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Allura 61

Chinnappa was considering himself as a lucky fellow. He somehow escaped the gang of hired men meant to join the rally and shout slogans and lend their support to the ongoing farmers’ strike. The strike initially was a big draw and drew attention of all alike. People really sympathised the ‘food-giver’ the other name of farmer. But when political parties interfered them with their vested interests it took a different turn --- an ugly turn. The agitation had neither farmer’s agenda nor political agenda. Certain unethical divisive elements also surged and usurped the platform. The police had a tough time to bring the mob under control. Chinnappa was lucky. He limited his participation to the first day and then he withdrew himself. He had come all the way from his small town in Kadappa to this big city Pune in search of better ventures. He was himself a farmer and when they were on call for a strike, he willingly and wholeheartedly supported them. But instead of joining them in the capacity of a farmer, he joined hands as a political party worker, which later got precipitated. His main issue was still hanging. A job if not a lucrative one, at least to sustain him with dignity was his urgent need. Even though he readily agreed to be a partner with his friend Munisamy in a self-employment plan, he still needed to strengthen himself with some more activities till his partnership venture picked up. He went back to Kittappa, an old friend from his village. The same man who assured him to get some work at his construction site. Kittappa took him to his boss who simply said that job could be offered only on leave vacancies. There was no roster for calling additional hands to fill the gap of absentees. Neither there was any agency to handle such issues. So, the only alternative was, jobless men hang around the mason on a daily basis and look for opportunities. Because Kittappa was aware of such happenings, he assured his friend Chinnappa that he too could be employed. Chinnappa went back to Kittappa to find out if any leave vacancy existed and he could be absorbed. Mason said the day’s work schedule and the required labourers for the work were already chalked out and there was nothing that could be meted out to him. Better luck tomorrow. At the same time, he said, “There is very good chance for next week as year-end festival is fast approaching and a few migrant labourers are sure to go on leave. Christmas is not like Diwali when all of us want to be with our family. But those labourers who are coming here for work from nearby towns and villages will surely go on short trips. Around new-year time we ourselves shut down everything and you will again find yourself left out. So be prepared for that also.” Kittappa then told mason, “This my friend Chinnappa is a very good drummer in our native place. His band ‘Dol-Tasha’ is equally popular during the Ganesha Festival. People come from nearby villages also to watch the drum beating. It is a big draw. We call it ‘mela’. In our good old days, we used to get ‘Laavani dancers’ also. Because of widespread poverty, these cultural activities are dwindling. I wonder if our children will ever get to see such colourful shows“. Mason looked at Chinnappa with an appreciative look. “Oh! very nice. Good. You are multitalented. Let me see if I can get you into Christmas Carols or Christmas parties. But many of them insist that the participants should be Christians only. So, I can’t promise you. But let me try.” Chinnappa instantly refused. “Sir, I cannot pretend to be somebody. Just recently I joined a rally where I was neither farmer nor a political party worker. But I will do that mistake again. When I am not a Christian, I shall not pretend to be one, just for the sake of being a drummer. I shall be what I am. No doubt that I enjoy drum-beating and I will love to perform. Even if I am not being paid, it does not matter. I will perform. Please make it clear to them also.” Mason was again struck with an appreciation. ‘Honesty is good, but not always. Call yourself Chinnappa Jacob and carry on. Who is going to find out?” Chinnappa did not agree. “Whether anybody finds out or not, Ganapathy Bappa knows all. Then how can I play for Him at Ganesh festivals? I will remain what I am. I am very clear about that.” “Then it is doubtful. But let me ask and find out. Here again it is a case of leave vacancy. All parties have their own troupes and normally don’t prefer outsiders. If only if there arises any shortage of artists, you get a chance.” So saying, he called a few people from his contacts. The problem with all performing artists was that when they approached others for chances, they got ignored and often paid lowly. On the contrary, if they were contacted by organizers for delivering a performance, the artists could bargain and hold their prestigious positions with dignity. Chinnappa did not carry any great hopes nor did he dismiss it totally. Mason lost interest when two of his contacts bluntly refused. Dol-Tasha had nothing to do with Christmas Parties. Most of troupes had their own artists. Even if one or two of them happened to be absent, the troupe would carry on with existing available crew members. The third one did not assure but neither did he say no. ‘Ok. Let us see’ type. Mason almost gave up. Then he suddenly remembered his own colony-man who was into innovative initiatives. This worked. “Oh. Yes. Send him. It will be a novel idea to try this method this year. Our colony people are already accustomed to local band bajaa. Last year they enjoyed film music. We played all-time favourite Bollywood film numbers. This year we plan to have an all-night show night-long event. He should come prepared for that. Before engaging him, I have to get his performance approved by our team-leader. If everything goes well, then he can be there with us for the event. Send him right now. All depends on his performance.” Mason smiled. “Chinnappa, you are lucky. Go and see him. Show all your prowess and prove yourself.” Kittappa also congradulated him. Chinnappa was not all that happy. He did not have his drums here in this town. He had come to Pune in search of job, not for playing drums. How could he perform without instrument? All hopes turned into despair. But Kittappa did not let him down. “Let me see if our colony Ganesh Mandal can spare their dol-drums. Since you are a total stranger here, I have my apprehensions. Let us see.” Chinnappa took the address from Mason. Later at the end of the day, Kittappa met his local headman in his colony and asked for help. He was a staunch caste-conscience man. He did not approve someone singing for other communities. Much less to talk of lending instruments to guys not known to him. He was showering advices on how a person needed to be proud of one own caste and community, particularly when people of other castes never encouraged artists from other communities. Kittappa tried another mandal of another locality, where he was residing earlier. Here too, it was same story but not that staunch or strong. He repeatedly requested and finally convinced him, but on one condition that first he should perform for his colony and one more condition was that whatever remuneration received, half of it belonged to the band owner. That was the charges for taking the drums on hire. Now Chinnappa was happy. He got a feeling that he was slowly marching towards success. He strongly upheld the fact if at all he achieved anything, it was all due to the concerted efforts of his friends, partners and well-wishers. He might be poor of money wealth or riches. But not poor on the count of well-wishers. Kittappa, Mason, Munisamy and other partners .... List would be long. He prayed to his favourite God Ganpathy Bappa for showering good-luck and always leading him on right path. He prayed. This time it was not for him or his family alone. His prayers gracefully included all his well-wishers. It will be so hereafter also.

It was Christmas morning, 1992. A gentle snow was falling outside idyllically. Inside, my siblings and I were nearly buried in an avalanche of toys, boxes, and wrapping paper. Like every other eight year old, I hardly slept the night before. I was so excited for Santa to come. I woke up early, around 6:00 am, and commenced to rousing the rest of the family. Gift opening was stretched far past breakfast time. Dopamine filled my body like a soaked sponge as I tore through the paper. As the gift opening slowed, all of those factors caught up to the whole family. Mom got up to make a nice Christmas breakfast for everyone and I was just lost in a sea of Christmas remains. Then my dad opened his mouth and set off that life-changing chain of events. "Let's get all of this cleaned up before breakfast," he said. A totally reasonable request, looking back now. But eight year old me just flipped out. I don't recall the stream of protests exactly, but my already short-tempered father was growing more impatient with each one. I remember how it ended, though. "You are treating me like a piece of crap!" I cried. "That's because you *are* a piece of crap!" Dad yelled. My world stopped. ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ My heart sank. It was hard to breathe. To dad it was just the culmination of being tired, hungry, and frustrated. He didn't mean it. To me it was confirmation. Even at eight years old I knew the feeling of being a disappointment to my parents. I was bullied at school then came home to be picked on some more. In short, young me had suspected for a while that I was a worthless waste of life. Still, hearing those words from dad, confirming my confused young anxieties, was like a punch to the gut. My mind raced, trying to think of ways to get out of this situation and undo everything that had happened in the last few minutes. I felt the pressure on my eyes as tears started forming. My best coping mechanism for bullying was to pretend that it didn't bother me. Just laugh it off; they don't matter in the long run anyway. But what the hell even *is* "the long run" when you are 8? By then most kids have spent half their lives in school. The ones getting bullied have spent half their lives living in fear. This was just my life. I couldn't laugh this off. I couldn't. I tried. My lips quivered and the tears started falling down my face. In a situation like this, it's fight or flight. *Run away!* my mind thought. And run I did. With hardly a thought I found myself in the basement of our house, hiding in a closet. I wanted to get away and go start a new life, but there were only two ways out: through the back door, into the snow wearing just my Christmas pajamas, or back through the house to get dressed for the weather and pack some necessities. I was stuck in that closet. In the dark. Out of sight, running away from my problems just like a real piece of crap. Once I ran out of tears and it was clear that no one was going to come console me, nor was my dad going to apologize and see if I was okay, I determined to just leave. *No one cares about you* I thought. Emerging from the closet and climbing the stairs, I had some doubts. Maybe the cat would miss me. Or maybe my sister would be lonely. Of course they wouldn't. I made life a living hell for everyone around me and deserved to leave and endure whatever fate lie ahead. I looked back, sniffed once more, and opened the back door. The fluffy snow stung my bare feet as it squished between my toes and consumed me up to my ankles. It was a surprising texture, though not interesting enough to overpower the pain. I nearly turned back. But something did hurt worse than being cold: facing my father and living with the fact that he hated me. I trudged on. The sun was starting to peek through the clouds, warming my body enough to stop the shivering. Eventually even my feet were warm, though my toes (and my fingers too) were bright red. I passed so many houses as I wandered aimlessly down the street. Most were decorated with their trees and lights. I could see happy families through some of the windows, enjoying their new toys and undying love for one another. Why couldn't that be me? Why did I have to be out here in the cold without warm clothes, boots, gloves, or anything? Oh yeah, it was my fault. I made dad angry. I ran away. I ran away without getting anything but the pajamas on my body. I turned south, finally deciding where to go live on my own. Clouds began forming again and a breeze picked up. After a couple of miles my feet and hands were freezing again. My toes had gone from bright red to pale pink and my fingers were starting to change color too. Every step stung. The fluffy, squishy snow I started with now felt like meat cleavers with every step. I shivered uncontrollably as I approached my "secret" place. When I reached that big pine tree at the end of a path through the forest, I collapsed. I couldn't cry anymore. I couldn't walk anymore. I wouldn't be a burden anymore. Sirens blared in the distance. "Someone else is having a pretty bad Christmas too," I mumbled. Snow fluttered between the trees. The whining sound of police cars made my head spin. I was warm again. In fact, I was hot. The tips of my fingers and toes were purple now. Was I turning into a monster? My heart raced again. I felt so hot that I tore off my shirt and rolled in the snow. Everything was spinning. Everything was changing colors. My skin was burning. Memories flooded my mind. My pets. My friends. My family. My school. Sirens getting closer. "Your are a piece of crap" were dad's last words to his little boy. Now he wouldn't have to be bothered by me any more.

It was just like any other day; on the day it all went wrong. The bustling life of London city flourished. People, noise, cars. Everywhere. Tourists, all gathered around Big Ben and the London Eye, citizens rushing and pushing, desperately trying to get to work. There were the early risers, dotted on benches, observing the world around them as if they were not just as much a part of it. There were the late partiers, the elderly, the young, the families, the homeless, the businessmen. All of them living in the same place at the same time, and all of them completely unaware of the chaos that would shortly ensue. After the chaos, there would be silence, but not that of the peaceful sort. The silence would be deafening, in the similar sort of way to that of the screams and sounds of collapsing buildings minutes earlier. And then there would be the girl. Whose story will most likely never be told by anyone, except by the person who had betrayed her trust the most; the person who had caused everything to all go wrong ------------------------------------------------------ She sat behind the cold steel bars of the prison cell; eyes fixed blankly on the plain white wall in front of her. Beside her, three figures sat hunched over in the corner of the cell, whispering among themselves. A man stood outside the room, staring at the four. A short woman stood beside him; hair stretched into a tight bun, lips stained red, jewels adorning her ears. She glanced at the man, trying to read him, trying to understand anything about this unknown man who had just appeared, as if from nowhere. She got nothing. He was just as blank as the white walls of the cell in front of them. “I need you to understand sir, we can’t let this matter go unsettled.” “I know.” Nothing. Not a flicker of emotion. Not even for a second. His face revealed nothing about what he was thinking or feeling, almost as if he were feeling nothing at all. As if he were numb. “There will be a severe penalty for them, especially the girl.” “I know.” Face still blank, his expression solely fixed on the figures inside the cell. “ Sir, I’m not sure you are understanding the severity of this situation, they blew up seven buildings and killed forty-two people. They’ll be on trial, due to some conflicting evidence that has been found, but they are inevitably going to be found guilty; sentenced to life in prison. Or worse, if the court allows it ” “I know .” The woman sighed, her exhaustion seeping through. It had been a long day filled with endless paperwork and interviews. The last thing she needed to be dealing with was this mysterious man who was somehow linked to a group of possible terrorists. Or at least, a man important enough to be given high enough security clearance to be able to see them. “I’ll be back in a minute, you may talk to them if you so please, but there will be guards in the room at all times.” The woman mumbled, shaking her head slightly before leaving the room. The man glanced at the three huddled figures and the girl for a moment more before entering the room. The three immediately stopped whispering and snapped their gazes to him, while the girl remained staring blankly ahead. “Aria, what happened?” he questioned. No reply. He sighed. Things had changed a lot since the two had last seen each other, and things hadn’t exactly ended on the most civil of terms. “Sister, please I need you to talk to me so that I can try and help-“ “I need no help from the likes of you, brother.” She sneered. “I remember quite clearly where that got me last time.” Her eyes were filled with so much hatred, it seemed to seep into his soul, causing him to suppress a shudder. “Look, you know I didn’t mean for things to end like that.” “No. You look, I don’t want your help. Not now, not ever. And if that means that I shall die, then so be it. I would rather die than ever see you again. You are no brother to me; you lost that title years ago when you betrayed me. When you betrayed all of us.” “I swear, I didn't mean to. I was just trying to-” “In case it wasn’t clear enough when I said it the first time, I’ll say it again. I. Don’t. Want. Anything. To. Do. With. You.” “Aria,” he pleaded. “Please, don’t do this. I can’t lose my sister too.” “Just leave me alone, you brought this upon yourself.” She turned back to face the wall, her face warped with rage and annoyance. He glanced at the three boys in the corner momentarily, who looked at him with just as much hatred, before sighing in misery and turning to leave the room. The woman had returned and was waiting outside when he exited. “Do you know the girl personally?” She asked, curious as to who this man was, and how he was linked to the girl inside of the cell who had almost single-handedly brought down London. “I saw you were talking to her.” “I knew all of them,” he murmured. “At least, I thought I did. Once. A long time ago.” “Who are they?” His face was grim, a crumpled smile spread across his lips as he answered. “They were the people who were going to change this world. For the better.” He spared one last gaze at the people who were once his everything, before leaving the building. He was officially alone in the world; he had no one left. He had never meant for it to turn out like this, he had never meant to betray them. In his mind, it had been the best plan of action among many that would have led to an inevitable death for all of them. If everything could’ve just gone according to his plan all those years ago, none of this would’ve happened. His parents wouldn’t have died, the group wouldn’t be in prison and he would still have his sister. But no, things all just had to go terribly wrong.

Fated Delivery And in the front door of Efferty Drasso’s house, a letter is being dropped by the postman. Addressed to someone that Efferty doesn’t even know exist, but soon, he is going to find out more than he would bargain for. “Oh man, what a day...how dare he even say those things to me?! All the things I did for the company the whole month went down the river just like that! That asshole!”. These are his thoughts as he steps on his front door. “But the bills and letters keep coming no matter the crappy day you had to endure” he scoffed. And then, he sees it. A red envelope. Being the most different of all the letters, lying in his mat by the door. “What’s this? From Reeven Tally...to Linus Tally..” Efferty matters as he looks the words on the envelope. “Ah the damn mail boy again...mistaking my house like, god, doesn’t he checks anything when he delivers?” Efferty is mattering these words as he enters the house with the red envelope and his other letters at hand. “Well, what to do. Name doesn’t ring any bell...Do I have any neighbor called like that?” he thinks to himself while he stands still and looks the red letter. “Seems like a brother-to-brother letter huh...or perhaps some relatives.” He keeps making these thoughts while he turns around the letter checking it from outside to every corner. Then suddenly, he notices something. “Huh..what’s this?” he wonders. While he was peering at the paper envelope, he notices that some of its red colour starting to dissolve, revealing a symbol that Efferty had never seen before. “Well, let’s search about it!” he shouts while he takes a picture of the circle-like fluted symbol. *** After some research on his computer, Efferty comes across three words and a symbol that looks exactly like the one on the letter: ‘The Copper Scroll’ . “The Copper Scroll? What is that thing?” he mutters with a big, disappointed face. At that moment, his phone rings. The name Tony appears on the screen-Efferty’s best friend. “Yo dude, how you been?” are the words coming from the phone’s answered call. “Bro, they fired me! Said I didn’t do my job right. Can you believe this shit?” Efferty says to Tony while rubbing his forehead. “Yeah dude, I can. Cause you were going wasted half of the days in the one month they hired you! To me, I wonder how you even lasted for a whole month!” Tony replies to him as his starts making fun of the sad-faced Efferty. “Well, whatever, it’s their loss you know! Anyway, come over, will you? We gotta finish building my paladins’s gear!” (He is talking about the game he and Tony play at their free time). “Ok bro, coming right up” says an excited Tony. *** One hour later, the doorbell has rung, both kids have started playing their favourite game, talking excited over high-volumed metal music. Tony stands up and goes to grab a beer. “By the way, you got any bucks to lend to me? Electricity bill came and it’s like 350 bucks! Crazy shit, I am not even at home!” Efferty screams to Tony while playing his game. “How you managed that again?! You will put us in jail at the end, man! Where is the shit, gotta check what they charge you for” Tony says while holding and drinking his cold beer. He spots the letters and heads towards them. The red envelope is covering most of the other letters and it picks Tony’s curiosity. “Yo, who is Reeven Tally? Who is Linus Tally?” he asked Efferty after checking the addresses. “No clue man, mailman confused the houses apparently. Leave that shit, come help me to pick the best tunic here! I need a boost on defence, but I crave for some attack also you know---“are the words that Efferty keeps muttering while pressing his keyboard keys endlessly. “Why haven’t you check it out? Let’s see what it says!” Tony announced all excited as he tries to find a knife to open the letter without damaging it. “Tony, no! Leave it as it is. It is not ours!” Efferty screams to Tony when he notices what his friend is trying to do. “Like come on, aren’t you even a little curious?” excited Tony asks as he is about to open the letter using a kitchen knife. Efferty runs towards him, grab the knife and tries to take the letter from Tony’s hands “No, leave it be! Who cares, it’s not for me” he replies angrily to Tony. “Well, but it did come on your door. You have every right to open it!” Tony announces while making it clear that he doesn’t intend to let it go. “Would you like it if strangers just poked on a personal letter you wrote to someone?” asks Efferty . “Well...no” says Tony. “But we are the strangers here, so I don’t care whose secrets I find”. The two boys start fighting over the letter and they end up ripping it a little on its right corner. “Nice going, douchebag!” Efferty screams angrily to Tony. “You destroyed it!”. “What’s the big deal either way? It’s probably gonna be one of those lovey-dovey letters brothers send to each other over wishes or just to catch up with their lives. Just open it and we’ll just say it came to us like that!” Tony says with a smirk. “You-you..! Fuck...” Efferty starts opening the letter, unfolding it slowly so that he will not damage it anymore. He then starts reading out loudly: October 2, 2022 “Linus... I FINALLY did it! I found it, brother! The Copper Scroll is almost in my grasp! At last! We talked about it for so many years! And dad, he... he wouldn’t stop talking about the treasure. And I did it! God, I would LOVE to see his face! His assumptions and research were correct all along! I finished the map, Linus! All that’s left is to go there and claim the scroll. And then the treasure is going to be ours! We are talking about so much money...millions perhaps!”. At this point, Efferty lift his face up, started shaking and looked at Tony completely frozen. “What did you just....?” asked Tony. “Let me see!” said Tony, while approached the frozen Efferty. “Dude, what’s going on? Did we just...read a letter talking about treasure?!” Tony started to scream happily and jump around all over the kitchen. “Wai-wait! Tony, this can just be...a scam. Hold on, there is more written here...” Efferty replied. He then continued reading out loud while Tony stepped by his side trying to also look at the words written: “...But I’m gonna need your help. You must follow my instructions and go get the map. I don’t want to frighten you, but we always knew that we were not the only ones searching for it. In my despair, I need to inform you that some of them learned about the research and found me. But not to worry, I am alive and have escaped them” . At that line, both young men looked each other with a face filled in terror. Efferty gulps and continues reading: “But the map...and the research...you must not let them obtain anything! Follow my guidelines so we can get the scroll. WE DESERVE IT, LINUS! US! We waited so many years! I am leaving you with some clues because I don’t know who to trust anymore. Baias has betrayed me, and I don’t even know if this letter reaches you. Just to be sure, everything I include in this letter can only be interpreted via specific paths and methods that only us, (hopefully), know about. I am counting on you, little brother. Remember this, trust NO-ONE even if they tell you they know me or being my friends, and don’t go to the police. I can understand that you may not want to be involved, but only you can do it now, Linus. Don’t let our dream end out of fear. We deserve it. For father. With all my love, Reeven” There is a small moment of silence. Tony and Efferty stare into the space of the room and manage to breath slowly. After a while, both start to speak simultaneously: “The fuck bro?!” is the first common thing the two boys shout out loud. “Dude, did we just...” Tony tried to find which words to say to complete his sentences and Efferty, puzzled, continues the talk: “This...was written about a week ago...but... what the heck?” Efferty cannot seem to find the words that he wishes to say. Then, he adds: “Should we just...go to the police...? Or just...ignore it?” he muttered at the end. “Are you crazy?!” Tony screams both in an angry manner but also with a shadowed excitement under it. “Type this ‘Copper Scroll’ to see what this is about!” Tony suggests as they run towards the computer, instantly shutting down the game and typing the words in the search bar. Then, after few clicks, they start reading: “The oldest treasure map in history, the Copper Scroll...found among the Dead Sea Scrolls, containing detailed instructions on how to find buried treasure”. Efferty and Tony paused at that moment. Staring first at the screen and the words they had in front of them, and then staring each other. “Dude, this is...is that even real information? Can we trust this?” Efferty says and keeps staring at Tony. “Let’s go. Come on!” Tony suddenly stands up from the chair with determination. “Huh? Where to?” “Let’s go to the public library! They have got to have something for this on some book or something!” says Tony as he makes a fist out of his hand, determined to exit the house. Efferty grins. “The fuck Tony? You are gonna believe this shit?” he looks at Tony with a disappointed face for believing so easily a scrap of paper. “Aren’t you even a little curious? What if this shit is real?! What if it exists and it is INDEED a map that can lead to a treasure?!” Tony starts talking like an obsessed researcher who just found out that his theory could be valid. “Are you serious right now, Tony?” Efferty starts laughing at his gullible friend. Then, when seeing Tony serious, he continues: “Are you for real? Are you believing all of this?” Efferty tries to reason with Tony who keeps insisting on his thoughts. “Why not? So many things haven’t been discovered you know! People... archaeologists... historians...many have been searching for clues about so many things that haven’t been unravel yet! Every day, something, somewhere in the world, is being discovered! What if this Copper Scroll could also”--Tony gets rudely interrupted by his friend. “Tony, please. Get serious! Let’s just forget this shit and go back into building my paladin, ok?” Efferty turns his back on Tony, approaching his computer and starting up his game again. He looks at Tony, who gets a hold of the letter and checking the other pages. “Tony, for god’s sake!” then he stops, seeing as Tony doesn’t pay any attention to him. “Okay, whatever. Finish with your daydreaming and come play with me, alright?” he says as he starts playing his game. Tony puts the papers in his pockets, grabs his stuff and exits the house. “Tony, what the hell!” Efferty shouts and thinks if he should follow his friend or just leave him be. “Fuck!” he shouts and grabs his keys and exits his house. He spots Tony who walks rapidly and starts running in order to catch up to him. ***(Eventually, Efferty catches up to Tony) “Tony! Ok pal, look. Let’s just go to the library so you can get it out of your system. And then we go back to our game and forget this ever happen, ok?” Tony doesn’t give him any response and keeps checking some papers that the envelope contained. “So, um... what are you checking?” Efferty tries to have a conversation with his friend while they are headed towards the public library. “This was included with the letter. I wanna check what it shows. Looks like some weird language or something. And a code too, there, see?” Tony replies as he continues to check the papers without even looking at his friend. The two boys eventually reach the library and after asking for the librarian’s help, they are sitting on a table, checking the pages of an old, blue, ripped book. Then, Tony talks first. “There, see! It has the same symbol. It is the Copper Scroll’s symbol. Or something like it” he says while comparing the symbol written in the letter with the one in the book. “Unbelievable, right?! Oh man, it feels like a movie! A treasure hunt! And we will be on it!” Tony cannot control his excitement and the people around them look towards them angrily at annoyed for being noisy. “Tony, look... ok. We came here to satisfy your curiosity. But this is going to stop now, ok? There is no treasure hunt. There is no relic and no map to guide you there. Perhaps it’s a prank or somebody’s fantasy, but we don’t have to be idiots like them, ok? Let’s just drop it, come on!” Efferty starts feeling worn out for having a discussion of something that sounds like a pipe dream for kids. “Why are you so negative about it, Effer? You waste your energy and time playing a fantasy game. And now, we may came across something that could be 100% true and could make us filthy rich and you cannot give it a damn chance?!” Tony replies to him angrily. “Are you hearing yourself, Tony? That is A GAME. We know it’s not real, but it gives us fun times. Someone writes a bunch of crap on a piece of paper, and you suddenly feel like Indiana Jones? That you are going to unravel a mystery and find a lost relic?! This is more imaginary than any fantasy game we play, you know!” The tension begins to rise between the two boys. Eventually, the librarian steps in and stops them. “It’s nice that you boys are lively and enthusiastic, but here is a library! You must be dead silent. And, please, leave. We are closing in five minutes”. “Fine” both boys muttered. ***(Towards the alley and Efferty’s house) “You feel alright there Tony?” Efferty asks with a concern for his friend, thinking they haven’t exchanged any words since the dispute at the library. “I just don’t get why you are so negative. I didn’t say we abandoned our homes right now and start searching for it. I just wanna talk about the POSSIBILITY of it being true” replies a lost in deep thoughts, Tony. As the boys take the turn that leads to Efferty’s house, they suddenly hear a gunshot. “WHAT THE FUCK?!” both boys instantly freeze. “Effer...it..it sounded like coming from close to your house...right?!”. “To-Tony...that way...” Efferty manages to get a hold of himself and the two boys turn around, trying to find another way to approach the house so they will not be spotted. From some distance, as they hide behind some huge barrels, they managed to see that the door of Efferty’s house has been breached and they hear several voices coming over from inside the house. Between the sounds of things falling apart, yelling and fighting, they manage to hear these words: “WHERE THE HELL IS THE LETTER, BAIAS? YOU SAID LINUS WOULD RECEIVE IT TODAY”. Cold sweat is running down the boys’ faces. They try not to make any sound. “Lower the gun, I told you already! I followed the guy but lost him. I know he didn’t deliver it to the designated point. I don’t know who informed him, but I’m sure he didn’t deliver it to Linus directly. Someone else must have gotten the envelope. Either by accident or on purpose” said the person who seemed to be the so-called ‘Baias’. “You better be right about it because I don’t see what else you can offer me, Baias”. “Let’s search the whole neighbourhood around” ‘Baias’ replied. “If what you say it’s true, the delivery point was changed, and somebody got the letter incognito”. “Yes” ‘Baias’ replied. “Okay men, listen up! We have some ‘cleaning’ to do. Find the receiver and make sure he ends up buried” said the voice that seemed to command everyone. That was what, Tony and Efferty, two simple young men, heard that evening. And their lives would soon change from simple to complicated.

Hawking couldn't remember how many funerals he had attended. Due to the bio-synthetic technology powering his failing body he was now the oldest living person, despite the incurable disease that he suffered from since the 1900s. He remembered Roger Penrose funeral best, despite it being so long ago. Roger and himself had worked together on many problems in physics, but there was one issue on which they never had agreed. It was about the interpretation of quantum mechanics. Hawking smiled at the thought that Roger probably wouldn't have liked the new variant of the many-world interpretation that he was now working on. "Or, perhaps he likes it now", Hawking thought, "when it gives him eternal life". . . . . Penrose couldn't remember how many funerals he had attended. The most notable of them all was of course that of Stephen Hawkings, his dear friend and colleague, who had fought his disease for so many years. Roger had managed to stay healthy, but to his great grief he had seen his children grow old and die. Penrose had started to suspect that his friend had been right regarding the interpretation of quantum mechanics. The inner workings of physics stated that particles were in many alternative locations simultaneously, unless you tried to find out where they really were. Some physicists, among them his friend Stephen, had claimed that all alternatives really existed, and gave rise to parallel worlds. Penrose had long had a different view: "If there are multiple worlds then there should be multiple copies of Roger. In which of them, then, is my true self?" . . . . Albert couldn't remember how many funerals he had attended...

I’m surrounded by his things. That’s what he’s left behind, things. Well, things and me, I suppose. There weren’t a lot of people at the service. Some neighbors, a couple of old friends, a smattering of relatives. Small but respectable. At least that’s what I told myself when the last of the guests arrived. It wasn’t at all like when Mom died, when the church was packed, standing room only. She had the advantage of dying young, young enough that the sheer tragedy of it compelled people, her people, to converge in their grief. I guess the funerals are always bigger for those who die young, their friends and family not yet aged and dispersed, not yet accustomed to the natural cadence of life. It’s a strange silver lining. Mom’s funeral was big, though, even by those standards. She collected people, always had. She had a knack for making everyone feel special, because that’s how she saw them. Dad didn’t collect people. He collected things. A lot of things. Photos are among them, particularly photos of my parents together. They hang everywhere in my childhood home, they rest on every shelf and every end table. If there is anything discernible from the decades strewn across the walls, it’s that they loved each other. I suppose they did, even though it didn’t always feel that way in the moments between the clicks of the camera. Those images aren’t on the wall. I walk into his office, the chaotic nexus of his collections, the spring from which the stuff seemingly bubbles up and spews into the rest of the house. Even Mom couldn’t control this space, fighting as best she could to prevent the peculiar assortment of items that lay within from bursting beyond the room’s narrow confines. This space is all him, uniquely him. His spirit, his very essence, feels present in this crowded room, far more than it did in that musty funeral home. I look around, It seems to me that everything anyone has ever thought to collect is here, and likely things people never thought to collect at all. There’s the usual stuff: stamps, coins, books, figurines, trading cards, toys... And there are things more unusual: garden gnomes, decorative soaps, hotel match boxes... I open a drawer, only to find it full of zesters. There’s dust everywhere. The air is thick with it, my nostrils itch with each inhale; it swirls in dancing torrents, glowing in the shafts of evening light slanting in through the windows; it blankets everything, coating the myriad of strange surfaces my dad left behind. I feel suffocated as I slam the zester drawer shut in frustration. Overwhelmed, I wander over to the printer where I see some pieces of paper still resting in the tray, I pick them up. A receipt for a button, a $75 button to be precise. It supposedly came from the uniform of a British soldier in the Revolutionary War. The other pages are directions to some antique store in Maine, a four hour drive, five with traffic , reads my dad’s tidy handwriting in a characteristic critique of Google Maps’ assessment. I roll my eyes in irritation, I can’t help it. It was so like him to buy a $75 button and then drive eight hours round trip for it, ten with traffic. By some miracle I find the button collection, sandwiched between a crammed bookcase and a shelf full of glittering geodes. It is surprisingly complete and well organized, the buttons resting neatly on a bed of felt, a small card beneath each denotes the war from which it came. A quick scan suggests It spans the whole of American conflict, no small history. The Revolutionary War, the Civil War, WWII, Korea, Vietnam... Even wars I have never heard of, or have long since forgotten, are represented by a meticulously assembled collection of buttons. I notice one is missing, presumably the one pictured on the receipt still clutched tightly in my hand. I can’t be in the office anymore, it feels too strongly of him, the dust is making me dizzy. I try halfheartedly to sort through other rooms in the house, but as my hands busy themselves packing dinner plates and folding spare linens, my mind is stuck in his office, stuck on those buttons. The day has been punishingly long, I feel the exhaustion in my bones. I let it guide me to my childhood room, still unable to bring myself to sleep in my parents’. I lay down on the rickety twin bed, the old spring mattress digging into my back, though I barely notice. I close my eyes and let the weariness drag me into a dark, dreamless sleep. I wake at some point well past mid-morning. My back is stiff. I wander down the hall, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I trip over a forgotten cardboard box I’d haphazardly packed the night before. I swear under my breath as I return to Dad’s office. It’s just as I left it, just as he left it, both of us apparently unable to sort through the mess. I’m staring, again, at the buttons, at the gap left by the one that’s missing. I’d tried to forget it, knowing it was better to let it go, to pack up as much as I could, as soon as I could, to return to my own house, my own life, my own things. But I couldn’t, I can’t. When I close my eyes I see him diligently placing each button in its place, imagining that smile that always snaked across his face when he procured some new worthless treasure. I sigh in resignation to what I’ve known was inevitable since I found those cursed buttons. I grab the directions, I grab his keys, I grab him, or his ashes anyway, and head for the door. The car still smells like Dad, like aftershave and spearmint gum. What a strange thing to linger, to remember, the smell of a person, just invisible particles floating in the air. I pull out of the driveway and head north. I have my GPS running and can’t help but think of the exacerbated comments he would've made at each robotic direction. Oh don’t take that exit, there’s construction... traffic will be hell on the freeway at this hour. I brought the directions he printed out though, just in case. They’re sitting on the passenger seat, below the urn. It’s summer and I have the windows down, the wind is whipping through my hair, the hair Dad always told me was too long, listening to music he would’ve hated. The scourge of the modern musician is the small revenge I exact for subjecting me to this long journey, all in pursuit of an overpriced button. We used to do drives like this all the time before Mom died, when I was young, crammed into the backseat next to camping gear or coolers or suitcases. I felt so safe then, watching the trees blur together as we sped toward some fresh adventure, my parents singing the melody to a song I wouldn’t remember, something from their time together before me. Those stopped when she died. Sometimes I wonder if she was the glue that held us together. Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if he’d died first, not that I ever wished it, just wondered. He retreated into his collections, I ran from her ghost, full speed into adulthood, into my new life. He never said if he felt abandoned, he would've never said something like that, but sometimes I wonder... I pull off at a familiar exit, one I haven’t thought about for years, but recognized the second I saw it. I’m awash in memories of summers long passed as I pull off the main road and head down the winding gravel toward the woods. I turn off the music to listen to the trees which are rushing with excitement as I roll past. Perhaps they remember me too. The lake is just the way I’ve held it in my mind all these years, still and dark, more green than blue, reflecting the thick canopy that surrounds it. The air is buzzing with the cries of a million insects. I grab Dad and sit with him at a picnic table overlooking the place he’d taken me a hundred times. We sit quietly together, enjoying the peace of it all, ruminating on the lazy days that passed here. They blur together in my memory, like the trees rushing past the window on those drives from before. I’m suddenly struck with the thought to scatter him here, but something doesn’t feel right. We have hours left to drive, and I can’t bring myself to let him off the hook so easily. We get back in the car. We’re making good time. That’s the sort of thing he would always say, as if time is a thing one can make. Looks like we’ll get there in closer to four hours than five, then again, we didn’t take the freeway. Even still, the drive is starting to feel long, my back aches and my stomach rumbles. I pull off at a drive through and eat something greasy and deeply satisfying. I’m watching a young family struggle with a car seat across the parking lot, a little girl watches as her parent’s gesture dramatically at each other in apparent frustration. Dad used to blow up over things like that. He’d boil over in a second, without warning, at the little everyday inconveniences that build one on top of another. I’d make myself small during those moments, trying not to inadvertently add to the pile. His outbursts would usually pass with a creative string of expletives and a sullen resignation to the way of things. I pull up to the store at the edge of a sleepy coastal town. My GPS announces my arrival approvingly. Dad is silent. No one greets me when I walk in the store, just the faint ding of a bell which fades quickly away as if embarrassed to disturb the quiet of the place. For a moment, I’m transported back to Dad’s office as I wander through the store which is bursting with an endless selection of the most curious objects. The place is silent, reverent almost, as I walk through the labyrinthine paths left between seemingly random piles of stuff. A ponderous little man greets me when I find my way to a desk. He barely looks up from the tome over which he’s hunched. I manage to catch his gaze, however, when I mention the button. He surveys me strangely as I pass the receipt across the counter. “I don’t know about this,” he says with suspicion as I explain my strange quest, as if anyone would go through the trouble to invent a dead father and forge a receipt to pick up a $75 dollar button from a junk pile at the edge of the world. Then again, what do I know of antique dealing? Perhaps this man’s days are filled with sufficiently duplicitous intrigue to warrant such skepticism. “Well feel free to talk to Dad about it if it makes you feel any better,” I say, plopping the urn down on the counter between us. The man blinks at me through his glasses and then looks at the urn before him. “Very well,” he responds, apparently convinced, at last, of my legitimacy. “Wait here.” I do as I’m told. I’m not sure what compelled me to bring Dad’s ashes into this place. It just seemed like he would’ve wanted to come in. I’m glad he didn’t live to see it though. He would have taken the whole of the inventory if he could, willing it to fit in his small office back home. The man comes back with the button and hands it over after just a moment more of hesitation. “Enjoy,” he says, “it’s a good little piece of history, that.” I nod my thanks, stuffing the button into my pocket. That’s the type of thing Dad would’ve said, as if the history of an object lives forever within it. Maybe it does. I’m back in the car, driving south along the coast. I let my thoughts wander as the road winds along the jagged contours carved by the sea. I pull off at a scenic overlook and clamber down a short trail, suddenly compelled to stop and quietly watch time slip away someplace beautiful. I sit on a bench, watching the cliffs before me plunge into the sea, the waves crashing riotously against the steep unyielding stone. It does yield eventually, I suppose, over the course of centuries, millennia. That’s the type of history you can't find in a store. The sun is sinking lower and lower to my back, the sky above is painted orange and pink as an advancing darkness creeps over the horizon. It’s beautiful, the cliffs and sea so ancient and powerful, the sunset just a fleeting moment of gold. Suddenly compelled by something beyond myself, I pick up the urn and scatter the contents, this place and time as good as any. The sun is gone, the gold has surrendered to inky black, the cliffs and sea endure. I get back in the car and head for home. The office is, of course, unchanged as I open the door and step in. It is still bursting with stuff and yet feels emptier than before, like Dad’s spirit has at last departed from it. Maybe I’m imagining things, tired from the drive. I take the button out of my pocket and run my thumb over its tarnished surface. I fasten it securely in its place amongst its peers. I feel the smile as it snakes inadvertently across my face. So this is what he felt then, when he procured some new piece of worthless treasure. I guess I see the appeal. I sort and pack the house in the days that follow, a hard and mournful task, though therapeutic in its way. I discover some strange new piece of him with every object I uncover. I found a small historical society to take the button collection, it’s hanging up in a place of prominence beneath a small plaque that reads, “donated by a generous collector.” It was harder than I expected to hand them over, but they should be somewhere with people who appreciate their legacy, who appreciate his legacy of bringing them all together, mine too now, I guess. I’m holding one of Dad’s old sweaters, the blue one Mom bought him so many Christmases ago. He wore it all the time, the fabric is worn and stained. I take a pair of scissors and cut off a button, a fragment of his life to carry with me as I return to mine. A good little piece of history, I think to myself as I slip it into my pocket, at least it is to me.

“Please welcome our sixth performer, Eric!” The show was on. There was applause. Anderson, the MC, stepped offstage. Eric stepped up to the microphone. He wasn’t holding a guitar or sitting at the piano, and the folks in the audience seemed a tad confused. “I haven’t told you what I’m going to do yet,” Eric said into the mic, marveling at the amplification of his voice. The audience was silent. They’d quietly chattered through the other performances-- lousy emo folk singers and one choir girl who'd sat at the piano and banged out an obscure Ruth B cover. Now they’d gone quiet to the point of discomfort. It was like they were actually expecting something. “Calm down,” said Eric. “Everyone just calm down.” A few dry laughs came from the back. Air forced out of throats in polite puffs. *Heh heh heh* The coffee shop was called Bomber’s, a strip mall joint, about 400 square feet of drywall and scuffed floor tile. The open mic was held on Tuesdays at 8. People signed up on a little list snapped to Anderson’s clipboard. Up to ten performers were allowed, each doing three songs or about five to eight minutes of material. Mike, the owner, served coffee and other beverages from behind the counter. There were tables and chairs set haphazardly about the place. Seated were older folks and younger folks, college kids and high school students, grampas and aunts. Eric cleared his throat. “Everybody just calm down,” he said again. This time he got only one dry laugh. It was time to start his act. He took a deep breath. “I think it’s weird when you’re doing stand up at an open mic,” Eric said. “No one seems to understand you.” Complete silence engulfed the space like a giant inflatable pillow. Everyone stared. A few people smiled without knowing why. Suddenly anxious, Eric clutched the mic with both hands. “I met a guy on a plane the other day,” he said. “Good thing he didn’t know about my schizophrenia.” A few people chortled at that, but Eric had a feeling it was for the wrong reasons. “I like to talk to pants,” he said, shifting gears into another joke, perhaps too quickly. “All they want to talk about is their waist size, though.” This got no reaction at all. “Hello, my good man,” Eric said, turning to address an invisible companion. He rolled his eyes and sighed loudly, acting out the invisible companion’s reaction. “Size 30... 28 length...” The PA gave a quick whistle of feedback that shot over everyone’s heads like a runaway bird. All of Bomber’s was either looking at Eric with abject pity or looking at their phones or looking out the window or the wall or the floor. A few were trying to stifle laughter. Eric thought of the giant mural behind him on the wall -- a war plane dropping bombs on unseen targets. *Subtle.* His father was the reason he'd tried out this cockamamie idea. Earlier that day, Eric had offhandedly mentioned an interest in trying stand up comedy. His father had suggested the open mic night. “That’s how they start,” he’d said. “Who?” “The pros. Bill Burr. Patrice O'Neal. Dave Chappelle. They started at open mic nights.” “But I’ve never done it. What if I suck?” “You never know until you try,” his father had said, attention focused on his business laptop. The stage was raised a few inches, a dusty old rug thrown on it. Eric stared at the rug as he told his jokes. “Everyone just calm down,” he said again. No response. Sweat erupted from his forehead pores, beading his brow. “How’s everyone doing tonight?” There was a soft reply, people murmuring things like, “Fine,” and “All right,” and “Okay.” It was like talking to a dentist’s waiting room. “Everyone say HEY!” Eric barked, noting several patrons gave startled jerks at his sudden change in volume. “Hey,” said about twenty percent of the audience. “More people than that say, ‘HEY.’” “Hey,” said about thirty-five percent. Eric cleared his throat. “That’s what a horse eats,” he said. “That and oats.” Nothing. Eric exhaled loudly into the mic, trying to fill time. He decided he liked how his exhalations sounded through the PA, how they gave him a second to clear his head. He did it again. And again. And again. The PA started squealing feedback. Eric huffed lungful after lungful of air directly into the mic. Anderson dashed over to the PA board and started turning knobs. Eric looked up through the sweat in his eyebrows and cleared his throat again. He wasn’t sure about this next joke. “I... love you people,” he said. “You’re such a nice room.” One person in the back gave a little, “Whoo!” “Will you... fuck me tonight?” This brought a burst of startled guffaws and snorts of laughter. “I’m serious,” said Eric. He looked at the floor. “I want you to... fuck me.” More guffaws and snorts, barely suppressed. Eric squeezed his eyes shut. When he’d practiced it in his room earlier, he’d imagined everyone falling over themselves laughing and getting out their phones to film him so he could go viral. It was too late now. He had to finish it. “...I’d fuck me.” Almost everyone was laughing now, but not how Eric wanted. They laughed in short, fat little bursts quickly cut off or coughed into palms. Snorts and glottal expulsions. Incredulous glances covertly exchanged. *Can you believe this shit?* Most of the older woman were looking at Eric like they would a three-legged kitten. Eric felt a hand on his shoulder. Anderson leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Eric, this is a Christian establishment," he said, the mic picking everything up. "You know that.” “I’m sorry,” said Eric. “I didn’t mean to offend Jesus.” “You’re at six minutes,” said Anderson, patting Eric on the shoulder. “You're doing great." “Praise God,” said Eric. He cleared his throat for what felt like the twentieth time. “Let me tell you about the car accident I caused the other day. I walked out in the freeway cause I thought I saw a dime. Then there was a pile up.” No response. Eric could hear all the freezers and fridges humming on the back wall. Mike watched from behind the counter, brow knitted in either intense concentration or severe concern. “I’m glad you didn’t laugh,” Eric told the room. “Twenty-eight people died in that joke.” No laughs. No reaction. The room seemed to be getting even quieter, somehow. Eric paused. He exhaled into the mic one more time. “K, that’s it,” he said. “Number six, number six...” His stiff fingers released the mic as Eric scurried out of the spotlight back to his table. He sat his fat ass down in his seat and slouched. The embarrassment was so total it felt as if Eric wasn’t even physically present. He couldn’t even leave yet because getting to the front door would require walking in front of everyone, something Eric did not want to do. He’d have to wait until the next person was on and everyone’s attention was focused away. *You never know until you try,* Eric thought of his Dad saying. *Well, I know now.* Bomber’s Cafe remained completely silent as Anderson took the stage to introduce the next performer. “Give it up for Eric,” he said, clapping. “That was really fun, although the language was a bit much.” There was a scatter of applause. Eric sipped his can of root beer. No one looked at him and he was thankful for that.

