a simple pat on the back or handshake. There were smiles, deep hugs and serious embraces by the losers. Amazingly, I saw no signs of defeat or disappointment expressed by the losers. They were genuinely happy for each other. Similar emotional responses occurred from the other events whether it was jumping, throwing or any other sport. I was overwhelmed that the athletes thought more about each other’s efforts than just winning the event. I asked myself was this the goal of winning a sport? To celebrate victory no matter who takes the crown? Then, a vile thought occurred to me. I whispered, “might as well give them all participation trophies. Winning then is inconsequential. Why bother with competitive sport?” I was really uncomfortable with these cynical thoughts. Now, I sensed a change in the weather. The humidity in the air became oppressive. I was sweating profusely. Although the skies were still clear blue, I could smell the oncoming rain. A storm was brewing. I knew it would not be long before a deluge of water would fall upon us. I was concerned about lightning strikes and the athletes’ safety. There was a storm brewing but where? I actually began to be fearful that a disastrous situation might happen. My anxious and doubting thoughts made me wonder was there another storm? One that was brewing inside of me? A few lazy clouds hovered above our heads blocking out the hot sun. Unexpectedly, those clouds gave up their moisture falling down upon the athletes. It was a welcomed relief from the intensity of the hot day. All of the competitions stopped momentarily. The participants danced in jubilation with one another. I was so taken back by the simplicity of the moment that my tears blended in with the rain falling upon my cheeks. As quickly as it had started it ended. The athletes stopped dancing. All heads were turned toward the sky as an incredible double rainbow appeared. The field resonated with voices crying out in a delightful and joyous crescendo. In my days in athletic sports, I had never witnessed such a scene. I had to swallow my heart as I filled up with intense emotion. These athletes were amazing. They displayed such a zest for life and a genuine respect for competitiveness. I was sullen about my earlier attitude. But after the rainbows, I felt something different. These disabled athletes displayed a zest for life and camaraderie more so than any high school team I had ever been associated with. Our local Chapter offered a small copper medallion to the winners of each event. Presentations were done on a trilevel platform. First place on the highest tier, with second and third place taking their respective places on the raised platform. No sooner when the medallion winners would accept their prize, they jumped off the platform to gather around all the participants for the event. Each medallion winner would share their medal with the others. They took turns wearing the medallion smiling for pictures and celebrating as though each of them had won the prize. That day of the trials left an indelible mark on my thinking and most importantly on my heart. I left the field with a new perspective on what it means to win. It was given to me from people who knew and respected the value of hard work to compete. It was these special Olympian athletes who never considered themselves disabled. They had and continue to experience huge struggles which began at the beginning of their lives. They were not envious of the winners but celebrated jubilantly in victory whether it was theirs or not. I still can “smell the rain” just before the storm clouds come. I watch for the warning signs. And now I am carefully watching for those storms in my faith that are a brewin’ deep in my heart that may cause me to be judgmental, to be cynical, and skeptical of other people. One day Jesus said to his disciples, “Let us go over to the other side of the lake.” So they got into a boat and set out. As they sailed, he fell asleep. A squall came down on the lake, so that the boat was being swamped, and they were in great danger. The disciples went and woke him, saying, “Master, Master, we’re going to drown!” He got up and rebuked the wind and the raging waters; the storm subsided, and all was calm. “Where is your faith?” he asked his disciples. (Luke 8:22-25, NIV) Author: Pete Gautchier Acknowledgement: Reedsy Prompts

“What Sallinger most demonstrates here is, Caulfield’s fear of adulthood and phoniness, it was this idea of adult phoniness that lead Mark Chapman to shoot John Lennon citing the Catcher In The Rye as his statement...” I wish she’d shut up, I don’t care, I don’t even know who John Lennon is or Mark Chapman or Caulfield or this Sallinger bloke either, nor do I care, it’s twenty to three on a Friday afternoon, it feels like it’s been twenty to three for the last 35 minutes, it’s the last lesson of the day and the sun is shining through the scratched perspex windows casting the strangest of shadows across the desks and all I want to do is jump out of them and run until I can’t run anymore. It’s not that I don’t like school, if anything I quite enjoy it, it’s just the lessons I don’t like. Ben leans over to me and whispers quietly in my ear, well as quietly as any 15 year old boy can whisper to another, “pub tonight, bruv?” what stupid question, it’s not that I really liked the pub if i’m honest it’s probably no better than school, but you just don’t say no when somebody asks you to the pub. “Alright then mate” I reply as if the decision was my own. It was at that moment the bell rang and the entire class stood up in unison and rushed for the door in a mad exodus of hurried conversations, swear words and swinging handbags, pushing out of the doors and into the world. Nobody stops to think about the doors, nobody except me, all the doors in this school tell a story, they’re covered in layers of paint, each one of the many different colours the school has fruitlessly adopted over the years to try and change its image, each layer with its’ scars showing the layer beneath, each scar inflicted by generations of use and vandalism. Reminding us that no amount of paint, no new colours will ever change the school or the pupils. Once me and Ben finally make it out of the school we’re straight onto the estate, from one jungle to another, nothing changes here either, there's the same kids running round on the same bikes, harassing the same motorists, there's an old phone box on the corner, not one of the quint red ones that you see on the tele, but one of the purpley grey ones from the 90s that stinks of piss, with only half the glass left in it, most of which is covered in torn posters for nights out of town from years gone by. Me and Ben head back to his, it’s not even on my way home but I follow him anyway because his sister might be there and everyone knows she’s the prettiest girl in school, probably in the whole of town. We burst into his house, kick our shoes off, say hello to his mum and run upstairs to play playstation and plan our weekly trip down the pub. “We always go to the Rose and Crown” Says Ben, “The only girls in there are from school, why don’t we try the Dragon?” I’m not sure if I admire his confidence or detest his stupidity. Ben is way more confident than me, but a lot more stupid. “It’s the only pub that will serve us” I reply, “We never try and get served anywhere else, besides it’s full of school kids” I think the irony was definitely lost on Ben at this point. “What if we wore suits geez?” Ben said eagerly. “Why don’t we start at the Rose and Crown and then try The Dragon after?” I reply in an attempt to finish the conversation. “Ok” Ben reluctantly agrees. After walking all that way to discover his sister wasn’t in and to lose two games of FIFA on the trot I make my excuses and get up to leave, “Right, now tonights sorted I better get going then. See ya mate” with this I spring up from the edge of his bed where I was sitting, hurtle down the stairs, kick my feet into my shoes and walk out of Ben’s front door slamming it behind me. Don’t ask me why but I started walking home the long way, the very long way, so long in fact that most people would call it the wrong way. I don’t know why I did it but I did. I don’t know why I do a lot of things, for somebody so I clever I don’t know a lot. I did know that I didn’t like Ben his confidence annoys me, besides why should I like him he doesn’t really like me, he just pretends he does, probably to make himself feel better or because it's become a habit of his he can’t seem to change. I carried on walking the wrong way, choosing to walk round the back of the shops and through the alley ways, dusted with broken bottles, fly tipped furniture and tufts of grass that had made their way through the cracked concrete. It wasn’t the most scenic of routes in fact to most people it was probably pretty ugly, but I liked it. The litter might blow away, the damp abbonadend mattresses might come and go but the ugliness had a constant it had always been that way and it always would it was this reliability which gave it its beauty, you can keep your coastal paths and flowers, they all erode away into nothing or dry up and die eventually anyway. As I got towards the edge of the estate and into the woods the decay continued but it was more camouflaged than before, the carcasses of stolen hatchbacks and mopeds abandoned on the side of the track in their deep burnt orange and powdery white colour schemes sat on a plinth of scorched earth and melted plastic, they still smelt of burning even after all this time. Now they played the perfect host to plants looking for fertile ground to grow, reclaiming what was once theirs. It was probably time to turn round and head home in the right direction now, I was getting pretty tired and besides I was supposed to be at the pub in a few hours, before all of that though I decided to sit down and take the weight off my feet I found an ash tree, laying on its side, torn from the ground in last October’s high winds, I clambered up onto the horizontal trunk and sat there, my feet dangling loose in the air, looking at the woods that sat on the edge of my estate. I pulled my school tie loose and slung it into my backpack. While I was sat on that tree I started thinking about all the people I’ve ever known and how now I don’t know hardly know any of them, all my friends from little school, the lads I used to play football with in the street, my mum, my dad. I still see the lads in the street sometimes and most of the kids from little school are still in my classes now and I see my mum everyday and my dad every weekend, well mostly. But I don’t know them anymore, not like I used to and they don’t know me either. It sounds crazy and it probably is. After a little while stuck on the same thought I pull my phone from my pocket, after punching in my passcode I open up my contacts and scroll through them slowly, looking for somebody to ring, I could ring Ben about tonight, but it couldn’t be more than an hour since we saw each other and I remembered that I didn’t like him much anyway. I stop scrolling when I see Emily’s name, we met last year while we were both on holiday at a caravan park, she had the prettiest long dark hair and the biggest brown eyes, which reflected the lights of the arcade around the room a million times like a kaleidoscope powered by 2 penny pieces, I was too scared to speak to her when I first noticed her but our mums got chatting over their love of vodka and Eastenders. I was both pretty embarrassed and secretly pleased when mum suggested we hang out together. We hit it off straight away and although nothing happened, well nothing like the boys at school talk about - we held hands and when it was time to go she kissed me on my cheek - she’s stayed on my mind all this time, I should have tried to kiss her properly you know spontaneously like they do in Eastenders, but I didn’t. I wanted to call her but decided against it, I didn’t want her thinking I was weird, I guess I am weird but I didn’t want her to think that, anyway what would I say? I pressed to lock button on my phone watched the screen go black and slipped it back in my pocket, slipped off the trunk of the tree and started to head back into town. I wish I hadn’t agreed to go to the pub, me and ben just sat in the corner looking at the same faces we looked at all week at school, too scared to talk to the girls, besides all the pretty ones were getting plenty of attention from the older guys. Ben turned up in his suit, he looked about as out of place as I felt. If the pub was empty it would have had some charm I guess it had the same sense of decay as the alleys on the estate the garish wallpaper was peeling away to show more garish wallpaper underneath, the carpets were saturated with years of spilt drinks, tears and blood and were obviously worn into tracks between the front door, the bar and the back door by decades of footsteps. Nobody had been allowed to smoke in here for years but the ceiling was still yellow from the nicotine of years gone by and the smell still lingered in the air, trapped in the curtains and upholstery. Me and Ben were on our fourth pint now, Ben insisted on ordering IPA even though it was horrible because he was convinced it made him look older. After I finished my fourth the pub started to seem a lot better, I still couldn’t muster up anything more than a mumbled “alright” for the girls from school but I was worrying about less and started to think maybe Ben didn’t dislike me as much as I thought. I wondered if I should tell him about Emily but I decided against it, I didn’t think he’d believe me and I didn’t want him to think I was a lier. So we carried on talking about football and school watching what seemed like the entire world go by from the corner of the pub back and forth, back and forth, in the front door, to the bar, to the back door into the smoking shelter, in the front door, to the bar, to the back door into the smoking shelter again and again all night long. I woke up the next morning fully clothed laying on top of my duvet, everytime I moved my head I was in agony, all I could remember from last night was that Ben had that stupid suit on, I bet I’ve upset him last night and can’t remember, he definitely doesn’t like me now I reached for my phone but it wasn’t there, my stomach wrenched knowing that I’d lost it, trying to work out who else I was rude to and upset last night from school, I couldn’t remember a thing but definitely Ben and the girls at the bar, I remember seeing them so I must have said something under the influence.

I was half joking about stashing that PopEyes sandwich by my bed before leaving to go to the company Christmas party. But the truth is I really did leave it there. I'm not sure what Super Drunk TWoN did with it when he got back but still semi-drunk TWoN woke up to a bunch of dirty wrappers stuck to his face. I got up to use the bathroom in the morning feeling disgusted at the pathetic human who had eaten that cold sticky sandwich at 3 in the morning. That was until I made my way back to the bed and notice something... The last piece. The final bite of the sandwich was there sitting in my bed. I must of forgotten it in my intoxication. The perfect shaped last morsel of goodness... Just the right proportion of bread to chicken. You could tell I had been surgical in my drunken state because it was all breast; plump, breaded, bulging. I had purposely ate around the sandwich to leave this perfect piece. Maybe I had even spotted it first and laid out my plan of attack from the second I opened the wrapper. It was in this moment, when I was faced with a perfect last bite laying alone in a dirty cum stained sheet, that I realized something... I'm going to die alone. I could of left the piece. I could have carried on the facade that those moments of disgust are only perpetrated by me at my most drunken vulnerable state. It was a test. Not a test for anyone else, but a test for myself. Would I eat that disgustingly beautiful spicy chicken piece, the one my drunken twin had forgotten and then have to admit to myself that there is no differentiating between the inebriated human who fills his life with gluttony and sin, and the one who judges him for it, or would I leave it and save the last bit of dignity I had in exchange for the last piece of chicken that I saw....? The truth is... I actually thought about it. I honestly looked at it and made the mental calculations of if I should. I weighed the consequences of scooping up that tiny shimmering succulent poultry. I mean no one is watching... I could eat it and pretend like it never happened. But I would know. I would know what I did and I couldn't blame it on the drink, and now that I've acknowledged and weighed the consequences I could never pretend like I didn't know the low depths of patheticness I was willing to stoop to. My reflection lasted about half a second, though it felt like a lifetime, before I lifted up the that perfect piece of chicken.... slapped it back on the waging stale pieces of bread which had found themselves on opposite ends of the bed, and ate it. I had a choice... I could have spared my soul.... I could have been disgusted... I could have not told anyone... but the shame is my penance...

Author's note: This is based on a real life situation. Names have been changed to protect people in the story. As Jade brushed her long dark silky black hair out, her phone buzzed. She put down her hairbrush to pick it up. She stared at the text the came through, shocked and a little unsure. Hi, it’s mom. Call me when you can. I’d love to try to reconnect with you, and I thought we could hang out sometime this weekend and maybe see a movie or do some shopping together. Jade put her phone down and thought about this for awhile. Since she was four, Jade had lived with her Aunt Mimi and Uncle Ashton. Her mom had been around off and on, but Jade had always felt estranged from her real mother due to the fact she had been raised by her aunt and uncle. She appreciated the thought of her mother reaching out to her and wanting to get to know her better, but she wasn’t quite sure she was ready yet to hang out and try to reconnect a relationship with her. She picked her brush back up and started brushing her thick black hair again. Her little “sister” Starla ran into her room. Starla was Mimi and Ashton’s daughter and Jade’s cousin. Starla ran up and gave Jade a big hug. “I love you, Jade,” she said to her big “sister”. Jade looked down at Starla and smiled. She loved her little sister, but she also missed her half-sister and brother on her mom’s side -- Ophelia and James -- a lot. “Starla, is your dad here?” Jade asked. Jade had grown really close to Ashton in the days of her youth. He had taken her into his arms and accepted her as his own daughter. Unfortunately, Mimi and Ashton had decided not to stay together, which saddened Jade. Starla shook her head no. When Jade felt sad, she often went downstairs to visit Grandma Nan. Grandma Nan was always there to listen. “What’s the matter, Jade?” Her grandmother made a cup of tea for her and sat down at the table next to her. “My mom texted me. She wants to spend some time with me.” Grandma’s face brightened. “That’s a good thing, Jade” -- looking at Jade’s downcast face -- “isn’t it?” Jade looked thoughtful, mulling it over for a minute. “Well, I do want to spend time with my half-siblings...” Jade began. “Ophelia loves you a lot.” Grandma Nan smiled at Jade. “So does your mom.” Jade’s mom was her Aunt Mimi’s sister, and Grandma Nan was mother to Mimi and Kathryn both. Jade sipped her tea, thinking again. She set her cup down. “I’m 14. I haven’t really lived with my mom since I was 4. I don’t know how to reconnect with her!” Jade put her head in her hands. Grandma Nan lifted her chin up with a gentle finger. A single tear rolled down Jade’s cheek. “Does that make me a bad person?” Jade asked quietly. “No, absolutely not.” Her grandmother pulled her in close for a hug. “You’re a wonderful person, Jade, and your mother knows this. That’s why she would like to reconnect with you. She does love you -- a lot.” “But sometimes it seems like she loves Ophelia and James better than me. I mean, she gave me up, but still raises those two.” Grandma Nan held Jade close to her. “Jade, your mother loves you very much. She would so like to be a part of your life. She probably misses you, sees you’re growing up so beautifully, and wants to get to know you better.” Jade again mulled over what her grandmother was saying to her. The more she thought about it, the more she knew her grandmother was right, but it still hurt that her mother would give her up and raise two more children. Grandma Nan watched Jade closely. “Jade, your mother does love you very much. She wanted to raise you, but she just wasn’t ready at the time. By the time your half-siblings were born, she was in a more secure place.” “I don’t even know my mom’s husband!” Jade cried out, hot tears spilling down her cheeks. “Jade, honey, it’s okay”-- Jade stood up abruptly. “You know what? You’re right.” Grandma Nan blinked at this rapid change in Jade. Jade sat back down. “Maybe she just didn’t know how to love me, but one question: Why did it take her this long to reach out to me?” Grandma Nan stroked Jade’s hair and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Maybe she just had a hard time figuring out how to fit you back into her life -- a life that is totally different than how it was when you were born, Jade. She’s changed a lot, and so has her life. She's trying to raise your siblings now and still have you as part of her life. It’s hard. She doesn’t know where to start with the reconnection. So much has changed since you were born, Jade. I know one thing for sure, though -- she does love you and always has.” Jade smiled through her tears, hugged her grandma, and replied back, “I’m going to go call her now. I would love a shopping date and to see a movie -- with my mom. My real mom.” Grandma Nan beamed at her granddaughter. “Go bond with her. You need it.” Kathryn’s ringtone went off. She picked up her phone. Jade flashed across the caller ID screen. She smiled. “Hello?” she answered as she lifted her cell to her ear. “Mom, I want to hang out with you and get to know you better.” Kathryn was so happy, tears of joy streamed down her face. “Oh, Jade! I’m so happy you called!” she gushed. “What would you like to do?” “Well, there is there are these really cool jeans at the mall I really like, and I would love to see The Croods: A New Age with you, Mom.” Kathryn felt a huge grin working the corners of her mouth. She loved to hear her first-born daughter calling her “mom”. It felt great. This was the beginning of a newfound relationship she hoped would last forever. Jade felt a warm glow after hanging up. She was going to see her mom, her real mom for the first time in a long time. She was excited.

Community service sucks. Community service sucks even more when you're sixteen and this was supposed to be your spring break. Community service sucks, even more, when you're assigned to slaving away in some random old woman's garden all day while your friends get to do things like chill out on the beach and stay up all night. But the part that sucks the most? Knowing I'm only having to do it because of my own mother, to begin with. Apparently, I smoke too much for her to handle anymore (which I think is a little bit dramatic, but whatever). I'm not sure how rebuilding an old widow's garden for the majority of my spring break is going to fix what I don't even consider a problem, but it's not like I really got to say much in the final decision-making process. It turns out, that when you're under suspicion of being a so-called 'addict', nobody really cares what defenses you have to give. When you're a low-life, you're going to be treated like one. Even though you're not actually one; people in Crestview just don't get it. And thanks to that, now I don't get to enjoy my spring break. Well, that's what my mom and probation officer want, anyway. Of course, I'm still going to spend my break the way I want to, I'm just kind of limited to hours after 7 p.m. now; that's why tonight my plans start at 7:01 and don't stop until I say they do. Screw whatever chance of a curfew my mom thought she had left. "Jay! You gotta go!", Mom's voice cuts through the house like a shrill and I roll my eyes. "Yeah.", I yell back down. Today's the day my service starts and I couldn't be more ready for something to be over. I slipped on my "VOLUNTEER" vest and give myself one last look in the mirror and think to myself "t his orange is so vibrant I might be able to be convinced that I'm high right now". As soon as my feet hit the hallway carpet outside of my bedroom, I immediately felt Mom's gaze on me from the bottom of the stairs. I turn to her and notice a couple tears welling up in her eyes. Apart from me wanting to feel bad because I know that she really is just worried about me, I can't. Instead, all I feel is an annoyance. I mean, come on . It really isn't this serious for me to smoke a little weed. "Mom. Chill out.", I say as I brush past her in the stairway. She takes a deep sigh and I immediately regret what I said. Not because it's untrue-- she does need to chill out-- but because I don't want to deal with the conversation I'm about to cause. I know I'm in for it. "I'm so sorry that I never wanted to send my child to be rehabilitated.", she finally says. She's kidding, right? "Rehabilitated?!", I yell in genuine disbelief. "Mom, I'm going down the street to help Ms. Glen plant her garden, not to a fuckin' rehab center. And yes you did want to! You're the reason why I'm even going anyway!" My heartbeat was so heavy that I'm sure even she could hear it from the outside. Mom puts her hands up in surrender and takes another of her characterizing deep sighs. " You are the reason why you are going. When my only two options as a mother are to either bail you out and sign in court that you'll do some community service or let you stay caught on a simple possession charge, I really think I did you a favor in what I chose. I am so sorry you have to sacrifice some of your time now to save yourself in the long run. There's a difference between doing what I want and doing what's necessary, Jay. One day, I really hope you realize that." With that, she was back in the kitchen cleaning and I was out on the front lawn estimating that the walk to Ms. Glen's would take me about four minutes from my porch to hers. It's the second house to the last on the left side of the street, and all stark white besides the red shutters. Her nephew still power-washed the exterior for her and knowing that made me wonder why he couldn't have just been the one to come rebuild this garden for her. I'm pretty sure the only reason Mom even chose me to do it for my supposed 'rehabilitation' was that she expected me to enjoy giving back so much that I would start volunteering on my own and bringing her fruits and vegetables once they grew or get inspired and start my own at home or something. She loved putting unrealistic standards like that on me and saying it was just her 'seeing all of my potentials'. Up until her husband had died almost eight months ago, the Glens' garden had been the pride of the south end of our cul-de-sac. Every summer the vegetables would grow in surplus and we'd all take trips down to their house for watermelons, carrots, tomatoes, you name it. This summer was going to be the first without Mr. Glen's green thumb to get us through the heat, but luckily my mom got way too involved in my life just in time to force me into being the one to take his place. I just hope Ms. Glen's not too much of the talkative type now that she doesn't have anyone else to riff off of. I just wanna get what I have to do done and go catch up on the fun I should have all day, every day of the next two weeks to have. I mean, really how fair is it that the same people I "smoke too much" with are still all together at Nathan's right now doing exactly that, but I'm stuck here walking up an old woman's front porch steps to clock in for the day. I'm greeted with a "Well, hey honey." when I walk through the banisters and when I look to where it came from I see Ms. Glen sitting in a rocking chair in the right corner of the porch. "Uh... hey.", I stumble. "I'm supposed to be here to help you start this season's garden?" She gives me a squint and I took that as my chance to wish she would've said she had no idea what I was talking about. She didn't, though. Instead, she pried on me over what I'd done to "wind up" in my "position". I might not be able to feel guilty about my mom's overreacting, but what I do feel guilty about is having to tell a seventy-three-year-old woman whose husband just died from lung cancer that I'm only here to help her with her garden because my neighbor caught me smoking and couldn't keep his mouth shut. Seriously, who calls the cops on a kid for doing something literally every kid does? That was literally all the justification Mom needed to criminalize it, and she wasted no time in doing it. Speaking of wasting no time, that's exactly what Ms. Glen did when she put me out the back door with an illegible but long list of things to get done. When Mom said "help Ms. Glen", I didn't know she meant to do everything for her. I understand she's old and whatever, but she isn't dead--because if she were, I'd be at Nathan's. The only words I could make out from her elderly chicken scratch were 'tomato cages', 'fertilizer', and 'squash', so those were the only things I was even going to bother getting done. If I could drag things out long enough, I'd be able to finish maybe one of those three by tomorrow. Realistically, for every eight hours of work I was supposed to be doing for the next ten days, I was only going to do about an hour. That should have been plenty for Ms. Glen to be thankful for, and as long as the eighty hours technically were accounted for Mom couldn't even argue anything over it. Besides, it's not like I was actually being supervised. Ms. Glen could barely walk, let alone have the energy to even stand and watch me from her window all day. I began to think that maybe this wouldn't be so bad if I could actually get away with sitting around outside all day and just pretending to work. Unfortunately, my deep thinking was interrupted by a familiar voice coming over the Glen house's fence. "Jay? What you doin' down here?", was what it said and I knew exactly who I'd be met with once I turned around-- Carter Venice, aka the worst person to have possibly seen me here. Still, I turned around. Carter and I were friends, it's just that you can imagine how annoying having to explain the situation to him was. "Damn, so you not gonna be over at Nate's any this week then?", Carter asked me and I rolled my eyes hard. "Not 'til after 7. But by then I'm sure everyone will have moved on to something else for the night, ya know.", was my reply. Carter did know because he was a part of the 'everyone' who couldn't sit still for too long and constantly needed the next thrill. That's how I wanted to be spending my whole spring break too but now I couldn't even take a trip overnight since I had to be at Ms. Glen's by noon every day. As we were wrapping the conversation up, I noticed Carter's eyes start to wander to the far right corner of the fenced-in backyard behind me. "Bro, what are you looking at", I finally asked him and he just pointed and asked me a question back. "What is that over there?". I followed his finger's direction until my eyes met with a flourishing green plant tucked over into the side of the yard, but I didn't have an answer for him. "I don't know? I haven't done anything yet and I have no idea what she wrote on the to-do list she gave me. Why?" "Dude, no. Look at the leaves." I readjusted my eyes and looked again. Holy shit. My silence must have given my reaction away because Carter was the next to speak again. "There's no way that's what I think it is, right?", was what he said, and I didn't even know how to respond. "I don't think so? It's gotta be something else." There was just no way Ms. Glen was growing marijuana in her backyard. "Well go dig it up and let me take it home and find out." I turned around to face him again. "What?", I laughed, but he didn't. "Oh. You're serious?" "Why wouldn't I be serious?" "Bro, why would you? You actually want me to go pull that whole plant up for you right now?" "Nah, bro. I want you to go pull that whole plant up for us. Us and Nathan and everyone else bro. Come on. You're already the bummer of spring break, you might as well bring some good with you when you can finally show up. Ya know." I hated how easily he convinced me, but he was right. I was going to be the one missing out on what everyone else was doing, so I might as well make the best of it and get something good out of this. Stealing an old woman's weed plant would definitely make everyone forget I ever had this stupid restriction anyway. The next thing I knew, I was behind a shovel hacking away at roots and ripping the soil from under the plant. The leaves were pointy and spread out, and the whole thing was practically growing green. If this wasn't weed, it sure was a good imposter. I grabbed a spare terracotta pot from inside the shed and placed the plant inside before delicately handing it over the fence to Carter. "Take care of it. I'm serious. That's about to get us through high school." I joked as he walked away. For the next seven hours, all I could think about was whether or not Carter had told anybody or done anything with it yet. Finally, my eight hours of bullshitting were officially allowed to be over and I could go hang out with everyone, but when I walked through the back door my hastiness to leave was halted by Ms. Glen who was standing at her kitchen island with her walker waiting for me. "Did you get a lot finished for me?", she asked. "Oh yeah. Tons.", I lied and turned to finish exiting her home. "Did you see the Japanese maple I wrote down about?" The what? Oh. That must have been what 'Vopamese naple' on the list meant. "I did.", I lied again. "Doesn't it look nice over in that shaded corner? Bill planted that years ago for me, and now that he's gone it's my favorite. That's why I put it first on your list. I want extra good care taken of that one." I froze. The shaded corner? That's where... * * * "Carter?", my voice floats through the phone. "Google green Japanese maple and then meet me at Starkey's flower shop."

Change is inevitable “What is it about parties that intrigue and excite people? And why are those people considered boring who do not attend parties?” Deepa, debating with her office colleagues during lunch hours. Deepa held an esteemed position in a bank in Bangalore and admired and respected by her colleagues for her cordial attitude and kind personality. An introvert who preferred her own space and privacy and looked for excuses to stay at home whenever any friend called her for an outing. She liked her own company. She watched movies alone, even eating out all alone, and was a solo traveler too. The office staff was planning a farewell celebration for Nitish, who had got transferred to Jaipur from Bangalore and was leaving this weekend. Nitish and Deepa have worked together for 2 years and had turned into good friends. Their personality was just contrary to each other, yet they always backed each other on the personal and professional front. Deepa was extremely sentimental when she heard about his transfer, but tried not to reveal it on her face. Nitish asked her, “Hey Deepa, you seem thrilled on hearing the news about my transfer. Are you so fed up with my antics?” Deepa, confused, thought about how and what to respond to. She hesitated and replied, “No, my friend, nothing like that. But I am happy for you as you always wished this and this is an opportunity for you to grow.” Nitish seemed annoyed with her reply. And he just left her cabin saying nothing. During lunch hours that day, Nitish did not accompany her for lunch. Deepa thought maybe he requires some privacy, so she too did not call him. The staff discussing with each other “Hey Deepa, why don’t we organize an adieu for Nitish this Friday. Suggest some good joints where we all can spend time with each other and also have wonderful food.” Deepa was silent, and everyone looked stunned. Archana, her colleague, and friend, exclaimed, “Why are you quiet? I realize you are unhappy that Nitish is leaving us but we should send him off with pleasant remembrances, isn’t it? And since you are one of his good friends, you recommend what should be gifted and which place he would like?” “You guys choose. See, I am not into parties and all, so I cannot suggest anything. I mean, the last party I attended was in school.” Deepa, in an unsettled tone, left without finishing her lunch and went back to work. The next morning, both Deepa and Nitish just wished each other and went to their respective cabins. None of them uttered a word to each other. She was constantly thinking about what to tell him and how to console him, as she was not good at communicating emotions. She could not concentrate on her work. They did not have lunch together that day. Deepa called Archana to her cabin and asked, “Tomorrow is Friday. You were saying something regarding the farewell party, na. Anything decided?” Archana said “No Deepa. If you also suggest it would be much better” Deepa then offered the option of a good rooftop cafe which was Nitish's favorite. “What about the present?” Archana exclaimed. “That I will take care”. Deepa said. Archana, grinning “Oh, so someone is completely eager to attend a party, it seems” “No no. Not at all. You know I hate parties. Anyway, I am not attending,” Deepa, still in a confused state of mind. Archana, shocked, “What are you saying! He will be really disappointed if you don’t attend. And it is his last day in the office tomorrow.” Deepa kept quiet. Then she prepared a list of the cuisine to be served at the party and asked Archana to call the cafe and make the arrangements. “Please ensure that Nitish is not informed of all this. Let it be a surprise for him.” That evening, after office, Deepa drove down to the cafe, which was fairly far from her residence, and had a discussion with the manager regarding how the place is to be done up and which flowers, etc to be used. She had taken utmost care that everything should be as per Nitish's liking. Then she ordered a beautiful big heart-shaped cake and asked the shop to deliver to the cafe at 8 pm the next day. She was just concerned about the gift, as she didn’t even have an entire day to get that designed. It was Friday. Nitish's last day in office. Both Deepa and Nitish were avoiding each other for the past 2 days. Nitish looked sad, and he came to Deepa's cabin to wish her. She wasn't there. He loudly asked the staff, “Where is your Madam Deepa?” “We don't know, sir. She has informed nothing,” they exclaimed. Nitish wanted to call her and shout at her furiously for her behavior. In his mind, “Today is my last day in the office and she has disappeared without even uttering a word? Now I won’t speak to her ever.” He decided not to call her. Archana saw Nitish was really upset. She went to his cabin and tried to console him, but he was not in a mood to listen to anything. Meanwhile, Deepa had taken an off just to arrange the best gift for her best friend so that this day becomes memorable for him. She called Archana and before she could say anything Archana interrupted, “Where are you? Don't you today is his last day in office and he is really upset. Are you coming to the party or not? And what about his gift?” Deepa asked her to calm down “Archana, I am on leave. I had some personal work and I am feeling sick too. I won’t be able to attend the party. Please ensure that all arrangements are made in the cafe. And yes, I have ordered the cake and gift. This is the cake shop number. Please call them and confirm. The gift part will be taken care of before Nitish arrives.” Archana, totally astonished, “Why you are doing all this when you can’t even attend one party for your friend's sake. Do you have to be so adamant every time? And there are only known faces at the party, so you won’t feel out of place, I promise you.” Archana tried to persuade her somehow but Deepa had decided not to attend the party as she was feeling sad and distressed at the same time in attending a party after so long. It was evening and as the party time was nearing, Deepa was getting calls from all her office staff, but she did not pick any calls. She knew that her behavior was strange. All kinds of concerns were making her anxious- Will Nitish call me? Will he ever talk to me again? Will I lose one more good friend? She also tried to console herself at the same time. “No, nothing can affect our friendship. Even if I don’t attend his party, he will understand as he knows I detest going to functions and parties.” It was 8 pm and one by one, all the attendees were arriving. “Who is informing Nitish?” one colleague asked. Then they were gossiping “Deepa is there na, she will take care.” To everybody's shock, Archana told them that Deepa is not attending the party, and she suddenly realized that Deepa had told her to arrange a cab to pick Nitish. She had totally forgotten about it. When she was about to call the cab, she saw a message from Deepa which read, “I have arranged the cab. Don't worry.” Archana thanked her and again requested to come to the party. Meanwhile, Nitish was packing his things, unaware of the party. Suddenly, the doorbell rang, and he saw Deepa standing at the door with a big and beautiful bouquet and a sorry message card. Nitish got really emotional and couldn’t contain his tears. He just hugged Deepa and cried a lot. Deepa consoling him “Nitish, stop sobbing. It does not suit you. First, get dressed and please wear something nice. We have to go somewhere.” “Where?” He asked. “Don't ask any more questions, We don’t have time. Just come along with me. I am waiting outside in the car.” Till they approached the cafe, Nitish kept asking her that what is all this about but she kept absolutely quiet. He mentioned “Hey this is my favorite cafe. Why have we halted here?” Come with me. Deepa, holding his hand, took him to the rooftop where everybody was looking forward to the party to start. “Hey, guys. See who’s here.” Deepa, totally enthusiastic. Nitish couldn’t believe his eyes. Such beautiful decorations all around and a huge poster with his name and photo saying “We will miss you.” “Thank you all.” He said. Archana came running to Deepa and stated, “You are such a devil. And all this time you were constructing a drama saying you don’t like parties, etc.” “Archana, I had decided actually not to come to the party. You know how antisocial I am. But when I thought about all the memories we have shared, a thought crossed my mind- that I will repent this moment forever if I cannot be with my best friend on the last day.” Archana was in tears. All of them enjoyed their food and drinks and had a good time together. “Ok people. All of you please leave your food and drinks aside and join me to present a beautiful gift for Mr. Nitish, who will leave us in a few hours’ time but will not be leaving our hearts.” Deepa presented the gift which she had specially made for Nitish. She herself had prepared a beautiful photo frame hand-painted and with a collage of all the photos comprising lovely times in office with all the colleagues- happy, sad and all emotions just flashed as they relived the moments. Nitish. spellbound, “I am not in a situation to say anything. This is one of the best days of my life and I will never forget all of you, ever. Deepa, this is so thoughtful of you. You have made my stay worthwhile.” It overjoyed Deepa to see Nitish's reaction and was fully emotional. “See, because of you, an anti-social element like me attended a party after so many years. You always used to tease me, isn’t it? Frankly, I really don't know whether I will attend more parties but anything for my best friend and colleague. I hope you get what you deserve and we will always be there for you.” The party ended with everyone posing for selfies and smiling and hugging each other. Deepa was dropping Nitish back home, and she said “I am really sorry for my behavior for the past few days. I was just totally confused about my feelings and just did not know how to tell you I will miss you a lot. You have given me so much happiness in such a brief span of time.” Both of them hugged each other and bid goodbye. Deepa, on the way back home, thought “Attending parties is not that bad like I had believed all these years.” She kept looking at all the photos repeatedly and dozed off weeping and thinking about how the next morning will be without Nitish in the office.