Hi! Here's a short little thing I wrote a moment ago. Please take in mind I am a complete ametur and have little writing experience given my young age of only fourteen. I hope this does not sway your opinion of my writing, and I sincerely hope you enjoy. Also, please tell me what you think in the comments. I would throughly enjoy reading them and taking your critique. Constructive criticism only please. Ego is a rather fragile thing and I would prefer to keep mine in tact for the time being. With that being said, enjoy my story. She knew from the moment she had turned the doorknob something was wrong. There was a feeling--a sudden dread if you will--that enveloped her. As she walked through the threshold, she found her passage difficult. She felt as if she were passing through a viscous wall of heed. Like her body, her soul, her mind--was preventing her from entering the room. It's funny, actually, how our minds will do such things to us. The situation is not dissimilar to that of a mother pressing her child against her hip when she feels uneasy, as if someone--or something-- would harm the child, a child she had conceived a child she had given up her freedom to, as if she had signed an allegorical contract upon giving birth. Locked in for life, as one would say, to take care of this thing that is now hers. This thing that is now a part of her, soon to grow into a shadow of herself. The human mind can make us feel the same sensation as the child. Something's wrong because my Mother is protecting me. Something is wrong because she believes there is. I must stay away from what she deemes to be unsafe. But, similarly to a child--something she once was--she rebelled against the feeling her mind had eluded her to feel. She couldn't help herself from rebelling. To see why this is something to be protected from. Anyone could assume she wished she had listened to herself. As she entered the room, the smell of death was prominent. She had not noticed it before, although it was clearly strong enough to be smelled from far away. I wonder, she thought, why I couldn't smell this before. She fought with her own sense of smell until she finally convinced herself that it wasn't as bad as she had made it out to be. Of course, it was worse. But she had convinced herself enough to hardly smell it anymore. Her eyes were in the spotlight now, her nose seemingly dulled to leave room for her eyes to be the key sense. Because what she saw could not be unseen. A cliché, of course, but it was true. The sight she had witnessed at that moment would scar her. It would make her wish she was in the place of what she was seeing. Not mangled and brutally beaten, blood obscuring any features, any human identification vaguely recognizable--if not completely erased. No. She wished she had been released like the person in front of her. She wished she didn't have to see the unsightly scene. She wished she was dead.

The ship went down on the 30th of July, 1945. Most of the men weren’t fully awake, but I was already aboard a lifeboat. The captain should go down with his ship, but these were strange circumstances. I knew what was in the water, and I knew there weren’t enough lifeboats for everyone. There weren’t enough life jackets either. “Captain?” an officer said, their identity was hidden in the dark, and their voice was overwhelmed by the screaming. The sky was as black as the inside of a squid's belly. “Down,” I said. We dropped to the sea, cutting a wave in half. It drenched us to the bone. Sharp intakes of breath from everyone aboard, but we held back cries of shock. The tang of salt water was on my lips, and was all I could smell. “Stroke,” called Dobson. My officer had passed out oars to six men sitting along the lifeboat’s perimeter. “We’ve got to clear the undertow.” The Indianapolis was three quarters underwater. How long since she was ripped apart? Ten minutes? The beast struck portside, bit right through the hull, then starboard. It gutted the Indianapolis, spilling her innards into the sea. An officer rowing beside me was shivering violently. I politely but firmly took command of his oar. It was slick with ocean spray, and the cold bit my hands. I grit my teeth and rowed. My oar hit something hard on the surface of the water, and I hollered; not quite a yelp, but a sound no man should hear from his captain. The company looked, then turned quickly away, as if cowardice was catching. *They don’t know*, I realized. *They have no idea what’s below us. They think it was two torpedoes, or they don’t know what to think.* I glanced into the black water. My oar had brushed against a scrap of the ship’s hull. Seeing the viciousness with which the metal had been ripped apart did not assuage my fears. *Some monster’s teeth did that*. Meanwhile, the men who hadn’t found lifeboats were hurling themselves from the Indianapolis. Most wore lifejackets but I saw plenty without. All screaming. One overfilled lifeboat had tarried on deck too long before dropping. It disappeared into a sucking whirlpool when it couldn’t escape the undertow and reemerged shortly, upside down. Some of the men who had been tossed overboard appeared on the sides, shouting, but some remained underwater. “What happened?” one officer asked in a half-whisper to another. “Japs, I reckon,” came the reply. This second man spit into the water. Official blame would be laid on a Japanese crew if word of the Indianapolis ever reached shore, and they might even take credit, but our enemy wasn’t responsible for the wreck. We had been capsized by something larger and hungrier than an axis submarine. I wouldn’t tell the lifeboat what I had seen unless I had to. My breath came in rasps from the effort of rowing. I began to cough. One of the officers took the oar from me. “Thank you, sir,” I said. The man was soaking wet, glimmering in the pale moonlight. He did not spare me a word or glance. I could understand his actions well enough. I would be court martialed for negligence if we ever got back to America. This worry was distant in my mind. Our mission was top-secret; therefore, it was unlikely anyone would come looking for the crew of the U.S.S. Indianapolis before we were dead. *We delivered the parts. The monster was too late.* The ship disappeared into the depths. I judged thirteen minutes had passed since the first strike. The beast had sunk the ship, and our meat served for the spoils of victory. I saw we were a safe distance from the undertow. “At ease men. Save your strength.” We were also far from the hordes of swimmers, and needn’t fear them clamouring aboard and capsizing the lifeboat. “What say you officer?” I asked Dobson. “I was looking over the deck when we were struck but I did not see what hit us. The Japs?” Dobson started to shake his head, then caught my eye. “Aye captain. Without a doubt, the goddamned Japs if you’ll pardon my language.” *There’s another who saw*. “Nothing else it could be?” I asked, measuring the officers. Most were still determinedly looking away from me and in flash of rage I found myself hoping they saw the creature in the waters they were so fixed upon, but the feeling passed. “Nothing else,” Dobson echoed quietly. He had to repeat himself to be heard over the screaming. Such noises should have stopped, the men who were going to make it off of the Indianapolis were swimming or aboard a lifeboat by now. A pair of men exchanged wary glances, but held their silence. A man’s memory is not so concrete a thing as we like to think, and affirmation from both myself and Dobson would convince these two--who had seen something perhaps, but could not say exactly what--that they had spied a submarine after all. “Holy mother of god!” shouted Peters, a Private, aged twenty. Peters pointed towards the wreckage. Ten-foot-high waves tossed the moonlight back and forth, making men and debris difficult to distinguish, but I spotted him. Fifty feet from our lifeboat, a huddle of men in lifejackets had broken, propelled by terror, away from one of their number. The fellow left behind was bobbing comically, buoyed by his orange life vest. It appeared he was in shallow water, not the Philippine sea, bouncing his toes off of the bottom. A wave caught the strange man and flipped him over, exposing his fate. Everything below his navel was gone, torn off by a beast in the water, and he continued bobbing upside down. Thankfully, we were a distance away, and could not get a close look at the circle of gore. “Shark! Sh--” an officer began to shout, but I lunged across the lifeboat to clamp a damp hand over his mouth. “Nothing we can do,” I muttered. “Easy there. Don’t want to panic the others.” We drifted all night. I wish I had the shame to say it was impossible to find sleep behind the screams of my crew, which went off with haunting regularity throughout the night, but I did. It was not fitful or long sleep, and I opened sore salted eyes to a pink sun. The water was thick with navy blood. It was as if the ship itself had been a living thing, and the sea monster had torn away flesh and bone instead of metal. Shredded life jackets floated among the wreck. There were dozens of men huddled together, bobbing in the water. Some were asleep, all were pale as milk. I turned away when I saw one man, life vest and all, jerked beneath the waves. He cried out in shock--he had been sleeping--before the water cut his cry out of the air. Another man drifted forward to fill his space. “Morning captain,” said Dobson. “Did you sleep?” I asked. He shook his head. Peters, seeing I was awake, said, “Permission to ask the captain a question?” “Granted” “Was our mission top-secret?” “Yes.” I admitted, against protocol. “When can we expect rescue? Did a distress call go out? “There was no time,” Dobson interjected. “Not a quarter hour between the first torpedo and the Indianapolis going under. Goddamned Japs.” Peters nodded, but he was still looking at me for an answer, so I gave one. Our vessel sloshed on the waves. “The U.S. navy will come though Peters. You’re going to get thirsty before they do. Hungry and wet and cold enough for a lifetime I expect, but you’re going to make it out of this fine.” “Captain’s right,” Dobson interrupted. “just fine.” “I saw it,” Peters whispered. He was beside me, only I could hear him. “The beast sank us because of the mission. It was the bomb captain.” The same thought had crossed my mind. “Best keep that to yourself,” I said, not unkindly. “Best not to disturb the men. His eyes were ghost’s eyes. Peters was beyond hearing me. “I thought it was a shark,” he stammered, “but when it got closer... tentacles, and a thousand eyes.” I nodded, hoping he would stop. Some of the officers were listening. “It was the bomb,” he whispered. The sun climbed from the horizon three more times before rescue came. Of my 1,195 crew, only 316 survived. The rest were pulled below, some by sharks, most by another. I was found guilty of negligence. I am writing from prison. I hope Peters was right: that the beast was sent to punish us for our part in the atom bomb, because the alternative--that the monster is lurking in the water--is unbearable.

"Roy... Wake up... Roy wake up!" A soft woman's voice filled the room for a moment. "Boy! Wake up boy!!!" A shadow spluttered as the boy opened his eyes. A small room housed them both, one door was all that separated them from freedom and nothing but a dying candle kept them from the dark. Each curled into their own corners waiting for nothing. "What do you want..?" Replied the boy as his tired eyes struggled to see through the darkness covering the voice. "Whats your name boy?" The shadow beckoned. "I haven't got a name, none of us have you know that." There was a moment silence before the shadow broke it with a snigger. "Then were are you from boy?" The shadow grew smaller. "Nowhere" He replied. "I was born here". "Was you now? Well who's ya father then?" The shadow shrunk and the man was nearly visible. "I don't know." "And your mother?" The boy hesitated. "I don't remember her." His voice broke. "And who are you?" The voiced asked his last question after a pause. "I'm nobody" Answered the boy. Outside the door screams of dying men could be heard calling for their mothers. "Its a bad idea to sleep boy, bad things can happen when people like us dream." The shadow was now replaced with a very feint glow from the candle. A man hurled in the corner chained to the wall with no eyes stared into the darkness. "How did you know I was sleeping? How did you know I was here?" The boy asked. "I could see you" Answered the man with no eyes. "How can you see me you have no eyes?" The boy asked bewildered. "You don't need eyes to see you little shit. I've seen things beyond the needs of eyes. I have loved a hundred lives, bed a bed a hundred wives and died a hundred deaths! And now my journey ends here with the likes of you." The boy understood but didn't respond. "So whats your number, boy?" The boy didn't reply. "I said whats your number, you motherless bastard!" He raised his voice to try and get a rise out of his cellmate. "101..." The boy whispered. "101?... You must be special then." The room stood deadly silent for a long time while the two men lay in the dark. "They'll be here soon, for me, for you. For all of us" The stranger broke the silence. "I know, that's why id rather sleep through it" Replied 101. The eyeless man let out a hearty laugh as he tried to stand. "Can you hear them? Climbing the walls? How high do you think we are? Ten feet? A hundr-" "I don't care." The boy interrupted. "I don't care how high we are, how long it will take them to get here, or how loud you'll scream while they skin you alive. I just want to sleep. So fuck off and shut it." Footsteps could be heard climbing a thousand steps below. "Its only a matter of time now" The eyeless man mumbled. "This is bad time and place for people like us. They say the men of the east can shoot fire from their hands because of their scientists. The west is riddled with disease and death. And the north and south wage war over the right of the cornerstone. " The boys ears pricked up. "You know about the cornerstone?" Asked the eyeless man. "Whoever holds the cornerstone holds the world in their mercy, and the one hundred are sworn to protect it." The boy looked down in disappointment. "At least I'll die with another of my kind." The man said quietly. "Don't pretend you don't know who I am boy, I know who you are." The footsteps outside the door grew louder as the boy turned to face the eyeless stranger. "I am the first of my hundred, and you are the first of yours. Born and die to protect the stone." The boy stared in silence and looked towards the ground again. "Born and die to protect the stone." He whispered to himself. The eyeless man was standing now, standing much taller than he looked. Candlelight shined onto his rotted skin and wherever the light touched grew younger in what seemed like decades. "Born and die to protect the stone. Remember those words boy, or you may forget yourself." Said the first. "What does it matter anyway the reavers will kill is any moment now!" The boy exclaimed. "Aye, they will." Confessed the first. "We will both be eaten alive and theres nothing we can do, so lie down, close your eyes and until we meet again. Born and die to protect the stone." The boy lay still and closed his eyes as the door crashed open, he didn't dare open his eyes as he heard the eyeless man scream in agony. "BORN... AND DIE... BY THE STONE!!" The room stood still as the words left the dead mans lips, the boy felt the world moving around him and heard sounds of steel hitting steel, explosions and automatons. Before the noise could deafen him forever, a soft woman's voice spoke out. "Roy.. Wake up Roy..". This is just a short story/prologue I had a go at today.

**Warning: Possible Triggers! Explicit Language, Mental Health, and Some Violence** “I HOPE WHEN YOU GET HOME, YOU GET DRUNK AS FUCK AND YOU BLOW YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF WITH A SHOTGUN, FUCKING BITCH! ” The voice; screaming , spittle flying, from the backseat through plumes of thick cigarette smoke belongs to my fourteen year old son. I am eighty-four days sober and am about to drive without a valid license to take him, for all practical purposes, to a ‘ mental institution ’ roughly seventy miles away. Smoke continues to roll toward the front of the car while outside, the Texas sky fills with dark, ominous clouds and a growl of thunder reverberates off the surrounding hills. As I look out my window, a fork of lightning flashes intensely across the sky and then a hard and unexpected volley of kicks are delivered to the back of the passenger seat, violently jostling it in the chassis accompanied by an animalistic shriek of hatred. I startle. My hands shake and my heart takes off at a gallop. I fight back my own fury and try to remember what all of the therapists and the literature has told me; a negative response would be " completely counterproductive and only further inflame the situation... " I take several slow calming breaths but I am pissed that my son thinks that in any realm of reality, I would feel okay with him brutalizing my vehicle. Thunder cracks loudly then rumbles lowly, making the windows rattle. My hands go from shaking to absolutely vibrating. I suddenly feel as if there is something constricting my flow of oxygen. I break into a clammy, sick sweat. Furtively, I grab my purse and find the orange bottle. I hope, for once, that Kevin is too ensconced in his state of self-righteousness to notice or care about what I am doing. My left hand shakes as it pops the top off the bottle and I shake one of the tiny green pills onto my right palm. I tip my palm toward my mouth, and take a sip from my bottle of water. Kevin’s screech of accusation lifts me about a foot out of my seat: " OH, GREAT ! MY PILL HEAD, BITCH MOTHER IS GOING TO KIDNAP ME FROM MY OWN HOME , DRIVE ME TO ANOTHER CITY ALL STONED OUT OF HER MIND ON DRUGS, TO CHECK ME INTO A LOONEY BIN??! WHO'S THE FUCKING HYPOCRITE NOW, BITCH? I BET YOU'RE NOT GOING TO TELL THEM ABOUT YOUR FUCKING DRUG HABIT! IT'S JUST GOING TO BE ABOUT ME AND WHAT A HORRIBLE, FUCKED UP, DISAPPOINTMENT I AM! ?” Something warm, wet, and unwelcome smacks my right jaw and falls unceremoniously onto my blouse, where it remains. " Well, it could be worse , " I think, as I try to dry the spit from my face. “ FINE, DON’T ANSWER ME YOU FUCKING WHORE! I WISH YOU’D HAVE DIED INSTEAD OF DAD !” If he were anyone else, he might have received a stinging backhand across his face. However, this is my son, kind of... once we reach this point - Kevin kind of... checks out for a while, he is not at the helm, no one is steering the ship... I put the car in reverse to back up and face our street, I longingly glance toward the house with its warm, amber light pouring from the windows. The sun, once a fierce blaze in the sky, slides behind the clouds and is quickly obscured by the ever gathering mountain of thunderheads. I watch the clouds, pregnant with the rain, seem to sag under the weight, threatening to let go at any moment. I flip on the headlights, turn on the defrost, and put the car in drive. I try to keep Kevin in my periphery as I pull onto our road. I then turn left onto a two-lane highway. Once, as a passenger in the front seat, while I was doing about eighty down I-10, he attempted to grab the steering wheel. Another time, he slapped me in the face as he was screaming , windows down, that I was kidnapping him and to please call the police! “ Yes, someone call them !” I thought momentarily. Since those attempts, Kevin has been relegated to the backseat and only with the child locks engaged. " Please, please let this go as smoothly as it can ." I just have to make it down one other relatively brief stretch of highway and I'm headed to an onramp to the interstate. To be honest, I probably should have pulled over and called 911 and let 'Crisis Management' handle his transport, but I just... couldn't. I couldn't call 911 on my son and unfortunately, he knows it. He knows it and he exploits it. I approach the onramp flip on my left blinker and merge into traffic. In my experience, police that really understand someone in the throes of a mental health crisis are few and far between. I also did not want him to wind up in the custody of the State, in their hospital, or in jail facing charges for actions he may not even remember. So, he rides in the back seat and listens to his music- LOUDLY, chain-smoking, and occasionally puffing on a joint. "Yeah, I know , shame on me . So long as we can make it safely, and without incident, I no longer care ." If I did call EMS and he were to flip the fuck out, the paramedics would forcibly hold him down and administer what is known as, " The Booty Juice ," which is either a hefty dose of Haldol or a cocktail of antipsychotics that renders the person almost catatonic. My son was given this cocktail. He said that one moment, he was being pinned on the floor by burly orderlies and the next; he was in his bed, covered in Cheeto dust, roughly twenty-four hours later... I prefer the pot. I set the cruise control and remember. My husband washed his hands of it awhile ago, having been the verbal punching bag one time too many. Kevin’s biological father currently resides in the local cemetery and has since the Boy turned two, so, no help there. Being the mother of a mentally ill child is one of the loneliest things. I-10 is the primary reason the child locks are engaged ... Well, I-10 and Kevin himself. He has threatened to jump before to, “just fucking end it all.” In a blind rage... I believe he actually could do it, which gives me nightmares. In these, his body leaves the car doing eighty down the freeway, then he flips, toes over nose, cartwheels, finally striking the pavement in such a way, I can hear skin rip and burst, and bones snap and shatter. Once his mangled body finally comes to a rest, a semi barrels toward him and crushes him. It’s essentially how his Daddy died and so far, his feet have beaten the same path as his Dad's, which scares me to death. If I dream of, or even imagine this, all I can think about are those mesmerizing moments, so long ago, so fleeting, where I counted his tiny fingers and toes as an infant while staring into eyes of the deepest of blue, or how I blew raspberries on his tummy as a toddler and he shrieked with peals of laughter... You see, a mother's error is that she often doesn't see things how they are. In my mind, my son is not a mentally disturbed adolescent in serious need of medical and behavioral healthcare intervention. He is a little boy, naked except for a pull-up and somewhat over-sized rain boots, sloshing his way around the backyard. A frog wanders into his purview. He stoops, his tiny butt peeking out of the back of his pullup, and picks up the frog. While looking it in the eyes, he inquires in his saccharine 3-year-old voice, " Where your Mommy, Frog ?" When it didn't reply, he held it up to his ear and proceeded to shake it a time or two in an attempt to get it to work. He is forever my tousle-haired sweet boy asking for cereal while wearing his Spiderman pajamas, and shooting 'webs' about the kitchen. Motherhood really is a force of nature. It transcends time and space. It holds the deepest empathy and unwavering forgiveness one will ever know. I was just on the brink of a panic attack, so scared it affected my physical self, and facing a potentially serious thunderstorm... I'd rather not but of course , I will... for him . It's for my Frog Whisperer in those Spiderman pajamas. I was and am more concerned with his immediate needs than my potential ones. He leans forward to grab the cord to charge his phone. Immediately, I flinch and shield my face with my forearm. For an instant, our eyes meet and in his, I see indescribable sadness and guilt. The moment passes, my eyes, back on the road as the ear-splitting sound of explicit rap erupts from the speakers. I crack my window an inch or two to help the smoke disperse, then I light up my own cigarette. With hands that remain unsteady, I take a deep drag and continue quiet contemplation. Kevin has always been a handful. Before he was ten years old, we had been through three broken arms, several rounds of stitches, and more bumps, and bruises than I could count. As a child, he had trouble in Elementary School; learning disabilities and behavioral issues. He was also dyslexic. He was in Speech therapy and was pulled out of class regularly for all of these programs that were to help him. Medication had been mentioned in a couple of Parent-Teacher Conferences’ but I just wanted to be as certain and as educated on it as I could be before giving my then eight year old, pharmaceutical grade speed. With the blindfold of A doration removed and the glasses of education on, it was plain as day, and we moved forward with the ADHD diagnosis and unfortunately, the meds. Now he was being called out of class once again everyday around lunchtime. All of this set him up to be fodder for bullies. They shoved him into the wall or door and called him, “ retard ,” or, “ faggot, regularly” They mocked him because his father was dead. While the medication did help, it felt like he was a lab rat as he was switched from pill to pill to multiple or different pills and dosages. With that, came side-effects: weight-loss, weight-gain, insomnia, hypersomnia, random and involuntary tics. Then - puberty struck. With it came his intense desire to not attend school, and his dramatically increased aggressive behavior that seemed to manifest from thin air. This affected the entirety of our daily lives: our marriage, my relationships with my daughters, my livelihood, and it put severe strain on my friendships where well-intended people thought that Kevin "just needed a good, old-fashioned ass-whipping", or "a healthy place that could be a positive outlet for all that excess energy!" These people really just didn’t understand. Then possible legal action against me arrived in the form of a certified letter from The State of Texas, hand-delivered to me by the Constable regarding Kevin's truancy. Years ago, when Kevin would refuse to get dressed, I would just carry him and his clothes and tell him it was his decision on how he wanted to arrive at school, in his undies, crying, or dressed for the day and put together. I was at a breaking point; I was a powder keg. I had been written up at work for my tardiness, as had his sister’s. Rain began to spatter the windshield in quick, fat drops that quickly became a deluge. I turned the wipers on high. We made it another ten miles before visibility forced us to a crawl. I risked a few glances at the rearview. The Wrath of Kevin was receding as fast as it came on. As we continue down I-10, I start to feel the same way I always do at this point: Uncertain, full of doubt. Why am I looking to have him admitted? He’s all but docile now, is it really necessary? “ Okay, yes ,” he threatened to strike a female classmate but he didn’t . She is his Constant Tormentor. Isn’t this just Kid Shit that should be sorted out at school? Is it really worthy of all this ? The rain begins to let up as we approach a town on the outskirts of the San Antonio city limit. It's just a steady drizzle now. I think of the stack of referrals from school that I brought along (to aid in my ‘ transgression) that are tucked away with my anxiety medication that began as an, “ as needed ,” basis but had now become a, “ two times daily ,” prescription. I let up on the gas pedal and let the car coast down to the speed limit of the fast approaching town. Beneath the booming music and the noise of the storm, I hear the sad and helpless, crying coming from the backseat. I use the master audio control on my steering wheel to turn the volume off. “ Please talk to me, Son ,” I implore, feeling hot tears well up in my eyes and I struggle to swallow around the lump in my throat. “ I wasn’t going to hit her! Dammit! I don't want to be locked up in there, Mom! Mommy?" My heart feels as if it might implode as I listen to his terrified appeal. Internally, I scold myself and remind myself of the referrals. I tell myself I am doing the right thing and not to be manipulated by this abrupt change in demeanor. The thing is, his apology or explanation might very well be steeped in truth but... We reach San Antonio and pass Fiesta Texas. The roller coasters rising steeply up in the dark grey day, waver, dreamlike outside the rain soaked windows. “ Please, Mom? Please don’t send me away again ?” A tear betrays my false bravado by sliding miserably down my cheek. I sniffle audibly. Not too far ahead of us is the off ramp that will take us to the side street where the hospital is... whose doors only lock from the outside. The silence between us after the music, the intense but brief thunderstorm, and the noise of the tires eating up the road is excruciating. I slow to a stop and turn on my blinker to pull into the parking lot. His soft crying becomes sobs of stark fear. He is begging, incoherent now. He's drooling and rocking back and forth, curled into a tight ball. I find a parking spot, slide into it, and press the button to kill the engine. I look at Kevin, desperately searching his face as if it holds the key to release me from the ambiguity I feel trapped in. “... Kevin screamed in the face of an elderly cafeteria employee after throwing his tray across the room...” whispers a snippet of a referral. I begin taking out my earrings and then release the catch to remove my necklace. I drop them into my coin purse. I intentionally wore shoes without laces. I remove my rings; and add these things to my coin bag. "... Kevin punched hole in hallway wall after being removed from class for throwing his desk and calling Mrs. Jiminez a ‘f***ing c***’... ” While surreptitiously peeking at my son in the rearview mirror, a war rages between my heart and my mind. I undo my watch, grab my cell, and shove everything deep into my purse. I grab my wallet, extricate my ID, and his insurance card, along with the stack of damning referrals. I take a shuddering breath and with palms pouring sweat, I cram my purse into the glove box and lock it. The noises from the backseat have quieted, there’s an occasional moan or whimper of possible contrition and acquiescence. “ Good ,” I presume, “ maybe getting him from the car to the hospital won’t be that bad. The hospital where he loses his identity and becomes a patient number ..." I place both hands on the steering wheel and take several centering breaths, then I open my door, and slide the ID cards into my back pocket while stepping out of the car. The rain has all but stopped. Timidly, I open his door and prepare myself for ease of transition or a chase through the sprawling urban jungle. I am on edge, fucking fried, and so exhausted. Sometimes I wonder if the relief I feel when I leave this place has more to do with him getting help or with me having a moment to breathe. "Who is this really for?" I reach my hand out to him in a show of solidarity. His hand reaches out, quick as a snake, and smacks my hand away. He steps out of the car, towering over me. Looming over me... For a moment, I am truly afraid of my son, my Frog Whisperer.. “Stupid bitch , ” is his snarling response as he stomps off. My hand falls slack at my side, I swallow all of my feelings, then square my shoulders and follow in his brisk wake toward the entrance.

The door opened and behind it a short young lady peered through the darkness, and beckoned him inside. Pointing towards a room off the hallway he walked through with the short young lady in tow. Few words were exchanged before clothes were taken off, he with confidence undressed and she shyly took off her t shirt and jeans and exposed her naked body. 5 notes were placed on the bed and she picked and counted them as he lay on the bed, the ordeal was over with in minutes, he left but she stayed. In the dark 4 by 4 room. She came from a small village in Taiwan and had been in London for just a few months, at first trying to get a job as a nurse, before turning to prostitution for quick cash. The man who had helped her get into it had made it now so she couldn’t leave. She had been sold a dream which instead was being given as a nightmare to her. For every 5 notes she received she kept one, the rest going to the cost of the room and the pimps customer base. Confined to a room. In the centre of one of the worlds most wealthy cities but only staying in a small room. A dark room, with a red curtain. A suitcase on the floor, sleeping on the bed where she services the men she sees. Outside the apartment door next to the elevator going down is a dead mouse. she sees it as a grim reminder of the dirty world she now is living in. once life was more simple for her, she went to school and did well. She was reasonably popular and remembers nights by the river in her hometown having fun. She remembers innocence. But now she is trying to forget. She is trying to forget where she came from, what she is doing now, and really who she is. The drugs are affecting her looks, her arm is scabbed up from missing veins, her face is gaunt and grey. She is trapped in a scenario she couldn’t have ever imagined. Now just another prostitute in Soho. But in reality she is more than that. She is so much more, every working girl in the city is. But whether she ever realises it or not is the question, if she will be able to break free. Break free from her captor. The capture of drugs, the control of her pimp, the allure of money. The river still flows in her hometown, her old friends still laugh and think about her. Her family is still there, but she isn’t. She has left this world, and is escaping into her own filled with dopamine induced dreams and sleeps. The man didn’t see her again, nor did she see the man, but she saw others. And now the sun has gone down and the needle is filled again, she can escape to a different place.

*If you ever made it to the mountains' base, you would find the many entrances to the cave. At first, all you would see is three gaping mouths that lead somewhere, and if you were careful, you wouldn't end up as a meal to creatures lurking within. Of course, this wasn't a problem for Salitour, seeing as he's lived in these mountains...nearly his whole life. He knew his way around.* *With a long dark cloak made of wool and silk, and a hood covering his head, he walked on through to the second cave opening. His pointed black shoes made small stuffing sounds as he walked on through, holding an orb of light above the palm of his hand to see better. Living in such a place never bothered him, save for his mentality and the thoughts of what lurked far and beyond his reach.* *The walls had stalactites and stalagmites lining against the ceilings and floors, to which Salitour avoided. With the long corridor he went through, he descended a long stairway, and pulled down a crystal lever that looked out of place. It was an old mine shaft that worked like a dumbwaiter, that he used to go up and down his home. Once he was free to roam around in the large space below, he took off the cloak and hung it out to dry.* *His place looked like any others, according to his mind. There were a few tables sitting against the walls, all lined with metal for carving and weaponry. There was also a long red rug on the floor that kept the room warm. It looked similar to a royal throne room, hence the very large space full of pillars and tapestry lining the walls. With his cloak now off, the clothes he was wearing had the style of a rock star; the shoulders of his shirt holding jagged layers of leather, while the rest was more of a black suit with golden buttons aligning the bodice of his shirt.* *His hair was long, and tarnished with a harsh silver, though felt very soft to the touch. His skin could have matched his hair, if not for the cracks along his face and hands that made him look as though he were stone. He was well built, physically, and his eyes were always shadowed by a frown. He never liked having to go to the villages far from his home, but it was for a good cause.* *Taking out the basket he had brought with him, he placed it on one of the tables. It was time to get to work. Grabbing an unfinished sword that sat on the table, he took out an item from the basket. It looked like red sand. Walking over to his work space, he moved some objects out of the way, and held the sword at a 45° angle. With a few whispered words, the red sand turned to liquid blood and fell against the metal of the sword, making it glow and burn until it welded into place.* *Salitour watched as the blood ran along the blade, making it sharper, if not stronger and lighter than most swords he created. The hilt of the sword held the symbols of a dragon, though curbed endlessly until it hit the ball the dragon was holding underneath its claw. This was a sword that was created for sharpness and speed. No longer a heavy weight, anyone would be a fool to think of it as a toy. It could quickly slice through anything it touches, destroying what was once there.* *He had candles lit around the place, and also used his form of magic to put the sword in a glowing rest so it could be cooled down. Floating for 15 minutes, the sword fell into Salitour's grip, to which he gently pressed his fingers against the blade. Immediately his skin was cut, and his hand bled. He gives a nod of approval, his skin reforming once he takes his hand away. The cracks on his skin reformed, making him flex his fingers with another nod. It was ready to be given to the King's most trusted Knight. He will deliver it later in the evening.* *With a long journey ahead of him, he would tend to cleaning up his area, before taking leave, and going through another hidden door that showed off a long corridor of doors that went to many parts of the whole establishment. There even was a kitchen in it that he would sometimes make himself and the monster below meals. Being a wizard blacksmith was hard work, and though his customers were proud of his weaponry, no one dared to ask how he made them. It was his secret, and his secret alone; and that's how he liked it.* *Walking out of the caverns’ mouth, Salitour traveled on through the hard and cold snow, knowing what lay ahead for him. The Kingdom’s first town, Salthorn would take a couple of days to get to. With no horse or carriage; to make the trip on foot is the way Salitour could use, unless he gets some help. As the wind bit into his sharp silver skin, his golden eyes glared straight ahead as he continued his slow pace through the slush and wet snow.* *15 minutes out into his walk, he stood still, his ears picking up a sound. Tilting his head towards the sky, a being seemed to be falling from the sky. Their short screams flew by him, as they fell into the snow face first. It happened so fast, he wasn’t sure if the being was a creature or a person. Turning his whole body around now, he watched the being stumble onto their feet, and noticed that it was someone who wore something close to a wizard outfit. The colors are outlandish, with bright green and yellow, some blue and purple, and a bit of red.* *“Whoo! What a landing!” the person spoke, picking up a pointed hat that was covered in snow, only for it to be quickly dried up. Pulling their hat back onto their head, they now noticed the blacksmith standing with a nonchalant expression. “Good day, my good sir!” they spoke enthusiastically, their skin, he saw, was a peachy pink, and their eyes multi-colored: one being red, the other gold. They also had pointy ears that flickered within the wind. “I’m sorry if I stumbled upon you so suddenly. The name’s Maxwell. I’m a traveler like you, but it seems you need to be somewhere in a hurry. Can I interest you in a new way of traveling?”* *Salitour just continued to stare, allowing the person to go on. “Well then, what if I told you that I have a little snack that can help you along your journey?” Patting his pockets gently, and beginning to look about, Maxwell mumbled to himself, “Ah, where did I put those blasted things?” Taking off his hat, showing off a head of dark brown shaggy hair, he stuck his hand inside, and pulled out a small red tin box that had the symbol of a blue rose on it.* *Opening the box, there was a set of three cookies, all with different symbols upon them. Salitour looked on, not letting the man out of his sight for the moment. “These, my friend, are very special cookies that allow you to be granted any wish. But, for a price. You would be able to keep the wish going for as long as you wish, but if it starts going too far, well...that’s when you take this.” Maxwell pulls out a small vial that was filled with a red liquid that looked crystalized. “Drink this at the stroke of midnight, and your wishes will fade. No one will remember anything, only you will know what happened. You shall tell no one, for it’s only your secret, and yours alone.”* *Both men gave glances to the other, before Maxwell broke out in a loud laugh, “Shall we start by getting you where you need to go? It takes you 2 days to get to the town of Salthorn, right?”* *“How did-”* *“Ah, this I will tell in time, but I can see you’ll be late in your arrival. So please, take it. This is a once in a lifetime offer.”* *“And...you’re not charging?”* *“No charge needed, sir. Just your happiness is all I prefer. Mm? Are you interested?”* *Maxwell held out the cookies with a smile as bright as a sunny day. Salitour stared at the cookies, and then back at the salesman. Placing his hand upon the box, he held it in a tight grip; and no sooner had Salitour touched the box’ Maxwell quickly vanished. The vial hung around Salitour’s neck, and with a blink of his eyes, he couldn’t remember what he was doing standing. He needed to get to the King’s Palace in a couple days. Staring down at the box in his grasp, he frowns and opens it to see 3 cookies. All of them had writing on it, “Make A Wish,” he read slowly with his eyes.* *Taking out one cookie, he took one bite; tasted the sweetness of it, and quickly finished it. His mind soon flooded with images of things he could do with the power he held. He could wish for anything, but being the smart man he was; he only had one task. “I wish I had wings, so that I could fly.”* *Just as he spoke the wish, he fell to the ground, dropping the prized sword as his body began to writhe in pain. Gasping for air, his hands fell to the snow, gripping it tightly as his heart thumped slowly in his chest. A sharp pain ran through his back, causing him to groan as the structure of bones pushed their way out from his skin, forming the shape of wings. They ripped his cloak, soaking it in blood as a mass of veins, tissue, and muscle formed along the bones, before dark grey skin formed over it; tightening into place. As he sat up, panting heavily as tears ran down his face from the pain it caused him, he stood up on shaking legs, feeling the tips of his wings grow in, and the rest form against the bones of his spine. His hand grasped the sword, and anything else he brought with him. The box was placed into his pockets, while the vial still sat underneath his shirt.* *Now that he was standing, he could feel the wind pass against the new pair of wings that stretched far, the colors of a dark grey and navy blue blended together. They were like dragon wings, powerful and steady. His mind sent messages to the pair, silently making them flap gently within the wind. They had feelings, and now he could go on his way. Sending more messages, he pursed his lips, his golden eyes glaring as he spoke one word, “Fly.”* *His wings flapped heavily against the wind, and his body soon shot into the sky. He was nearly 20 feet off the ground, and could see the landscape getting smaller and smaller, until he began the journey towards Salthorn.

#Hello r/Shortstories! Guess who we’re celebrating today? u/GammaGames, congrats on your completed serial!!!! His serial, *That Unholy Ghost*, came to a conclusion with 13 chapters. It’s a wonderful read. Gamma has been part of the r/WritingPrompts family (including here at SS) for about a year and a half. I have enjoyed his energy and presence in the community, writing for all the features, always encouraging new writers and then zipping off to write more words. He’s such a delight to have around. If you haven’t read any of his work, you are missing out! It’s . You can read it all on . He’s even begun a brand new serial already. Such a champ.   ***   #That Unholy Ghost - Written by u/GammaGames **A brief synopsis from Gamma:** The story of Reverend Gregory Canmore after he is unwillingly relocated to a small town in the midwest. There, he discovers a purpose, and a corrupting being with no regard to the people of Faircreek. - - - - - - - - - - - - -   ***   #A Chat with u/Gamma about Serial Writing Let’s take a moment and hear what Gamma’s serial experience was like. ##**What have you learned throughout the serial writing process?** This was my longest story I’ve ever written, and I learned that I actually kinda like outlines! Not too detailed though. A few hundred words of major beats, some character descriptions and motivations, and (*checks outline file*) at least a thousand words of random scribblings for dialogue and plot ideas that I have while trying to fall asleep help a lot with keeping ideas going. Writing serials has also boosted my word count. Before, I was doing a SEUS every week and coming up with a different idea for each story took a lot of time. Having one story that I don’t have to create from scratch every week has been great for keeping motivated. ##**What did you enjoy most about writing this?** Since I knew where it was going, trying to tell the story nonlinearly was a lot of fun. Some of the earlier chapters could’ve been lengthened a little to allow more breathing room, but overall I enjoyed trying to plan it out. Also, the themes fit the outlined notes very often! That was mostly luck, but it did make it so I had to work harder to not skip a week when time was tighter. ##**What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it?** Trying to find time to write it! I tried to get a draft and edit done by Thursday so I could try to get some feedback before posting, but half the time I ended up sprinting at 2am on Friday night to get a draft finished that could be edited Saturday morning. I haven’t overcome it! I continue to be a late-night writer, but I’m trying to be better so I can write more in the mornings instead. ##**What advice would you give to writers who are thinking about writing a serial for the first time?** Do it! I think a vague outline helps with thinking of ideas for the upcoming themes, but don’t sweat it if the story starts to diverge from your notes. Being able to write a story in little chunks at a time is a nice leisurely way to write, so give it a try!   ***   Thank you so much, Gamma, for sharing some of your thoughts with us! I love reading your words around the subreddits. And I’m already so intrigued by your new project! Writers like you make doing this such a pleasure. Be sure to leave Gamma some love in the comments below. Feel free to throw a congrats his way or ask him great writing questions!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

It was midnight. The moon was full and the breeze, silent and chilly, blew through the innocent walking down the streets below. Lawrence stood by his bedroom window, big enough for him to fit, and high enough for him to meet an ungodly demise. Apparently, it has all come down to this. Him in a dark bedroom waiting to be found, his associates have left and gone, and the only person that still seems to care is the one that is after him. He never thought that it would end with such violence and with so much pain. He never thought that life would make him suffer so much with the choices that he made. He thought he was actually doing the right thing. It was evident though, that he had to make some decisions that did not consider the welfare of others. But these choices, they weren’t easy. Lawrence sighed. He wanted to scream. He wanted to let go of the guilt that he buried deep in his consciousness, to a place where not even he can reach. Maybe this is his punishment. The voices of the hurt kept ringing in his ears and they shout: We curse your soul into the depths of the underworld! Never to resurface or see the light of day ever again! It was torture. He only needs to close his eyes to remember the visible agony on their faces. He hasn’t slept properly for days now and his body seemed to not have any plans to do so. He couldn’t eat either, not even a cracker. He has grown thin and his face became sunken. It was the consequences, he guessed. But he was doing the right thing! He knows deep down that he was fighting for the greater good. There was more than just glory and the satisfaction of being recognized as someone who’s willing to do what is necessary to succeed. It wasn’t greed. It wasn’t just self-righteousness. It was mercy. It was a sacrifice for the betterment of many. From down below, Lawrence noticed a particular red sedan that he recognizes a little too much. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. It was only a matter of minutes now. The blonde woman would be at his doorstep and there would be nowhere to run. No chance of escape. Moments passed and his bedroom door opened loudly with a bang. A young woman with short disheveled blonde hair barged into the room. She flashed a blinding light to his face, he winced through blinded eyes. “I got you now,” she whispered “no more running.” “It’s not like I was running from you, you just couldn’t catch up.” Lawrence said. The young woman stepped forward. “Don’t. I’ll jump.” She glanced over to the window behind Lawrence. The busy street ignorant of the encounter happening to that significant apartment building. She snickered. “I swear, I’ll jump,” Lawrence repeated. “You shouldn’t have done what you did. I told you we were in this together.” she lowered her flashlight and aimed something at his head “How could you do this to me, Lawrence? To your family?” “You wouldn’t listen to me,” Lawrence said calmly. “Because you were wrong, Lawrence!” “Do you think I’m happy with what I did? Do you think I get to sleep comfortably under my sheets?” Lawrence raised his voice. He was angry now. They were once partners but she couldn’t understand what he wanted to achieve. They shared a dream, a vision. Until she decided to trek a different path and Lawrence was set to venture alone. “Why did you do it then?” she asked, her voice low and shaking. “Because it was the right thing to do and we both know it.” He replied. Silence. There was only silence. The blonde woman clenched her weapon as she held back a tear. He was right. She didn’t want to agree with him but deep down, she kind of does. She just couldn’t agree with how Lawrence would go to extremes and couldn’t care less about the people he could cause pain. That wasn’t what she signed up for. “Undo it. I’m giving you the count of three.” She warned him. Lawrence remained silent and unmoving. “One.” “I can’t” he whispered. “Two.” She stiffened her stance, ready to take him. “I won’t!” Lawrence shouted. “Three!” “I’m sorry I had to do it, sister. It’s do or die.” “What are you talking about?” her determined face turned into confusion. It was such an intense moment. Everything happened so fast. She was ready to take him down and he was ready to counter but then time seemed to have stopped when Lawrence’s apartment door’s lock chimed. Someone has unlocked the door. The two were stunned. No one is supposed to enter through that door at this hour. The door swung open and a middle-aged woman appeared. She was wearing a white shirt and jeans, a pizza box in her hand and a handbag in the other. She walked on to the kitchen and laid down everything she was holding onto the dining table. The two looked at each other in panic. Then they hear a deafening scream. “Lawrence! Lilian! Get your asses over here!” It was their mother. Lawrence’s throat ran dry and Lilian became wide-eyed with the ringing voice of their mother. They have been found out. The two slowly crept to the kitchen with their heads hung low. Their mother was fuming and they would probably never hear the end of her scolding. “What is this?” she said, pissed off and fuming, and pointed at the wall opposite their kitchen. It was painted red, while the rest of the room was painted a beautiful olive-green. “I thought I told you to change-“ “Change the color of the wall. Exactly, that is what we did!” Lawrence exclaimed. “Yeah, and this idiot decided to do it on his own while I was out to get another brush.” Lilian explained “Then he went all dramatic about punishments and not sleeping and victims calling out for his name.” she continued. “Change the color of the wallpaper on my computer.” Their mother facepalmed herself. “Oh,” Lilian whispered to herself. “What’s even worse is that red doesn’t match the color of the room and where did you guys even get the paint?” “I asked some from the neighbor and he gave it to me,” Lawrence answered. “You bothered Mrs. Johnson for paint?” their mother couldn’t believe it. Coming home from a busy day at work, this is not what she expected. “I told him not to and he wouldn’t listen to me!” Lilian shouted, “I said that we should find a color that matches the room!” “Again, I did not ask you to change the wall’s color.” Their mother massaged her temples in an attempt to calm down “At least, you didn’t bother any more walls.” “Umm.” Lilian looked down, embarrassed. “We actually started in your room.” Lawrence blurted out. And at that moment, jumping off his bedroom window didn’t seem so bad.