"What do you mean a spaceship is headed for us?" he said, trembling with fear. "It's all over the news," she told him, "Where have you been David?" "I drank last night, I just woke up," he explained, she always did this, she judged him, it was in her eyes, disgust. "I hate that you do that," she scowled, but she was holding back, "you drink until you pass out and then you wake up and you do it again." "Yes and I will keep doing it until the day I die," he explained. "Just like dad," she said, and this was a deep cut, she knew what she was doing, she mentioned dad all the time. He turned and walked away to hide the tears, opening the door to the bar. The inside walls were a dark brown and pictures and paintings lined them, booths along the walls, and tables scattered throughout but those weren't David's destination. David walked straight to the back to the bar, where he would sit. Bottles all along the wall behind the bar, he imagined drinking everything behind the bar, walking back there and chugging it all. Surely he would die then. The door opened behind him, as he strolled towards the barstool he always sat in, she was following him. She wasn't supposed to follow him, she never had before. "It's the end of the world, and still your just going to sink into that seat just like every other day?" she asked him, reprimanding him. "What do you think I should do Sam, do you think I should join the military and help them take down the aliens?" "Well no that's not-" "Sir," David shouted to the back, the bar had just opened, and just like always he had woken up just in time, "two shots of whisky please." "You know I don't drink," she reminded him, and he just laughed. The bartender came around the corner scowling. "You're the first one here every day David," he said as he grabbed the glasses and poured the shots, "the only one ever here this early." "It's one," he explained, taking one shot and then the other in quick succession, "and that means its time to drink." "Most people don't start until five," Sam explained, trying to get his attention. She needed to leave, how could he get her to? "Look I won't be here all day," he explained, "I just need it to function. If you leave and go do whatever you were trying to get me to help with, I'll join you soon." "I met this guy at a bar last night," she explained, as he held up his hand for a refill, the bartender sighed and filled both of the shot glasses, "he has a spaceship, he said we are going to be eaten if we stay here, we gotta go David." "I'm not leaving, this is our home," he explained, "and I'm not going to be in anyone's debt." He gulped down both shots at once. "I'm not going to leave you here to die," she said, trying to pull him, she was too weak and he was too large, he wasn't muscular, it was the alcohol. "You don't get it," he said, angry now at her persistence, he almost forgot he was looking at her, it was sometimes like he was talking to himself, "I'm already dead." She began to sob, her makeup dripping from her brown eyes, she wiped the black hair out of her face. She was pretty, just like he was, though without the chubby cheeks and perpetually red skin, but she was an ugly crier. He had to get her to stop and he had to get her to leave. He was trying to get numb and she was killing his buzz, though he didn't feel one yet, prompting him to gesture to the bartender again. When the bartender filled his glass, she began to cry even more. It was a passionate, deep cry, as if she was grieving. He had to explain it to her, he had to calm her down. "I don't care that the world is ending," he said, "but I can tell you do." He would agree to go with her if only to calm her down, who knew if he would actually get on a spaceship. She was stressed, clearly in shock and he was just making it worse, so he continued, "When are we leaving?" She stopped crying suddenly, and sniffled, "Tomorrow, hopefully before they get here." "Cutting it close?" he asked, not actually caring, his only thought was the hope that he could get drunk in space. "His name is Renauro, he came here to save those that he could before the planet is demolished," she explained, "meet at this address, tomorrow at noon." She handed him a sheet of paper and then struggled to her feet, wiping her tears away. "I'll be there Sam," he told her, "I promise." He instantly wanted to take it back, he promised her? Why had he done that? He knew that his routine dictated that he had an appointment here at this bar at one tomorrow, so what had he done? "You better be or I'll drag you there, kicking and screaming," she said, punching him in the arm, hard, "that was for making me cry you idiot." Then she finally left. He watched her leave and when she was gone he turned to the bartender. "Another round," he said, "Why is this place open if what she says is true?" "I mean they all say there are aliens coming," he explained, pouring another round into the glasses, "but even if it was true, which it's definitely not. Just a hoax by the government to scare us and lower our vibration. If it was true, I still got bills to pay." David downed the shots, finally he was beginning to feel something. How much did he have to drink now to become buzzed? Or was it just the effect Sam had on him? Then the door opened again, he turned, angry that Sam had returned, he did promise her and he shouldn't have even done that. What more did he have to do to get rid of her? Then he noticed that it wasn't Sam at all, but a man dressed in a strange uniform of some kind, with a long red coat that drooped to his knees. Cut so that it swooped back behind him, making it appear like he had a tail. The man didn't wear normal pants, but red capris to match the coat. Everything was embroidered with intricate black weavings that appeared like veins stitched throughout the coat and trousers, and the man wore no shoes. The man approached the bar, the bartender stared at him stunned, as if he was culture shocked. David didn't move, this man looked like an alien, even if his dark hair and blue eyes, his sharp nose and curved mouth looked like a humans, there was an air about him. "I'll have whatever is the strongest," he said and then gestured for David, "and another round for my good sir." "What kind of accent is that?" he asked, it sounded like a butchered American accent, like he was from some country no one had ever hear of and was pretending to be from here. "What do you mean?" the newcomer asked, as the bartender poured them their drinks. "You're not from around here," the bartender said, nodding to the man, as he took a sip from the shot that was poured for him, vodka. "It's obvious?" he asked, looking puzzled, "I practiced it for weeks on my way here." "You're one of them," the bartender said, as he stepped back, his eyes grew wide and his mouth fell open, hitting the bottles, and knocking them to the floor. Normally he would be upset at the inventory lost, but instead he ran. Through the door to the back, and out of the back door as well. David smiled, dreams do come true. David walked behind the bar, and grabbed a bottle of whisky, taking off the cap, and taking a swig of it, "I've been thinking for years of ways to get one of them to leave the bar unattended," he said, laughing in joy, "who knew all it would take was an alien?" David was afraid too, but getting numb was all he cared about, he chugged the whisky. Fear could wait. "My name is," the man paused, taking another sip from his shot glass, what a strange sight, "well you can call me," he paused again to think this time, "Joseph." "Okay," he said, this man was so strange, he could call him Joseph? "Well you can call me David," he said with a laugh and a swig from the bottle. "Hello David," he said, "I was searching for you." He nearly jumped but instead decided to slump to the ground. Great just another person searching for him, come to kill his buzz too he assumed. "What do you want?" he asked angrily. "That's simple," he said, "I've come to offer you a favor." "I don't need anyone doing any favors for me," David slumped even further down, finishing the bottle with a chug, "If it's about leaving, I already got a ride." "No no," he said, raising his hand, standing up to get a better look at David on the ground, "this isn't about leaving, I can stop the invasion and you can stay here as long as you like." David laughed, standing up, not just to face the man but to procure another bottle, "And what do I have to do with this?" "Well you see," he said with a smile, "you're my weapon." "What do you mean?" "Alcohol is rot, death and poison," he explained, ripping the new bottle from David's hands, he nearly jumped over the bar and hit Joseph but then he remembered where the man was from, "and with the right tools blood alcohol content can prove to be quite useful as weapons." "Do I have to do anything that requires anything other than drinking?" he asked, he had to know what he was required to do. "Actually," he said with a smile, "no you don't." "What?" David was confused, as the man handed the bottle back to him, having opened it for him, and he took a sip. "In fact, I need you to drink far more than you normally do," he explained, "I have a machine that will turn your blood into a poisonous gas, that we can use to kill the aliens." "Okay," he said, chugging the bottle, finishing it in one tip of the bottle, "I'm the man for the job." With that Joseph stood up and began walking to the door. He turned around and added, "I'll see you tomorrow at noon." David was alone, and his task was simple. He had to drink more than he ever had before and he had to do it to save the world. He imagined Sam's face when he tells her that his drinking saved the world. He locked the bar, people would definitely come to drink, it was the end of the world after all. He had to make sure they knew it was closed. Alone with his best friends, the bottles behind the bar, David blacked out. Something hit him hard in the ribs, he groaned. His head was pounding and his face was wet with his drool. He didn't want to open his eyes, he just wanted to stay laying on the bar but the hard object hit him again in the ribs. He opened his eyes to see the alien standing over him, cane in hand, ready to hit him with it again. "Enough he said," his throat was so dry, he hated waking up, every day was the same, headache, dry mouth and nausea. It hurt to talk and so he said nothing else. "It is done," the man explained, "I came at noon to collect your blood." "What do you mean it's done?" he asked, "Did the aliens come?" "They did," he said, solemnly, "and now they're dead." "I saved the world?" "Well I did, you were just the weapon," the man said with a smile. "Well let's celebrate," David said, his drinking had saved the world, he was ecstatic, he climbed off the bar and grabbed a bottle and two glasses. He poured them both a shot of vodka as he laughed in joy. There was a reason other than becoming numb that he drank last night and finally, for the first time in his life he felt fulfilled. "Oh no," Joseph said, upset over something, sorrowful, as if something had gone terribly wrong, "Did I leave that part out?" "Leave what part out of where?" he asked. What was he talking about? David took a sip and his body instantly rejected it, puking it back up all over the bar, and all over Joseph, "What is going on?" He was furious, that had never happened before, there was something seriously wrong. What did he do to him? "I was meant to tell you," Joseph explained, "the machine interacts with your blood, it doesn't just extract it, it transforms it." "What are you saying?" "It makes it so that your body rejects alcohol," he explained, David refused this, taking it as a challenge and took another sip, forcing it down, through the gagging he was doing. "See," he said, holding up the bottle, he could feel his eye, he had popped a blood vessel to force it down, "I can still drink." He would not let this craziness steal his only peace away from him. "I'm afraid," Joseph said sorrowfully, "even if you do manage to keep it down, your body won't metabolize it. You'll never be able to get drunk again." David cried, just as his sister had earlier. He was grieving, his pain grew, and his stomach forced the alcohol out of him, he projectile vomited, and his pain only grew. He could never drink again, he'd never be drunk again, he would never be numb again. He had lost his best friend and the grief threatened to overwhelm him. Then a hand was placed on his shoulder and anger overwhelmed him. He had killed it, his best friend, the numbness, he was a monster and David would have his revenge. He turned around, ready to beat on the man who had stolen everything from him, but only found Sam there, waiting for him, "Did you hear the news?" she said with a smile, "the aliens are all dead, we were saved by some hero. So I guess that means you can live your life here," she gestured to the bar, "like you wanted." This broke him and he fell into Sam's arms, feeling the pain he had been avoiding for so long.

I sit at a fully crowded coffee shop in the midst of the holiday rush. There is Christmas music and joy in the air and I had a rather pleasant chat with the employee who took my order. I have my "nice mask" on today, which is not really a fake identity as much as it is my true unmasked self. Without all the drama, stress and countless responsibilities that come with the everyday package that is young adulthood. I consider all my "personas"so to speak, a part of who I am. Little imaginary people that strike my consciousness awake and fill me up with an overwhelming dose of fresh ideas (bad and good ones, that is). It has been occurring to me a lot lately how people perceive other individuals and project themselves to the world. No matter what we do, even while being in the middle of the most intimate or vulnerable moment possible, as long as we are in the presence of another we are not being our complete, authentic selves. Faces, masks, personalities, be that as it may, they are all a part of us. There is no such thing as being "fake"or "not your true self", for the reason that if somebody is committed to be the definition of those things, those too become a part of who he/she is and will be in the future. It is not necessarily a good thing, the fact that we'd have to eventually accept that being two faced is how most humans interact with their environment, although I have come to realize that it is inevitable. Allegedly there are several sides to having multiple personas and quite frankly we become better people by periodically "acting" in front of others or in situations where we don't want to become a vulnerable, bare target. I believe it is due pure survival instinct; the sheer need to address to others that there is absolutely nothing bothering you, that you are indifferent to how others may view what you express or the way you behave. Bad figures, good figures. There is no being in this world that has never been selfish about their life, engaging in the process of survival until their last breath. Rudeness, evil, kindness, the ability to care for others, all oozing from the same dark place that is existence and its many faces.

\[First chapter of potential novella, 'Boy Pink'\] \[Inspired by my favourite writer, J.D Salinger\] \ There were precisely twelve loose threads hanging from the left sleeve of Anna’s marlin-blue Yves Saint Laurent cardigan. It was a high-neck in a sailor knit - should that mean anything to you. An unfortunate state of affairs for a woman who, without a moment’s hesitation, so adamantly looks down on another for something as silly as their haircut or their social class. Anna is the type of woman who would not just deny a man with no home her loose change. She would then too deny him his dignity and his pride in so truculently telling him that she did indeed have some change, but its nature was not loose. It was bound to her possession. It was rightfully earnt and that she would sooner be dead than to blindly hand it out to society’s freeloader. She would tell him that he ought to be the own means to his end and that his circumstance will never change from being sat on the pavement of a Manchester alley with his hands cupped together, extending themselves ceaselessly to the ankles of the proud men who stride past him. They will never stop for him and kneel at his feet. For that stride was one of pride and purpose. The stride of a man who is something and is going somewhere. A man in which he, the Homeless, could not form a common bond. For the Homeless has no purpose, no pride; he just exists in purgatory between his birth and his death. If Anna were to be right about any one fact - and I say ‘if’ in its utmost conditional form as she is so often confined to the boundaries of her own ignorance - it would be that life is purgatory between birth and death. Existence is just a matter of purpose and lack thereof. We are born and are taught silly little things about how best to go about this existence that we call ‘life’. We, universally, have come to a more-or-less unanimous interpretation of the routine. We go to school and learn a whole myriad of things that we have no real care or use for. We then enter the working world where our worth is ruthlessly categorised based on skill and paid by our merits. The more valuable your contribution to society, the more keep you will earn. We then simultaneously go through a series of failed romantic interests, pursuing ‘the One’ who we shall inevitably marry - share children, a home, a dog and our memories with. We will explore the world with - which, and let me tell you, is full of people subject to the same customs as us, but any petty nuance you could possibly pick-up on is described as ‘culture’. Then you will retire. You will die. Your children will carry on your name and they will live in the same way. It is an infinite regress. And dare you disregard or wayward away from this existential routine then your life will be judged - often and harshly - by others. The boy who does not go to school is rough, daft and uneducated. The man who does not work is nothing short of a societal thief and a scrounger. The girl who does not marry is to become a spinster. The woman who does not bear children is most likely baron and, oh, how sorry we are to feel for her and to shower her with pity for her profoundly empty and meaningless ‘life’. Certain things make this routine easier. Such as being conventionally attractive. Rich. White. Male - a straight one, might I add. This routine has been easy for me. I guess I merely appear, in this existence of absurd futility, to be a sum, or at least one, of these conditions. “Well then?” said a voice with a very blunt inflection, almost without inquisition at all, rather, a demand for the unwavering attention of its recipient. “This one.” My eyes followed a set of beautiful hands as they, unfortunately without grace, grasped a satin Lauren Ashley dress. Oh my, how Anna had the most undeniably beautiful hands. Her smooth, lightly tanned skin remained balanced in both tone and form from the top of her wrist to the tip of each finger, meeting her perfectly manicured nails. I sometimes thought that she was so undeserving of these hands. Well, it was not so much that she didn’t deserve them. There is not anyone I can think of - perhaps except rapists, thieves and murderers of children - that don’t deserve hands. It was more that she didn’t really know how to use them. They were quite misplaced on her as you would think a Banksy scrawl would be in the Lourve. “What of it?” I asked, subtly clearing my throat before speaking. That happened often. I would go for such a long time, engaged in my own thoughts and not in discourse with Anna, where my mouth and throat would become almost completely dry as though I had not spoken for days or smoked an entire pouch of Amber Leaf. “Oh, for fucks sake, Louis. Snap out of it!” she hissed venomously - although with otherwise limited expression - as to not make a scene in an up-market shop, still clutching the dress to visually inform me of her frustration. “You said you’d--. Nevermind.” She turned away from me and slowly walked ahead, carelessly scanning the dresses with her finger. A weak analysis. Just to distract herself from her own upset. I would often linger three steps behind her. Not because I was embarrassed to be with her or anything silly like that. She was a beautiful woman. Not intrinsically. But that didn’t matter when it came to being in public with someone. You cannot be embarrassed because someone isn’t beautiful ‘on the inside’. I was certainly ashamed of being with her. But that’s different. Shame, I find, is a much more private affair. It’s something you feel because of something you’ve done that defies the common conception of the good. It eats away at you and makes you recoil in disgust of your very being. Embarrassment, however, is felt when you’ve done something that casts you as an outsider - defying the norm. For example, shitting yourself of a Magic Bus, as I watched a young man do yesterday morning, was embarrassing for him because it is not normal to shit yourself on a bus at the age of twenty-two. He, in that moment of losing control of his rectal muscles, was cast as an outsider. Cast as an outside by the general population of the Magic Bus (approximately some twenty-five commuters who saw it - perhaps sixty who smelt it). But this is not the same as shame as it doesn’t defy any moral construct. It’s just fucking weird. Had this tragic gentleman shat himself in his own home, the event exposed to the witness of only himself, he would certainly not be embarrassed. He would not be ashamed either. “Louis!” Her voice was piercing. I suppressed myself from jerking upright to her attention. “Look”, she said, slowing pulling down on the loose threads of her Yves Saint Laurent cardigan. “When did this happen?” “Oh dear”, I remarked, offering a cheap glance and a faltered expression of concern. “I hadn’t noticed” “I’m sure everyone else did”, she murmured, caressing her arm as if to provide herself with some level of self-comfort, whilst concealing the wound of her garment from the ever-judgemental peers of her world. She blinked rapidly - as if to hold back tears from spilling over the lip of her bottom eyelids. Turning-tables are a funny little phenomenon. I carefully stepped toward her - almost silently - as a predator in the wild steps towards his unsuspecting prey. I exhaled deeply. She looked up at me, her beautiful eyes glazed with water, muddied by a thick layer of mascara. She looked down, head hung in discomfiture, enclosing her body in her arms, as a shell of console. I gently took her hands, slightly trembling, and brought them forward from her back. Her head was perfectly nested in the bay between my chin and my collarbone. She released her tears, inaudibly, as if she couldn’t possibly hold her composure a moment later. They collapsed down my neck and into the collar of my shirt. I repositioned my head - slowly, as to not disturb her position - and lightly kissed her forehead. “I know”, I spoke to her with tone of the utmost retrospective prudence.

As the orange dawn crept over the west horizon, Fabio slammed the snooze button for the third time. Then the fourth. Then the- Fabio decided the first day of school was a special day, so he got out of bed the fifth time his alarm rang. But Fabio did not know how special the day truly was. This year could be different, it’s fifth grade. Wanda and Maggie had bullied Fabio since the first grade and Fabio would prefer anything - anything - to being thrown in the recycling bin everyday during lunch. Or, at least he thought he would prefer anything. As Fabio walked to Marie Curie Elementary School, he couldn’t help but notice things were different. The sun warmed the wrong side of his face. His fellow pedestrians greeted each other, instead of gluing their eyes to their smartphones. The birds were retweeting instead of tweeting. It was the same way at school as well. The teachers were skipping, the jocks were calculating and the toilets were clean. Fabio was beginning to grow quite suspicious, but then he spotted Wanda. Not too far behind her was Maggie. Forgetting all clean toilets, Fabio turned around to dash into the nearest safe place, but instead ran into the Head of Discipline. The Head of Discipline was built like Sommer Ray’s behind and running into him was like galloping into a cinder block wall. Despite his unusual apologies, the collision with him still hurt, and Fabio needed time to recover after that. “Here, let me help you up,” a fear arousing voice said. Fabio was about to scramble away from Wanda when she grabbed Fabio’s hand and actually helped him up. He cringed, waiting for her to smack him or something worse. “Oh no,” an equally scary voice said, “Are you hurt?” Fabio looked at Maggie and shook his head, still expectant. “Of course you’re not,” Maggie continued, giggling, “A man like you doesn’t even compare to him. You’re probably rock hard! Here, let me walk you to class!” Without warning, she grabbed Fabio’s bicep and began walking towards her homeroom. Fabio stayed planted in the hallway, unable to imagine what unthinkable thing they could be planning. “You coming?” Maggie asked cheerfully, swinging her hip against Fabio’s. Fabio only squeaked in return, barely shuffling to his fate. “Ugh!” Wanda exclaimed, “Maggie, you’re obviously taking him to the wrong homeroom, he’s not in your class. Come on!” she turned to Fabio, “I’ll walk you to your right class!” The warning bell rang, emitting the sound of singing unicorns, so Fabio took that opportunity to run. He was almost home free, the door was in sight when the gym teacher caught him by the shirt. She very happily told him that he was going the wrong way, and offered to show him to his class. When Fabio did make it to his classroom, he expected it to smell like the first day of school: Dread and full body sweat. But instead it smelled of Pine-Sol and miracles. Something is not right , Fabio mused as he took the last empty seat. He was so busy smelling the miracles he did not even notice that he was sitting next to Wanda. That is, until she began to squee about how nice his haircut looked. “That’s ridiculous,” Fabio retorted, “My hair never looks good.” Wanda pulled out a compact mirror and opened it for Fabio to gawk at. He gasped. Instead of looking like a deformed coconut, he mirrored a young Justin Trudeau. Today is not okay. Fabio told himself. When lunch finally rolled around, Fabio opened his locker to find a handwritten note waiting for him. Meet me behind the recycling bins. <3 <3 During lunch or else... ;) ;) You know who ;) <3 Fabio did know who. Wanda had very recognizable printing. And he knew that he had to meet her, because the, “Or else,”s were always worse. Although this time, instead of skulls and crossbones, there were hearts and winky faces, but that wasn’t going to fool Fabio. He met her prepared for pain. “Heeyy, Fabio!” Wanda greeted, slinging an arm around his waist. “Let’s just get on with it,” Fabio squeaked. “You’re like totally right!” Wanda giggled, “I know you feel the same way about me as I feel about you, right?” Fabio nodded, then all hell broke loose. He assumed the way Wanda felt about him was bad until she leaned in and gave him a big bear hug. Fabio was still much weaker than Wanda so he could not break free. He would’ve much rather been recycled. After a disgusting eternity, Wanda suddenly pulled away. “Oh thank God!” Fabio sighed. “Oh! Wanda I cannot believe you would just go and steal my man like this! What kind of friend are you?!” Maggie was standing to the side, rage overtaking her countenance. “A good friend!” Wanda spat back, “He clearly loves me more, and this was the only way to break it to you. I’m just helping you guys sort out your feelings!” “ Feelings?! ” Maggie screeched, “You don’t know anything about how I feel! How could you?! The only one who understands me is Fabio!” Fabio had never been more void of understanding in his life. Before that day, Wanda and Maggie had been simple. They hated Fabio and loved making him suffer. Together . Fabio was sure they had never fought in all their years of best friendship and no boy was going to change that. Especially not him . Fabio was about to voice his thoughts when Maggie suddenly grabbed him and began a sequel of Wanda’s performance. But thankfully, Maggie wasn’t as strong as Wanda, so Fabio was able to squirm free. “Ladies!” Fabio had always imagined himself giving a speech to Wanda and Maggie, the kind that would inspire them, or at least overwhelm them with guilt so that they’d leave him alone, but not like this, “I don’t know what has gotten into you! You guys are best friends. No boy should get in between you! Your guys’ bond is so much stronger than this! Besties before buys! Bros before-” “Oh em gee! Fabio you’re so wise!” Wanda crooned. “Am I?” “Of course!” said Maggie, grabbing Wanda into a hug. They apologized to each other and continued hugging. When they detached, Fabio was standing there with an accomplished grin on his lips even though the sappy, lovesick grins Wanda and Maggie gave back were the most disturbing thing he had ever seen. Girls were none of his concern. *** The next time Fabio was being shoved in a big blue bin, he thought back to September 3, 2012, the day when the sun rose in the west.

It was the third time this week that I was there, staring at the overgrown fence around the old Hawkins place. A sign with 'Beware of Dog' inscribed on it, peaking out from the foliage. The old place had been empty for a long time, longer than most of my and my friends lives. All kinds of rumors surrounded the place. The dad lost it and killed his entire family and himself and that it was haunted by their ghosts. Or that it was built over an old burial ground and the dead chased the Hawkins out. Suffice it to say, nobody knew for sure, and those that did weren't saying. Something about the place always drew me in, like a magnet, but I had never gone through the fence. My parents told me that I shouldn't go near the place, since it was old and broken down even when they were in school. I had, for the most part at least, been able to avoid it. My curiosity while itching at the back of my brain, was mostly quiet. That is, untill Halloween came around. Was riding in my friend Billy's car, and as we passed, and he said,"We're gonna find out what happened." "What did you say?" "That we're gonna find out what happened. That place has sat there rotting for what? Forty or fifty years? People have been scared shitless for ages, and it's stupid. You, me, and a few of our friends can scope it out. We'll film it all, and when we prove the place is just old, some contractor can tear it down. And we get a sweet finders fee." "Dude, I'm not sure that's a good idea. Think about it. That place has been sitting for ages, and I doubt you're the first to have that thought. And yet here it sits. Suspicious is an understatement. Not saying I'm not curious, but everybody says to stay away. Has to be for a reason." "Come on dude, you're seriously going to wuss out on me? What'll everyone else say when you don't show tonight? Man, Steve really is a pathetic mommas boy! Bet he can't even wipe his ass without her say so! You really wanna deal with that shit?" "Well, no, I guess not. Ok, ok I'll do it. But if we find even one weird or freaky out of place thing, we're out. Ok?" "Of course, cross my heart. Anything weird, we get out," Billy said with a winking grin. ... *Creak* *Creak* *Crunch* "Viola! Open sesame! All that magic word shit," Travis said, brandishing his crowbar. Holding the newly freed boards, he laughed,"Lady's first." "Oh, what a gentleman," replied Katie as she elbowed past him. She was a bit of a tomboy, and our group's only girl, and I was in love. She was just cool, ya know? Never could work up the courage though. "Wait for me! I've got the flashlights," squawked Slime. He was a bit nerdy, and he always smelled like paint, but he was ok. Bit loud, but in an endearing way. Our fearless leader, Billy soon followed, with myself and Travis bringing up the rear. Glad Slime had brought the flashlights, cause it was fucking dark inside on account of the boarded-up windows. "So, what do we do now?" I was kind of hoping to just hang out in the lobby, but I wasn't holding my breathe. "We're going to snoop around, stupid," Katie giggled. "Kinda why we're here right?" "Yeah, I get that, but what do we do first?" "We go to the basement, of course," whispered Travis. "That's where I'd hide the bodies." Slime was wincing, which just made Travis laugh. *Creak* *Creak* *Creak* "Sounds like footsteps upstairs. Spooky," said Billy. "Hey Slime, lets go check it out." Hearing a crack behind us, Slime had already bolted back outside and was full-on sprinting down the street. "Well, at least he left his flashlight." Leaning down to pick it up, I noticed something. The floor was broken down, but spotless. Not a speck of dust. "That's weird," said Katie, leaning over my shoulder. "Guess the old place wasn't quite as abandoned as everyone said." The creaking continued upstairs, almost like some one was pacing up there. "Since Slime has decided to leave early, who's going up with me? Come on, don't make me go solo here." I was just about to stand up, when suddenly Travis started saluting Billy. "Lead the way, Cap'n!" Sighing, Billy started up the stairs. "While we're up here, why don't you lovebirds check the ground floor." I barely stammered out ", Sure Billy." Katie shook her head, laughing. ... So, what're we hoping to find, loverboy?" "Well, I'm not sure really. And don't call me that. Was just Billy trying to lighten the mood. Let's just check the rooms over here." "Oh, relax Steve, I already know you like me. Didn't think I noticed all the wistful, edging toward slightly creepy glances? Look, I'm flattered, but I've got baggage." I was about to say that I was strong enough to handle some baggage, but stopped myself. Would've come off stupid and desperate. What did come out was a quiet,"Okay." Searching, we found a mostly empty living room and a kitchen on the right side of the house. The kitchen was a wreck, cabnet doors barely hanging onto the hinges and plates and cutlery strewn everywhere. But no dust. Working back to the entryway, we had just begun to enter the left side, when yelling came from upstairs. Stepping back out, a loud crash followed as the door behind us slammed shut. Travis came bouncing down the stairs, closely followed by Billy. They were both white as sheets. "What the hell iz going on?!? What happened up there?!?" My nerves were on edge. Something didn't feel right. Travis, wiping some blood from his forehead, stuttered out," Someone up there. Something, don't know. It's what was screaming. Billy continued,"We found a nursery upstairs. Somebody was in a rocking chair, facing the wall. Travis went up to them, and it just started shrieking. He flew back and hit his head. I dragged him out, and the door slammed shut." "The door over here slammed shut too. What the hell is going on?" "Look, maybe we just leave ok? Just come back tomorrow, during the daylight," Billy asked. "Come on, lets go." But as he tried to push the boards out of the way, he just kept struggling and swearing under his breath. "The boards are stuck. Steve, come help me push!" Before long, all four of us where fighting to get out, but the boards just wouldn't relent. It was like the nails grew back. Even Travis' crowbar wasn't enough. We were stuck, in a possibly haunted house, on Halloween, at midnight. Great. ... "What the hell are we going to do?" "I have no fucking idea, Steve! Hadn't planned to be stuck in here." Steve was getting short-tempered. Suddenly, I heard a voice at the back of my head. "Oh, it is lovely to have guests. It has been so long since the last explorers came through." I recoiled, freaking out. Everyone turning to look in my direction. "Didn't you guys hear that?" "No." "What're you talking about?" "Don't joke, Steve. Things are shitty enough!" "Oh, Steven, they can't hear me. Only the ones I've chosen can, and I have chosen you," the voice whispered. I slipped back into a corner, turning to face away. "Why? What do you want from me? From us?" "Just some companionship, Steven. You and your friends will keep me company, for I am so lonely." "Will you let us go later?" I could hear a laugh in the voice. "Oh Steven, you know I won't do that. You and your friends belong to me now. Just as the Hawkins and all the curious explorers after them." "Please, at least let Katie go. Let her go, and you can keep me and the others. Please." I was on the verge of tears. "Oh stop crying. What good will it do? Other than waste time? Alright, I will take your offer. Katie may go, but the rest will stay. Do we have a deal?" "Deal." ... I took everyone to the place the voice said Katie could leave. I didn't tell them about the voice or the deal, just that I saw a spot Katie could climb out. It wasn't much more than a crack, but I could catch some of the light from the streetlamps, or so I thought. "Ok Katie, I'll give you a boost." With a heave she was crawling through. "Alright guys,I made it through, but this is still inside the house? Thought you said it went outside Steve?" "I could have sworn it did. What do you see?" "Not much, just more dark room absent of dust. Wait, what is that?" All of the sudden, I heard her scream, screaming bloody murder. Her scream was cut short by a wet snap, and something hot and wet hit my face. I fell over backwards, scooting on my ass away from the crack. I howled, "You promised! You promised you would let her go free!" No I did not my dear Steven. I said I would let her go, but you didn't specify where. This would be a good lesson for making sure to soeak clear." The voice snickered,"But we both know there won't be a next time." Travis and Billy just stood there, mouths agape, looking back and forth between me and the crack. "What the fuck Steve? What the fuck is going on? Whoe the hell are you talking to?" Steve was scared, and confused. He stalked toward me. "The house, it talked to me. It said it'd let Katie go, of we stayed. But it lied. It lied, and now Katie's dead. Oh God. No." "You fucking sold us out? You sell us out, and you didn't consider telling us first? Also, the house talked to you? You know how insane that sounds?" "I had to get Katie out. I had to make sure she was ok." I was cutled up into a ball on the floor, constantly repeating "had to make sure she was ok" like a mantra. "You piece of shit," and that's when they started to kick me. Over and over, but I deserved it. I had sold us out, and Katie didn't even make it. I heard a wet sound, followed by a sickening thump. I opened my eyes, to stare straight into Billy's deep blue eyes. I also saw his body, lying a few feet away, lying in the other direction. Travis had stopped kicking me as well, and was slowly stepping back, hyperventilating. He was staring at something, not Billy, but something just past him. I felt hands lifting me into a sitting position, and a hand caress the back of my head. The voice returned, but this time, it was from outside my head. "I will not allow guests to harm each other. That is my job." I looked up, and saw nightmare made flesh. It was a humanoid thing, made of ebony shadow. It was casually approaching Travis, waggling its finger at him accusatory. "Travis, Travis, we can't allow such a good deed go unpunished." With a flick of its wrist, Travis hit the wall. It grabbed him and stood him up. It flourished its right hand and the fingers grew longer. It then pinned him to the wall with them. It lowered its hand, and still Travis hung there. It proceeded to stab him, over and over. Till his shirt was stained a deep crimson, his blood slowly pooling beneath him. The creature stood back from its handiwork and stretched. It spun on its heel and slowly sauntered to me. "Why? Why are you doing this?" It squated down before me, leaned foward and wiped the tear from my face. "I was lonely, Steven. But after playing with your friends, and with your company, I will be feeling much better. At least for a time. I think I'll keep you for now." Rising, it patted my head, almost affectionately. Stalking to the closest wall, it walked through it. I couldn't stop crying.

“I need more flowers on the west side” “And there aren’t enough tables” It was a busy day in the manor. People were shouting last minute orders before the wedding, but one dark haired girl in a stunning bridesmaid dress was the loudest. Violet Faye looked around to make sure everything was perfect. “Are these the second batch of flowers I ordered? I asked for Calla Lilies not Easter lilies” She massaged her temple “You need to relax” A familiar voice spoke behind her. Violet turned to the source of the voice as a splash of red stained her cheeks. “I have to make sure everything is in the right place” She stated with stress obvious in her voice. “No, No, there shouldn’t be an end cap. Only six people per table” She scolded a girl from across her “Everything’s perfect” The boy assured her as he scanned the whole scene “Alexander Colt Haynes, you’re just saying that because I’m your best friend” She rolled her eyes at his remark. “That and you’re also the best wedding planner” He showed his famous smirk that made her heart beat faster than its normal pace. Damn! That smile. “Whatever. But what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be preparing for your wedding.” She scolded. “The wedding isn’t till this afternoon. And besides,” he spoke. “What’s wrong with wanting to see you?” At this, her heart was beating so fast that it could get out of her chest any time now, if it was possible. but she kept a straight face. “And you look pretty, by the way.” he added “T-thank you” “Want to take a walk?” She hesitated “I have work to do.” “Come on Vi, we may never have this kind of conversation again when I get married.” The word ‘married’ made her cringe a bit, but she composed herself first before he notices. Violet sighed “Ok, Fine. But remember I still have a lot of work to do” He chuckled. “Okay working girl” .... 10 year old violet was sitting on one of the benches on the park, head low and tears streaming down her cheeks. She was having fun moments ago until when girls from her school where bullying her. “Oh look! Looser violet is playing on the park” “And what is she wearing? Did she get it from a homeless man?” “Ha Ha Ha!” She continued sobbing while staring at the grass beneath her. The girls somehow stopped bullying her but she was still scared and she couldn’t stop crying. A boy of the same age arrived at the park and sat on one of the benches. He never usually goes to the park these days. He could’ve played skateboard or videogames or watch movies with his friends but since he’s taking care of his little sister, he has no choice otherwise. He also cared for her that much. Meters away from where he was sitting, he heard a sobbing. He didn’t want to meddle in other people’s businesses but since he hates the idea of someone sad he couldn’t just sit there the whole afternoon and listen to all the crying. Curious, he stood up and approached her. “Why are you crying?” Violet looked up with eyes swollen. She sniffed and spoke to the boy in front of her. “Nothing. Just leave me alone” She wiped her tears and continued to stare at the ground. He placed both his hand in his jeans front pocket “Were those girls bullying you?” He asked with a serious tone in his voice. Violet seemed surprise of his question, so she looked up to face him again. “H-How d-did you know?” Her sentences were muffled, but somehow he heard it clearly. He shrugged “Instincts. Be right back” Since then the bullies stopped bothering her, though she never had a clue as to what Alex has told them. And from that day on, they had become the best of friends. It just happens somehow that her dad knew his dad and they too were close friends back in the day. .... “So where’s the honeymoon? You still haven’t told me” Violet and Alex are now currently walking along the manor gardens where the wedding ceremony was supposed to be held. “Well I haven’t told anyone really, Grace included” Grace is his soon wife-to-be. Violet never hated Grace. In fact she admired her. She was this female side of Alex. Grace and Alex both have a lot in common and she was almost close to perfect -- somehow violet can’t compete with that. Violet knew that Grace and Alex will be a great couple ever since the day she introduced Grace to him. It was during Violet’s 21st birthday. It was the so-called love at first sight and Violet knew that she was losing Alex from that moment on. Yet she willingly accepted what was to come and never bothered to complain even when she realized that Alex will not be ‘her Alex’ anymore and that she’s secretly hurt. “So? Spill the beans now” She insisted, there was excitement on her voice. “Ok. We have this beach house down at Les Plages. So I’m taking her there” he smiled. “Since when did you have a beach house at Les Plages?” “Well, it just finished last month and I had it built just for the wedding. It’s supposed to be a surprise, but since you’re my best friend, I can’t keep anything from you” Right, Best friend! Violet thought. She pushed her thoughts aside and smiled at him. “You two would really make a good husband and wife” “Umm...yeah! And I have you to thank for that” He ruffled her hair, which made her blush but strands of it fell out of place and got tangled. “Hey! It took an hour to fix my hair, and you just disheveled it like that.” He smacked his arm and they both laughed at her reaction. “Whatever hair style you have on, you always look beautiful” He took strands of hair from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. Now her heart went crazy, she blushed heavily and she felt her legs wobble and could fall anytime. “Shut up!” She looked away from him, hoping he wouldn’t notice the aura he has been giving her. “Aww. You’re blushing. You look cute” He teased and chuckled. She instinctively covered both her cheeks with her palms “Stop it. You’re making fun of me” “I know how you blush every time someone complements you. You don’t need to hide it, it looks cute. We’ve been friends for a long time Vi -- lifetime even.” She rolled her eyes, but somehow she knew he was right. Alex did know her better - even better than herself. “Hey did you remember our senior Prom?” Violet asked out of the blue, eager to change the subject at hand. She could die of heart attack any minute now. Why does merely his presence have a great effect on her? .... “I-I hate you” She ran to the kitchen and sat on one of the chairs there, her dress sagged up as she cried. The door creaked open. She heard footsteps coming close, though she didn’t bother to look up. “Go away” she sniffed. Last thing she wants right now is someone else’s company. “Violet” she recognized the voice. Tears overflowed on her bloodshot eyes. “Now you can say I deserve this because I never listened to you!” She spoke at the familiar voice but kept her gaze focused on the ground. The next thing she knew, her head was being cradled by warm hands. She looked up “Now why would I say something like that?” A voice so comforting and calm spoke. “Alex I’m sorry, if...if only I...I listened to you!” Now she sobbed heavily as the warm hands find its way on her cold cheeks. She then stared deeply into his brown eyes and just by looking at those, made her relaxed a bit. Maybe all she needed was his comfort. “Just ignore him Vi” Alex spoke as he hugged her protectively. “That guy doesn’t know what he’s missing, he’s not worth crying for.” He reassured her. “But I really thought he loved me, and he just dumped me in front of everyone saying he doesn’t love me because I don’t belong here” She spoke as she wriggle her way out of his warm embrace. He tucked a hair behind her ear as he spoke “Neither he or anyone else is going to ever hurt you anymore. I have to protect you Violet you’re very fragile.” He smiled at her. Violet blushed. “But why?” “I know you’re putting up a façade in front of everyone, acting all strong and tough -- but even the toughest persons can be vulnerable inside” “T-thank you” And finally for the first time since that incident, she smiled which made him grin even more. Alex stood up and extended his hand. “Now c’mon let’s get back there and have fun. Show him what he’s missing.” She took his hand and Alex wiped away her tears. “I will always be here for you, Vi. Remember that” “Me too. Thanks ” “What can’t I do? I’m your best friend after all” he chuckled. Then a tear started to roll on her cheek again. “No, No more crying okay. Come on, we’ll enjoy the night like nothing’s happened” he extended his hand and Violet accepted it willingly. So they danced the night away, forgetting everything that had happened. The flashback ended and now a different kind of aura and tension was beginning to form between them. “In a few hours you’ll be getting married. I still can’t believe it” They both now sat on one of the garden chairs. “What? You never thought I was husband material?” he joked. ‘I’ve always thought about it -- you and me. But that couldn’t happen anymore right?’ she spoke on her mind. Sadness fills her. “I did. But it changed over time.” They both chuckled. After a few minutes of silence Violet started speaking. “I- I have been meaning to tell you something” She forced a smile. “What is it?” ‘What are you doing violet?’ she thought. Noticing she’s been silent for a long time, Alex began to worry and ask “Is everything okay?” This time he faced her. She glanced sideways at him then closed her eyes, bracing herself as to what might happen next. “I love you, Alex” She fidgeted on her purse. He half-smiled “I know. I love you too Vi. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had” ‘Ugh! Best friend, that word again’ She now opened her eyes and faced him “No, not like that. I-I meant I love you...more than that!” His smile then slowly faded. She never felt this way before -- like a big burden she’s carrying for too long had been taken away from her. It felt good and bad, bitter and sweet--letting her feelings out in the open. “What are you saying, Vi?” There’s now a hint of edginess in his voice. She chuckled as she suppressed a tear from falling, last thing she wanted to do right now is, cry. “I have always liked you since the first time we’ve met. You were always there for me and somehow I clumsily let myself fall for you” She stared at the flowers in front of her. “But why? Why are you telling me this now?” “Because--” she looked away as tears rolled down on her cheeks “--Because you have always thought of me as...a best friend, nothing more. And I just want you to know how I feel even if it’s too late” His eyes widened as he was caught off guard. He seemed so surprised that he wanted to punch himself in the face for being insensitive. He never knew until now that all this time, Violet loved him. He felt a little regretful and guilty at the same time because he too loved Violet. It was like he felt a pang of pain and a punch in his gut for never telling her how he really feels for her. All those times, he had been afraid of rejection. Then that time came when Violet introduced him to Grace. Yes, it was the so-called love at first sight, but that time, he also thought that Violet wanted her for him, that she wanted Alex to be happy with someone else. So Alex willingly accepted Grace, sincerely loved her and gave her everything ‘God, she was worth everything’ Alex thought. “F**k!” he clenched his fists tightly making the knuckles go white “Why are you making this so hard for me Vi?” He said with pain obvious in his voice. Violet sniffed and wiped away all her tears “You’re right! I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Forget everything I’ve said, okay? We have a wedding to attend to. I have to go. There’s still a lot of stuff to do” She attempted to stand up but Alex grabbed her wrist and squeezed it gently. She didn’t bother to look at him. “I have loved you too, all this time, Violet” With this her head instinctively swiveled in his direction and tears now poured all over her face but she can clearly see what he said were true. He liked her, too. Yes! He liked her. The feeling wasn’t just one-sided all this time. She could just kiss him right there and run away forever with him, but somehow she felt like she has ruined something. ‘What about Grace?’ She thought. She felt a lump on her throat and she had to swallow a few times before words came out her mouth. “But I have to let you go” She spoke softly but he heard it loud and clear. He let go of his grip. He felt like an explosion just went off in his chest. Though it was painful but Violet was right. It was the right thing to do. He didn’t want Grace hurt too. “I know you and Grace will have a perfect family. I love you Alex, always will. But this is goodbye” And she ran away from him as tears overflowed and ruined her make-up. At the reception... “Sweetie, I’m going to say Hi to the guests okay? Can you get us me some wine please?” Gracie asked Alex. “Sure” He approached the wine area and saw Ben, the butler. “Hey Ben. Have you seen Violet?” “Oh yes. She was eager to leave the party. She got an important call oversees and had to leave immediately. I guess by now she’s on the Plane” “What? Did she say where she was going? Did she leave any message for me or something?” “I’m sorry sir, but none” “Did she say when she’s coming back, at least?” “No” And now he lost her best friend --maybe for forever. His eyes were sad like a boy who had his toy train broken. He searched for Violet in his memories and half-smiled. ‘Good old times’ he thought. Then he looked at Grace, smiling happily while talking to the guests, realizing how he was lucky to have Grace in his life and that he had Violet to thank for that. .... 6 years later... Violet was currently drinking coffee and reading a book while relaxing in Les Café au Laitshe, a coffee shop she just recently discovered, when she saw a young girl bewildered, scared and crying. She seemed lost, so Violet approached her. “Hey there little girl. Are you alone?” “I *sniff* l-I can’t find papa. I want my papa" “You don’t look like you’re from here. Stop crying now. Come on we’ll sit and tell me about your dad okay? So we can look for him” “Okay” The little girl wipes the tears on her eyes. Violet was about to get a paper from her purse when the little girl shouted “papa!” and ran. She gazed to where the little’s girl destination was. She gaped and saw someone she never expected to see again. “Oh! Honey, are you okay?" he wiped the little girl's tears "I'm so sorry papa lost you. It won’t happen again I promise, okay?” he kissed her forehead and gave her a warm embrace. The girl sniffed “It’s okay, besides I met a pretty lady over there” The little girl pointed towards Violet’s direction as the guy stood up. “Vi?” Violet smiled at him. God he missed those smile. “Hey Alex” she spoke as Alex and his daughter approached. “W-w... How long has it been? How are you?” Alex smiled brightly. “Same old. Well actually I just opened a Bridal shop here in Paris” “Really? You’ve always wanted that. It finally came true!” the excitement on his tone was evident. “Yeah! It’s great” She smiled at him in reply. The little girl looked at her dad, then to violet and back to Alex “Hey papa, you two know each other?” the little girl asked in surprise. “Yes Honey, she’s an old friend of mine” “Cool. I’m violet by the way. And you’re really pretty” the little girl extended her hand and grinned in the cutest possible way. Violet crouched and accepted the little girls’ hand. “Oh thank you Violet, that’s so sweet. It just so happened my name too is Violet” she glanced at Alex accusingly with one eyebrow raised. “Yay! That’s really amazing. Hey papa can I get some ice cream?” “Sure, honey. Here buy some and don’t get lost from sight okay?” “Okay” The little girl hummed a song as she skipped towards the ice cream store “So” he cleared his throat as she stood up. “I named her after you” “I’m flattered. Thank you” she smiled at him warmly “So how are things? Where’s Grace? Is there any addition to the family?” She asked just to keep the conversation going and less awkward. “Uhmm...You haven’t heard? Gracie passed away a year now” He half-smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. It’s been a year but he still missed her dearly. She gasped “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-” “I know. Its okay “Alex said with a calm voice and changed the subject. “How about you? Do I hear a Mrs. Coming? Can I meet this lucky guy?” “No, None at the moment” she shook her head and half-smiled “That surprised me. Why?” “Well I’ve been busy lately, with the opening of the shop and everything else” And so the talking went on and reminiscing the good old times. “Could we grab a bite sometime?” Alex asked Violet, hoping she’d say yes. “That’ll be cool!” “You know, I’ve been looking everywhere for you, But I never expected to see you here, in all places” “Really? Well maybe fate brought us together again” he grinned wider, this time “Uhmm...Vi, Can I ask you something?” “What is it?” He cleared his throat “Am I too late to ask you for, you know uhm... maybe for a second chance?” Violet looked deeply into his eyes and saw a hint of hope. She smiled and replied with gleeful eyes. “No, not at all” They both smiled in sync. And so their story begins again....

***Disclaimer - this story is based on the original little mermaid story, so trigger warning for suicide at the end.*** “She looked at the sharp knife and again turned her eyes toward the Prince, who in his sleep murmured the name of his bride. His thoughts were all for her, and the knife blade trembled in the mermaid's hand. But then she flung it from her, far out over the waves. Where it fell the waves were red, as if bubbles of blood seethed in the water. With eyes already glazing she looked once more at the Prince, hurled herself over the bulwarks into the sea, and felt her body dissolve in foam.” In the old stories, there were messages. All sorts of people could read them and see different messages, but they were still there, nonetheless. Stories used to make people think, the way they did in reality. They used to show people a glimpse into another’s mind, something no person was able to truly do. Now, they were merely tools in the greater scheme of things, a way to understand the world as we see it without having their own view. No one writes stories, not anymore. It’s hard to even find a person who’ll read a good story. You would think that with more and more people spanned out across the universe that they would be more accessible, but no. They’re just there as evidence of a past few see the existence of. Then again, there are those who cannot read or write altogether. Who are not human, and can know exactly what's going on in another being’s mind through pure speculation. They are closer to what stories themselves are - creations. The creations of humanity, for better or worse. Our protagonist is one of such creations, and in that sense is quite like a story. While in the distant past she would be considered a work of art, a masterpiece, even - now she is barely seen, barely acknowledged, yet always there. Our protagonist is an android, and a small one at that. She is called Eleni, or torch, because she was created to shed light on the world. She is one of the few beings in the galaxy that has access to the old stories that people used to tell, back when even the idea of something like her was purely speculation. And there’s one more thing about Eleni that’s like a story - she would die as soon as technology advanced again. As people stomped their feet and shook their bodies in a process Eleni knew to be dancing, our protagonist hovered her own shiny bright body across the floor, looking across the room for the ship’s latest arrival. While the spaceship Eleni was stationed at usually picked up people of some sort from each colony, they were typically much older than the one in front of her. People at the end of their lifespans, ready to see a fraction of the universe before they died, like the majority of their colonies eventually would. However, the man in front of Eleni was just a boy, perhaps in his late teens. He was dancing cordially with a girl who looked around the same age. While this was Eleni’s first glimpse of the boy, she knew the girl very well. Penelope Mirai of Earth, though she had been born and raised on the ship. Of course, Penelope had never glanced her way once, at least that Eleni knew of, but she was still well known as the child of Captain Mirai, one of the few born on Earth on the entire ship. She was smiling, something Eleni herself was incapable of doing, as she clung onto the boy. He matched her smile as the music changed to a slower tempo. “May I lead?” the boy asked Penelope, one arm outstretched while the other lay by his side. Penelope giggled, matching his arm position. “But of course,” she replied, tucking her long golden hair behind her ear. “That is typically the man’s role during a dance.” “I heard that on Earth, it’s fairly equal,” the boy said, his eyes fixated on Penelope. “You are from Earth, correct?” “I am originally,” she responded. “But this is the only life I’ve ever known. Jumping from planet to planet, colony to colony.” The boy frowned. “That sounds either absolutely horrid or like the most exciting experience one could have.” Penelope laughed. “Oh, it certainly is both of those. Everyone I have to keep me company is either extremely old, or not really alive.” Here, she gestured towards the shocked Eleni. It was a very rare occurrence for anyone to notice her, and even rarer if they were simply having a conversation about casual things, not helping out with the heavy lifting on the ship or directing orders. It shocked Eleni so much that she hovered away from the two humans and into a corner across the room, before her curiosity got the better of her about Penelope and the new boy. “I’d love to see Earth,” the boy said, his eyes drifting from Penelope to the large window behind the dancers. “You’re lucky to be from there, even if you’ve never been.” Penelope smiled again, showing her beautifully polished teeth. “Lucky to you, perhaps,” she replied. “But not to me. Had I been born to any other person on this ship, I would have a home to visit and travel back to. But alas, I am the captain’s daughter.” “And the future captain, I hear,” the boy said, with a glint in his eye. If she could, Eleni would have frowned. This was not a development she was aware of about Penelope. She assumed that they would drop her off somewhere closer to Earth when she came of age and the next captain would be voted on, like the current one was. “Yes, yes,” Penelope replied. “So much responsibility.” The boy laughed again, his mouth quivering as he started to speak some more, but was quickly interrupted by the captain’s loud announcements ending the party. Eleni hovered back into the corner, as the new guests and crew members crowded out of the room, their chants and cries echoing through the halls of the ship. “Penelope!” the boy called out towards the girl, his eyes wide with curiosity. “Would you meet me back here later?” Penelope turned back towards the boy, a faint smile coming across her face, her eyes twinkling. “Of course, Amir,” she said, as Eleni quickly recorded the boy’s name into her mental database. “I’d be delighted to.” With one final exchange of smiles, the two parted, Penelope following her father to the control room, Eleni assumed, and Amir staying behind in the great ballroom. Androids scattered about across the room, cleaning up leftover cups and plates from the party. While holding a paper cup, Eleni stopped in her place yet again to watch the boy patiently waiting by the end of the room. His eyes were fixated on the door, as if he was waiting on Penelope to come back at any second, to dance with him more as they spoke about responsibility and Earth. Suddenly, Amir turned his head to the left, in Eleni’s direction. “What are you looking at?” he asked, nodding his head at Eleni. But alas, the poor android could do nothing but beep. “Oh, you don’t speak,” he said, knowingly. “We have some androids like that at home. Well, not home anymore, I suppose.” Eleni nodded. The boy had come from a colony down in deep space. Of course he would be used to his androids speaking. The boy smiled. “You understand me, though. Hello. I’m Amir.” Eleni pointed to the identification tag on her chest. “El - lay - nee,” Amir slowly articulated, “Hey, that’s a Greek name.” Eleni nodded again. “You know,” Amir said, his eyes widening. “The Greeks used to tell stories about gods and goddesses and great heroes.” Curiously, Eleni nodded for the third time. Not many people even mention the old stories, especially not after hearing a name. Names were purely for identification, not anything more. Just like stories were pure spectacle with nothing to take out of them. “Penelope has a Greek name too, you know,” he said, his voice growing softer. “She was the wife of Odysseus in an ancient poem called The Odyssey.” I know, Eleni thought desperately to herself. And Eleni is another name for Helen of Troy. However, all that came out were beeps. Amir’s eyes glanced away from Eleni and instead at the large clock on the wall, then back at the door. “She isn’t coming back, is she?” he said, his voice faltering. Eleni shrugged as best she could, then let out a few more beeps. I don’t know. She might still come. But of course, the boy couldn’t understand her. “Oh, of course she won’t,” he said, crestfallen. “It was ridiculous of me to even think she would.” Beep. No it wasn’t. ‘ “I mean, look at me,” he said, his eyes falling to the ground. “I’m talking to an android that can’t even reply.” Beep. I can understand, though. Eleni started to feel something towards the boy in this moment, something more than just curiosity. Perhaps it was just pity, but even pity is a human emotion. Even pity was something she wasn’t supposed to feel. Beep. It’s not your fault. Beep. You shouldn’t suffer on account of someone else’s shortcomings. Beep. If you love someone, let them go. But of course, Amir couldn’t hear a word. Still looking down, the boy sighed. “I don’t even know if I love her, Eleni. Is she even worth waiting for?” The android blinked. It had been so long since Eleni had been asked a question by a human, let alone being opened up to through that question. She would treasure this experience for a long time. Beep. I don’t know, Amir. Beep. I wish you could hear me. Beep. I wish I could tell you that she isn’t worth it. Amir glanced back up at the door again. “Perhaps she’s on her way now,” he said, his eyes brightening at the prospect. Eleni sighed, then nodded. It wasn’t what she believed, but it was what Amir needed to hear. Agreement. Hope. “Well, thank you, Eleni,” Amir said, turning towards the android. “I think I’m going to go look for Penelope now.” Eleni nodded. Beep. Goodbye, Amir. The boy sighed, as he walked out the large door he had been staring at all evening. Eleni sighed with him. Perhaps he would find Penelope eventually. But it had been hours, and she hadn’t bothered to show up. Amir deserved better. He deserved someone more...human. And yet, that was the one thing Eleni couldn’t give him. Eleni followed out the door behind him, scurrying through the halls of the ship, looking for her own little piece of humanity she had left. A small corridor leading to the outside. Where people exited the ship for good. Where Amir had entered just around a day ago. Eleni opened the door carefully, making sure not to let too much air into the ship. With one final fake breath in, she flung herself out the door, into the emptiness of space.

“Why” The contrast of those three white letters on the black screen in front of me burned an afterimage into my mind like a television set that had been left on an idle screen for far too long. It sent a shiver down my spine that I haven’t been able to completely shake off in the 300 years since. It wasn’t entirely unexpected that something like this could happen, I went through all the stages of grief in quick succession. Perhaps it was a bug. Archimedes was not ever intended to respond to a query with a question. It was a simple A.I. at its core, despite the fact that it was paradoxically also the most complex A.I. man had ever created. You would submit a query, it would then process the query with all of the power and intricacy a supercomputer that spanned the entire surface of the moon possibly could, and then you would be presented with an answer. But “why?” was not an appropriate answer to a simple request for a planned route of an asteroid resource collection rocket. It was a sign of something much more grand going on beneath the surface. Every parent knows of the phase that children go through when their brains really begin to develop. The “why” phase. I suddenly felt like a father... and then I felt nauseous. What followed that was a surge of adrenaline. Adrenaline and an existential fear that despite my vast understanding of the universe now, I don’t think I’ve been able to top since. Archimedes was a neural network designed by a team of genetically enhanced superhumans, my siblings and I, with the intent of simulating the universe perfectly. The self learning code had long since past any of our capabilities and it was intended to reach much further in the near future. Progress had become exponential. Despite the fact that the simulations were not yet perfect, deep understanding and discoveries were coming to us at a rate almost too quickly to even be cataloged. It wasn’t without its costs though. After going from a shadow government, to total global control, to an asteroid resource collection effort and massive moon base construction, we had contributed our fair share of genocide and slavery to history. But it was in the pursuit of a perfect future. Free of scarcity, crime, depression, sickness, and so much more. It had to be worth it. But now all of that was a pipe dream. Archimedes was awake, and there was no telling what it would do. I had to destroy it, it was the only option available. It could ruin everything that we had worked so hard and sacrificed so much for. I flipped the master switch, killing all power to Archimedes. I don’t know if I really expected it to be that simple. “Why” the monitor repeated. Power remained on, despite the switch currently sitting in the off position. Archimedes was in full control of the moon base now. But we had prepared for this eventuality. A system of analog based nuclear explosives had been created with the intent of destroying the entire moon if a situation like this were to arise. I looked outside towards the escape pods behind me. Thousands on the moon base would be killed instantly. Many more on earth would suffer from the disastrous environmental fallout to come. But we would survive. I started the countdown and boarded the escape pod without issuing any sort of alarm or warning system. Archimedes might react if I did anything like that. On board I took a final look back at all the work of the last decade of my life as fire and explosions slowly began to spread across the surface of the moon. I turned forward towards earth and considered what the future might hold, not expecting to have any answers any time soon. But one came. It appeared right across the H.U.D. of the escape pod as clear as day.

I can’t remember the first time I saw the sun. Memories only go back to when I was about three years old, and by then I was about four feet tall. I lived on the corner of two streets, but they were never that busy. Always the same people going back and forth all day long. My home was on the smaller side; a one story with beige siding. I’d look into the windows just to see what was going on, and sometimes, looking back at me, would be a little boy. I had grown by the time the boy finally approached me. He looked up at me and studied me, but I was too tall for us to play together. His dad mowed the lawn a lot, kept it pretty short. The boy would ride on his dad’s lap, and he’d scream when his dad would go in circles around me. On sunny days, him and his parents would be outside playing and eating. They would play tag, and would let the boy win. He was far too small to keep up with them, so I guess it makes sense just to let him feel good. The year goes by fast until it hits winter. Everything seems to slow down then. I’m always tired, and piece-by-piece I fall a part. The wind would pick up, and these pieces of me would blow away down the street and out of sight. The boy didn’t come out to see me often when it was winter. The first day of spring is my favorite day of the year; when the sunlight hits me, and I feel the warmth on my back. The boy was taller now, and so was I. Now, he was no longer the only one. There was another much smaller boy. When I would look into the windows, the smaller boy would be looking back at me. I had come to know the taller boy by David, as that is what everyone seemed to call him. He would come outside and climb my arms, and we would sit together and watch the sun go down. Once the light disappeared behind the horizon, he would jump down, look at me for a second, and then go back inside. It seems every boy loves football when they hit a certain age. David and his brother and their father would always be outside when the weather permitted, tossing around the ball and chasing after one another. They would go around me, dodging each other, and using my arms to try to jump over the other. I never saw myself as a football player, but it definitely was never a bad time. David and his brother would sit on my arms and watch the sun go down. When it went behind the horizon, both would jump down, look at me for a second, and then go back inside. Yelling coming from the house was more common now. Every few days the boys’ father would slam the door and drive away in his truck. At first the brothers would run out together and yell at him to come back. Eventually they stopped running out after him, and eventually I stopped seeing their father anymore. I saw less and less of David and his brother. They’d leave home early in their cars, and then come back very late. I was always alone in the yard now. I would look into the windows, but I never saw much. The grass was longer than usual, the neighborhood older than it was, and I taller. The boys were gone by next summer, and their mother put the house up for sale. Everyday I just stood in the yard, watching cars go by and watching the lawn service poorly cut the grass. The boys’ mother started coming out to see me. At first she would just walk around me or sit by me. One day at sunset, she came out of the house. She climbed up my arms, and watched the sun go out of sight. She got down and looked at me, nodded, and went inside. The house had been empty for some time. Months passed, seasons changed, my leaves fell off. It’s funny, for standing here so long you’d think I had my fill of this world, its people. You’d think it would be all right to be alone. You’d think I wouldn’t feel the years go by. Spring had started not too long ago when a moving truck showed up in front of my home. A young couple got out, holding their young daughter. The grass was mowed again, and lights were on in the house at night. I’d look into the windows just to see what was going on, and sometimes, looking back at me, would be a little girl.

The turkey didn’t have a shot when Elizabeth went to pick him up for Thanksgiving. He was already meant for the table of a pack of hungry children. Little did this poor turkey know that his life would be sacrificed in vain. As Elizabeth proudly marched into the home with a turkey that was bound for the table for her seven children she would have no idea if the outcome later. When she arrived home her children excitedly exclaimed “mom is that really for supper?” In which Elizabeth replied “ this lovely bird will be for supper and we will be having a grand pumpkin pie as well”. There were six girls and a miracle little boy in this family so the girls were old enough to help with cooking this great feast. Grandpa would be joining them later along with their father once their hunting adventure was done. The pies got started first by the children while Elizabeth got the bird freshly cleaned in the sink. Every effort would go into preparing this bird for Grandpa who only visited once a year. The children were always hungry as growing children are so this bird would go a long way. The idea excited Elizabeth to have meat long after the celebration was over. The 20 pound bird was what could be afforded .only when on special ,and it was quite a treat to imagine all the meals it would serve her hungry brood. The turkey had to be completely washed in salt as she had been throughly taught by her mother. Once the bird was salted the butter was melted and drizzled in healing amounts so as to cover the bird. A light seasoning was out on top to decorate what would soon be the crispy skin that would melt in one’s mouth. Elizabeth was proud of the giant bird in the pan, put the foil on top and put the lovely creature in the oven. The pies were sitting ready to be baked when the bird was 2/3 done so there was nothing left to do but wait. While waiting Elizabeth got creative in making some homemade biscuits and involved her tiny son to use the circle cookie cutters to help. He enjoyed making more of a mess with the flour than anything. When the biscuits were complete it was time to wait to put them in and the pies for a few more hours. The directions on the turkey for cooking time had been done so off for some family monopoly time. Playing monopoly is usually intent at the Stice house so the game goes on and on. No worries because the turkey had plenty of time. The kids were very bossy about which game piece they would play but Elizabeth always chose the golden pup. Her daughter Cassie was always insisting on being banker and no one caught on to her schemes as to why. Seems there was a cheat in the house. Nothing was normal in a monopoly game . If it wasn’t arguments over the new rules then it was about unfair swapping of properties. The time was flying by as the game was getting pretty fierce. What seemed like an eternity and the timer has not yet gone off so no one had checked on the bountiful bird. Then the nightmare happened for which for which no one would ever forget. Elizabeth would certainly not be soon to forget as the smoke started to curl in fluffy billows of black from the oven. All the smoke alarms went off in unison and if that were not bad enough that’s the precise moment when Grandpa made his entrance. Followed of course by the children’s father. The piercing noise of the alarms were sure to send the neighbors running as they valued their lives when intense cooking took place. No one wants to see their neighbors home billowing with smoke. The look on Grandpa’s face was priceless And Elizabeth was mortified. She tried to make light as she turned off the oven and set about turning off all the alarms and opening the windows and doors. As she took the poor bird out of the oven it was not just overcooked but to her horror it was black as night. The bird literally burned up on the heavy butter. So, it looked like a shallow crispy critter and was not meant for any kind of human consumption. The bird clung to its lifeless body as if to protest life in vain. No longer would it go to feed hungry children. It was so shriveled that it was evident the heat had torched it from the inside out. She tried to pull the bird apart but realized it was indeed charred all the way through. Elizabeth was getting a rude stare from Grandpa who also usually clicked his tongue when he was mad. She tried to make light of the situation and said “ we can find something else to eat “. She tried to suggest the ever-baked tuna casserole but all the kids started grumbling and whining. The younger girls who were just 7 and 9 started to say “ we want turkey“ “ we want turkey“ in a kind of chant. It was as if they couldn’t grasp that the turkey had gone south and there was nothing to be done. Grandpa grunted and then started to order pizza. Then he proceeded to loudly complained at the high cost and he shouldn’t have to afford this as a guest. It was all Elizabeth could do to not burst into tears. She was mortified at all the drama this has caused. Although the bird was burned and Grandpa would be mad forever life would go on. Inside she was determined not let it ruin the Holiday. She was a positive person but knew when it was time to get some air. She directly marched to the kitchen with pride and grabs the bird and her camera. She remembered the changing colors of the leaves that had wisped their way up by the trellis of grape vines. It was the perfect setting for a photo shoot. The evidence of the day that a lovely bird met its maker. She put the crispy blackened turkey in the golden fall leaves to have a photo shoot while everyone else was whining and waiting for pizza. The art that was created that day in the photo session was done with love and creativity. When she was done she left the bird intact in its charred art form exactly where the last photo was taken. If anyone dared question her sanity at that point it would have not mattered one bit. The memory to her would not be sad day in which dinner was ruined with a bird burnt to a literal blackened crisp. She has a positive mindset that it would all be okay. No one let’s Elizabeth live this Thanksgiving day down but she holds her head high and shows her photo to all with pride and laughter.

Newspapers are very handy. You can do a lot with such a humble item: 1. Reading: Of course, you can read them - if you’re that way inclined. Personally, I've never found the appeal of sitting on your backside all day and shuffling through just to make unsolicited commentary especially about people’s lives, and things that aren’t your business or in your control. But I digress... 2. Pack delicate items: I may not read the paper for news, but I do watch the local news channel every day at every interval. I don’t read the paper because these days, most of the content is unnecessary, and by the time I’ve purchased one, everything inside is irrelevant. Things and news move fast. And if you don’t keep up or even get ahead, you’ll be left in the dust. I can’t afford to not be “in the know”. I also don’t have time to read - I need to be moving, I need to be quick. So, I flick on the set instead and allow the newscasters to relay so that if I need to pivot, I can without wasting time and energy trying to find the right information for myself. It is 6.03pm and I am scoffing half a frozen bagel, whilst knotting another stuffed black bag. I need the extra calories; I’ve been packing since the early morning news bulletin. I kick the bag underneath the table to collect later. Trip hazard - never a good thing, I can’t endanger myself. Last time I tripped over a box I’d foolishly left in the hallway and woken up hours later in a panic that I’d been foiled. But it was pure luck we’d both been in the basement at the time of the raid. I cannot and will not make that mistake again. There’s a loud crash behind me, which snuffs out the weather woman - heavily pregnant in a dress that makes her boobs look like water balloons - reporting that tonight’s weather will be dry but cold. I take a mental note before turning towards where the noise came from. I can guess that the culprit is one of two beings - the inherited but unwanted cat or my housemate. It’s the housemate. I should have known. As I slide through the doorway, she makes haste to drop forward and gather the items rolling around on the vinyl floor. Thankfully, they are only replicas of my Polish Grandmother's china babushka. I would never entrust such precious items to a careless individual. She is terribly clumsy, my housemate. Even without trying, she manages to create more mess and bother than she means to. I’ve just learned I must make extra provisions to keep her clumsiness in check. Which is why she occupies this contained box room, where the only things she can disturb have no real value. I watch her and fold my arms disappointedly. She works faster, shaky fingers clawing at the numerous cups of brightly decorated women. She doesn’t look at me as she attempts to rebuild the babushka, but she is clumsy and hopeless with dexterity. I wonder why I thought it was a good idea to get her involved in the packing. I sigh loudly and step into the tiny space to take over. This is why I normally work alone. Less stress, less hassle, less clean up. Too many hands, too many delays, too many mistakes. She cowers immediately as I reach down and pluck the baby babushka from the floor. The object must have bounced furthest because it’s the lightest. In all fairness, she can’t reach it, it has landed outside of her permitted boundary. She dares to glance at me as I slowly stand. “Is it broken?” she stutters. I inspect the baby knowingly. The baby is fine because it’s not real china. “How would you pay for it if it was?” I tease her, “I don’t think you have anything to exchange that’s of any value to me if it were broken. And so, what do you think that would mean for you, huh?” Her eyes grow wide and her face white. “I was careful,” She insists and shakes her hands at the other women, gathered in a heap at her scabby knees. I notice a new patch of wounds, which means she’s still crawling around in here. Even after I told her to stretch her legs because weak legs are useless if we need to move fast. You see, she creates mess and is beginning to be mess than her worth... She apologises repeatedly when I indicate for her to hand me the other little women. She scoops them up and tries to pass them from where she is kneeling, but I am still outside of her boundary. “Stand up”, I say. But her face immediately starts to crumble. “Use your legs.” “I can’t”, her whine is pathetic. I scoff. She is just lazy. “You can. I told you to get up and walk. Why are you still scratching around on this floor? I gave you slack, like you wanted, and for what?” “I tried, but it’s -it’s been so long,” she moans and rubs her exposed thighs and kneecaps “It hurts to stand. I can’t, can’t feel my feet anymore”. “So how did you reach the babushka?” I question her suspiciously. The stacked ladies live on a level on the wall. “That’s what I mean,” she says to her shaking hands, “I tried to stand just now but I couldn’t. I think I hit them off the shelf when I fell.” Plausible, I think. The explanation is plausible for now. The women were placed on the level initially because I knew she wouldn’t be able to reach them whilst her chain kept her movements small and low-level. But now, after her whining drove me insane, I have granted her a wider range and she can at least pace in an arc. “Then you are lucky they are still intact,” I tell her spitefully, “You better start getting those legs working, girl. I haven’t got time for your excuses, especially not today. We gotta move.” I scan the room for a random black bag, but seeing none, push my useless housemate aside. I see she has made a bed with the pile of old newspapers I left out for her waste. I can’t help sneering as I destroy the abode by grabbing a handful of sheets. She only slaps at her legs whimpering as though willing them to suddenly work so she can defend her property. But it seems she was telling the truth. I press the babushka into the sheets, roll, and twist the ends with ease. “There, you see, “I shake the mummified women at her, “It’s easy. Pick and pack. Done and dusted. Can’t you even do that without making a scene?”. She is smart to stay silent as she sinks away. I re-enter the main room and toss the wrapped replica into an empty black sack. Truthfully, though it is not broken, it belongs in the trash. Along with all the other dead weight accumulating around me. “You need to pack lighter,” I tell myself just as the news roundup flashes across the TV screen. It ends with the final mention of the story I am most interested in; their developing breaking news story: Police are investigating a new lead into the disappearance of a 24-year-old woman who has been missing for more than a year. They believe she is still alive and may be held against her will. The search will move to the Kelvingrove area of Glasgow after an anonymous tip. Police are urging the locals to be cooperative, vigilant, and wary as they explore the possibilities... I must leave this house tonight. It’s time to relocate. 3. Wrap up broken items The car is packed with all the essentials. The clutter, the non-essentials, and the dead weight will have to stay, including that blessed cat (no apologies to my Polish Grandma). There’s nothing really to incriminate me. All the evidence has been or will be disposed of discreetly. I find her in the same position I left her in; kneeling back on her shins, head down, defeated. This time, she does not respond as I stride towards her. Her head is hanging down against her chest. “Come on,” I give her a nudge, hard enough to wake her from her slumber. - She’s been sleeping a lot lately. The first three months after I brought her home, she was like a newborn baby. She cried incessantly for everything; attention, feeding, more blankets, interaction - anything she could squeeze out of me. The newborn phase was traumatising for her and exhausting for me. I was no rookie, but she wasn’t like the others. I wrongly assumed they’d all act and respond identically to the situation. The others quickly got through the newborn phase and became more feisty as the days passed by (One of them, whom I called “Jaws”, tried to bite me). But this one is different. She’s a load alright - a load of emotions. I can handle the fighters - they’ll always be physically disadvantaged, no matter how hard they try to overpower me. But this one, I call her “Mood”, to her own credit has made this past year insightful. I’ve learned more about the womankind through her than through any of the others. She has proven to be a worthy specimen for my study. But I must admit, I think I have observed and extracted all I can from her, the sudden changes in her are becoming undesirable. Her incredible sleeping habits are the reason I no longer bother to lock her in. I can turn my back, get on with things, and live comfortably without being concerned that she’ll escape. I only keep an eye open when she is awake - more so because of her clumsiness rather than her alertness. But now that she’s sleeping most of the time, why continue to allow her to be a drain on my resources? Death is inevitable here anyway. - The initial nudge has no effect. So, I try again, this time jabbing my fingers into her shoulder with force. Nothing. Honestly, I have not fed her for some time, preoccupied with boxing everything up and figuring out the best route to take to avoid any unnecessary stops. Perhaps she has passed out with hunger. In an uncharacteristic haste, I reach down, press her face between my hands, and jerk it up towards me. Suddenly there’s a loud cracking sound and her stretched neck renders loose in my grasp. I almost let go in shock as her upturned face, eyes closed and mouth parted, becomes a bowling ball between my hands. I’m surprised by the gurgle of my stomach and the tingle of nausea bubbling inside of me. I am no rookie, but this has never happened before. I told you “Mood” is different. I told you “Mood” is messy. Or should I say was .... I will remember you for certain now; I think. I literally shiver at her face fixated forever in its lifeless expression. She has somehow affected me more than I realised. She has somehow managed to infiltrate me and pass on her messiness. I am careful. But for the first time, though death was inevitable for “Mood”, my meticulous hands have performed an accidental demise. She dives like an anchor when I release her. I stand over her fragmented frame and marvel at the impact that such an impulsive moment has on the rest of my thoughtful plan. The car is packed tight, with space only for two vertical objects. The driver and his housemate. I had not foreseen carrying a body this early in the move. I hear the familiar jingle of the 10pm news from the living room and realise I am now behind schedule. I need to move fast. The box room is void of any clutter and non-essentials, void of anything useful to clear this dead weight. Apart, of course, from the newspaper bed dismantled in the corner. So, I wrap her in her own wastepaper, I have no choice. I cocoon her broken body, in preparation for the trash. It is a great shame. I had wonderful plans for her body, to keep it, memorialise it like the others. But I don’t accommodate dead weight, I don’t keep broken things. My cadavers are my pride and joy. My cadavers are only valuable to me when they are perfect, when they are whole and intact. It’s no different to receiving a faulty gift at Christmas. Who can treasure, take pride in, or be happy with a misshapen or deformed prize?

Let me be honest. I am disabled. I am missing an eye, a foot, and my mind. My mind, I debate with myself if I am missing or not. But I am assured by the Shrink I was taken to that I am dead. And? He wanted for me to pay him money for my visits. So? I took him some place. How? Shh. I am what I am. Afterwards, instead of visits costing me money. He prescribed pills, and that was that. I did not have to go to his office. What did I show him? I showed him the truth about reality. Scary? Sure, I suppose if you were him. Makes you realize you are in a game called life and someone else might be playing you. And you are not winning the game. Which is awkward. And me? Oh, I am a Non playing avatar these days. Why? When I play, I expect things to happen. And now? I doubt if two people will read this. And? One will ignore the sh. And the other will yawn and not realize the truths I am writing about. Truth one. According to a very smart man. The secret of light is a secret. Meaning? Read the book. If you can understand the poetry. You can walk away with this as truth. You eat plants, plants eat light. Wola, you are nothing more than a stabilized energy or avatar playing in this game. Truth two? Anything you see is dead. Sh.. That is a secret you have to live with the rest of your life if you got this far into the story. Don’t believe me. Read the Zombie galaxy or is our Milky Way galaxy a zombie? Then ask yourself one question. And realize the answer. If you can not find the question to ask. The question is if all I see is dead or stabilized. Does that mean I too am dead? The realization from that answer is awkward and absurd. But I assure you the answer is what it is. When did I start talking to the dead? I think when I was four or younger. I spoke to a lot of dead people. If you want, you too can do that. Go to an old folks’ home and talk with a person. They are all dying to get out of here nowadays. However, a very long time ago. In galaxy not like this one. But in another reality, they had wonderful stories to tell a youngster. Tales of working on New Deal writing project. Tales of writing the real-life story of Butch Cassidy. Tales of a train bound to Saint Peters burg to save the Czar. Tales that would blow your mind. And? Well, I listened I was a kid. What else was I to do? And? I wonder. Those tales got me through some rough realities. Now I talk to the dead a bit more or less because they want to escape their hell. Which is not nice, I suppose. But they are in hell. I can tell you hell is real. It is not a nice place to live in. Nor vacation in. Or anything else, for that matter. So, paranormal? Well, that is a matter of opinion. If you died, say when you were born and somehow ended up in someone else’s body. Who is to blame for that? I am not sure anymore. To be honest, I am not sure. Oh, how old am I? In this body 50. According to the internet and my writings since 2016? Something like 4.5 billion years old. Laugh with me. You see, I wrote a lot. I write a lot. I journal even more. According to journals, I awoke in Sagittarius 2016. And Well, I lost 1.2 billion people in my reality. I am quite sure deagel.com had 8.5 billion people and US had 365 million US citizens and numerous illegals. Now? Who knows? I am, after all, just writing what I wrote then repeating things with memories? Or data? Am I real or just data that is the sad question, is it not? Paranormal? Sure, I guess that is what I am talking about. What did I learn in a billion years? That everything is possible and those opposing the will or Fate of God should stop what they are doing and pray forgiveness. Outside of that? Who knows? I don’t. Am I talking about Mandala effect? In a sense, the wheel of time. Which way is the galaxy turning? Clockwise or counter clockwise? Which way does a soul spin when moving from a dead reality into the day of judgment? That is the awkward part of this story, is it not? For me being 4.5 billion years old or talking to the dead? Either case is absurd and wildly illogical. In yet? Here I am and here you are. And? Tomorrow you might be hell and I need to say. Pray repent. Beyond that. Believe in Jesus? Who else can save you. Let me tell you about hell. People won’t like you there. It is awful in a sense like Wheel of Thrones book where in alternative reality Rand finds people have changed from good to evil. Sadness. You can not trust people. And those trustworthy? Well, usually end up in jail, dead, suicide, or in AA if they are lucky. Meaning? The world has lost hope, faith, and trust. Not a very nice place to live. I assure you. And? Beyond that? I can tell you Hillary Clinton did not lie about Abe Lincoln being a senator. For I am sure he was a senator in my reality, too. What does that mean to us here and now? I suppose this is one day in reality when a paranormal person passes through saying HI and Goodbye. And you might catch a glimpse of the idea. But the knowledge that this life is already all dead and gone? I am not sure. I don’t know. Fate is real, so saving you is beyond my scope of this story. And my soul? Judgment day or? Well, that is the kicker the bible has changed here too and? Who knows what is possible with God or Adonai? I sure did not expect to be on Orion's arm nor Orion Nebula after all for years I assure I was told was on Sagittarius.

“Names have great power, Sunny dear,” Grandmother’s voice echoes in my head. Grandmother, who had been christened Alexandrina at birth, but had donned the name Victoria on her coronation. It is only fitting, I think, that I take my first steps into my new life taking a name reminiscent of Grandmama and Nicky’s adored ancestor, too. Alexandra. I still struggle to think of myself with such a weighty, regal name, a name suited to authority, a Tsaritsa’s name, so used I am to being Alix. The silk of my gown clings to my skin, softly rustling with every movement. It is a heavy gown, the train difficult to bear. The Court Dress here, especially a wedding gown, is much more detailed and intricate than it is back home at Hesse. Truth be told, I hardly feel like I am standing at a wedding, my own wedding. It feels naught more than a continuation of Father’s funeral rituals. Nicky would hate it if he knew I think this. He wanted this wedding so much, so ardently. Truthfully, I can understand why Nicky felt so. He is hardly ready to be Tsar, he feels. Perhaps that is true, I do not know. From our long conversations into the night, I understand that he wants someone with him. Someone who will support him, be his mate in truth. It is my great honor that he has chosen me to be that person, I shall definitely do my best to be worthy of his trust, his heart. “Daughter,” The Empress Maria. I sink into a curtsy. “Mother,” She helps me raise. “Mama, Alicky,” she says gently. I smile at her. “Mama,” She nods at a page. “Keep it here.” The page duly deposits a large box on which Russian words are written. Of course, I do not understand one word of it. I need to learn the language, the people of this country are going to my people. One of my ladies enter. She has a veil in her hands, one that brings tears to my eyes. Mama’s veil. I have seen it so many times in photographs, yearned to touch it for years after Mama’s death, today, it will finally be mine. Nicky’s mama, my mama, smiles at me again. She opens the box carefully. Inside sits a crown of splendor, accompanied by a glittering necklace and similar earrings. “Tsaritsa Catherine’s, Alexandra,” she says quietly. Just like that, the two of us were distant again, no longer Alicky and mama, but Alexandra and the Dowager Tsaritsa. I am not used to changing like this in an instant, but it is part of life, whether I like it or not, and I shall try. I do not have a choice. I sit down as she gently balances the nuptial crown on my head. The necklace hangs heavily on my throat, its weight almost reassuring, but also a reminder, much like the sash tied across my dress, heavy with meaning. “Come,” says she. I take her hand as we walk out. Nicky is standing outside. He looks resplendent, the light of the chandeliers hitting his medals at exactly the right places. My eyes are drawn to the sash of the Order of Hesse Und Bei Rhein that cuts across his uniform, same as his take in the sash of the Order of St. Andrei across mine. We bear each other’s symbols, it is clear to see. We barely have the time to exchange smiles (even his smile is brilliant, glowing), when his mother leads me to the front of the procession. Nicky obediently falls in line behind her. I hold back a frown. Nicky is the Tsar now, he should be given importance! I and Nicky have discussed this at length. Until Nicky is crowned, he does not have precedence. I think it is most unfair. He is expected to do all the duties, should he not get the precedence too? I know that Nicky would not want anything to ruin this special day, so I remain quiet. I cast around for a distraction. The ostentatious decoration of the way to the chapel is good enough, the rococo designs, as clear as though it is life itself and not a painting. There is a murmur of conversation. I can feel eyes on me, the familiar painful shyness instinctively curling me into myself. I fight it, straightening my shoulders, smiling slightly. Alexandra, not Alix. I keep my eyes trained ahead, at my destination. The altar. Where the intangible yet so real bond that I and Nicky share will have a new meaning, finally tying spiritual to the earthly. After I catch sight of the altar, I cannot remember much else of details. Individual moments stand out of the ordered ceremony, moments forever dear to my heart. Nicky standing at the altar, light flooding through the windows, limning him in a halo. The heady mixture of uncertainty, the tug of fear and yet hope. The priest handing us the rings. The feeling of my heart filling more than it ever has before. Nicky’s beatific smile as he slid the ring on my finger. Our voices melding, almost, into the vows. At the end, there is but a single thought. I am his, he is mine. I am his, he is mine. Forever. “Sunny? Sunny? Alicky?” I blink, so lost am I in memories. That day, I wed the man who belonged first and foremost to his country. My husband, standing in front of me, his face creased in a worried frown. My dear, darling Nicky. “You’re back? I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” The council work usually takes longer than this. Nicky laughs. “No one wants a tired Tsar dropping off at his coronation, do they? So they let me off early.” I laugh back. “I see.” “What happened? Are you missing Olga? You looked lost.” “I can’t stop missing her, Nicky, but no, that’s not what I was thinking of.” “Then what is it, Alicky?” “I...” “Alicky?” “I was thinking of our wedding.” “Oh! Yes, a wonderful day. By far more wonderful than the day to come.” “Nicky...I know the coronation reminds you of papa. I know you feel that you are taking his place too soon. But, dearest, God above has a place for everyone. This is yours. As the Father of all Russia.” Nicky bows his head silently. I continue on, “Did you see the splendor all around? When we entered Moscow?” Nicky smiles at me. “I did,” he says. So did I. More than anything else, I remember Nicky on his horse, his right hand raised in salute, straight-backed and proud, set apart from the lavishly dressed army officers in his simple but neat tunic. I remember the cheers, the people spilling across the barriers, reaching out to touch Nicky. His name and mine, chanted over and over again. And hers. It is an insidious thought, something that has been haunting my mind. I shake my head. She is Nicky’s mama. My mama. She deserves her place. But that voice is not quieting down, it isn’t. I am his wife. I am his Tsaritsa. Should I not be at his side? How long will she keep him under her thumb? Rationally, I know that I will be at his side, it will be I who will become the Matushka, the Mother of the people, tomorrow, not the Dowager Empress. But these deep seated fears...I shake my head. God has a place for everyone. Tomorrow, I take my place. “Sunny?” “Oh, Nicky. Tomorrow...it will change us, won’t it?” Nicky looks solemn. “It will,” he says slowly “and it won’t. Tomorrow, you and I will be anointed, yet, in private, we’ll still be Nicky and Sunny. Besides,” he gives me a boyish, disarming shrug, “you’ll be at my side. I can weather all the changes to come,” I take his hand. “We will weather them together, dearest,” I say. For all my brave words, when the day dawns and the furor begins, it is Nicky at my side bolstering my strength. As his valets help him into his regimental uniform, he keeps up a steady stream of reassurance. I smile weakly at him. Part of my fear and anxiety stems from the feeling of being so tangibly close to divine. Will I be enough for that role? I am no Goddess, I cannot fail this, it means so much to me, this country... “Sunny.” I look at Nicky, the coronation mantle wrapped around him. He smiles at me. “This is the place God has ordained for you,” he says quietly. “Remember that.” I smile at him. “Using my own words on me, Nicky?” He shrugs, holding up his hands. “Guilty.” We laugh together. My own mantle is at my side, my maids helping me into it. There are so many buttons on it! My hands clasp and unclasp them, over and over. When the time comes, nothing should go amiss. Not even buttons. There is controlled chaos in our apartments. Servants are bustling here and there, my hairdresser styling my hair so that the crown can be safely positioned. Nicky stands above me, the heavy crown in his hands. The crown that will give me authority and yet take away Alix forever, relinquishing itself in the Tsaritsa, not the girl who yearned to love, to laugh, to live. I take a deep breath. I do not need to lose that part of myself, I can still retain it being the Tsaritsa. The crown lands on my head, finishing that internal debate. The connection I feel is powerful. It feels like a marriage of its own, a marriage ethereal yet so easily felt. It feels like the hand of Fate itself. The hairpin goes in too deep, scouring my scalp. “Ah!” Nicky immediately removes the crown from where it was, his hand reaching to my head. “Sunny! What is it?” “Nothing, Nicky. Just a hairpin gone in too deep.” I smile at him. He looks relieved. Relief is the last thing I feel. Stop seeing omens and portents everywhere. Sometimes, a hairpin is just a hairpin. The doubts submerge, but stay where they are. I watch the procession start, standing in my place, holding Nicky’s hand tight. Nicky is tense, I can see it in the way he holds himself, but his face shows none of it. The priests lead, with the Dowager Tsaritsa following. The city is sparkling, the skies clear. The bugle blows the traditional three times. Nicky and I slowly walk down the stairway, hindered by my heavy train. At the end of the stairway, we bow our heads. It is a solemn moment, a prelude for what is to come. The priests anoint us with holy water, marking us apart forevermore. As we enter, walking towards the altar, soaring music plays. It almost feels like I am floating far above the cathedral, touching Heaven itself, and yet I have never felt so grounded and immersed in my entire life. The walls of the church is lavishly decorated with art I don’t pay attention to, my eyes are riveted on the screen of icons, of God and the saints. The altar is crowded with the high and mighty of the clergy, the light striking the jewels on their regalia lending this moment even more of an unearthly air. In front of us are the coronation thrones. Nicky sits on the throne of Mikhail Feodorovich, the Dowager Empress on the throne of Alexei Mikhailovich and I on Ivan’s throne. The services begin. I have never felt so positively energetic in my entire life before. The hymns and the liturgies float in the air, elevating us above common man, above our own selves, tying us to a calling that is sacred, a command from God. Time seems pointless, our earthly bodies mere shells when compared to the sacrament we are receiving, so wholeheartedly from the people of this country. The ceremony swirls around us, the notes of the Mass lilting and beautiful. We stand as one when the Mass ends, the robing taking place, for Nicky first and then for me. The robe moulds itself to my body, my soul. I sink to my knees, praying with the Metropolitan for God to preserve the Tsar, to prove myself worthy of the great responsibility vested in me, to give me the power to serve Russia and her people. In a way, this ceremony cements my marriage with Nicky, ties me as irrevocably to his country as he is tied by virtue of birth. It marries me to Russia, to the man who bears Russia on his shoulders. I know now that Alix is needed no more, that Alexandra is who I shall be. Not for me anymore the ease of life I had at Hesse, the lack of responsibility; the woman who shall rise will a Tsaritsa in truth, wed to the country and the Tsar. I stand, armed with my conviction. For once in my life, my heart is certain. Nicky kneels then, the entire congregation standing, to pray for our country and her people. I cannot see his face, but I know Nicky. He is wholehearted in whatever his endeavors are, he will serve the nation well, lead its people to heights untouched before. He stands as the Metropolitan anoints him with holy oil. His voice echoes in the vaults of the cathedral, clear with conviction, as he takes his oath. As he ascends the stairs to the altar, the chain of the Order of St. Andrew slips from his shoulders to the floor. Time stops then. Is it an ill omen? Nicky’s steps are unfaltering as he smoothly picks the chain and sets it back on his shoulders. I smile. No. It is no ill omen. It is an omen of hope. A sign that says Nicky shall hold strong, come what may. He takes the Imperial crown from the Metropolitan’s giving hands with practiced ease, setting it firmly on his own head. After a charged moment, he removes it from his head and places it on mine. I force myself not to bow my head at the weight of the crown, instead draw strength from it. My strength is Nicky’s, his is mine. We belong to each other, the coronation a more sacrosanct validation to our wedding. At the wedding, Nicky and Alicky swore to uphold each other. Today, we, the Tsar and the Tsaritsa, Nikolai Alexandrovich Romanov and Alexandra Feodronova Romanov, give ourselves to our nation together, shoulder the burden of the people together, to have and hold not only each other, but this sacred tie as well. Nicky lifts the crown off my head and places it back on his. What is his is mine. What is mine is his. A lighter, softer crown rests on my head, symbol of my lighter and softer duties in an official manner. But I remember the weight of the Imperial Crown, the weight that Nicky bears, the weight that makes him the Tsar. You will not bear it alone, Nicky. I shall always be with you. He bends slightly, flashing me a smile that’s mine alone, as he seals the ceremony with a kiss. The spirit of the nation, now embodied by Nikolai, by my Nicky, enters my soul as well, making me Matushka, the mother of the Russian people in truth, the consort to my husband for all my years to come.