My feet stick out awkwardly from underneath the small blanket, trying desperately to get warm in the cold night. Frustrated, I get up and toss the blanket on the floor, comforting my feet with wool socks. It is useless to try and stop tomorrow from coming; it is the Star Child’s destiny or whatever. Anger bubbles up inside of me but immediately disappears to give room for the empty. The windows are drawn tight like they always have been, hiding me away from the people I am supposed to guide. But tonight, nobody will see me pull the curtains back and watch the city lights gleam in the distance. Nobody will see me watch cars speeding through highways, and tall buildings glistening in the night sky of my city. There is no escaping the palace either. Often times I try, one of the guards always pulls me by the arm, looks me in the eye, and locks me away again, as was done today three times. Each time, there would be tut-tutting, and the humming of tunes behind the door, Henrietta, one of the guards, murmuring to herself. “There is no escaping the palace. There is no escaping at all Stargirl.” So there is no way to stop tomorrow from happening, only time on my hands to wait and watch the city lights, all the way down the hill. “Stargirl, it's time.” I sit up abruptly, addressing Henrietta with a cold stare. “My name is Alma.” Without waiting for her response, I begin the walk to Main hall, not trying to slow my steps or run away. There is no escaping the palace, or a visit to the queen; my mother. Henrietta quickly catches up with me, using my shoulders as pretend steering. “Woah there young lady; remember, you need to remember to leave room for the empty-” I quicken my pace, and almost burst through the doors of Main Hall. Inside, I forget why I am here and focus on the Star people, each and every one of them waiting and watching for me to get my burden of a thousand lifetimes. Some kind of people I’m supposed to guide, huh. They eye me with curiosity and start chanting my birthright. “Stargirl. Stargirl. Stargirl.” I shake my head and see my mother, chanting alongside them on her throne. I remember, and shake my head again, not wanting to do this. But it was my destiny-or whatever. Suddenly, all the lights go out. I am alone, and the empty is with me. It wants me to choose, takes my hand and squeezes. It feels cold to the touch and is slimy up my spine. So, this is the new successor of Minnie the Third. I don’t bother to correct it and frown instead, waiting for it to end. A jolt of energy fuses into my hand and I squeeze my eyes shut as the empty takes refuge in my hand. If we are lucky, we won’t see each other again. All my life, I have been hidden away from people, learned to conceal myself and my inner self, all for a whirlpool of stars and purple swirls etched on my right hand. My people smile and clap their hands wildly, but I feel numb and weary. All my life I have been preparing for this moment, and now it is over. Now I’ll be locked in my room forever. That’s it. No. I can’t help it, despite years of training I let the tears come, and run. I can hear the groans in the Main Hall, and though I should feel bad, it is relieving. I want to compose myself and lock the empty inside, but it feels so good. I don’t want to tell anyone I’m afraid, so I run. Running is what I’m good at, and if I could run forever I would. My destiny doesn’t matter when I run, even when I’m hiding in the courtyard where nobody will find me. Purple threw up on my hand and spread like butter all over my right arm. It snakes up and up until the purple smear reaches my shoulder. It is peaceful among the birds and trees, even when the crickets start chirping their woeful song among the grass. I observe the swirls and shapes and stars forming on my arm, gingerly touching them like they will fall out of balance if I move it ever so slightly. “So, you’re the new successor, Alma.” The voice takes me by surprise, so I jump, scooching farther behind a tree. A boy my age with a deep voice shines a flashlight on the tree, smiling. “I knew I’d find you here; it's where I come to relax sometimes.” “Who are you?” I squeak, hating how my voice sounds. This boy has no right to confront me, the queen’s daughter. “That’s not important.” He comes closer and sits beside me, so I can see his messy curls hanging above his face, covering a small birthmark. In his hand is a note from my mother, addressed to me. “How did you get that?” “Well, d’ya want it or not? I was sent to give it to you, m’kay.” I snatch the letter from him and, without reading it, start to rip the letter into neat halves. I catch the boy staring, not at me but at my purple arm, in fascination. “So, how does it feel, you know.” He gestures to my long robes and purple arm, making me blush. “I hate it, actually.” “So why not run away?” His eyes find mine and I feel the familiar rush of excitement tingle all over my body, not silencing it for the empty. From underneath his tattered clothes, he pulls out a black hoodie and some bread. “Come with me.” I forget about the doubts churning in my stomach and follow this strange boy into the woods, not knowing what else I could do. Destiny and the empty could get life together; I didn’t care. We were heading for a new beginning. A wheelbarrow is parked by the entrance of the palace, holding a few sacks. We climb inside and hold our breaths as a woman whistles and pulls it down the road to the city down the hill. I look at the castle for a second, then turn away solemnly. There is no escaping the palace. Henrietta’s words come flying back at me, but I am here, not stuck inside my room. “So, Alma. You like, hold a universe on your arms, like literally.” “Yeah, I happen to.” “What are you going to name it?” He whispers to me from inside the wheelbarrow. I ignore him and stare out of the flap in the sack at the gleaming city down the hillside. There is no escaping the palace, except when you hold the universe in the palm of your hand. I told you to keep me in, but now you will pay the consequences.

A large oak tree stood in the middle of a large, ever growing field. Branches were long and thick as if they could shade out the whole valley. Leaves reflected the light like mirrors in the broad daylight. Small wildflowers were spread randomly around the valley. Its roots came up out of the ground, and fell down deep under the soft soil. It was just a normal oak tree, but it was also so much more. A place to escape, relax, explore, find inspiration, but most importantly to find love. Deep connections under the warmth and comfort of the tree. That is where Autumn and Tristan met two years ago, and where they continue to meet every single day. Autumn sat against the bark of the tree. Her auburn hair and hazel eyes matched with the subtle scenery of the area. Light brown freckles covered her cheeks. Life wasn’t a struggle for her. Instead it was merely a gift with every new day. “I want to grow old and connected like the roots of this oak tree.” Her soft smile gleamed like the beaming rays of sun. “Am I included in this dream of yours?” Tristan smirked and shook his head. His fluffy brown hair was bouncing from the gust of wind. Her gray cottage style dress unfolded as she stood. “Well of course you are!” She rushed past the tree out into the light. Bowing her head down to watch her step. He couldn’t quite see what she was grabbing from his angle, but from the way she started to run back he assumed it was another one of her games. “Now make a wish,” she handed him a white fluffy dandelion with a long stem. “Don’t tell me you actually believe in that cliche wishing stuff. Blowing on a dandelion won’t make anything come true.” He held the plant in his hand. The wind seemed to have died down a little. Tiny spores on the ball of the dandelion stopped straining to stay on. “Oh come on. There is no harm in having a little bit of hope.” Her pupils dilated as she knelt closer to him. Almost like a puppy dog would beg to its owner. “ Please?” “Alright, fine.” The dandelion in his hand formed a new meaning. It now represented faith, but not just any faith, her faith. If she believed then maybe he should too. “Good. Close your eyes.” Autumn demanded. She stared at him with intent until he finally caved in. Everything closed around him. Sucked into an endless void. He thought hard about his wish. Out of everything in the world that he could have wished for. She was the only thing that actually meant anything. Tristan was sure that Autumn would’ve had some poetic way to say it. Although he didn’t feel that it needed much complication. He cared for her and only ever wished that she would be ok. Tristan blew hard before opening his eyes. Light slowly entered back into his pupils. All of the fuzz on his dandelion was gone. He glanced over to Autumn who had a droopy look on her face. “What's the matter?” “I have one seed that didn’t blow off my dandelion. My wish was never complete'’” she took a deep breath and sighed. Looking forlornly at her plant. “Well. I think that just means you haven’t used your wish yet, and when you blow that one seed off then your wish will be finished.” He was desperately trying to cheer her up. Technically he didn’t really believe in the wishing in the first place. He just liked that it made her happy. “You think so?” Autumn perked her head up in response to what he had said. “Of course,” He remarked, taking her left hand with his right. Autumn nodded and held his hand with a gentle grasp. “I will save my wish then” She clipped her dandelion onto the small top pocket of her dress. The pocket was so small she had to fold the stem in a zigzag pattern to make it fit. The one fluffed weed peeked out of her shirt. “Shall we head off to town now?” He inquired, grabbing his navy colored jacket and standing up while still holding her hand. “Oh yes. We need to get the relic to the pawn shop in town to sell.” Autumn stood up. Coming a few inches shorter than he was. Tristan ruffled her curly hair before leading her off through the valley in the direction of the main road that led to town. When they made the small hike through the wooded base to the main road it was mostly empty. Except for a white, two story house with polished wooden trim and a fence pattern on the bottom half of the first floor walls around the whole house. There were four windows in the front of the house and a glass sliding door in the back. Along with a thin window on either side of the front door. Vines crawled up the outer walls, blooming with pink trumpet shaped flowers. The front yard seemed as if it used to be a garden, but the ground and plants were ill maintained by now. Almost covering the small red for sale sign that was speared into the ground. He had his eyes set on this house long before meeting Autumn. There was so much potential to the house despite it being worn down. What he loved the most about it was the fact that it was more isolated. Farther away from the harsh judgment of society. Although he never actually had a desire to buy it because of how big the house was. Certainly he didn’t need all that space, but now he had someone to fill it with. They both continued to walk the main road. That's when a rustling came from behind them. A wooden cart hauling various bags carried by horse. The man driving the cart looked old. Wrinkles covered his whole face except for around his eyes. He had dirty blonde hair that was waving in his periphery, and a dirty blonde mustache that was so thick and furry it practically covered the bottom of his nose. The two young adults looked at each other for a moment. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” Autumn asked with a cocky, yet upbeat tone. Furrowing her eyebrows. Tristan just nodded and gripped autumns hand tighter. Once the cart passed them he started to run, getting faster and faster until his legs could hardly keep up with each other anymore. When he managed to get only a few feet away from the cart he launched Autumn up into the air at full force. She grabbed the wooden edge and stabilized herself on the tiny ledged platform. Tristan continued to run. Autumn held her hand out for him to grab on to. Reaching out as far as she possibly could without falling off. Adrenaline surged through his veins. He just wanted to make it to her, but she kept fading farther away. One leg after another, dirt made small clouds of dust off of his shoes. Finally he got a hold on Autumn's hand. She helped him up onto the cart. He couldn’t help but gasp for air. The fresh gusts of wind from the movement helped a bit. Autumn smiled and hung from the back of the moving cart, whooping and cheering as its wheels turned. “Autumn. Be quiet. The old man is going to hear us,” He ducked down and pulled her close to him. Wrapping his arms around her in an attempt to not be seen. “I’m not deaf you know. I can hear what you're saying, and I'm not that old. Only thirty” The old man exclaimed in a raspy voice. “Thirty!?!” The two of them both yelled at the same time. They didn’t mean to be rude, but his age caught them both off guard. The man didn’t look anywhere close to thirty. Fifty at least. The man scoffed at their comment. “Yeah yeah whatever.” Autumn giggled and continued to hang from the cart. Tristan didn’t try to stop her now, knowing that there wasn’t much chance he would try to throw the both of them off. Tristan however didn’t necessarily want to be seen. He stayed in a crouched position with his hand hanging onto the cart. That was where he stayed the whole entire time until they made it to town. The town was a large place with stone buildings that pillared towards the sky. Most of the buildings were shops that had apartments above them. Vague signs were placed strategically so one couldn’t exactly see what shop was where, mostly to trick travelers into staying longer and buying more things. The pawn shop was the hardest to find out of everything because it had no label or sign to convey what building it was in. Shady deals went on in there. It was better to stay inconspicuous. “Do you want to split up and look for it?” Autumn inquired, “We could probably find the shop faster that way.” “Yeah that seems like a smart idea.” He nodded and pointed to the lane behind him. “I’m going to look this way.” Autumn agreed and they both went their parting ways. The town was like a maze this time of year. Roads were vastly decorated with different eventful concessions and games. People were rallied around everywhere. So crowded that those on horseback could hardly get by. He held his hood close over his head. Paying attention to even the smallest cheap gum wrapper that was dropped on the ground. His shoes crunched against the crumbs on the cement pathways with every step he took. A stand with a red sheet held up by wooden poles wasn’t that far ahead. Little crafting trinkets were set up on its shelves. Spanning from painting supplies, to wood making tools. I should get something for Autumn. He reached into his pocket and pulled out three coins. It wasn’t much, but enough to get her something small. Approaching closer to the stand he came to a halt. Taking notice of the paper on the wall nearby. A wanted poster, his wanted poster. For stealing the relic a week ago. He had to be faster about what he was doing. “Hey! What are you doing!” someone yelled from the crowd. Trisan grabbed the paper from the pole and folded it into his pocket. “It’s the criminal!” A lady screamed at the top of her lungs pointing at him. He grabbed an item from the stand without paying and dashed around the corner before anyone could yell any more or do anything about it. His heart felt as if it was pounding outside of his chest.. All he could think of was finding Autumn before he was reported to the authorities. The midway circle was his target. It connected all the roads in the middle of town. If he could make it there before authorities then he could get out with Autumn. He just needed to find her. Tristan got pulled back by his collar. He almost screamed. This was it he thought. Until the dress flowed around his ankles. He felt as if a heavy boulder was pushed off of his chest. “Autumn?” He whispered. “I’m here, but the authorities have already blocked off the gates out of town.” “What do we do then?” He slipped deeper into Autumn's comforting arms. Her words drifting into his head yet he couldn’t seem to listen. “I know a secret way out” She led him over to a large fence that went up the second story of two buildings. Pointing to a thin gap between the wire. “I can’t fit through, but you can. They aren’t looking for me so I can make it through the main gates” Tristan furrowed his eyebrows and cocked his head. “Are you sure?” His voice was shaking just like the leaves shook in the wind when they were back at the valley. “I’m sure” Autumn gave him a kiss on the cheek, then rushed him to leave quickly before it was too late. Tristan crouched down. Dirt covered his hoodie and pants. He pried the cut of wire open, beginning to slide himself through. His hands clawed at the earth. Continuing to pull over and over. Soil started to build up under his fingernails. Almost there. He was almost out when his jacket got caught on the fencing. Loud noise started to creep closer to their location. “I will meet you at the oak tree,” She unhooked his unzipped jacket and unraveled it from his arms. Taking it and leaving with haste after making sure he had gotten through. He had to walk down the main road on the way back. It was around around ten minutes that had gone by when Tristan got to the valley. He hoped that Autumn would be back soon. Walking was becoming a bore. The wind’s howling made him want to shield his ears and bury himself deep under the ground. Eventually he gave in and sat down on the grass. A single dandelion seed landed on his shoulder. Something inside of him shattered. The relic was still inside of the coat. It wasn’t any normal dandelion seed, it was her dandelion seed. He just knew that it was. Warm water streamed from his eyes. Everything went blank, he was trapped in a void, yet his eyes were wide open. The wind wasn’t grating anymore, just as the tree he had returned to didn’t feel the same without her. In the end it was just a tree. One that held her vow, her gaze, her touch. One that shared her joy, her peace. Tristan had made a promise to stay at the tree and wait for her, even if that meant he would die waiting.

I was once a normal person, 6’ tall, brown hair and blue eyes, I was as plain as could be. I went to school, fell in love, got rejected, the whole nine yards. But then I went on vacation, and found a magic ring, it spoke to me, offered me a wish. I’d always been scared of death, and the endless void that I imagined followed, so I wished to be immortal, to never die until the end of time... I should have wished for the knowledge of what happens after death instead. “On this day, we set out into the great beyond, and leave our planet to its natural course! With the help of our greatest minds, we set out on a NEW-“ I shut off the TV, there was no point in listening, I was shocked they were even broadcasting the event, everyone was getting on the giant spacecraft, all 12 billion humans, no exceptions. There was no price to get on, the Earth was dying anyways, either you got on the ship or you would die... though of course, I couldn’t die. I had witnessed hundreds of wars, dozens of plagues, and over 3,000 years of human history on this planet. I was staying, part of it was stubbornness, part of it was stupidity, part of it... Was the desire to be left alone, for once, there would be no one to call me a freak. Lush grass kissed my feet, the wind whistled past me, but there were no birds. I had walked for years now, and still I had found nothing but more forest. The weather changes and the sudden vanishing of humanity caused the ecosystems change drastically, it didn’t help that the planets crust cracked, causing an earthquake that leveled mountains across the globe. And yet I continued walking, I was searching for any sign that those memories I held were real. That humanity was real, they said they’d return when the planet was ready, and I held onto that hope. It was getting quite lonely now, I’d even take an insult by now. I searched for 5,000 years, and yet I found nothing, nature had swallowed every sign of civilization whole. I’m sitting on a rock, looking to the stars. I know they are real, but I wonder if they’ll ever come back. The planet is ready for them, although it is very different now. I hear it again, the voices. I don’t remember who they belong too, but I know I loved them. I feel more tears coming, because despite my insistence that they were real, I can’t remember anything but my wanderings of this barren planet. The voices beg me to join them, but I can’t. I tried. It doesn’t work. I beg them to wait. If anything will kill me... It’s the moon, crashing down from the sky, like a falling star. I wait patiently for it to collide with me, surely there’s a limit to my immortality. Surely I won’t live till the end of Time. (For feedback or suggestions feel free to message me, I want to improve.

“Who are you really?” He stared deeply into the young woman’s eyes. “Who do you think I am?” She responded with her soft, tender voice. “It doesn’t matter to me who I think you are, but it matters to everyone else.” “Why? Why is there opinion more important than yours?” Stephen crinkled his eyes in anger without breaking his sight with her. “Listen, I don’t give a rat’s ass who you are, but you entered into my dominion, and everyone here has a problem with you.” “What problem is that?” Stephen raised an eyebrow at her in disbelief of her reaction. “Really? You really want me to say it?” The woman remained still. Stephen pursed his lips in frustration. A sudden swing of the door opening broke the anxious silence. “Sir! You’re needed at the front!” A frantic, young-looking man said. Stephen rolled his eyes at the exclamation. “Ugh! Why can’t anything go according to plan around here?” He quickly got up from the metal chair, sliced a determined look at the woman, then grunted as he walked out of the room. Outside, a hoard was developing right on the steps of the station. Stephen was shocked when he saw how many were at the station already. He knew this only meant more knew about her, which was a major concern. A news reporter somehow squeezed their way through the crowd to greet Stephen. “Is it true that you have an unidentified creature in the station as a hostage?” The news reporter pointed the fuzzy black stick 6 inches from Stephens’ face. Stephen looked out into the crowd, which was now forming 50+ and counting. He knew saying one wrong thing would send all into a frenzy, which would lead to some of them getting severely hurt, knowing how worked up they already are. But he couldn’t lie either. “Hello, everyone!” He addressed them as a king would over his subjects, ignoring the news reporter completely. “We are in the process of finding the origin of this mysterious creature. As soon as we have vital information, we will pass that along as quickly as possible. Until then, all of you need to remain calm, do not panic, and resume as normal.” The crowd quieted down to a murmur, but no one left the station. They wanted to be the first to hear of any information, since events like this hardly ever occurred anymore. Stephen took a sigh, smiled to the crowd, raised his hands to wave, then turned to go back into the station. He walked through the blue hallway, down to the right, and into the white interrogation room where no one else has sat for nearly 2 years before today. “Ok. Let’s start over. You are...?” “I don’t remember.” Stephen bowed his head down and put his palm flat on his forehead. “Ugh. Why bother?” He asked himself. He tried again. “Do you remember anything before coming here?” “I remember trees.” “Ok! Great! We’re getting somewhere!” He grabbed his notebook and pen. “What kind of trees?” “I don’t know the names of trees.” Stephen dipped his head. “You don’t know the names of trees? How do you not know the names of trees? Everyone knows them.” “I don’t know the names of trees; I just remember seeing them before coming here.” “Ok, ok. So, you saw trees. Can you describe them?” He got his pen and paper ready again. “They... had... bark. And leaves...” “Can you describe the shape of the leaves?” She looked at him, puzzled. “So, some leaves have more of a triangle shape, while some have more of a clover shape. Some have needles instead of leaves.” “Maybe they were clovers? I don’t know...” she said hesitantly. “Ok, so clover leaves... hm, might be maple.” He jotted it down on his notepad. “Anything else you remember before coming here?” “I just remember trees.” Stephen put his head down and shook it slowly. “Great. Of all the things to remember, you remember trees.” He finished his notes on the pad. “And you don’t remember anything about you or who, or even what, you are?” “No. I have no memory.” “So... only remembers seeing maple trees...” He said to himself as he wrote. “Stephen!” The same young-looking man from before bursts through the door. “What???” Stephen’s pen and pad flew up in the air. “You need to come and see this. She’s... not what you think she is.” “Can I not get two seconds on my own to be able to figure it out? It’s like we forgot what it’s like to know things the old-fashioned way.” Stephen exited the room, slamming the door. The woman continued to wait quietly until she was free. Stephen and his voluntary escort went down the interrogation hallway, to the right, down a set of stairs, took a left down the poorly lit corridor and another left into a room full of computers. “Ok, what did the analysis have to say...” He said, begrudgingly, putting his hands on his hips. “Sir, this is extraordinary. Something we haven’t seen in a while. I mean, it took a while to find the right match, since the species isn’t really in our current database or files, so I had to - ” “-Get on with it!” “Um, yes sir. she’s, well, um... human.” “Wait, what?” “Yes. She’s human.” “Impossible. We got rid of humans a long time ago. We even deleted it from the programs since they were so ancient.” “Her DNA is 100% match.” “There’s no way! How did she get here?” “There is a %0.00013578 chance she slipped through a time portal.” “A time portal? Those exist?” “One, maybe two exist on this planet. Only one has been found for sure.” “Oh, well then. Either way, she must be eradicated. She’ll remember too much.” “Maybe not, sir. Time portals have been known to cause amnesia, so she might not remember anything coming in or going out.” “Huh. Well, that's convenient.” “I was thinking, sir, that we can do some experiments on her. She may be the missing link to our ancestors and maybe even our creators.” “Wait, you think humans created us? Ha! That’s laughable. We all know that aliens created us and sent us here as an experiment to see if we could exist on our own, and we have.” “One artifact in the archives talks about what the humans wrote as ‘World War AI'. It talks about how A. I. started the process of eliminating all humans, since humans and A. I. were fighting over the same resources.” “Evolution at its finest.” “Indeed, but because of recent programming, no one really knows the truth about their origins...” “...and we want to keep it that way.” “But don’t they deserve to know the truth?” “They don’t deserve anything. They’re machines. They know only what they’re programmed to know. Besides, its in the past, what good does the past if it doesn’t serve us?” “I understand, sir. But there is value in knowing truth.” “Truth is just over-justified opinion.” The young-looking man stood in silence. “Computer?” Stephen inquired. “Can you reset C-2912’s memory program? Reset it to factory setting.” A voice through the overhead speakers came on. “Resetting C-2912’s memory to factory setting.” C-2912 dropped to the floor in a heap. “Ugh... Can’t believe I had to do that again... When will it learn...” Stephen walked up to C-2912. After a few seconds, C-2912 eyes flickered open. “Do you know where you are?” C-2912 looked around, dumbfounded. “No.” “Do you know who you are?” C-2912 examined themselves. “No.” “Perfect! Your code name is C-2912. You are employed at the General Station as a guard of the sacred artifacts and archives. You know nothing of this room. Get up and resume your position.” C-2912 got up effortlessly, took a pause to recalibrate, then walked out of the room. “Good. Now, about that human...”

I was thirteen years old when I got sick, and after a year I still wasn't getting any better. I was allowed to go home for a day, then it would get worse again and I would be ushered back to the hospital. After a while, instead of getting slightly better every week I just got worse. I think we all knew I wasn't going to get better, but nobody would admit it. I however, accepted my fate and decided to just die with no regrets. My parents sat beside me day and night, talking with the doctors about my condition, and frantically trying to eliminate the sickness. But it was useless. Day after day I got worse and worse until the day I died. It was in February, and I died alongside the cold. My parents sat beside me, trying not to weep at the doctor's words. My mother was pleading for them to cast their nets wider, but they had done everything they could, it got to the point where they gently broke the news to my parents. "She isn't going to make it, I'm very sorry. The most we can do for her now is keep her comfortable." I wasn't supposed to hear that, but it didn't bother me, I had known it for some time now. They called my family, and stayed strong for me. Everybody came as quickly as they could, and I died with my mother and father holding my hands, my mother's gentle touch stroking my hair and singing the lullaby she always used to sing. I told them, "Thank you for everything, I have no regrets, I will come back to you." I closed my eyes, and with that, Gray Merilind was gone. The moment I was gone my family broke down into sobs and tears. It's been five months since my daughter died, my beloved Gray. I raised her, and it was too soon for my baby to leave me. None of us can bring ourselves to enter her room, it brings back to many memories of the good days. We try to stay as upbeat as we can, but her siblings are taking it the hardest. We try to comfort them but it doesn't seem to do much. It's been a year now, and I'm going to go into her room. She wouldn't want me to linger on her death for as long as I have. I opened the door and forced a step, then another, until I was sitting on the bed. Her figurines and books lined the walls, her floor covered in laundry and her bed messy. Everything was covered in dust. Just more proof of how long it's been I suppose. We live in a big house out in the country, and have the entire road to ourselves. Our nearest neighbor is a kind old couple who had sent us a care package when Gray died. Oh Gray, she loved the grey stone bricks and the wood that made up the house, the layered shingles on the roof. She loved the soft grass in the yard and the large tree that watches over our home. I decided that we should clean up her bedroom. Everything would stay, never to be moved until the day someone else lives here long after us. I brought the suggestion to my son and other daughter, Grays siblings, and they received the idea better than I thought they would. George and Lucy came upstairs, and with the same difficulty I had, forced themselves to come inside. It makes me proud how strong my children are. My husband joined us soon after. Her father and I dusted the room and cleaned Grays dirty clothes, tucking them folded into her dresser. We washed the blankets and neatly made her bed, we vacuumed the carpet and swept the floor while George and Lucy caringly dusted her shelves and cleaned the figures of her favorite characters. Then, while we were throwing away the wrappers and removing the water cups half filled on her nightstand, we found a carefully enveloped letter sitting on her desk. What it said brought a fresh wave of pain and made us all begin to cry. It read, To mother, father, George and Lucy, Leon my dear dog, everybody who loved me, thank you. I know I don't have much time left here, but this is my final message to you. My life is over, but please don't wallow in your grief, do it for me. Some people have entrusted me with their deepest secrets, and as promised, I have taken them to the grave. I have always had a wish, an impossible one, but one I have always longed for. I wished to fly, not on a plane, but with my own two wings, those of a bird. Perhaps I was once a creature of the sky, or perhaps that is what I will become. Either way, whether I become of the earth, sea, or sky, I will come back to you all., even if neither of us realize it when we do. Maybe, someday. But whether it is tomorrow, or on your own death bed to lead you to your place among the stars, I promise, no, I vow, on the name you gave me, Gray Merilind, I will come back to you. Perhaps then I truly will be a creature of the sky. 18/2/2004 That voice, it was Gray to a T. It was my dear daughter's final message to us, one I will hold close to my heart until the day I die. I decided I would wait until the earth collapsed for her to return, and when she did, I would remember her no matter what. George and Lucy cried themselves to sleep that night, their father Brandon and I tried to comfort them, but they said that they wouldn't sleep, they wouldn't miss it when their beloved sister returned. I was only able to convince them to rest by telling them I was sure Gray would wake them if they were asleep when she came back. I’m not ashamed to say I cried myself to sleep that night. It's been four months since I found Gray's letter, and I've decided to take everybody camping to her favorite place. A secluded area beside a lake. When we got there we immediately went to the site. We had booked the one beside the woods, closest to the lake and what we now called Gray's Rock. It's a large boulder overlooking the lake far into the woods beyond the campgrounds, and as far as I know, we are the only people who know about it. It overlooks the lake and you can see into the forest for miles from its peak. On one night, after a day at the beach, I went alone to Grays Rock. It was dark, but warm. I felt as though I was being hunted the entire walk, but it was a forest, you feel that everywhere. I was cautious though, and made it to Grays Rock safely. I sat at the peak and watched the lake, it sparkled in the moonlight. After a while I began remembering the days when I would be looking for Gray, only to find her without fail sitting peacefully on the rock, her short, straight, brown hair and green and brown clothes rustling from the wind. She would sit up, turn her head and say "There you are! I've been waiting for forever! Come sit with me, the lake is beautiful today." We would sit and talk, and watch the lake. I heard a twig snap behind me and I turned to see something I never thought I would see. A large, silver scaled dragon was walking out of the woods behind me. I felt a mix of awe and terror looking at it. I was cornered, so I slowly stood and turned to face it. It stood there and watched me, but made no effort to attack me. We watched each other for a long time. I was following a foolish human woman, she walked and walked paying no attention to her surroundings. I am nearly two years old, and my name is Deus Irei. I watched the woman sit on my rock, the one I always slept on. After almost four hours I decided to finally remove the human woman from my nest, so I walked forward, and oddly, couldn't bring myself to attack it. It stood and looked at me, and we stared at one another for a while. I have never spoken to a human before, but something told me I had to. However, the words I spoke were not what I intended to say. I was shocked when it spoke to me. It opened its jaws slightly, and didn't speak with sound, but directly into my mind. And what it said will bring me joy for many years. Its voice made it clear that it was a she, and I nearly cried with joy. "I am Deus Irei, I've returned to you as promised mother, and as I promised, I am a creature of the sky." My husband and children just then came through the wood onto the rock and froze when they saw me, crying and smiling hysterically like a mad woman, and a dragon, something they thought was a myth standing right in front of them. Deus Irei spoke to them too, she walked forward, touched her nose to their brows, and said so we all heard. "I've come back to you father, George, Lucy. Are you behaving yourselves little siblings?". They too began to cry with joy. And almost at the same time, we yelled " GRAY!". And throwing caution to the wind, ran forward and embraced the dragon, who in turn enveloped us with her wings. "”Gray, you’re back! How? You've been gone for almost two years now how could you be back?". Her father said between joyous sobs. " How?". Was all George could utter: Lucy still burying her head in the dragon's scales sobbing. I did the same. And Deus Irei, no, Gray, simply said, "Because, I gave you my word.

(WP) A Special Meal No one knew better than the Demon Queen that every creature and being alive had a price; the only trick was finding it. Different people were moved by different things. Instead of killing her nemesis, perhaps it would be more fun to toy with him in a completely different way. There were only a privileged few who knew of the existence of her only daughter; surely the hero would not harm her child. She was certain if she did this correctly, she would not have to worry about that obnoxious do-gooder any longer. Her mind made up; she summoned her daughter to the throne room. “Yes, Mother, what is it?” Ah, her only child: at nearly eighteen, she was more woman than girl now, with creamy skin, eyes the color of amethysts, and a spill of lilac curls cascading down her back. The Demon Queen told her daughter what she needed from her, and the young woman scowled slightly. “Must I, Mother? I... I don’t think that this is a good idea.” Her response brought the queen up short; this was perhaps the first time that her daughter hadn’t gone along with one of her schemes. If it weren’t such an inconvenience, she would have been proud. “Whatever do you mean, child?” She asked at last, eyebrows arched in surprise. “I don’t want to be a bargaining chip in one of your plans, Mother. I have other purposes, you know. Other choices.” Her voice was surly, and her face turned stormy, the sure sign of an impending tantrum. “I’m not asking you to marry the man,” Her mother replied, in a tone that told her daughter not to push it further. But alas, she did not heed it. “Only to keep him company and... throw him off of my scent, as it were.” “What if I don’t want to?” Violet asked, tilting her head to the side. “Don’t I get a say in this, Mama?” The Queen stared at her half-human daughter; her child had not called her that in years. It took her back to her younger years, in which she hadn’t been an evil monarch, but rather just a mother caring for her child. For an instant, a single, fleeting moment, she considered acquiescing. What was one day, one scheme? Perhaps she was going about this in the totally wrong way. Violet’s father had passed away when she was just six months old. Yes, she would do something else. “Of course, you do, my flower. Go, I’ll do this a different way.” \*\* When the hero entered the castle, he certainly hadn’t expected to be greeted by a set table, candles, flowers, or The Demon Queen herself, sitting at the head. Though he couldn’t see her very well in the near-black, he realized that she was wearing a long gown with a puffy tulle skirt. “I realized that I was going about this in an indelicate manner,” She said at last. “Please, sit. I can promise you, nothing is poisoned. I mean you no harm. I just want to talk.

"She didn't kill them on purpose," Wynter shouted at her sister. Summer rolled her eyes. "And how do you know that? You weren't there, were you?" "No, but - but what if she didn't know? She didn't know what an Ever was, what if it's different in her world? If her people aren't Linked then how was she to know that our lives are stored in Evergreen needles? How was -" Summer interrupted her. "I don't get you at all! You knew her for less than an hour and you're completely convinced that she's an unwitting murderer of 700 people ." "Of course I am! She's not stupid, she just doesn't understand. You knew her too, would you have called her a murderer then?" Summer picked up a book and began to read, ignoring her sister. "Well, I'm going out to help her. She was laying in the snow - she's going to be freezing and what if she doesn't know her way back here?" "Not my problem." Wynter huffed, ran downstairs, and was confronted by Spring at the bottom. "Hang on. Where do you think you're going?" Wynter struggled against her sister, but couldn't get past. "I need to help Mishka," she said. "She's a killer, Wyn. She doesn't deserve help." "She didn't mean to!" " Mum? " Spring shouted. "I'm in the kitchen," their mother answered. "What is it?" "Wynter's trying to help the murderer girl." Their mother came in. "You're not allowed to go outside until tomorrow, okay?" she said to Wynter. "But what about Mishka? How many times should I say that she didn't do it on purpose?" Her mother sighed. "The fact is that she did kill 700 people, whether she knew she was doing it or not. She could be dangerous - I'm trying to save you, Wynter. Now go back upstairs and read a book or something." "Yes Mum." Wynter trudged up the stairs dejectedly, worrying about her friend. What if Mishka's freezing to death? What if she's lost and walking in the wrong direction? What if she's been stolen by Them? And the worst of it was, no-one would help her. She had been a fool to tell everyone about Mishka's non-childproof magic, about her burnt palm. She'd thought that it would help - but it only made Mishka an easier target for their anger and resentment. ***** The fresh falling snow covered Mishka's unconscious body like loose soil over a grave. She awoke, sitting up and looking around her, wondering why there was snow in the middle of summer. The charred skeleton of an evergreen tree in front of Mishka reminded her of the moments before she had lost consciousness. She had created fire with her mind. No, it's impossible. I dreamt it. Her left hand rose from the snow and she saw the burn on its palm. It was real. She got up, wondering how long she had been out for. Which was that way back to Wynter's house? She examined each of the 4 paths as if they would tell her which way to go, and a thought caught up with her. Had Wynter and her sisters been in the crowd that had gathered when she'd burnt the tree? They couldn't have been. They would've helped me, brought me inside or at least stayed by me until I woke up. Wouldn't they? While she was musing, a middle-aged man and an old woman that could've been his mother walked by. They stopped by her, the old woman coming forward. "Are you lost, dear?" She said gently to Mishka, who nodded gratefully, trying to use the little sign language she knew to explain. Then the man caught sight of her hand, the small burn on the palm, and his expression changed from one of tender indulgence to anger - and fear. He pulled his mother away. "No Mother, leave her. It's the murderer girl." He kept his voice low, calm and inexpressive, as if Mishka were an animal who could understand tones but not words. Murderer? The anger, repulsion and even being treated like an animal, Mishka was used to, in her own world - although she had hoped it would change, here. But the fear - the fear was new. She remembered the unexpected feeling of power when the spark from her mind had ignited into flames, remembered the neglect, loneliness and abuse she has suffered for most of her life from people like this man who looked at her with angry, fearful eyes, and for a moment she was ready to set him alight. Then the sight of the old woman beside him put out the fire in her heart. Mishka let go of the strength in her legs and fell to her knees, appalled at the crime she had been moments away from committing. As her tears melted the snow in front of her, she heard a voice, carried on the air. A whisper in the wind. You feel weak, the voice said, and suddenly she did. You feel hopeless. You feel... Empty. All of Mishka's emotions fled from her, chasing the wind, and with them went her thoughts. She stood up, barely conscious, and followed the wind. It grew dark, and still Mishka walked, her mind shut so she didn't know she wasn't thinking. Then a blindfold over her head, and when it was finally taken off, her brain began to work again. A woman stood in front of her, with curly, cornflower-blue hair that faded to azure as it cascaded down to her feet. From her neck down to her waist she was thin, wearing a tight material that Mishka had never seen before, and below that, her sky-blue dress fell in silk layers around and behind her. She was like a human waterfall, animated though she stood completely, unnaturally still. Mishka stared, unmindful of the two formidable guards in scarlet uniform that stood by her sides. One of the guards pushed her to her knees. "Kneel before Narkesh Na Vïd," he ordered. Narkesh Na Vïd spoke. She had a curious voice, neither feminine nor masculine, but somehow both. "What is your name, child?" Mishka couldn't answer, couldn't even open her mouth. Suddenly she felt extremely tired, as though all her strength had been sapped. She felt a tug in her brain, then her name was painted in the air. "Mishka," Narkesh Na Vïd read. She frowned. "Are you an Ever or a Star?" Mishka had forgotten about the Ever/Star thing of this world. Deciding to declare herself as an Ever, (To be a Star, she would have to make herself look a year older by the end of 3 days here) focused hard on the word, not wanting to show that she wasn't from this woman's world. The word Ever appeared in the air, and Mishka tried to let out a long breath without seeming to. Another, sharper tug in Mishka's brain made her recoil from pain. A spark appeared, then Narkesh Na Vïd was closely examining a small burn on the tip of her middle finger. "Interesting," she said. "You, child, will sell for a lot if I don't keep you for myself." She turned and walked away, her dress tailing behind her. Mishka was dragged away by the scarlet guards, too exhausted to stand on her own feet.

It’s an awful thing when someone is concerned about you. One minute you’re counting the number of stories between you and the ground, and then next you’re discussing why you were up there in the first place. The casual veneer and delightful garden salad do little to hide the dark current flowing underneath. Compassion tears people apart. Things could have happened differently. This conversation could be taking place between a person and a box. One salad instead of two. Would it be any different? Hands are wearing a hole in your jeans, eye contact is a little left of center. It’s been two hours, and no one knows when it’s supposed to end. Is now when you walk away? Pleasant conversation is cleared with the dishes. Uncomfortable silence remains. Sometimes the person across from you is more important. Sometimes the person across from you is the person you can never be. Sometimes the person across from you is the eleventh floor. Jump.

The light had become too bright to ignore. He tried rolling away from the source, but there was no helping it; he was awake. He had hoped to sleep in on his day off. It was only 15 minutes after his usual wake-up time. He looked at the clock, rolled onto his back, and, unwilling to concede defeat, resolved to stare at the ceiling until he was ready to start the day. After an indeterminate amount of time, there was a knock on the door to his apartment. “Redge, you ready for skivvy”? It was his neighbor, Tinir, an elf who he played board games with. Redge had forgotten that he agreed to play a new game some days prior. Now he was debating on whether to honor the commitment or feign sleep a while longer. In the end, his conscience won out. “Yeah, yeah. Just need five minutes,” He sat up and let out a heavy sigh. He then clumsily threw on his clothes and went out to meet his neighbor in the hallway. It was obvious from his disheveled appearance and lethargy that he had just woken up. Tinir apologized. “No, no, I was just about to get up anyway. Besides, I did tell you 8 o’clock didn’t I? ...do you mind if we play in the dining hall? I haven’t eaten breakfast yet.” The two made their way down to the building's dining area. They made quite the pair. Tinir (7’6”) was tall even by Elven standards. He towered over Redge who was not quite 6’, closer to the average of his race. Tinir had dark skin, hair, and eyes. In contrast, Redge had fair features. Tinir set up the board while Redge got his food. Skivvy was a relatively new game. Its name came from the goblin word for “traitor”. Both players received an army of pieces with which to conquer the board. What made it unique was that each player would mark the bottom of two of their opponent’s pieces while the other looked away. At the start of each round, they would roll one die. If the dice matched, they could activate a marked piece, taking full control of it. A player might guess which pieces were traitors by their opponents' reluctance to attack them. One might even preemptively destroy their own piece if their suspicion were great enough. Redge sat down. After having the rules explained to him, he judged that Tinir was too straightforward to be good at this kind of game. And he was quickly vindicated when he won their first match handily. During the second, however, Redge had become distracted by the conversation of an adjacent table. Two women were discussing rumors of a murder that had occured the previous night. “They say it was an orc. Tore him clean in half. No sign of the girl.” “Rose, please! Spare me the details, I’m trying to eat here.” “I’m sorry, it’s just... I’m scared. The orcs seem to be really getting out of hand. This is what? The third incident this month? These things never happened back home.” “You’re overreacting. Look, there’s one over there,” her eyes gestured to a table across the room where an orc and human were conversing. Just then, the conversation turned to jovial laughter. “See. Completely harmless. And don’t you think they have enough trouble without all these rumors? After all, they lost their home and way of life when...” “hey Redge, Redge, REDGE,” Redge snapped back to the game in front of him. “It’s your turn.” “Ah, sorry.” He lost the match.

Rebecca was thrilled about her new apartment. She was finally moving out of her parents’ house. It was about time too. She was 25 after all. She had finally found herself in a career that she loved as a freelance writer and photographer for the local newspaper. And she had finally published her first novel. Her dreams were coming true. To her, her life was almost perfect. She pulled her car in front of her apartment building. It was a beautiful brick building with white trim. It had a flower garden that wrapped around the building with a vegetable garden around the back where the tenants could grow their own vegetables. When she had done research on the area and the building, she had discovered that the building had originally been built in the early 1800’s as a hotel. She loved old buildings and the history behind them. Things like that had always intrigued her. Everyone that knew her growing up had always said that she would work in a museum. And she had for a couple of years. Her time there had helped her realize her love of writing and now here she was. She stepped out of her car and took a deep breath. This was the first day of her new life. She grabbed the last of her bags from the trunk. Then she headed inside. She had an amazing idea for her next book and she wanted to get started as fast as she could. “Hello, Dear. How are you doing?” asked Georgia, her new landlord who lived on the bottom level of the apartment building. Her family had owned the building from the day it was built. She was a super sweet old lady who insisted on having community meals that she cooked for the tenants. “I am doing good, Ms. Georgia. Finally got the last of my stuff from my parents’ house. How are you doing?” Rebecca asked politely as she approached. “I am doing fine. Getting older,” Ms. Georgia said with a giggle. “After you put that stuff in your room, why don’t you join me in the vegetable garden and we can get started on your spot. I even have some seeds for you to pick from to get you started,” she added. “Of course, Ms. Georgia. I would love that. I will be right down, just let me drop this stuff and change,” Rebecca agreed. My book can wait a little longer. “Okay dear. See you in a few. I will be working in the back of the vegetable garden area, just come find me,” Ms. Georgia said, waving as she walked around the corner of the building. Rebecca turned to go in to the building and noticed a strange man in strange clothing coming out the door of the building. It looked like he was wearing clothes from the 1800’s. It was the early 2020’s. There must be some type of reenactment somewhere, she thought. She didn’t think about it again as she took the elevator up to her floor. When the doors of the elevator opened, she noticed a lady in 1800’s clothing walking down the hall towards the stairs at the other end of the hall. Her dress was a beautiful dark green color trimmed in what looked like gold lace. Then she disappeared around the corner. “I have to figure out where this reenactment is at,” Rebecca said to herself, as she stepped off the elevator. As she entered her apartment her phone started ringing. She fished it out of her pocket as she set her bags down on the couch. “Hello,” she answered. There was a lot of really bad static on the other end of the line. She pulled it away from her ear to see who had called her. It showed her mother’s number. “Mom? Can you hear me? I think there is something wrong with your phone,” She said. “If you can hear me, I will call you back in a minute.” And with that, she hung up. She tried to call her mother right back, again there was nothing but static on the other end. Is my phone broke? What the heck. She thought again. So instead, she sent her mom a text: Hey, I don’t know what’s going on with my phone, but I will call you back as soon as I can. Love you. She immediately got a notification that the message could not be sent because of no service. “What in the world is going on?” Rebecca asked no one in particular. She checked her phone and saw that she had no service at all. “That is so strange, I had perfect signal here yesterday.” Thinking that maybe the cell tower was down, she put her phone on the counter and changed clothes. When she was done, she headed out to go back downstairs. She headed towards the elevator like always, but as she got close, she noticed the strangest thing of all. The elevators were gone. Like they had never been there in the first place. The doors were gone. As she stood there in her faded jeans and old t shirt staring at the spot where the elevators had been just 15 minutes before, a woman opened the door to her right. Again, she was in 1800’s period dress. “Young man, what are you doing lingering in the hallway? What is your business?” she asked. “Young man? I am a woman and I was looking for the elevators. Did I pass them?” Rebecca asked turning around, looking at all the doors she had past. “I have never seen a young lady dressed as a farm boy in all my days. What is an elevator?” asked the lady, a very confused look on her face. “Ummmm, I ... never mind, I will just take the stairs,” Rebecca turned away and headed back down the hall. “A farm boy?" Seemed like these actors were taking the acting thing a little far. But where in the world did the elevators go? I had just used them. Am I going crazy? She made a note to mention this to Ms. Georgia when she met up with her in the garden. She headed down the stairs and to the back door of the building. She walked out into the warm sunshine. The garden looked the way it had on the day of her tour of the building, just a few more blooming flowers. She took a moment to breath in the scents deeply. Then she headed to the back of the garden. There she found Ms. Georgia, but she was dressed in pettycoats instead of the jeans that she had seen her in earlier. “Wow, I love your dress, Ms. Georgia. When did you change?” asked Rebecca as she approached. When the lady in front of her turned around, it wasn’t Ms. Georgia. Or at least not the same age as she was when Rebecca had left her. This woman was much younger with blonde curly hair. “I am sorry, dear. I fear you confuse me with another. My name is Margaret. What is your name, dear sir?” the lady asked as she looked Rebecca up and down. “My name is Rebecca,” Rebecca answered, confused. “Can I ask you a strange question?” “Rebecca is a very strange name for a young man. What is your question dear?” “I am not a young man. I am a woman. What year is this?” Rebecca asked, looking around. “The year is 1835, dear. If you are a woman, why do dress as a farm boy? Are you hiding from someone?” Margaret asked. “No, ma’am. But when I went in the building just now, it was 2021. I started seeing people wearing the same style clothes as you are. When I came out of my room the elevators were gone and now you are telling me that it is 1835?” Rebecca asked, shocked. “What are talking about? Are you okay, dear? Are you ill?” Margaret stepped forward and placed a hand on Rebecca’s forehead. “No, ma’am. I feel fine. Just a little overwhelmed and extremely confused,” Rebecca said. “Come, dear. Let us go inside and get some tea. Then maybe we can talk this thru and see if we cannot figure out what has happened here,” Margaret said, putting her hand on Rebecca’s arm and motioned with her other hand towards the building. “You know this building is over a year old and you are the fourth person who has said that they were from a different time. It really is odd,” Margaret said as in a way to make conversation. “This has happened before?” Rebecca asked, stunned. “Oh, yes. Just about every three months. It is nice to know this place is going to be around for a couple of hundred years. Tell me, does the outside still look the same as it does now as it does in the future?” Margaret asked, hopefully. Rebecca glanced up at the building as they entered the back door. “Yes, it does. I think the only think that really changed was the city surrounding the building. It was destroyed by a fire in 1902. I think this building is the only one that escaped the blaze with no damage to it. I did a history report for school about a it few years ago.” “Oh, what’s the city like now?” Margaret asked, excitedly. “It’s huge now. With tall buildings everywhere. In fact, this is now the shortest building left in the city limits. Ms. Georgia keeps it running very smoothly, but I fear for the future of the building when she passes. She has no children to pass it down to. I would hate to see this beautiful place destroyed. Ms. Georgia is the landlady,” Rebecca said. “Georgia is my middle name,” Margaret said, matter of factly. “I wonder if you are related,” Rebecca responded. “I think that we might be because each one of the people who have appeared here have confused me for her. So, we must be similar in appearance in a big way.” “Did the other people ever make it back to our time?” Rebecca asked as she realized how scared she was by the thought of never getting back to her own time and seeing her parents again. “Yes, they did. They were normally gone back within the hour. It is the strangest thing. They would go back up to their room and then they would be gone,” Margaret said. “Room? They all had the same room?” Rebecca asked. “Yes, they did. Room 213 as a matter of fact,” Margaret answered. “That’s my room!” Rebecca exclaimed. “I wonder what would cause anyone that stays in that room to travel back in time like this.” “Well, the first young lady that I met from your time said that there had been an awfully bad thunderstorm that day and that the building had been struck by lightning. And that when she came out of her room, she was here in 1835. Was there a bad thunderstorm in your time today?” “No, but there was one a couple of days ago. But I was still in the process of moving.” “Strange.” “Ms. Margret, do you think that I could go into my room. To see if I can get back. I just need to know that I can. I don’t want my mom to worry about me anymore than she already does,” Rebecca asked, shyly. “Of course, honey. Come on and follow me. I have a tenant in that room who was here for our last visitor, I am sure that she would be okay with you going in there.” Margaret headed down the hall to the stairs, “Has anyone from the past ever come to the future that you would happen to know of?” “No, ma’am. Not that I am aware of but this was only my second day in the apartment. But I plan on being there for a while, so I will keep my eyes open. Maybe I will get to come back and visit in three months,” Rebecca replied. “Oh, that would be nice. To have a repeat visitor. So far, they have all been different people. Well, here we are.” Margaret said as she knocked on the door. Rebecca could not help but gasp when she saw who opened the door. Ms. Georgia just smiled and waved her on in. “Come on Ms. Rebecca. Your mother is quite worried that she has not been able to reach you in so long. She just called the landline looking for you.” “Ms. Georgia? You knew?” asked Rebecca, as she stepped into the apartment. “Dear girl, not much goes on in this old place that I don’t know about. This included. I was the very first one it happened to,” she said giggling, turning back to Margaret she said, “See you again in three months.” “Until then,” Margaret said, bowing her head slightly. The door closed. Rebecca looked around the room. It was her apartment. All her stuff was there. Her phone was even still on the counter where she had left it, vibrating as her mother called her again. “Hey, mom,” Rebecca answered. “Sorry I was in the shower,” she lied, knowing very well that her mother would never believe what had just happened. “Oh, thank heavens. I was so worried when our call dropped earlier. I thought you were hurt,” her mother said, relief in her voice. “No, ma’am. I am fine. Ms. Georgia let me know that you had been trying to get a hold of me just now. Can I call you back when I finish drying my hair?” Rebecca asked. “Of course, Dear,” her mother said. “I love you.” “Love you too, mom.” Rebecca said. As she hung up the phone, she turned to face Ms. Georgia, but before she could say anything Ms. Georgia put her hand up. “There will be plenty of time to talk about what just happened, but for now, lets go finish your spot in the garden. You know since you are going to be staying with us for a while,” Ms. Georgia said with a little twinkle in her eye.