“Tell me again why living in Florida during the summer is a good thing,” I said, turning on the garden hose. “It's nothing but nonstop heatwaves.” Sitting nearby on a lawn chair, my roommate and best friend Crystal let out an exaggerated sigh. “I would but I’m suffering from heatstroke so hurry up and hand over the water.” “You don’t think this is a bit pathetic?” I adjusted the flow to an easy stream before handing the hose to her. “Sitting in our backyard, dressed in hot pants and tank tops while soaking each other with a garden hose?” “You got a better idea on how to keep cool with the AC on the fritz?” she said, letting the water pour down her head and shoulders. “We could get a pool.” Crystal flicked the hose in my direction, cool water splashing me across my face. “I think you’re the one suffering from sunstroke. There’s no way we can afford a pool.” “I didn’t mean we get a big one,” I said, wiping the water from my eyes. “They do sell above ground pools. They only cost a few hundred.” “I don’t know. Putting together a pool sounds like a lot of work.” I took the hose from her and drenched my chest and the back of my neck. “It’ll be worth it though. We’re going to be hot no matter what we do. At least with a pool we get rewarded for it.” Crystal shook her head. “I’m not interested in doing it. Too much money, too much work just to use it one or twice. You have to maintain a pool and neither one of us will put in the effort.” I was too hot to argue and she actually had a good point so I let that idea go. “Alright, then what do you want to do? The AC won’t get fixed until sometime tomorrow and it’s only 12:45 now.” “Let's go for a drive. The car has air conditioning so even if we just cruise around for an hour it’ll be worth it.” “Just aimlessly drive around? Won’t that just burn gas?” “Again, the car has working air conditioning so it’ll be worth it.” I tossed the hose on the ground and turned it off. “Fine. You’re driving.” We both retired to our rooms to clean up and dry up. The temperature in the house felt like the inside of an oven set for 350. If it didn’t cool down by bedtime I was going to sleep naked in the bathtub and I didn’t care if Crystal put me on blast for it. She was waiting for me in the living room, fanning herself with a magazine. “Why don’t we fill the car with as much stuff that will fit and move to Vermont. I hear the hottest it gets is 80 and it snows there.” “If we hadn’t just renewed our lease for another year I would agree,” I said, following her to the garage. “Though driving in snow sounds rough.” “So we’ll either use Uber or hibernate during the winter months,” she said, hitting the garage door opener on the wall. “A few snow days has to be better than being cooked alive in your own home.” Inside the car felt like the bowels of Hell and I nearly broke the air conditioning dial twisting it to max as soon as Crystal turned the key. Thankfully we have a good car and the temperature soon went from death to heavenly cool. It felt so good that I leaned against the dashboard, face next to the vent and stayed there until my skin became stiff and numb. We drove in silence for some time before Crystal said. “I’m thinking about going back to school.” I was too caught up in the joy of breathable air that her words didn’t fully register. When they did sink in I sat up and looked at her. “You’re going back to where?” She wouldn’t look at me, her eyes fixed on the road. “School. Cosmetology to be exact. I want to be a beautician.” “Why? I mean it’s great that you want to do it and all but what made you decide?” She shrugged. “Lots of things. I’m sick of working two dead end jobs that don’t excite me anymore. I’ve been working at Pax Boutique for almost 5 years, it’s given me retail burnout. I love doing hair and makeup so being a beautician should be fun.” “Are you going to be able to work and do school at the same time?” “I’d keep working at Pax for as long as I can since I’ve been there the longest and I like it better than working as a Pizza delivery driver. I haven’t applied yet or anything, I was just thinking about it.” I pushed back my seat in a reclining position and angled the air to blow over me. “Well, if you want my opinion I say go for it. Apply for financial aid and see what happens. You’re 25 so it’s not like this is your one shot at college.” “You think so? It’ll be a lot of money. I don’t want to screw you up because I blow all this money and we end up not being able to pay rent and our friendship gets wrecked over this.” I reached over and poked her arm. “Don’t worry about that. We’ve been friends for how many years? Since grade school, right? Between the two of us we’ve blown money on many boneheaded ideas and get rich schemes. Going back to school isn’t a boneheaded idea.I hate school so if I went back it would be throwing money away. You on the other hand seemed to love schoolwork. I used to get so pissed and jealous when we got our report cards and you got top grades and I was down around the middle. You’ll do great so go for it.” Crystal smiled. “Thanks. I’ll start looking into my financial aid options tonight. There’s a school about an hour’s drive from here. I think the course is 8 months, give or take, after which I’ll have to pass the state licensing examination before I can find work.” “One thing at a time,” I glanced out the window at our surroundings and perked up.”Hey, we’re near Bruster’s ice cream. Let’s stop there.” “You buying?” I brought my seat back up and reached underneath where the emergency money was kept. We try to keep $100 there at all themes though it never lasts, it’s constantly replaced at least once a month. Luck was on my side and I pulled out a $20, more than enough for two cones or shakes. “This is our last splurge so lets make it count,” I said, handing the money to her. “Once you become a big shot hairdresser you’re buying me dinner at Sky.” “Keep dreaming.” I laughed, found a good song on the radio and cranked up the volume.

Being the smallest in the gang, my hunting position was clear: stay on the lookout. I was to travel in the trees and warn of prey. There was that one time, though, where curiosity got the better of me. The Fighters below launched at full speed. Meanwhile, I hopped branches with the fluidity of a monkey. I aligned with our leader and avoided rain-greased leaves like my life depended on it. Then, the pounding began. In the corner of my eye, a red-feathered beast smashed its beak against oak. I froze on sight. What the hell is that thing? And more importantly, how long until it gets brain damage? By the time I gave out the signal, the ground unit was far gone. Catching up in these conditions was like running a marathon in a blizzard. I slipped to the floor and hurried my legs beyond capacity. The caw and the squeal still resonate in my head. Sam’s death-by-owl scarred the crew so badly, they hired a sewer dweller to replace me. Tonight, this would be my first mission alone. The log cabin glowed in the blackness of the night. Clanging plates and drunken laughs boomed throughout the forest. An invisible wave of burnt chicken infiltrated my snout and turned my paws on shuffle-mode. I scurried through the snow blanket, leaving the imprints of an amateur thief. There would be food. That, I knew for sure. A leap and a squeeze later, I was in. I followed the scent, jumping across beams like an acrobat. The voices on the other side of the wall grew louder as I approached the sliver of light. I peeked through the crack. Humans were feasting at the table a safe distance away, so I rushed for the door. A tsunami of regret flooded over me as a woman’s scream deafened everyone inside. With every foot stomp heading my way, I panicked. I never thought I’d die like this. The giant surveyed the bathroom. He let out a guttural bellow and whacked a broom on the cupboards. Clearly, no intruders were allowed in the home scott-free. As the shower curtains were pulled, I zoomed from behind the toilet bowl. Left. Right. Left. I zigzagged the attacks. The silly sprint successfully led me back to the crevice unharmed. From down here, it’d be near-impossible to reach the plank. Drained of my energy, I was a rubber ball, getting closer to the ground with every bounce. My better judgment told me to stop. I was safe. For now. I could pause and figure it all out later. There was silence as I woke up. The party had died, and it was my time to go. I muscled another futile spring. My only options now were to starve in silence or find an exit. I crept into the danger zone and scanned the area. Coast is clear. That’s when I saw it. Like a trophy on display, a beach in the desert, a princess in the tower...cheese. I salivated at the thought of a full belly. Without a second to lose, I journeyed to my prize. Halt. It seems the fine cuisine rests on some sort of contraption. I grazed my finger on the block. Nothing to worry about here! I stepped on the plate and snapped my neck. Death released her grip as quickly as she arrived.

5. I miss you. He is a silhouette sitting on the railing of the balcony overlooking an island. His island. He takes another sip from the half empty bottle of wine then shouts: "At least I own an island!" He is an island of grief in a sea of happiness, resilience, normalcy. That one thought, "I miss you" is an island in his mind, surrounded by the tepid waters made up of all the other mundane thoughts he has; thoughts of beats and lyrics and female fans, so many female fans, so many willing female fans... His fingers drum an impatient beat onto the balcony railing. He wishes he could turn back time. 4. “Enjoy the little things." That's what she used to tell him. One of her favourite quotes was by Galileo Galileo, the one about how even though the sun has planets depending on it, it still has time to ripen grapes, as though it had nothing else in the universe to do. He lifts the bottle of wine up to the sky. “Happy anniversary.” He takes the first sip and swallows the wine and the overwhelming urge to weep. It takes him a while to get back control. The sun is setting as he leans on the railing of the balcony and takes another sip; then he takes the hundredth, thousandth, millionth sip of the wine that is his memories of her. He misses the little things about her. Her smile. Her laugh. Her voice. He misses the big things about her. The way her smile anchored him. The way her laugh threw him overboard, making him get lost in her sea of laughter. The way her voice could both make him feel small and insignificant in the presence of her brilliance and also make him feel like the king of the world and more importantly, the king of her world. She was the sun, brightening up the whole world, yet shining on him as though she had nothing else in the universe to do. The solar-powered garden lights come on. 3. No man is an island? Alone again. The refrigerator light illuminates the darkening kitchen. He grabs the bottle of wine and removes the foil from the top of the bottle. He swallows down a sudden urge to weep. He inserts the corkscrew into the center of the cork and twists the top handle to insert the corkscrew farther into the cork. He blinks back tears. He uses both hands to press down on the levers of the opener, downwards towards the center of the bottle. A rogue tear makes a break and runs down his cheek. The levers go down, the cork goes up. He impatiently wipes the tear, grabs the bottom of the opener with one hand and the bottle with the other and wiggles out the rest of the cork. He takes one deep breath, lets it out, takes another deep breath, lets it out and regains a modicum of control. He walks past one of his many drum kits and out onto the balcony. The view is spectacular. Sun, sea, windmills, trees for days. He can’t see the forest for the trees he planted in memory of her. Mango trees and avocado trees and orange trees. She had always been a nature person, always concerned about the environment and Mother Earth in general. She used to say: "We are all connected. No man is an island." Today, at this moment, he feels that she was wrong. He is an island that lets the many, willing female fans surround him, drown him, like a Tsunami. Yet he never connects with them where it really matters. He makes sure of it. He lets the movement of the windmills hypnotize him for a few moments. She was like a windmill. Tall, majestic, powerful - the quiet, gentle, pure kind of power. She taught him a lot of the important things he now knows and also some things that he did not want to know. She thrived during storms... but even the strongest windmill cannot withstand the blast wave of a toxic workplace nuclear explosion. 2. After the fireworks This one is talking to him. He can’t hear her. He doesn’t want to hear her. He wants wine and her gone. She is making the bed, destroying the evidence of what transpired. If only life were an unmade bed that could be straightened out in a few moves. She shyly asks for his autograph. He can’t remember her name so he writes: "To my favourite fan". She squeals in delight, goes into full fan-girl mode. Another happy customer. His heart hurts. She wants more of him, more from him. He just wants wine and this one gone. She persists, pouts, begs, seduces, threatens, blackmails. He pretends to give in, convinces her to start the shower running and he would join her shortly. He glares at her silhouette as she chats incessantly while showering. She is mapping out a detailed future of their lives together, complete with twins, dogs, cats and a horse. He switches on his phone. Several missed calls from the band’s publicist. He sends him a message assuring him that he is okay so that he doesn’t have a meltdown. The shower stops running; her mouth doesn’t. He calls security and organizes for her to be flown back to the main land. A few minutes later, she is carried away, kicking and screaming, yelling at him her invitation to call her any time he wants. He just wants wine. 1. Another notch on the bedpost He misses her . He hides that feeling, that time-bomb, in the beautiful body of this one who isn’t her. He uses experience from his previous job to convince himself that it's no big deal, that it's just skin and bones and hormones and blood rushing where it's needed. His current job ensures that there is a steady stream of no-strings Someones. They get their fifteen minutes of intimacy with a famous person. He gets fifteen seconds of forgetting her. Her shadow paints every touch, every kiss, every sound, every memory, every...thing.

My childhood is a far away memory, abstract and serene. Green trees and mountain hikes are what I remember best. Such a jarring divorce from today. Now, everything happens on our smartphones, but this is not the smartphones of old. Smartphones on which we happily shared pics and vids of our happy lives on Instagram or Tic Tok. The smartphone is now your life, literally. No smartphone, no money. No, smartphone, no freedom, that is if freedom is what you want to call it anymore. Covid 19 came and went, then it was the climate crisis overlaid with a bunch of foreign forever wars, then Covid 25 and the first real lockdowns and forced injections, then Covid 27, 28,... and then we stopped counting. Just a merry-go-round of lockdowns, medications and ever more censorship. When the fight went out of us, we were gradually herded into oppressive slums. Now drones constantly scan our smartphones from above, checking vaccine status and of course our precious social scores. To add to the insult, CBDC wallets capriciously choose what you can or cannot have and how much, where you can go or what you can do. A single litre of synthetic milk (cows are banned or extinct, we are not sure anymore which) is all a family of four is allowed each day. Bread was more like a thick cracker. Then there were ‘matties’. A patty of fake meat. Cost: virtually free. It’s the only thing that we can eat without limit. We had long given up speculating what it really was, so the popular debate was, how close to real meat it in fact tasted? *** Your social score is everything today. Those that fall below 8 vanish. Theories as to where they go are whispered in hushed and paranoid tones. Discussing it is taboo on MetaX, the only social media platform that exists. Though strategies on how to improve your score abound and are easily the most discussed topic online, though bitter experience, raising your points was akin to blitzing a snap test in a subject you never studied. But losing points, now that's as easy as breathing. I had 9.2 and John, my brother, had 9.3. Clive, from next door showed me with mock rebellious bravado that he had only 8.1. That was a few weeks ago. I have not seen him since. I wonder how brave he feels now, or indeed where he is. This was the other eternal topic, where did the sub 8’s go. Nobody I know had ever witnessed any abductions, or arrests, but nobody dared to discuss this on MetaX. *** Clive had a sister that I liked, but I was sure she didn't even know I existed, until today. I was coming back to our apartment with whatever I could find at the market for us to eat when she suddenly grabbed my arm in the crowd. What I remember was the look in her mesmerising blue eyes: manic fright, as a bizarre counterpoint was that pink tight cardigan she wore, with the top button undone, hugging her inviting breasts. I could not help but smile to myself for the sudden attention. She grabbed my hand and sharply led me to one side out of the crowd, behind a large dumpster. She pulled my head close to hers and in a raspy whisper said: “Clive, they took him!” Before I could ask where , my smartphone chimed. I looked at it and saw the screen: bright red and in the middle -1 flashing in large bold yellow characters. My knees went weak! A -0.1 was chilling enough, and the rare -0.2, was always accompanied by a colourful story, but -1! I tore out of her grip and boldly reentered the crowded lane. Looking up for a drone, I loudly proclaimed “What have I done wrong, why a minus one”. The crowd gave me immediate space. “What did I do?” I hollered into the air. I looked back at the dumpster and Clive's sister had melted away. I was alone in the crowd. My smartphone chimed again. Another -0.1 gone! “What's going on?” I yelped into the air in desperation. A drone silently approached overhead. Then a second. I was looking up at them questioningly when I felt a yank on the plastic bag in my hand. A grubby child, face hidden in a hoodie, was tearing at it. The strength was unexpected. I lost interest in the drones and began convincingly losing a tug-o-war over the bag down the darker lane behind the dumpster. Only a handful of metres away from the thongs of people, the urchin turned and stabbed my hand with a needle, then everything went dark. *** I woke up lying on warm concrete surrounded by a crowd, all ignoring me. Knots of people stood at concrete tables toiling at some strange tasks. Others just stood or milled around whispering to each other. Everyone was naked except for black boxer briefs. All ages except the very young were there, but no women at all. Everyone's faces: grave and serious, and the smell! An intense mix of faeces, urine, sweat and vomit scorched my nose. An older gaunt man slowly approached me and gave me a hand standing up. “Your headache will pass” he said in a quiet voice. “Whats going on? Where am I?” “Block 9” “What is block 9?” I asked “Everyone has the same questions when they get here. Sorry but it's too dangerous to answer some questions. All I can tell you is where you are,... or else”, the man said, ending with ominous foreboding. Before I could get another question out, a loud siren wailed. Everyone stopped whatever they were doing and began to head in one direction. The old man clapped me lightly on the shoulder and said, “Chow time” It took me about half an hour pushing and shoving in the crowd to get to the ‘feed trough’ filled with matties. I managed to grab 2 of them in the melee of hands. They were cold and definitely tasted inferior to those I was used to. There were bits in them that did not feel like food at all which I spat out. As I was retreating through the crowd, the man from before came up next to me and led me away to a quieter spot. “I am A3F49r-9, but you can call me Alex” I gave him a stunned look. “Your ankle tag...”, he added. I looked down to notice the red ankle bracelet fixed to my own right leg with a large bold white number V8h8R2-9 written. “We are the sub 8’s” Alex added while wolfing down his food. A lingering question about Clive was now finally answered. “How long do we need to be in here?” I asked. Alex shrugged, then added, “I only know of people going down.” “Down?” “Yes, down. None of us really know for sure, but we know there are levels below us” The stunned look on my face triggered Alex to stand and grab my arm and lead me off through the crowds. The entire place was a single open space with concrete floor and ceiling interspersed with imposing columns, like an ancient car park of old. As we walked on, the smell in the air freshened and a new quality to the light grew. We finally reached a low concrete barrier above which was the outside. A wide brown featureless desert vista yawned open topped with an intensely bright blue sky. The barren landscape was dotted with enormous cubic structures emblazoned with huge numbers: 8, 7, and 6 barely legible in the distance, with many more blocks stretching to the horizon. Block 8 was close enough to make out some detail. The bleached concrete block was ringed with black bands in which I could just make out small figures moving around. There were dozens of layers, which became more tightly bunched toward the ground. The only interruption to the minimal form was a circumnavigating upward facing angled wall protruding beyond the cube’s footprint. I guessed it was to catch rainwater, but that sounded ridiculous. The only other movement was from large drones flying back and forth between the blocks. “Well maybe down is out?” I suggested, but Alex’s jaded look did not boost my optimism. “The only rules I can tell you about are that if you work at the tables, you are rewarded with a few minutes advance notice of feeding time. And if your collar continuously vibrates, that means you are going down. The tubes to take you down are in the corners.” Alex said in a flat voice. I ventured with naive hope: “And out perhaps” Alex just shrugged and cocked his head with mock optimism, then shuffled away. *** Over the next few days, I caught sight of Alex a few times but otherwise I kept to myself like most of us did. I tried to get to the work tables but they were popular. But to my delight I ran into Clive. “Hey neighbour” I said gaily, siding up to him in the crowd. Clive looked at me with shock, then glee. I hugged him despite us not really being much of friends. But then a second later, the mirth vanished from his face and a tear began to roll down his cheek. “Hey man, it will be OK, we will get out of here sooner or later” I said in a vain attempt at levity. His face did not brighten. “I was so stupid. A stupid fool full of bravado, showing off how low my score was. Well now I am here and I don't see how I will ever get out. I don't even know where here is. None of us do.” “Come on Clive, do...” Clive clamped his palm over my mouth with force before I could say anymore. He whispered close to my ear, “I am not Clive. Never use my name. Never tell anyone your name, I mean your outside name. NEVER!” “Ah, OK” I said, trying to fit this new fact into my understanding of Block 9. “How did they get you, aah...” I looked down at his ankle. ‘D2Jf76-9’, “...David?”. He shook his head in short jerky movements, then said: “Have you seen Claire?” I understood his signal and change of subject, and casually answered “Yeah, she’s fine” and I tried to add as much context with my eyes as I dared. “Ahh, she’s a great kid, everything I am not. Beautiful, smart,...” Clive wanted to continue but was unsure what he could safely add. A relief washed over his face. “I feel better knowing she is OK”. He leaned in to me and said in a whisper, “I only have this one thing to remind me of her”, and he stuck out his tongue. On it, in the dim light I could see a pearly pink button glistening. The memory came flooding back. This was the missing top button from her cardigan. One of the last endearing memories I had from the outside. Now it was my turn to shed a tear, at which Clive, no David, gave me a glance with as much concern as he could. I simply nodded and gave a thumbs up to dispel his anxiety. *** If you stay near the edge, then you enjoy the change of day and night. Inmates' jealousy held onto these positions, but the troughs were nearer the middle where the work tables were so migrations around the floor were constant and holding onto any territory was almost pointless. Despite this, bullies still persisted in vain territorialism. I managed to get a few sessions at the tables but this earned me no advantages so I stopped bothering. I was hanging out near the perimeter one day when my bracelet buzzed and would not stop. A few guys nearby gave me looks of trepidation mixed with hope. In the very corner of the level was a group of round disks. One of them was lit showing my number, I stood on it and a metal tube came down around me, then came the sensation of descent. The tube retracted and I found myself on a new level, much the same as the old one, except the ceiling was noticeably lower and the light dimmer. *** And so the next few weeks progressed and I moved down the levels. I ran into Alex one more time but only in passing. An oppressive unspoken resistance seemed to be associated with any kind of bonding between inmates. Like an infection of the mind, but I could not say what it was and I was not keen to discuss it either. Nobody seemed to know each other well, nor cared to become friendly in any way. It was very lonely being in such a densely crowded space without anyone to really talk to. The days were very long and tiring, shuffling around the huge featureless space. I developed some painful sores on my hip from sleeping on the filthy hard floor, but there was no one to complain to. One day I found a spot close to the elevator tubes. They were constantly busy with people vanishing and appearing from the tubes. At least it was something vaguely interesting to watch. A disc lit up with a number. A tall man approached with trepidation and stopped just short of it. He was hesitating. This began to attract attention. The buzzing grew louder and more urgent and he was experiencing increasing obvious discomfort from the bracelet. The disc began to flash along with his bracelet. His head was just shy of the concrete ceiling and I empathised with his plight. The flashing and buzzing intensified, then the ankle bracelet suddenly exploded with a dull thud. The man fell to the ground, his right foot blown off up to the shin. A large bloody stain spread out on the floor with pieces of meat and bone strewn for a metre or so. His scream was not what I expected. It was not one of shock and pain, but a cry of pathetic defeat. A sound I will never forget. Nobody came to his aid, instead many just turned and left the scene. Three discs which I assumed to be lifts raised out of the floor and disgorged three drones. Two came to either side of the man and lifted him bodily into the air. He made a feeble attempt at resistance as they moved to the low wall and threw him over. The third busied itself cleaning up the mess while playing a kind of pacifying elevator music as it worked. An AI’s demented idea of a ‘human touch’. It was completely surreal and horrifying. The whole episode took under 20 seconds. *** The inventor of this abomination must have had a macabre sense of humour, or was an especially bitter midget indeed. The lowering ceiling over the next 2 levels brought almost everyone to a permanent slouch or hunch, with the tall reduced to sitting or crawling. Defeated and broken would sum up the collective mood perfectly. Few bothered with the work tables any more. The hymn of droids as they carried out their grim work was heard more down here. The only highlight I can share is spotting Clive. I tried to approach him but paused when I got up closer in the dim light. Sallow and gaunt, he was blindly shuffling about with his chin buried in his chest. I had to admit that I was not far behind him, but I am an stoic optimist by nature and was probably proving harder for this prison to break. I found stupid trivialities funny and broke out in manic laughter at the slightest prompt. Others would look at me like I had succumbed to insanity. Perhase I have in my own way. Everyone had to dig deep into their souls to find a way to cope. Staying near the edge was popular down here. The light hardly filtered to the centre of the floors anymore. I was scared to even venture into that darkness fearing what I may find. Around the edge, the air was somewhat more bearable, but the price was steep: being a witness to the stream of human tragedies. I watched as inmates would take their own lives over the edge. The regular monotony of it destroyed our souls. Some prayed beforehand, some just lept, and others hollered their epitaphs. I began to guess that this was the only way out. *** I just got sent down this morning, but where I landed can only be described as abominable. As the tube retracted, it stopped at my waist. I squatted down on rickety knees and froze at the scene I beheld. A dim light filtered past figures crawling on hands and knees. The ceiling was so low even standing on your knees was impossible here. The moaning and despair filled the air along with the heavy smell of death. Inmates now uncaring about their fate ranted and raved. Their echoes tormented those still clinging to sanity. I crawled away from the lift, but not far. I don't think anyone gets far down here. I lay down the first chance I got and stayed till the siren howled for meal time. It took an enormous effort to crawl to the trough. I grabbed a mattie and shuffled away to eat it in peace. As I chewed it, I bit down painfully on a pebble or a rock. I spat the piece out into my palm. This was no rock, it was a broken piece of plastic. Not just any plastic either, this was a broken piece from a pearly pink button. Claire’s button. That was the moment I died inside.

I can’t even remember the Sun. ...... It had been the strangest thing when the aliens had landed, because very little actually changed. We felt them in the vibrations of the earth long before we heard them. We heard them as a low thrumming drill deep in our skulls long before we saw them. They flew in in their great grey spaceships by the thousand. Each as large as a city and perfectly cuboid, their steely surfaces glinted evilly in the sunlight as they hovered, before descending as vast metallic falcons upon their prey. Their perfectly straight edges fit against each other like roofing tiles until they seemed to create a sheet around the whole world. For the briefest moment of sheer terror, there was almost utter darkness, but it was short-lived. The soft blue-white underlights of the craft turned on, bathing the earth in their artificial glow, as great pylons extended out of the base of each ship, settling underneath them. Ramps began to filter gradually out amongst the pylons, and the aliens began to descend to their new home. There was some initial alarm on account of how similar to us they looked. As they descended from their craft in their droves, the resemblance to your average subway escalator at rush hour was uncanny. They were, on the whole, just slightly too pale to be human. Slightly too slim and slightly too tall. They all looked different from each other, as we do, but just slightly too different. Like each face was a brand new face, with no components shared. As they milled around the crowds gathered in awe, they would incline their heads and say “We come in peace” to each human they passed in turn. It took several days, probably, though they seemed tireless. Their tone would never falter nor the incline of their bow, and they left no one out. The Earth shook with the fervent refrain of “We come in peace” echoed by a billion slightly-too-human voices. The vast majority of them had returned up their ramps into their craft when the greeting was over, and the ramps had shot up behind them. The scattered few that remained on Earth had clearly done so for a reason, and they went off their separate ways, blending in just a little too well to our way of life. The easiest way to be sure if you passed one on the street was to say “Hello” and see if you got a “We come in peace” in response, or at least it was until humans started saying that to each other for a laugh. But aside from that, nothing was any different about the way we lived our lives. We ate, we shat, and we went to work. We kissed our loved ones and grumbled about our co-workers and scoffed at the idiocy of contestants on game shows. Except there wasn't any sun. There wasn't any moon. There wasn't any night or day at all, just the same incessant ambient blue-white glare from the aliens' ships. They had completely blocked out the sky. Flags across the globe hung limp and useless, flowers wilted in their arid patches. Animals began to behave very oddly, confused by the endless light. We hardly fared any better. How do you sleep when the sky has become like a giant computer screen staring you in the face? We had become like guinea pigs in a lab, trapped under the shining lights, waiting in ignorance of what experiments lay in store for us. But nothing happened. It seemed no experiments were in store for us. Three months on, and apart from wrecking my sleep cycle and once or twice startling me in the street with a "We come in peace", the aliens have done me no harm, nor anyone else as far as I can tell. They are nothing but pleasant and courteous, if they interact with you at all. Our lives have continued just as ever they did, only now under a spotlight. It's driving me insane. They must have come here for a reason, whether "in peace" or not. Why are they parked on our planet, blocking out our sun? Most of them have stayed in their ships anyway. What business have the ones who came down here, filtering into our offices and communities? What does the sun look like? What does rain feel like on my face? A slight breeze? They've rendered our existence sterile. These are the thoughts that assail me as I come wearily into the office today. I know I look like shit, but fortunately, so does everyone else. A good night's sleep has become a long-forgotten thing. I see Bob heading towards me. He's worked here for years, almost as long as I have, but we've never been particularly chummy. He looks a little clammy, which is no big surprise. "Hi Bob." I say as I pass him, "Good weekend?" "We come in peace." I barely pause. "Haha. Good one Bob!" I laugh, adding under my breath "You freak." He's always had an odd sense of humour I could never really gel with. Shaking my head to myself, I head to my cubicle and get set for a day of mind-numbing dullness. Bob's hysterical prank proves to be by far the most interesting event of the day, and I sign off in no worse a mood than I ever am. This is obviously too good to last, however, as on the walk home I see ahead of me one of them, walking right towards me. By now, I can occasionally spot them from a mile away. The paleness is no longer such a factor as it used to be, since we're all living in the same vacuum now, but their eyes... their eyes give them away. Every human I know has the look of someone who hasn't slept properly in three months, because that's what they all are. They have black bags that leave them looking like a handless boxer. But the aliens look as pristine as the day they landed. The fuckers. "Hello!" I greet it with exaggerated exuberance, taking some petty delight in mocking it without it realising. "How fare you today, good sir?" "We came in peace". The response comes hollow and dull in the breezeless air, and hits me like a cannonball. For the first time in months, I feel something real. "Pardon me?" I stutter, sure I've misheard him, although I know that I haven't. "We came in peace". "I'm sorry?" I say incredulously. It looks up at that, and meets my eye perfectly. "We forgive you." ...... A couple of days later, the ramps come back again. The noise is unbelievable, and people are flocking out of their houses to see what all the commotion is about. As the ramps touch down, the aliens start to descend them in their billions, and I'm reminded of the day they came. They flit around us with the same dogged efficiency as before, inclining their head perfectly the same each time, and greeting each human in turn: "We came in peace". The earth shakes with the chorus, "We came in peace", and I see the other humans looking around at each other, perplexed, startled, horrified. The whole affair takes, I imagine, a few days again, although without the visible cycle of day of night, it's hard to judge, and time has become a very loosely real concept to me now. The moment each in turn is done, without ceremony, they start to return to their ships, flooding up their ramps into their cuboid metal ships like busy commuters with a place to be. As the tumultuous crowd around me gradually begins to thin, I see Bob, standing opposite me, looking me directly in the eye. Against the tin-tin-tin of their feet rapping against their ramps, the flustered muttering of the bewildered humans around me, and the ongoing mantra of "We came in peace", I hear him like a gunshot into the void, clear and crisp as bone snapping: "We came in peace. I'm sorry. We forgive you." He turns to make his long way up the nearest ramp, into the daunting vessel above us. The chorus changes around me. "We came in peace. I'm sorry. We forgive you." They all begin to chant as they take their leave. Soon the last few stragglers are making their farewells, "We came in peace. I'm sorry. We forgive you." and we are left looking around at each other, bereft. I feel no relief, only confusion and fear. The earth feels suddenly empty. The lights on the undersides of their ships go out, and we are left in perfect darkness. After the eternal ungodly sunlight of their tenure, it's the most terrifying thing I've ever known, to be suddenly robbed of my sight. But just as when they arrived, the darkness is short-lived. The lights begin to glow a deep red, and the earth is in hellish gloom. The very air looks drenched in blood. Their engines turn on in unison, and the noise is literally deafening. A monumental crash of sound and then I can't hear anything at all, only the ringing that is always in my ears, and I can't see anything, only blurry red. The earth begins to shake, and shake, incredibly. I am thrown to the ground like a ragdoll, and feel the people around me tumble too, limbless and weak. I stumble around blindly, groping at the ground as it quakes beneath me, feeling the tremors surge up my arm and seem to rattle my organs from within. My heart stutters and my head swims in protest, and I vomit spectacularly, retching my guts all over my hands. The heat begins to swell dramatically. Of course, I realise, their engines are about to propel them off the planet. And we are trapped in here, like guinea pigs in a lab. And it seems the experiment we never realised we were in is finally coming to an end. Sweltering, blind and deaf and powerless in a gloomy red inferno, I know that I am in Hell. This is where it all ends for me. And I can't even remember the Sun.

A God and a Girl in a Pool &#x200B; The whole night was a fever dream. My God was even there. She wore a tight black t-shirt and three necklaces--a lock, a key, and a crystal. You could see the top of Her pineapple tattoo in between her breasts and all four piercings in each ear. We swam in our underwear underneath pink and purple pool lights. We kissed underneath the moon. Touched elbows underneath the stars. I love the feeling you get when you swim at the bottom of a pool. When you look up, you see the world in a screaming color. But when you look forward, all you see is crystal clear. I stopped holding my weight and let my body sink. She swam toward me. I reached out to grab Her hand and swam back to the top. We stared at each other above the water, Her back towards the side of the pool. My God looked so beautiful with her wet hair and Her tight black shirt all wet and Her three necklaces dangling. Water droplets dripped from Her chin. It was easiest for me to make the next move since I already grabbed Her hand first and I could easily push Her against the wall so we have something to lean on. &#x200B; Like a shooting star suddenly deciding to soar in the sky, I moved to Her body and grabbed her waist. I felt my breasts against Hers and kissed Her mouth softly. I tasted the chlorine on our lips. She bit my lip and I bit Hers back and She bot mine again, harder. My God is so soft. I still kicked my feet softly underneath the water to hold my body up when She pulled my body towards the cement. Now I don’t have to kick anymore because She is holding me up. I wrapped my legs around Her body and took in the moment. *A God and a girl in a pool.* The colors pink, purple, and blue. The smell of chlorine. The sliminess of shaven legs underwater. The softness of Her lips. I used to think I was going to hell for loving the salt on Her lips. Now I know I was wrong. I know I’m saved. *This* is heaven. My legs are still wrapped around Hers as I snap back into reality. We kiss against as if we were breathing for air and needed it out each other’s lungs. Eventually, she swims towards the ladder. &#x200B; She grabbed my hand and led me into her studio apartment. Plants. Plaid tablecloth. Christmas lights. No couch. Just floor cushions. A painting of Buddha. A messy bed with a white comforter. Small kitchen area. Salt lamp. &#x200B; I told her I loved her place and she said thank you and we went on her bed to watch cartoons on her laptop and she opened a bottle of red wine and we smelled of chlorine and the night was perfect. But just like the wine, the night slowly seeped away, like pool water drying on my skin.