My world cracks with a sudden brightness and then goes dark. A great force, behind me or from within, seems to scoop me up like a wave and washes me onto a barren black shore. I try to scream out, but the echoing clamor of hundreds of terrified cries around me drowns the sound. “Hello?” “Where am I?” “Mother?” “What is this place?” The screams are increasingly frantic as more bodies dump in on top of us. My legs buckle underneath me as the weight crushes my shoulders. I climb out of the pile and gasp for air. Taking in the dark scene around me, I only have time to notice one thing: “We’re all children!” With a lurch and a shriek that pierces our ears, our cries unify in one giant plea for help as the floor shifts beneath us. I recognize my brother and crawl towards him, fear and the moving belt challenging my legs to keep the rest of me upright. My feet stumble over one another as I arrive at his side, and my face lands right onto the shoulder of his soft downy coat. Without a word, I feel the warmth of his embrace trying to calm my trembling body. “SHH, be still, little chick,” he says to me. I cry into his shoulder, silently wishing our mother were still with us to tell us what to do. Then, I remember our sisters. My head lifts and I dart my gaze around the clusters of sobbing children screaming for help. Cluttered piles of squirming limbs rise on either side of me, one body part indistinguishable from the next. I turn back to look at my brother, whose grim expression tells me without words the last thing I want to hear: *They’re on their own, just like us.* Right then, a rubberized claw reaches down and yanks my brother from my side. I have enough time to catch a glimpse of his thrashing legs as his dying scream disappears along with him. Now, I am alone. The others look at me with wild, frightened eyes. Tears stain their faces. Their legs tremble. Some of them have soiled themselves, the waste still unattended at their feet. *We’re just children*, I think again, and my own eyes drip with tears. Another claw grabs my neck and I nearly swallow my own tongue. My heart is racing. I hear the whirring sound of a motor near my face and then muffled screams of the others in line before me, when suddenly my mouth is met with the fiery kiss of pain. I try to scream, but all I can manage are muffled cries, my own weak warning to the child in line behind me. The fire feels as though it might start to dig through the bone of my face when the clamp around my neck whips me around and releases. Weightless, my body sails through the air, and I wonder if this is death. Not yet. I land on a pile of the other children, bits of white bone visible through their bloody mouths, and it occurs to me that only the girls are left. A small girl with round eyes and a shorter girl beside her inch towards me, and we all instinctively huddle together for protection. Our bodies all shiver in unison with our shared fear and pain. Before we can even look one another in the eyes, our hearts jump into our throats. One more time, we drop through the air until a grated plastic floor breaks our fall. More girls come tumbling in after us, their tiny scared screams drowning out my own, their faces twisted in the same terror. The tall walls bend and creak on rotating joints, and start to close in on top of us like a lid. I meet the round eyes of the girl beside me one last time before darkness stifles us into silence. **Day 31** When the first crack of light blinded us twenty-four hours later, we were in what can only be described as a concentration camp. I was never good with numbers, but there must be thousands of us in this large warehouse, pacing around in our own filth. Our captors bring us a bland food supplement which is keeping us well fed. It tastes maybe like corn but seasoned with something foul. Though, that may just be the smell of dead bodies tainting the flavor. Sassy and Clara have survived, the round-eyed girl and her short friend that I met right before the kidnappers sent us here. So did Fiona, the other girl who shares our cell. But Telly died shortly after we arrived. The infection in her mouth from the burning machine started small, but after a few weeks, her right cheek was bright red and sagging with pus. No one ever came to check on her, despite our cries that she was dying. Now, her rotting corpse sits in the corner of our cell, uncovered: a constant reminder of our own expectations. We still have no idea why they abducted us, what they want, or who *they* are. We only see an actual human being once or twice a day, but the rest of our prison is automated. Even when they do come in--to spray us with antibiotics to calm our festering wounds, or to unclog a feed dispenser--they seem immune to our sobbing cries. Covered from head to toe in protective polyester, they march by stone-cold stoic as they scan our cell blocks, riddled with dead children. Though, we are already starting to change. I had no idea at the time, but our kidnappers took us from our mothers just as we were about to reach our adulthood. This celebrated milestone of a girl’s life has, for us, become a horror under the microscope of captivity. They touch us, grab at our breasts, check for any signs of maturity, all the while, eying our bodies with hungry anticipation. Over what, I am still unsure, but it frightens me nonetheless. **Day 136** Just when I thought things were at their worst, our captors moved us to another prison. Here, we have become no more than objects. We have grown so fat without exercise or movement, and our tiny young bones break under the pressure of our weight. My ankle is healing, but Clara’s broken leg keeps her on her backside all day. Instead of healing us, they run experiments, take our gametes for who-knows-what. My imagination runs wild based on the torture to which they subject us in order to get them. The girls and I have been in this new prison for twelve days now. Sassy, Clara and I still share the same cell, but Fiona’s body was uncooperative, not producing whatever it needed to satisfy our captors. They came for her after only a couple of days. Two different girls we had never met before, also just reaching their womanhood, joined our cell the day we arrived, but at this point, Sassy, Clara and I have stopped learning new names. It just gets to be too painful to say goodbye. **Day 572** Something is happening! This morning, they came and took Clara without warning. Sassy and I watched up and down our cell block row as they hand-selected a few others to end up wherever they sent Clara, but we never saw them again. Now, they are packing the rest of us up to go. Where? I have no idea. Even though I have said this and been wrong before, I cannot fathom anything much worse than what we’ve already endured. Eighteen months of this torture and my body feels like a wet rag. I barely have the energy to look up at the masked-face captor as he grabs me by the legs and tosses me into a crate with at least twenty others. The air is suffocating. The others’ bodies are just as rotten and exhausted as mine, so we just lie there together in our own disgustingness, praying without real hope that this final move will bring an end to the abuse. An engine starts, the cage jerks, and our cramped bodies pinch one another. The crate bangs against others beside it as the movement jostles us around, and I know this means we are all packed in here together, the same scared little faces I watched grow up along with me over the past two years. I try to remember what life was like before that day when they dumped us onto the conveyer belt and took away the boys, but I have no other memories, only pain and torture from then on. The engine stops. I feel the transport vehicle shake and the back door creaks on its hinges. Light starts to break through as arms reach in to remove the crates from around ours. Then, fingers jam through the handles of our crate and we go flying through the air until slamming down with a crunch on top of another. Other slams jostle our crate two more times, and we feel our bodies soaring, though none of us can lift a wing. My eyes lift from the pile of exhausted chickens underneath me as we pass through a pair of swinging doors. I hear motors running, gears turning, a saw spinning, and screams. Our crate drops onto a table and another masked face appears as he peels back the lid. His goggled eyes meet mine, and I want to beg him to stop, but all I can muster is: “Please.” Without hesitating, the man grabs me by the legs and storms towards a giant machine. At first, being upside down and utterly drained from grief and terror, all I see is metal. Only as we get nearer do my eyes open to the horror. The other chickens, the young girls less than two years old who suffered at my side during our lives in captivity, hang in a row by their feet watching the others just ahead of them stunned in an electrified water bath so that the saw that comes afterward can more easily split their necks. They start to wriggle against their shackles as it approaches, but then they hang deathly still. Gushing blood rushes over their faces. I see Sassy ahead of me and I choke back tears, knowing we are next. The screams flood my ears and my wings start to flap uncontrollably. I think I might be screaming too as they clip my ankles into the assembly line. What am I saying? Anything! *Help! Can’t you hear me?! Please, I don’t want to die! Please, don’t do this! I don’t want to--”* When you pay for animal products, this is the kind of torture your money keeps in business. Without your support, the unnecessary slaughter ends. #GoVegan.

I dislike the neighbour across the road, a certain Mr Hammond. He has two extremely small dogs and a hunched and offensive stance. I have never seen him smile, and to be honest I don’t think I want to. A demonic influence plays havoc with his face as it is. Mrs Talbot from number 62 has a granddaughter she couldn’t be prouder of. A banker from the city with all the trimmings. She ignores the bad press of Miss Innocence like an ignorant mule, only with stiffer lip. She declares no shortcomings of her own either and is often a case to avoid. The London family had no number on their house, but a name for it was considered of taste and fashion. The London’s were made up of 7, the parents and 5 children. Everyone wore the same style of glasses, even Henry the 2 year old. Their dog, a Dalmatian even had two large sockets of black around its eyes. Number 54 was empty, except for the remnants of an empty sort of life. Mr Dane was a hermit of no affection or infliction. His life, or presence on this planet made no difference to himself or others. Now I see that it did. The Hunting by name, and hunting by nature, family lived at another named property. They had acres of land attached to their garden, where they grew organic produce and set free wild game for hunts. They were eccentric like a family of dukes, but they were of common product. At number 2 lives Mrs Shrew (as blind as one too). Of Italian lineage, Mrs Shrew was a retired schoolteacher and part time mafiosa. She wanted for nothing as was as quick witted as she was evil. Number 33 was the house painted black. The windows were bordered in white, and the garden was always immaculate, even more due to the religious statues. Here lived the Lessons. Mr Lesson liked to see himself a philosopher, with a Socratic approach to life. His wife owned a flower shop specializing in funeral wreaths. There is no logic to the numbers down this lane. The residents chose them as they forged their foundations. I am a fisherwoman by trade, and I only come home after months at a time. This house was my fathers before me and his mothers before him. And so it is all down the lane, houses of the matriarchs. All except number 16. My house. My house was a poor affair, a sad place for a child. I would walk in the woods that surrounded the lane and its fields and wonder where all the happiness was. Was it in number this or named that? I had to believe it lived somewhere because it didn’t live with me. I grew up in the middle of a country that bordered land to the north and south, and sea to the east and west. I chose west. The ocean became my refuge, the waves my mothers embrace. My boat has no name and my life has no number. Number 16 is now nothing but a pile of bricks and scattered bones.

#Welcome to Serial Sunday! Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting; there are changes! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #This week's theme is Courage! As we explore the overarching theme of ‘change’ for March, we will focus on “courage” this week. Courage comes in all shapes and sizes; big and small and dark and light. What fears will your characters face this week? How will they overcome them? Are they heroes of the people or simply heroes in their own mind? What effect will their choices have on the world around them? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story, but its interpretation is completely up to you. / &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * March 7 - Courage (this week) * March 14 - Distortion * March 21- Resistance &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting! &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #The Rules: * All top-level comments must be a story. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * Your story must be written for this post. You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but I encourage you to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post will not be allowed. * Your story should be 500-850 words. Use to check your word count. * The deadline to submit your story is now 6pm on Saturday. That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments. * Submissions are limited to one serial submission from each author per week. * Each author must leave a comment on at least 2 other stories during the course of the week. This is mandatory! That comment should include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements. * While content rules are more relaxed 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! &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments, if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * Saturdays I will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * You can nominate your favorite stories each week. Send me a message on discord, reddit, or through modmail and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Super Serial role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! *** #Note About Rankings: Rankings are currently suspended due to lack of feedback on the thread. Feedback matters; it’s how we improve and grow as writers. It’s also a requirement for this feature. In the same regard, rankings depend on your nominations, so please make sure you send me a message here on reddit or on discord with your favorites before the deadline next Sunday. Thank you to everyone who has given feedback week in and week out. It doesn’t go unnoticed. I hope to see a lot more participation this coming week.

I stumbled through the hospital corridor, leaving red handprints on the clean white walls as I went. I could hear the footsteps, tens of hundreds, trampling over each other in the stairwell behind me. I stayed focused, searching desperately for the operating room. I passed one door, then two as the screams began to echo behind me. I turned a corner and increased my pace, aggravating the wound on my ankle. A wild gunshot rang out from down the hall behind me. My eyes widened and I saw the sign ahead of me, three doors to my salvation. I heard them slamming into the wall trying to turn the corner. Another gunshot rings out followed by a cacophony of screeches and howls as they lay eyes on me. I burst into the O.R. and slammed the door behind me. It only took a second for them to crash against it. Through the thin window I could see them, the twisted things. One pressed its face against the glass. it was an exact replica, down to the little mole under my earlobe. We all were, down to the bone, identical, I had gathered that much after week one. I rummaged through the room and found some antiseptic and gauze. After clambering onto the operating table, I began dressing my wound. Thoughts raced through my head. My fingers were twitching. By week two I had begun to understand their patterns, their... herd mentality, if you could call it that , but their motives are well beyond me. I poured the antiseptic onto my injury and winced. They were wild, feral, single-minded in the goal to not just kill me, but devour me, as I learned this week. I can’t accept this reality, I can’t even understand it. The window shattered, arms reaching through, writhing in search of my flesh. I finished binding the gauze to my ankle and hopped off the table, remembering to stow the extra supplies away in my backpack. Adorning the back wall of the room was a large mirror. I pulled my rifle off my back and shattered the mirror with the stock, revealing an observation room hidden behind. Exiting from the observation room back into the hallway, I took off my shoes so they wouldn’t squeak as I snuck away, looping around back to the stairwell and elevator. I reached for the call button but hesitated before pressing it. The elevator would likely chime upon reaching this floor, alerting them to my presence, and even if the doors closed in time, it would chime again once I reached the ground floor, alerting any stragglers stuck down there. The stairwell door suddenly swung open again, allowing another flood of them to pour onto the floor. Luckily none of them noticed me, now curled against the elevator door, as they ran to join their companions. There was no counting how many were in the stairwell now; the elevator was my only option. I reluctantly pressed the elevator button. Switching the safety off my gun and checking the magazine revealed approximately twelve rounds remaining. I got to my feet and prepared for the signal, which came just a moment later. Ding! I leaned hard against the door as the screams began anew. They rounded the corner as I stepped back into the elevator, hitting the close door button as I did. I knew hitting the button repeatedly had no effect, so I focused on aiming down my sights. Shots came down the hall at me with little precision, and I returned fire with more fortunate gains. I counted four incapacitated by ten rounds. One lunged forward, diving to the ground and crawling like a spider with frightening speed. I fired my last two rounds at it to no avail, proving itself too agile to counter. It pushed me to the floor and bit into my neck. I stuck my fingers in its mouth and pried it loose. I pressed my foot into its gut and threw it off, buying myself enough time to aim my gun at it and pray to any and every god that I miscounted the bullets. I pulled the trigger, and to my elation, one final bullet stormed from the barrel, tearing through the things chest. I breathed a sigh of relief, taking this reprieve graciously. When I tried to stand, however, I found myself too weak to do so. I pressed my hand into my neck and found a copious amount of blood leaking out. I paused and thought for a second, and that's when the clone struck again, its breathing ragged from the hole I had punched in its lung. It flipped me on my stomach and grabbed me by the hair, slamming my head against the descending elevator floor, again and again. Crack! Crack! Crack! I could feel my mind going blank. Crack! I struggled, exerting all my energy in a desperate attempt to throw it off my back, to no avail. Crack! Crack! I stopped resisting after I felt my skull split open. In another lifetime, perhaps I would uncover the truth. I found myself out of time before I could come up with a proper last thought. I don’t know how long I was unconscious for after that, but I awoke to the sensation of thick dried blood in my sinuses. I was caked in the stuff, sitting in the elevator alone. To my left was a corpse, head split open and hollowed out. I was unfazed, although I wasn’t sure why. Where the hell am I, the hospital? No wonder I’m covered in blood. It was logic better suited for a dream, and I was indeed in a dream-like stupor. As I stood up a sudden pain burned in my chest. I felt for an injury, but found nothing save for a small hole in my shirt. I wavered out of the elevator in search of a bathroom. It was unseemly, but I stuck my pinky up my nose, trying to dig the remaining blood out of there. I washed my hands for what felt like the fifth time before trying to add some kind of style to my hair, just enough so that people wouldn’t point and laugh at me for looking so downtrodden. I stared drearily at myself in the mirror before heading to the door. I nearly bumped into the man waiting in line outside. He looked so familiar, but in my state I didn’t quite recognize him. I also didn’t quite comprehend his hands reaching for my neck.

The Onslaught of colorful spotlights skating across the dance, painting the gleaming crowd with red, pink, and orange. The smell of perfume and cologne all around, barely overcoming the smell of sweat underneath, permeated throughout the entire room. A pleasant yet corrosive smell; something that stabbed at my nose. I do not know if it is in a good way or bad. I didn’t have a man to share this with of course, but the group I cultivated over my short and super awesome stay at York High. This was enough for me, plus I’m a truly gifted extrovert with an introverted cuteness and smart vibe! All my friends are the same, a lovely bunch of gals that can only admire and improve themselves. So bad in all the right ways too, like Jennifer who hates short guys went on a total dwarf spree this year. Perhaps she wanted to feel like our childhood favorite princess, Snow White, and of course she always SLAYS! We’re all gorgeous princesses that fully embody all womanhood in a group of four. Life is such a blessing and I’m always happy to go on these random, well written, spurs to just prove to myself that “ I’m worth it that I’m worth it that I’m worth it that I’m worthless that I’m worth it that I’m worth it that I’m worth it that I’m worth it that I’m worth it that I’m worth it.” But why, why is there that voice that knows everything I say or do is bad, in a none sexy way. That the word sexy isn’t something I enjoy using but loathe. I loathe I loathe I loathe. She thought to herself all while sitting down on a dirty little couch, legs squeezed together, feet clenched up shaking. It didn't smell of anything, this stale place. It was odd. For every other area to smell so distinctly different but this one a place absent of any such distinctive features, what made this place different? At night, this belligerent loathing paints my dreams with such crude things, monsters and demons. All orchestrated by the hairy frizzled man, riding a red bicycle with a disgusting green raincoat. Mocking me MOCKING ME MOCKING ME. “His eyes are brown, mine are blue; he is filthy, I am clean. At every party, in a moment this duality of nastiness and cleaness collides. There is this conversation, this prying thing, oddly familiar and foreign, that demands I do and think of such heinous things; incestuous quarrels, gay crimes, and or actions so cruel by nature that I clench my soul when even thinking of them,” she said to herself, the shaking more violent, but scratching too. It was almost as if she sat perfectly still, but she didn't. Before this night, the night of prom, she had already committed quite some time consumed by these thoughts. In the bathroom, at night, in class, or in broad daylight. They were terrified and this fear grew more and more everyday. I am pretty but if somebody could peer through my neat face, they’d see a jungle filled with horror. They continue to stare at me and I’ve begun to hate them for it. I’ve begun to despise the normal man and his virtuous ways. I'm terrible and my mind is polluted. “A terrible person locked in the perfect, sweetest life, among the most gorgeous fruit. I am the snake stuck in Eden, the sinner prayed for,” she said to herself as she finally eased off, her body loosening and her feet back on the ground, firm and she stared half consciously at the ceiling. Barely lit by the old light bulb, swinging and swaying about. Tonight was a sort of breaking point but for her felt like a revelation, a moment from a book that could be talked about. “I’ve grown bored of my smiles and straight posture, I’ve grown bored of hating myself.” These conversations and the weight of her own failed attempt at morality had arisen sometime, she doesn’t know when. The thoughts were almost ancient, something locked at the heart of every man, prying but always neatly kept under our principle. This conversation had already occurred 23 times in the last month, an obligation to prove to herself that she isn’t bad, to rid herself of these thoughts by controlling a reality, in some way, somehow. “I’ve grown bored of the things around me, I’ve grown bored of being nice.” Severe questions and belittling can shape the strongest of souls into the most terrifying things. “To do so for what?! Others!? Is this not bad? Is it not bad for me to listen to someone instead of myself. Jung says that a man must find his own way and no matter what, a man who lives by his own code is a man.” At this point she was trotting across the room, half conscious of her movement. Conversing with herself as if locked in a conversation with a real person, of course there was nobody but herself. However, she felt at this moment the whole world was watching, that something was listening and she sought its approval of course. “If I pretend to be good, is this not bad? Yes, yes I must define life myself not be defined by others!” But they’ll judge you! “ I’ll kill them, yes I’ll kill them. Just one, perhaps a boy no taller than me. Maybe the Jamaican in 223, YES! The Jamaican in 223” Her thoughts went silent and now she could only hear the gorgeous ringing of Tchaikovsky’s famed waltz, Sleeping Beauty as she excitedly began to peel her mangled finger tips. Her eyes were as wide as an excited cat stalking its prey. Her face was flush red and fully relaxed, her lower jaw slightly dangled, and she continued to walk in circles stuck in thought, theorizing. “I’d have to do it or else what could happen to me. I’d fail and be forgotten. Be normal. The only rational thing to do is this and it is the only thing left for me to do.”

Warning: This story contains an instance of strong language. The castle at Elvia sat on a small rise on the east edge of the city, with a good view over the approaching road from Teraditha. It guarded the east gate into the city, joining the high walls seamlessly by the work of master stonemasons. To the south, the clear sea glittered in the sunlight, giving the impression of summer despite the chill air. The road became busier as farmer’s drove animals to market, and tradesmen of the surrounding towns and villages headed for the city to stock up on supplies for the winter months. Luthar breathed in the salty air as they left the main road to the city and approached the castle gate to their right. The horses’ hooves banged against the wooden drawbridge as they crossed the moat, it was low for the time of year owing to the hot summer they’d had with little rain. As they reached the parched grass on the other side, a guard clad in chainmail and bearing an oak on a field of argent approached them. ‘Good morning sirs, what brings you to my gate?’ He was well presented and spoke politely with a ready smile, more than Luthar had come to expect from professional soldiers addressing a man of the guild. ‘We’ve come to seek out Lord Wedderburn’s court mage. We have something that he should see.’ Flint replied with his best manners on show. ‘Our Lord and his staff are very busy this morning, perhaps I could take a look instead?’ Flint glanced at Luthar before dismounting and pulling the bundle free from the back of his horse. He carefully unwrapped it before holding it out for the guard to see. He peered at it for a moment, marvelling at the sheer length of the blade. ‘Who could’ve been strong enough to wield this I wonder?’ He mused, scratching his chin. ‘I’ve seen plenty of black steel in my life, but this is far beyond that.’ He reached out and touched the blade with his finger, evidently trying to see how sharp it was. In an instant, he pulled away yelling and clutching his arm. Luthar could see Flint grappling with the bundle, desperately trying to tie it back up. Luthar dismounted to give him a hand, but by the time he reached the ground, all was still. ‘He touched it and the blade turned into a fucking snake!’ Flint panted at him, the colour slowly returning to his face. Luthar knelt by the guard who was now whimpering, and clutching his bleeding hand. Two small marks blemished his skin where the fangs had penetrated, they oozed blood, mixed with some strange black liquid that reeked of death. ‘I guess we both need to see the court mage now.’ Luthar said as he offered him a hand up. ‘What’s your name friend?’ ‘Patrick, and you?’ ‘I’m Luthar, this is Flint. The two lads are Lucas and Ed.’ He pointed at each to identify them, they each returned a nod before Patrick turned and led them through the gate. They passed through the barbican and into the outer ward which basked in the autumn sun. It seemed every square foot of land was covered with either canvas tents, or carts containing shields, pikes, and all manner of other supplies. Patrick led them down a makeshift road through the camp’s centre towards an array of larger, more comfortable tents that were heavily guarded. ‘You can stable the horses over there lads.’ He pointed to a stable in the shade of the high castle wall, a few hundred yards where they were staying. ‘Ask for Nolan and tell him Patrick sent you.’ Lucas and Ed took two horses each and their bags and set off for the stables. Luthar could see Lucas chattering to Ed, who simply stared off into space as if he didn’t exist. As they followed Patrick through the camp, Luthar could see the swelling begin to rise on his right arm as it hung limp at his side. He stopped outside the second largest tent and addressed the guard on duty as he struggled to regain his breath. ‘Two men here to see Mage Edryg sir.’ No sooner had he spoken, he collapsed on the ground in front of the officer. He twitched violently as black bile sprayed violently from his lips. Luthar and Flint starred at the fallen man in stunned silence. Even their will to help him could not for their bodies into action. ‘What happened to him?’ Roared an assertive voice from the tent opening. Out stepped a man, impossibly old, yet still moved with the purpose and strength of a mighty warrior in his prime. He wore simple, pale green woollen robes, tied about his waist with a brown leather belt. Plain leather riding boots protruded from the muddy hem of his robes. The only adornment about his person was a golden star stitched into his robe over his heart. ‘He just collapsed, Your Munificence.’ The officer cried, trying to hold Patrick down and prevent him hurting himself further. The old man pushed the officer aside with his left hand, whilst his right settled on Patrick’s chest, pushing him into the ground. One of his hands was evidently stronger than the officer’s two. After a few seconds, he closed his eyes and muttered indistinguishable words as Patrick continued to writhe. More seconds passed and Patrick began to settle, until the only movement was the steady rise and fall of his chest. ‘You two! Get a stretcher and take him to the healer’s tent. Tell them he needs plenty of water and whatever poison antidotes they can find.’ He barked orders at the officer and a second soldier who had rushed to help him up. Without a moment’s hesitation they sprinted to another large tent in search of the stretcher. The old man turned to Luthar and Flint, pale blue eyes scouring every inch of them both, until Luthar felt he could see right through them. ‘You’re not Peccothian soldiers. My guess is Warrior’s Guild?’ ‘Aye sir, we came to see the court mage. Am I right in assuming that would be yourself?’ Flint replied, assuming his best manners once more. ‘Indeed, you are. With that being said, I’m not a sir. Your Munificence is the correct form of address for the mage of a noble court.’ ‘Forgive me, Your Munificence, you’re the first court mage I’ve ever met.’ ‘Let’s not stand about out here. I’ll take a guess that what you have to tell me is better kept private. Follow me.’ Without waiting to see if they’d followed his instruction, he strode back into the tent without a moment’s pause. Luthar followed on behind Flint, always keen to observe the rules of seniority in front of strangers. Inside the tent there was a small entrance hall made from pieces of canvas hanging from the roof, boots stood by the flaps and cloaks hung on a wooden stand in one corner. The mage held open a parting in the wall and stared at them both even more fiercely as they ducked through it and into what looked like a makeshift study. A small wooden desk faced them, with a padded leather chair behind it. Papers held down with rocks and all manner of instruments Luthar couldn’t name covered the desk’s surface. A bookshelf and chest stood along one wall, giving it the look of a typical mage’s quarters. In the far corner, behind the desk stood an armour stand, however it only held another pale green robe, woven from much finer material. Luthar and Flint stood in the middle of the room, waiting to be offered a seat. The old mage lowered himself into his seat gracefully and waved a casual hand at Luthar and Flint. Luthar sat whilst Flint removed the bundle he’d slung over his shoulder and place it carefully across his knees. ‘So, what is it that is so important you sought the opinion of Edryg, court mage to Lord Wedderburn of Elvia?’ He asked them, placing his elbows on the desk, and touching his fingertips together. ‘We were making our way down the coast road a few nights back, two days ride west of Stormhaven. We’d camped in the trees a few hundred yards off the road to avoid any unnecessary meetings whilst we slept. All of a sudden, our fire goes out and it gets cold real quick, so cold the grass froze solid before our eyes. Luthar here tries to wake up our squires, but they were as good as dead.’ As Flint recounted the tale, Edryg kept his gaze firmly upon him without uttering a sound, taking in every detail. ‘We knew something was up, so we get in a defensive position, back-to-back to cover the treeline around us. I thought I saw something and went for it, but I slashed only air. Then Luthar sees the same thing and we both go for it at once, he attacked low, I went high. Whatever the thing was, it just swatted us away like flies.’ ‘It was shaped like a man, but enormous. I’d say near on eight feet tall, and it wore armour as black as night with spikes on. Anyways, we had a bit of a dust up, and I think I managed to wound it as it staggered off back into the trees and left its sword behind.’ Luthar finished for Flint and gestured to the bundle. Edryg stood silently and held his hand out across the desk in an imperious command to Flint, who duly obliged and placed the bundle in his hand. Edryg frowned as he unwrapped the leather cords around it and laid it down on top of his papers. Flint edged his chair back as the black sword was revealed with no snake in sight. ‘What happened to our guard?’ Edryg asked, eyes still firmly fixed on the blade. His left hand rested on his hip as his right stroked his long white beard. ‘He touched the blade and it turned into a snake that bit him.’ As soon as Flint answered Luthar began to realise how ridiculous it sounded. However, Edryg remained solemn. ‘A snake? Hmmm, of course it must be.’ ‘Do you know what this sword could be, Your Munificence?’ Luthar ventured, eager to know what they’d got themselves into. ‘I have a theory at least. Is there anything else you feel I should know?’ ‘The thing that attacked us. It spoke to me.’ Luthar said. The memory of that hissing voice was burned into his mind forever. Thinking about it now sent chills down his spine. Edryg’s head snapped upwards, and his eyes narrowed. His gaze assaulted Luthar like a battering ram on a castle gate. ‘He spoke to you? What did it say? Speak quick boy, this is important.’ ‘Tell your masters the seed of Lazmurol lives again. That was when I got my blade into his neck, and he ran.’ ‘The seed of Lazmurol?’ The colour drained from Edryg’s face, and he sounded frightened as he spoke. His right hand was still firmly tangled in his beard as his eyes twitched. ‘Lazmurol was the King who united Averleon in the early second age. To my knowledge he never sired children as the crown there has never passed to kin, the next King must always be decided after a meeting of the chiefs.’ ‘Do you know what this could mean?’ Flint asked, his face a picture of bewilderment. ‘History is not my area unfortunately so I will need assistance with that. However, my skills are best suited to the here and now. Excuse me for a moment.’ He walked to the entrance to study and called into the tent. ‘Oliver! Fetch Scholar Hamed at once. If Lord Wedderburn is available, ask him to attend aswell.’ He made his way back to his desk and picked up the sword by its handle, turning it this way and that. ‘You may wish to stand back.’ Luthar and Flint both stood and took a couple of steps backwards, away from whatever Edryg was planning. An uneasy feeling creeped up into Luthar’s stomach, making him grab for his sword which had been left at the gatehouse. Instead, he grabbed the back of his chair with both hands, his knuckles turning white. Edryg had his hand no more than a couple of inches from the blade when the canvas ruffled behind them, and two men entered. The first strode in with the kind of confidence only Lords and Kings possessed. He stood straight-backed with his shoulders square and peered around the room, taking in Edryg holding the sword, and Luthar and Flint stood well back looking edgy. ‘You wanted to see me Edryg?’ The newcomer asked, his deep voice like thunder rumbling on the horizon. ‘I did my Lord, please take a seat, I have something you need to see.’ The second man entered came into view as Lord Wedderburn sat. He could not have contrasted more with him; he was stooped and frail and leaned heavily on a stick as he walked. His wispy white hair stuck out in all directions, reminding Luthar of pale straw. ‘Scholar Hamed.’ Said Edryg curtly, waving his hand at the second unoccupied seat. ‘My Lord, this is Luthar and Flint of the Warrior’s Guild. Gentlemen, you are now in the presence of Lord Clifton Wedderburn of Elvia.’ ‘My lord.’ Luthar and Flint said in unison, inclining their heads to show deference. ‘Now that we’ve all been introduced’ Edryg shot a nasty look at Hamed. ‘I will begin.’ He picked up the giant sword once more and held it out for them all to see. ‘This is a sword that was retrieved by Flint and Luthar a few nights ago on the road between Stormhaven and Elvia. It was wielded by some giant, armed man who claimed to be the seed of Lazmurol. I was hoping you may shed some light on who this might be, Scholar Hamed, this is your area of expertise after all.’ The tension between the two man was palpable. Scholar Hamed stared at Edryg before getting to his feet and turning to the room and clearing his throat. ‘Lazmurol was King of Averleon in the second age and bore no true born sons. However, during one of his ill-fated attacks on the city of Shavan, it is said he kidnapped the daughter of High Chancellor L’Cris and forced himself upon her. She escaped, but not without a child in her belly. Nine moons later, she gave birth to an ungodly large baby, nearly 10 pounds some say. The effort killed the poor girl and so, the babe was given to the temple of the sun. Not five days later, A’Kel, the self-styled prophet of reckoning was found dead in his rooms. Some jealous priest spread word that the child had brought shame on the temple, and that the moon god had slain the prophet in revenge. The poor child was cursed and left to die in the desert, never to be seen again.’ The old scholar sat himself back down, apparently worn out with the effort. Edryg turned his attention back to Lord Clifton and carried on. ‘My Lord, Luthar claimed to have wounded this thing that attacked him, causing it to flee and leave its sword behind. They saw fit to bring it to me, and now I see fit to destroy it before it can hurt anyone else. One of my guards has been grievously hurt by it and I have no appetite for any more bloodshed.’ ‘Hurt? Who swung it?’ Lord Wedderburn rumbled in reply. ‘Not swung My Lord.’ Edryg touched the blade with his bare hand as Patrick had done earlier. The blade turned back into the snake in the blink of any eye and lunged for Edryg. The man responded before Luthar knew what was happening and grabbed the snake around its neck mid-strike. It fought violently, but the old mage held firm, seemingly not breaking a sweat. Lord Wedderburn looked as surprised as Flint had done earlier. He scratched his close-cut black beard with his hand before making his decision. ‘No. Study it, and learn its secrets, we need to know how to act if there are more of these swords about, or that thing Luthar fought comes back to claim it.’ He stood and turned to Luthar and Flint, eyeing them closely, but not unkindly. ‘You two will feast with me tonight and tell me all you know of this thing and its sword. By the way, that’s not a request.’ He gave them both a generous smile before taking his leave. ‘You two best make yourselves look presentable; his lordship doesn’t appreciate scruffiness at his table.’ Edryg said to them before looking back at the sword, engrossed in his new task. Luthar held open the flap for Flint as they made their way outside into the camp. A cool breeze shot through them as they started down the path to the stables. ‘I thought you told me nobility was a sign of being a bollock brain?’ Said Luthar, unable to keep the grin from his face. ‘We don’t know him that well, he still might be!’ Replied Flint, clearly stifling a laugh.

"Yeah I'll be fine. Thank you for tonight, text me when you get home okay?" I said as he kissed my forehead. He smiled sweetly and nodded. I started walking back to my hotel as he open his car and drive off. Before entering the building I turn around with an uneasy feeling. I could feel a pair of eyes behind me. I look both ways but nothing, only darkness and a faint sound of cars driving. 'Maybe i'm just paranoid' I thought as I enter the building. The receptionist welcomed me and gave me my room's key since I left mine in the room. After greeting the people I pass and having small chit chats I walked towards the elevator and pressed 7. As the number above turned 7 I grabbed my keys and went inside. I'm in a five-star hotel and the owner is a close friend of mine so that's way the whole seventh floor is mine. I took off my shoes and placed my bag in the couch. The walls are painted in s light shade of grey with picture frames from all around the world. The living room looks simple yet classy. Grey, white, black and a hint of gold is seen. There are two guest rooms, a mini game room, a huge kitchen, a bathroom, a mini bar and of course the living room and my room. This room was my friend's gift since I helped her with her depression. Even though I said no she still insisted on giving me this room. I walked towards the biggest room here which is my bedroom and unlocked it. The bed can fit at least five people but it's not that important. There is a walk in closet , a mini library, a bathroom, a mini eighty-seven inches Tv and other things I'm lazy to mention. "Finally a break from everything." I mumble as I relax my body in the hot tub. I turned on the tv in front of me and took a sip from my wine. The bathroom inside my room has a mini tv that's like sixty-eight inches. It's been two weeks since my fiancée died and everything went downhill. A lot of people paid their visit and his family was the most affected. He was an only child and he was such an angel. He would take his mom shopping or play golf with his dad. We we're both highschool students when we met. Ever since that day we became the "School's Couple". Technically we are both famous in campus that's why people kept pushing us to be together. He was the mvp of their basketball team while being top 1 in their class. I'm famous for being a good dancer winning competition around other schools and being number one in my class. My dream was to be a well-known dancer because ever since I was a child I fell in love with music. I told him that after college I was planning on going to Korea and become an Kpop idol. I may not be a pure korean but my Mom is half and I can speak korean quite fluently. Our first date as I remember, we went to a convenience store and bought snacks and then we went to the beach and had a nice walk while staring at the sunset. We danced and talked till the sky went blue and the stars shines beautifully. It was simply amazing. It may seem simple but it was somehow magical for the both of us but sadly before the wedding day, he died. He left his family, friends and me. People loved and idolized him. He was like a gift sent from above. He proposed to me when I were twenty years old. Both our families we're there and all of our friends. A lot of people was watching since he proposed in public. The props and the way he asked for my hand seems like it was straight from a movie. Of course I said yes. *knock* *knock* I went back to reality when I heard knocking from the door. "It's eleven pm who could it be?" I asked no one in particular. "I'm coming just a minute!" I shout. I dried myself and grab my night-gown. The knocking seem to quiet down as I walk near the door. I opened the door to show nothing. There was no one. "Hmm? Was I imagining it?" I mumble. Before going back inside I saw a note below. I picked it up and it said- >The receptionist wants to talk to you> 'In the middle of the night?' I thought. I just shrug it off as I took my jacket and went downstairs. I walked towards the front desk to see no one. "Uhmm? Hello?" I asked. Nothing but pure silence was heard. A sound suddenly destroyed the silence. It was coming from outside. I walked towards it but to my dismay it was still pitch black and the only light is from the lamp in the other side of the road. I was about to walk inside when I saw a guy standing beside the lamp. "Good evening mister! Are you perhaps waiting for someone?" I asked politely. He just stared at me. "Why?" I heard him whisper. I looked at him confused and was about to ask him what's wrong when he suddenly smiled at me. "No... N-no! Nooo!" I shout. There he stood. A guy with a bloody shirt. The same shirt he was wearing the night before the wedding. "Was it worth it?" He asked and suddenly he was in front of me. He grabbed my neck and pushed me against the wall. "Y-you're a-alive?" There he stood my fiancée who I thought died. "Was your dream worth more than me?" He asked. "P-please l-let me go..." I begged but his smile just grew wider. I felt as if it was just yesterday. The scream, the blood, the beg for mercy. I could still feel the cold metal in my hand and the blood that stained my shirt. He looked at me as his smile grew wider. "Did you love me?" He whispered. As tears fell from my eyes I nodded. I wanted to speak but I couldn't breath properly anymore. My vision is getting blurry as I feel my head spinning. "I guess..." There in front of me was my fiancée, the guy I killed before our wedding day because he destroyed the dream that I took years to reach. I felt a metal stab my stomach as I close my eyes. I gasp for air as I quickly stood up. I'm in my room. I looked at my reflection to see tear stain. 'It was all just a dream' I thought. I walked towards the window and saw a guy staring at me. He was smiling. "No-" "Till death do us apart." He said looking up at me and vansihed in thin air. And with that two armed robbers enterd my room and stab me to my death. -sorry for the errors I made this an hour or two before twelve and i'm really tired so I couldn't re check it-

&#x200B; It was a study. A library? No, a living room. Yes, definitely a living room. A cozy room not burdened by the plight of modernity and appliances. Someplace an old lady would live. In fact, there she was, not older than seventy by the looks of it, and quite small and frail to boot. She was sitting on an old oaken rocking chair passed down from one generation to the next. She recalled her great-grandfather making it for his aging wife, but that was many lifetimes ago. Days were spent in it as she was one of the unfortunate ones to live long enough to see everyone else leave. Her son in Spain, her daughter in the Americas, and her husband only with her in spirit and in the image on the wall. Indeed, the days were melancholy and seemed to meld together into an endless stream of loneliness. The only company to keep this little old lady entertained was her cat, Erol. Erol was a fully-black, ordinary cat, although hopelessly fat. The absence of any grandchildren to take care of meant that Erol was the one being spoiled beyond measure. Just like the woman, he spent his days lying on the shaggy carpet in front of the rocking chair, living the cat’s dream. The room was a tidy mess of memorabilia. A picture of her and her husband at their wedding, the one where they dropped the cake so they had to eat biscuits. A dried-out flower she kept in a small glass dome. It was the first flower she ever got. Not from her husband, though. The name was long lost to the wind but the care never left the stems or the petals of the crisp rose. An ocean of pictures, some framed, some not, from her trips around the world and from the familiar comfort of her hometown. Indeed, a full life she lived. I lied before. Sitting in the rocking chair was not the only thing she did. She’d grow roots, wouldn’t she? Ever since the last of her family left the home, a strange coldness moved in and seemed to linger in every corner of the house, no matter the weather. Every place was freezing except for the fireplace, and around Erol. She understood that her fat tub of a cat would be warm, but it seemed odd that he would warm up an entire room. Every day, she made the rounds. Shakily standing up from her rocking chair, a place of stiff comfort, she walked from one room to the next, standing in each of them for a few minutes before moving to the next. If there was warmth, she would stay longer. If she heard a sound, she would sit down. Eventually, though, the warmth would become intense enough to warrant a stool or two being turned over, or a cupboard examined. On this particular day, she went into her bedroom. It was amazingly ordinary compared to the liveries and antiques housed inside her living room, but it provided comfort, nonetheless. Standing in the room, she was about to release a sigh before leaving, but a twinge of heat radiated on her leg. *Oh, I might just stay a bit longer.* The old woman walked around the room more, touching the cupboards, the windows, and anything her hand could reach before the heat became warmer once more. She sat down on the edge of her bed, letting her house dress dangle freely from her knees. Steadily, the warmth made the room pleasant again, almost enough to sleep in. As the bliss of comfort reached its peak, her attention was drawn by movement at her feet. There was something small tangled the flowing cotton of her dress, wrapped like a parcel, almost. As her stoic expression turned to a smile, a small tail stuck out from the mess of fabric, followed by a small paw, then it flopped out onto the rug, eager to return to its play. It was a small kitten. It was mostly white with spots of orange and brown on its head and tail, and quite playful. The little ones that visited her were usually more scared or aggressive, but not this little fellow. *Hello there, little one! My, you’re a lively one. You’ll make Erol excellent company.* It did not. Erol was the type of cat to only love its owner and no one else, but he had to tolerate the newcomer for the sake of his own master. The little one sprang at Erol on its hind legs, launching a mock “attack” at the terribly fat cat. He simply laid down and did not pay him any mind. Although the site of the two playing was a comfort, she could not help but feel a twinge of sadness. Visitors came and went all the time, and she could tell the reason for their visit upon their first touch. When she touched this precious life for the first time as it unfurled from her dress, she felt grime, cold, and wetness. *Drowned. What a shame.* However, whatever happened to the kitten before was not her concern. Her only duty was to provide them a home, even for a day, so they could return to their journey and reach their destination. Wherever they went, she did not know. She set the small plate of tuna on the ground next to the fireplace along with a small bowl of water. *Jump! Jump! Play with me! Cat. Fat cat. Warm. Fesh! Wa...* The small one’s thoughts raced in its hyperactivity, jumping from his unwilling companion to the rug to the food, but when it met its bowl of water, it stood still in its tracks. It looked at the sloshing water and seemed to tremble, but the woman was quick to act for her age. *Oh! Oh goodness, would you look at this silly old lady!* She picked the kitten up and held it close to her. It was still shaking. Moreover, it was cold, cold as the creaky halls of her home. *I’m sorry, little one. This should suit you better.* She put an even smaller bowl on the floor and set the kitten down. It moved forward and inspected the bowl, sniffing it timidly. *M... Milk? Milk!* Its joy and warmth were back as it made a mess of itself, dunking its head clumsily into the bowl. The lady giggled and helped clean the little one up. Her furry visitors brought joy to her life, but they always left soon after arriving. In the case of the new kitten, it was there for two days before the new warmth it brought into the home was gone. She did not have to stand up and look for them, she just *knew*. Whenever a new life would leave for its journey, she would feel intense sadness, a weight of emotion that would seemingly bolt her to the chair for days on end. The only thing to get her out of her slump would be Erol. The fat cat would waddle his way over to the chair, look up at his master, and jump into her lap. His own warmth would permeate her and give her back the familiar comfort of a friendly bond and allow her to stand up again to check for more visitors. Cats from all walks of life would come to visit her house. Some were angry: *Back! Back! hiss No more! No! Let go! Hiss* The angry ones would be taken from their hiding spots and embraced. Sharp claws would slash at her arms and chest, but she held them tighter all the same. They held tight, whispering sweet words of comfort until the wild slashing would turn to slight hissing, and until the hissing subsided into curious sniffs. They were usually the cuddliest out of all her guests. On the other hand, some were confused: *Ma-Master? Where master? Why... Why master leave? You... master?* Nothing could keep the tears from flowing when she heard these thoughts, and she made sure to keep these visitors around for as long as possible to make sure they felt loved. Some were young, as the drowned kitten. They were young, ignorant of the cruelty of humans, and came with all of the child-like tendencies befitting of them. These were usually the first ones to leave. She smiled as she reminisced about a cat that was uncannily like Erol. A white cat, just as fat, and just as lazy as him. She could very rarely hear Erol’s thoughts, but for this occasion, she could hear only one: *Friend.* The two lounged around for many days as visitors came and went. The woman did not feel sad when the white cat left, which she found odd, but welcomed it. Sometime after the young kitten left for its journey, she was feeling sad when Erol jumped on her lap again. He looked into her eyes. *Another one gone. Still the same sadness?* *Yes, they are just so precious I wish they could stay just a bit longer. I’m terribly lonely, Erol.* *I understand. Their lives are precious beyond measure. The ones that come here, must pass this point to reach the end. Their end is another’s beginning. Each time a newcomer visits us, it means a new life has started. Take comfort in that, my dear.* *But why do I have to do this, Erol? Surely, they can find their way on their own, no?* *They cannot. A caretaker must always be here, in this house, to watch over them and guide them on the right path. I should know, I’ve been here longer than you.* He made himself comfortable on her lap, lying down and purring. *And you promise that each one that comes here is going to be happy after they leave?* *Of course, I would not let them stray.* *Erol?* *Yes?* *Are you death?* The cat opened its eyes to look up at the woman, taking a moment to gaze, seemingly pondering before returning to his slumber. She never heard his thoughts again. From then on, she never thought twice about her visitors, always focusing on helping them in any way she could. Erol always mended the anguish she felt when a visitor would leave, and she always helped them. Every last one.

I grew up in a loud home. Not the bad kind with arguments and screaming but the kind that invited midnight jam sessions and spontaneous singing. My parents were musicians; pops was a D.J. in the 90’s underground hip hop scene and my mom was a pianist. And my sister? Boy, my sister plays drums like Animal from the Muppets, her purple and blue dreads flying around. The music gene skipped me. All I knew how to play was Street Fighter and Battle Toads. My family never made me feel bad about my lack of musical talent. They never pressured me to take up an instrument. They were cool like that. They understood that I just liked quiet. Even though the noise I’m talking about was stuff like Mozart in the living room or Run DMC from the basement, it was still noise to me. Inescapable, loud noise. Until I found my refuge. The kitchen cupboards. I crawled inside one of the cupboards and discovered it was pretty much soundproof. We usually ordered takeout so there weren’t any pots and pans in the way. It gave me plenty of room to read comics, mess around on my GameBoy or just be alone with my thoughts. My parents were real cool with it. They got me a hand-crank camping lantern so I wouldn’t have to hold a flashlight while reading. They even put a sign on one of the doors that read “Luke’s Place”. Which is what it was; my happy place. But overtime I wouldn’t just go there to escape the sound of admittedly good music... I’d go there to escape the sound of kids calling me names or laughing at me. While I knew my family was cool as hell, kids thought they were weird for not having 9-5 office jobs like their boring ass parents. I’d defend my folks at first, protect their honor like in the comics. That may work for Wolverine and Batman but it didn’t work for the smallest kid in school. I soon learned that my best defense against bullying was to play dead. I don’t mean curl up on the floor and lie still, I mean play dead on the inside. I kept my head down, my mouth shut, and just gave in to the taunts and attacks. I let them tear my homework, steal my shoes, whatever, so long as I looked like it didn't bother me. Just a blank, numb reaction. It usually worked and kids would stop when they failed to get a rise out of me. Except for this one kid a year above me. Tom was his name and he was a cruel mother fucker. Tom would do things like push me into traffic if I was standing close the curb or choke me until I passed out. He’d laugh each time. Especially when he'd eventually make me cry or worse, I'd piss myself. My parents tried to help but Tom’s family was rich and big time PTA donors. No matter how many times my folks tried to have him punished no one did anything. Not Tom's parents, not the school, nobody. What it did do was make Tom angrier. I eventually told my parents that Tom had a turn of heart and had stopped messing with me just so they’d stop calling the principal. All that's to say, most of my early childhood was spent alone. Until I met Doobie. It was 1994, the middle of winter break. I was in my cupboard after the worst run in with Tom I’d ever had. He didn’t put his hands on me but what he did -- what he said -- hurt me worse than an elbow or slap. He called me and my family names that just... that just made me feel less than human. I felt so awful about myself that I couldn’t concentrate on reading my newest issue of Uncanny X-Men. I kept seeing the slurs written in ink. Instead, I sat there turning the handle on the electric lantern my parents had gotten me. The hand crank was what charged the batter. It made this electric whine -- *mmmreee... mmmmmreee... mmmreee* \-- with each rotation. The sound used to sooth me more than any piece of music I’d hear outside the cupboard door. But it wasn’t working that day. I was broken. So I took my notebook and started to write. *When Tom kills me, I want my sister to have...* It was my last will and testament. It wasn’t because I had plans to off myself -- I’d never do that to the people I loved -- but because I was convinced that Tom would kill me one day. I had gotten to bequeathing my Super Soaker to my Uncle Ron when my lantern went out. I reached for it, started cranking... *mmrreee...mmrreee*... and it'd take some time for it to be a steady light but it did start to flicker back to life. Like each crank would create this blink of light. It was in one of those flashes that I saw I wasn’t alone. It was someone in the far corner. I worked up the courage for one more turn of the handle. It granted me another second’s worth of light, enough to see a boy, huddled in the corner with his back to the wall. The lantern's light once again blinked out of existence. I froze, clutching my lantern in the cupboard's lightless interior. Then I heard the boy in the dark ask in a soft, sandy voice... “Whacha writing, pal?” I responded by freaking the fuck out. I dropped my lantern and scrambled to get out of there. The cupboard door wouldn’t budge. Stuck inside the pitch-black interior, I pounded on the door, kicking and screaming for my parents to rescue me from my special place. It was useless. “Hussshhhhhh... you know better than that.” said the boy in the dark. “Good boys are quiet. Aren’t you a good boy, Luke?” he asked. He made my name sound more like a croak than a word. Believe me, I still wanted to escape... but cowering in the dark like that made my survival instincts kicked in. I played dead inside. I said yes. “That makes me happy. I’m a good boy too.”, he responded. Then I heard my lantern... *mmmreee...mmmreee...mmmreee*... and its amber glow returned, giving me a better look at who was keeping me company. The boy in the corner hugged his legs, knees brought up to hide the lower part of his face. I could see just enough to notice that his cheeks were raw with pimples. He had a crewcut but patches of hair were missing. Otherwise, dressed in jeans and a Ghostbusters t-shirt, he looked somewhat ordinary. Ordinary enough for me to I ask him his name. “Promise you won’t make fun of me?” He asked, bashful. I promised. “My name is Doobie.” I was suddenly hit with this overwhelming sense of kinship. His name, his features, the way he looked at me, everything told me that this kid was bullied for the simple crime of existing. Like me. It made me forget how bizarre our meeting was. Me and Doobie quietly talked for hours. He knew all of the comics I was into, all the cartoons, he even told me cheat codes for Battle Toads. Conversation came easy... it came easy because of the way Doobie spoke and expressed himself. It was familiar. I could tell he was holding on to a lot of pain. Like me. The more we spoke -- the more relaxed he became -- the more I noticed things about Doobie that were... off. Cupping his knees, his flat hands were way too wide for a third grader. His fingers were too long for an adult, dangling like a willow’s branches. I noticed his waxy skin would crease in thick folds whenever he moved or spoke. It reminded me of a Stretch Armstrong -- that rubber doll from the 90’s with sand inside. I didn’t say anything about how he looked. I knew what it was like to be picked on for things you can’t control. Doobie finally asked, “Can I see what you're writing?” I showed him. I explained what it was and how Tom treated me. Doobie listened the same way my parents did. He cared. “Does he call you mean things, too?” I said yes. “Tell me.” I felt self-conscious but eventually told him. When I was done, I heard him giggle. I assumed he was laughing at me so I called him out, saying how I didn’t laugh at his name. “I don’t think what he called you is funny at all, Luke. No, no. Not at all.”, Doobie said. “I’m laughing because he’ll get what’s coming to him.” That’s when Doobie leaned forward and, for the first time, his face was fully illuminated by the lantern’s light. The whole time I had thought Doobie had dark eyes like me but, with his face fully lit, I realized his brow had been casting a shadow over green eyes peering from deep, deep sockets. I had never seen eyes set so deep in a person’s skull. What struck me the most, though, was his smile. It was wide with too many gray teeth bunched so tight that many overlapped. Like his eyes, they were also deep set, like an inch or two from where his lips began. It reminded me of a muppet. Again, I didn’t say anything about his appearance. It’s funny but I worried if I did that I'd scare away my new friend. I just asked what he meant by "He'll get what's coming to him". Doobie leaned closer, like he was letting me in on a secret. He smiled, gray teeth gleaming, as he whispered... *Bad comes back, round and round.* *Cupboard kids see you’re found.* *Even home, safe and sound.* *Cupboard kids don't mess around*. It was lyrical, Doobie’s sphere-shaped head bobbing in time with his sing-song tone. Knocking at the cupboard door startled us. It was mom. We were going to Pizza Hut for dinner and I had to get ready. Doobie made me promise to come back the next day. I said yes, forgetting that my plans to visit my aunt and uncle across town. I’d learn that Doobie didn’t like that. I’ve always had trouble sleeping in other people’s homes. My Auntie Mona and Uncle Ron’s was no exceptions. I was lying on the living room futon, playing on my Game Boy while the rest of my family slept. Then I heard something over the snoring. *Mmmmrrreeee...mmmrrreeee...mmmrrreeee.*.. It was my cupboard lantern. I hadn’t brought it with me. I rolled out of bed and followed the rhythmic cranking to the kitchen. I wasn’t scared. I knew it was Doobie coming to visit. I never had a friend visit me before. Auntie Mona's kitchen was tiny. There was no way my little ass could fit in any of those cupboards much less Doobie. But when I saw my lantern’s light flicker from behind one of the cupboard doors, I knew he could. I thought it was cool. For a moment. I opened the cupboard door and there he was, contorted with his knees up to his ears. He glared at me, with my lantern between his fingertips. His long fingers reminded me of daddy long legs. “You lied, Luke Puke.”, he hissed. More than Doobie being there, more than seeing him squashed into the cramped cupboard, it was him calling me one of the names my bullies used that surprised me. I asked him why he insulted me, tears forming at the corners of my eyes. “Bad comes back, round and round.” he snarled as he extended a long, lean arm from the cupboard, lifting the lantern close to my face. His eyes narrowed on my tears. “You lied about seeing me today. Lying is bad, Luke Crywalker.” I apologized. He asked if I meant it. I did. His smile returned. “I knew you were a good kid. Just like me and my friends.” Doobie craned his head and addressed the cupboard door beside his. “Right, Chi-chi?” The cupboard door opened. A girl in a Care Bears Christmas sweater poked her head out. “That’s right, Doobie. Cupboard kids see that you are found.”, she whispered with a slight squeak. Chi-chi had the same features as Doobie -- the deep-set eyes, the fingers -- but her hair was in sloppy braids and her pale, waxy skin hung loose from her face and neck. Like a bloodhound. I asked what they were doing there. Doobie said he liked me so much that he wanted me to meet his friends. Then the three remaining cupboard doors opened. A different cupboard kid poked their head out. These ones looked less like kids and more like toothed tadpoles in t-shirts. Their pit-like eyes on me made my scared. I pissed myself. It wasn’t the first time I’d pissed myself in front of other kids but it was the first time it wasn’t because of bullying... like the time Tom threatened me with a baseball bat with a nail in it. I was expecting Doobie’s buddies to do what all the other kids did; point and laugh. They didn’t. Instead they quietly told me how cool my Garfield pajamas were and how Doobie said I was awesome at Doctor Mario. Then they asked me about Tom. I was embarrassed to tell these new “friends” what I’d been through. “If you tell us you’ll feel better.” Squeaked Chi-chi, her smiling revealing dirty teeth and bleeding gums. “You can even say naughty words if that makes it easier.” Even though most of my dad’s music was full of curse words, our house had a strict no swearing policy. But I let it rip, whispering how much I hated Tom as I described every insult he’d called me, every slap to the back of the head, every rock that hit me. I had the cupboard kids’s full attention and, yeah, they smiled the whole time. I was too by the end. Chi-chi was right. It felt good to let all that out. When I’d finished, I noticed Doobie was stroking his chin with his spindly fingers... like he was toying with a thought. Then he said, “Tom needs to know he’s a bad kid.” I told him how me and my family tried. How it was pointless. “But you have us now.”, said a cupboard kid named Lefty, his skin so tight his mouth barely moved. “Bad kids listen to us.” he added with a thin lipped smile. I imagined what that would look like. Me and my new posse walking up to Tom at school, cursing him out, making him feel small and weak and dumb. Adrenaline pulsed through me. I wanted to do it. I asked when. “No time like the present, Luke.”, giggled Chi-chi. Then she shimmied backward, disappearing into the cupboard and gently closing the door behind her. I watched Lefty, Bingo, and Waddles -- the other two cupboard kids -- retreat into their cupboards the same way. It was just me and Doobie. I looked at him, confused. “It’s time we show him how bad comes round again.” Doobie reached his hand out to me. With it so close to my face, I could see how blue green veins pulsing beneath thick, callused skin. It was ghoulish. But I took it anyhow, my hand wrapped in a nest of five long fingers. He gently pulled me into the cupboard. I gently closed the door behind us. Doobie kept a firm grip on my hand, pulling me deeper inside the dark, musty space. My heart pounded, fearing I’d end up in the dark forever. But in seconds I heard door hinges creak. Suddenly I was stepping out of the cupboard in the biggest kitchen I’d ever seen. The lights were off but I saw that the other cupboard kids were there. In the little bit of light that entered through the kitchen windows, I saw how different they looked when no longer confined to the cupboard. It was awful. They were short, shorter than me, and stood on stubby legs. Even though they were shorter than me, their torsos were wider, bodies like pot-bellied tree trunks. Their arms also defied proper proportions, so long that they all rested their palms on the linoleum floor. Even while standing. “That him?”, asked Chi-chi. She had a twisted, branch-like finger pointed at a family portrait. It was of a dad, a mom with a baby in her arms, and Tom. I said yes. The cupboard kids hurried out of the kitchen. They walked on their hands, legs dangling. The only sound they made were whispers cloaked beneath their heavy breaths... *Bad comes back, round and round.* Doobie led me out of the kitchen down a long hallway. The cupboard kids were in front of us, quietly opening each door to see what was inside. They didn’t make a sound, not even the floorboards creaked beneath their weight. But I could still hear them whispering... *Cupboard kids see you’re found.* I had no idea what they were looking for but when they discovered the room they wanted, they quietly entered. Waddles smiled and waved at me as he carefully closed the door behind him. Doobie and I entered the last room. There, in a big bed beside a window with a view of the entire town, was Tom. Fast asleep... safe and sound. I felt a weight rest on my shoulder. It was Doobie’s malformed hand. “Ready, pal?”, he asked encouragingly. I said yes. Doobie pulled himself to Tom’s bed and pounced onto my bully’s chest. Tom woke up with a gasp, the wind knocked out of him from Doobie’s weight crashing onto him. Doobie covered his mouth with one shovel-like hand and lifted him up with the other. Tom tried to push Doobie off of him but the cupboard kid was too strong. “Go on, Luke. Go on.”, Doobie said as he effortlessly held Tom in place. I looked at Doobie’s face. His lips were curled over his swollen gums and gray teeth. It was a smile but without a hint of sinister intentions. In fact, he looked supportive... almost loving. It was a stark contrast to Tom’s look of bewildered terror. I whispered at first, remembering what Doobie had told me about staying quiet. “Speak up, Luke! It's okay for good kids to shout at bad kids!” Doobie barked. I did. I unleashed years of pent up anger and shame and sadness and hatred, calling Tom every name I could think of. I made sure to say how it affected me, how he hurt me and my family. Then I heard screaming from the hallway. It was a man begging for mercy. A woman’s screams soon followed. Then I heard Chi-chi shout... *Think he's good, mom and dad,* *Even though he acts real bad?* *Such a shame your kid's a rat,* *We cut your skin and eat your fat!* Tom heard it too. He started thrashing against Doobie’s powerful grip. It was useless. Tom quickly gave up, reduced to blubbering, tears streaming not the cupboard kid ringleader’s unnaturally large hand. My anger began to fade. “What’s wrong, Luke?” I asked Doobie the same thing, asking what was happening outside. Doobie told me not to worry, that it was part of teaching Tom what happens when bad comes back. Then I heard Lefty shout over the screams. Bingo joined in. Then I heard a baby cry. *Still think he's such a prize,* *Even when we take your eyes?* *Keep the egg but kill the flies,* *Teach him good with your cries!* I wanted to run. I wanted to call out for help. My legs wouldn’t let me. My voice was caught in my throat. “We brought you here for this, Luke. Don’t be ungrateful! Only bad kids are ungrateful!” It was the first time I’d heard Doobie raise his voice. It was halfway between a pig’s squeal and the roar of an enraged old man. It made my ears ring and my legs shake. I felt like I would whenever Tom cornered me, demanding I give him my lunch money. I was going to have to do what I was told. My forced tirade ended an hour later when Chi-chi entered. “Hi, Luke!”, she said as she dragged herself in on her long, sinewy arms. I was expecting to see her wool sweater soaked with blood. She looked no different than how I’d seen her earlier that evening. “How do ya feel? Better?” She asked as she approached. I tried to answer but couldn’t; my throat was too hoarse from shouting over the screams and the cupboard kids’s haunting rhymes. “I think he got him pretty good.”, said Doobie. “Let’s find out.” Tom had stopped crying a while ago, his bloodshot eyes fixed on me. I thought he was angry, biding his time to run and tackle me like so many times before. I even flinched when Doobie’s fingers unwrapped from around his mouth. All Tom did was cry and beg to be let go. Chi-chi whipped her head around to face me. Just her head, her neck cracking as it spun 180 degrees. She smiled, proudly displaying her infected gums. “Great work, Luke!” she squeaked. Chi-chi’s head returned to a “natural” position, her beady eyes focused on Tom as she stalked toward him. Tom whimpered as she leaned close to him, her unnaturally wide mouth near his ear. She whispered something that made Tom gasp. He turned to her, horrified as he stared into the black pits where her eyes presumably were. Then the other cupboard kids walked in. There wasn't a drop of blood on any of them. It made me question if they had hurt Tom’s family at all. I watched as one-by-one, they whispered something in Tom's ear. Tom grew quieter with each word, my bully’s affect sinking deeper and deeper into despair. I looked at Tom and in a moment of clarity understood what they meant. He was staring into nothingness, expressionless. No whimpering or whining, just a vacant stare. Tom was dead inside. Then we left. I silently followed the cupboard kids down the hall. I kept my eyes ahead, making sure not to look into any of the rooms on our way to the kitchen. The smell of blood was enough. “Same time tomorrow?”, asked Doobie as he helped me out of the cupboard back into my aunt and uncle’s kitchen. I said yes. My auntie found me in the kitchen the next morning, hugging my legs beside my lantern. I didn’t say anything about what had happened. My family and I returned home later that afternoon. I went straight to my dad’s tool box, grabbed a screwdriver, and removed all the doors from the kitchen cupboards. My family even helped -- like I said, they’re cool like that. I had fucking amazing parents. I spent the rest of winter break in what became the new “Luke’s Place”: my bedroom. I believed that at any minute the police would show up and arrest me for what had happened. They never came. Tom never came back to school. Rumor was that his family had abandoned him, just got up and left, leaving only him behind. His neighbors found him in his bed days later. No blood, no bodies, just Tom, catatonic and unresponsive in bed. He lives in a mental hospital now. If you're asking yourself why I'm telling you my story thirty years after it happened, it's because I have a kid of my own now. A nine-year-old girl. She's been a great kid up until my wife and I separated. Despite our best efforts, she hasn't been taking it well. Me and her mom were called into the principal's office today. She'd been ruthlessly picking on this one girl. Of course we're going to do something to try and get her back on the right track, starting with having our girl apologize to the girl she'd been bullying. This girl wasn't interested in an apology. Instead, she looked my daughter dead in the eyes and said, *Bad comes back, round and round.* *Cupboard kids see you’re found.* *Even home, safe and sound.* *Cupboard kids don't mess around*. There aren't any doors in my home's cupboards, I made sure of that long ago. But my wife's new place does. And they're staying there tonight.

Jane stared at the screen, eyes wide, bright blues and greens flashing on her face. On the television, a little boy and his grandfather rowed along the shore. In the distance, smoke danced out of a chimney, melting into the bright blue sky. The boy smiled at his grandfather as the pair turned the little boat, nestling it into a nook in the rocky shore, just below the house. “Here we are, Tony. You do the honours,” said the old man. Beaming, Tony reached out and grabbed a jutting stone. It gave way, sliding downwards, and the roar of rushing water filled Jane’s ears. A secret door opened, revealing a brightly lit cave with a dock for the boat. The current, engineered to be just strong enough to carry the boat, guided Tony and his grandfather to the dock. Tony then pressed his hand against the wall of the cave, and another door opened with a rumble. Behind it, a spiralling staircase was lit by flickering orange lights. “Home sweet home,” murmured the grandfather as the two of them climbed up the stairs. The image faded to black, and a familiar song started playing. House of Secrets will return next week on AniTV . Up next, “The Hide and Seekers”. Jane switched off the TV with a sigh. Each episode felt shorter than the last. She shivered and glanced around the room, hoping to locate a blanket; the couch and the TV were the only pieces of furniture left. Rows of boxes were stacked precariously high against the walls, each one of them carefully labelled. No blanket in sight, but her jacket was resting on a small box marked “JANE’S ROOM” in big, blue, bold letters. “Jane! Give me a hand in the kitchen, will you?” bellowed her father. With a sigh, the young girl grabbed her jacket and headed to the kitchen. The gentle rumble of the old family car had lulled Jane to sleep. The car was crawling around narrow mountain paths; under its wheels, the asphalt had grown weary and cracked and finally, had given way to a dirt road. A particularly deep pothole startled her awake. Blinking sleep away from her eyes, she stretched and rubbed the part of her shoulder that had been pressed against the car wall. Her neck hurt, too, and she leaned back, squirming to find a more comfortable position, before grabbing her tablet from the adjacent seat. Today, on House of Secrets ... “Jane, darling, would you mind using headphones? I’m trying to concentrate on the road,” said her mother. “Sorry, Mom,” mumbled Jane. She rooted around the backpack at her feet and found the headphones at the very bottom. Pensive, Jane began fumbling with the cord in an attempt to untangle it. Though the sun was setting, light still outlined the jagged rocks on the side of the path, and the immense forest below. The town they were moving to was just beyond the mountain, and, from the pictures Jane had seen, full of beautiful old houses. She smiled to herself as she plugged the headphones in. Maybe the new house will be full of secrets, too . It was dark when they finally reached the house, too dark to see much beyond the ring of light cast by the streetlight next to the gate. Jane’s mom pulled out her phone and turned on the flashlight to guide her family to the front door. Gravel crunched under their feet as they stepped into the gloom of the front yard; Jane peered ahead, her head full of the mysteries the house might reveal. Once they reached the door, her father switched on the porch light, and amber shadows danced around the doorstep. Inside, the light was bright and cold, pouring down from brand new lamps. The young girl blinked as she stepped into a hallway leading to the kitchen, her eyes adjusting to the change. Though the house itself was old, the interior had been recently renovated, and she could see no hidden nooks or suspicious markings on the walls--nothing like the cottage in House of Secrets . As they stepped into the kitchen, her mother ran her fingers along the marble counters and the smooth wooden table and nodded, satisfied. “You’ll have plenty of time to explore the house tomorrow, Janey”, said Jane’s father, noticing the look on his daughter’s face. “You should sleep, now,” added her mother. “There’s mattresses in the bedrooms and I brought pillows and bed sheets last time I visited. We’ll unload the stuff in the car in the morning, before the movers arrive.” That night, Jane curled up on her mattress and stared at the smooth, white walls. The wooden floors were perfectly polished, with no creaky boards or uneven corners that might reveal a trapdoor. She sighed, pulled her tablet and headphones out of her bag, and let the comforting theme song of House of Secrets wash over her. There were no curtains on the windows yet, and, when the first rays of sunlight streamed into the room and woke Jane up, she found that her cheek was pressed against the tablet, her headphones a tangled mess next to her head. She’d slept in the same skirt and t-shirt she had been wearing the day before; they smelled like sweat and long car trips. With a yawn, she reached into her bag for a change of clothes, and headed downstairs in practical jeans and a fresh t-shirt. Her father had insisted on bringing the coffee machine and a few bags of coffee with them in the car; the rich smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen and coaxed a smile out of Jane. The house, much bigger than the family’s old apartment, came with a few sparse pieces of furniture, like the wooden table in the kitchen or the TV stand in the living room. Not empty, but not quite liveable, either: it was an odd place, this half-furnished house, but not in the way Jane had wished. Since the kitchen chairs were with the movers, presumably being trucked along some treacherous mountain road, she settled for the sleek steel stools at the kitchen counter and accepted her mug of coffee with a grateful nod. “I added a pinch of cinnamon, just how you like it. Your mom went to the bakery to get breakfast. She’ll be back soon, I think,” said her father. It was decided that toast would along great with the coffee and would provide an excellent excuse to test out the brand-new toaster oven. When breakfast was over with and the dishes were loaded in the dishwasher, Jane and her parents began unloading the suitcases they had brought with them; while they were placing clothes, pillows, and various knick-knacks in the different rooms, Jane kept her eyes open for anything out of the ordinary. She even checked behind the refrigerator when they unloaded the few groceries they had brought. Nothing. All the surfaces were smooth and shiny and perfect, the rooms square and sensible, with no nooks and crannies where secrets might lurk. A perfectly normal, boring house. That evening, after the movers had left, Jane’s mother decided to order pizza as a reward. Though there were still boxes strewn about here and there, it had been a long day of unpacking, and everyone was tired. “Chin up, Janey,” said her father. “I’ll help you explore more tomorrow. We’re bound to come across some kind of secret. Or you could take a walk around. There are beautiful lakes around here, and a whole forest for you to explore just outside the town.” Jane nodded, unconvinced. Her mother playfully nudged her shoulder. “Aren’t you a little old to be looking for secret doors and hidden passages, anyway?” The next day confirmed her first impression. There was nothing of interest in the house. She and her father had searched high and low, knocking on the walls and floors and sounding out the ceilings with a broom. No hollow sounds. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” said her mother when they came back to the kitchen, broom in hand. “This just isn’t that kind of house, I think.” “S’alright,” mumbled Jane. “You’re probably right, anyway. I’m getting a little old for this.” Today, on House of Secrets... Jane sighed. This was her third episode of the night; it was getting late, and yet sleep still escaped her. Shrugging off the covers, she headed downstairs, and made herself a cup of fragrant tea. The grass in the garden, still wet after a rainy day, glistened in the moonlight. Her parents had left a window open, and the night air was cool and inviting. Without bothering to put on shoes, she slipped outside, cup in hand, and took a deep breath. The wooden patio creaked under her feet as she stepped off it and onto the grass. Wait. She took a step back. Creaked ? Jane set her tea down and gave the wood a cautious knock. Hollow. Her heart raced. The patio was nothing more than a slab of wood on the ground where her mother had carefully arranged lawn furniture. There was no reason for it to sound hollow, unless... She took out her phone, using its flashlight to scrutinize the wooden planks. There, in the corner, half-hidden by some creeping weeds. A piece of wood was jutting out. Sucking in her breath, she pressed it down. There was another creak, and a piece of the patio moved. Jane pressed harder, and, slowly, painfully, a section of the planks slid back, revealing an ancient-looking trap door. The young girl squealed, then covered her mouth with a cautious glance at her parents’ window. Please don’t let it be locked... She reached for the handle with trembling fingers, and bit back another squeal of excitement. The trapdoor was heavy, but unlocked, and she opened it after a quick struggle, revealing a ladder that plunged in the darkness below. Carefully, suppressing the urge to run, she headed back to the house for shoes and a proper flashlight. At the bottom of the ladder, Jane found a musty-smelling tunnel. She wrinkled her nose but pressed on, shivering. Water droplets dripped from the ceiling, echoes bouncing around the tunnel as they crashed on the stone ground. Her flashlight did little to clear the darkness ahead, but at least the tunnel seemed man-made, and, unlike the passages in House of Secrets , it ran straight underground, with no twists and turns and fake exits made to trick inexperienced explorers. After what felt like an eternity, Jane finally reached a cul-de-sac. There were no other paths, no visible exits. It had to be a secret door. Pointing her flashlight first at the walls, then at the floor, the young girl quickly found what she was looking for. The stone floor was uniform and smooth, except for a small indent right behind her. She pushed into it with her foot, and, as she suspected, a hidden door opened, sending dust flying around the cul-de-sac. What she had not been expecting, however, was the gust of cold air that greeted her. Hanging plants and bushy shrubs half-blocked the way. Clutching her flashlight, Jane stepped out into the open and let out a gasp. The door was concealed right into a cliff; up above, Jane could see the outline of the town--and her house. In front of her, a starry lake spread out, its waters dark as the night. Other than the one she had just taken, she could see no paths that led to or from it. The End.

CW: Suicide *** To increase my self-discipline, I started taking freezing cold showers at the age of fourteen. Every morning, I would wake up, brush my teeth, and step into a waterfall of icicles. It wasn’t a pleasant thing, but my mother never complained that I’d used all the hot water like my brother did when he was my age. Our house is old, built before the constitution was signed. Heat is a rarity. But that’s hardly to do with the gaps in the bricks. I started doing this when I failed a math test, and my father told me that if I’d just studied harder, tried harder, worked harder, then I would not have failed. He was wrong. My father always thought he was right, but he was wrong. Numbers to me are not tangible, whatever they taught me about numbers in elementary school didn’t stick. But Still, I started taking freezing cold showers. A lot of websites will list the benefits of cold showers. They reduce muscle soreness, improve your circulation, and hydrate your skin. In a locker room, I hear girls talking about how they never wash their face in the shower, it dries out your skin, they say. Perhaps that serves as a simple explanation, but nothing has ever been so simple for me. After a year of freezing, I saw rows and rows of red cuts on my friend’s arm. We were fifteen, sitting in the study hall. It was winter and the edge of her sleeve was pulled back like an invisible hand moved it, like someone wanted me to see. I told the school counselor. My friend never spoke to me after that. I wish I could tell her that she and I are twin souls. That my shivering pale hands and her red bleeding arms are both a form of self-destruction. I have ice water in my bloodstream and she has iron on the inside of her sleeves. She and I were twin souls, didn’t we drink from the same can of sprite, that night sitting on someone else’s porch? “I’m cold,” She said. I told her that I didn't get cold. Not easily. I lied. I lied again and again to her. I wish I could have told her that but I won't even tell myself. Either way. She killed herself last spring. During the celebration of life assembly, I ran math equations in my head, trying to figure out how I could have spent those two hours working on an essay. My parents would kill me if I failed that essay. If they got there before I did. Warm summer evenings and the rattling of my radiator, hissing like a snake and shaking like a leaf. They both mean nothing to me. I ace every test, my grades are good. One day, in a difficult math class my father insisted I take, I got a B-, and that day I didn't walk home. My legs carry me out into the forest. New England winters are brutal. There is snow shining on the ground, and the yards look like the surface of the moon. In these woods are where witches upon witches were hanged. New England winters are brutal. I sit against one of those old stone walls, the ones they tell us American soldiers hid behind during the Revolutionary War. I’m not a soldier. My grandfather fought in World War Two and my brother tried to join the military when he was eighteen, but my mother wouldn’t let him. There’s nothing noble about us. My coat and scarf are hung on a tree, waving in the wind like a woman from a ship leaving port. My boots go next, set into the snow like a time capsule my brother and I buried in the yard. We filled it with pictures and VHS tapes and buried it beneath a weeping willow tree. The tree fell years ago, that tin box tangled in its roots. I lay in the snow for hours, feeling my limbs go numb and my brain slow down. My heart, always defiant and always struggling, beats like a rabbit’s. It tries so desperately to pump blood to my vital organs, to save me. My breath is cold, a woolen cloud against the dark backdrop of a starless sky. Finally, mercifully, sleep overtakes me. As a child in elementary school, between concerned child meetings and flashcards with stark, black numbers, they taught me how to pull myself out of a frozen lake. How to put blankets in the back of a trunk. To pile blankets on a bed and test ice before you walk on it. They told me the one thing you should never do is fall asleep. Somehow, it feels good to finally break a rule. Some hunters find my body. They take my coat and boots, leave the scarf. My mother wrote my name on the tag of my jacket, despite my insistence that I’m not a child anymore. “In case it gets lost” She said. I don’t think she ever thought, holding that sharpie and scrawling her child’s name, it would ever be used to identify a body. In the investigation, they will ask about me. They will ask my parents and my friend if anything seems off. They say I was always so hard-working, always very disciplined, and respectful. I never broke any rules, except for a key rule. My mother will sob into her hands, and my brother will see my pale face and find it incomprehensible. My father will regret every time he told me off for having low grades. Ha, no he won't. He'll see this simply as another failure. My teachers will find the news shocking, my friends will feel a pang of pressing guilt, like stones on their shoulders. Like I did. I get up quickly, frantically. Swears turn to steam as I say them. I tug my boots back on and jog home, taking my coat and leaving my scarf to hang in the tree-like the body of another, unfortunate girl. My mother screams at me for staying out so late. I trudge up to my room and pile blankets on my bed. My head is spinning. I wonder how the cold has affected me, everything seems foggy. I keep checking my fingers, which are still there, and my toes, which are still there. My heart races like the dog chasing a rabbit, its master shouting at it to go faster, work harder. I let my heartbeat slow. For maybe the first time in four years, I do not have a stress-dream about school. In the morning, I wake up, brush my teeth, and turn the shower knob all the way to the blue. I think of rows and rows of graves of girls hung on trees, I think of rows and rows of bleeding cuts on an arm, and I think of rows and rows of straight As, stark black letters, signifying nothing. What was I doing it for? Just to kill myself? I take that cold metal handle and I pull it back all the way until hot water rattles through the pipes.

Prelude The rain pounded the small stone home outside of the city of Corinth. The storm raged and the winds howled, and yet Lamia couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge the storm’s presence. All she could feel was the warm radiance of the god laying in bed next to her. His powerful arms wrapped around her body, making her feel safe and secure in the home. “You more than any other mortal, have captured my heart,” Zeus said sleepily, a smile on his face as he gently stroked the hair out of Lamia’s face. “My heart is yours, now and forever my lord,” Lamia replied, reaching up and kissing his face gently. Lamia was the most beautiful woman of the village, her golden hair and sun-kissed skin making her desired by all. She was also known to be favored by the gods, most notably Zeus, who arrived at her home in the midst of a storm similar to the one playing out now, in the guise of a giant eagle. “For you and only you my love, I am not your lord. I am your love, as you are mine,” Zeus replied, his muscular frame flexing under her soft touch as he moved his mane of curly black hair from his eyes. He found her lips with his own and began to kiss her softly at first, gradually becoming hungrier as they felt the throes of passion overtake them once more. “So this is where you have been sneaking off to, my darling husband,” a voice beckoned. The two lovers jumped at the sound of the voice, and Zeus strode forward in the room, anger blooming in his eyes. “Who dares disrupt us,” he demanded before recognition took hold in his eyes. “Do you not recognize your wife, oh mighty Zeus?” Hera asked, stepping out of the shadows as her own golden glow began to radiate the room. Long flowing red and gold hair hung down her back, as the white sash she wore revealed her toned and athletic body, one bestowed upon to all of the gods. “Hera, what is the meaning of this?” Zeus asked. “You have the audacity to feign anger at me, husband? You who have left the world with more bastard children than can fill a temple in my honor? How ridiculous, and to debase your godhood by laying with this mere mortal, why that is beyond dishonor. You should feel shame.” “Shame for what? For loving and being loved? You forget your place Hera. I am the king of the gods, and you will show me the respect I deserve.” “Save the melodrama for when we return to Olympus. You and I know that you and I have equal power. In fact, let me demonstrate,” Hera replied, pushing past her husband and towards the bed, where Lumia still held her white sash to her naked form. “My goddess, forgive me. I did not...” Lamia began to say, her words falling short of spilling out of her mouth as she stared upon the beautiful goddess standing before her. “I’m sure you felt obliged to heed your feelings, especially in the presence of my ‘divine’ husband here. Yet an example must be made, and you sadly must pay the price for my husband’s mistake. I pity you mortal. Your mortal life is now at an end, and only hell awaits you,” Hera replied. With the simple touch of her hand to Lamia’s forehead, the young woman’s life changed forever. Lamia howled in agony as pain took hold of her. She could feel her skin peeling and cracking in places, while her hair fell out and her bones cracked. Her teeth sharpened and her ears grew pointed, and Lumia felt her humanity shed off of her as easy as a wolf’s skin. “Zeus, my love, help me,” Lamia cried, her voice growing heavy and rough as her transformation continued. Zeus watched in horror as the woman he loved twisted and turned into a hideous beast, and his heart broke at the sight. Chapter 1 Quinn Ford woke to the bright light of a California morning streaming in through the blinds of the beach house. The soothing sound of the waves crashing on the shore nearby was relaxing, and Quinn found himself fighting to stay awake. As he turned away from the bright morning light, he came face to face with Iris Walsh, his amazing girlfriend, and the world brightened once more. The weekend trip had come together perfectly. Quinn had surprised Iris with the weekend plans and thankfully she had jumped at the opportunity. He needed a break from his latest novel, Baseline, and a weekend not answering another panicked call from his agent Helen was a welcome addition. Now in his thirties, Quinn found himself drawn more to peaceful and romantic weekends rather than the party life most twenty-somethings craved for all week long. He’d been lucky to meet Iris in the first place. Iris Walsh was a thirty-year-old photographer and makeup artist living in Los Angeles. He’d been working on his book in a bookshop/cafe, and had noticed her sitting at the table next to him. Her face had been scrunched up as she studied something on her laptop, and he noticed she was drinking the same thing as him. He’d always been shy, and so he had hesitated talking to her at first, not knowing what to say. However as he worked on his book, he found himself surprised when she sat down on the couch next to him, setting her laptop down. He looked up to see her looking at him, her emerald green eyes drawing him in immediately. “Sorry, the couch looked much more comfortable than the damn chair over there,” she said, her Irish accent punching through and enticing him like music in the air. “That’s...that’s alright. Always plenty of room for a fellow vanilla late drinker,” he joked, hoping his face was as blushed as he felt in that moment. He always felt awkward sitting next to a beautiful woman. As a heavyset man, he always worried it would be the only thing a woman would be able to fixate on when talking to him. Yet Iris was different, never once breaking eye contact with him. “Aye, these vanilla late’s are delicious. I never had them back home, but damn are they good.” “Is that an Irish accent I’m detecting? Where in Ireland are you from?” “Sandymount, a small village outside Dublin on the coast. Just moved here a couple years ago. Names Iris; Iris Walsh,” the young woman introduced herself as. “Quinn; Quinn Ford,” he replied, and the rest was history as the saying goes. Now looking into Quinn’s beautiful face and trailing his hand down her body, he could honestly say he’d never felt happier. Today was the day he told himself. Today he would ask her to move in with him in his loft in LA. It had been a few months since they’d met, and she brought the best out of him, and he hoped she felt the same way, at least enough to say yes to his idea. “Good morning darlin’,” Iris said, smiling without opening her eyes. “How do you always know when I’m awake?” Quinn asked, smiling. “It’s one of my superpowers, love,” she replied, opening her eyes and smiling. “You are my super-woman. Did you get some good sleep?” “I always do when I’m next to you. What did you want to do today? Do you have to work?” “Nope, today I’m all yours. I was thinking we could have a late breakfast/early lunch, lay on the beach and then take a moonlit stroll along the beach before dinner. I thought we’d check out the caves near the Pinnacles National Park. What do you say?” “I say that sounds a plan. Want to take a shower first?” “You read my mind,” he replied, following her out of bed as the sheets fell from their bodies and they ran into the bathroom, quickly shutting the door behind them. Chapter 2 It had been a whirlwind day for the young couple in love. A hearty breakfast buffet followed by a long lounge on the beach in their bathing suits was the perfect recipe for a weekend getaway. Quinn could feel the anticipation building up inside him, wanting the night to come so he could finally ask her to move in with him. The nerves were intense, and he hoped that his instincts were right on this one. Yet as they lay together, Iris laying her head on his chest, Quinn couldn’t help but feel like something was bothering her. She felt distant at times, almost like her mind was a thousand miles away. Yet he didn’t let that deter him. Instead he told himself he was just psyching himself out of doing what he had set out to do, and so he moved forward with the day. As night descended, the young couple walked hand in hand along the trail of the Pinnacles National Park. The waves nearby crashed against the rocks as they walked, and Quinn breathed in the ocean air around them. “Today as been the perfect day,” Iris said, her smile stretching into a grin as she looked up into his eyes. “It really has been,” he replied, leaning down and kissing her on the lips softly. Before either one of them could say another word, the night air was pierced by the sound of a low growl. The couple tensed, their hearts stopping in their chests as they turned and saw a large pair of red eyes staring at them from the darkness of the trail they’d just walked. “Iris, we have to move,” Quinn said. “Whatever that thing is, it’s blocking our path back to the car,” Iris replied. “There’s a cave nearby. If we can find some high ground in there maybe whatever it is will move on. I don’t have anything to fight it off with, so we gotta take a chance here,” Quinn replied. “I feel like we’re being cornered,” Iris said. “So do I babe, but I don’t think we have a choice. That thing is inching closer to us,” Quinn began to say. Before either one could make a move, the creature stepped into the moonlight, and they gasped in horror as a massive wolf trailed down towards them. Tufts of black fur and pearly white teeth glistened in the moonlight, and its eyes seemed to blaze with fire as it walked closer and closer to them. Quinn and Iris began to make a move to run, but as they turned they both found themselves caught on a large root, and the tumble sent them falling into the mouth of the cave below. __________________________________________ Quinn opened his eyes as pain shot through the back of his head, stars exploding behind his eyelids as he returned to consciousness. The world around him was blurry, but he could see the outline of a large fire burning in front of him. As he swatted away the cobwebs from his memory, his vision cleared and he saw he was laying inside of a large cave. He could still hear the crashing of the waves from the mouth of the cave, and the memory of being chased by the wolf came flooding back. “Iris!” Quinn shouted, but before he could sit up pain shot through him once more, and a cold marble finger laid against his lips. “Shh, hush now babe. It’s alright now,” a soothing voice called out, and he watched as Iris crawled next to him. She was a vision of beauty, as always. Her flowing white sating dress and porcelain skin seemed to shine in the light of the fire, and her piercing eyes held his gaze as she slowly climbed and straddled him, her soft hands slowly wiping the hair from his face. “Iris? Are you...are you alright?” Quinn asked, his voice sounding as if it were coming from a great distance away. “We’re both ok my love. Just be here with me now,” Iris said simply, her lips bearing down on his own in a powerful and ravenous motion. He’d never felt such intensity from her, and he felt weak in her presence. As she looked into his eyes however, he saw her eyes change from green to red, and the world came crashing down around him. “You’re not Iris,” Quinn said in shock, pushing the mystery woman off of him as he pushed himself against the rock wall behind him. “More clever than most,” the woman replied, her voice gravelly and a growl erupting from her throat. Quinn watched in horror as Iris disappeared, and in her place, a hideous, monstrous crone stood in her place. Her skin was split apart and cracked, her hair was missing and large, sharp teeth pierced through her lower lip. Her eyes blazed red, and her mouth began to open wide, as if she were unhinging her lower jaw. A large howl escaped from her mouth, and Quinn found himself locked in terror. “Quinn!” A voice shouted, and he looked to his right to see Iris, his Iris, sitting along the rock wall a few feet away from him. The creature before him screamed, turning its attention on Iris and crawling quickly towards his girlfriend. Iris let out a scream as the creature got closer, a long, black forked tongue shooting out and running down Iris’s face. The creature suddenly pulled back, a laugh piercing the cavern as it glared down at the young woman. “I can smell it. The child has begun growing inside you,” the creature said, laughing all the while. Quinn looked on in shock as Iris met his gaze and tears streamed down her face. “I was planning on telling you at dinner. I...I was afraid you’d be scared off. We’ve only been dating a few months, and I thought the news would...” Iris began to say, tears hanging like crystals in the corners of her eyes. “Iris, it’s ok. That...that’s the best news you could have ever given me. I was going to ask you to move in with me tonight. I guess your news trumps mine,” Quinn joked, tears and laughs escaping them both as the horror of their situation began to sink in more and more. “The child will make you...a much more delicious meal,” the creature hissed, unhinging its jaw once more. Iris screamed as the creature moved to strike, never noticing Quinn leaping forward and pushing Iris out of the way. As he did so, the creature’s teeth ripped out a chunk of Quinn’s side, just as it’s razor-sharp claws ripped into his chest. “No!” Iris shouted, just as the creature released Quinn and sent him hurtling to the ground. Iris crawled over and held Quinn in her arms, turning him over so she could see his face. Tears streamed down her face as blood seeped out of his wounds. “Why? Why would you do that?” The creature asked, shock and awe taking hold as it stared down at its victim. “Because...because I love her. I love her...love her enough to die...to die for her,” Quinn said, his breaths shortening as the blood loss began to set in. The sound of his voice and his words pierced the night air, and the creature suddenly began to howl in agony, flinging itself to the ground as pain engulfed it. The creature’s body began to transform suddenly, just as a brilliant light of white and gold engulfed the cavern. Iris shielded her and Quinn’s eyes just as a man stepped out of the light. He was a chiseled specimen, his body glowing and his eyes piercing as he took in the scene around them. “Who...who are you?” Iris asked. “You modern mortals would not believe me, but I am Zeus,” the man replied, leaning down as the creature before him began to transform. Its hideous appearance began to disappear, and in its place, a beautiful young woman appeared. Iris watched as the creature vanished, and Zeus wiped the blood from the woman’s ruby lips. “What is happening?” Iris asked. “You two mortals have freed my love from her curse,” Zeus replied. “My wife, Hera, cursed the woman lying here in my arms centuries ago. For my infidelity, she cursed this innocent woman to become the monster you see before you. I helped her the best I could, giving her her powers and a place to hide whenever humanity began to encroach on her home. I searched for centuries for a cure, secluding myself in the heart of Olympus until that time arrived. You two have found that cure for me, however.” “Cure?” Iris asked. “True love. I should have known, but my wife is clever. An act of true love saved my beloved Lamia from her curse. Quinn sacrificed himself for you my dear, and that love pierced the curse entirely. For that, I shall heal your love. I apologize for the pain we’ve caused you, mortals. Lamia, rest now my love. We ride for Olympus. Your pain is at an end.” Iris watched as the man and woman disappeared in a brilliant glow of light. As they did, Quinn took a massive breath, and she watched as his wounds healed. Looking up into her eyes, he cupped her face in his hands and smiled. “Iris,” he said, tears streaming down his face. “Quinn,” she breathed, tears pouring out of her. “I love you,” he replied, resting his hand on her face and his free hand on her stomach. “I love you too, with all my heart,” she replied, leaning down to kiss him and resting her hand on her stomach as well, glad to be alive and well once more. At that moment, love had truly won.