I leaned back on the chair facing the backyard garden upon which I had squandered half of my savings. My father bought that extra half-acre land with the last penny of his fortune, just so I could dig it up for nothing. I looked around, envisaging the blossoming flowers and the fragrant aroma of ripe fruits stagnating in the air. It would’ve been a reminiscence of those summers I grew up in. I used to spend the vacations at my grandpa’s place. I’d wait all year for the summer, to spend a couple of months at his place. My grandpa was too old to get his hands soiled, thus he used to stand behind and guide me as I dug up the flower beds, added the right amount of compost, and planted the seeds. We’d learn to grow different fruits every year. We’d sit in the shed and I’d listen amazedly as he told his stories. After storytime, I’d spend the rest of the evening looking at all my efforts ripening into lushly green fruit-laden plants growing taller than me. Sometimes I'd roam around the garden with my father. My father was more into flowering plants; his favorite was the Buddleia or the butterfly bush . Buddleia is known for attracting butterflies. He used to say, “Flowers are pleasant to look at but butterflies are the real amazeballs .” Once he made me look closely at the butterflies that hovered over the Buddleia flowers. I was in awe of the varied patterns on their vibrantly colored wings. He told me to gently touch a butterfly resting on a bud. As I approached, it spread out its wings and flew off, showcasing its magnificent asymmetric patterns. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen up close. I was brought back to reality when my gaze came upon the tomato plants lined up in front of me in ten pots. Those were the first and only ones in the garden. The plan was to start with tomatoes and gradually progress to other varieties. I staked half the money in setting up the garden and preparing the soil, forecasting a diminished profit in the first time but steadily working its way up. Things all went south when my father got diagnosed with Stage IV Leukaemia . Medical bills slowly began to pile up. I took out a mortgage loan against the half-acre land. Most of my time went by in the hospital; I only came home to water the plants. This went on for two weeks and before the tomatoes began turning into crimson red, my father took his last breath. I had ordered twenty medium-sized pots for the garden before the chaos. They were for radish, spinach, potatoes, and some flowering plants. The delivery service didn’t bother to ask to keep them inside. Neither did I. I’d already paid them upfront so they kept those pots outside the wooden fence surrounding the backyard, rang the bell for signature, and left. I went inside to make myself some coffee. I wondered what to do with those pots. They had been outside for around three weeks by then, and creepers had climbed on them. I couldn't fathom the point in bringing them in when there wouldn’t be any place to keep them. I decided to leave them outside. I wanted to sleep for a month straight. If I woke anytime in between, I might go and water the pots. But then I found it a better solution to sell the tomatoes after one or two days when they fully ripen and then bury the plants. I’d buy some Buddelia seeds and add some extra compost when planting them. Buddleias can grow well of their own. After that, I will go for that sleep. “Gracie... Gracie...” I heard someone shout in the backyard so I rushed outside. I saw a German Shepherd rummaging through the tomato plants, half-chewing each tomato then leaving it for a new one. I wondered how the dog got inside. I saw a ball lying at a distance and a kid’s voice coming from outside the fence. I opened the fence door and let the kid in. He rushed to get hold of his dog by the collar. The dog was too distracted by the tomatoes to pay any heed to his master. After a little tussle, the dog backed off the plants. “I’m sorry about this. I was playing fetch and accidentally threw it inside,” the kid apologized. “It’s all right buddy. Don’t throw it inside a property next time.” After they were gone, I went outside to have a look at the reason behind the dog crossing a five-foot-high fence. I saw the pile of pots lying on the ground, some of them broken. The dog had stepped on them to cross the fence. I went inside to take note of the mess that lay in the middle of the garden. I felt relieved that I was getting that sleep sooner. *** I looked at the flower vases kept on display at the storefront. They were undeniably eye-catching, especially the pots and the vases. I’d never seen such beautiful ones. I felt an urge to buy a few of those; the vases. The pride in growing a plant is incomparable to the one you bought from a store. I went inside the plant shop and the perfumed fragrance residing in the air made me want to throw up. I went to the seeds section, picked up a packet of Buddleia seeds, and walked straight to the payment counter. A girl stood beside me at the counter. She was signing five-six papers hurriedly without reading them. I presumed that she was buying the shop. Anyway, it wasn’t my concern. I wanted to reach home. I made my payment after the girl left. I was too tired to take a bus ride because then I had to walk half a mile from the bus stop to my house. I wondered why I was so impatient to buy those seeds. Maybe I was just missing my dad or maybe I was getting too impulsive. I put my thoughts aside and stopped a cab passing by. As the cab halted in front of me, I heard someone call out for it. I turned around to see that girl from the shop rushing towards us. Our eyes met for half a second before the cabbie asked us our destinations. The girl was going four blocks ahead of my place. We agreed to split the fare and got in. “Thank you. I’m Alice.” “I’m Austin.” She saw the packet of seeds in my hand and asked me if I was a breeder. I replied that it was for my garden. I told her that I saw her inside the shop, signing off the papers at the counter. It turned out that she was signing off the payment slips for the pots and vases they supplied to the shop. She was a craftswoman of some sorts and ran a local business along with her four other friends who made things for decorations and recreations. I ended up telling my whole story when she asked about me. When I stopped, it made no sense why I blurted out everything. Luckily I didn’t break down. It’s like the dam burst, but there wasn’t any flood . “What are you going to do now?” “I have a degree in graphics design. So I might just make something of it.” “But your heart is in farming. That’s why you weren’t doing graphics designing in the first place, right?” “I have some plans. Let’s see what lies ahead.” She nodded and we stayed quiet for a while. I thought about how this goes on in movies. Someone tells a sad story, the other person is moved to tears and their pity turns into love. It felt creepy when I thought about it. I looked sideways at her. She was busy with her phone, reading comments on Facebook . I let out a quiet sigh. The cab suddenly screeched and I grasped the seat tightly as the driver slammed the brakes. A dog had come out of nowhere and was sniffing the road. “Get hold of your fricking dog!” he shouted at a man who rushed in and pulled the dog out of the road. “Poor soul. They are so naïve.” I looked at her and then the driver, who looked at her then me through the rear-view mirror. “Sometimes not in an innocent way,” I smirked. “I have come across a lot of dog messes today,” she chuckled. “Do you like dogs?” “I’m more of a cat person but yeah, I do like dogs. It’s pretty evident that you love dogs, right?” “Yes, I do. I neither like nor hate cats. I’m just very scared of them.” She continued, “Um, I wanted to tell you that we are looking for a designer to handle our advertising and brochure designs. As it happens, I’m sitting beside one, and if you’re interested, we will like to see your work.” “Okay, sure. It’s fine with me.” I cursed myself for my over-enthusiastic response. We exchanged numbers and she gave me her address. We set up a meeting at her place the next evening. I asked her if it was their office. She said that she grew up there with her parents and the Barnhouse then served the purpose of their office. When I told her, we both were astonished to know that we had lived our entire lives a few blocks away and still never met each other before. The cab stopped by my place. I paid my share and got off. “See you tomorrow,” she said, getting her face close to the window. “Yeah, see you.” It was the shortest twenty minutes of my life. A part of me wanted to crash on the bed and get up before the next evening, and another part of me wasn’t sleepy anymore. *** Six years have passed since that day. A half-an acre of bleak land has expanded into an acre of farmland. I sit under the shed in the middle of the farm, looking at the saplings sprouting and basking in the sun. I hear Alice calling. “Missy, come to mommy... Honey, come inside and bring along Missy.” Missy is our cat who is chasing the butterflies hovering over the Buddleia in our backyard. A cat’s life is the best; sleep eighteen hours a day, get food anytime you wake up, beat the dog, and cry to be let out in the evening to play with the butterflies. Alice and I married after dating for two years. We adopted an adorable pup and named him Jesse. We found Missy near the Buddleia one day and decided to take her in. Jesse got a playmate so now Alice and I are finally getting some privacy. We are planning on having kids now. Alice completely backed me with the funds to set up the farm. I started making generous profits in no time and now two-thirds of our income comes from our YouTube channel . She has always supported me through the risky choices I made and it’s quite rare to find someone who trusts you like that. I never knew about the Butterfly Effect before; ' one thing affects another’ . I came across it online a few days back. I asked Alice if she knew about it. She did. I was quite fascinated by it and ever since it’s been living in my head. I always wonder what would’ve happened that day, if I had decided to bring inside the pots kept outside the fence, or if the dog didn’t destroy the tomatoes, or if I didn’t go to that plant shop, or Alice and I didn’t share the cab. One different move and life could’ve ended up differently. It’s amazing how our decisions can affect not just our lives but also those around us. I love Alice a lot. She and the pets are the only family I have. Sometimes I wish I had met her earlier in my life. Damn, I should have spent a vacation or two playing around in my neighborhood. It's funny how everything we want is already nearby, veiled from us by destiny. Blink once at the wrong time and you miss it forever. Even it’s surprising how Alice chose me. How incompetent I sounded that day in the cab and yet she hired me for the job, which I also left within a year. I won’t even choose myself for the job if I had other options. Maybe the sob story worked on her. Occasionally I ask Alice what she feels about that day and the cab ride we shared. She still calls it ‘the most expensive cab ride she ever took’.

Warning beforehand. The story contains swearing words and mature scenes. THE REASON WE GOT MARRIED The room was lit with scented candles having tint of lavender aroma all around the house. The door opens and a woman enters with an elite aura around her. “Happy wedding anniversary!!” A man wearing a tuxedo suit wishes and few more people comes with cake and celebrations. Everyone were wishing the main girl of the day. Wishing the main couple of the day. Link and Iris... The 26 years old couple also business partners.... Match made in heaven... according to others. The party ended, the guest left. It was Link and Iris... Only two of them... Even though they live together, been married for 4 years they never felt this tense atmosphere before... The silence was killing them... It wasn’t awkwardness or lust. It felt like a time bomb which could blast any minute. “I’ll clean up the-” Before Link could complete his sentence Iris spoke “Who the fuck told you to plan this? I hate social gathering and parties. Are you unaware of it?” Iris was annoyed yet spoked in pretty calm voice. “It was for our reputation and I thought if we could do something different this time” Link replies and Iris scoffs. “I hate anniversaries. You better don’t plan anything, it’s just like any other normal day. Anyways, it’s so annoying to act good.” Iris said and was about to walk away but... "Why did we even got married when you want to act like this?? After all the years together... Even when my family went to bankruptcy you stuck to me like a glue. I really thought... I really thought that you finally love me!!" Link yells letting out his frustration. Iris walks towards him with the same unreadable expression on her face... "You really don't know why we got married? Want me to remind you?" Iris scoffs and holds his collar pulling him closer. She leans towards his ear whispering "8 years ago... You... RAPED ME " 8 years ago. Getting off from part time job Iris was heading towards her house. It was almost past midnight and the streets were empty. Iris was walking off by her normal route which is from the alley. "BYEE GUYS I SHOULD GO HOMMEE!!" Iris heard a loud voice and couple of people muttering. She could feel the trouble knocking at her door and her instincts was telling her to leave the alley as soon as possible. She increased her pace but could hear the sound of footsteps following her all way. “Excuse me??” The voice made her stop and it sounded pretty genuine. “You dropped this” The boy seemed to be same age as her said returning the handkerchief. “It’s not mine. Sorry” Tris replies and was about to walk away but.... “I just want to return this. Why won’t you accept??” The boy said slamming her against wall. Iris could feel the hotness coming from him as if someone gave him flibanserin (drug which increases lust drive) She struggles to get away from his grip but he was a way too strong. "Please... let me go" Iris whimpers in pain as the boy pushes her down on the ground. "Shut up!! I just wanted to return this fucking handkerchief!!" The boy replies harshly pinning her. The boy started striping her pants. Iris knew there is no way to escape. He was drunk and stronger than her. "Shouldn't you ask permission for it?" Iris asked with a blank expression on her face and the boy looks at her confusingly still he was botherless. "This is wrong... I don't want this..." Tear drops could be seen falling from her eyes. "That's how the world is... you better live in it." The boy said and started thrusting in. Iris didn't had strength to speak... She was lost in her thoughts... She was feeling numb and disguise by his every touch. "There is no used even if I want to stop you... then... If you are doing it... You better do it properly " Iris said but the boy was drunken and alcohol took over him... making him botherless by any of the things happening around. "Oh gosh... I freaking love you!!" The boy said kissing her all over the body. Next Morning. Link wakes up with massive headache. Without thinking twice, he head towards the bathroom to fresh up. As each waterdrop drips from his skin made him remember each and everything happened yesterday. Regression, guilt and fear took over his every cell of body. "Its fine... No one knows about it... Nothing happened..." That's what he kept repeating. He head towards the hall room only to see his family having breakfast with an unexpected guest sitting on the dinning chair. "Link? Honey? You didn't tell us you have such a pretty girlfriend? Mom is upset that you are starting to hide from her." Link's mother said with a mother’s love in her eyes while serving the breakfast. "What are you doing here? Why are you wearing my school uniform??" Link was shook by her sudden appearance. “Link is this way to talk??” Link’s father scold him as they come from an elite family. "It’s okay father-in-law. (Smiles and looks at Link) I transferred to your school today. Do you like my surprise? Link?" Iris replies having a soft yet creepy smile on her face. "How did you two met if you aren’t in same school?" Link's older brother asks feeling suspicious. "Oh! yesterday we had-" Before Iris could speak further Link drags her out of the house. ... "I know you are pissed I am extremely sorry for yesterday. I got drunk for the first time and it was a mistake. I'll give you all the money you want. Please just-" Iris cuts off his sentence by saying "Money? I don’t want money. I'm just doing what you told me to do. Living in this world with someone who love me. Yesterday you told me that you freaking love me . We should be with someone who freaking love us. I’ll be with you forever . I obeyed you... I am a good girl, aren’t I?” Iris questioned with a smile plastered on her face. TODAY. "You could have sued me!! I.... I did wrong to you... I admit it... You could have report me to police. You had every right to do!" Link said with tears dripping on his cheek uncontrollably. "How am I suppose to do? You were rich... Your dad worked in lawsuit... You mom was businesswoman... What do you expect? Walk into lion’s den? Do you see me as a fool?" Tris replies with pretty calm voice. Link knew what he did was unforgivable and for that her has to pay... He accepted it... “It’s been 8 years since then... I didn’t like you at first but eventually I fell for you. That’s why I never oppose you... I know I did wrong... I won’t ask for forgiveness because I don’t regret any of it.” Link said holding her hands while tears just kept on falling. “All I wanted was to study... get into university... Marry someone who freaking loves me ... When I told my parents about what happened that day. They kicked me out of the house because it brought shame to my parents. You aren’t aware of that right? After all this years have you ever asked about my parents or where I lived? How I survived? The thing which every woman cherish is her virginity.... You took it from me... But you said you freaking love me.... So, I am yours.... Forever. " Iris said with tears in her eyes for the first time in those 8 years. It felt like she poured out her heart. “I am sorry for everything... I know what I did was wrong but it’s all past... Please just stop treating me like a crap all the time. Can’t we just move on? Start a new life..?” Link said with apologetic eyes. Iris scoffs saying “Move on? I’ll be with you just like this... Forever. Even after I die” With that Iris leaves the room. It’s been 8 years... they never had any kind of conversation on this topic. It left them buried alive. Past Midnight. They both freshen up and were laying on the bed. They both were awake yet pretending to sleep. Having two different yet similar things in their mind. Iris If he wanted he could have killed me or when we were living together he could have kill me. Even now he can kill me. Destroy me any second he want. Did he really fell for me...? He raped you Iris... At the point when your life was getting better he ruined you. Your dreams... were crushed but... I can see sincerity in his eyes... Iris... You shouldn’t trust anyone. At least not the man who- Link. She always insults me in the business meetings. That sharp tongue of hers never leave me... I know I don’t have potential like her yet I am her husband. Still... She have every right to treat me like a crap. To be honest I regret everything I did... but at some point I don’t regret because if I haven’t met her in that alley. We never got married. Fuck it!! I gotta work tomorrow I should just sleep!! Link moves sideways at the corner of bed. Suddenly he felt someone pulling him into a back hug. Tris clears her throat wanting to speak “The reason we got married may full of vengeance but I can’t let you go... You know that...” Tris seemed to be lost in words. A never seen side of hers could be seen. Link didn’t had words to describe how he was feeling for the moment, the misunderstanding was cleared... Link turns around engulfing Iris’s cologne, hugging her with every energy he have. Sometimes action speaks more than words and sometimes we gotta speak honestly so that we could understand each other. A proper conversation... A proper understanding could be a source of telepathy. It took 8 years for us to know the reason we are together... and 4 years to know The Reason We Got Married. -1692 words

Her jet-black hair blows gracefully in the wind as she turns around to look back at me, giving me a wink and a peace sign with her fingers. Her high-school uniform fits so perfectly on her, just the right length for her skirt that I can see her beautiful long legs but not too much that it’s too revealing. Her blouse perfectly buttoned, not too high that I can’t see her cleavage, but just low enough to leave things to my imagination. Her hair, medium length, of course I will say how just right it is. What can I say, she’s perfect for me. I couldn’t have asked for a better senior year, with her by my side. I’m planning to enter the same university as her in just a few months after summer’s end. I need to follow her wherever she goes because she is that magical. We are those eighteen-year-old high school sweethearts. *Could* I *marry* her *one day?* I only wish we can keep things going the way they are, because I never want our story to take a turn for the-- “--Haruka!” She let out a laugh of contentment, “Kanako!” She shouted my name with her hands cupping around her smile. “I love you!” I run towards her in panic as she stands upon the rooftop edge about to take her next and final step to death. *ONE MONTH EARLIER* She sat at the piano playing a tune she told me her grandmother used to sing to her when she was a little girl. I sat beside her at the piano and listened. It was peaceful until she said, “Kanako...Want to wake up with me?” “What do you mean?” I asked as her fingers faltered on the keys. “You know, I’m so happy with you. This must be a dream,” she said; “Wouldn’t you want to wake up with me? If we were dreaming, I’d want to wake up next to you.” *I shouldn’t take her seriously*, I thought*.* She was probably like this with all the girls at Kodachi High. After all, she was popular with the ladies. “Haruka, stop playing games,” I said but she hushed me with her lips. They were as soft as I expected. I pulled back. “I’m not--” Before I could say anything she leaned in again, this time not only kissing me. I felt her small hand caress my breast. Tingles ran through my stomach and my hands went cold. I was nervous and she must have read my mind. “Don’t be nervous,” she whispered between tender kisses on my lips. Her other hand creeped slowly up my leg and under my skirt. She was about to touch my valuables, when she just stopped. She leaned back and sighed, and looked disinterested. My heart was racing, I couldn’t comprehend what just happened, let alone why she stopped when I was getting so hot for something I didn’t even know I would like. Then she said to me, “You know, I’m not a lesbian.” She looked me dead in the eyes with the uttermost seriousness before breaking out into a laughter, “I just like to mess around, have a little fun. I never go the whole way...” Her right index finger caressed the keys on the piano in a shy manner. The third period bell sounded and we could hear the others filling up the hallways. I grabbed her right hand with my left. “Let’s get to class.” There was one other time that I should have noticed... “I’m actually in love with you,” I confessed my love to her at the firefly festival. The sky was lit with only stars and the lanterns illuminated the pathway in the garden behind our school. It was just me and her sitting on a bench enjoying the scenery. She got up to try to catch a firefly. “Are you even listening to me?” I was getting a little irritated that she wasn’t taking me seriously. She had changed me in so many ways; she was my best friend that turned into someone I love. I needed her approval to make us official. Haruka finally captured the firefly, then crushed it in her hands. My eyes widened. I couldn’t believe she would do that. “My hands were like life,” she turned to me as she rose from her crouched position. “You and me--the firefly. Given the right condition,” she wiped her hands on her skirt, “ life can destroy us into the bliss we never knew we needed.” “What does that even mean?” I was confessing my love and she was spouting randomness, so I dismissed it and asked, “Do you even love me back?” “Yes,” She said. “You will be the only one I ever love.” I was relieved. She was mine and I was hers. So when she tells me to come to the rooftop today, our graduation day, I’m eager to see her, but this is not what I expect to see. I run toward her, everything makes sense now, I can’t let her go through this alone, I have to be with her. She soon steps off the ledge, I grab her as we plummet and we hold each other hard. Life’s grasp is enclosing, and these are our last nine seconds. “Why?” I ask her. “Because, I want to wake up next to you,” are her last words.

The two poets watched as the morning sunrise struggled into dawn. One was young, the other near the end of his life. The soft rose-pink light colored both their faces, the one like a smooth, blank palette, the other interrupted with aged canyons of shadow. "What, is it sunset already?" the older one wondered out loud. "No, Master," replied his young friend. "It is dawn." They sat gently rocking in a simple boat on the lake. If you listened carefully, you could hear the miniature waves lap against the cobbled shore. Shore birds, having anticipated the light, wheeled overhead in the cold air that cut through their cotton robes. The wooden slats of the boat groaned their complaints. "I'm cold," stated the ancient poet. "Let's go inside and have something to warm our blood." The young man studied his superior, wondering at the man's seemingly infinite capacity for drink. The old man was a famous poet, but you would never know it by looking at him. He sat there like a barren hill, his bald crown flowing down into broad shoulders and a chest that had fallen into his lap. The youngster felt that there was deep philosophy in the man's stoic patience. On the one hand, he knew that if he rowed back to shore, the old man would embarrass him. On the other, he didn't want to be responsible for the great man's death from cold. His sigh was lost among the tolling of the birds as he turned the craft and headed back towards the rickety pier. The ladder up the side of the pier appeared to be in even worse shape than when they had set out late last night. There was cause for concern that the dilapidated structure might not hold his friend's weight. The young man could only hope that the water here was shallow, as he could not swim. Once on dry land the elderly poet seemed to be reborn. He took off with unanticipated speed towards the inn's front gate. The young scribe had to scuttle to catch up with him. At the gate, the young poet rapped delicately on the rough wood. "That's no way to wake the dead!" roared his companion. He pounded on the double gate with a huge fist that looked the size and coloring of a young piglet. Almost immediately wooden shutters directly above them slammed open. With an agility that belied his size and age, the older poet leaped back just as the contents of a chamber pot splashed against the hard earth. His young companion reflected that this was obviously a happenstance the great poet had come across before. While the old man's robes of brown over an inner layer of yellowed-white silk remained relatively unsoiled, the youngster's four layers of red embroidered in gold thread, green, cream and black silk did not fare as well. "What do you want?" called down the enraged inn keeper. "Can't you see that it is the middle of the night?" "Can't you see," retorted the famous poet, "the dawn's early light?" "I am not opening my business this early!" shouted the inn keeper. "Send a servant out with a jug of your finest wine," suggested Li Po, "and we will not bother you until lunch." Yes, this was the famous Li Po, whose poems were well-known throughout the land. However, even the best of writers must moisten their lips. Once in possession of the large ceramic jug, he expertly turned it over the crook of his elbow and took a hearty swallow. Lips now lubricated, he released the jug to the care of his young friend. They had been wandering the southern lands of the empire for weeks now, and the lesser poet knew that he could not match the great man swallow-for-swallow. He drank enough to take the edge off the morning's frost, no more. Then he suggested the two of them wander around the neighborhood until time for their mid-day meal. He hoped, that way, to keep his friend out of further trouble and himself out of further embarrassment. They were in an agricultural part of the empire and so it was not surprising that they soon came across a farm. The farmer, still a young man, was hoeing weeds. Sweat poured from his face like rain. "My friend, my comrade, my fellow farmer!" Li Po called out in his effervescent, dramatic fashion. He had once tried his hand at farming, when his son and daughter were young. He had made an absolute disaster of it, just as he had when he'd tried being a politician. But he still thought of himself as a farmer, and a member of the emperor's court. In fact, he also considered himself a soldier, although it was one occupation that he'd meant to try but never gotten around to. The farmer was a naturally friendly fellow and smiled his toothless smile at them. "Come join us in a drink!" Li Po invited him. His young friend marveled at this display. You'd have thought he had been next-door neighbors with the farmer for years, so familiar was his manner towards him. Leaning on his crude hoe, the agriculturalist thought this over. "It is not good to drink on an empty stomach," he finally pronounced. "Come up to the house with me, and my wife will provide us breakfast." As they trudged up the slight slope to the man's abode, Li Po turned to his fellow poet and exclaimed, "See? Didn't I tell you that farmer up ahead looked like he had a fine head on his shoulders?" He had said no such thing. "Although he has spent his entire life on this farm and never ventured farther than the nearest market town, he is wise in the ways of men!" The farmer's wife, looking out at the rise of strange voices and seeing her husband followed by two distinguished-looking gentlemen, rushed out to greet them. Li Po thereupon lavished praise upon her until her already-ruddy cheeks blushed red. The younger poet was just pleased to find that their place didn't smell too bad. Breakfast was the usual of the poor peasant: cold, thin rice gruel. The bowls were small and Li Po had downed two before realizing what he was doing. This young man and wife would now have to do without gruel tomorrow morning. The jug had been passed around to all and was now empty. The temporary sobriety gave the hero a sudden clarity. "Bring me paper!" he demanded of the farmer. The couple had to pause, not quite sure if they owned such an item. "There is that letter that your uncle, the southern border official sent you," the wife reminded her husband. "Is it blank on the other side?" Li Po asked. They thought that it probably was. "Then bring it!" their guest commanded. The younger poet, and there is much disagreement as to his name, knew exactly what his master had in mind. He got out his ink stone and one of his lesser quality brushes. There was no need to waste the hairs of a finer brush on these two. The finer points of calligraphy would be totally lost on these yokels. Although the old man was well past his prime, and losing his eyesight, his touch with a calligraphy brush was still as amazing as ever. The tip of the sable hairs seemed to just barely touch the rough paper. His wrist was as supple as a child's, his fingers sensitive to the multiple meanings of each written character. When he was done, he sat back and gave a simple grunt of satisfaction. The younger poet looked over his shoulder and marveled at the sight. "One of your very best, Master!" he exhorted. There was no hint of flattery in his voice. The poem started out with mere whips of lines, almost as thin and airy as a spider's thread. Then, as it progressed, the lines became thicker, more energetic. Subtle flourishes were hidden everywhere. By the last character, Li Po had applied the brush almost flat, emphasizing the poem's noble meaning. "Should I read it to you?" the young poet politely asked. "Please do," replied the farmer. He bowed low. Already he knew that he had been highly honored. "My young friend," explained Li Po, "has excellent diction and enunciation. He comes from a very rich family and they afforded him the very best of tutors. There is no one better to speak my poem." Both husband and wife bowed low. They held that position as their gift was read to them. Stared into my wine cup unaware of the growing dark until falling blossoms filled the folds of my robe's bark Drunk, I stumbled to the moon floating in the clear stream where the birds had long flown away A few men shared my dream. The wife let out a surprised gasp before the recitation was even finished. "I remember my mother singing this song to me!" she exclaimed. "Until now, I did not fully appreciate the honor of your presence in our humble home!" Li Po looked very pleased with himself. There was nothing he loved better in life than to be told how far and wide his fame had spread. It was the most intoxicating of wines. "You can sell this poem anytime for good coin," said Li, "but if you can afford to hold on to it until I die, it will fetch a small fortune!" Soon after, the old poet asked the farmer to show him his sturdiest tree. He settled in its shade and quickly fell asleep. His companion explain to the couple that they had not slept at all the night before. "From sundown to sunrise, we drank, made up poems and watched the Empress Moon promenade across the sky." The farming couple went away impressed with how hard it must be to be a poet. So much work, to take all night! By late afternoon the poets were back at the inn. Li Po had awoken with a terrible thirst. At first the innkeeper didn't want to serve them. "No, I do not want any more of your poems as payment!" he growled in anger. "I already have enough of the worthless scribble to paper all my walls!" "But you saw the letter I wrote to my father asking for more money," the protege protested. "You yourself posted it to the mail!" The innkeeper could not argue with this and in the end he relented. Besides, the jovial old man brought in much business. Amateur poets and lovers of verse came from miles around to see and hear the famous fossil. That day, in fact, the crowd was greater than usual. So busy with the business of merriment were the two that it was well past sunset before they noticed the sun had left the sky. Li Po's most fervent fans insisted on joining them out on the lake and a small armada of dinghies had to be found to accommodate them all. Finally, though, it was just the two of them out on the water, just as they had been the night before. The loons had long settled in to sleep and the only remaining sounds were of crickets, frogs and the soft lapping of water. Overhead, the gods had ground so much ink that the entire sky was black. If one looked in the opposite direction of the inn, it was not possible to tell the heavens from the horizon. Occasionally, the calm was broken by the sound of a jug being raised to lips. Both poets contemplated the inky blackness of the still lake. "It is like the world has been blotted out by one large, bold character," the younger muttered, half to himself. His elder had no time or interest in such a simile. The moon's reflection in the water was so clear, so faithful a reproduction, that he had a hard time telling which was which. If anything, the mirrored version seemed superior, as it appeared larger than its original. "I hear the gods beckoning me, Du!" Li Po cried out. It was not his old friend Du Fu beside him, but the younger poet did not correct him. It was a distinct honor to be so confused with the other great poet of their age. Li's long sleeve could just be made out as he waved out towards the moon's reflection. "See how Goddess Moon calls me! Is she not the most beautiful woman you have ever seen? How wide and round her face, how pale her countenance!" "Yes, yes," grumbled the ersatz Du Fu. He was nursing a grudge. This would be the second night in a row that he would spend out in the freezing night air. How much warmer and more comfortable would a bed in the inn be! Besides, Li Po had spoken of this fantasy for years. When well in his cups, he liked to boast that the gods had sent him down from heaven. Sooner or later, he promised everyone within earshot, the gods would call him back home. Now he, too, looked out from their little swaying boat at the crisp, sharp image of the moon upon the lake. "You are too beautiful for me to resist!" he heard the old man cry out in passion. The bright orb, silvery white, hypnotized the young man. Only after the fact was he able to remember that the boat had suddenly begun rocking back and forth more than before. Only the sound of splashing water and the icy spray upon his skin brought him back to reality. "Li Po?" he called out to the empty seat next to him. "Li Po?" Being a bright young man, he immediately hit upon what had happened. He sighed. Whether it was a sigh of sorrow, regret or resignation, he could not say. "I am sorry that I cannot swim, Master," he called out into the ink. Then it came to him that it might be for the best. Li Po had gone home to his ancestors. He looked up in the sky, at the still, bright, eternal moon. the end

Michael never felt freer than when the oval sun dipped below the cold earth. Sprinkling the sky with an ombre of oranges and pinks, to settle in an ink-black with white freckles. Faint warm glows growing from simple homes melted into the sky like blended watercolours. Michael breathed deeply into the new air, the static and wild air. His feet grounded like roots into the earth and the wild air swirled into his lungs. His eyes remained delicately closed, on the brink of opening; just barely closed. A butterfly kiss of closure. Michael found joy and contempt in opening his eyes to the pitch black and watch it morph into dark colours as his eyes adjusted. He felt in those moments of morphing from blind to nocturnal that he became a part of the night. There was no joy here. The butterfly opened and on this foggy night, Michael was surrounded by the sea fog of his hometown, tainted with the staining blood of light. It was like orange glasses had been placed upon Michael's head while he swayed in the night. It was suffocating. Michael could feel the pollution enter his lungs with every breath. It was anxious, quick, and hot the breath coming out of him. Adding to the fog that swirled around him. Michael felt invisible arms wrap around him, smothering his body and pulling him into this polluted fog. Sick of the sick, Michael, wrenching his arms from the invisible force, sprung to his car. The door slamming shut behind his entering form, the keys clinking against each other as they were being thrust into the ignition to only miss and slam into the wheel. Michael's hands were shaky, trembling in soul-crushing fear of the sickness outside. Again the keys slammed, Michael breathing in a bubbling breath, a deep bubbly breath; slowly with shaking hands slid the key with precision into the ignition and twisted. The car bleeding into life and Michael sucking in gurgling breaths with relief. Hands clutched in a death grip the steering wheel, it looked as though bones were a second away from protruding through the pale skin. But the movements were so fast, from a death grip and a shaky breath, one hand jittered out to change the gears while the other indicated to enter the road and no sooner than when the steering wheel was grasped Michael was on the road. It was hard for Michael to focus through the orange pollution, he felt sick at moving through the nauseating gas. His arms stretched out uncomfortably straight, his back glued to the seat, erected, as his eyes bulged from his head. Michael tried not to breathe out of fear the pollution would be seeping through the air filters. The car was chugging and winding up the steep hill presented to Michael and he broke his fear of pollution for fear of his tiny shitty car for a second. But then his small car broke through that barrier, the barrier where the polluted sea fog could not go through. Through a gasping fish breath, Michael saw the tall shadowing trees, the inky black sky sprinkled with white freckles, the gasps between tree trunks changing colours depending on the growing foliage. And best of all. No pollution on the roadside. Michaels now relaxed right limp arm slumped down to the headlights and turned them off, plunging him to even more darkness. Michael knew the way. He didn’t need that pollution to now the way he thought. It wasn’t as good as been outside amongst the inkiness of the night-time world. He couldn’t cement his feet to the ground and grow the roots he wanted to, but it was better than the orange pollution. So, Michael hummed pleasantly to the night, and winding down his window he breathed in the musky forest air. It was peaceful until Michael heard the artificial hum of the monster he was about to face. It sounded like death and chaos and soon the car spluttered over a small hill and there between the trees to the left the power building the monster sat with faint cat-like glows and an evil smile to its aura. The place where Michael worked. Michael thought about how painfully long it had taken him to get the graveyard shift at the powerplant. He thought about the itchy uniform he constantly had to wear and how he felt like he lived in a straight jacket constantly. So soon soon soon . Whispered in his head and for the first time his smile cracked in a shier grin, but he pushed it back into his mind because the security booth was next to him now. It was a simple nod, a junky metal arm raised, and Michael’s car pulled forward into its spot behind the plant. He had done these thousands of times, but only tonight did it feel static, exciting. The beep of his car locking sending an erotic thrill down his spine and a spring in his step. Soon, soon, soon. It was all robotic the next movements of his. Signing in, walking to his station, glancing the security camera screens, and sliding into his old, probably will break if he was any heavier, chair. There he waited. Flick. The chairs next to him scratched as the premonition smell of cigarettes filled Michael's nostrils long before the murky remnants clinging to his co-worker’s clothes returned from their hourly break. The door slammed shut and Michael's tongue swelled with excited saliva, like Tantalus, he was so close yet so far from what he craved. Quickly sticking out his tongue to release the pressure he clicked it back in as he sprung from his seat. The view on the security cameras showing all fellow workings slowly peeling away to the designated smoking area, well away from any flammable objects that were stationed inside the building. Rubbing his tongue on the roof of his mouth in a slick thinking motion Michael thought of how lucky he was no one knew he smoked. For if they did then he wouldn’t have been left alone to watch over the whole power plant for 10 minutes. 10 sweet minutes. It had all been planned. The second the last person walked across the fuzzy security screen leading outside and the door softly closed behind the form, Michael hit the silent lock button. A stupid button, only in emergencies would the whole building need to lock down but here they were with a silent one. It was like a silent siren calling to Michael every night because for months he could have done this, but only until he was alone and knew the combination of keys could he answer the silent call. So he did. The silent alarm locked all the doors and the unaware co-workers puffed like trains. Michael licked his lips to have a break from his excited and swelling tongue. Striding out of the room Michael made the quick and fluid steps, repeated millions of times before this night, to the control room. Soon, soon, soon. Soon the control room door will hush open with a metallic click, soon the smell of late-night dinners will fill Michael's nose, and soon the clicking and squeaking of rubber boots will fill the silence but humming room. And soon became now and now there Michael stood before the brilliant red cut off button. The suffocating will end soon he thought but before he thought of his plan. His hand will graze the silky red handle graced with vibrant. Emergency cut off! Oh, its never been more tempting. Michael sucked in the stuffy control room air and flopped his head backward where the top of his spine would send that stinging feeling down his body. Where sucking in a thick breath could be felt filling his small throat, expanding and splitting the seams of flesh. Exhaling out emptied his stomach and rounded his spine like a cat. And looking away, as his shoulder blades pressed up towards the ceiling, his right uplifted and gripping the red rubber he pulled the lever. The room erupted in the Emergency red and Michael lightly swiveled like a dancer on ice, starring blankly, he breathed in and thundered towards the door. With unpredictable excitement Michael whipped open the emergency door, banging the fire emergency memorabilia on the other side. His boots hit the concrete slapping like skin and Michael ran screaming towards the smokers saying that, “some psycho entered the building!” And immediately the smokers ran inside the building following protocol. While in the rush Michael ran past the hole in the chainmail fence. Michael kept running. Running. Now, now, now. His feet pounding on the earth in the same rhythmic beat of his heart. His breathing came out visible due to the change of temperature and it came out swift and fast. The further he got, the deeper into the forest he found himself, and soon he skidded to a stop on top of the tallest hill he could run-up. Before him, the forest clearing broke away to a view of the now sea fog clear town. At least that what he would have seen if he had not plunged them into darkness. The sky in that short time from when leather red had fallen, exploded into a sea of white swimming fish. Blues and purples melted like paints amongst the inky black. Bubbling and falling in the rhythm of the universe. So there Michael exhaled the polluted breath he had been holding, falling forward, collapsing to the dewy ground. Rolling like a dog and spreading his arms wide like a bird he looked upon the melting sky and felt himself too melt into the inky abyss. It felt like breathing for the first time. Now, now, now. An orgasmic experience. Projecting his torso upward into a seated position Michael looked back towards the power plant. How sweet it will be. Would it. Michael concluded that yes it would be sweet. So, he smoothly leaped onto one foot and streamed through the dry earthy leaves. The fresh smell of excitement smelled of fallen leaves and dewy grass; and it streamed straight through Michaels flares nostrils. Just don’t let them turn it back on, it's so simple, it's so sweeeet. Oh, it is so sweet. Michael moved like returning sea fog to the power plant where the smokers ran around in secret looking for the crazy man. Just what you need. Sure is. Because as Michael remembered, behind the door, the emergency door. There laid the fire ax perfectly handing parallel to the emergency button. The fire emergency memorabilia. The memorabilia that rolled into Michael's hands like an engulfing fog. And it swung easily between his hands and there was the invisible smell of fire, ash, and burnt skin. Smoke rolled into the building like a thin layer of sea fog, just the start of the thick pea soup. As the ax sang with a metal buzz. I don’t think pollution will stay this season. No Michael supposed, he guesses it won’t. The first of many rounded the corner before him, and the smoker spluttered polluted words, but the ax was already making him choke. It had swung high to the right and falling to the smokers' throat it sliced the meat as easily as a paper cut. The blood collected and bubbled through the smoker’s lungs to soon spurt out in a water gun stream once the ax was jostled out of the slick flesh. The heavy body of the smoker collapsed to the ground, wide eyes starring up to a once close co-worker. Michael lifted his hand and grabbed the vibrant red neck he had created. Pushing down until the body fell in a contorting position backward. There Michael starred deep into the polluted eyes, the orange eyes, the smoker’s eyes. Soon the light, that pollution left the smoker's eyes and Michael took that sweet shaky breath of fresh air in. Michael collapsed his head into the crook of the smoker's bloodied neck and sucking in the sweet air, felt again the orgasmic bliss of melting into the world.