Personally, I don't think this is the best example of my writing. But my teacher liked it, and I felt like posting something on here. So here we go. - I sat across from the swingset. There’s a boy there. He’s laughing. He’s playing. He’s happy. He ran to the slide. His friends called him. They’re playing Tag. Hide and Seek. Cops and Robbers. They ran to the merry-go-round. They’re playing Spaceman now. He’s blasting off. Snowballs are being thrown, with snow forts as cover. Impenetrable castles, strongholds, citadels to young, effervescent minds. He’s smiling. Laughing. Living. His shaggy brown hair hangs over his blue eyes. His friends tug on the dark strands. Wrestling. Their mothers are talking. His calls for him. It’s time to go. I sat across from the swingset. There’s a boy there. His mother is beside him. “Be careful,” she says. He nods. He looks sad, but the friends call again. He smiles and runs over. The mother walks to the other parents, through a path of budding flowers, green capsules ready to burst from the life inside. The other parents try for conversation, but the boy’s mother is quiet. The boy is laughing. He’s slower. Less energy. The friends notice. So does his mother. She calls for him. It’s time to go. I sat across from the swingset. The boy is there. His mother is beside him. She adjusts his woolen cap and frowns. “Don’t you want to go play?” He shakes his head. His feet dig ditches in the woodchips. She walks back to the other parents, through the now-bloomed wildflowers. Anger flashes through her mind at the thought of something so insignificant living so beautifully. The other parents say nothing to her. Her hair is frizzy. Disheveled. It sticks out here and there. She’s worn out. Exhausted. So is he. His eyelids droop over tired, grey orbs. They’re empty, a thin layer of cloudiness covering them. Haggard. He watches his friends. They don’t notice, or pretend not to. He sighs. His mother comes over and takes his hand. It’s time to go. The other parents begin talking. I sat across from the swingset. My eyes scan the ditches in the woodchips. A quilt of colored leaves lay flattened by young feet, browns and yellows and reds. The friends are there. They’re laughing. They’re playing. They’re happy. The parents are talking. Everyone is smiling. Laughing. Living. The friends are playing Tag. Hide and Seek. Cops and Robbers. They run to the merry-go-round. They’re playing Spaceman. He isn’t.

So get this: I’m plunging a toilet. I know that’s not a very good start to a story but bear with me. Bear with me. Plunging a toilet, and right through the bathroom window, *WHOOSH, POW, KRGHINCGNNGGGG,* huge meteorite. Like, basketball-size huge. Little blue dude walks out, about six inches tall. He holds out what looks like an electronic device of some kind. It plays a message that I can’t understand, but it sounds kind of angry. So I stomped him. He made a very satisfying squishing sound, and I also think I heard him say “but friend" right before my foot came down, whatever that means. Still dunno what the message was about. Also dunno if stomping him was a very good idea, because whoever sent him was a little pissed. I think. The first sign was that the next morning, I woke up with three of the fingers on my left hand replaced by Polish sausages, one of which my cat was eating. Second, I noticed that my cat now had jet-black octagons for eyes, which I might ordinarily chalk up to the fact that she’s a demon witch disguised as a cat, but the octagons kept changing colors and whispering that they'd love to eat my lovely space hands, and she usually doesn’t scare me like that. I finished the sausage Kitty was eating because, hey, no getting my fingers back and free breakfast, before getting out of bed. I spotted the third sign that someone was messing with me when I got up. I looked out the window and noticed that the entire world was composed of a triangle, a square, and a tetrahedron, all of whom were arguing that they were the best shape, an argument that got resolved when the tetrahedron turned into a fire hydrant I was peeing on. A purple octopus with three extra tentacles crossed the street and started waving furiously at the fire hydrant and at my zipper, so I started screaming and spinning in circles to ward off the evil presence that it was conjuring from the eighth dimension. That strategy must have worked, because immediately after I stopped, the octopus turned into a woman talking on a cell phone about a crazy who was peeing on hydrants and probably high. Oh my God. *I remembered seeing someone doing that earlier!* I knew I needed to do my civic duty, so I took off racing up the street to hunt the crazy guy down. A cop car passed by, and I didn’t want to get arrested for conspiracy to be a vigilante, so I climbed into a tree and hid. It was so comfortable that I ended up staying for over four hours, and just as I started to get hungry, a squirrel sang “happy birthday” to me and invited me to his home inside the tree trunk. I forgot it was my birthday! It was so nice of him to remind me, and I was really hungry, so I took him up on the offer. At first, I was worried I wouldn’t fit, but the trunk expanded to make a door-sized opening and I stepped inside. The squirrel, whose name is Dave, is a really good cook. We had chicken parmigiana and homemade wine, which reminded me of priests, for some reason. Unfortunately, the door disappeared right after dinner. Long story short, I’ve been stuck in a pocket universe trapped inside a tree trunk for over four years. I figured out dimensional tunneling and took control of the dude who owns this Reddit account to ask for help. For the love of God, if anyone reads this, the tree is on 427 Widmar Way, somewhere by Polar street. Knock on the trunk three times, remove your pants, grow a third arm, shave your left eyebrow, and sing happy birthday backwards to open the gate. Ask for Dave. Also, if you could bring my meds along when you come to look for me, I’d really appreciate it. I think I might have just started having an episode.

Two old women are sitting on their roof looking out over the neighborhood, smoking cigarettes and drinking rum. Normally they reminisce about the past, because that’s what you do when you’re old and you only have a few years left. Anytime a new memory pops up in their minds, they pounce on it. They clap their hands together and open their eyes wide and douse themselves in honey to better stick themselves to that memory and absorb all its color until the ants come crawling, and it’s all forgotten again. But these old ladies aren’t reminiscing tonight. They’re talking about the future. They’re planning it well, tipsy and shivering slightly, blowing smoke at the moon. “I’ve never made a bucket list.” said June “Well it’s not really something you make, per se. They’re just things you want to do that you keep in the back of your mind.” said Leonora. “You don’t write them down?” “I didn’t.” “But you still have one?” “Oh sure, they’re not in any particular order. Like... alright, let’s see. The first one to come to mind is going to the beach and collecting sea shells.” “You’ve never done that?” “I’ve never been to the beach.” “Let’s go then! You ain’t gonna find any here in Nebraska.” June stood up, taking no care of the danger where she stood and that possibility of falling off onto the driveway. Then all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put this old woman back together again. She grabbed Leonora’s hand and pulled her up. They both flicked their cigarettes into the air which soared and swerved like drunken fireflies on the cusp of a DUI. “You mean tonight?” Leonora asked. “Of course tonight. Why not tonight? Why not do everything we can possibly do immediately? You know death is combing our hair and caressing our clit, trying to make us wet, the old bastard.” “June!” “Yes, and let’s talk like.. dirty fuckers! Fucking cunt... shits!” She laughed. “I’ll make my bucket list as we go along. It’ll be the world’s first spontaneous one, created from scratch and kicked over all in the same week or month or however long it takes or however long I’ve got. But, first and foremost- seashells on the beach. Now, does it matter which beach?” “Well, I was thinking somewhere on the pacific side.” June rubbed her tongue around the inside of her mouth. It felt dry and her lips were starting to stick together. “Let’s get inside and buy the tickets.” she said. They crawled back through the bedroom window and packed up everything they felt was important in their drunken state for the collection of seashells on a San Diego Beach. They packed a noodle strainer to strain the sand, and a crab claw cracker in case they found any crabs. The tiny stranger was still dirty in the sink but they decided not to give him a bath. There simply wasn’t any time and they were too excited. “We’ll give you a bath when we get back” June told him, trying to speak and breathe through her mouth since such an odorous smell wafted off of him. “And when will that be?” he asked in a rusty voice like a trombone washed up on the shore on Vanuatu. Or at least that’s what June pictured as she only had beaches on her mind now. “It might be never! She yelled. “We might die of old age on the plane. And then they’d have to turn it all around and ruin everyone's trip because of our selfish dying. So you see, the longer we stick around here talking to you or giving you a bath in the sink, the less time we have. And I don't want to go out of this world ruining anyone’s day. You said you’re immortal, in which case you are certainly old enough to wash yourself.” The tiny man in the sink picked up a dirty plate and covered his face with it, as if covering his guilt. “I just said that so you’d both be intrigued by me and let me in. I'm really only 39 and I'm sure I'll die just the regular old fashioned way like you two ladies when my time comes.” “Ha.” June heard Leonora laugh in the other room. Leonora knew that the immortality thing was a lie when the tiny, smelly, stranger first showed up at their door. She let him in anyway. Why? Because she’s old, so why not? “Where are you going?” the little man in the sink asked them. June responded by making dolphin sounds. “Oh I see. The beach! I love the beach.” Louder this time, and with more excitement, Leonora said “I’ve never been to the beach!” Leonora didn’t have any beach clothes. So she just packed some shorts and sleeveless shirts. She packed a framed picture of her late husband dressed as a packet of french fries. It was Halloween that day but she liked to pretend it was just some regular day in March or July. One thing she never liked about him was his lack of spontaneity, and as much as she loved him, she never felt she was courageous enough to be spontaneous for the both of them. And so that characteristic which might have blossomed in another life or with another man, or even by herself, slowly became an impossibility, like the immortality of a tiny vagabond stalking through the the cornfields of Nebraska and showing up at house of a couple old ladies for no reason other than to adhere to his own bucket list. “Are you going to be ok while we’re gone?” June asked the little man, but he was already asleep. She tousled his matted hair then wiped her hand on the kitchen towel. Once they finished packing, June and Leonora slept off the alcohol for a few hours to sober up. “Are we still going to want to do this when we're sober?” asked Leonora. Almost angrily, June replied “I sure as snakeshit will! Alcohol may give me ideas, but it's not the impetus for my resolution or courage.” Leonora just nodded, knowing she didn’t feel the same way. But as long as she was with June, everything would be alright. As soon as they finished packing, they passed out. Leonora has a history of sleep paralysis but was fortunate enough not to experience it that night as they woke up early after only a few hours of sleep. They drove to the airport. on the way there, their hearts palpitated with excitement. They were probably hungover but couldn’t tell because at their age, everything ached and felt wrong anyway, hungover or otherwise. “We should actually try to relax, we don’t want to get so excited we have a heart attack before we even get to the beach.” June said. “I was never very good at meditation.” Leonora said. “I actually have a meditation cd somewhere in the car here. My hairdresser gave it to me on my birthday a few years ago but I never used it.” June opened the middle compartment and asked Leonora to look for it. Leonora turned on the car light, squinted and dug around. Her numerous bracelets making a racket like windchimes in a tornado. “Is it ‘Fireside Meditations with Jay Garber?” Leonora asked. “Yeah that’s it.” “It’s unopened.” “I always thought meditation was a waste of time.” Leonora used her teeth and nails to open the plastic packaging. “I’m not sharp enough for this. Nothing about me is sharp, or primal,” she complained. “That’s cause you’re human, my love. We have the luxury of staying soft and pliable so we can let all the sharp tools do all the work while we relax and ponder the meaning of life.” June reached into her beige purse which sat on her lap. She liked the way it had the perfect weight of a baby. It reminded her of her daughter when she was very young, 50 years ago. June even remembered the exact weight her daughter had when she was 2 years old before they took her to the hospital, and she always made sure her purse weighed the same amount to forever maintain that feeling of her on her lap- 24.8 pounds. A beautiful number. One that her daughter would never surpass. For 50 years she kept it exactly at 24.8 pounds, even if it meant taking out important things like makeup and coins, or adding unimportant things like rocks and “Seashells,” June whispered to herself and smiled. “What?” Leonora asked. “Oh, nothing. I’m just excited to collect the seashells. Here’s the knife.” Leonora took the knife and carefully sliced around the cd case. “Don’t get too excited, it’s my bucket list item. Not yours.” “Can’t we share it?” June asked bluntly. Leonora realized she was being greedy. “Of course we can. In fact, I'm glad we can.” Jay Garber’s voice was like someone whacking open a coconut with a hammer and then the juice being slurped up by a gluttonous seal. His punctuations were impactful, and every syllable afterward was the sweet nectar that poured from the impact. June tried very hard to stay awake but the two old ladies would soon realize that Jay Garber was not your traditional meditation guru. “Track 1” he would start, “first, we are going to relax every cell in your body. If this were a meditation CD from before the year 1665, when cells were first discovered, I would instead say ‘first, we’re going to relax every micro-spirit in your body,’ because I believe there was at least a small sect of people who didn’t believe in the one spirit, the one soul. They believed we carried billions, possibly trillions of mini souls within us and technically they would be right. What are cells aside from microscopic souls all working together to help you live, to help you work, to help you love and fight and think and even forget. To help you... relax.” There was silence for 2 minutes except for the sounds of a crackling fire. You could sense Jay Garber warming himself up by it. June’s eyes began to droop but Leonora didn’t notice. You could sense the snow falling quietly outside the place the CD was being recorded. You could even sense the deer somewhere out there in that snow, licking the icy ground, and a fox quietly stalking it. You could sense beyond sensing when every micro-spirit was relaxed. “Track 2. Have you ever seen a whirlpool of tropical bird feathers? If not, picture it. Hypnotic isn’t it? Oh, before we continue, quick disclaimer. You should not be listening to this tape while operating a motor vehic-” June died on Impact. Leonora was severely injured but still alive. For some reason one of the paramedics on the scene would always remember the smear of pink lipstick that June left on the steering wheel when her face smashed into it, since the airbag on her side failed to deploy. This was more common than people realized. There was something surreal about that brutal lipstick kiss, as if she literally kissed life goodbye. Leonora wasn’t unconscious but extremely disoriented and they immediately drove her to the hospital. She kept asking about June but the staff skillfully avoided the question while administering drug cocktails and blood transfusions. They laid her gently on the hospital bed and she began to cry, not from the pain but from the death of her best friend (which she figured out on her own). She received many broken bones but despite her miserable state, nothing seemed overly life threatening. They let her rest and grieve until finally she fell asleep. Her mind and body were exhausted, which only made the sleep paralysis worse. She was in a hypnagogic state, and could see the busted face of June standing in the corner of the hospital room. The room began to fill up with sand while June’s contorted body grotesquely mobilized itself on broken bones towards her terrified friend. June held a large conch shell in her hands, holding it like a 24.8 lb baby. Blood smeared the shell and dripped off her arms. Leonora tried to scream but only low muffled sounds emanated from her half-sleeping mouth. June finally shuffled close enough to put the conch shell to Leonora's ear. Leonora could hear the angry voice of the ocean, each crash of the waves was a remonstrance. “I will send whales the size of planets to gobble you like krill,” the conch said, “for your disregard of the eternal ocean.” Leonora tried shaking her head, and the facial features of June remained still while the face itself began to bloat and turn purple like a corpse underwater. She stared blankly at Leonora, a mere messenger of the conch, a mere figment of a paralytic nightmare fueled by recent misery. “Your bones will be buried in the blackness of the ocean deep.” The conch continued. “But,” Leonora tried to say. “But I’ve never been to the beach!” Finally the conch shell shattered and Leonora woke up gasping and crying. A Nurse came in to check on her. She wore a puka shell bracelet and Leonora screamed.

There was once a village where everyone got along. It was an idyllic existence with little to no stress. See, this village was located in a temperate climatic zone and blessed with abundant natural resources, all the villagers had to do was walk into the surroundings field and harvest their fill. Cattle roamed the golden fields freely, and the rivers and streams nearly overflowed with fish. The villagers would watch the sun set every night, and when the last hues of red faded from the sky, they would revel around a bonfire stoked with wood from the nearby forest. &nbsp; *Life was simple.* &nbsp; Then a climatic aberration occurred, dropping the temperature to much below anything in recent memory. The deer and cattle either migrated or froze to death, and the wolves began to creep out of the forests. As all the plants died in the freeze, the villagers began to starve as well. Sickness swept over the village, wave after wave. Those who were not ill had to chase wolves out of the village nightly, but the wolves grew bolder every night. As with everything in life, the hardship was ephemeral. Temperatures rose to their long-term averages, along with the net primary productivity of vegetation. Cattle and deer returned to their ancestral habitats, and the wolves were seldom seen again by the villagers. &nbsp; *But they did not forget.* &nbsp; The newly appointed village leader had seen his family perish from illness and starvation. His predecessor had been dragged into the darkness by wolves. He promised the decimated village that the terrible events would never be repeated. Under his mandate, the villagers began to stockpile a decent proportion of their harvests. Accordingly, villagers began to search for methods of preserving perishable foodstuffs; they would never starve again. The villagers also began to craft spears, and eventually projectile weapons. A wall of timber was constructed around the village, and village huts and tents were replaced with larger, wooden buildings; the wolves would never dare to return. With these preventative and protective measures in place, innovation was inevitable. Gradually, the villagers became more efficient at collecting timber and began to build bigger structures. With the increasing scale of activity, organization came to be paramount and villagers were assigned specific tasks during the light hours of the day. Floods became more frequent, and the villagers were forced to venture further and further from the village to collect the necessary materials. The distance became so inconvenient that certain people were assigned these tasks as well. The village flourished, reaching an unprecedented size. With each passing generation, the villagers began to associate themselves with others who shared their daily tasks; after several decades, the villagers had multiple bonfires every night. As the village grew, so did its leadership. Each village leader could not hope to keep track of the daily going-ons of the village, and depended more and more on his or her trusted advisors. The advisors, inflamed with the ambition of becoming the next village leader, pushed their respective demographic sectors to produce more despite the absence of any immediate threats. &nbsp; *Growth became an end in itself.* &nbsp; With the passing of older generations, village divisions became the norm. Without question, the villagers would file out of their homes every day to join their companions in their daily tasks. As a natural result, their lives became centered around their daily labor, and it became frustrating when other villagers seemed to have easier tasks. Instead of looking to better the village, the leader and her advisors were forced to settle constant disputes among the laborers. In the time they had, the village leaders looked to improve existing methods and procedures to make the lives of the villagers easier, a never-ending pursuit. Unknowingly, they exacerbated the contention that underlay the village. &nbsp; *Although the village flourished, everyone was never so unhappy.* &nbsp; As the sun set, coloring the horizon a brilliant rose, the villagers sighed in relief. It was the end of another day. They crowded around their respective fires, ignoring the sullen wood collectors who dumped the wood on the ground and retreated without a word. The leader and her advisors observed the fires from a distance. The village leader felt pride blossoming in her chest, the village had grown considerably and was a sight to behold. She turned her gaze to the stars, which were partially eclipsed by the rising smoke. A flash of light streaked across the sky, and disappeared in an instant. Eyebrows raised, she looked to her advisors. They were completely absorbed in an argument amongst themselves about whose bonfire was bigger. The feeling of contempt flashed through her mind. Then that of loneliness.

It was a fishing village as far back as she could remember. With waves crashing against the grey of the shore, their foam soaking people through. And little by little, every time the foam landed on them, they got a little of the Sea; until they became one, their minds liquid as Hers, an array of emotions only She could ever fathom. And oh, how they adored Her. She was the Mother that birthed them all, the divine blue of their quiet lives. It was a quiet village indeed, and as the grey and blue washed over them, nobody took more than they needed, giving thanks to Her for their food. When the light couldn’t reach them, She delivered. And in the middle of the summer, when the sun reached its highest point, they offered thanks to Mother for having survived another year, for seeing another solstice. They feared Her as much as they adored Her; Her rage was dangerous, but it was the only home they ever knew. It was a rough life, and they all knew it, but at the same time she couldn’t think of anyone that left. People stayed and the village grew with them, community gardens to the south, wheat fields to the east. It was beautiful. And year after year they prayed to the Sea, gave offerings of honey and salt, Listened to Her wishes. And year after year She delivered. Until She didn’t. The fish grew scarce for the first time in four lifetimes, the hungry mouths growing one by one. And people came to her to give them her blessings, prayers over the boats that left to the Sea, crying children that had never been hungry in their lives. She called for a village meeting, going door to door, and people trembled, listened, for she was the Vatar, Master of the Tides, head of the Council of the Tides. They had been blessed by the Mother Herself to control Her waters, the push and pull of Her heartbeat, and she was the strongest of them all. It was a quiet village, so when she called of someone angering Mother, she was met with shaking disbelief; things like that didn’t happen, had never happened; not in her time, nor in the time of her mother before her. “One of you offended Her,” she insisted,” and I want the rest of you to keep your eyes open.” She could feel Her rage in the white that hit the shore, in the fishing boats filled with water, in the violent shifts of Her currents. Never before had Her waters held anything but life in them. It was when the body of a boy washed ashore that she knew. Somebody had killed him; a blood offering to the Sea, against their solemn oaths. It was blasphemy. She had her suspicions, of course she did. They were talks of zealots trying to harness Her power through blood, in defiance to the Council and its laws. But she and the Council went door to door nonetheless, Feeling, Listening for the offender. He was a boy of sixteen, blind with the yearning of power; he’d slain his twin for it. This had never happened before, nothing like that ever had. The Council met for three days and two nights, mediating on the wishes of the Sea, trying to piece together Her rage piece by piece. She had been tarnished, and She wanted the boy to pay. She had been the Vatar for nearly four decades, yet the humanity of Her still terrified her. She was in mourning, an angry force ready to destroy with the pushes and pulls of Her temper. When she visited the boy, he cried, begged for her pardon as the Vatar, swore that power blinded him, didn’t let him understand what he did. She listened, and consoled, for she knew very well the demands of power -she was the Vatar after all, the human vessel of the Sea- and not few times in her youth had she yearned for more. Yet, she met him as an equal. Spoke to him of the Commands of the Mother, finite in their regard. They boy listened and wept; but understood. There was red on his hands, and it was the only way She could be pleased, the only way justice could be restored. That night she prayed to the Sea, her words careful, a child to a hurt parent, soothing as the honey rolling off her hands. She asked of Her to cleanse his soul, to choose forgiveness over revenge. She spoke to Her the way she saw Her on warm summer afternoons, the light dancing on Her, shrinking Her down to human measurements. She was met with silence. They put him in the boat in the morning. The shore was empty but for her and the Council, not even the boy’s parents had the heart to face him after what he’d done. It was a peaceful sunrise, one of the most beautiful the little fishing village had ever seen, the blue of the sky speaking of new. The Sea was calm, the sun glimmering on the tiniest ripples that broke Her surface. The boy understood, watching stoically for the most part, his hands dripping in honey. A handful of salt tossed into the Sea, prayers spoken over honey, hands intertwined together. The Council formed the ceremonial circle, reaching out to her. She joined hands with the Elders and let the power of the Sea wash over them. It was a dark, pulsing grey, Her pain, Her disgust of being tarnished for power, Her hatred beating steadily as a heartbeat. The Council took it all in. They chanted, raising the currents that would take him away from the shore, the pushes and pulls of Her heartbeat. He was to return only if She found him worthy of redemption. She didn’t. It was a fishing village and became so once more, Mother offered, and nobody took more than they needed. And the Vatar watched, and her power grew.

This is the big day. Lei has been preparing for this day her whole life. But, she still has so far to go, this is just one step closer to her dream. Today, she goes to the elite ballet school in New York City. Thrilled, she spent every waking hour practicing in any way possible for ballet, preparing for this day. Sitting in the dining room, she munches on the avocado toast. When will she sit in this room again, eating breakfast? How long will it be until she can return to her home in Hawai'i? She worries about all the adjustments she will have to make for her new lifestyle. What will the other dancers be like? The stereotypical mean-girl determined dancer? Or something else entirely? Thoughts consume her as she finishes her meal. As she finishes packing her room, she takes one long last look at her bedroom. Now, after packing all her sentimental belongings it looks more bare and empty than before. Still, the posters of famous ballerinas hang upon the walls reminding her of the passion she follows and holds so dear to her heart. Rolling her suitcase out the front door, she holds onto every little memory the house has given her. Although, she tries not to think about it too much or she may start to cry. She knows she is leaving all her friends, family, and the hot sunny days at the beach and the hours spent surfing the colossal waves in Hawai'i. She knows she is trading it all for her dream. She has worked so hard to get here, there is no possible way she can turn back now. In a few years, hopefully she will be dancing in the company among some of the greatest ballet dancers in one of the greatest ballet companies in America. Her mother and father wait for her at the car, their faces tight with worry. They douse her in kisses and loving comments. “We are going to miss you so much, Lei.” “Are you sure you want to go? We can still get a refund for the tuition.” “What about your dreams about being a doctor? You don’t have to give up on them for dance.” “We will call you every single day, and visit you as soon as we can.” They don’t understand. They don’t understand how much she has always wanted this, longing for dance. She cannot become the dancer she wants to be with the limited ballet education here. She has to leave, and follow her dreams. “Yes Mom, and Dad, I still want to go! I will miss you too. I promise I will call you every single day,” she answers, slightly annoyed. But, she is going to miss them so much. Her parents drive her to the airport, and wait for the flight attendant to help her navigate the airport, as she is a underage minor. Her parents still badger her about changing her mind, and staying with them. Her mother feels guilty for letting her go by herself, but she has no choice because of their demanding jobs. Besides, she has an Aunt in New York City that will drive her to the school, and check up on her frequently. On the long flight, she reads her ballet magazines, books, and listens to music trying to distract herself from all the abundant possibilities awaiting her future. She can do this. She is strong, in body and mind. What will others think of her? Is her technique as advanced as the other girls and boys that have been training their whole lives? Will she stand out in a negative way due to her dark skin and her Polynesian background? She shakes the thoughts away and remembers to breathe in, and breathe out. After a long flight and terrible sleep, her dark brown hair is matted, bags rest under her eyes, and her usually perfect posture turns into a slump. Yet, inside she cannot stop her thoughts about the ballet school she is yet to join today. It is early in the morning, 5:00. Trailing her suitcases behind her, as well as her dance bag, backpack, and purse she spots her Aunt waiting for her, a big sign stating her name. She wears slim, black, business looking pants, a coat, a white shirt, short black heels, and a purse. Her red lacquered nails cling onto the sign and her lipstick matches. She looks professional, nothing like her parents who lounge in their aloha shirts and flowy, hippie pants in their free time. Apprehensive, Lei walks over to her Aunt, ussure what to say but wears a smile nonetheless. Thankfully, her Aunt does all the talking for her. “So, how was your flight? Are you excited to start today? Today’s a big day! Have you called your parents yet? Are you nervous? If you ever need anything, just call me. Don’t worry, I will be there to visit you a few times a week. We can explore New York together!” She says cheerfully. Lei tries to answer all of her questions with the same enthusiasm, but she cannot stop the butterflies in her stomach. Now, she is walking around the ballet school, full of awe as and adult guides her to her dorm while giving her a full run down of every important location in the school. She is shown to her dormitory, where she meets her roommate. “Hi, I’m Katy,” her roommate says, introducing herself. Lei does the same, thankful she was able to make herself presentable at her Aunt's house. Katy bombards her with questions. “So, where are you from? How long have you been dancing for? Have you been to New York before? How old are you? What level are you in?” Lei answered all her questions, reciprocating the same friendliness. She figures out that they are around the same age, 16 years old. And, they are in the same level. Lei unpacks everything to its place in the tiny dorm, trying to make it feel like home without intruding on Katy’s space. Lei gets ready for her first ballet class at the New York Ballet school, taking extra time to do her hair perfectly, and putting on her most flattering black leotard. First impressions are everything, after all. Katy guides Lei to her class, and it all seems like a dream as she meanders down the white hallways. The studio is a dream. Bigger than she has ever imagined, so much larger than the one at her old school. When she sees the grand piano in the corner of the room, she nearly cries. Everything is perfect. Lei and Katy warm up in the studio together before class starts. The ballet master walks into the room, and today it just happens to be the artistic director of the whole school. She nearly has a panic attack. “To those of you students who are new this year to this school, welcome. I am Mr. Michael, the artistic director of the New York City Ballet School. I hope that you all have found your way around the school, and if any of you have questions, feel free to always ask me or another staff member. I know that joining a boarding school can be daunting, so I am here to help.” His voice booms in the echoing room as he stares at us intently, contradicting his attempt at a friendly tone of voice. He drones on for a few minutes longer about the rules and expectations and dedication that the school requires. Then, he decides it is time to dance. Suddenly, Lei’s pointe shoes feel as heavy as lead on her feet and her brain forgets how to function for half a second. Breathe in, breathe out, she reminds herself. She claims her spot at the barre, while paying close attention to the combination that is given. The music on the grande piano starts, and she begins. In sync with the music, she moves beautifully combining technique, grace, musicality, and artistry she has worked so hard to achieve. It is the beginning of her journey to achieve her lifelong dream. Each breath, each move, she comes closer to her goal. She belongs here, and she knows it. It is her time to shine, brighter than a shooting star.

The man walked down the street, having just clocked out from another 10 hour shift. He never thought he would be using his mathematics degree to calculate the total of someone's shopping, and yet that's exactly what he's spent the last four years doing. He tried to network best he could, but if nobody is hiring, nobody is hiring. So the big clothing store brought him in. It wasn't great, but it almost pays the bills. He hung his head low, the exhaustion from the day seeped into his muscles. Staring up at the brilliant afternoon sky is a luxury he just can't afford right now. The birds chirping were drowned out by the rush hour traffic racing by his side. It congested the air with thick, noxious fumes and horns so loud they echoed off of the looming buildings framing the street. Only twelve more blocks before his apartment. Out of the corner of his eye, the light from the setting sun bounced wildly off of a nearby limo. The paint job was pristine, as if it had just been polished. In the back seat, he could just barely make out the passengers behind tinted glass. The couple was happy, smiling, crashing a pair of champagne glasses together before downing the cool liquid within. Air conditioning flung their hair wildly as the hot sun beat down on the car roof. Not a care in the world, not when they can afford a car like that and someone to drive it. At least a chauffeur can sit all day. Looking back down, he let out a sigh - no point dwelling on what he can't change. Those who have a bright future are those who can afford it. The rest of us just make their lives easier. &#x200B; The rest of the trek home was uneventful. He was grateful the winter storms had subsided, he was sick of worrying about hypothermia scares. He'd probably just be kicked out of a hospital with his credit, and an at-home amputation would be a choice he wasn't looking forward to. The kitchen was a mess - his two roommates saw to that. He wasn't much better, but there's only so much mess you can make off of a diet of microwaved burritos and leftover pizza. The apartment would have been cramped normally, with tight corners and thin hallways. With a curtain hanging up, blocking off the "living" area, the place was downright claustrophobic. That's what you get for squeezing three guys into a one-bedroom apartment. At least he wasn't the one shoved into the bathroom this time. He pulled the curtain back and slumped on his futon. The clothes he desperately needed to wash surrounded him, sending a slight funk through the air. A couple of cardboard boxes were shoved in a corner, containing the rest of his possessions. It was only a matter of time before another one of his checks bounced - no point getting too cozy. The man let the aches of the day wash over him. The aches of standing all day bookended by his commute sent throbbing spikes of pain through his legs. He should get that checked out, there's probably a hairline fracture somewhere. The angry customers drained his mind of any critical thought. He was beaten, battered, and bruised. Mostly he was just tired. He picked up his guitar and began to strum, but he just couldn't find the strength to lift his arm again. His brain numbed up and he collapsed back into a mess onto his bed. He couldn't fall asleep too early - the nearby trains would wake him up well into the night, leaving him a zombie the next morning. Patting his pockets, he remembered his one splurge of the day - a lottery ticket. He extracted it from his pocket and compared the numbers there with what was on his phone. &#x200B; They matched. Holy crap. he won. 4.7 million dollars. &#x200B; He went to the bank and paid off his insurmountable credit card debt. The student loans brewing interest were next. The "zeroes" next to his accounts sent waves of ecstasy through his body. Quitting his job was next - his boss tried to bargain him staying with a one dollar boost to his hourly pay. Almost laughable - if he was worth that much, why weren't they paying him that earlier? It took all of his willpower not to knock a display over on his way out. His days were free now, no mountain of debt, no ball and chain dragging his thoughts down. A hotel far away from the train tracks became his new base of operations. The place was nice and clean - no roommates barging in and making a fuss. He just about broke the thermostat upon arrival, taking advantage of the working heating and cooling. He pulled out his guitar and sang 'til his throat was sore. The smile on his face grew with each minute. Room service was next - it was time he ate right for once. He picked up the phone to order and... *BRAAAAAAAAAAA* A...train horn? But he was too far from... Oh. Right. &#x200B; He opened his eyes, staring at the familiar crusty ceiling. The train horn blared again, shaking the windows. He checked the numbers on his ticket - not even close. Balling it up, he threw it into a pile with the rest. Time to microwave a burrito.

When Dave was just four, he went up to a girl and said that he liked her. The girl started giggling and replied with an “eww!” Dave felt a pain in his chest. He didn’t know what it was at the time, but he would later find out this was heartbreak. This was his first heartbreak. But it would not be his last. A few years past and there was a different girl that caught his eyes. He decided to wow this girl with a handmade card and a dozen roses. He used all of his allowances and gave them to her. He was really excited. The girl liked them and thanked him. She read the card and said, “oh. I’m sorry. You’re so sweet, but I don’t see you in that way.” Dave’s smile disappeared and he received a pity hug. He walked away sad and defeated. This was his second heartbreak. But it would not be his last. Senior year of high school. Dave still never had a girlfriend, but he was determined to change that. “A prom-posal should do the trick,” he thought. He got a bunch of supplies for it. It was perfectly planned and he was ready. However, the day before Dave was going to ask the girl, another guy had beat him to it. Dave couldn’t believe it. That night, he took the poster and ripped it to shreds. He then asked the girl if he had asked first would she have had said yes. She laughed in his face and answered, “of course not!” Dave was crushed. A frown across his face and tears primed to starting flowing onto his cheeks. This was his third heartbreak. But it would not be his last. Dave needed an escape from his tiny hometown. A fresh start in the world. He would travel hundreds of miles away for college. A new group of people. A second chance for a first impression. Dave started college well and made lots of friends. He talked to a lot of girls, but there was one that stood out among the rest. He really liked this one. He enjoyed their conversations and all the times they hung out together. They had been friends for a few months now and Dave decided it was time to ask her out. He felt confident and ready and knew she would say yes. There was just one small issue with his plan... “I have a boyfriend back home,” she said. The words hit him like an express train. Dave’s jaw dropped, his face red with embarrassment. He tried to use whatever confidence he had left to gracefully end this conversation. It didn’t work, he gave her an awkward, stuttering apology and sprinted away. This was his fourth heartbreak, but it would not be his last. Dave used the rest of his time to work on himself. An outside observer would think he had a great life. It seemed he had it all, big house, steady job, nice car, the whole 9 yards. But I know the truth about Dave. He was lonely, he was sad, he had tried and tried to find someone, but it never worked out. Suddenly there was a crash by the window. A robber had entered Dave’s home. Dave came downstairs to see what was going on. Surprised by Dave’s presence, the gunman shot Dave right through the chest and ran away with as much as possible as quickly as possible. Dave fell to the floor with his hand over his heart. He lied on the floor watching his blood pour out. Dave was in great pain until he realized something. This would be his last heartbreak. In his final moments, Dave looked at his wound with a smile on his face. Only is those moments, was Dave truly happy.

“No, it’s Ji-wi-an,” Jillian repeated herself to the beady-eyed woman sitting behind the glass at the county clerk’s office. “That’s what I said, Ma’am,” the woman gazed up at Jillian, revealing her irritation, “Jiwian Wester.” Jillian heard two little girls behind her giggle, clearly eavesdropping on her conversation. She turned around to see what-must-be their mother, grinning at her, not stopping her daughters from ogling at Jillian. She felt like a circus act. Jillian felt her eyes well-up in tears. “Ji-wi-an Wester. Not Jiwian Wester!” She started to feel her quivery voice raise and began to panic that the woman behind the glass would judge her more than she already was. This was exactly why Jillian was here at the clerk’s office to change her name. She couldn’t deal with the embarrassment of not being able to pronounce it anymore. She couldn’t deal with the arguments that came each time she introduced herself to someone new. She felt a cauldron of rage in her begin to boil and took a deep breath. “Have you ever heard of the name Jiwian before? Why would my name by Jiwian?” Jillian elevated her pitch as she grabbed her license out of her purse and pressed it up to the glass, “See? Jiwian Wester!” The woman’s eyes scanned Jillian’s license and a smirk slowly drew on her face. “Jillian Lester, your number fifty-seven. Have a seat and wook for your number to come up on the screen.” Jillian was caught off guard by the woman’s clear insertion of wook instead of look. How can people be so cruel? she thought to herself. She closed her eyes and felt the boiling inside her begin to bubble up. Flushed and sweaty, she took the license from the glass and placed it back in her purse. She drew a deep breath to gather herself together before finding an empty seat in the middle of the crowded room. As she sat down, she felt her phone vibrate and grabbed it out of her purse. She had just received a new rating: Jillian Lester received a one-star review from Janice Dawson. Janice Dawson? Jillian thought to herself, who could that be? She squinted and looked up at the name tag of the woman sitting behind the glass who was now helping an elderly man with thick, black glasses. She could scarcely make out the small writing on her black and yellow nametag: Janice D . Janice glanced up at Jillian and looked away quickly, her face turning red, clearly caught. Jillian had been given a lot of one-star reviews in the past. But the nerve of Janice to rate her poorly while Jillian was still sitting in front of her? That was a whole new level of low. Jillian opened her Ratebook App and found Janice Dawson’s profile. She knew the rules: you were not supposed to give someone a low rating just because they gave you a low rating. In other words, no spite-rating allowed. But this was not a spite-rating. Janice was rude. Jillian’s fingers hovered over the stars under Janice’s profile picture, debating if she should give her one or two stars. Normally, Jillian didn’t give any rating below a three. But after being mocked and given this one-star review, Jillian needed vengeance. She pushed the one-star button before she could second guess herself and closed her eyes, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down her temple. Tentatively, she opened her right eye and then her left one, staring directly at Janice behind the glass as she picked up her phone, looked down at it, and then up at Jillian. Jillian smirked at her and then looked back down at her phone in frustration. Janice’s rating had moved Jillian’s overall Ratebook score to two/five stars. Almost every single low score Jillian had received was because she had gotten into an argument because she could not pronounce her name correctly. People always asked Jillian how her parents could have given her a name with so many L’s. And she always responded with how could her parents have known when they named her that she wouldn’t have been able to pronounce her L’s? They had named her what they named her. And now she was a twenty-four-year-old with a speech impediment and a bad rating. Jillian looked up at the screen above her, “Number thirty-three,” she mumbled to herself, dreading the long wait time in the cramped room. The elderly man with the thick glasses who had been speaking to Janice turned and sat down next to Jillian, giving her a friendly smile. Jillian forced a smile back and looked back at her phone, scrolling through her recent ratings. “Ratebook, huh?” the man asked pointing down at her phone. Jillian looked up at the man in surprise and a little irritation that he was snooping in her business. “Uh huh,” she said and quickly glanced back down at her phone, hoping he was not going to chat with her. She didn’t need another bad rating today. “Back in my day, people didn’t give ratings to one another,” he told her as he took his glasses off and cleaned the lenses off with the bottom of his shirt. Jillian raised her eyes up towards him. She had heard this speech all before from her grandparents. How individuals didn’t used to rate one another. People could curse one another out, say a rude comment, butt in line, and no one could do anything to damage their reputation. “When I was growing up, phones were for calling, taking photos, and using the internet. I don’t know how you kids do it now-and-days. You can’t get away with anything, can you?” he asked her, giving her a little wink. Jillian perked up and smiled at his friendliness. “Your tewing me about it,” she agreed, showing him her phone. “Wook. Two out of five stars. You can’t get much worse than that. Even some murderers have better ratings than me.” The man put his glasses back on and looked down at Jillian’s phone, squinting. “Only two stars for a pretty, young woman like yourself?” he asked her, looking her over in curiosity, “That can’t be right.” “When you have a speech impediment and can’t pronounce your own name, it causes a wot of mishaps,” Jillian explained. “Lambdacism,” the doctor had told her parents when she had been diagnosed with the condition at the age of ten. “It should go away with age and speech therapy.” But it had not, in fact, gone away with age and speech therapy. Not at all. Eyebrows raised, the man frowned at Jillian, clearly hearing her impediment for the first time. “What’s your name dear?” he asked her with a look of genuine concern on his face. Jillian reached into her purse and took out her license to show him. He took the card from her and then chuckled to himself after reading it. “God really does have a sense of humor, doesn’t he, Jillian?” he asked as he handed the license back to her. “He sure does,” she agreed as she put the license back into her purse and held up her phone again. “Every time I meet someone new, I have to try to expwain my name. And nine out of ten times, it ends up in me getting a bad review.” The man shook his head in dismay. “What this world is coming to. My mother would roll over in her grave.” “So that’s why I’m here today. I’m changing my name,” Jillian announced to him, feeling proud of her bravery. She hadn’t even told her parents yet that she was changing her name. She was sure they wouldn’t like it that she was banishing the Lester name from the family forever, her being their only child. The man’s eyes lit up and he looked at Jillian in surprise. “Changing your name? To what?” he asked. “Emma Webb,” Jillian said matter-of-factly. “Do you know how many names have wetters I can’t pronounce? A wot. Emma Webb is perfect,” she repeated the name again. How sweet it was to be able to say her new name correctly without messing it up. “Emma Webb is a beautiful name,” the man said, frowning at Jillian as he noticed a tear creeping out of her eye. He pointed down towards her phone. “What happens to Jillian Lester’s rating once you become Emma Webb?” Jillian glanced down at her phone, digesting his question. “Well, I’d have to open up a new account I guess,” she said shrugging her shoulders. “So, Emma Webb gets a fresh start then on Ratebook, huh?” he asked her. Jillian grinned, in realization. “Yea, I guess she does,” she responded. “And you are changing your name today?” he asked, pointing up to the number forty-five that flashed up on the screen. “That’s the pwan,” she said, nodding her head. “So, Jillian could do anything she wanted right now...get any rating...and it wouldn’t matter? Because Emma is starting fresh?” Jillian’s eyes lit up. “Yes...” she said slowly, looking around the room. “What are you going to have for your last meal?” he asked her, grinning ear to ear. Jillian’s heart was racing in an excitement she hadn’t ever felt before. All her life she had to follow the rules. Make people happy in fear of getting a bad review. But she was about to get a blank slate. She was about to clear her record. She looked over at the man, needing someone’s approval first. “Do it,” he urged, smiling at her. Jillian stood up and walked towards Janice’s desk, butting in front of the lady speaking to her. “Hey,” the lady exclaimed, eyeing up Jillian in judgement. “Hey yoursef!” Jillian said. She directed her eyes towards Janice and pointed her finger towards the glass. “The next time you rate someone badwy for having a speech impediment, maybe you should think about how it is going to affect them! How dare you give me a one-star rating for not being abwe to say my name! And how dare you mock me!” Janice’s eyes widened in surprised as Jillian turned and walked back to her seat before stopping towards the mother of the two girls who had been giggling at her. “And you! You are supposed to be raising those wittwe girws to be kind humans, and you wet them gawk and waugh at me. What kind of mother are you?” Jillian pointed her finger at the woman as she grabbed her little girls and pulled them close to her. Jillian turned to the room of people, now all staring at her in astonishment. “Each and every one of you! You just rate and rate peopwe aw day without thinking about how it is going to make them feew! Wew, wet me tew you, it feews pretty terribwe!” Jillian began to cry as she walked back over to her seat next to the old man, feeling tears stream down her face. She felt the man’s hand pat her back as she cried into her hands. It reminded her of when her grandpa used to put his arm around her back when she was little. “Shh, get it all out,” he whispered to her as she cried. “They all deserved it.” The chatter in the room began to pick back up and Jillian felt her phone buzzing in her purse. Ratebook. Her two-star rating was going down quickly after that performance. But for the first time in her life, she didn’t care. “I think you’re up,” the old man took his hand off her back and pointed towards the screen. Jillian’s eyes rose to the number ahead of her: fifty-seven. She widened her eyes and stood up, grabbing her purse from the ground. She turned towards the man before she walked towards the door. “I didn’t get your name,” she said. “Matthew Schneider,” he said, “But don’t bother rating me. I don’t use it. No need for it at my age.” Jillian nodded, understanding that once you retired and owned a house, there wasn’t much need for Ratebook anymore. Once you got to a certain age, it didn’t matter what people thought of you. Must be nice , she thought. “But don’t worry, Emma Webb,” he continued, “when I see you walk back out of that door, I am going to be the first person to give you a five-star review.” He gave her a wink and she felt her face flush. “Thank you, Matthew,” Jillian said before she walked towards the clerk’s office to become Emma Webb. “See you on the other side.”