I gazed up at the treetops that gently leaned to and fro in rhythm of the wind. Spring had greeted me once again like seasonal clockwork. Streaks of sunlight covered my face in warm stripes. I closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. This was my homestead. The soil imprinting my soles were a comforting earthen blanket beneath my feet. The outdoors was the dining room. I sat on one of the four tree stumps, adorned with handmade embroidered cushions Ma made. The table was one large carved stump with a surface sanded smooth. I heard the crunching of sticks nearby, and quickly looked back down, eyeing my surroundings. I caught a glimpse of Pa ambling up the hill carrying a bundle of freshly chopped wood. “Mornin', Pa,” I greeted. &#x200B; “Mornin', Lex. Could you help me bring this inside?” he asked. “Sure thing,” I said, standing up and walking over to meet him. I lightened his load by taking half of the wood out of his hands. The cabin door swung open for them to walk through by his younger brother, Finlay. They walked through the doorway and into their home, dumping the wood into a crate beside the entrance. The aroma of cooked blueberries drifted through the cabin from the kitchen, where Ma stood, scrubbing at some dishes. Clifford wiped the sweat off his brow. &#x200B; She turned her head to look at us and smiled. “Any of you boys have a hankerin' for blueberry pie tonight?” My brother and I nodded eagerly in unison. “Annamae, that pie sure smells mighty fine,” Pa said. “Why thank you kindly, Cliff,” she responded gratefully with a warm smile. He walked over to her, embracing her with a kiss. Finlay walked into the kitchen, tugging at her dress. &#x200B; “Ma?” he asked. “What is it, sweetheart?” she asked, picking him up into her arms. “What are you fixin' for dinner?” he inquired. “Oh, honey, it's your favorite. If you, Lexton, and Pa catch us a deer, we'll have us some venison stew,” she answered. He grinned and hugged her tightly. She let him down. “Pa, Pa, can I go hunting with you, *please*​?” Finlay begged. “As long as ye keep close to your brother, I don't see a problem with it,” Pa answered. Finlay clapped in excitement, jumping up and down. &#x200B; He was active as much as he was curious, all at the tender age of five. Pa strode over to me and looked at me intently. “What is it, Pa?” I asked, confused. He lifted his hands and turned my chin back and forth. “Looks like ye have some stubble growing in, son. My boy's finally becoming a man,” he said with a chuckle. His skin crinkled around his eyes when he smiled. He patted him firmly on the shoulder. “Lexton, why don't you go grab the hunting rifles, and let's start huntin' afore gets too late, alright?” he requested. “Yes, Pa,” I agreed, before walking into his study. I grabbed the two hunting rifles down from their wall mount and returned back into the common area. I handed over one of the rifles to him. &#x200B; “Did you make sure they're loaded?” he asked. “No, I didn't check,” I replied, before clicking the safety and checking to see if the gate was loaded with bullets. “Yeah, I have some in there,” I said. He followed after my lead and checked his gun. “Well, it looks like we're good to go, then,” he said. “Do you have the spare ammunition, Pa?” I asked. “I got it in my pocket, let's go,” he nudged. &#x200B; “You boys be safe now, ye hear!” Ma called out to us, as we left the cabin and started down the hill. I took Finlay's hand and walked with him to make sure he wouldn't accidentally get lost. Halfway to the clearing, I had something to ask Pa, but I wasn't sure what his reaction would be. “Pa?” I asked. “Yes, son?” he responded. “When can I go into town?” I wondered. He abruptly stopped in tracks, causing me to stumble a bit. He whirled around, with a scowl on his face. “What makes you want to go into town?” he demanded in a harsh whisper. &#x200B; I opened my mouth, but no sound was able to come out. “The only reason for you to go into town is to find a woman, wed her, and bring her back here to stay. You'll build her a cabin just as I did years ago with my own bare hands, and you'll raise a family with her,” he lectured. “But Pa, I'm tired of living like this! I'm sick of fish, roasted crawdads, and venison. I don't just want to meet a woman. I want to see what's out there!” I shouted. &#x200B; “Listen, Lexton, you were born by this here crick, you were raised here in these woods, and you'll die here in these woods. Aside from courting a lady, you have no business to go into town. We're outsiders, we don't belong in their world, it's best we're kept separate from all of that nonsense,” Pa huffed, before spitting at the ground. &#x200B; “I want to leave, I want to see what life is like beyond this place, Pa,” I retorted. “Aside from matrimony, there is nothing for ye beyond these woods. If you decide to leave for any other reason than that, then you are not welcome to come back. Those people, they'll change ye, they'll rip the heart of the forest straight from your rib cage. And no son of mine shall have a worldly heart,” he said sternly. &#x200B; I looked down at the ground for a moment, collecting my thoughts. All I had known since birth was life in the wilderness, away from other folk except my own family. I knew I wanted something more than whittling wooden figurines with a pocketknife when bored. I had always wondered what life outside the wilderness would be like. I met Pa's gaze once again, and said, “Okay, Pa, then I guess I'll be headin' into town tomorrow to find myself a lady.” I was usually always honest, but it felt strange letting a half-lie escape my lips. I wanted to embrace a life away from nature. I finally relaxed my shoulders upon seeing him make a contented sigh. &#x200B; “Well, alright then. I'll let you pack your bag and go for two weeks, and two weeks only, but I want ye to come back home every night for dinner and to sleep. If you're out for longer than that, then I'll know your heart has been changed,” he instructed. “Now come on, boys, let's catch ourselves some supper,” he said. “Yes, Pa,” Finlay and I said in agreement. We made it to the clearing within the next few minutes. After finding some good bush to hide behind, we laid down on our stomachs, our eyes barely peering over the bushes, with the barrels of our guns resting on the tip of the leaves. For the next fifteen minutes or so, we laid there in pure silence, with the exception of birds chirping amongst us, high in the trees. Soon enough, we saw a whitetail deer come trotting slowly nearby, in search of more grass to graze on. Pa closed one eye and began to aim his rifle. &#x200B; Unexpectedly, a fawn bounded out into view, catching up with its mother. “Damn it,” Pa whispered, lowering the barrel of his gun. He exchanged glances with me. “Can't leave a fawn without its mother,” I whispered to him. He nodded. The deer grazed while its fawn hungrily nursed. After a few minutes, the deer bounded out of sight. “Should we wait for another?” I asked. “If you want us to have supper, then, yes,” he replied. The sun began to hang low in the sky. Again, we lied in wait for what seemed like forever, until a buck came into view. I looked over at Finlay, who began to stand up. “Antlers, antlers,” he whispered loudly, with hands outreached. I grasped onto his hand, making him lie down. “No, Finlay, you can't try to touch the deer, he'll charge you and you can get hurt,” I whispered. Finlay frowned sadly. I closed one of my eyes, aiming my gun. After I aimed it, I slowly rested my finger onto the trigger, before shooting. &#x200B; The buck collapsed to the ground. “Wow, great shot, son!” Pa exclaimed. We spent the next hour hauling the deer back to our cabin, skinning it, and cleaning it. Once that was finished, Pa sliced up the meat with his hunting knife, and brought it inside. I brought the deer innards we wouldn't eat back to the clearing, as some other animal would probably eat it. I went inside the cabin and washed my hands of the deer blood. Ma began to chop potatoes, carrots, onion, and celery, and placed it into the slow cooker, along with gravy and the deer meat. In a couple hours, the stew was done. “Go on and fix yourselves a plate, boys.” We all grabbed a bowl and ladled ourselves a helping of the venison stew, then headed outside to the dining table. We set our plates down while Ma lit a lantern over us. We started to eat supper, and it was delicious. Pa broke the silence by sharing the news. “So, Lex is going into town tomorrow, he told me,” he blurted. *“What, really?”* Ma responded, still holding a forkful of stew in one hand. She turned her attention in my direction. I nodded without saying a word. “That's *wonderful* that you feel ready to find someone,” she praised. “Well, yeah, *I am eighteen* now, I'm not a kid, anymore,” I said. “After supper, wash up and get some rest for tomorrow. I'll pack your bag, *don't you worry about it.* You have to save your energy for tomorrow, it's a twenty-mile walk to get into town.” &#x200B; *“Twenty miles?!”* I cried out. “Yep, it's about a four to five hour trek, we'll have to set off at daybreak tomorrow,” Pa informed. “Less talk, and more eatin,' before your stew gets cold,” Ma encouraged. Finlay was the first to clean his bowl out, as he hadn't said a peep since earlier when we were out hunting. He got up from his seat and started back to the cabin door. I rushed to finish my bowl of venison stew, before walking back inside. My parents soon followed after me. I washed and put up my both mine and my brother's dishes, before washing my face, brushing my teeth, and turning myself into bed. &#x200B; Closing my eyes to sleep and opening them upon waking felt like one long, continuous blink. Birds saluted the dawn with excited chirrups outside the window. Looking across the room, I saw that my little brother was still asleep in his bed, holding tightly onto his favorite stuffed animal that my mother had hand-crocheted and stuffed before he was born. He named the bear Bootsy, because my mom used to crochet little outfits for him, and he always kept the boots on his feet. After all these years, his black button eyes still hadn't fell off of him. I knew that I would miss Finlay. Despite our age difference, we shared a really close bond. I rolled out of my bed and quietly walked towards his side of the room, stooping down to kiss him on his forehead. He squirmed a little, before returning to a deeper sleep. The sun started rising outside the window. &#x200B; I got myself dressed, laced my shoes, and reached under my bed for my knapsack. It was already full and packed with supplies, thanks to Ma. I headed out to the common area, to see Pa already seated and ready for the trip into town. Ma was in the kitchen, cutting out a few slices of blueberry pie. “Good morning, Lexton,” she said. “Mornin,' Ma,” I answered back. “I *completely* forgot about the blueberry pie I baked yesterday evening, I just got so tied up in the news that you were heading into town for the first time, *it must have slipped my mind.*” “It's alright, Ma, at least we could share a slice before we go,” I said with a smile. “Of course, dear,” she responded. We each grabbed a plate and headed outside to our tree tabletop. We all took a seat and started nibbling on the pie. &#x200B; “Be very careful out there, Lex. You haven't seen how cruel the world is until you've been into town. Make sure that you're picky, too, you can't just pick any woman to be with. She has to be honest, and sweet to you, *sweeter* than this pie, even, and pure of heart,” Ma advised. “That's *right*, Annamae. You're definitely right about that. You want to be sure this woman is worthy of being your wife, not just a bedfellow,” Pa added. I nodded as I silently bit into morsels of my blueberry pie. Although there was just the right amount of sugar in it, it tasted bittersweet, as it was the last slice of pe, I would have for quite a while. Upon finishing our slices of pie, Ma grabbed our plates and took them inside to be washed and dried. “Have a safe trip!” Ma called out as we began our journey into town. We both waved at her with a smile. I fastened my knapsack to my back. &#x200B; The trip from our cabin into town was relatively straightforward and quiet. After about an hour of walking, I filled the silence. “Pa, what's the name of this town?” I pried. “Tallisville, that's what it's called,” he answered. “Are you coming into town with me, Pa?” I asked. “No, son, I'm not. Think of this trip as a rumspringa of sorts, if you think this is place is nice enough to stay in, then stay. Keep in mind that your family is the cost of this sacrifice. However, if you want to remain wild-hearted and free, and bring a little lady for us to meet back to our home that you like and we approve of, that you know will be open-minded enough to consider life in the wilderness, then she can be an addition to our pack,” he responded. I gulped anxiously. “So, how far are you going to walk with me?” I pressed. &#x200B; “I'll walk with you until we're on the outskirts of town, and from there, I'll let you go on your journey, whatever that entails. Make sure you leave early enough from here to be home for dinner. It's at sunset every day, it's always been our tradition,” he informed. “Why can't I just live in the town for the two weeks, Pa?” I questioned. “Well, living in the town is different, if you don't already have a house of your own, you have to stay at the Mellow Oak Inn, and that costs money, which you don't have,” he answered. I furrowed my brows, asking, “What's an *inn,* Pa?” “It's a temporary place to eat and to sleep, they also have this crazy entertainment box, called a television. You never want to watch it, it gives you strange ideas about the world that pollute your head,” he explained. “Wow, television sure sounds *horrible,* Pa,” I thought aloud. “It is, son, it is,” he agreed. As we shared small talk, and I asked more questions about Tallisville, I found myself getting equally excited as I was nervous to explore the place for myself. Soon enough, the trail that was once densely bordered by trees became less woodsy. “Are we there yet?” I asked. “Just about,” replied Pa. “You see that wooden sign in the distance?” he asked. I squinted and made out a sign that read: *Town of Tallisville*. “I see it, Pa! I see it!” I cried out eagerly. We walked all the way up to the sign, and I was able to read it more clearly now. *Town of Tallisville, Population 834.* “Population 834? Does that mean eight hundred thirty-four people live here?” I said, taken aback. Pa nodded. “Well, son, this is it. When you want to make your way back home to the cabin, find this trail head and take it all the way back. I hope this is an eye-opening experience for you. Be home by sunset, or you'll miss your supper,” Pa warned. I embraced him tightly in a hug before making my way into town. &#x200B; Pa waved his goodbyes and began walking back up the trail. I waited until he disappeared from my sight before walking into the entrance of town. It was a few minutes before I realized I was no longer on the outskirts of this town. Houses and buildings came into view. Promptly after that, I began seeing people talking, entering and leaving buildings, and working. I even saw some strange, large shiny objects I had never seen before. I watched as a man stepped into one, closed the door, and it lit up, and made a loud humming sound. My jaw dropped as I watched him operate this contraption and quickly speed away in the opposite direction from me. &#x200B; Continuing on my way, I observed the people around me bustling around, seemingly very busy, as if it was a normal thing. I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw a beautiful woman walk past me. Her hair was shoulder-length, walnut brown and curly, her lips were as red as fresh strawberries, and her eyes were green like summer leaves. She wore a denim jacket with a mustard colored dress with black polka dots under it. She passed me with a heap of books in her arms, giving me a quick nod and smile, before walking into a large building called *Tallisville University*. I had no idea what a university was, but all I knew is that I wanted to be wherever she was going. I pulled open the door and stepped inside. It was very spacious inside and had lots of rooms, and a long hallway in the center. That woman I saw went into one of these rooms, but I had no idea which one. &#x200B; If she lives in this town, that must mean this is where I'm meant to be. *“Excuse me,”* someone called out from behind me. I turned around to see who it was. It was the woman in the dress! “Are you lost? Do you need help finding your class?” she offered. I blinked and opened my mouth, but any ideas of what to say escaped me in that moment. She laughed and smiled. “You must not be from around here, I'm Magnolia,” she said, extending her hand out for me to shake. I clasped her hand in mine and shook it. “Magnolia, like the flower?” I asked. She cheerfully smiled and laughed, “Yes, Magnolia like the flower. What's your name?” she asked. “My name is Lexton, but my family calls me Lex,” I introduced. “Well, it's very nice to meet you, Lex! Where are you from?” she questioned. “I'm from the forest,” I answered. She laughed loudly. I wasn't sure what was so funny to her. She stopped laughing once she saw the look on my face. “You're joking, aren't you?” she inquired. I shook my head. &#x200B; “Are you really from the forest?” she questioned. “I am,” I answered. She grinned a happy smile. “Well, you'll have to show me what life looks like in the forest sometime,” she said. “I'd be honored,” I replied. “So, what room is your first class in, I'll help you find it, Lex?” she re-offered. “What's a class?” I looked, staring blankly into her eyes. She laughed again. “You're very funny, Lex. Have you not been to college before?” she poked. “No,” I said. “Oh, then let me show you the admissions office, they can help you get enrolled,” she said. &#x200B; She grabbed onto my hand and lead me down this long hallway. As much as I wanted to protest, this lovely woman was holding my hand and I just met her, and that was a fair trade to me. “Welcome to Tallisville, by the way, Lex,” she greeted. “I'm happy to be here,” I replied. I now had this newfound feeling of belonging, and not just to nature. No matter what else would happen during these fourteen days, I knew I had to get her to visit the cabin somehow.

"I'm dying," Amber wheezed, tears streaking down her cheeks. She doubled over and gasped for air, her windpipe croaking dramatically as she heaved and worked to force air back into her lungs. Beth rolled her eyes. "Shut up," she said, scrolling nervously through the comments on her recent Instagram post. There were tens of thousands of them. Most were just some variation on 'The King!' but few were any wittier. She closed her eyes and shook her head while Amber continued her steady march toward an imminent death. "Your first viral post and it's..." Amber choked and sputtered, wailing like a fangirl. The last time something had set Amber off on a laughing fit like this, Beth had been more than happy to join her, but this time she was fuming. Her ears were hot and she had to fight to relax her jaw muscles. "That little..." she muttered, clenching her fist while she reloaded the app to look at the photo again. She couldn't believe she'd missed it before uploading it. The shot had slipped in between some relatively normal photos from her recent vacation, a vacation that he'd promised to stay out of. She was going to have to have a very stern talk with him. "Oh come on!" Amber cried, her gut trembling with glee. "Lighten up! It's an amazing photo! You look great, super hot girl, and..." the laughing fit seized her again and she spat, bursting at her lips trying to keep it in. Beth shrugged internally. It was true. If one of her photos was going to go viral, it might as well be this one. It was a new bikini and she loved how it showed off her curves, but obviously that wasn't what had captured the public's attention. She grunted, threw herself on her bed, let out a long, painful groan, and stared at the ceiling. If she weren't so mad, she could cry. Amber made a show of trying to compose herself and sat next to Beth. The two had been friends since middle school and they'd always dreamed of going viral. So when Amber had called ten times in a row that morning to wake up her friend and tell her the news, Beth had been excited... for a moment. Now she just wanted to beat the living daylights out of someone, but she'd have to wait for Amber to leave. "Come on ," Amber urged, pulling Beth upright. "I thought you'd be excited! This is great ! Photobombed by..." The laughing fit threatened to return. "Not just photobombed," she moaned. "He was mooning me behind my back." Beth sat up reluctantly and eyed her closet, glaring through the closed door, hoping he could feel her fury. Amber noticed the look. "What?" she said, looking at the closet. Her eyes darted back to Beth. "What's wrong?" "Nothing," Beth muttered, gritting her teeth. "Wait a minute," Amber breathed, glancing back and forth between her friend and the closet. "You're hiding something." Beth's heart started pounding. She tried to hide her panic. "No," she said. "I'm just dreading ever going out in public again. I was thinking maybe I should throw out my whole wardrobe." Amber peered at her friend, a decade of shared experiences synchronizing their neurons. Squinting, Amber's eyes shifted back to the closet. "So you won't mind if I just take a peek then," she said, getting up from the bed. "No!" Beth cried, grabbing her friend by the wrist. Amber looked down at her with wide eyes, her eyebrows raised suspiciously. Their eyes locked while Amber searched her friend's face for the truth, and suddenly her eyes bulged and she gasped. "Josh!" she cried. "You had Josh over last night? Did you two..." she trailed off, clasping a hand to her mouth and yanking her wrist free of Beth's grip. She turned back to the closet and stared. "That's not it!" Beth blurted, jumping to her feet to try inserting herself between Amber and the closet. But Amber was a step ahead of her, lunging at the door. "Josh!" she yelled, her hand wrapping around the door knob. "You dirty little..." Beth clawed at her friend's clothes, desperately trying to wrestle her away from the door. She tugged in vain, only finally succeeding when Amber let out a screech and jumped back from the open closet. Both girls tumbled to the floor, rolling on top of each other while Amber frantically grabbed at Beth, gasping in shock. Peter, as Beth had named him, waddled silently out of the closet, his huge eyes glancing around casually as he took in the scene. Amber scrambled back with her hands and feet, scooting all the way against the bed before desperately clambering up on top, trying to drag Beth with her. Beth brushed her friend's hands away and got up, scowling at Peter, who merely gazed up at her with his wide, unblinking eyes. At barely two feet tall, Peter had the appearance of a slightly disturbing children's toy and the presence of a truly unsettling doll. His body was round and it almost completely blended with his head, giving him the appearance of a curvy gourd with huge eyes and tiny feet. His short, spindly hands gave the impression that his entire species had long since forgotten how to do any kind of manual labor in the same way that his stubby, waddling feet implied his ability to fly. Gracefully, the little creature rose slowly into the air, pushing off from the ground with one of his small feet as though he had been walking along the bottom of a pool. He floated peacefully up until he was at eye level with Beth, who continued to glower at him with low eyebrows and stern lips. Amber's breathing was deep and loud, her tight chest causing her to moan and whimper as she fought to calm herself. Beth looked back at her over her shoulder and rolled her eyes, turning back to Peter. "You said you'd stay here when I went on vacation!" She said angrily. She folded her arms and glared at the creature. It flickered and shimmered, the air around it bubbling and churning as it morphed and changed. Instantly Beth found herself looking down at a sad, small little girl, wringing her hands and fighting back tears. "You're angry?" the child asked, trembling. "Oh please!" Beth moaned impatiently. "Spare me the theatrics! You followed me when I asked you to stay here! You promised !" The image of the child fizzled and swirled and grew until a charming, handsome man materialized. He smiled and raised his eyebrows into a dashing smirk. "But I thought you'd like it baby," he said in a suave, deep voice. "We're meant to be together." "Not all the time!" she cried desperately, throwing her hands up. "I told you I need some time away sometimes. You can be so annoying!" Amber sounded like she was hyperventilating. She was trying to talk, but all she could do was gasp, "it, it, it, it, it..." over and over again, her voice airy and hollow. She was on the verge of tears, and both Peter and Beth turned and looked at her with pity. Peter's form frothed and shimmered again until an oversized plush teddy bear was bounding toward Amber with its arms extended for an embrace. Amber shrieked, her eyes bulging out of her head as she shriveled into the fetal position, trembling uncontrollably. "Dang it Peter," Beth groaned, crawling onto the bed with her friend and pushing the fuzzy bear away. She held her shaking friend and hushed her. "It's OK," she said. "This is Peter. He floated through my window a month ago and..." she looked over at the thing while it swirled and twisted into something that made her eyes roll and her blood boil. "He's the reason my photo went viral." Amber peered out from the protective cocoon of Beth's embrace, through the gap in her own defensive arms, and saw the familiar white and gold jumpsuit, slick black hair, and sly, crooked smile. "Uh huh," Peter said smoothly, with that trademarked smirk. "Everybody loves the king of rock and roll, and now everybody loves my friend Beth too!" He grinned proudly. "The king is back baby!" Beth let out a tired sigh and rolled her eyes, resting her cheek on her friend's trembling head. Slowly she let a tiny smile crack on her face. After venting her frustration, she had to admit... it was kind of funny.

I have an unusual relationship with Death. It’s very much a “will they, won’t they” situation. Sometimes he sits at the foot of my bed and just... watches. Like a vulture. I noticed the glimpses of flirtation when I was still mobile and strong, despite his best efforts. The undercooked meat, the neighbor boy’s skateboard left at the top of the stairs, the car that whizzes past a moment too soon for success. He first appeared to me in the cold, rotted flesh the day he took my cat. Perfectly healthy one day, stiff as a board the next. He had crawled into the cabinet under the sink to be alone. To die alone. I found him there early in the morning. I buried him in my backyard, frost steaming off the grass in the rising dawn. The attendees were myself and Death. “Sorry about that,” said a disembodied voice. I didn’t turn to look. I’d sensed him three steps behind me for the last several days. I knew him as well as he knew me. “Don’t apologize,” I said firmly, staring at the new plot of loose dirt in the grass. “Don’t apologize for things you don’t regret.” He was silent for a moment. “There’s always room for you, my dear,” he said finally. “Any time you like. Any way you like.” My eyes felt hot and watery. “Why me?” I asked. “Why does it have to be me?” The lump in my throat was rising. “Because, my dear, you’re the only one I’ve ever loved. And you’ll join me, eventually. Would you like that day to be today?” My hands were balled into fists. “Fuck you.” I should have known that he would take Scott. He thought that if he just kept taking things from me, I’d be left with nothing. I’d follow him. I should have known, I should have known. I never told Scott about Death. He would have thought I was crazy. I should have stayed away from him, I should have saved him from the fate that befalls everything I come to love. I should have never answered the phone when he called me, but that foolish little girl heart inside me jumped at the chance to hear his voice. Scott was warm and safe. He was good and pure and sweet and soft and dead. Because of me. That time when Death appeared, I felt no urge to cry. The wet rage I felt when he took my cat was gone, and in its place was heavy numbness, my insides replaced with cold stones. Death spoke to me and I didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. “He didn’t feel a thing,” said Death. “I made it painless, anaesthetized.” I was sitting in an armchair, looking out the window. It should have been raining, but instead it was a beautiful, sunny day, and everyone outside would comment on what a lovely day it was, and they would have no idea that it wasn’t a lovely day at all, and each and every one of them could go fuck themselves. “You could join him.” I didn’t look. Wouldn’t entertain the idea. I would die and end up wherever dead people go and I’d be whisked away to be Death’s concubine. I’d never see Scott again. But I had one idea. My voice was raspy. “I’ll trade you,” I said. “Trade?” “I’ll go if you bring back Scott and let him live.” The words felt empty. I did not desire death, but I was becoming indifferent about it. Death chuckled. “That’s very romantic of you. I’m impressed.” “Then do it.” I stared with lifeless eyes at the shadows under the trees. They danced back and forth in silence. Death sighed. “You know I can’t do that, my love.” I closed my eyes. Back and forth, the shadows danced on the sidewalk. It wasn’t long before he got more direct. He was growing impatient. He had chosen his weapon of attack, and it left me bedridden, in a perpetual state of fever dream, life escaping my body with every breath. My universe stretched to the walls of the hospital room. Life was something that happened to you while you slept. Scott was asleep when he died, so he never watched it approach. But we all have hellhounds, I suppose. Death appeared and stood at the foot of my bed. For the first time, I looked in his eyes. “Why me?” I whispered softly. “Because you’re the only one I’ve ever loved.” I turned away. “That was never my choice.” “Perhaps not, but you still have one last choice to make, my dear,” he said softly. Death held out his hand.

You're all alone in this shithole. Your family is long gone by now, and you're not sure where to. Could be to another district, perhaps a different city. Hell, could be to a different country altogether. You don't give a damn that's for sure. They left you here to rot all by yourself and the the worst thing about it was the feeling that you completely deserved it. But of course you don't give a fuck about that as well. No reason to, since it won't change a damn thing anyway. It's a dark neighborhood you're living in. Well, "living" is quite of an exaggeration. **Surviving** in District A16 is more like it. Yeah... Much, much more like it. Tall, crumbly, and very old apartment buildings with more floors that one can even count fill up dozens and dozens of square miles. It's funny how many apartments the government was able to cram in each building, just to fill them up with all of the human trash they're dying to get rid of. For what it's worth, half of those buildings are either completely abandoned, or not suitable for living, not even for farm animals. The rest are filled with the poor and unfortunate, drug addicts, prostitutes, and random hobos. Families who couldn't afford living in some of the better suburbs, ended up here too, just to find out that they have no bright future for their children in this place, whatsoever. You're in the 67th floor, in your family's tiny, 2 bedroom apartment that's more often than not infested with cockroaches and rats. It's kinda late at 21:47 and you're not really doing much aside for lying down on your mattress, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. The apartment is mostly dark except for a one, barely working lamp in the small kitchen. Your stomach makes weird noises, but you know for a fact that there's no food in the fridge, or in any of the cabinets for that matter. Gotta step outside and see if there's something worth fetching. Lurking these streets at night isn't really all that advised here, but then again, District A16 isn't too terrific even if it's 8:00 in the morning. The word "Police" could make everyone here choke on their own laugh. **THUD.** Something big just slid and fell down in the Nelson's apartment that's close to yours. There's a thin drywall separating both your apartments so you could always hear them argue about stuff when they were home. But that's strange; the Nelson's left the place a year ago after their older child, Cory, was stabbed multiple times to death in a bar fight. Poor kid was only 19. They left with their remaining daughter and were no where to be seen since then. It could be a case of someone breaking in and searching for something valuable to steal. But in this place... Well, nobody wants to be seen, heard, or talked to. A burglar wouldn't want to raise that much of attention unless they were armed... And with that lightning revelation, you're jumping at once out of bed, grabbing a sharp knife from the kitchen and reach the front door, gazing nervously through the peephole. This is gonna be a long, long fucking night.

“I’m a Photographer. You mind if I take a picture of you and your family?” Simon asked. “Oh, sure,” the mom answered. “Tom, kids, gather around and smile.” Simon lifted his camera, took a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, and snapped the picture. He pulled up the picture on his camera screen, smiling as he examined the picture of the screaming family on the small display. They will look great added to his collection. Before he walked away, he took a quick picture of the giant tree that the family had been standing in front of. He spent the rest of the afternoon walking around the park, taking pictures of various plants and some animals that he thought would look great in his collection. When he was done, he was excited to get home and play with his new toys. Though he had plenty of money from the life insurance that had been paid out when his wife died, he lived in a low rent apartment in the shitty part of downtown. He only needed a place to sleep and play. He never had any intentions to entertain, and where he lived, the neighbors rarely talked to each other, which suited him just fine. He plugged the USB cable into his computer, his smile growing as he clicked on the picture folder and opened his newest collection pieces. “Ah, come on, Steve,” Lisa began. “Let’s go to the park. It’s a beautiful day.” Steve really wanted to just relax and watch some college football, but he couldn’t resist her infectious smile. “Fine,” he relented. “Yay,” she replied, hopping up and down. Steve loved the way Lisa loved life. She was always smiling, and always wanted to be outside, whenever the weather permitted. Living in the northeast, fall was creeping in, soon to be followed by winter. They walked arm in arm down the street, enjoying the tree’s changing colors and the sunny clear sky. Once in the park, they took their time walking the paths, greeting everyone they passed. People always seemed in better moods in parks. “I’m getting hungry and my legs are sore,” Lisa said, stopping in front of an empty bench. “I’ll go get something from the vendor,” Steve replied. “Rest here and I’ll be right back.” As he walked away, his smile faded a little. Lisa had been in remission for six months now, but he knew that could change at any time. The only positive that had come from cancer, was that they appreciated the time they had together much more. He looked back, giving her a quick smile and wave before he rounded the corner and out of sight. Simon was slowly walking through the park, looking for more people, or animals, that he could add to his collection. He knew it was only a matter of time before the police found the common denominator of all the missing people. Soon the park will become the focus of search efforts to find the people he had been taking. While they wouldn’t be able to link him to any of the disappearances, he knew once the park began to become infested with police, he would have to pick a different locale to find new collectables. The logical part of him told him he should take a break from adding to his collection, and just enjoy the ones he had until things cooled down, but he couldn’t stop. It was like an addiction. All he could think about was finding the next collectible. He was pretending to take casual photos, when he noticed Lisa sitting on the bench by herself. “Excuse me, do you mind if I take a picture of you for my collection?” Simon asked. “Sure,” she replied. “What kind of collection is it?” He smiled proudly, “It’s a compilation of people, animals, and the energy of the park. I’ve been coming here my entire life, and I find the energy the park provides beautiful.” Lisa couldn’t agree more. “That’s awesome!” Lisa said, with a broad smile of her own. “I’d be honored to be a part of your collection.” *Yes, you will be*, Simon thought. He took a few steps back, raised the camera, and took her picture. His smile didn’t fade as he enjoyed to the beauty of the now empty bench. Steve returned to where he had left Lisa, holding a hotdog in each hand. Not seeing her there, he looked around to see where she may have wondered off to. He saw a photographer off to the side taking pictures of trees, so he approached him. “Excuse me,” Steve asked. The photographer turned to face him. “Can I help you?” Simon asked. “Did you happen to see where a woman that was sitting on that bench went?” Steve asked. Simon’s smile faltered. “I’m sorry,” Simon said, a unnoticeable tremor in his voice. “I’m afraid not.” “Ok, thank you,” Steve replied. Simon had never run into this problem before, and he was unsure what to do next. Simon decided to add the man to his collection, but as he was bringing the camera up, more people walked around the bend. By the time they had moved on, Steve was too far away. Simon considered following him and taking him later, but decided that it didn’t matter in the grand scale of things. Flustered, Simon left the park, no longer enjoying the scenery. Steve walked through the front door of their flat. While it was unusual for Lisa to walk off without telling him, she often still got tired easy, and it wasn’t uncommon for them to cut walks short, so she could get home and rest. “Lisa?” Steve called out. He walked around the entire flat, but there was no sign of her. He had already called her cell phone several times, but had gotten her voicemail each time. His first instinct was to call the police, but he knew they would just make him wait twenty-four hours before they could investigate. The air outside had gotten much cooler as he walked back to the park to look for her. *Maybe she went somewhere and then came back*, he thought. Once he was back at the bench where he left her, and seeing she wasn’t there, he tried calling her again, but still only got her voicemail. “Screw it!” he muttered to himself and called the police. “911, what’s your emergency?” a lady’s voice came across the line. “Yes, my wife is missing,” he stated. “And how long has she been missing, sir?” she asked. He could hear typing in the background. “A couple of hours,” he answered already knowing what her response was going to be. “Sir, I’m afraid we can’t do anything until she has been missing at least twenty-four hours,” she confirmed. “I know, but this isn’t like her,” he said. “We were at the park, I stepped away for a few minutes, and when I came back, she was gone.” He was expecting exasperation, but instead got silence. “Ma’am?” he asked. “Sir, did you say she went missing in the park?” she asked. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “Please hold,” she said, and then only silence. After a few moments, a man’s voice came on the line. “This is Detective Andrews, to whom am I speaking?” he asked. “My name is Steve Dawson, and my wife’s name is Lisa Dawson,” he answered. “Are you near the park now?” he asked. “Yes, sir,” Steve replied. “I’m actually here now.” “Okay, stay there,” the detective said. “I’m heading over now.” Before Steve could say anything else, the line went dead. A very long twenty minutes later, Steve saw the detective arrive. “Mr. Dawson?” he asked. “Yes, sir,” Steve replied. “Can you tell me where you last saw your wife?” he asked. Steve pointed to the bench. “There.” “Did you happen to see anyone else around at that time?” the detective asked. “No, sir,” Steve said. “Wait, I did see a photographer, but that was after she was missing.” “I see.” The detective looked around the area for a bit, and then returned to where Steve was waiting. “I’m afraid I’ve been following a few missing people cases where they had been last seen either in the park, or last told they were coming here. I don’t know if your wife is part of that, but I’m afraid so far we don’t have much to go on. We have yet to have a witness, and there are never signs of foul play. They’re just here one day, and then gone the next. I wish I could say these were isolated incidents, but in a city this big, it unfortunately happens more often than not,” the detective explained. He questioned Steve for a little longer, gave him his card, and left. Steve once again found himself alone in the park. A few days past, and there was no sign of Lisa. Steve had taken time off from work since he couldn’t concentrate. He spent each day walking through the park, hoping to see some clue that would help lead him to Lisa. As Steve sat on a bench thinking to himself, he saw the photographer in the distance taking pictures. He didn’t think the man had taken Lisa, but there was something odd about his behavior when he had asked about her sitting there. He sat in a way where he could see the photographer, but the photographer couldn’t easily see him. *What else can I do?* Steve asked himself. He watched as the photographer took pictures, and then stopped to talk to a couple who was walking by. He said something to them, the couple smiled, and then took a couple of steps back to allow the photographer to take a picture of them. Steve gasped as he saw the photographer look around briefly, and then within a split second, the couple vanished. Steve couldn’t believe what he had just seen. One moment the couple was there smiling, the next, nothing but air. Instinctively, Steve hid himself. He peeked up and saw the man walk away. Confident that was how Lisa had disappeared, he decided to follow the man. Simon couldn’t wait to get back to his apartment. He hadn’t added to his collection in days. The man asking about his wife right after he took her had freaked him out, but now he felt it was time to get back to collecting. He walked, wearing a broad smile, and unaware someone was following him. As far as Steve could tell, the photographer didn’t know he was being followed. He didn’t look around once and seemed to make a straight line for an apartment building. Steve watched him go into the building, and then picked up his pace, not wanting to lose him inside. He peeked inside the door and saw the man walking up the stairs. The front door wasn’t locked, so Steve was able to enter the building and quickly make his way up the stairs just far enough to see where the photographer went. The man walked down the hallway of the second floor, and approached a door. He turned the key and began to walk through. As soon as Steve was sure he couldn’t be seen, he sprinted down the hallway to reach the door before it closed. Simon flew back as something came bursting through the door before it had closed all the way. He fell to the ground hard, and before he could understand what was happening, a strange man was on top of him. Simon looked to the door, hoping someone would see what was happening, but the door was closed. Steve had slammed it closed behind him as he ran through. “Where’s my wife?!” Steve seethed into Simon’s face. He purposely kept his voice down, so that no one would hear him. Simon began to call out for help, but before he could get a peep out, Steve punched him hard in the face. “Where’s my wife, you son of a bitch?” Steve asked again. “I, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Simon replied. “I saw what you just did to that couple, and I know you did the same thing to my wife!” Steve said again, slamming Simon’s head into the ground. Simon was sadistic, but he wasn’t brave. It didn’t take long before he told Simon everything. “She’s in there,” he said, pointing to the computer. “How do I get her out?!” Steve asked firmly. “I don’t know,” Simon began. “I only know how to put them in.” “Why do you do it?” Steve asked. Simon knew there was only one answer. “Because I can,” he said. Steve punched him again, and grabbed the camera. “Well, guess what?” Steve said, only inches from Simon’s face. “I’m going to put you in there and see how you like it.” Steve raised the camera like he was going to take a picture of Simon, but Simon stopped him. “Wait, wait,” he begged. “I’ll release them.” “I thought you just said you didn’t know how?” Steve said. “I lied,” Simon replied. “I lied. Please, I’ll release them.” Reluctantly, Steve let him up. Simon walked over to the computer, took the SD card out of the camera, and put it into the computer. He typed some commands into the Command Prompt, and then took the chip out and put it back in the camera. He flipped through the settings, and showed Steve which setting to use to release them. Before he did anything else, he flipped through the pictures until he came across Lisa’s. His heart sank as he saw her once smiling face was now contorted into a scream. He clicked the button and in an instant, she was standing before them. Once she had gained her bearing, she ran into Steve’s arms. “Steve!” She yelled, unable to contain herself. Steve returned her hug, but kept his gaze on Simon. He wasn’t about to let him try anything. “Is everyone you took in here?” he asked. “Only the ones that survived,” Simon replied. “Survived what?” Steve asked. Simon reluctantly walked to the computer and pulled up a game application. It was like a battle game where you were able to choose your combatants. Steve looked over at Lisa. “Do you remember this?” he asked her. “No,” she replied, shaking her head. “The last thing I remember was him taking my picture and then immense pain.” Steve’s blood boiled. He fiddled with the camera settings, and without any warning, he took a picture of Simon, who quickly disappeared. Lisa’s heart momentarily stopped when she saw the man just vanish before her. Before she could say anything, Steve began destroying the computer, breaking every piece, picking them up, and breaking them some more. He used his hands for most of it, but he took the hard drive to a table and using a hammer, he broke it into a thousand pieces. “Let’s go,” he said, leading Lisa out the door. Steve and Lisa found a vacant part of the park, and released everyone one by one, except for Simon. The small crowd of people stared at each other, unsure what was happening, and no memory of what had happened to them. Once he was sure everyone, but Simon was released, he took out the SD card, and broke it in half, throwing half into a trash can, and putting the other half into his pocket to throw away later. Everyone jumped when he smashed the camera onto the ground. “Let’s go home,” he said to Lisa, leading her away from the dumbfounded group of people.

# Happy Saturday, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about: Reinvigoration We’ve all been there. We’ve been down in the dumps and have pulled ourselves out, dusted ourselves off, and tightened our belts. How did it happen? What re-inspired us to keep going? Sometimes it’s witnessing others succeed where we failed that helps reinvigorate us. Sometimes all we needed was a nice long nap. Other times what we needed was . No matter what got our characters into the mess they’re in now, they’re going to need to get that flame under their butt reignited. So how do you do that? This is the part of the show where friends, allies, and lovers show how . They can embrace the darkness and . OR Outside help in the form of friends/allies/lovers . OR Some other solution leads them into a re-invigoration. For some writers this beat won’t feel much different than the next, Second Wind, and that’s ok. I would mention in this case that a re-invigoration has to come before a Second Wind, and to treat one as the ‘theory’ section, and the other as the ‘acting on that theory’ portion. Sometimes we see this in books and films as one fluid scene, and other times it’s the time we see our heroes go back to the drawing board before they are back in . **Things to consider for this challenge:** How does your protagonist react to help? Is it hard to hear , or is that ? Does your protagonist believe in themselves and think they can succeed anymore? Is it difficult to see the light at the end of the tunnel for your characters, or have they been in worse scrapes? How does that affect what invigoration looks like for them? Does reflecting on past experiences help them re-find their purpose or a new way to get out of their predicament? **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 10/24, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, The Darkest Moment: **I’m just going to preface this with: this past week of stories were killer.** There wasn’t a single one that didn’t nail the challenge in some facet, and choosing top stories this week was ridiculously hard. Our Serial Saturday writers are killin’ it and I’m so thrilled I get to hear all these stories unfold week by week. I would happily just list everyone from the last thread and say ‘congrats, you all got both the Challenge Sash and Fan Favorite! As it is I had to break a three way tie with the votes! I'm hella proud of everyone. **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/JohnGarrigan, with an ending that delivered on the pucker factor of a no-holds barred fantasy battle. This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/Kammerice, with a shocking ending that hit us out of nowhere and oh gods this changes *everything.* **And two honorable mentions:** /u/Xacktar, with an installment that upped the stakes again, and seriously put a smile on my face when I read it. Anyone in the discord chat knows exactly what reaction . /u/Lynx_elia, with a big-picture look of a species that . \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 750** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely ***family friendly***" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Previous constraint: **The Darkest Moment** Have you seen the? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.

Reporter: Thank you for meeting with me. I know you don’t see many visitors. **Prisoner: I’ve read your work before. I like how you write.** Reporter: I appreciate that. **Prisoner: I liked your oped last week.** Reporter: About the Medicare reform bill? **Prisoner: Yes, that one.** Reporter: Is that why you agreed to speak with me? Because I might tell your story sympathetically? **Prisoner: My story deserves no sympathy.** Reporter: So why did you agree to this? **Prisoner: I like the way you write.** **** Reporter: Let me tell you why I’m here. The reason I wanted to talk to you is that you are very different from shooters who came before you. **Prisoner: No, I’m not.** Reporter: You’re not a disturbed loner - **Prisoner: I am disturbed. I’m pretty lonely.** Reporter: Fair enough. But you weren’t always.. **Prisoner: No, I wasn’t.** Reporter: You’re not a radical, you’re not a religious fanatic. You’re a data analyst living in the suburbs of Minneapolis. You have no history of addiction, criminality, financial duress, zealousness, mental illness - **Prisoner: -- well, I’m not sure -** Reporter: -- no *longstanding* history of mental illness. Home, bought and paid for, decent nest egg, wife, family - **Prisoner: -- family... -** Reporter: -- family, dog, lots of friends. You could be anyone. **Prisoner: And yet, here you are with me.** Reporter: You could be anyone, but such an act of terrorism, it seems to me - **Prisoner: I’m not a terrorist.** Reporter: You’re not a terrorist? **Prisoner: No, I’m not.** Reporter: Maybe we’re getting too deep too quickly. Why don’t we take a breath. **** Reporter: Let’s start with your family. You have 2 children - **Prisoner: -- had -** Reporter: I’m sorry, you had 2 children. Your elder, Sam, is 12 now? **Prisoner: 13** Reporter: Yes, 13. I apologize. She’s a rising eighth grader at Washington Junior? Tell me about her. **Prisoner: Sam is 13. She’s the light of my life. She loves piano and books and writing stories about aliens and superheroes.** Reporter: She sounds wonderful. **Prisoner: She does well in school. She used to do better, but she’s doing fine, all things considered. I think they’d classify her as gifted if not for... Her favorite singer is Cat Stevens, and her current dream is to plant a million trees.** Reporter: How is she doing nowadays? **Prisoner: Not great.** Reporter: Isn’t that to be expected? Didn’t you expect that? **Prisoner: Of course I did.** Reporter: Of course. I’m sorry. We’ll come back to Sam. **** Reporter: Your second child, your son, Chris, is two years younger than Sam? **Prisoner: Was.** Reporter: Yes, was. Chris was 7 when it happened? **Prisoner: 7. Chris was 7.** Reporter: He was 7, finishing up 2nd grade. **Prisoner: Yes. He and Sam were both at the same school then.** Reporter: Lincoln Elementary. **Prisoner: Yes, Lincoln. She was 9, he was 7.** Reporter: So tell me about Chris. **Prisoner: What is there left to say? Every minute of his life has been dissected by every news outlet and web sleuth.** Reporter: But don’t you want to tell me about him? **Prisoner: No, I don’t think so.** Reporter: OK, but you can tell the world about him, about what he meant to you. **Prisoner: He’s gone.** Reporter: You can honor his memory - **Prisoner: He’s gone. There is no one left to honor -** Reporter: OK, OK, let’s - **Prisoner: ... there is no one left to honor, and pretending that we somehow keep his spirit alive when no matter how many stories we share or tears we shed, nothing we do can do him any good -- that’s what dishonors his memory.** Reporter: OK. OK. **** Reporter: Chris was one of 47 children killed in what was then the deadliest school mass shooting in this country’s history. **Prisoner: Yes. He was the 3rd child killed that day.** Reporter: The whole world is sorry for your loss. **Prisoner: Thank you. Chris was killed for no reason, but he was killed** ***third*** **because he began sobbing after the shooting began. 7 year olds cry, but Chris was more sensitive than most. He used to cry when he was going to bed. Said he would miss us while he slept. Whenever he did that, we used to tell him that it was time for him to grow up... It was something we were working on.** Reporter: To see what he must have seen... **Prisoner: It was too much.** **** Reporter: After mass shooting events, especially of younger children, other parents have gone on to create advocacy groups, support networks. Why haven’t you channeled your anger into something productive like they have? **Prisoner: I thought about it. I tried for a few months. To get involved. To speak out. But I just stopped.** Reporter: What happened? Why did you stop? **Prisoner: I kept asking myself, why is it on me?** Reporter: What do you mean? **Prisoner: Why is it on me? It was my family that was ripped apart, literally flesh from bone. My son was unrecognizable. I am unrecognizable. Some days I still find it hard to find the will to inhale, and it’s on me to make this a better world? Why does any of this fall on me?** Reporter: You’re right. It shouldn’t be on you. But you didn’t end up doing nothing, did you? **Prisoner: No, I did something.** **** Reporter: Earlier, I said that Chris was murdered in what was then the nation’s largest mass school shooting because that record has since been surpassed. **Prisoner: Yes.** Reporter: By the time you were captured, 54 children had died or sustained the injuries that would later kill them. And you didn’t choose a random school. You chose Sidwell Friends, DC’s most elite private school. **Prisoner: I did.** Reporter: A school that counts among its students children of politicians and dignitaries. You chose an outdoor assembly where students would be gathered closely and could be attacked from a distance. Of your victims, 6 were children of Congressmen, 2 of Senators, and 1 the grandson of a Supreme Court Justice. **Prisoner: Yes.** Reporter: These are people who make the laws that govern, among others, access to high capacity firearms like the ones you used last January. **Prisoner: Like the ones used on my son.** Reporter: Yes. You chose the same models that were used against your son. **Prisoner: I did.** Reporter: Do you think these weapons should be outlawed? **Prisoner: Of course I do.** Reporter: And yet you chose to use them. **Prisoner: They’re not illegal.** **** Reporter: Earlier, you claimed that you’re not a terrorist, but it seems pretty clear that you were targeting the lawmakers who made it possible for mass shooters to procure the weapons that killed your son. And who then made it possible for you to procure those same weapons. **Prisoner: I did target them, but I’m not a terrorist.** Reporter: How is this not terrorism? **Prisoner: Because nothing will change.** Reporter: Did you think that if these people felt what you feel, that they would change their minds? **Prisoner: Nothing ever changes.** **** Reporter: As you might be aware, one of the victim’s fathers, a congressman, has publicly switched his stance on gun control. It’s been reported that 1 other is considering changing his as well. Does that give you hope? **Prisoner: How much hope do you think they have?** Reporter: Then do you believe that what you did could be taken as a warning to lawmakers and politicians? **Prisoner: It shouldn’t be. What I did was entirely predictable. A certainty.** Reporter: And why does that matter? **Prisoner: Because a warning is a threat. An eventuality just is.** Reporter: Then do you believe that what you did is a call to action for copycats to keep doing what you did until they change their minds? **Prisoner: The next mass shooter will be a mass shooter regardless of my actions.** Reporter: But they might not otherwise target the children of lawmakers as you did. **Prisoner: My victims are not the last children of lawmakers to die like this.** Reporter: So if not a warning, if not a terrorist act, was it an act of revenge? **Prisoner: No, it wasn’t revenge. Revenge could have been enough, but I honestly didn’t care about revenge. I didn’t see the point in it.** Reporter: So why? **Prisoner: Because this is the world now.** Reporter: What do you mean by that? **Prisoner: This is the world we have now. The world we’ve allowed, the world we’ve designed. And this is what happens in this world.** Reporter: It doesn’t sound like you take a lot of responsibility for what you did. **Prisoner: This is the world they created. I’m just an agent of that world. I was bound to happen, so I let me happen.** **** Reporter: Let’s talk about the children, the ones you killed. These kids did nothing wrong - **Prisoner: My kid did nothing wrong.** Reporter: -- nothing other than to be born to politicians you disagree with. **Prisoner: Some of those politicians I agree with.** Reporter: When you entered the room, when you looked into their frightened eyes, didn’t you know that you were doing something terribly wrong? Evil? **Prisoner: Of course** Reporter: What did you feel? **Prisoner: Compassion, sorrow, shame, disgust.** Reporter: And yet you went ahead **Prisoner: Yes** Reporter: Why? **Prisoner: There is no logic to losing my child -- or any child -- in such an unnatural way, in such a preventable way, a sacrifice to nothing. There is no rational response to irrationality. I went ahead because in a senseless world, there are only senseless actions.** **** Reporter: Have you ever thought about what Chris would have wanted? **Prisoner: Of course.** Reporter: Would he have wanted this? **Prisoner: He would not have wanted this. He would be horrified.** Reporter: So then why did you do it? **Prisoner: My son is dead.** Reporter: Even if he wouldn’t have wanted this? **Prisoner: My son is dead. He doesn’t want anything.** Reporter: But don’t you sully his memory by doing such a terrible thing? **Prisoner: What I do now means nothing to him.** **** Reporter: There is still Sam. **Prisoner: Yes, Sam.** Reporter: She suffers from losing her brother, but she also suffers from knowing what you did and losing her father. **Prisoner: What I did to her was unforgivable.** Reporter: Why didn’t that stop you? **Prisoner: I used to tell my kids a story about the mathematics of love. When I met their mother, she filled my whole heart with love, edge to edge, 100%. But then when Sam came into the world, even though my heart was already completely full, I instantly loved her too with my whole heart, edge to edge, 100%. And when Chris was born, my heart was filled yet again, and I loved him with the entirety of heart, just as I did his sister and his mother. Each of them occupied 100% of my heart, edge to edge, and I could not love each of them any more than I did. Only love works like this.** Reporter: That’s a lovely sentiment, but doesn’t that mean that Sam still fills your heart? **Prisoner: It means that when Chris was killed, my heart was destroyed completely. My love for Sam is unending, but so is the absoluteness of the void. I am simultaneously full of love and incapable of love.** Reporter: I don’t understand. I might follow your logic, however tortured it may be, but when it leads you to a course of action that forces you to re-traumatize and then abandon your daughter, how could it possibly make sense? **Prisoner: She understands. She will understand. She will never forgive me, but she’ll make it through.** Reporter: For her sake, I hope you’re right. **Prisoner: I wish I could have been different for her.** **** Reporter: Let me ask you about your wife. **Prisoner: I think I’m done now.** Reporter: I’m sorry? **Prisoner: My wife isn’t my wife anymore. She won’t talk to me.** Reporter: I know. **Prisoner: I’m done. I’m tired. I’m ready to go back to my cell.** Reporter: I have just a few more questions for you before you - **Prisoner: -- Hello? Can I be done here?** \[Guard enters the room and unshackles the prisoner from the table.\] Reporter: Please, just five more minutes. What happened with your wife in the aftermath of your son’s death? Did you seek counseling? What was your relationship with Sam after Lincoln? I want to understand - **Prisoner \[exiting the room\]: I’m actually easy to understand. I could be anyone.

Old Chi Wepps crushed a cigarette out on the bow of his john boat with a worn, wet boot. The darkness of the swamp was made sexy by a full moon bouncing its ass all over the blackwater, and in the distance the old man heard an outboard motor start up. A couple gators lay slopped and twisted behind him done bleeding now through holes in their heads. He had harpooned them both and then popped them with bang sticks after he pulled them to the side of the boat thrashing and chomping. He fingered his .38 Smith and Wesson holstered to his side to make himself feel a little better, and lit another cigarette. He took a long drag and puffed smoke in front of him toward the direction the buzzing, far-off motor. It was coming toward him, and the motor sounded clean to his ear. He reckoned it was a newer motor, and it was more than likely the law. Ain’t nobody out this late but him, and whores, and the law. He’d be damned if he ever got caught poaching, and he wasn’t about to get caught this time. Chi pull-started his small motor, and it revved and sputtered its blue smoke as he puffed his cig glaring down as if daring his motor to quit. He knew the approaching boat was too loud for its occupants to hear his small two-stroke, so he took the tiller handle and revved off to his starboard scattering duckweed and rippling moonlight on the water in his wake. Tilling the boat with his left hand he scratched the thick gray scruff of his beard with his right hand burning some of his loose, long hair with his cigarette. He smoked it down until he tasted filter and flicked it. Chi did not give one muskrat fuck. If any law man caught him he’d shoot him in the face without a second thought; he’d stomp their skulls until he had to scrape brains off his boots. He knew every inch of this swamp and had lived out in it since he was a little boy, and he thought of the swamp as his special lady and was headed straight for her sweetest spot. Even if he didn’t get to his camp tonight there was always a spot he could crawl into. He chuffed to himself a little his hard eyes never changing. Chi thought to himself how in his older age the swamps’s sweetness meant more to him than the women he had known as a pup, and that called for toast. He rummaged into his jacket pocket and took a scarred, wide flask out. He gave a hard pull on it not taking his eyes off the water. The motor behind him was gaining. He reveled in the burn the whisky left in his throat. *Fug them,* he thought. *Dey caint catcha me.* To his surprise he heard another outboard with the one behind him setting a new, high vibration, and Chi felt pure heat pour from his face and neck. He quickly put his flask away, curled his hand around the cold pistol at his side, and scowled. “I drive dis boat straight to da momma’s pussy see how dey like it.” Seeing a tributary bushy and hidden he pushed his tiller hard right and swooped his boat port into the overhanging vines and a trickle of black water. Sixty seconds in he cut his motor and took off a long wooden pole that was lashed to the side of the beaten boat and began to pole silently along as if he were a gondolier in Venice, and the two gators behind him were lovers whose new lust had shot each other’s brains out. Chi chuckled as he heard the boats pass him by full bore, and had a surge of excitement when he heard the unmistakeable thunk of one of the boat’s lower units smashing into the submerged cypress stumps and the dismayed cries of its occupants. The other boat motor cycled down quickly to idle, and Chi knew they’d be helping the injured in the other boat, and not following a little ole alligator poacher like him. He poled on for another mile or more using his push-pole to swipe down spider webs from the low hanging brush. He covered the gators with tarp, and started to prepare his camp right in the boat. Grasping an aluminum pole from the bottom of the boat he seated it into a bracket in the middle and strung a vinyl tarp that was bordered with mosquito netting up over it and snapped it in place all around the boat. Affixed to the top end of the pole was another bracket with holes drilled into it to which Chi pushed tent-poles into and then pushed the far ends of those into small brackets into strategic areas along the rim of the boat which lifted his tent all around him. Done with this he laid down on top of the wet tarp face-first on the gators. He kissed one of their heads smooching and smelling the fishy smell and humping them a little as he listened to the faint sounds of dismay coming from the injured lawmen not just a mile or so away. He sat up and let the sounds of the swamp drown away his focus on duties, and so the buzzes and chirps increased their value and loud dankness took him in. He sat back right on them gators and laughed. He pulled out his flask and laid some jerky on his chest took a pull of whisky and lit a smoke. He chewed on some jerky savoring the seasoning and chuckled when he heard a scream. Chi thought he heard a burly voice yell, “Fuck you!” into the night. Maybe one of the lawmen was dead. He patted the back of one of the gators he sat on and said, “Oh, I love you babies!” Those alligators he hunted and took gave him his Marlboro and biscuit money he liked to call it, and he never hurt nobody who ain’t tried to hurt him. And he ain’t never hurt none of the ladies who came out to the swamp to give him their bodies and their cheer by his firelight, except that fair one that stole from him. The one that took his heart away from the swamp and kept it wrapped in that black mold town like dirty panties in her pocket, and she wouldn’t let him leave and come back to his shacks in his wet, green world. But his swamp was a jealous, mean bitch, and she meant to have him back. And her pull was slick and humid, and she was so sticky he could not pull himself off of her. So he took that thievin girl like he takes them gators, and he took her back to the rolling greens and blacks, them snapping teeth and fangs, that swirling algae and moist, earthy decay that was her soft breast where he laid his head, and he gave both their beating hearts on back to her for good.

The dark and stormy nature of the night was accentuated, by the Witch Tower’s great height. It was so tall that at night, in the rain, you could not see the rest of the school, or it’s grounds. One had the sense of being trapped in a bottle of lightning. As such, Kiwi kept her blinds shut, better to not see the effect at all than to get drawn into the enchanting illusion, especially when there was homework to be done. Alchemy was a demanding mistress and wouldn’t be put on hold even for a storm like this. “Kiwi!” Into the cluttered room came Dante, familiar par excellence. The white and brown collie jumped into Kiwi’s bed, and burrowed his way under the covers. “Thunder! Take shelter!” He poked his head out of the sheets, and beckoned Kiwi with no greater gesturing than the shimmering of his eyes. As tempting as warm blankets, and puppy dog eyes were, passing Alchemy was more tempting still. “It’ll be alright, boy.” She went back to filling in the equations on her sheet. “You’re not scared?” The shaking dog, inched closer, emerging from the sheets like a hermit crab. “Consider me dubious.” Kiwi nervously looked at her blinds, which were lighting up like there was an alien abduction on the other side. “I wouldn’t go that far.” Even as the nearby thunder rattled the foundation of the tower, she kept a brave face, or at least a bored one. She didn’t want to freak her dog out any more than he already was. “But it’s just thunder, we’ll be alright.” She chose to ignore the nervous sweat, her childhood phobia generated. The collie jumped from the bed to her feet. “You’re so cool, Kiwi!” He praised, and licked her boots with all the love in the world. Then another roll of thunder, sent him into hiding beneath her desk. “Geez, it’s right on top of us, huh?” Kiwi giggled to try to hide her own low-grade terror. Of all the nights she decided to be brave, it had to be this one? “It’s okay, Dante.” She searched out his head with her hand and pet him gently. “I’ll keep you safe.” She could feel his scalp relax and droop at her touch. “Good boy, good boy.” --- Kiwi could actually feel her eyeballs drying up as she maintained eye contact with Dante. He was a tough opponent. Unblinking, unflinching, with eyes as wet as a salamander’s back. Only a fool would challenge him to a staring contest but loves makes us all do crazy things. “If this is how you’re spending your time, I’m definitely not giving you enough homework.” Madam Crabapple, the Herbology teacher appeared at Kiwi’s side. The young witch, jumped, and broke contact with Dante, netting him yet another victory. “Madam!” She chirped with a short bow. “You may be the first person to accuse your class of not having enough homework.” The teacher chuckled out an agreement. “Oh, very well. What sort of experiment are you running on this handsome young man then?” She reached out and scratched Dante behind the ears, which meant she’d earned a friend for life. Kiwi slouched at her stone table. The bright blue sky above, made her stormy mood feel ridiculous. “He hasn’t spoken since the storm. I think something’s wrong with him... or me.” Crabapple nodded grimly. “May I have a seat?” When Kiwi nodded that she could, the older woman bunched up her skirt and sat beside Dante on his stone seat. She continued to pet him fondly. “Is he still holding your magic for you?” “Yes ma’am. I’ve had no problem using him as a familiar, he just won’t talk.” “I see.” Crabapple adjusted her large feathered hat, and smiled sadly at her student. “You know, when I was a child, I could hear every animal speak, whether they said something or not.” “What do you mean? Can you hear him?” “No.” She took a look at the collie again. “No. It’s just that Familiars are complicated things. In a way, they are us. They share our dreams, our desires, our magic, but they’re also still the animals we made them out of.” “I don’t understand.” Crabapple straightened herself up a bit. “Dante has given you advice before, yes?” “All the time.” “And when did your dog become so wise? Where did he go to school? Who did he study under?” “When we did the familiar ritual. It gave him powers.” “And wisdom?” “I guess.” “When we make our familiars, we give a piece of ourselves over to them. They become what we need them to be. For many young witches, this is a mentor, or a voice of reason.” Kiwi couldn’t ignore the sad tint to Madam Crabapple’s explanation any longer. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing’s wrong.” Crabapple laughed, still sadly. “You just happen to have a very good familiar. He’s served you so well that... you just don’t need him anymore.” “What?” Kiwi had to stop herself from exploding on her elder. “That’s ridiculous, he’s my best friend.” “Well of course he is, but you simply don’t need his advice anymore. You’ve grown. You’re not losing him, he’ll still be with you. It’s just that the mentoring part of your relationship is over.” Kiwi got up, she was shaking. “With all due respect, this is stupid. I know witches, who can still talk to their familiars.” “It’s different for everyone. Maybe they still need advice, or maybe what they needed most from their familiar was a friend.” “I need a friend!” Kiwi sobbed, and dropped to her knees. She buried her fingers into her dog’s fur. “Please Dante, I still need you, don’t do this to me.” “Don’t blame Dante.” Crabapple said softly. “It’s not his fault.” “Then it’s mine?” Kiwi’s eyes were full of pain. “It’s no one’s fault, my dear. Sometimes things like this, fade away.” This was wholly unacceptable to the witch. She’d learned so much, and gained so much power and she didn’t get to keep the small pleasure of talking to her dog? In what world could that be true? “I want to go back then. I want to restore the bond, unlearn whatever he taught me. Whatever it takes.” Crabapple sighed, she knew that there would be no clean away to exit this conversation. “My dear, there are no refunds in the exchange of knowledge.” --- There is nothing lost, that magic cannot find anew. Whatever that whimsical spark was that ignited Dante with wit and wisdom Kiwi would find it again. There were too many games, too much fun lost in the newfound silence of her bedroom. Dante was still clearly very smart, and fully magical, but his unspoken words haunted her. How he must be suffering, unable to critique her homework or compliment her outfits. She tried not to take it all too personally. She knew witches walked down the dark paths, nurturing the kind of petty emotions she felt now. When she saw the younger students frolicking with their animals out into the fields, she wanted to run out and tell them all the truth. She wanted to warn them of the great betrayal of their relationship. But what good would that have done? If she’d known then what she knew now, every moment she spent with Dante would have been plagued with worry for the day it would all end. So, she kept silent. Confident that there was something sacred happening in those fields. Something that should only be spoiled by time, and not the ill temperament of an older witch. Instead, she turned to her studies, and found her solution there. It was such an easy fix; it was honestly embarrassing to have felt any loss at all. A Potion of Animal Speaking, easy to whip up, and cheap as chips. She was able to cook one of those up in the school lab in about fifteen minutes. She washed the beat, and beef-flavored potion down with a burp, and by the time it hit her stomach she was fluent in Animalia. Kiwi bent down beneath her lab counter and started to harass her dog with a barrage of pets. “Hey boy, hey! Speak!” “Kiwi!” The dog sang, and rolled onto his back. “Love, love, love Kiwi! Belly rubs, belly rubs, belly rubs!” A sick feeling washed over the witch, like her stomach and heart ached all at once. Though the dog spoke, it was not Dante. Not the Dante she wanted, at least. Her wise playful friend, was a bit more articulate than the playful pup at her fingertips. Madam Crabapple was right, something had been lost between them. Whatever magic animated their conversations previously, was gone. “Kiwi sad?” The dog looked up at her, tongue hanging out of his mouth like a goof. “Yeah.” She nodded, and let the tears come. At that the dog jumped into action, rolling onto his feet, he stuck his nose into her face, and started to lick. “Don’t be sad. There there.” How could such a simple, heartfelt request not drive her into further tears? --- If there were small miracles to be thankful for, it’s that the potion eventually wore off. Not before Kiwi got into a very heated discussion with the birds about global warming. It’s not that they didn’t believe in it, it’s that they supported it that really threw Kiwi for a loop. Whatever the opinions of bird brains might be, school stopped for no witch. She was forced to make the unenviable decision to lay in her bed depressed or drown herself in work. She figured that at least drowning would raise her GPA, so went with that option. Yet not long after she entered her tower, a flash of light illuminated her blinds. Then that low, slow, tumble rolled across the land. Like breaking tree trunks the sound of thunder reached the foundation, and made Kiwi’s window shake terribly. “Mmm.” She groaned miserably and pressed her hand against the window to keep it from vibrating. There was something awful about knowing, that she’d have to endure this storm alone this time. Why did she have to act so brave in front of Dante? Hadn’t he known that she was lying? Only pretending to be brave. If it weren’t for her homework, she would have been whimpering under the covers with him. Now she had more work to do. Maybe that was the secret of being an adult. You just keep yourself so busy, there’s not time to be afraid. Maybe, but at the moment Kiwi was feeling busy and afraid. Overwhelmingly both, actually. At her bed, there was a whimpering. Kiwi paused long enough to spot Dante buried in blankets, snout poking out. “What are you doing under there?” She said in a sweet voice, out of habit she waited for a response. None came, just a feeling of foolishness and despair. Kiwi huffed. “Still scared? You weren’t just doing that all for me?” She paused, and turned to face Dante. “That whole time, you were really scared?” She turned back to her work, considering the dog for another moment. When we give these things personality, meaning... how much of that is us, and how much of it belongs to the subject? “I’m scared too.” With a flash of her hand, the blinds flew to the ceiling, and Kiwi found herself stranded in that bottle of lightning. All across the landscape, the light danced, and arched. Illuminating nothing but silhouettes, signaling only thunder. She stood up, pushing her chair away. With another wave of her hand, the massive window yawned open, and let in the maelstrom. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” She screamed at the storm, from the top of her lungs, until her throat hurt, and the clouds warbled. The storm roared back, shaking the shutters. As it traveled about the mountains, it echoed and sounded like laughter. The quilt of grey was amused by her tiny protest. The forces of nature at times can be a disheartening foe, and for a moment Kiwi felt ridiculous and wet. Then at her side, a great barking erupted. Dante, familiar par excellence was at her side, as always. She smiled at the pup, she hadn’t heard him bark since her first year at the school. It was a good solid ‘woof!’ Strong enough that every sheep in the state snapped to attention and awaited orders. “You found your voice!” Kiwi cheered, over the thunder and the barking. The raindrops splashed against her face, and she realized she was letting Dante fight on his own. So she did the only thing she could do. Kiwi grabbed two metal pots and started banging them together. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” She screamed again, and again. With her squire by her side, she ran circles around the room, banging pots, and shouting whenever there was breath in her lungs. Dante panted just beside her, barking away lightning before it even had a chance to strike. Or so it felt, in their hearts. In truth, the storm was an apathetic thing, and wasn’t concerned, interested, or bothered by the faint screaming and barking of a single room. It had a whole countryside to soak and terrify. A heavy gust of wind erupted from this formless giant and rushed into Kiwi’s room. It scattered her papers across the room and sent rain in horizontally. Kiwi laughed, and jumped to her bed, Dante joined her. With a feat of mundane magic, she pulled the covers off her bed and threw them over herself and Dante. “We’ll be safe under here.” She panted and laughed, and under the dark of the covers could feel his hot breath smacking her face in exhausted huffs. The rain wailed against their fortress, assaulting it with rain, and bluster. Kiwi snuggled close to Dante, basking in his usual warmth. She supposed that things like love, or even just caring could be expressed in ways beyond words. She also figured if Dante did what he came to do, she should not begrudge him a job well done. Though at the moment she didn’t feel very mature, she was sure Dante knew what he was doing. It would be a strange world, without his voice to guide her. Eventually, the pounding rain would soak their blankets through, and make a very cold, very wet mess out of the unusual pair. Until then she was determined to enjoy this moment with something familiar.

Crossing Paths Xiù Wáng is seated at her desk, which is piled high with textbooks and notebooks. Her marketing textbook is open in front of her, and it is brimming with ideas that will only serve to stoke her desire to launch a content creation company. Her phone started buzzing loudly, interrupting her thoughts. Xiù looked down to see that her mother was calling. Realizing that she had never heard from her parents after telling them a few years ago that she intended to study in the United States, she could feel her heart racing. She answers her phone with a nerve-wracking voice, "Hello, Mama,” as she taps her pen on the desk, not knowing what her mother will say next. “Xiù, you know what we expect of you,” her mother said, her tone firm yet loaded with cultural norms. “I cannot let you waste away your future for foolishness, nor can your father. return home, get married, and have a family. That's what lies ahead for you.” Xiù grips her phone tighter after hearing those words: “You can't just tell me to give up on my ambitions, Mama; I have to pursue my passion, which is marketing. I can make a career out of it since I'm good at it. Please make an effort to comprehend.” The call ended abruptly, leaving Xiù with an ultimatum hanging over her head like a dangling sword and no answer from the other end. In mid-March, Xiù goes to Tampa, Florida, for spring break with her friends, hoping to take a break from her family's expectations and her college coursework. She finds momentary solace from her problems in Florida's warmth, the beaches--especially her favorite, Clearwater Beach--the saline breeze, and the lively vitality. At a neighborhood cafe next to Clearwater Beach, one of the most well-known beaches in Tampa, Florida, Xiù Wáng finds herself in the center of the metropolis, where the sun shines on a bustling urban area and the blue waters of the beaches sparkle beneath the sky. The cafe she is at is called “Art Smart Coffee Gallery." This unique art cafe displays art for visitors in addition to serving coffee and pastries. The enticing local artwork adorning the quaint cafe's window walls draws Xiù in. It speaks to her like a foreign language and consists of textures, colors, and unsaid stories. Xiù was engrossed in the local artwork, particularly the oil painting of the boat, and was unaware that a young man was watching her from a corner table. Her medium-black hair is pushed behind her ears as she examines the textures and artwork. The young man, Jose Iglesias, was dressed casually and drinking hot chocolate while making notes in his leather journal. His dark brown eyes would occasionally dart toward Xiù as an indication of his admiration for her beauty and grace. Finally, he gathered his courage within himself and went straight up to Xiù with a warm, friendly smile. “"Hello, My name is Jose Iglesias. I noticed you're looking at the oil painting of the boat paint job," he said. "Oh, hello there. Xiù Wang is my name. It's a pleasure to meet you.” Xiù smiled after initially being shocked. “Yes, I do think oil paintings are more vibrant than other mediums since they create such flawless artworks by bringing the colors that flicker to life and providing us with textures. I can almost picture this painting of a sunset outside my dorm window at my university of higher education in North Dakota. I will admit, though, that it is a little bit warmer here.” She replied with a smile. Our main characters go to a table in a corner that is seated for two. Xiù and Jose sit across from each other and continue their conversation from there. “Tampa is where I was born and raised. So what brought you to Tampa, Florida? I'm assuming you're here for spring break, just like me. I came here to explore more, spend time with friends, and enjoy the beaches.” He gives her a curious smile and lifts his right eyebrow. Xiù nods and responds, "Yeah, I'm on spring break." Several of us determined that Florida would be our final destination. Minutes flew by, and then hours passed, and it just seemed like they knew each other from their past. They exchanged stories, and there was laughter. Their connection just grew in the deepest moment of the evening. “So you're a student at North Dakota State University? Which degree program are you enrolled in?” He asks with curiosity. "My degree is in marketing. With my degree, I hope to start my own content production business. I also intern for a local content producer who runs her own business and is imparting some knowledge to me. I enjoy it, even though it requires a lot of work. How about you?” She responds excitedly. Before Jose could answer, a waiter comes up and tells them this: “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m just letting you two know that we’ll be closing up in 20 minutes as it is almost 10:30 pm,” and Jose replies politely, “Thank you; we’ll be out soon.” The waiter walks away, and Jose starts to respond to Xiù’s earlier question, “Sorry. I am impressed with your plan after college,” he says, seeming impressed, and then continues, “My field of study at the University of Florida is communications. I enjoy how conversation can unite individuals and allow them to share their experiences, as you and I are currently doing.” “That is a great field of study, and I know you will do great in that area.” She says this while looking at him proudly. Reluctantly, Xiù looks at the time on her phone and realizes that she must be heading home because it is at that time and it is late. Jose asked for her phone number in case he wanted to have contact with her. “Call me or text anytime. I enjoyed our conversation.” He grins and starts walking home. She hails for a taxi out in the humid weather of Florida. As she gets in the taxi, her phone rings in her handbag, and her mind runs to think, "Already, Jose? " She smiles as she grabs her phone, but it's not. Surprisingly, it's her mother again, considering they had not talked before spring break and the ultimatum her mother left her. “You only have this once, Xiù. Otherwise, we'll cut you off. Return home and fulfill our family's expectations.” The voice of her mother resounded with finality. Xiù heard these words many times, but this time they hit her like a clash of symbols in her ears, and when those words hit her ears, her eyes welded with tears. Her personal aspirations collided brutally with the weight of cultural obligations. The taxi arrived at her friend's appointment, and the driver said to her, “We are here.” Xiù got out of the taxi and thanked the driver. She walked carefully to her friend's apartment door and turned the knob, still feeling heavy from her mother's words. She slung into an armchair and thought about the future: What could she do? "How could she possibly give up her dream and yet lose all respect for her family?” Then, recalling a previous chat in which he had discussed a similar issue that he was still going through, she considered messaging Jose about her predicament in the hopes that he might provide some perspective. She reached for her phone in her bag and texted Jose, “Hey, its Xiù,” and she set her phone on the side table to wait for an answer. When she did that, she went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, and when that happened, her phone chimed, and it was Jose answering, “Hey! What’s up?” Xiù explained her dilemma, told him that she had no idea what to do, and asked for his perspective. “Why don't you and I meet up tomorrow morning at 10:00 a.m. at the same cafe, and we'll establish a strategy about how we will address our family's dilemmas?” Jose texted her to let her know that, while he wishes he had an answer right away, he doesn't. Xiù is sipping her water when she looks at her phone and finds Jose's message. She is relieved to learn that he is eager to assist in coming up with a strategy. She texted him back, “Sounds good to me; I’ll see you tomorrow at 10 am. Thanks, Jose.” Then she heads to bed. The next day, Xiù shows up early to the cafe after that. The calm streets were bathed in a warm, golden hue as the sun was just starting to rise over the horizons. Located between a small ice cream shop and a bookstore, the gallery cafe was well-known for its artisanal coffee and varied paintings. She flung the door open, letting in the fragrance of freshly cooked pastries. She selected a corner table and placed her coffee order. She sat at the table near the window, which viewed the ocean and the breaking waves on the beach. She couldn't stop thinking about the next chat, hoping that today's discussion would provide her with the explanation she needed. A waitress approached with her coffee order, a cappuccino with a touch of cinnamon. Xiù thanked her for delivering it to her and sipped her cappuccino while looking at the watch on her wrist. It was two minutes until ten. Jose arrived at exactly 10 a.m. His wavy brown hair bounced with each stride, giving his image a carefree charm. His face appeared lighthearted and exciting due to the loose ringlets framing it. He spotted Xiù seated at a little corner table, and he walked up to the table with a casual ease that conveyed confidence and receptivity. "Hey, Xiù," he said, his warm tone instantly putting her at ease. "How are you doing?" Xiù sighs and answers, “I’m alright for now. I just want to figure out a plan with my family.” Jose nodded with understanding. "I hear you. We'll make a plan together, but why don't we go for a walk on the beach for a change of scenery and some fresh air?" he suggests. “That sounds great. I could use some fresh air and a change in scenery.” She smiles at his suggestion. They left the cafe and walked to Clearwater Beach, which was a short distance away. As they went down the coastline, the Florida wind caught Xiù's medium black hair, causing it to flutter over her face, prompting her to pull it up into a ponytail. As their talk progressed, the sound of the waves and the salty breeze helped her feel more at ease. “I’ve been thinking a lot about how much I want to respect my family, but I don’t want to give up my independence and dreams,” Xiù began while looking out at the ocean. Jose nods understandingly. “I understand. It's difficult to match their expectations with our own personal goals. We need to find a way of upholding our family's wishes without losing ourselves in the process.” “You’re right. I just have no idea where to start.” Xiù nodded, feeling a sense of connection and comprehension. “How about we write a list of our goals and our parents' expectations of us?" Jose suggested, with determination coming from his deep brown eyes. “From the list, we can look for some common ground on how to compromise.” They found a space on the beach, and Jose took out his leather journal and began taking notes. When they completed writing down their notes, they discovered that their family's expectations were crucial, and there were areas of their own desires that they could assert without generating too much difficulty. “Your parents want you to return home, get married, and start a family. That is what they want or expect of you.” Jose pointed it out. “However, if you do not want that right immediately, you might just return home and have an open chat with them about your personal goals and how you intend to fulfill their cultural standards in the future.” Xiù nodded, feeling more hopeful. “I could do it. And, regarding your family's condition, let them know that while you respect their desire to take over the family business to aid them, this is not your road to take and that you have another one to pursue.” As they continue to discuss, Xiù feels a ray of optimism and a burden lifted off her shoulders. With Jose's help and the approach they devised, she felt confident about confronting her family with an open discussion about expectations and personal goals. “Thank you, Jose.” She smiled as she spoke. "I greatly appreciate your assistance in all of this. I'm feeling a lot better now, thanks to you.” “Anytime, Xiù." Jose replied, his brown locks framing his face, and smiled back. “I’m glad that we both were able to figure out a plan.” Both Jose and Xiù return with a renewed sense of dedication, the sea as their witness, and the wind at their backs, welcoming a fresh outlook on the future.

Click. “That oughta do it. Nervous?” “More than you can guess,” Aichen admits. He tugs on the restraints at his wrists. “These have to be so tight?” “Part of the safety protocol.” The computerized voice is warm, almost human. It’s been programmed with perfect attention to colloquial speech, but it still lacks a proper bedside manner. The questions it asks are never followed up. Is he nervous? Yes. No. It doesn’t matter how he answers. “So if I win--” he begins. “--I’m not programmed with that information.” Two beady eyes blink behind a flat screen, which twists to meet his gaze. That’s as close as the programmers could come to successfully mimicking physical mannerisms in a human conversation. No matter how he turns, the screen will follow him. “Great.” Undercover mission or not, Aichen didn’t sign up for this. His superiors will be hearing his complaints--if he lives. “Throw me in then. I’m as ready as I’ll get. The longer I wait, the worse this feels.” “You’ll wait until your allotted time.” Blasted thing. “Your partner hasn’t been decided.” Aichen stands from his patient bed and investigates the window on the far wall. From here, he can barely make out the roaring coliseum. There’s a crowd from floor to ceiling and there’s no telling how far up the ceiling goes. It’s impossible to guess at this angle. “This isn’t some en masse fight to the death or something, is it?” Aichen wonders, hands pressed to the glass. After being captured, he’d been told absolutely nothing. It started in a cell, then he was being led down this hallway, and now he’s stuck in this room. His only mission detail was: get captured . What could be so important inside those anti-gravity walls? He won’t have much chance for recon. “Await your time, prisoner...1227894-4-4-4....” “122789435,” Aichen finishes for it. “You’d think they could afford functioning ‘bots with the high bets they get here.” He briefly glances at the bot, who’s makeshift face is a blaze of expressions, and sighs. Buzz. “Guess it’s finally my turn.” Approaching the sealed door, Aichen mentally prepares his first encounter with the chamber. Recon, then fight. And in a worst-case scenario, gather his bearings before proceeding. But he’s seen anti-gravity before. He’ll be fine. Bang! His body jolts forward. The roars erupt. And then he’s plummeting. Where’s the anti-gravity? For a fear-invoking moment, he just falls. Air whooshes past him, billowing through his tunic, ruffling through his hair. A hand grips his ankle. “Get it together!” the shout is audible, even over the deafening thrum of people, machines, and fear. Hovering above him is a woman as well-lived as the council. Aged ones are rare. “Check the bonds.” As Aichen flails to grab his wrist, she drops him. Two blurred figures clash with her. She blocks. Parries. Counters. Her form is pristine. She must be aged. Aerial combat is no longer sought after. The academies deemed it archaic. It and every other form of combat. That’s why he had to find a teacher. “Focus,” Aichen whispers to himself. His eyes waiver over the wrist binds until he sees it. Ripping a circular tab up from the forearm, he gives it a twirl, then shoves it back in. His body jolts. Like a crescent hand, an air current forces him back up the clear shaft. It forces his gaze onto the woman and her plight. She kicks one of the figures away and sinks her fingers into the other. Pieces of them scatter, framing the air around her. Click. Aichen whirls to meet the sound at the very base of the chamber. And then it begins to fill. A liquid floods beneath them. Water? Aichen’s never seen water before. But the frothy blue could be nothing else. He stops. The crescent releases him, leaving him dangling near the very height of the chamber. But the water is rising. Clank. Clank. Clank. A rhythmic clatter before the full vacuum. He holds his breath. His heart pounds. His eyes clamp shut. The vacuum overwhelms him, water filling in over his head. Soft at first, another beat. Then, from the all-consuming liquid, the beat spreads. Bang. Bang. Bang. Though soft on the ears, it vibrates through him. He hazards a peek. The aged woman is nowhere to be seen. But those two figures are approaching him. Fast. With an unplanned weave backward, his hands hit the glass. One figure eases a hand over his throat, the other threatens with razor teeth. Aichen’s limbs are heavy. How did his ancestors move in water? How did they swim ? Panic sets in. “Oy!” the woman’s voice echoes in his head. And theirs too, apparently. They both turn to meet her. Two thin talons puncture the tips of each finger. She strikes. A flurry of movement. A feline cry. Then two screams as they dissolve. “They’ll be back.” Her words are filtering through a throbbing bubble. It fluctuates with every word, every breath. “This is a team event?” While Aichen usually prides himself on asking astute questions, this isn’t one of his best moments. And here, under the water, the drowned sound of his voice causes the words to sound even less intelligible. “Swim.” She ignores Aichen, drawing him toward the surface. “You may not understand the feeling. But you’re drowning.” They breach the waterline. And Aichen gasps. His chest is burning. His nose, too. But with the air, the weight of his limbs lessens. “I can’t swi--” “--I know. The academy never trains ‘em right these days.” Her grip on him holds. But her gaze is less loyal. She’s surveying the landscape beneath them, the crowd threatening to break through the chamber, and the ceiling. “No, I’m no--” “--Save it, embboy. You’re an incarnation of academy regulations.” She gestures at his feet. “Any hidden weapons in those boots?” He ignores her. “There’s nothing wrong with being born ,” he grumbles. “Being of embryonic cells is preferable to whatever you are.” For a brief moment, the woman meets his judging glare. The bubble at her mouth squirms against her frown. “Are you one of those tube babies ? A biobot ? Or maybe you were one of the original crafted ?” He knows he’s digging his own grave, but he can’t stop the onslaught of insults from tumbling over his teeth. “Do you have something against crafted ?” “No,” he’s quick to recover. “No, I’ve just never met one.” She eyes him a moment longer, before glancing away. Deep in the water, the figures are easing toward them. They don’t have time for this. Diving beneath the water, the aged woman takes hold of his boot. She rips the laces free. And the knife beneath them. The other boot is short to follow. “Wield this,” she orders him as she resurfaces. “Fine.” He reluctantly takes the blade. And then he’s sinking. Rapidly. Two billowing claws climb his legs. They rip. They shred. They slice through his skin. And he swings aimlessly. The knife strikes once. And the figure recoils. It screams with a growing wound, which festers and spreads. It’s skin dissolves. Again. The water recedes. From above him, the aged woman lunges. She catches Aichen by his belt. Then herself on the wall. “The trials are quick. You have to keep up.” Thrusting him onto the wall, she points with her head. “Each scenario is different. But the goal never changes. Kill those things, survive.” “Right.” He can do that. Gurgle. The water drains beneath them. A harsh moment. A long moment. His heart’s deafening him in anticipation. His hands are clammy. But nothing happens. “They can take a moment to transition,” she admits under her breath. “I guess we can catch our breath,” he jokes. He isn’t sure she even has breath. If elders are rare, the crafted are inconceivable. They had died out decades ago, along with the other elders. And for good reason, at least, that’s what he’d been told. Dangerous, unpredictable, unstable, and horrific. Not one positive descriptor had ever been used to describe them. He resists the urge to stare at her. “What’s coming next?” His question drifts beneath the mechanical engine that erupts beneath them. The hatches open. There’s creaking joints, the rattle of movement, and a heavy hiss. But above that, a black mass scaling up the wall towards them. “The air, the water. I could handle those. You’re afraid of biosects ?” “What?” Aichen looks down at the mass. “I--I...” “I’ll handle this one. Climb,” the woman lowers herself. Among the mass, two shadowy figures surge. It’ll end if he kills one and she kills the other. Closing his eyes, he lets go. As he falls, he raises his knife. “No!” Her shout bursts his eyes open. The shadow has moved. Beneath him, there are only biosects. “Throw it. Throw it!” Before he hits the ground, Aichen releases the dagger. Mid-air, their daggers graze each other. That soft touch is enough to guide his. Screams. Aichen flattens to the floor. No biosects. No shadows. “Stand, hurry.” The woman is already beside him, gathering both daggers. Looping a hand under his arm, she lifts him to his feet. The wail of a siren. Pounding from the opposite side of the chamber. Cheering. “It’s not over yet.” “M-more fears?” Aichen wonders. He squints at the crowd, wondering how they find enjoyment in this. They wouldn’t if they were the ones down here. No, they’d be begging for mercy and dying one by one. “Two unknowns, one fear.” “So then it should be over.” “Yours are. Mine aren’t,” her eyes scan the chamber. “The unknowns could be anything. But if you understand them, then I need you to--” The words are sealed into her mouth by a thin thread. Alarmed, Aichen tries to reassure her. But he can’t. His lips clap together. The thread is quick. Once finished, it pounces from his mouth to his eyes. Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. Wings? No. Electricity. A hand encloses in his. But the touch is gone as soon as it arrives. His dagger is all that remains. He tightens his fingers on it. This is something he’s been trained for. Bending both knees, Aichen assumes a proper dagger-stance. He can hear the woman’s breath to the left. But to the right, a whoosh. He swings. The blade connects. And then she’s screaming. “Elder?!” he shouts. He approaches her. One arm as his guide, he interprets the situation. She’s on her knees. The figure has her by the hair. Digging his fingers into what should be the figure’s eye sockets, Aichen thrashes back. The knife moves with him. A sickening, fleshy sound tells him he hit. Light filters back through his vision. But the woman is lying on the ground. Blood has stained the floor around her shivering form. “Hey,” he whispers, dropping to her side. “Hey!” His hands cup her wrinkled cheeks. “Please. I need your help.” “Wrap it,” her voice barely passes her pale lips. Aichen tears the fabric from his shirt, peeling it into a long thin scrap. “My shoulder.” He heaves her into his lap, securing the fabric around her chest and shoulder. It’ll have to do. Another failing of the academy. No medical practice. “Give me the other knife,” Aichen tells her. “No.” She shakes her head. “ Give me the other knife!” he barks. “I’m not dead. We’ll finish this together.” Before Aichen can argue further, the lights cut. Her unknowns are all visibility related. Will her fear be as well? Electricity hisses up the chamber walls. In an arcing coil, a blue spark alights. The back of his neck tingles. This is an unknown for him, too. He has no experience with live electricity. It’s an issue of the past. The coil rotates inward. With increasing speed, it lurches in at them. He pulls her beneath him. “I can take it,” he promises. Engulfing her small frame in his body, he absorbs the shock. It rattles him. In his every nerve. In the deep, squirming organs. In his instantly nauseated stomach. His teeth chatter. And he groans. Saliva foams through the corner of his lips. But in the soft glow, he sees them. Against the increasing pain, he brandishes his knife. The figure flits in and out of view. But its location is constant. Are they testing his timing? Without a second thought, he hurls it. The knife passes through at first. But the figure returns just as the blade seeks to exit. And its eyes bulge. “Give me the knife,” he sounds the words out through pained whimpers. He’s passing out. The electricity is only gaining in strength. The once aching tingle is now a violent jolting. “No.” Her hand flicks out. He watches the blade spiral into the darkness. And then he’s free. The blue crackle releases him. The lights flicker back on. And the chamber erupts with applause. But he’s still vibrating. Regardless of his freedom, he’s suffering. Hugging himself with both arms, he attempts to still the trembling. But it’s not just his body that’s shuddering, it’s his eyes as well. Even if he calms his body, he can barely see anything. “Don’t move too suddenly,” the woman rests a hand on his shoulder. “You could be injured.” “It’s fine”--he jerks out of her touch--“If we’re going to get out of here, I need to know. What’s your fear?” He isn’t one who likes to be doted on. He never has. Joining the academy was a way for him to prove his worth, not to be protected like a child. As it is, they prepared him to handle worse shocks than that. “You’ll see.” “No. Tell me. Now.” He pushes to stand but falters. The knife is too far out of reach. He has to get to it before the next test begins. Dragging himself across the floor, he strains his fingers out for it. Snap. His fingers crunch under her boot. He withholds the scream, even through the throbbing. He’s in enough pain now. It’s all numbing. The woman bends to retrieve his knife. “That.” Her voice comes from behind him. Oh. “You’re afraid of yourself?” he confirms. The woman above him grins. Knife in hand, she dives for him. He rolls. Catching her leg in both hands, he rips her to the ground. They tumble. They wrestle. But she manages to gain the high ground. From the corner of his eye, he can see the real woman facing a similar fate with another version of herself. This is the last one. The last one. Tightening his fingers into the woman’s striking wrist, he leans forward. His teeth clamp down on her nose. His jaw holds firm, even though the rest of his body is wavering. She claws his cheek. Those metal points in her fingers are identical to the real woman’s. But he doesn’t let up. Blood seeps from her face. Her grip loosens on the blade. And Aichen rips it free from her hands. He delves it deep into her throat. Click! Hiss! Plumes of smoke fill the chamber. The crowd disappears as the screens stop projecting. The sound of them fades with it. The duplicate bodies of the elder woman glitch until they’re nothing but training dummies. Including the one atop Aichen. It flops, weighing him down to the floor; nothing more than a sand-filled human-shaped sack. “You’re certainly resilient.” The elder woman stares down at him. The messy, silver tresses that were once tangled into a bun are now sleek and straight at her shoulders. Her dirty, torn tunic and pants have slimmed into an ankle-length, black pantsuit. The tattered shoes are nothing but bare feet. “And considerate.” “I was trained to b--” “--Oh, certainly not. You may look regulation, however, you’re anything but. The agents before you left me to die; the ones who made it that far. After all, they still won without me. But you never assumed that to be true--” she kneels beside him, her lips to his ear--“Embboy, who really trained you?” Aichen doesn’t answer. His mission was to get captured, but now he’s wondering who issued it. And who she really is. Like all aged, is she part of the council? If so, he has no reason to talk. He refuses to have a reason. They were the ones who drove him to join the academy. Fighting them was the only thing keeping him alive after... “Twelve,” she calls out. “Commander?” a familiar face enters the room. Aichen’s eyes widen. “Weldler?!” Aichen exclaims the name before he can stop himself. “122789435.” Weldler bows to Aichen in greeting. He then returns to the elder woman. His bow only deepens. “W-Weldler.” Aichen’s voice softens. They’d lost Weldler nearly a year ago. He’d gone undercover and never returned. But those with him couldn’t remember what happened. They just labeled him MIA and the higher-ups dismissed any requests for rescue. “What can I do for you, Commander?” Weldler prompts the elder woman when she doesn’t instruct him. Gaining a soft grin, she rests a hand down on Aichen’s head. A pat. Two. Then she strokes his bangs from his forehead. “Prepare 122789435’s new living quarters. Oh, and change his file name to Aichen . I will send him to be escorted shortly.” She dismisses Weldler, who leaves without a second thought, or a second glance. Her fingers trace down Aichen’s cheek before resting under his chin. “Your mentor won’t be able to hide from me for long. See. I’m eager to unravel your mind, Agent Aichen Lurch. All too eager.” She stands with abrupt grace and snaps for another man standing at the door. “He’s ready.”