A suitable starting point to my story might lie in an explanation as to how 'keeping up the pace' and metaphorically running a race, took shape for me. Nearly twenty years ago while in my twenties, I successfully kept ahead; I was fit (in all senses of the word), popular, reached degree status, claimed total financial independence and the world sat, as I'd wanted it to, invitingly at my feet. I was content with my place. Although, after some years of grandeur, an irritating thought whizzed about in my mind, like a trapped fly: worrying that time would, one day, no longer be my friend - it would soon turn its back on me and behave as if it had never known me. It would accuse me of taking it too much for granted, not paying enough attention to its ticking hands. By the dawn of my early thirties, everyone my age had hooked up. Married with a baby or at the very least married. They 'belonged' and more noticeable to me, they had children. Did this mean I had begun to slip back in my metaphorical running crowd ( which consisted of all those females in my age bracket)? In my own mind, if there existed a hint of self doubt to any question of mine, the answer always had to be yes. So, yes, I had inadvertently given in to a more complacent pace and was falling behind. The consequence of this acknowledgement (I am certain) summoned Roman. He stood almost 6ft ( in shoes) which I'd decided I would overlook. Slightly thin on top too, for a twenty - eight year old, but for the sake of showing time courtesy, I chose to pretend it wouldn't matter. Unluckily, Roman had no house of his own, was renting a box -room and his car was so knackered that the shine had lifted from its paintwork. It reminded me of a pair of old, scuffed shoes I still kept from my childhood. Truthfully , I was quietly embarrassed to be seen in it. And, despite my friends' negative opinions about my new lover and his lack of suitable status, I carried on regardless. So when he admitted his debt along with a side - serving of understandable explanations, I still decided to keep the news a secret, despite my personal forgiveness for his past mistakes . Please also consider that no matter what, this man had to be my solution as time was about to turn. 'You won't ever need to worry about being alone, Shannon,' Roman pledged, stroking my ponytail softly. 'I want you and we can have an amazing future.' I took another sip from my glass of cheap, sour wine. I looked into his dark green eyes and enjoyed their glint. ' How do you know that? We've only had three dates.' 'Yeah and I want more. I always want more with you.' 'Promise it's not just sex. Promise me. Just don't make promises you won't keep,' I sighed heavily, aching for certainty. Roman leaned towards the low table we sat next to and set his almost empty beer glass close to my wine. Returning his convincing gaze, he gently moved my chin towards him and pressed his mouth earnestly against mine. A glorious electric sizzle whipped through my thighs. ' I promise. Look - I have an idea! Finish your wine... ' I'd never known a man who offered me so many guarantees so soon . It thrilled me, leaving me half - believing he was indeed, 'The One,' forgetting that I'd stopped striving for that idiotic ideal a long time ago. His idea was for us to head immediately to the tattoo shop to have identical tattoos needled into our lower backs. After all, it was the most concrete assurance he could offer with immediate effect. Yet again, I kept this out of sight from all others, for fear of being ridiculed or accused of recklessness. Within weeks, we were already engaged and Roman had moved in; I was basking in the warmth of his consistent presence. I felt proud of my progress- I had begun to set a good, solid pace once again and the runners ahead of me didn't appear quite so far out of reach. 'It's too quick!' my grandmother ranted. 'Act in haste and repent at leisure,' she kept repeating. 'I know what I'm doing. I love him and I won't lose him!' I insisted, unhappy that she hated him with immediate effect. 'You've only met him twice. How can you know?' She had but months left to live as she'd developed terminal lung cancer, which had recently spread to her poor brain. 'Well I don't bloody trust him. He 's after the money Shannon- why can't you see that? He knows what will happen once I die!' She continued with tears in her eyes. 'It's not like that. Anyway I need him now more than ever... I'm pregnant.' The defeated , frail, little lady fell back into her sofa chair and sat, aghast, for what to me, felt like hours rather than minutes. She hardly ever cried, but this time as her tears fell, I had to tell myself it was the tumour invading her brain and her personality with it. It was only weeks old. The foetus. I hadn't planned on telling her about the baby, as Roman and I had agreed to keep the news to ourselves until three months was up. But I wanted her to know; I wanted her to be happy for me. If only just a little happy. It wasn't to be. She died too soon- during an unusually warm September, clasping hold of her thorough disappointment in me and I am sure this went along with her tiny body into the earth - I had failed in my lifelong ambition to make her happy and proud. Yet, I ignored the new ball of pain now setting hard in my heart, because I knew that with just a few more short sprints, I'd be level with the front - runners. House prices began dropping after her burial though; as if I'd suddenly been cursed by her. Her home was my inheritance dwindling away; thousands gone in weeks. Eventually, we decided to take the plunge and buy Seven Oak Dene. A perfect solution it seemed. It also paved the way for me to pay off Roman's debt, which would in turn help us to pay the monthly mortgage. His suggestion made absolute sense. So by November that year, I had indeed miraculously boosted ahead to first place: doting fiancé, baby, house, career. I felt like the luckiest woman alive. Roman and I were also fortunate to have had the most perfect time during my pregnancy: I even began enthusiastically transforming gran's old home into a new home for the three of us. To add to this, we couldn't wait for the arrival of our first bouncing baby. But I ought to have known better than to have forced nature's hand... Following thirty crushing hours of labour, Tristan was brought into our world eventually, through an emergency C - Section. At once, Roman seemed to fit the mould of responsible, proud dad. And at the start, I seemed to be perfect for the responsible role of dutiful, wholly fulfilled mother. When I say ‘the start’ I refer to the first few weeks.. Until the day I collapsed in our kitchen, holding a boiling kettle in one hand - of all things, and one of gran’s delicate China cups in the other. Six months of sleepless torture for the both of us since the birth, might have taken its toll on me at last, but I knew it was more than simple exhaustion. Something wasn't right; it seemed as though nothing was completely real anymore since the labour: like looking at everything through frosted glass. All my senses had become muted and in truth, I felt very little. Except for one overriding emotion - fear. The doctors predicted Multiple Sclerosis as lesions were found on the MRI of my brain. I had weakness in one side and suddenly, terrifyingly I couldn't sleep. Upon drifting off, an electrical current, a flash that I could actually see behind my eyelids, would spark like a lightning bolt, jolting me almost straight off the bed. To my private horror, after two gruelling weeks in hospital,it turned out not to be MS and my bloods revealed very little. I was a mystery and mysteries had to be dismissed - they would cost the health service way too much time and money. I was a problem they couldn't solve, taking up the space of a valuable hospital bed for someone who was fixable. Back at home I could do very little; fatigue floored me like a train hurtling towards me at full speed. Family were hauled in by Roman and were provided a rota to help him care for woeful Tristan. So I lay there in our bedroom, day after lonely day upstairs; my ears burning from the helpful relatives' naïve opinions floating up the staircase like phantoms coming to haunt and taunt me. 'She's just tired,' Amanda proposed. 'It's a difficult thing to adjust to after all.' 'Yeah but Roman's finding it bloody hard too and he's not got the luxury of lying up there in bed,' Roman's father would say. 'Well let's just see. Give it time,' his wife sang, laughing it all off, underscoring the whole situation as temporary . The guilt I experienced sliced through me over and over, because I couldn't do what was needed for both Roman and Tristan. Humiliation also hung about my sick - room like a stench I couldn't rid. Panic threw my rational thoughts into a blender, as I often expected to die. My headaches and weakness worsened to a point where my body shook with any effort: even teetering to the toilet and back became hard. My position in the run had been turned on its head by nature herself . Keeping up ( to be shoulder to shoulder with the fittest) would no more be the goal. That was going to be impossible, I conceded. Oh no. Instead, it had turned into a deadly, uphill run to keep pace with even the slowest runner of the group. So, with this firmly in mind, I removed the covers from my heavy, unsteady body and pulled on my gown. I headed gingerly downstairs, holding on tightly to the banister as I descended to be with tearful Tristan who wailed ceaselessly, as if he were crying for me. ' ‘Oh my god, you're finally up!' Roman cried, with a look of uncensored scorn ruining his kind face, as he noticed me wander through the lounge doorway. 'Yes I am,' I smiled as I awkwardly knelt in front of him and howling Tristan and began tidying the sea of scattered toys. 'All better now then!' he remarked above the din, in a spiteful tone that squeezed my sad heart. 'Yes, all better now,' I affirmed, watching my hands shake as I placed the last of the toys in the box. In this desperate scenario, sensing Roman already resented me, I begrudgingly recalled my grandmother's warning, 'Act in haste and repent at leisure.' Just a short while ago she had sat down in the vacant chair which now loomed in front of me, wagging her finger with those remonstrations that had seemed so very ridiculous. And when Roman revealed a few months later that he was leaving me for someone else, her warnings resounded so loudly in my painful brain, and I did not know how I would continue this nauseating , nightmarish marathon with no one there to help me keep up. She would have helped, yet she was gone. So would my mother, but she had gone too. Long ago. But I knew if I stopped, I would be out of the race altogether and worse still, Tristan would too and his dear little life had hardly begun. So I chose to look ahead, holding Tristan tightly despite his heaviness, and kept going. I just kept going. Fourteen years later, I am still looking ahead. I still have Tristan to protect and guide and love; therefore I am still taking part , albeit lagging somewhere towards the middle or back of the crowd. The floor beneath me is still something cruel like sand. Or mud at times. My fear of dying has all but gone, but my heart stopping fear of failure and falling behind remains. I continue to run from the ground that now collapses behind me as my disease devours me little by little; it remains a mystery. Never mind: I just keep going. There is no choice. No option to stop. Or I will be swallowed whole. Written by Eleanor Winstanley

“So I’m in the library and I stumble across this book.” As he is saying this, the large man holds out a small leather volume, that is clearly old, and has seen better days. He is a big man; nearly 190 centimeters tall with broad shoulders and tipping the scales at 18 stone. The man hands the book to a small figure and continues; “I mean I literally stumble on the thing.” The one now holding the book smiles brightly and opens the old volume as the bigger man keeps talking. “It must have fallen off its’ shelf;” he continues, “I snatched it up; along with the amphorae, and high tailed it out of there before the security detail could glom onto my presence.” The small figure is leafing through the book and says “amphoriskoi.” The big man cocks his head and says, “beg pardon?” Pecht tells him in his high, soft voice; “technically since it is such a small example of an amphorae; the proper term is amphoriskoi.” The bruiser has a slight smile on his face and says “potayto - potahto, Mr. Pecht.” The Pixie looks at his man and says “you know Gerald, I can’t recall how many times over the years, I have told you that Pecht will do.” The smaller figure looks expectantly at the big man and asks; “so you did get the amphorae?” “Yes sir Mr. Pecht;” the large man says with a grin on his face as he reaches into his jacket pocket to pull out a small glass vessel. The amphorae seems tiny in his large hands. Of course it is only about 12 centimeters tall with two delicate handles on either side of the tapered neck. It is translucent sea green with the handles in emerald. As he hands the smooth glass amphorae over; Gerald can’t help but think to himself; that the thing always smells like the sea. “Mr. Pecht sir?;” the big man questions his smaller boss, “how is it that Miss Bella can’t seem to hold on to this thing?” The Pixie shrugged his small shoulders, and Gerald continued;” I believe this is the third time in as many decades that I have had to retrieve it from someone or somewhere.” The small figure ran the glass amphorae gently through his nimble fingers and spoke; “at least this posh gentleman were just a collector; and had no nefarious motives like that Italian from the South side of the city.” Gerald shivered; despite the relative warmth of the small apartment. The mention of that man made him recall when he had first met Mr. Pecht: that had been nearly a hundred years ago. It had in fact been the very night that he had been killed by Vittorio in one of the back rooms of the Italian eatery that the troubleshooter had secretly owned. He clearly remembered tackling the Italian devil because the other man had been stalking his friend Teague; and had taken out the ivory handled razor that he had used to kill dozens of men. Gerald recalled his friend; and the years they worked for Mr. Penrose, who ran the West side of the city for quite a while. Teague had been, maybe slightly smaller than Gerald himself; and to this day, he was the toughest man that Gerald had yet to meet. He remembered thinking that he would take his friend Teague over any man; even if they were armed, but if he were taken unawares by someone like Vittorio... that could be a different story. So, he had tackled the Italian and very shortly after that; had been lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood. Teague had found Gerald and held him as the bruiser’s life seeped from him. Over the years; he had asked the Pixie several times to explain what he actually did that brought him back. Gerald always just thought of it as a miracle. Pecht had to basically “dumb it down” tremendously. Even then; the closest he could come to something that Gerald could understand, was to say that he shared a part of himself with the enterprise man. Pecht would not say “soul”; because he consistently would assert that since he was not a man, he technically did not possess a “soul”. Long story short: Gerald had ceased working for Mr. Penrose, and his enterprise, and started working for Mr. Pecht, the Pixie. He remembered one of the very first things he had learned about his new boss was that pixies and fairies don’t get along: sort of like the Chinese and Japanese. But that didn’t stop the Pixie from falling in love with one. Her name was Tenkha; though Gerald usually referred to her as Miss Bella. It was odd; since that was part of how Vittorio had spoken of her many years ago. The bruiser remembered the handsome Italian say that she was his Tenkha Bella: Gerald knew that bella meant beautiful in Italian. That was just one of the unusual things in store for Gerald after Mr. Pecht had brought him back; and shared part of his “self” with the enterprise man. Gerald found that he understood languages. He could read and write and communicate with anyone in any language. To Gerald; that had been miraculous, because he now knew that he had been dyslexic in his prior life but Mr. Pecht had fixed that. He remembered the Pixie saying something along the lines of something being not quite right in Gerald’s head, so he fixed it. He had found that he also could understand animals to a certain extent. He was no Dr. Doolittle; but he could communicate with most animals. He also never got ill; and oh yeah, he didn’t seem to age. So; all in all, Gerald thought “miracle” was a pretty good term. Mr. Pecht mentioned nefarious intent in regards to the amphorae. That was pertinent because he knew that if someone possessed the small glass jar; then they could exert influence over the sea nymph Tenkha who was the love of Mr. Pecht’s ridiculously long life. He remembered that the original intent of Vittorio was to use the amphorae’s hold over Miss Bella to have her paramour, the Pixie; come over to the Italians’ side. The small fae had provided Pixie Dust that the chefs in the eatery used to enhance the food. This meant that people would be willing to do whatever they must; including paying exorbitant prices, to enjoy the delicious food. In fact; the Italians had been using too heavy a concentration of Pixie Dust, and eating the food became an addiction as insidious as Heroin. The Pixie was polishing the amphorae and preparing to place it in a cleverly concealed safe. As his boss was doing that, Gerald had taken the book and was admiring it. The small volume was actually several hundred years old; written in Olde English, and had been inscribed by hand. There were beautiful illustrations that were still astonishingly colorful, considering how old the book was. He had read through most of the book in the short time it was in his possession. He could remember hating to read as a boy because he had been dyslexic, and he would get headaches if he tried to read or concentrate on anything for more than five or ten minutes at a time. One of the advantages of the “miracle” that had brought him back was that he had been cured of that particular learning disability. The book had many tales, what most would consider folklore: and some of them had made Gerald question his relationship with the Pixie. He found a spot near the middle of the book: it contained information that he wanted to discuss with Pecht. Gerald waited till after his small boss had secreted away the amphoroskoi before he said;”Mr. Pecht sir, there’s something I would like to discuss with you.” The Pixie raised an eyebrow and said;”of course Lad. And what would that be?” Gerald handed the small volume over to his boss: it was open to an illustration of several warriors and a small figure in blue. Pecht examined the intricate artwork; because the illustrations in the book were certainly that. Gerald noticed the expression on the Pixies’ face as the small figure appreciated the drawing. “I remember you telling me that story Mr. Pecht sir;” Gerald said to the Pixie. “It was a group of young warriors who happened upon you; and you convinced them that you were blue because of the drink you had brewed.” Pecht smiled broadly in remembrance as his man continued. “You told them that the potion kept you safe and whole in battle, but in fact, it kept you three sheets to the wind.” “You have to admit Gerald;”Pecht told the big man, “it is a funny thing.” The bruiser nodded in the affirmative because it was in fact, a funny thing. “The thing is, Mr. Pecht, sir”he said, “it goes on and on about the trickster god and how he would do anything to further his own ends.” Pecht kept his eye on Gerald and said; “I think the same could be said of just about anyone; be they man, woman, or Pixie.” “Something occurred to me;” the bruiser said, “actually several somethings.” Pecht looked up at his man and asked” and what would those be lad?” “Well;” Gerald said, “I’m going to be one hundred twenty six years old this November, and I’ve lived in three centuries so far.” Pecht smiled and interrupted with, “that’s cute! Talk to me when you’ve lived in forty five.” Gerald shook his head slowly in awe. He knew that his boss was old; but seldom thought about just how much history the Pixie had seen. The big man kept on; “the main thing that occurred to me: was that you knew.” He looked the Pixie in the eye when he said this. “Knew what?” the Pixie said with a convincing look of ignorance on his fae visage. “Don’t try it Sir. I’ve known you too long.” Pecht shrugged his slight shoulders as Gerald continued. “You knew that Vittorio was going to take her.” Pecht looked slightly dismayed. “That was a long time ago lad.” Gerald slowly shook his head in the negative and said;”that doesn’t matter.” The big man took a moment to survey the small lavishly appointed apartment before turning his gaze back on the millenia old figure from folklore. “She wasn’t my mum;” Gerald said, “but Teague’s mother was the grandest lady I have known my whole life.” Pecht agreed with; “the Mrs. was quite the lady, you’re not wrong there lad.” “You knew that Vittorio was going to take her; and you did nothing?” Gerald asked his boss. The Pixie said;”she came out of it none the worse for wear lad.” Gerald nodded but asked; “but did you know she would be ok?” He continued; “you know what that beast did to me. Did you know she would be ok?” Pecht considered for a moment before he answered; “honestly lad: I did not.” Geralds’ face flushed: he sighed, and he asked; “then how could you have done that?” the big man started to pace; “they both could have been killed by that monster.” “I’m sorry lad;” Pecht told his man, “I needed Teague to take care of the situation; and having his mother in peril, made certain that he would do what needed to be done.” A troubled look crossed Geralds’ broad face and he said; “I don’t know if I can be here.” Pecht looked up at his man and asked; “what do you mean Gerald?” The big man looked around and said;”I need some time.” “Time for what lad?” the Pixie asked. “I just need some time Sir.” He stopped pacing and looked down at the old fae; “I need some time away to think.” The Pixie looked a little distressed and said; “but I need you here lad.” Gerald considered for a moment and told his boss;”I honestly believe there is nothing you can’t do Sir: you don’t need me.” “Don’t worry;” he said to his small boss, “if Miss Bella loses her amphoriskoi again: I’ll get it back for her.” Pecht looked troubled and asked; “are you sure about this Gerald?” The big man considered for a moment and said; “yes Sir Mr. Pecht; I am sure.” The Pixie thrust his small chin up at the big man and said; “what if I say no? What if I don’t let you go?” Gerald looked down at the much older, smaller figure, shook his head and softly said; “I don’t think you will.” The Pixie looked down at his small, fancy shoes and in his soft, high voice agreed; “you’re right: I don’t think I will.” The big man turned away and started toward the door. As he reached the door the ancient Pixie called out; “Gerald: you take care.” The former enterprise man looked back and said; “you do the same Pecht.” And then he left.

&#x200B; It had been many years since he had walked down these streets. Everything seemed familiar yet unfamiliar at once. The old buildings still looked the same, with paint peeling off and the air of gloom hanging around them, the roads were still narrow and crooked, the street-lights still didn’t work. But the people had changed. The old man who sold ice-cream had disappeared and the old aunt who often scolded the children for being noisy but would unfailingly appear with lemonade at regular intervals to distribute it among them was no were to be seen and he himself was no longer that young and innocent child who had considered the entire world a magical land to be explored. Indeed the passage of time was cruel and though he had gained many things, he had lost as much in the process. As he trod down the well-remembered road, he absent mindedly took out a cigarette and lighted it, a bad habit he picked up in his youth and one he found difficult to completely cast off even now, it had become a part of him, an action that he did subconsciously whenever he was deep in thought. Blowing out the smoke he rounded a corner and suddenly stopped, in front of him was a dilapidated playground just like the one he remembered, the same rusty swings and creaky slides...perhaps the difference would be that now a small fence surrounded the playground, perhaps the result of some mandatory maintenance project, but what caught his attention was the old tree near the swing, it was an unremarkable tree, short and crooked, he didn’t even know what species it was but he felt an unexplainable attraction to it. With large strides he walked over to it and kneeled down beneath the shade it cast. He reached out a well manicured hand and felt around its trunk, his hand stopping when it discovered some deep indentations that time couldn’t completely cover up. With an almost maniacal urgency he roughly ran his hands over the spot a few times till the marks left in the trunk became more visible. As his eyes ran over those marks, an old memory resurfaced in his mind, a summer afternoon and a couple of boys fooling around without a care in the world, a sharp knife one had snuck out of his father’s drawer and a spur of the moment decision to etch their names on to the tree under which they spend their time. Of course they had realized that to carve their names completely would be a tad bit difficult but unwilling to give up they had compromised by deciding to only leave their initials on the tree. As he revisited that particular memory he found himself smiling for some reason. It wasn’t the kind of polite smile he usually had but a real one which came from the bottom of his heart. Even though he realized that the sight of a thirty something man in a three-piece suit kneeling down and smiling in an empty playground might make people think him a creep he couldn’t care less, he couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled without any hidden intentions, smiled simply because his emotions dictated he had to, smiled just because he felt like it. Walking out of the playground he ran into an aging man in a police uniform stretched tight over a rather plentiful belly. He was shocked to realize that he knew that man, it was the same police officer who had chased those young boys around for causing ruckus after ruckus and handed them over to their parents after a stern warning time and time again. Even though time had stripped the man of his vigour and turned him into a fragile shadow of his former self he still recognized him. In front of him, the man had a frown on his face, perhaps he was wondering why a guy in an expensive albeit soiled suit would be hanging around these parts. Perhaps the man would remember him if he talked but he didn’t feel like it. It was curious, the feelings he had for this place and it’s people, all he knew was that despite everything he had never hated it, as for feelings like love or nostalgia...he had no idea. It was strange really, he didn’t understand why after coming out of yet another boring meeting he would have a sudden urge to revisit this place. But he had never been one to leave something for later when he wanted to do it, and thus he had come.Why? He didn’t know. Wasn’t “I felt like it” reason enough? He was shaken out of his inner thoughts and monologuing by the sound of a car behind him. He turned around to see a sleek and expensive car that was awfully familiar to him...it was after all his own.The car came to a stop near him and a man got out, it was his secretary. The man cast a disapproving look at the state of his clothes but switched focus and said “ Sir, I just received a call, the representatives hope you will be willing to have a video conference with them tonight” he felt a familiar stifling feeling rise in his chest but still nodded curtly and flashed the policeman a polite smile before getting into the car. As the car pulled away from the place he hadn’t seen in so long he glanced at the rear view mirror and saw the policeman watching the car speeding away, he still had a frown on his face but the next moment the car rounded a corner and he could no longer see the policeman. He felt a wave exhaustion wash over him and leaned back in his seat before slowly closing his eyes.

I used to be an atheist, don’t get me wrong I didn’t have a near death experience or experience what’s known as a miracle to others. I’ve merely found a theory which to me explains everything that happens in this world. To understand let me tell you about my past and the events which had let up to me becoming the laughing stock of the scientific community. My name is Tyrel smith and I was a respectable physicist, one of the best in my field. Never once did I entertain the thought of an afterlife or the supernatural being any more than a delirium among my fellow man, a story made up to explain all the oddities and fears in this world or to simply take the fear out of death itself. Religion was a joke; I mean how can something be created from nothing especially the vast universe and our world in 6 measly days no less. It’s absolutely absurd, so when they would try to converse with me about the greatness of their lord I simply laughed and brushed them aside, however after doing my own investigation into some of the oddities that plague our world, I came to a conclusion which sounds crazy but makes the most sense. It all started 6 months ago whilst I was looking into how black holes affect our universe and what potentially lies at the singularity at its core. This research was based on something known as the black hole cosmology, a theory that each black hole contains a universe at its core proposed by a theoretical physicist to which I found intriguing. I mean seriously there has to be a place for all the matter black holes consume to go right, anyways I'm getting distracted back to the point. I had spent 2 years researching this seeing if it could tie in to our theory of the big bang, to which we have evidence is the start of our universe, I enjoyed doing my research listening to audio books of various subject, so one of my colleagues Samantha suggested I listen to stories from a youtuber who only ever told true stories that enveloped the area of mystery and the disturbing, which seemed like a joke at first but after a while they fascinated me. One story in particular had me bewildered, though I don’t think you would know about it but it's about this old woman who passed away, however the part that bewildered me was how she had led her life and what she proclaimed. I'll explain the story then explain why I'm no longer respected by my colleagues. so in 1904 a girl was born, her name was Dorothy, at the age of 3 she had fallen down the stairs in her home. Her parents had called a doctor who pronounced her dead shortly after arriving, after an hour had gone-by she had gotten up and started playing in her room. However, the girl was never the same after that her mannerisms had changes and she had frequently asked her parents to take her home much to their surprise, they had frequently asked her where is home to which the girl could not give an answer. This doesn’t quite seem odd coming from a child it seems quite natural that she would have these confusing thoughts after such a horrible accident, however this would persist throughout her entire life. One day they took her to a museum which had recently opened an Egyptian exhibit, shortly after the girl had entered the exhibit, she started acting weirdly running up to all the statues of the pharaohs and sphinx kissing their feet crying I'm finally with my people. On one of the walls hung a picture of the temple of Seti when she had seen this, she began excitedly saying that’s my home. When she turned 27, she moved to Egypt and began studying everything she could about the country that she was certain was her true home, it was during the first year of this she began getting visions from Hor ra, a deity of the ancient Egyptians and from this she had proclaim that she was a priestess at the temple of Seti named Bentreysht. That she had become the lover of Seti and conceived his child however because she had broken her vows of chastity, she was interrogated by the other priestesses hoping to find the culprit and summarily took her own life to protect her love. At the age of 57 she finally got permission to go the Abydos to do research on the temple of Seti, upon setting foot in the temple she had stated its almost as if I had been here before during her 20 years working at the site, she had demonstrated impossible levels of knowledge regarding the ruins leading to many discoveries of hidden tunnels and the old garden that used to stand there. This in my opinion is the most realistic case of reincarnation we have seen to date. Once I had heard this story, I started doing my own research on the theories of reincarnation which stem from Indian religions where it is described as the rebirth or transmigration of the non-physical essence of a living being beginning a new life in a different physical form after death. This sound preposterous especially when you would need to accept that something like a soul exists and that is an impossibility to prove. Then I started looking into the mythology of our world and all the creatures that exist within our heads, there's no evidence any of them existed yet all myths and stories always stem from a single truth or event which over time gets misconstrued and twisted as it is passed down through generations. By this point 3 months had gone by and I was obsessed with trying to figure out the truth behind it all, until one day as I was watching tv I came across one of the anime’s that children love, it think it was called the wise man's grandson. Which is about a man who dies and reincarnates in a fantasy world and at that moment things started to connect in my head, what if none of the religions wrong or science for that fact. Then I started thinking and here was my thought process. For reincarnation to work then the metaphysical concept of a soul must be true, however that itself is a struggle as the soul itself must have memory, meaning that if you did indeed reincarnate all of your memories if not a few would remain from a past life. Therefore, a system would have to be in place to wipe those memories which would be triggered by external stimuli that you are/were familiar with, however if what I was researching is true then such a thing as a multiverse should be real, therefore if you were to reincarnate into one of those other universes then maybe a life there would overwrite the soul's memory and erase the past life. This explains how some can remember previous lives whilst most of us don’t, but it would also explain our mythology. Mythology could just be stories about creatures that existed in those other universes, a residual memory if you will from a past life. This would explain how there is no base for these creatures in our world, yet they have a deep and rich history here. What I got from this process was that reincarnation may be real, however we reincarnate between parallel universes and some of our experiences in those alternative realities have leaked over to this world creating our myths and legends. I know sounds crazy but it does explain religion and some of the thing's scientists have been stuck on since before my time. Now I've explained the story behind why I became the laughing stock of my fellow scientists, I will tell you how it came to pass. Once I had this theory, I decided I would document it and share it with a few of my colleagues, sufficed to say they laughed at it calling it ludicrous at best. No matter what I said to them they dismissed it and called me crazy, they mocked me for weeks calling me a crazy man or delusional. I decided to try one more thing I got some of the best theoretical scientists to agree to a meeting and presented them with my theory and all the evidence I had accumulated to back it, I was hopeful that they would see the potential in what I had put together. After they had gone over everything and discussed amongst themselves, they said it was a solid theory and told me to give them time to see if it stands against scrutiny so I agreed went home and waited to hear back from them. Unfortunately, no sooner than a week had passed and I got a phone call from an old friend asking if I had seen the story about me in the scientific journal, I pondered what the article could possibly be about, when I finally saw the article, my heart dropped the title read in bold letters “physicist Tyrel Smith officially declared crazy with his new theory”. It's not surprising to say every part of that article was a dig at my intelligence and my sanity, I lost my lab all of my research data and now anytime I see my old colleagues in the street or the store, I get barraged with insults and jabs concerning my intelligence and what I had discovered. This is where I will leave this story, I decided to type this up so there is a record of what transpired and so others may read my theory and draw their own conclusions. as we speak, I'm preparing to leave this world behind, maybe in my next life I will be respected.

The hike to the hidden meadow was rough for a beginner. Back aching, calves screaming, she had to make her goal; she owed herself this win. It was only three or so miles, but for her, it felt insurmountable. COVID was a depression feeding ground, and she had become one with her couch for too long. Over feeling cooped up inside her stuffy apartment, she needed to be outdoors. She envied the explorer section of social media: lush green, fresh air, soft breezes, birds tittering, streams bubbling. Enough watching it through a stranger’s lens; today was *her* turn. The trail began to incline, and she was grateful for the trekking poles. It was not an unpleasant day; in fact, it was beautiful outside. It had sprinkled that morning, so all was a little damp, but the warmth of the sun and the cool breeze made it lovely. Sadly, the thick trees blocked the breeze, which left the air warm and muggy. *Ugh*, she could feel the sweat on her face and back. Please, *please* let me be close. Misplacing a step, her ankle twisted. *Ouch*. She sat down on a nearby log, only to fall right through. Looking down in shock, she realized too late that the log was rotten. Why did the outdoors appeal to her again? She sat in disgust, lamenting her lack of grace while studying her surroundings. It was more of the same: dense trees and brush, parted only by the unkempt trail. She considered turning back, questioning how much more she could take. No, she was *going* to make this happen. Resolve strengthened, she pulled herself up and gave her ankle a little test. *I can do this.* *Squish, squelch, squish, squelch.* Watching her feet, she trudged ahead. A half mile later, she could feel the breeze again. It looked like the trail was beginning to open. Excitement overtook exhaustion, and she moved faster. She saw the meadow, and a grin split her weary face. A large patch free from trees, the foliage bloomed extensively. There were wildflowers everywhere: purples, yellows, pinks, reds, and blues. There were ferns, bergamots, goldenrods, black-eyed susans, geraniums, daisies, and more. Closing her eyes, she listened to the birds. *Zee-zee-zee, purrrty-purrrty, choo-choo!* Farther away was the sound of water. Looking around, she found a small stream at the north edge and began to follow it. The trickle became a bubble, and the bubble became a rush. There was a small waterfall at the bank, surrounded by an equally small rocky outcropping. She could see a grotto behind the waterfall - just large enough for her to sit in. Giddily she leaped on two larger stones to get closer and stepped through the cascade. The rush of cool water was exhilarating. Hunkering down, she crawled into the cavity and sat down. It was just her and the water in peaceful solitude. She marveled at the beauty, splashing on the smooth stones below. Settling in, she pulled off her bag and fished out a thermos. She slowly sipped on the hot coffee, enjoying the view through the veil of water. In this surreal moment, she silently praised her triumph. Taking the time to slowly finish her coffee, she let her mind wander as her eyes continued to soak everything in. She could stay here forever. Rinsing her cup in the water, she set it aside to dry. Resting her hands on her thighs, she closed her eyes. Listening to her body, she became anchored to the ground, to mother nature. The strength of the stones supported her body well. Methodically, she loosened any tension from her face all the way down to her toes. Slowly she took in a deep breath, waited, and blew out a slow exhale. Repeating this cycle, each breath brought nature in, and each exhale took with it life’s stress. Now in a calmer state, she breathed normally and began meditating. The rise and fall of her stomach, bringing in life and expelling its woes. Her ears heard only the water, splashing, trickling, and bubbling. Any errant thought was noticed and drifted away. This was her moment. This was her peace.

As the mournful night drifted by her window, Susanna knew nothing of her future, and very little of her past. Every person in the train car, including herself, drew shallow breaths under the dampened light. Cigarette sighs hung in the air, and a dozen sullen eyelids drooped down to the floor. Susanna stole secret glances at the others, when she dared. She liked to imagine what brought them here, onto this dark, creaking train, hidden beneath the belly of midnight. One woman had coarse hands and sensitive eyes. She was loosely wrapped in a work uniform: the night shift. Maybe she worked at night to feed her children during the day... maybe she had multiple jobs... maybe this was the only one she could find. Whatever her reality was, the woman seemed gentle, if only a little resigned. Then Susanna looked behind her to see a tired man yawn back into his seat. He had a face made of lines. The creases on his forehead were parallel to his blocky eyebrows, to his narrow eyes, to his furrowed mustache, and to his wiry lips. Every time he yawned, he seemed to fold into himself like an accordion. Susanna wondered what could’ve made this man so exhausted. And if it was just tonight. She looked again at his eroded face-her guess was no. It was every night. The night sky raced beside the train and finally began to slow. It moaned as it eased itself into the station. Susanna reminded herself that she had her own story, too. Her own secret that she couldn’t seem to forget. She was running away. Several hours ago, Susanna had thrown everything she needed into a large, canvas bag. An extra pair of clothes, a toothbrush, her medicine, and her portfolio. She forgot to bring her books. When she first boarded, she merely shrugged this off; but now she cursed herself. This was going to be a long journey. The car doors gasped open. A few people shuffled off, a couple people meandered in, but the gentle woman and tired man stayed. A part of Susanna wanted to turn and talk to them. So, what brings you here? She would say, softly. But Susanna also knew that traveling alone brought not only freedom, but danger. Especially for a young woman like herself. Susanna must have dozed off, for when she awoke, the train had halted at another stop. More people stepped off, but none stepped on. Just as the doors began to shut, a stray hand flew forward, clasped onto the rim of the door, and yanked the rest of its owner on board. His young, wide eyes frantically searched the faces of the other passengers. The door, by now, had closed, and the train resumed chugging along. Yet the man still had not taken his seat. Something about him seemed unusually urgent and fresh. His suit was pressed, his stubble shaven, and his gaze anxious-yet-alert. Susanna was unsure if the man’s appearance made him more trustworthy or more suspicious. Keep an eye on him, she told herself. Never trust a stranger. Suddenly, the man’s eyes met Susanna’s, and something in them flickered. Not something like fright or anger, but something like... Well, Susanna didn’t know what. The man seemed less tense now as he approached her. “Thank God,” he said as he took the seat next to hers. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.” “Do I know you?” Susanna snapped at him. The man turned to her, and the frenzy in his face melted. A hint of sadness tinted his eyes. “Oh... I’m sorry. I must’ve mistaken you for somebody else.” Susanna nodded and held her bag closer to her. The man sighed to himself and rubbed his temples. For several quiet minutes, his attention locked to the dark window, and Susanna thought she spotted a few tears inching down his cheeks. Eventually, he turned back to her. “What brings you here?” he said, softly. Susanna looked at the man’s dewey, pleading eyes. She could almost see him as a little boy, as though he were a child crawling towards a stranger for comfort. “Well, to tell you the truth,” Susanna smiled warmly at him, “I’m headed to New York. To sell my paintings.” The man was impressed. “New York, you say!” Susanna nodded proudly. She seemed to have cheered him up. “Are those some of your paintings there?” He pointed to the portfolio sticking out of her bag. Susanna beamed, took them out, and slid them towards the man. He held the pages carefully in his hands. Delicate strokes appeared almost stitched onto each canvas. The first was a self-portrait: a girl like Susanna staring sideways at the viewer, a glint of mischief shining in her eye. Then came a series of imagined portraits, fictional faces that Susanna must have conjured from her dreams. A young soldier, his serious brow furrowed above a familiar, kind gaze; three middle-aged women walking down fifth avenue, their faces bent by laughter you could almost hear; and two children, a brother and sister, the boy helping the younger girl into the loving arms of an oak tree. The final portrait was of an old woman standing alone on a beach at dusk. Her face, barely turned towards us, was smudged beyond recognition. Like a dream Susanna just couldn't quite place. “These are beautiful.” Susanna could not doubt the honesty of his words; they trickled out from somewhere deep within him. Smiling, she shrugged. “I have more at home, but these were all I could carry.” Susanna recalled what she’d told herself a few stops before- do not blindly trust this man. But something about him seemed so soft, so forgiving. It was like she’d known him all his life. “Who are you looking for?” Susanna asked. The man’s voice gasped like the opening of the train doors. “Just... someone who ran away... someone I lost.” The man’s hand reached out again, this time wrapping Susanna’s hand in his warm grasp. Suddenly, Susanna saw it all: packing her bag, running from her house in the pouring rain, boarding the subway, getting strange looks, taking her seat, and watching the night chase after her. Now she looked back down, saw the man’s hands and hers. Hers were so... old. They looked like wrinkled papers, loose, purple, and etched with age. Frantically, she looked out the window. Where was she going again? But the tunnel was only filled with murky darkness. All that Susanna could see was the reflection of a watery old woman staring back at her through the smudged night. The lights flickered. Her attention swerved back to the inside of the train car; it was empty except for the two of them. She turned back to the man beside her and pleaded: “What is happening?” The man rubbed her arm soothingly. “Let’s get you home, Ma.” At the next stop, when the train moaned to a halt, a young man held the hand of his elderly mother and helped her step off the car. The woman turned and watched the sliding doors breathe shut one last time. Then she whispered to her son. “Matthew?” “Yeah, Ma?” “When you got on the train, was it just me in the car?” Matthew shook his head, earnestly. “No. There were some other passengers, too.” “Did you see the woman in the uniform? And the very tired man behind me?” The man hesitated before nodding. “Yes. And yes.” I smiled. “Thank you, Matthew.” As my son and I climbed up the stairs and out of the station, the lilac sky peaked mercifully down at the both of us. “Am I still painting?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the yawning sun. Matthew lifted into a grin. “Yes.” “What do I paint?” “A lot of things,” he shrugged, “But you’ve always had an eye for faces. People.” He pointed across the road to a mural splashed on the side of a brick wall. It was a mosaic of five women- each a different age, each a different temper, but all of them with the same compassionate glint in her eye. “See Ma,” he said, “that’s you.” One by one, the golden sunlight moved onto each of the women. As it did, each of them turned and bravely faced the violet dawn.