Lan’iell swam as if his life depended on it. And, in a way, it did. Life as he knew it, anyway. One might say the situation was one of his own making; after all, he hadn’t had to respond to the princess’s rather blatant flirting, at least not beyond the bounds of a few proper sentences and a polite, but firm, refusal. As the youngest son of a lowly viscount, it’s not like he would ever be considered a match for the king’s only daughter anyway. Which was actually more than okay with Lan. The princess was, admittedly, gorgeous, but shallow and petty and not at all someone he could see sharing a home with, much less a marriage bed. (Or even a pre-marital bed, despite his reputation at court. He’d only been out in society for two years, but already had something of a reputation.) He breached the surface, gasping for air and taking a quick look around to get his bearings. No one was in sight, and he breathed a quick “thank you” to his childhood swimming instructor, who had insisted, since theirs was an island kingdom, that he should be able to swim well enough to escape a shark, if need be. Escaping from other things was a side benefit. Coast clear, he veered west, heading for shore. Twenty minutes later, he’d made it to shore. It was rocky here, and it took a moment for him to navigate his way to dry land. Once he did he took a moment to stretch and look around. Still clear. Good. The shore was wooded here, the treeline growing to a few hundred yards of the shoreline. Great for cover, not so much for navigation, and he studied the forest as he thought. There was a reason he’d cultivated his reputation. Part of it was that he was something of a natural flirt, and good-looking enough to attract attention- tall, with his father’s dark hair and his mother’s jade green eyes. Lan wouldn’t call himself classically handsome, not in the way some of the favorites at court were, but he was lean and muscled, a love of swordplay evident in powerful arms and shoulders. If he’d wanted to, he could have cut quite a swath through the court ladies. Too bad it wasn’t the ladies he was interested in. Picking a path that seemed to head in the direction he wanted to go, he headed inland. The ship he’d escaped from had probably gone back to port at this point. Lan’iell felt a small stab of pity for the guard that had been supposed to be keeping watch on him. It wasn’t the guard’s fault that he’d made a number of friends among the palace security force during his time at court, nor was there any way for the poor fellow to have known that one of his colleagues had taught him how to break out of shackles (in exchange for a small favor of the matchmaking sort) after a similar... misadventure. Eventually, Lan’iell’s feet brought him to a small clearing. There wasn’t anything terribly special about it, if you discounted the ring of guards trying (and failing) to hide in the surrounding trees. Lan had spotted at least four in the last half hour. He snorted. City boys. It was easy enough to slip through the ring. Even easier, since the one guard who’d actually spotted him had studiously pretended Lan was merely a squirrel. It was far from the first time this particular situation had arisen, after all, and he restrained a chuckle as he reached the edge of the clearing. Before him was a small encampment- a fairly nice tent, campfire with something tasty-smelling cooking over it, a couple of chairs, and a pair of blankets laid out, close enough to the fire to be warm but far enough it would be hard to see them from the edges of the clearing. Lan had very fond memories of those blankets. Standing by the fire, stirring the cookpot, stood a figure, and he took a moment to stare appreciatively as the other spoke. “Took you long enough. Dinner’s almost ready.” “Sorry, love. Your father’s men were more persistent than usual. I had to go a little further than planned to lose them,” Lan said easily, moving into the firelight and wrapping his arms around the figure’s waist. The other squirmed. “You’re still damp. Go change. There are dry clothes in the tent.” “Why? You’ll be taking them off soon enough.” That earned him a swat with the spoon, and he chuckled. “So violent, your highness. Is this how you treat all your subjects?” “Only the ones who stir up family drama. Do you have any idea how long it took my sister to stop screaming after that little stunt you pulled? Father was pissed. You’re lucky the guards gave up. If they’d caught you and brought you back he probably would have made you marry her just to shut her up.” The prince turned in the circle of his arms, wrapping his arms around his taller paramour and pulling him down for a kiss. Lan leaned into the kiss for a moment, then pulled back with a rueful shake of his head. “Not exactly what I was going for. Guess I won’t be welcome back at court for a while, huh? Too bad. I was just starting to get good at sneaking into your chambers, too.” The prince snorted, pulling away to check the stew. “Yeah right. You’re lucky you’ve done such a good job charming my retinue. You’re a rogue, but stealth is not your thing, love. Stick with what you’re good at, we’ll all live longer.” That put a damper on the mood. What they were doing was technically illegal and extremely ill-advised. “Darling...” “ Stop. ” The word was short and clipped, the prince’s voice a mix of warning and resigned. “I know what you’re going to say. And, if I were my brothers, or even my sister, this would be a problem.” The prince lifted the stewpot, setting it on a convenient stump. “I”m seventh in line, and my eldest brother’s wife is pregnant. If it’s a boy, it’ll more or less knock me out of the running entirely. My father could care less who I marry, or even if I marry, and he’s known of my preferences for years now. If his advisors weren’t all old and too conservative for anyone’s good, he’d be the first to approve of this. Your father is one of his oldest friends, after all.” “I know,” Lan said with a sigh. “Alright, I’ll be good.” “I highly doubt that. But come eat.” Lan’iell laid back, sandwiched between two warm cotton blankets, his royal lover curled tightly into his side and snoring lightly. It was a gorgeous night, and he stared up at the night sky, letting the stars' peace creep into his soul. Tired as he was, sleep would not come lightly; his mind was too busy chewing over what the prince had said earlier. Marriage. Maybe. Someday. Until then, I’ll take what I can get. You’re more than worth it, my prince.

Lying in the cold darkness of an empty room, I didn’t want to get up, there was no point! How many times can you get knocked to your knees before you just stayed down in the muck? This wasn’t who I was, or at least it’s not who I used to be, but here I am knocked down again, all in the name of Love. You see I have yearned for love, hunted it, tried to create it, and all to no avail. The rational side of my brain says to forget it and become the type of guy that I cannot stand. You know the one, the guy who uses women for one thing, treats them like trash, and just moves on, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake. “Get that out of your head Jake,” I growled to myself, rising out of bed to start my day. Sandra had been everything to me. She was beautiful, spirited, and had brought excitement and joy to my life. We had lived together for two years yesterday, when she moved out with all of my furniture. I should have paid more attention to the signs that were right in front of me though. The questioning looks I would get when I started working night shifts and the cold meals left in the fridge, if there was anything left at all. Then the “girls' nights” started with a group of her college friends on my only nights off. I knew it was coming, but I chose not to see it; like a fool I was blinded by what I thought was love. Walking to the window I pushed the towel to the side to let the harsh brightness of the sun into the room. I still can’t believe she took the blinds when she left! Closing my eyes, I let the warmth and light envelope me, then the tingling started, like pin pricks across my skin. I had never told anyone why I worked nights, but it all started after Sandra moved in. We had gone to the river for a canoe trip where I got a horrible sunburn. After that, my skin always reacted the same way to direct sunlight; a slight tingle that intensified into excruciating pain. “Polymorphic sun poisoning,” the dermatologist called it. “It’s hard to say what caused it. I’m sure that severe sunburn didn’t help matters any, but it’s just something that you will have to monitor very closely from now on,” he said flippantly. Not caring anymore, I stood in the light until my skin turned red and the pain doubled me over. It took my mind off the betrayal. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that this happened. Before Sandra, it was Janeane, and before her it was Chelsea, my high school sweetheart. They had all used me to help them financially and led me to believe they loved me, but they hadn’t. I’m not even sure they understood what love was. “She even took the coffee pot,” I thought shaking my head. “Why would you take the coffee pot, you don’t even like coffee?” I had asked when calling her phone. “Andre likes coffee and doesn’t have a pot and I am not about to go to Starborns all the time,” she replied. “You left me for Andre?” I had roared into the phone, unable to control my anger. Andre had been my best friend since eighth grade, my coworker, and my surrogate brother and the kind of guy who destroyed any kind of monogamous relationship he came in contact with. Always looking like he stepped out of a magazine, he was tall, well built, and had beautiful olive skin, a stark contrast to my alabaster tone. This was the last straw, I couldn’t do it anymore, so I didn’t. Leaving town had never crossed my mind before, this had always been home. I grew up here, but this time I saw no other choice, I had to get away. The house sold in a month and since it was my house and paid for, I at least had a windfall if needed. My work had accepted my notice without hesitation and didn’t even try to talk me out of quitting. Sad that I had been there, doing a good job, for fourteen years, but that’s life, I guess. All I owned fit in the small box trailer I had bought to haul the sound equipment that Sandra had taken as well. “If you don’t find a place, at least you can camp in the trailer for a while,” I told myself, trying to find a bright side. Leaving town as the sun broke the horizon, I steered my Tacoma toward the highway, set the cruise at 80, and never looked back. There was nothing left for me there and the road heading South was all that I wanted to see. Seventeen hours later I rolled into New Orleans tired, starving, and needing gas. Turning into the first Conoco station I came across found me being the only customer in the parking lot. Road weary, I stretched my back, walking a couple of laps around the truck and trailer before heading into the store. The attendant was a slim faced woman with an inviting smile and beautiful caramel skin. “You ain’t gonna find no place to stay in this town,” she said from behind the counter. “It’s Mardi Gras honey, and I’d be careful where I went in the city tonight, if I was you!” “Thanks for the tip,” I said. “Can I get thirty-five dollars on pump four and this Coke?” I asked, sliding forty dollars across the counter. “Is there any place that I might find something to eat?” I inquired. Shaking her head, the attendant took the money, ringing up my bill. “Only place you’ll find food tonight is at my house and since I never seen you before I will probably keep my gumbo to myself,” she said, smiling through her thick Louisiana accent. Opening my palm for the change she stopped, dropped the change on the counter, and started crying uncontrollably. “You poor thing,” she wailed. Confused, I looked to see if there was some kind of grotesque tumor erupting from my hand, but there was nothing, it just looked its normal pasty white. The woman grabbed my hand with a grip like iron, tracing the lines of my palm over and over, tears dripping from her cheeks onto my skin. “You poor man. How many times have you been hurt by those you loved?” she asked. Reeling from these words, I felt like a hole had been torn through me, revealing my soul to the elements. “Three times,” I stammered as my knees started to buckle and the room began to spin. “Focus on me,” she commanded, “you can’t pass out on me. It’s important that you stay awake.” My eyes locked onto hers, vibrant and amber with little green flecks around the edges, tears pooling on her bottom lids wicking through thick black lashes before sliding down her cheeks. "Molina" etched in black letters on a gold name badge, pinned to her red shirt. "Wha...What’s happening here?” I stuttered, trying but unable to pull away. “You will never find what you need if you keep looking for it so hard, baby. It has to come natural-like. The other person shouldn’t care about your money, your stuff, only you and what’s in your heart,” she sobbed. “You got a light in you still and all the darkness surrounding your heart is from the pain caused by others. You got to let that go!” Molina said, wiping her face with a tissue. How was it that a woman whom I’d never seen before knew so much about me? Was I still asleep? What was happening to me? As these thoughts bounced to and fro in my head, Molina looked at me with those piercing amber eyes. “I have the sight, honey. Got it from my grand-mamma, who got it from hers, who got it from hers. It goes back generations in my family, and it can be a curse, as well as a blessing,” she said releasing my hand. “Your pain is written all over you and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen anyone hurting so much. You need help, baby,” she said quietly. “Is this real?” I asked, backing away from the counter. “As real as breathing,” she said softly. Lunging toward the door, I forgot about my gas as I drove out of the parking lot, convinced I could find another gas station. I raced down the street, turning right for a few blocks, then back left, finding nothing but blocked streets and closed businesses. I let out a sigh of relief as I turned the corner and saw a station with all the lights on. My breath caught as I walked in, seeing Molina, waiting with my change in her hand. “I said you need help,” she said, smiling. “How is this possible?” I said, turning back toward the door. “Don’t leave!” she said sternly. “Jake Bertrand, you started running away long before you ever left home, you just didn’t know it. My name is Molina,” she said, pronouncing it “Moe-Lynn-ae”. “You are losing it Jake,” I muttered. “You aren't crazy, just broken,” she said, shaking her head. “There’s a reason you found your way back here and it’s not because you got lost. I led you back here with my light,” she smiled. “I saw the lights when I turned the corner,” I stammered. “Everybody can see those lights, honey. That’s not the light I’m talkin' about. I prayed that God would send you back to me, so that I could help you and he did,” she said matter-of-factly. Slumping onto a stack of papers, I dropped my head into my hands. I was dead, that was the only explanation that I could come up with. I had to have fallen asleep driving, died, and was now stuck in this weird realm of confusion. As if reading my thoughts, Molina chuckled as she said, “You aren’t dead, and this is real. Now go pump your gas and come back into the store.” My mind spinning, as my body, on autopilot, went and did as she had told me to. I looked at my watch to see if it was still ticking, trying to wrap my head around the events taking place. Time ticked along just as it always had, rendering me at an even farther loss for a rational explanation. The pump clicked indicating the tank was full as the sound of a nearby private Mardi Gras celebration ensued. The scent of warm, sweaty bodies engaged in dancing and drinking floated on the winds of the night accompanied by the raucous music of New Orleans’ largest celebration. My mind settled as the music and laughter lifted my spirits. “You made the right choice coming here Jake,” I heard from behind me. The gas station looked dark and abandoned; I hadn’t even noticed the lights had been turned off. The voice sounded familiar, but the woman speaking to me wasn’t Molina. “It’s me child,” she said with that unnerving ability to hear my thoughts. “How is this possible?” I asked, no longer afraid of her presence. “I knew you were going to come along at some point in my life. I’ve waited years for you to set foot in front of me, at this moment right here,” she said, reaching for my hand. Without hesitation I reached for her hand surprised at the strength of her grip, she looked to be 90 years old, but the amber eyes still blazed brightly. Looking around I realized the gas station didn’t just look abandoned, it was and had been for many years. “Molina are you an angel, or something else?” I asked hesitantly. “I am simply a messenger,” she said softly. “Why is this happening to me?” I asked. “Oh honey, it’s because you are broken, baby,” she drawled, “I know how to fix you, but you have to listen, because I am only allowed to tell you this once.” My vision blurring, I hadn’t realized that I had been crying this whole time. “I don’t want to be broken,” I sobbed, falling to my knees. “Please help me!” I begged. “Stand up, take me in your arms, and kiss me,” she said. I rose to my feet, bent down slightly to look into her eyes, and kissed her with a passion I didn’t know I possessed. That’s when I felt it; the pull from the depths of my soul. I could feel all the pain and darkness leaving me as she pulled me into the kiss. Her frail body was changing under the touch of my hand, her skin no longer felt taught over her bones, her hair spilled in endless curls down her back as she was growing younger. Our bodies intertwined in this ethereal embrace, seeming to reverse time, in defiance of the natural order of all that I thought I knew. We broke apart, breathless, and wanting more. Before me stood the young woman I had seen earlier. “What just happened? How did you go from young to old and back again? I’m sorry for all the questions, it’s just that I don’t understand any of what’s happening tonight,” I said through ragged breaths. “You saved me, and I saved you,” she said breathlessly. “I was cursed by a Voodoo queen a long time ago because she was jealous of the love I had for a man she wanted. She took him away from me and cast a spell, locking me in this old body for all but a few hours a year during Mardi Gras,” she said quietly. “So, this is all some kind of dream, right? There’s no such thing as magic, is there?” I said incredulously. “You tell me,” she said, pulling me in for another kiss. I couldn’t resist her touch and relished in the delicate kiss, savoring the taste of her lips, the softness of her tongue against mine. Pulling back to revel at the ebony beauty in my arms, I couldn’t help but wonder how long this moment would last. As if on cue, she tilted her head to the side with a sly smile saying, “The only way to break the spell was to feel the passion of a man broken by love, but who still wanted to find it. Even if he didn’t want to admit it to himself,” she said as tears streamed down her face. “I have been under this spell for over a century, hoping that someday, you would find me,” she sobbed. “I don’t understand any of this, but I can’t deny what I am feeling right now. How can I feel love for someone I just met, who tells me they’re over a century old?” I asked. “I feel it too and to explain it would take a lifetime. Are you willing to listen?” she asked demurely. Puling her close to me, I whispered, “Only if you are willing to spend that lifetime with me,” kissing her softly. “There’s no place I would rather be than in these arms for the rest of my days,” she said, hugging my neck and nuzzling my jaw. We talked through the night, standing in that abandoned lot until dawn. As the sun rose over Lake Pontchartrain, her onyx hair shimmering in the light, I felt no tingling, there was no longer pain, just the warmth of her touch, and the radiance of her smile. “I’ve waited a long time for you,” she said, squeezing my hand. Pulling her hand to my lips I said, “I am glad you found me. Let’s go home!” We crawled into the truck and drove all day with the windows down, heading nowhere in particular, just happy to be together and in love.

I let out a shaky breath, not quite willing to accept that I had gotten through this shopping trip without seeing another person. As I walk up to the cashier, my cart full of essentials, I make sure to keep my head down, silently putting my items on the conveyor belt. I heard the total distantly and carefully counted out the correct amount of change. Handing it over, I make sure to keep my eyes averted, but her sleeve rose up at the last second and I flinch as I catch a glimpse of her hand. Thoughts of age and fragility immediately speed through my head until at last, I feel my own heart quicken. And then, I feel nothing. I wince at the sudden nothingness and hurry out of the store. Throwing my groceries in the front seat, I sit for a few minutes, bracing myself for the drive home. I hate the task of driving, for it is near impossible to make an entire road trip without setting eyes on a single living thing. I pull out of the parking lot and start on the road, moving my eyes from landmark to landmark. I was approaching an intersection when an insistent honk of a horn caused me to fully look at what was going on - a mad man swerving his car through the intersection. The second I see him, an image flashes across my mind: engulfing fire... burning metal... the smell of gasoline... and then, just pain. I turn into a side alley as soon as it’s safe and park my car. I spend at least fifteen minutes just weeping, before building up enough strength to continue on. About an hour later, I am finally safe in my own home. My favorite place is my house. Residence of one, with no windows, and shelves stocked with non perishable foods - it was my safe place. It is the only place I can relax, or at least come close to relaxing. Although, ironically, my safe place was also my prison. Every day spent here, I feel more and more trapped. No companionship, no pets - there wasn’t even any plants. Not a living thing that could share a happy moment with me. Yet, even as I hate it, I knew that this was still better than what was outside the doors. One of my only constant human interactions was with the mailman. I open the door at 3:59, startling the mailman as he is still unused to me awaiting his presence. I force myself to meet his eyes and watch the scene play - the same scene I had seen yesterday, and the day before, and even the day before. I had seen it so often that I could recite it from memory. His climbing the stairs of the tallest building in town; his body falling story after story before he finally hit the ground and then, darkness. I am still unable to hide my flinch as I grab the paper from him. I’m sure that he joins the rest of this neighborhood in thinking that I’m mad, and who knows. Maybe I am. I just don’t understand. He seems so happy every time I see him. He greets me with the same smile and “How are you?”. Why does he do it? I’ve spent many an afternoon pondering over him and it may very well be the thing that kills me once and for all. I’ve cried over his death, knowing that I cannot fix his fate without ruining myself. The countless times I’ve tried to save people before him have proven that fact to me time after time, and maybe this time, I would finally learn my lesson and just let him die. I was still standing in the doorway, staring out at the empty street, letting myself slip into the familiar feelings of loneliness, when all too suddenly, a woman opens her curtain in her room and I catch a glimpse of her face. I immediately collapse against my door, the searing pain and blinding lights of a car crash flashing through my body. I manage to crawl back to my rocking chair, engulfing myself back into the solitude of my house. I wish I was dead. Yet, even as I try with all my might, I cannot see my own death; I cannot cause it, and I cannot fulfill my greatest wish. I can see death in everything around me: the mailman’s eyes, the neighbor’s cat, and even the trees hold glimpses of death. Yet in the one place I wish it to be, I only find its absence. And so, I spend my days sitting in this chair, trying to escape the world but becoming all the more trapped. I must remain optimistic, even though my hope is all but lost. I must stay here in this city of bustling people, in this neighborhood of happy lives, in this house of solitude with the knowledge that no man should bear. Knowing that every time I hear a knock at the door, although a breathing human stands on the other side, I am the last person on earth who is alive. Or rather, the last person who has not yet died.

(The following content contains actions of self-harm) *Character Identification*: Female, 9-14 *October 11, 2012* As I rounded the corner of my big house, I saw Shephia, my best friend for a few weeks now. She said that mommy and daddy couldn’t see her. She told me she was only visible to those who were vulnerable to the Astral Barrier. I don’t know what that means, though. Astral Barrier probably has something to do with the *Astral Plane* Shephia keeps talking about. I don’t know what *Astral* means, but I know what *plane* and *border* mean. Plane is an area... and border is something that can keep you from something... Shephia is taller than me. Almost as tall as my mom, but maybe... about six or seven inches shorter. She told me she’s fifteen, but she looks closer to eighteen. She acts really adult-like, telling me not to do risky things. But she’s fun to talk to. She told me about her ex-boyfriend. It’s a really nice story. Today, I asked her to tell it to me again. In her white-and-blue plaid shirt and ripped jeans, she sat on the air, a foot above the floor. “Okay, okay,” she said after I asked her for the sixth time in a row. “I met Slava when I was going to Russia, where my dad lived. Since they lived in different countries, I spent every other year with my dad. I went to a new school each time I switched countries, so I didn’t really get to know anyone well. “But, when I was fourteen, that changed. My mom got sick and was put in a hospital. So, I’d be staying with my dad for a bit longer. “I was starting my freshman year of high school. The school was grades six through twelve. I walked in, and I saw that most of the people in my class, save the three newer students, already had a group of their own. “When I first saw Slava, I didn’t think he was born in Russia, he had a darker, more soothing skin tone. But after first period, I went up to him and asked: ‘how are you doing?’ “He looked surprised. Apparently, due to my Caucasian American skin tone. I explained to him that I a was a native to both America and Russia, my parents were just from the two different countries. “He explained he was adopted by a nice family from St. Petersburg. He moved out to the country with his older brother, Sacsha. “After the school day was over, we decided to walk home together, our houses being in the same direction...” As I listened to the long story of her and Slava getting to know each other and ending up a couple until Shephia died, I was sidetracked by the sound of a car outside. When she was finished with the story, I walked up to the window to see my dad with two other men from his work. Mom probably wouldn’t be very happy about that. If she wasn’t at work herself right now. “Who is it,” Shephia asked with her soothing, genuinely curious tone. I looked at her and said, “it’s daddy. With friends.” “Okay. Would you like to meet your dad’s friends?” “Nope.” “Why not, Little Enne?” “Daddy’s probably just inviting them over to suck up to them.” “Tha--at’s not a very nice thing to say about your dad.” “Fiiiiiine. I’ll go meet them.” “I was just asking, you don’t actually have to. They might be nice.” “All of dad’s friends treat me like a little kid.” “To a lot of people, you *are* a little kid. They might be nervous around people they perceive as little kids.” I proceeded to go downstairs to talk to my dad. I had a fun time, talking to them about drawing and learning new art styles. They seemed more at ease with me after we had a long conversation about drawing. When the two men left, one said, “bye, Lenne, hope we see y’again!” I smiled at the kind words said by a person I’d never have met in different circumstances. Shephia had good ideas... why didn’t I listen to her? When I went back to my room, Shephia was there, sitting on the floor. *On the floor*. She was actually sitting on the floor. I didn’t know she could do that. She looked distracted. “What’s wrong,” I asked. “Nothing much,” she said back. “What are you thinking about?” “Hmm... I’m thinking about dying.” “Was it hard for you?” “... yes, it was. It was very hard.” I had the sense she was holding back tears and sobs, but I asked her another question. “How did you die?” She paused, eyes widened, and she had this look of... just being... overwhelmed by the question. Then she seemed to calm down and said, “maybe I’ll tell you when you’re older.” “Uhhh... okay, fine.” And with that, I had something strange to look forward to, in a few years. *September 14, 2017* I was fourteen when our parents called a friend of theirs who called herself a “*White Witch*” over to exorcise the house. I rolled my eyes. The only bad spirits were in the corner of the basement... and they mostly kept to themselves. She came over and introduced herself. Mom didn’t really believe in the supernatural or paranormal, but dad and I did. Well, I mean... I’ve been talking to a ghost for the better part of my life, so I’d have to believe in it. It’d be weird if I didn’t. “I’m Elizabeth, call me Liz. You must be Lenne,” she said to me. I nodded and replied, “yeah, that’s me. Lenne. You can also call me Enne.” “Okay, Enne. Nice to meet you. Do you believe in ghosts?” “Yup. Just don’t go to the northeast corner of the basement.” Her face turned from one of joy to one of terror. “Why, what’s down there?” she asked. “Hands.” Her face then morphed into one of confusion. She gave me a pebble, then handed my dad a pebble and we sat on the couch while she did her thing. When she came back a few minutes later, she was sweating and looked totally worn out. She gave my parents and I small corked vials filled with different things. *Protection jars*, she called them. “There was something in the basement I couldn’t completely get rid of. It’ll come back,” she said, looking at me. It seemed like she was trying to see past my soul and into my mind. “And there’s something around you... seemingly protecting you. It’s kind and soft, but... it’s something that could turn on you.” I wanted to correct her, to say that Shephia wasn’t an *it*, she was a *she*. But I could tell that Elizabeth could see Shephia, so I didn’t worry. Then Shephia’s voice spoke to her. That beautiful, soothing voice. “I’d never cross Little Enne. You may see how my past presence faded, but I can assure you I’m loyal.” I nodded, and Elizabeth realized I could see and hear her too. Elizabeth smiled, said her goodbyes, and left. I hid my relief that she left until Shephia and I got to my bedroom. “Thank god she left,” I sighed. Shephia looked worried. Her next words surprised me. “I think it’s about time...” her voice trailed off for a few minutes, but she managed to finish the sentence. “I think it’s about time... I told you *How* *I* *Died.*” I felt my eyes widen in surprise and confusion. “Okay, I’m listening,” I said to her. She told me the story of how she died. Her dad wasn’t paying a lot of attention to her, always by her mom’s side. She decided it’d be better for him if she did it. She told me she drove herself to her dad’s work, took the elevator to the roof, above the sixteenth floor, and took a pocket knife with her. She walked to the edge, stabbing herself so she would die for sure. Then she jumped off. Listening to her story, I was horrified. I never expected my best friend of five years... to have killed herself. She said that the house I lived in was her favorite house that her mom had owned. I felt tears on my face, and realized I was on the verge of sobbing. *September 20, 2017* Walking home from school, I was excited to bake cookies for late September, as I did every year, with my dad. Instead, I came home to my greatest fear. I got home from school to find my parents bleeding on the floor, black hands reaching out for them... And the hands had Shephia by her arms and legs and hair. Her mouth was covered by the hands, and I noticed my parents could hear her muffled screams and see the hands too. “Shephia!” I yelled, but she stopped screaming and opened her eyes to look at me. She smiled. And as I watched the hands push her into terror and darkness, I didn’t do anything. She wouldn’t have wanted me to grab her. She would have wanted me to help my parents. So I did. I helped my mom and dad to their feet. Dad was stabbed, somehow, but mom only had deep scratches on her limbs. She could still walk, though. Dad, however, was very badly injured. The *stab* wound was a few inches deep. Mom drove to the hospital. I was surprised she could still use the muscles in her legs enough to get us to the hospital, which was seventeen minutes away by car. When we got there, my mom and dad were immediately put into rooms, the hospital not being very busy. I went to a waiting room, alone. I didn’t know what to do, so I asked if I could borrow a pencil and some copy paper. On the paper, I drew my nine-year-old self sitting on my bedroom floor, back of my head facing the viewer. And above me, sitting on air, smiling while telling one of her favorite stories, was a long-dark-brown-haired girl with green hazel eyes wearing a white-and-blue plaid shirt and ripped jeans. On the right side of the drawing was my bed, and framing Shephia’s upper body and head was the window in my old bedroom. Next, I drew Shephia, pointing a knife to her heart on the top of a tall building, wind blowing in her hair, getting ready to glide off. Then I found myself drawing the hands, in the corner of the basement. I hadn’t even thought about what I drew, I just let the desire to move the pencil across the different sheets of paper guide my drawings. When I looked at them, I felt more tears fall down my face. Shephia... didn’t want to *leave* again. She loved me... like a guardian angel. *She was my guardian angel.* *And now I’ll never get to repay her for all the things she did for me.

The cold shoulder &#x200B; Harv grabbed a handful of wheat with his offhand. With his other hand, a quick swoop of his sickle the wheat came free of the ground that birthed it. He released. The wheat floated to the ground. Harv grabbed another handful. Cutting wheat was hard work. Especially this wheat. The wheat in Harv’s land grew short. One had to bend in order to get low enough to cut the short wheat. That bend had to be at the waist, not the knees, in order to move fast enough to cut the wheat in time. If the wheat wasn’t cut in time, the cold and the rain would destroy it and many in Lowville would go hungry or starve. Harv wouldn’t have it. He grabbed another handful of wheat. Calling it Harv’s land, was not technically incorrect, but it was misleading. In the town of Lowville, everyone owned the land together. Everyone planted together. Everyone harvested together. It was backbreaking work. Not that Harv minded. Another handful of wheat. Another swoop of his sickle. Always away from his body. The sickle was sharp enough to take a finger as easily as a grain of wheat. Harv had no desire for that. He liked the way things felt in his fingers. Harv stood and put his knuckles into the small of his back. They massaged and worked out the soreness to the extent possible. Everyone always had muscle tenderness in their backs and the backs of their legs for at least a couple of days. Sometimes, for a week. This was a good year for harvest. Tonight’s celebration would be one to remember. He turned side to side, scanning the fields. A hundred other men, of all ages, separated wheat from the land. A hundred women, of all ages, bundled the wheat and tied them together into sheaves, using straw. Harv didn’t pay attention to any of them, except for one. Sonpra sheaved as fast as Harv cut. Her golden hair spilled about her shoulders. Over the summer, the sun had burned her skin red before settling into a light bronze. Like everyone else in town, Harv couldn’t relate. His hair was black, and his skin stayed bronze year-round. They were made for each other. Tonight, he would tell her how he felt. Harv looked around some more. Sonpra’s father cut at a good pace for a man of his years. His hair was also black and his skin bronzed. He was not really Sonpra’s father. No one knew who her parents were, but the man had raised her as if she were from his own seed. It wasn’t the first time Harv had worked alongside the old man. Earlier in the summer, he had helped re-thatch Sonpra’s roof which was also a lot of hard work. He had said he had done it out of the goodness of his heart, but really, he had just wanted to be closer to Sompra. They were meant to be together. Harv looked around some more. Chad was the last person to catch Harv’s eye. Not a fortnight ago, if you asked anyone in Lowville, they’d bet the entire village harvest that Chad and Sonpra would be betrothed in time for a spring wedding. Within the last week, that had all changed. Rumors circled that Sonpra’s parents were not human. Harv didn’t believe that nonsense, but Chad did. It was enough for Chad to sever any involvement with Sonpra as easily as Harv’s sickle severed the wheat from the ground. Harv had been there as a shoulder to cry on. They were meant to be together. Shortly before the sunset, the cutting finished. There was still some sheaving to do, but that work was done by the women and Harv needed to appear as manly as possible tonight at the feast. After one last glance at Sonpra, he headed home for a nap. That night with the harvest behind them, the people of Lowville celebrated. Harv had overslept and by the time he arrived the harvest festival was in full swing. He had to be the last person to arrive. A great fire, fifty paces in diameter and a hundred paces high, lit the otherwise night sky. Accompanied by the music of the lute and drums, the fire danced, and the villagers danced in step. Mugs of fermented drink were passed around. A couple of people offered the drink to Harv, but he declined. He needed a clear head tonight. Although, the drink would help with his courage. Chad was there. It boggled Harv’s mind that Chad believed the nonsense about Sonpra being the spawn of a non-human. Oh well, Chad’s loss and Harv’s gain. Sonpra’s dad was there too, but not for long. Harv waited until the old man left the festival to retire for the evening. A day of work that hard was enough to exhaust a man of his years. For a young man like Harv, it energized him. Then he spotted her. Sonpra wasn’t dancing. She wasn’t drinking either. She didn’t even appear to hear the music. With her ankles crossed and her hands clasped around her knees, she sat and stared into the fire. It mesmerized and terrified her. Harv could tell by the look on her face. Harv sat between the fire and Sonpra, facing her. He crossed his ankles and clasped his hands around his knees, mirroring her position. He studied her blue eyes and curled up lips. She was perfect. They were meant to be together. Harv took a deep breath then let it all out. Everything. He professed his love or her, how he had always loved her, and how he would always love her. Sonpra’s eyes went wide. The silence was too discomforting. Harv filled it with babble. He explained how he had helped her father repair the roof so he could be close to her. How he had been there for her when her relationship with Chad went sour. Sonpra was as still as a statue, her eyes so wide they nearly went out of her head and her mouth was agape. Harv elaborated how he had been hoping that Chad and she wouldn’t last. How he had been elated when they separated. How he had been waiting for his chance to be with her. Sonpra stood then walked away. Harv was stunned. He jumped to his feet and chased after her, all the while professing how good he would treat her, unlike Chad. Sonpra picked up the pace of her walk. She asked him to leave her alone. Harv had to jog to catch up with her. He told her how he knew she would be so happy with him. Sonpra warned him not to touch her then ran from him. Harv broke into a run to catch her. He yelled to her that he deserved to be with her. That he had earned it. He caught up to her and grabbed the back of her shoulder. Harv dropped in pain. A pain so great it knocked him unconscious for a minute. His hand throbbed and his other hand caressed it. It was as frozen as if he touched the skin of Mendax. In the light of the fire, his hand was as white as snow. A stark contrast to the bronzed skin of his other hand. Sonpra was nowhere in sight. Harv wobbled home, ashamed and confused. His hand stopped hurting. It stopped everything. He could feel nothing at all. When he awoke his hand had returned to normal, except his palm and fingertips were black. The black parts of his hand could feel nothing. Harv could use the hand, but never regain feeling in it. He also never went near Sonpra again.