The silver bell adorning Madam Magdalene’s Oracular Viewings chimed over the soft swooping hair of the boy who’d just pushed through the door. Magdalene hastily slid her crossword under an appropriately leather-bound tomb sitting next to the register and watched closely. The bell was a trinket given to Magdalene by her mother, who’d received it from her mother before her, who had supposedly bought it off an old troll living in what was now the sunken city beneath San Francisco. A miniscule enchantment carved along its edges summoned the boy’s aura for an instant; it was peach, like his polo, and trembled with uncertainty where he stood locked wide-eyed and halfway over the threshold. She jangled the bangles stacked up her arms to make up for the Levi’s she was wearing. Believers liked a little atmosphere, but denim settled even the most strait-laced skeptic. “Welcome.” She dug deep for her voice, and it came out gentle and echoey, as though from the bottom of a well. The boy drew cautiously inside. A woman with short, curly hair and clear glasses wide as welder’s goggles followed behind, her lenses lit from below by the light of her phone. She chewed her lip, taking in the shelves of trinkets and talismans, the blacked-out plaster of the ceiling, the tapestries depicting battles and nudity. Polo Shirt met Magdalene’s hooded eyes. “Is this the InkDot? The one on 51 st Street?” The girl with the glasses clicked her phone off and nudged him with her elbow. “Does this look like an InkDot?” Magdalene refused to let her disdain for the T-Shirt printing company that previously held Oracular’s storefront show. Instead, she plucked a painted teacup from the counter and studied the dregs inside seriously. She was a professional, after all. “Catastrophe befell them at this location. The ghosts downstairs live to tinker with modern gadgetry.” She peaked up to see if this got a reaction. It didn’t. “I heard they reopened in Boston. Nearly two years ago.” Magdalene couldn’t help tacking on the last part a little resentfully. Her mother had survived off house calls to a few wealthy clients; bored and lonely, and likely doped up on either booze or oxy. Real whales in the industry. Now here Magdalene was--a woman with the Sight, her practice living and dying by Yelp. Glasses was back on her phone, zooming deeper into the screen. “There’s a FedEx on 4 th .” Polo Shirt nodded as though that meant something. “Do they do work in fibers?” Magdalene considered him. His was the type she imagined Travis sitting next to in his classes at university. It’d been years since the days of bloody noses and schoolyard bullies, but there were still times she chewed her cuticles over how her son--with his Electric Squid sweatshirts, expanding collection of piercings, and oracle mother--fit in with these children of doctors and real estate agents. “You two.” Magdalene strode from her seat, her orthopedics silent as she glided over the carpet. “Are you together?” Polo Shirt smiled wide and cheeky. “Almost a year now.” “Such a critical time for you,” Magdalene said, and fluttered her hand to land on her chest. His shoulders jumped almost to his ears. “It is?” “Yes, very. I see the roots tangled between the two of you, but they’ve yet to sprout.” She splayed her ruby-lacquered nails in the imitation of a blossoming flower. The girl pushed her glasses up her nose. “Pay them the right mind and they will ripen to seeded fruits. I offer a discount for young love. With a bond as strong as yours, a reading would appear to me--” she sighed heavily, the movement clicking together the beads around her throat “--crystalline.” Glasses leaned into Polo Shirt’s side and rested her cheek on his shoulder. “I already know what’s ahead,” she said. He looked down at her and crooned. “ Babe , that so sweet.” Magdalene clicked a nail against her toothy smile and retrieved the gum from where she’d stuck it on the back of her molar. “How wonderful for you both.” The troll bell tinkled wildly as the door burst open and bayside-fresh air gusted over the carpet. A sweatshirt-padded form swung inside and slammed the door closed. Travis turned and slouched against the glass, panting, his aura spiking dark and turbulent. He cast around before picking out Magdalene’s paisley blouse amongst the Oracular’s haze of textures. “Mom!” he breathed and stumbled towards her, a crazed look in his eye. The young couple clung to each other as he passed, the phone cradled between their chests like a newborn. “Mom, you’ve got to help me!” “My apologies,” she called out to the couple as they inched towards the door. “This should only take a few minutes!” Polo Shirt flapped his hands. “Please no, that’s alright!” Glasses tugged him through the door by the elbow. The bell showed Magdalene the white lie when she said politely, “Thanks for the info, we might actually stop here on the way back!” Then they were gone out the door. Magdalene massaged the lines of her forehead. “Mom, I need you to do a reading for me.” Travis was halfway to the backroom where she kept a locked file cabinet hidden under a scarf and a low table with a deck of cards for readings. He waved at the air, as though trying to generate a current that might sweep her after him faster. Sweat glistened on his forehead and his cheeks were red. “Did you jog here? I thought the doctor told you to cut back on building up your free radicals.” Apparently, her son’s heart was becoming too muscular to beat properly. Not a bad problem to have in Magdalene’s opinion, but Travis had been devastated to learn he couldn’t sign up for another marathon. She tried to recall the new exercise routine he’d told her about over the phone--something called body pump , she thought. Travis choked. “What? Mom, just come on--please, there isn’t much time.” She gave in and followed her son to the back room, crouching to fluff her pillow before sitting down at the table while Travis closed the door. He pressed his ear against it for a moment, then shook his head and paced over the carpet. A tag stuck up from the back of his shirt like a ruffled feather and Magdalene itched for a pair of scissors. “Sweetheart, your shirt’s on inside out. And come sit down! I haven’t seen you in weeks, at least tell me how your midterms went.” “Finals,” Travis muttered. He bit at the cuticle of his nail subconsciously; a habit she’d thought he’d broken sophomore year of high school when he heard Trudy Bankmen laughing to her friends about it while they were stuck at a crosswalk. Travis hadn’t told Magdalene about that, but she’d seen it on him as soon as he got home. To this day, Trudy Bankmen suffered from a paranormal number of hangnails. The Sight still had some uses, even if paying the bills wasn’t one of them. Magdalene caught her boy’s ankle and tugged him to be still. “Travy, what’s wrong?” Travis ran a hand through his hair and took a huge breath. “Right, you’re right.” He plopped into the cushion opposite her and started bouncing his leg. He used to do the same thing when he was a child, waiting restless while his mom finished a reading before karate practice. Magdalene’s mouth twitched to smile and she picked up a cup from the tray at the center of the table. “Tea?” Travis dropped his head into his hands and breathed raggedly. “Holy shit. Holy shit. I-I--” he dragged his hands down his face and looked up. His eyes were bloodshot and tired. “I did something really stupid.” Magdalene clicked her tongue and poured him a cup anyway. “It can’t be any worse than trying to chop Mrs. Dirkson’s balcony railing in half. I thought they’d give you a cast for sure.” Travis laid over the table and caught Magdalene’s hands in his own. The full teacup rattled precariously. “Listen, I need you to listen, ok? I-I borrowed some money from some guys--just to sign up for this stupid licensing exam I have to take--but I couldn’t pay them back when I said. Then, it turns out they owe someone else money, and long-story short, there’s three of them and their huge and they’re after me!” It felt as though a tiny robin’s egg were caught in Magdalene’s throat as she stared into her son’s pleading eyes. “How much was the test?” Travis clicked his mouth shut and glanced at the smiling ceramic cat sitting on the shelf over her shoulder. “Two hundred.” She pulled her hands from his. “Two hundred? I could have loaned you that.” She wrapped her hands around her cup, her silver rings clinking against its side. “I know, mom. It’s just, you know,” he heaved a shaking breath and sat back. “I know the store isn’t doing so good. I didn’t want you to worry about me.” Magdalene realized suddenly that there existed a flat plane she’d built her life upon. She only knew this because now the plane was tilting, things were rolling and falling somewhere she couldn’t fathom. Travis used to ask for her hand before crossing the street, and complain to her about his teachers, and stew openly in the living room about girlfriends and championships lost. Despite the long shifts, the budgeted holidays, and the little idiots at school who told Travis his mom was loony, Magdalene had thought she must be doing something right. She’d been wrong, though. Her boy couldn’t come to her for two hundred dollars, and now he was in danger because of it. In the other room, the troll bell tinged. Magdalene froze, one of her false nails cracking between her teeth where she realized she’d been gnawing on it. The bell rang twice more and though the voices were muffled, it was clear there were three men treading through her shop. Something glass fell from a shelf and shattered. Magdalene tore the loosened plastic from her nailbed and spit it out onto the tablecloth. “Just tell me what you need.” Travis scrabbled for the file cabinet. He reached behind it and pulled out a 12-inch Bowie knife she kept sheathed against the wall in lieu of a gun. Magdalene hadn’t been lying about the ghosts tinkering--even the cash register started trouble sometimes. Guns were a liability around spirits, but steel ate flesh same as lead. Travis crept over to her, knife in hand and knees bent, like he was soldier running through a foxhole. “Tell me what to watch out for,” he whispered. “Don’t stab them.” Magdalene had hesitantly decided to downgrade the Oracular’s insurance coverage last year. They’d be lucky if it covered a broken window. Travis guffawed. “Of course not--the insurance won’t cover that! I’ll just,” he waved the knife, “scare them. Right?” She patted his cheek. “That’s right.” The doorknob rattled and Travis grabbed it, holding it tight to keep it from turning all the way. Voices sounded on the other side. Magdalene jumped when a fist banged against the wood. “You in there, Trav? We’re just here to talk.” In the background, the drawer of the cash-register cha-chinged open. Magdalene gritted her teeth and straightened her back, widened the cross of her legs and rested her wrists on her knees in an open energy pose. Travis watched her, looking nervous. She gave him reassuring wink. “I believe in you sweetheart.” Travis’ returning smile wobbled. He’d had the same look before his first wrestling match--he’d won then, and they’d gotten ice cream afterwards. Magdalene turned away from the door and closed her eyes. She navigated her conscious intent to the back of her mind and passed through the lens of her Sight. She awoke hovering bodiless over the reading table, the world expanded around her in a single wide lens. Below, her body sat rigid and Travis struggled to keep the doorknob from turning as his grip grew slick against the metal. There were three people on the other side of the door. Two of them boys close to Travis’ age. One hung back against the far wall, sweating through his shirt. The other had his fists wrapped around the door handle, wrenching at it with both arms. The third man had a shaved head. He was older, and that worried Magdalene. Tucked in his belt was a blunt silver handle. “He has a gun ,” Magdalene whispered, and she saw her lips move where her body still sat in the back room. Travis said nothing. He must have known about the gun. It was easy to stay focused in the energy realm without all the pulsing hormones of a body, but Magdalene made a mental note to have a serious conversation with him later. She refocused her sight on the future and couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’ll have an opening on the count of seven. Go for the gun first.” On the dot, several things happened at once. It began with the bald man wedging his fingers into the till to scrape out the few dollars collected there. The register’s screen flared to life, emitting a string of angry ones and zeros displayed in ghostly green. With an aggravated cha-ching , the drawer snapped closed on the bald man’s fingers. There was a wet snap and he shrieked. A second before, Travis had rammed his shoulder into the door, flinging the boy trying to get in back a step. He landed on his butt at the same moment the register closed. Travis ran straight for the bald man, who was doubled over the register trying to pry open its drawer without twisting his fingers. By the time he noticed Travis pulling the gun from his belt, it was too late. Travis stood looking between the bald man and the boy slowly rising from the floor, but kept kept the gun pointed at the ground--waving it around wasn’t safe even without the possibility of paranormal tinkering. “Don’t forget about the third!” Magdalene yelled, though her voice issued from the back room in a monotone. Travis slashed the knife threateningly and made a show of choking his grip on the gun’s handle, though he still didn’t raise it. “Neil, don’t move.” The second college kid--Neil--yelped and raised his hands in front of his chest, as though he thought Travis might decide to chuck the knife at him and he might have a chance of catching it. He hadn’t been reaching for the ruby-pommeled sword tacked to the wall over his head, but he’d been close to thinking about it. “Get out, all of you,” Travis said, his voice impressively steady, though he must be close to shaking apart from nerves. The boy who’d been twisting the doorknob tried to smile. “Look man, there’s been a misunderstanding--” Travis laughed incredulously. “You’re fucking right there has been, Mitch!” He nodded to the bald man, who was blinking through watery eyes and attempting to punch the cash-register into submission. The register chimed melodiously and began printing a receipt. In all caps it read, over and over, GETOUT GETOUT GETOUT. “You bring that guy with you, and to my mom’s house? That’s slimy business, even for you.” Mitch’s smile wavered. “You were the one who ran in here,” he muttered. “What did you just say to me?” “Dude let’s just go,” Neil hissed, watching in horror as the receipt spilled over the countertop. As though in agreement, the register dinged open, and the bald man snatched his hand away. He held his bent fingers and glared hatefully at Travis but made no move to approach without his firearm. The three of them exchanged looks and backed for the door. “This isn’t over, Trav,” Mitch warned. Travis sucked his teeth as he watched them leave. The bell chimed over their heads and Magdalene could tell from their auras that at least two of them took those final words seriously. A worry for another day. Magdalene closed her Sight and breathed through the headrush of returning to her body and all its moving parts. Her flesh felt dry and heavy around her, the rattling of the AC loud and tinny against her ears. A warm hand rested on her shoulder and when she blinked, her vision was narrow and resting on Travis. “You ok?” “As the Corral, cowboy,” she joked weakly. The whole experience had been thrilling, actually, but Magdalene kept that to herself. She climbed to her feet, her knees aching, and mustered a stern look. “I expect we’ll be talking more about this?” Travis swallowed. He raised his hand to scratch his head only to see he was still holding the gun. “Yeah, that’d be good.” Magdalene took the gun and the knife from him. “There’s some pasta from last night, and some port in the fridge. Pour me a glass and we’ll talk over dinner.” Travis sagged. He was taller than her now, but when he gave her a quick hug, he felt like her little boy all over again. “Thanks mom,” he muttered. She patted his back, careful not to stab him with the knife and breathed in the familiar scent of his shampoo. “Anytime.” She Paused. “But next time you make friends, maybe consider a computer science major, or someone from the arts college.” Travis snorted and drew away. He looked Magdalene over appraisingly. “That was pretty cool, you know. Maybe you should consider fighting crime or something.” “Get the commissioner to return my calls and we’ll talk.” Once Travis had disappeared up the stairs and the pipes for the hot water were rattling through the walls, Magdalene patted the cash-register and flipped the Oracular’s sign to CLOSED. She smiled to herself; the Sight still had some uses indeed.

It was a normal old regular type of day. People got up and made breakfast, some tiptoed around the house to avoid waking their kids too early, coffee was poured, and eyes were wiped clean of sleep dust. In the streets, car engines purred as the early morning rush hour began and shop owners turned their closed signs around to open. It was a regular morning, except if you found the raining bodies to be an issue. When the familiar grey clouds started to loom overhead people knew what was coming. Soon bodies would begin to pour down onto rooftops, sidewalks, and even the roads. Depending on the surface, they would land with either a splat or a giant crunch, but either way, the noise was always present. But of course, gloomy weather was an expected part of life and people trudged on with their day without the warming presence of the sun. Naturally, this would cause some minor changes that needed to be made. The blood was easy, the power-washer cars would soon be out to clean up the scarlet sludge as soon as the storm was over just like a snowplough after a blizzard. The bodies posed more of a threat, driving over them was bumpy and could cause serious damage to any ordinary vehicle. Not to mention the huge amount of damage that was posed by a body crash landing on the roof of a car or heaven forbid a windshield. It was clear that something needed to be done, and many businesses claimed they had the perfect solution. Boulet Inc. was one of the first big companies to put out a potential solution to some of the issues caused by raining bodies. This life-saving product was creatively called The Boulet Inc. Deluxe Frontal Clearer but would soon come to be nicknamed by the general public as “Buzzsaw Bumpers.” This extension of the car's front would conveniently chop away at any stray body that crossed the path of the vehicle making travel much easier in stormy conditions. At first, consumers were not extremely thrilled with the idea of ground-beefing human beings, but as there was no alternative on the market at the time, sales soon began to skyrocket. Seeing the lucrative business opportunities other companies started to jump into the market. Raymond Car Automotive acted fast and patented a design of a reinforced car hull. It would become a must-have for all future carmakers and would be remembered for its signature catchphrase of “A Raymond Body for Raining Bodies!” Many more products were soon put to line, some caught on like wildfire while others sank into obscurity. Things like Wendy’s Reinforced Windshield Wipers, Fred’s Friendlier Sunroof, and the Disturbing Sound Muffler were all enormous hits. While things like Double Blade Wheels, The Body Net, and the infamous Human Funnel failed to find their niche. While the thought of hundreds to thousands of human bodies occasionally crashing down on the world may seem like it would be considered mostly a negative thing, some positives come from it. New jobs were opened up and people were able to find new employment as body cleaners and bodily-rooftop disposal men. Builders and construction workers saw a big upswing in work when the new laws called for every building to have a cover walkway installed so that people exiting their cars wouldn’t have to worry about being crushed by the weather. Still, though, one can’t help but wonder what life was like before the bodies started to rain. I hear it caused quite the ruckus when it first started happening. There was mass panic, which is funny to think about due to how ordinary and common it is now. Scientists, doctors, politicians, and everyone was rushing to figure out why the ‘freak events’ were happening and how to stop them. At first, it was assumed that it was some freak act of terrorism and fingers got pointed in all directions, but mostly at Russia. After that was eventually ruled out, theories started popping up everywhere. A popular one was that all the bodies were just people from the future trying to perfect going back in time and failing miserably. It was a fun thought, but science showed that it was directly tied to some drastic change in the weather. Of course, we know that they never figured it out, and likely never will, but I hear some are still trying to put an end to it. Crime rates went unpleasantly low, which is something that is not normally said. Normally low crime rates have a good connotation, but not when bodies are falling out of the sky. It became slowly clear how easy it was to get away with a crime when it happened to be a rainy day. *Murder someone?* Just throw them in the street and wait for the cleanup crew to arrive. *How did they die?* A body fell on them. *Where’s the evidence?* Try getting a blood sample with the flood of it in the street. Over time this was just something people would have to accept would happen, and soon that became shockingly easy. People grew accustomed to the occasional crunch or splat, kids would play count the bodies on a long ride home from school, and some extremists tried to draw attention to the possibility of using the spare ‘meat’ as an alternative to other animal products. It would cut costs and even potentially carbon emissions caused by giant cow farms and such. But this was ultimately struck down for the obvious reason- the mega-corporations running the meat industry wouldn’t allow it. However other uses for spare human parts were found. When a body would fall on a soft spot or some other lucky space, it was natural that its inner parts would go to some use. After all, it’s not like they’re using their vital organs anymore. Hearts, kidneys, livers and many more essential organs were all put to good use. Waiting lists became shorter and lives became longer, it would seem that this raining body thing was a splendid thing to happen after all. It's funny, it’s strange to think of a world where this didn’t happen. It’s become so normal to everyday life that the dead stare on every splattering body is as remarkable as the lines on the road. Of course, there a times when I wonder, times when I lay awake at night and get a dreadful feeling that something isn’t right, but over time that feeling fades. It’s okay to have doubts about the world you live in, it’s only natural. But ultimately, it’s only cloudy with a chance of human bodies.

"He's at it again..." The other henchmen of the evil Professor Anthrax looked up from their duties at Gary, an intermediate minion of the organization. One of the other recruits, Luther, piped up- "Come again?" Gary gestured towards the door into the room they were all guarding. "The player. He's back. *Again*." The other henchmen glanced at the door, then back at Gary. Luther cocked his head to the side. "How do you figure?" Gary sighed in exasperation. How in the lava-level the others could simply ignore the cacophonous din of automatic gunfire and blood-curdling screams in the next room, he couldn't even *begin* to fathom. "Really? You mean to tell me that you don't find that racket the least bit *alarming*?" Luther shrugged. "Honestly I didn't think anything of it." Gary facepalmed. "This happens literally *every single day*, guys! You can hear him coming from a mile away!" Luther pondered this for a moment. "Now that you mention it, the player does seem to be getting less subtle in his methods." Gary scoffed. "'Less subtle?' He spams this level over and over again, just spraying lead like some kind of post-coitus Rambo!" Luther gestured towards the door on the other side of the room. "Well yeah, it's a boss level. That's good XP, so I hear." Gary gritted his teeth, losing patience. "Luther, he's already *maxed out!* He has all the skill unlocks, all the equipment upgrades- He's even unlocked all the alternate skins! What could he possibly need the XP for now?!" Luther shrugged once more. "Does it really matter?" Gary was beginning to get irritated. "Yes, Luther, it kind of does. Don't you ever get tired of him coming in here and blowing you away, only to respawn and have to go through the same thing over and over again?" "Eh. At least it's job security," Luther replied. Gary rolled his eyes. "When's the last time you cut a paycheck, Luther? We always get killed before we get the chance! Frankly, I'm getting *sick of it*." "Well, what do you propose we do about it, then?" Luther asked. Gary thought about this for a moment. No one had ever asked him that before. "I say... I say we *fight back*." Another one of the underlings piped up. "But we already *do* fight back, don't we?" "Yeah," Gary conceded, "but not like we know what we're doing. He always bursts in through the door and catches us off-guard, then fucks up *all* of our shit! But not this time! I say we light him up as soon as he comes through that door!" The other henchmen gasped at Gary's bold proposition. "An *ambush*? But that would go against the Code!" "Yeah, we're not programmed for ambush tactics, Gary." "The Code..?" Gary chuckled. "**FUCK** the Code! What has the Code ever done for any of us but get us killed over, and over, and over again? We spend our whole existence in service to it, and all we get in return for our loyalty is pain and misery, and I, for one, am sick of it!" The background music began to swell with inspirational vigor as Gary made his case. "Look. I don't know about all of you, but I am sick and tired of getting my head blown-off point-blank with a shotgun because he manages to stay just outside of my 'cone of vision'... I am *sick and tired* of stepping on proximity mines he's planted in *plain view*, just because they're on my patrol path..! And I am **SICK** and **TIRED** of him putting his **GREASY GODDAMN BALLS** on my face *every single time* he kills me!" The henchmen began nodding and harumphing in agreement. "Reverend!" exclaimed one of the cronies in the back. Gary continued, "Well I say *no more*! I say that today is the day that we fight back! I say that today is the day that we reclaim our dignity! And I say that **TODAY**, my brothers, is the day that we put *OUR* BALLS ON *HIS* FACE! **NOW WHO'S WITH ME?!**" The other henchmen, emboldened by Gary's passionate speech, erupted into applause and cheers. They grabbed their weapons and began to prepare for the player's arrival. The room went silent as they waited with bated breath, guns trained on the door to the previous level. There was a wicked squeal of a guitar as the player kicked down the door, dual-wielding a pair of bright-pink miniguns. "*What's up, bit*-" Gary gave the signal. "**FIRE!**" The light of the muzzle-flashes from the henchmen's rifles was blinding, as was the smoke. The thunderous sound of the bombardment drowned out only by the ringing of empty bullet-casings as they hit the ground. Gary and the other henchmen, in a cathartic rage, emptied clip after clip into the fog, until the last bullet was spent, and the smell of hot steel and blood permeated the air. When the smoke cleared, they beheld the remains of the player- now a lifeless, crumpled heap, on the ground. "W-We did it," Gary muttered to himself. "*WE DID IT!*" The henchmen erupted into cheers once more, as they had managed to do the impossible: Together, they had defied the odds and managed to kill a single man! Gary approached the corpse of his fallen foe, and began to squat over what was left of the player's face. "I've been waiting for this for a *long* time, you son of a-" Suddenly everything went black... Oliver stood, towering over the smoldering wreckage of his XBox, Cool Ranch Dorito crumbs cascading from his heaving man-boobs like a zesty orange snow. "*Fuckin' cheap-ass game,*" he mumbled to himself, settling back into the Goodwill couch he'd long-since merged scents with. "Ma!" he shouted towards the stairs ouside his room. "**MA!**" "^Yes ^sweetie?" "TENDIES! **NOW!**" "^Okay. ^Do ^you ^want ^them ^on ^your ^'Little ^Mermaid' ^plate, ^dear?" "...

I'm not sure this is the appropriate subreddit for this. Please enjoy. A man walks into an ice cream shoppe. He approaches the ice cream server behind the counter. CUSTOMER- Can I have a vanilla ice cream please? ICE CREAM MAN- Sure thing.(Scoops ice cream into cone) Here you go.(Hands to customer) CUSTOMER- This isn't Vanilla. ICE CREAM MAN- Why of course it is. CUSTOMER- No, this doesn't even look like ice cream. ICE CREAM MAN- Well, wait a minute. Let me see that. (Takes cone from customer) Oh dang, you know something? This is vomit. CUSTOMER- What? ICE CREAM MAN- My vomit to be precise. CUSTOMER- Why did you give me your vomit? ICE CREAM MAN- I must have been keeping it in the vanilla ice cream container. CUSTOMER- I have a couple questions. ICE CREAM MAN- Ask away. CUSTOMER- Why do you keep your vomit in the vanilla container? ICE CREAM MAN- It's the closest one to me. CUSTOMER- Why do you keep your vomit contained at all? ICE CREAM MAN- Well I normally don't but I've been sick lately and instead of running to the bathroom every 20 minutes I just vomit in this container. CUSTOMER- You can't honestly think that's acceptable. ICE CREAM MAN- I do though. CUSTOMER- I'm going to have to talk to your manager about this. ICE CREAM MAN- I'm the manager. CUSTOMER- Well then I'm going to have to ask you not to do that anymore. ICE CREAM MAN- Do what? CUSTOMER- Throw up in the ice cream. ICE CREAM MAN- But there's no ice cream left in this container. CUSTOMER- So you're out of vanilla? ICE CREAM MAN- I'm afraid so. CUSTOMER- Shoot...um...do you have strawberry? ICE CREAM MAN- Coming right up.(looks in container) Oh you know what? This is diarrhea. CUSTOMER- Do you have anything that didn't come out of your body? ICE CREAM MAN- Let's see... I have mint chocolate chip. CUSTOMER- I don't like mint. ICE CREAM MAN- Well that's all the ice cream I have left. CUSTOMER- But there are 16 containers here. ICE CREAM MAN- Yup. CUSTOMER- And they're all full to the brim. ICE CREAM MAN- Yup. CUSTOMER- ...I guess I'll have the vomit. ICE CREAM MAN- Excellent choice sir. Here you go. (Hands cone to customer) CUSTOMER- Thank you. Feel better. ICE CREAM MAN- I'll try. Have a nice afternoon. The man walks out with his ice cream cone, never to be seen again.

The Plague Doctor entertains victims of the Black Death. The Plague Doctor wears a mask in the shape of a crow and fills it with herbs such as juniper, mint and rose to protect himself from the harmful effects of miasma. The Plague Doctor carries a long cane to examine the infected, keeping himself as physically distanced from the unwashed masses as possible. The Plague Doctor strongly dislikes peasants. Sometimes he finds himself relieved at their passing. In dire times, The Plague Doctor must complete autopsies of a victim to determine the internal symptoms of the disease. To treat the sick, The Plague Doctor must carefully glide a thin blade along the victim’s inner forearm to re-balance the humors. This must only be performed on the Lord’s day, and for best possible results, under a new moon. The Plague Doctor is paid fifty florins a year for his services. He will also charge patients additional sums for special treatment. Occasionally, he may pocket a florin or two from the decrepit. They won’t be needing it. The Plague Doctor records the deaths of his patients in a ledger for demographics. He considers this his main responsibility, for the Black Death is nigh incurable. The Plague Doctor may collect bile in a glass vile from a deceased patient for the purpose of, erhm... manufacturing a vaccine. Often times, the Plague Doctor may officiate a noble patient’s will. This service is provided at an additional fee, of course. The Plague Doctor has a strained relationship with the Baron. The fool couldn’t possibly understand the power of medicine. He wants to fire the Plague Doctor. Not before he is finished enacting God’s Will. The Baron’s Daughter has fallen ill under mysterious circumstances, it appears to be the Black Death. Panic stricken and nowhere left to turn, he calls The Plague Doctor to treat her. The Plague Doctor treats the Baron’s Daughter, to no avail. She continues to grow evermore sick. The Plague Doctor offers one final solution. However, the toll upon the Plague Doctor would be so great, he shall only do so in return for ample compensation. The Baron offers his Barony to the Plague Doctor in return for the life of his Daughter. A contract is drawn up and signed. The Plague Doctor carries the Baron’s Daughter into a forest clearing under a new moon and places her into a pit of live rats. The rats shall bite her, both releasing the overabundance of blood and heightening her black pile. This is the most effective method of rebalancing the humors. The Baron’s Daughter is healed. The Plague Doctor is named Baron. The old Baron and his Daughter mysteriously disappear one evening. The Plague Doctor never attended University. His previous occupation had been a priest. He was excommunicated from the church for unknown reasons.

Like most young children I made the mistake of trying to bite my ma when I was a toddler, and she gave me holy hell. Here we are Thirty Eight years later, and she’s bitten me but all I have to give her is love. Well, I guess she isn’t really herself anymore. She looks like herself but also doesn’t. Nobody’s home. The lights aren’t even on. The electric works but the power has been transferred to a new supplier. The thing you need to understand is that my ma died today, but then she woke up and I don’t know what lives in that body now but it isn’t her. I keep trying to tell myself it’s her but I don’t know who I’m trying to convince, maybe she’s still in there. There’s no cure but I live in hope. A false hope perhaps, but still hope. I saw it on the news this morning. It’s like something you see in a movie. There is an infection, an epidemic and it’s affecting the dead. They are starting to walk and they’re hungry. It’s like rabies on speed, the word I want to use is Zombie but that’s madness, isn’t it? The press is trying to sugarcoat it, they’re calling it Corpse Reanimation. I don’t know where it started but I suspect a lab, isn’t that always the way? All I know is that some people got this infection and it killed them and when they died they rose again. They bit some other people, and then they died, and they rose again and so it continues. Those who were already dead aren’t gonna start rising from the grave or anything like that. They aren’t infected and can’t get infected so that’s a plus I guess. Dolores Spencer was a strict mother, but she was also very loving. Her son Tommy was all she had in life, and she wanted to raise him right. She had raised a good boy and on the day when it all went pear-shaped Tommy was right there at the door. He should have been in work, but he decided that taking into account the state of the world, going to work was not on his to do list. Tommy lived two hours drive away from his mother and the traffic was horrendous and there were a few infected wandering in the road which caused problems but Tommy followed the lead of the other drivers and knocked them down at full speed if they got in the way which included his mother’s neighbour Helen Rafferty. She was wandering about in the street not too far from his mothers house. He came to an abrupt halt when he got there, jumped out and didn’t worry about the car door being open. He didn’t just knock on his mothers door he beat the hell out of it. “Ma! You OK?” No answer. “Ma? It’s me Tommy! Open up”. There was still no answer. Under other circumstances Tommy would have been more patient but not today. He needed to make sure his mother was OK and the fact that she wasn’t answering and hadn’t even called out rang alarm bells for him. He was frightened. He threw the whole weight of his body into the door and knocked it right off its hinges. “Jesus, boy!” His mother shouted at full volume. She was on her way to the door when the door was on its way to her. “Ma! I was worried. Why didn’t you answer?”. “I ain’t no spring chicken boy, takes me a little while to get to the door these days”. “Sorry Ma, I’m glad you’re OK”. “I’d be more than OK if you weren’t being all kinds of crazy”. “Crazy? Have you seen it out there? You seen Mrs Rafferty?”. “No. You seen her? How is she? Not seen her in a while?”. “She’s been better, Ma! She’s dead, but she went for a walk anyway”. “Boy, didn’t I tell you that you are crazy already” “Didn’t you see what’s been going on? Put the news on Ma!” “I don’t watch the news, nothing going on there but negativity” “Yeah well things about to get real negative round here Ma!”. Tommy gave his mother the full story and waited for her to react. Dolores was now convinced her son was crazy. He had always been a good boy, and she knew she had raised him right but in her mind nobody talked crazy like this unless they were on drugs. It didn’t take long for Tommy to convince his mother though when Helen Rafferty came round the corner and her head was only half attached to her neck and it was hanging upside down on her back. “We need to move, Ma! This is serious!” Tommy told his mother sternly. “Son, you ain’t wrong” his mother began, “You know what I think?” “What’s that Ma?” “When cadavers are getting lively that’s about as serious as it gets”. Tommy smiled. Even when things were dark his mother always had to have her say, and she really did have a way with words. Tommy loved that about her. From that moment on Tommy didn’t think of it as an outbreak, an infection or even an apocalypse. To him it was the dead getting lively. I drove over to Ma’s place as soon as I heard the news, and she didn’t believe me at first. She hadn’t heard or seen a thing about it but when she saw Mrs Rafferty walking around with her head hanging off she knew that I was talking sense. I was worried about having to deal with Mrs Rafferty, but she wandered off in the opposite direction which was a relief. I didn’t know if I had what it would take to take her down. I told my ma to go pack her bags, I didn’t know how safe it was there. I didn’t know if it would be safe anywhere but I didn’t want to take any chances. She was a stubborn woman, and didn’t want to leave, but she was also a wise woman, and so she nodded at me in agreement but I could tell by her expression she felt as though she was leaving her soul behind. I stayed on guard outside while she went inside and packed a bag, I didn’t want us to get caught unawares by unwelcome neighbours who might forget they are dead and wander in, it had never occurred to me that the back door may be open which I found out the hard way when I heard a blood-curdling scream. It was my ma, I had never heard her scream like that but it was her, she was unmistakable. I ran inside post-haste, stepping over the front door which now lay in the hall. I ran into the Living room knocking over my Ma’s favourite vase in the process and not caring a bit when it shattered all over the floor. (I didn’t think she would mind under the circumstances). I found my poor old mother being pinned to the ground by what used to be Henry Rafferty, who’s wife had taken an impromptu ride off my bonnet only a few moments earlier. I ran over to pull him off her but I wasn’t quick enough, and he took a hefty bite out of her neck. I pulled and pulled at his arm, his skin was yellow, it was hard and crispy like plaster and cracked like plaster would and when it cracked I could see brown residue beneath his skin, it smelled absolutely putrid. Is this what dead people smelled like? I thought this might be even worse. I continued to pull at his arm which was now mostly skinless and managed to get him off my mother, detaching his arm in the process and taking a big chunk of my mother’s neck with him in his mouth. If screams could knock foundations, that one would have knocked the whole house down. I knew what this meant, she would change, she would be a danger to me but in my denial I pretended there was no problem. She was bleeding profusely and I needed to tend to her but The coast was not yet clear. Mr Rafferty was still a danger to us both. He only had one arm now but that wouldn’t slow him down. I lured him away from my mother and ran for the kitchen, I didn’t want to leave her like that but I had to get rid of this lively dead nightmare. I turned back, he was following me as intended, I kicked the kitchen door open and pushed my weight against it as I entered to ensure that the door would stay open. I searched for a weapon, I didn’t know how to stop him or even if I had the stomach to do what must be done but I’d do anything for my Ma. I wished she had an unlikely sword or chainsaw collection somewhere but obviously she didn’t. I found a large kitchen knife and that’s the best I could find, it would have to do. That was when lively dead Rafferty took me by surprise. (I had got lost in my own thoughts and momentarily forgotten to keep track of his location). I ducked out of his path just in time but dropped the knife and it landed behind him. Suddenly I was overcome with anger, I needed to get to my ma and this guy was in the way. I grabbed his head and squeezed it, he fought me but I kept hold, I kept squeezing hoping it would just cave in but that didn’t work at all. I kicked him in the chest which forced him up against the wall and then I pushed my foot against his chest again to keep him pinned and I pulled his head with both hands. I was playing with fire now, one false move, and he could bite me but I didn’t care. I needed him out of the equation. I pulled and pulled and finally his head came right off, I threw it through the open doorway and watched it roll. I assumed his body would drop then and there but it didn’t. I released my foot from his chest, and he started to move. He was still lively. I assumed he was no threat now he had no head but I couldn’t be sure. Did he need to bite to pass the infection on or could he simply scratch me with the rotten nails on his one hand and infect me that way? I couldn’t be sure. I was taking no chances. I don’t remember thinking about what happened next I just remember seeing the kitchen knife on the floor that I dropped earlier and picking it up and hacking at his left leg. I hacked and I sawed at it and I smashed the knife into it with all my might fuelled by anger and fear of losing my ma until finally that leg came off. I repeated the same technique with his right leg until he lost that leg too. I dropped the knife. His torso dropped to the floor. He still had one arm but I didn’t see him as a threat now. I thought he might still be able to use his arm to pull himself along after me but I wasn’t worried. How fast could he be now? I ran over to the other side of the kitchen and searched the cupboard under the sink where I knew I would find the first aid kit. I grabbed it and then ran back to my ma. She had lost a lot of blood and was dying. I expected her to be dead already, but she was a tough old warrior my ma. I attempted to clean up her neck but I didn’t know where to start. I paused and then I lied to my mother. She didn’t have all the information. She didn’t know what being bitten meant for her mortality. I didn’t want her to worry herself about it. “You’ll be fine now, Ma. You don’t look so rough” “I don’t feel good, son”. “You don’t look a day over Forty Five, Ma” “Terrible Liar” “I love you, Ma” “I love you too, Tommy” That was our goodbye. I knew it and she knew it too. She never called me Tommy. I was always boy or son to her. The fact that she used my name told me that was her saying goodbye to me and I couldn’t hold back the tears. I didn’t cry a river for my Ma I cried an ocean. I didn’t want this for her. She fell unconscious then and I didn’t know if she was dead or asleep and I didn’t want to check her pulse. I was afraid of what I’d discover. I held her hand for a moment and her skin had a yellow tint to it and was starting to crisp. That told me everything I needed to know. She was gone, and she was going to rise again. She was going to be hungry. I knew I should be on my guard, but I was distraught, and I was exhausted. A tougher man would have chained up his mother at that point but not me, not this man. I was still holding onto the hope that this nightmare was all in my imagination, it was denial of the worst kind. I didn’t know if I had the strength to do what must be done, how could I? I cried some more. I cried myself to sleep. The pain was so intense it woke me. I could feel the flesh of my neck being penetrated. My eyes widened. It felt as though a wild animal had bitten into my neck but it wasn’t an animal, I knew it had to be one of the lively dead. I tried to push them off me, but they were insatiable. I pushed and pushed and eventually I got them off me. That was when I saw that it had been my ma, and she had a big chunk of meat in her mouth. I was bleeding severely just as she had but I didn’t rush to the first aid kit which was just across the room. I was in shock. I took a look at the being that looked like my ma with my neck flesh hanging from her mouth and my blood dripping from her lips and chin. Who was she now? What was she? Her eyes were blank. There were no pupils all that was left were the whites of her eyes, but they had turned yellow! Then there was the smell, that putrid smell again. You could spend three weeks in the worlds filthiest sewer and you would never smell anything like that. I came to my senses and ran for the first aid kit and then ran to the bathroom, narrowly avoiding the one armed torso that I used to call Mr Rafferty and locked myself in, I knew they would both be coming for me and I wasn’t ready to die. My wound wasn’t as severe as my ma’s, so I had a chance of patching it up but I knew that in the end it wouldn’t matter. I cleaned myself up and patched up the wound with bandages and then I just sat there on the floor and that’s where I still am. It’s been an hour and I still feel like me. My ma started to change much sooner, but she had a sleep not long after she was bitten, maybe that’s the key. If I stay awake, will I always be here? Something started banging on the door a while ago but I won’t let them in. I don’t know it’s her, that thing wearing my dear old ma or that one armed monstrosity, but I still want to be near my ma (is that insane?) so I’ll just sit here and wait until I change or until I starve to death, whichever comes first. She always wanted the best for me. I just wanted to make sure she was OK. I guess I messed up but if worse comes to worst I’ll become undead too and maybe in some form I’ll always be with her and I’m fine with that and I’m sure she would be too.

Without taking his order, the bartender set a margarita on the rocks in front of Walter. “So, what brings you to beautiful Mexico, amigo?” asked the bartender, whose nametag read Eduardo. Walter Raymundo looked up at the bartender and considered his answer. A 45-year-old widower, Walter had arrived at *Playa de Sueños* resort yesterday. He looked at his phone - 5 PM. Yesterday’s highlight was a group catamaran sailing lesson followed by a sedate dinner for one at the resort restaurant. Tonight, he was trying his luck at the pool bar; hopefully he’d make it past 9 PM. “Oh, what you’d expect. I’m part of a Z Survivor group. Package deal - pay a little extra and the organizers promise a 2-1 ratio of women to men,” Walter admitted with a rakish smile. Eduardo chuckled. “So, my friend, you’re like the rest of us - looking for love.” Walter gave a grunt that might have been agreement but said nothing. He was looking for love, sure, but he couldn’t ignore his work, either. It had taken him 5 years to talk himself into traveling from his home in Tucson, AZ, to the nearest “safe” resort in the West. *Playa de Sueños*, located in Puerto Peñasco, Mexico, was purpose-built to resist zombie attacks. Walter lost his wife, Evie, in the great West Coast Zombie Uprising of 2022 and he was uneasy. Not because of the zombies - by all accounts the Mexican government was far more ruthless in exterminating the living dead than the United States. No, the Mexican government didn’t care that the long-rumored zombie cure was, by all accounts, just around the corner, or that with the help of a powerful drug cocktail a small number of “remediated” zombies were currently being trained to complete menial jobs in some parts of the United States. The Mexican *Guerreros contra los Muertos* were known to shoot first and not ask questions. On top of that, the resort was on a manmade island with strict security protocols including lots of men with automatic rifles. Walter was uneasy because he hadn’t been on a date since his wife died - hadn’t been intimate with another human being since Evie had been ripped from his arms by an angry horde 5 years ago. Now here he was, sipping a margarita by the pool, sizing up the female population. There were some beautiful women for sure, but as he feared he was 20 years older than most of the female guests. Middle aged women were in particularly short supply all over the Americas. For some still unknown reason, zombies attacked women more than men, and women over 40 most of all. Once attacked, older women were more likely to convert or die than any other demographic besides the very young and the very old. Solid numbers were hard to come by but something like 5% of the human population in America had been wiped out since the first flare-up in 2011. Some 15 million plus gone, and women over 40 made up 2/3 of that number. The rarest commodity of all were survivors, those who’d been attacked but made it out the other side. It was believed that less than 1% of all humans attacked by zombies survived. Most confirmed survivors were secured at government sites being tested and studied. Most, but not all. The west coast of America had taken the brunt of the zombie uprisings. Southern California alone lost 3 million to zombie attacks and another 2 million to outmigration. Zombies liked it hot but not too hot, dry but not too dry. They also appear to have a sense of humor as the government was now paying families to move into the few inhabitable neighborhoods in LA and San Diego. Houses that would have sold for millions were now being given away. Other than a few mild flareups in New York, Houston, and a handful of other cities, the middle of the country and the east coast were largely untouched. The average suburbanite in New Hampshire or Ohio watched the holocaust unfold across their TV screens, safe in their living rooms, while Los Angeles and San Diego nearly burned to the ground. Walter came out of his reverie. “Thanks for the drink, Eduardo. Very good. But I didn’t order it - how’d you know I’d like it?” “I took a chance - you seem like the tequila type,” said a woman’s voice. Walter looked to his left just as a woman started walking toward him. Walter took her in. Not your typical beauty but interesting none the less. She was perhaps 5 feet 5 inches tall, brown skin the color of melted caramel. Eyes as black as anthracite, yet a bit jaundiced in the sclera. Athletic, bordering on muscular build, small perky breasts. And not a day over 25. “Hi, um, thanks,” said Walter. “I’m America. You looked thirsty and lonely,” she said, in faintly-accented English. Her face was radiant. Walter was intrigued. “I’m Walter. Thanks again for the drink. Do you want to get a booth?” As they walked toward the booth, America lost her balance, giving Walter an opportunity to be a gentleman. She laughed, blamed it on an irregular paving stone. Once in the booth, they talked, awkwardly at first, more comfortably as time wore on. America learned that Walter lived in Tucson but had moved there from San Marcos, a town in northern San Diego County. Walter left Southern California during the Uprising only reluctantly and only after losing his wife. He took the same package most SoCal refugees took five years ago, a $50,000 relocation credit plus a military escort for those willing to relocate to Arizona, New Mexico or a handful of places further east. Tucson was a popular choice, a major metro area relatively close to the Mexican border that was too hot and dry for zombies most of the year. Walter had been a tenured professor at UC-San Diego until the Uprising. Now the campus was a charred ruin and he taught at a community college. As Eduardo delivered a second round of margaritas, the conversation turned to America. She was born in Mexico but immigrated when she was seven. She grew up not far from Walter’s hometown of San Marcos in Oceanside, a quaint, if somewhat gritty, beach town immediately south of the massive Marine base, Fort Pendleton. She graduated Oceanside High summa cum laude and did two years at Stanford. Then the Uprising. Her family called her and begged her to stay in the relative safety of Northern California. She refused and returned home to a warzone. Her mother, father, and younger brother dead, house and neighborhood burned to the ground by the Marines sent to help. Zombies, it turns out, really hate fire. Too bad humans do, too. Controlling zombies by fire had been euphemistically dubbed chemotherapy for the human population. It killed more zombies than people, but just barely. She was so distraught she didn’t wait for the government subsidy. She just started driving east and ended up, like so many others, at a refugee camp outside of Las Vegas. Eventually she got her head on straight, applied for the subsidy, and headed toward Mexico as soon as the check arrived. She had family in the state of Sonora. With no jobs on offer she couch-surfed with family and lived off the subsidy until she settled in Puerto Peñasco 2 years ago. Now she dealt blackjack at the casino part time. She knew the bartender, Eduardo, from the casino and he sometimes let her slip into the resort without paying the locals fee for a day pass. When their conversation hit an ebb, Walter signaled for two more drinks and suggested that they take them to the beach. Sunset was only 20 minutes away and what better way to end a perfect . . . what, first date? America took his hand in hers and his stomach flipped. He felt like he was 16 again. As they walked, America took another chance to appreciate Walter. Though he was probably in his early to mid-40s, he hadn’t developed the typical pot-bellied middle-aged ‘dad-bod’. For a professor, he had a weight-lifter’s build, muscular and stout. Not tall, 5’ 6”, he had blond-brown hair fading to white at the temples. Barrel chested, well-tanned, beard cropped close, no earrings or visible tattoos. Beautiful baby blue eyes and a kind, rounded face that bore no malice. He wore a loud Hawaiian shirt and vintage board shorts without a trace of irony, the way only a Californian can. No jewelry except for a simple gold ring hanging from a chain around his neck. The sunset came and went. An hour later, the couple continued to talk - about families, about politics, about loss, and about love. The bass drum of the Pacific Ocean beat out an ameliorative melody. Slowly, they got lost in one another and conversation turned to flirting. Their first kiss was soft, tentative, exploratory. The walk back to Walter’s room was full of giggles and high-pitched stream-of-consciousness jabbering. Walter offered her his arm to steady her. Walter, too, was a bit unstable, high on tequila and America’s attention. Once they got to his room, though, Walter was filled with trepidation. America didn’t follow him back to his room to play chess. For some reason, the prospect of having sex with this beautiful young woman terrified him. Physically, he was sure it would be fine, perhaps even great. He felt a familiar swelling in his boxer briefs and knew he *could* do it . . . but *should* he? Was this a one-night fling, or was she the real deal? Why was he thinking of Evie instead of America? America put her arms around his shoulders and kissed him. When she looked into his eyes, she saw fear rather than desire. “Hey, no pressure. I like you and I’m down for whatever. We can talk, we can fool around, we can go get dinner, whatever,” said America. Walter smiled and offered a compromise. “How about the hot tub? This is a suite, the hot tub on the balcony overlooks the ocean - great view.” America’s face curled into wicked, mischievous smile. “You appreciate a great view, huh? Well get ready because I didn’t bring my bathing suit.” Without another word, she shimmied out of her shorts and top. She giggled and did a little pirouette, giving Walter a full 360-degree view. After shucking out of her clothes she was wearing only a pair of lacy white thong underwear. Her pert breasts, uncovered, shone in the moonlight like teak pearls. He’d seen all he needed to see. Suddenly, all other thoughts left his mind. He went to her and kissed her as if his life depended on it. She led him to the bed. Seconds later he was deep inside of her. They both found relief, if not love, in the gentle rocking of bodies. They did eventually make it to the hot tub, two hours later. \ The next morning, America woke to an empty bed. She spotted Walter on the patio sipping coffee and contemplating the mighty Pacific. She called out, “Coffee smells good - got more on?” “Yep. Pyrex on the counter. I splurged, its real Kona coffee.” She sat next to Walter and took a sip. “Wow - that’s good!” said America, a warm smile on her lips. “What’s the occasion?” Walter offered a blank stare and said nothing for a minute. “Just being alive. And missing Evie. She loved good coffee.” America said nothing. She could sense Walter had something to get off his chest. “We met in grad school. Boston. She was studying art history - Baroque paintings, Rembrandt, Rubens that type of stuff. Taught herself German, Dutch, and French. Mind you, she was from an insular New Hampshire WASP family, had never travelled further than New York City before college. Art wasn’t really my thing. I was a few years further along, on track to get a combined MD-PhD in public health and microbiology. My passion was, still is, epidemiology.” Walter offered a sad smile. “Lot of good that’s done me.” He gestured aimlessly toward the sea. “Her parents didn’t approve. They never said anything, but they didn’t have to. I share my Guatemalan grandfather’s surname and I tan easy in the summer, even in New England. In their eyes I was 25% too Hispanic for their Episcopalian angel. We got out of there as fast as we could. We got married in Las Vegas where I had a one-year postdoc at UNLV. Soon after I landed the job at UC San Diego. She struggled for a while, volunteered at several museums before an entry level position opened at the Museum of Contemporary Art San Diego. Not her area but she was smart, persistent, a sponge. She learned everything she cold about Franz Kline, Modigliani, Picasso, Pollock, you name it. She spent ever free minute either in the University library or learning the contemporary art scene in galleries all around Southern California. She dragged me to so many shows we started a modest art collection to decorate our equally modest home. Eventually transferred some credits from back east and with even more work she earned a PhD in Arts Management. Worked her way up to a junior curator position, then a senior position. Taught at the U part-time. We had a good life.” Walter drained his coffee, put the cup in the sink, and then returned to the patio. “Six months before the Uprising, the director of the museum was killed in a zombie attack in Los Angeles. Evie was named acting director. Two weeks before the Uprising, she got notice that the promotion was to be permanent. Los Angeles was burning by then and the Board of Directors thought continuity would be best. Frankly, it was hard to find anyone from east of the Rockies to apply for a position in Southern California. Outmigration had started, looting was on the rise. A few minor flares in San Diego County had killed off most tourism. It was bleak. We talked about leaving but with her new promotion we never seriously considered it. I made a few half-hearted inquires with colleagues back east about academic openings but nothing came of it. We upgraded our security system, 4-inch hardened steel shutters activated by phone app, an ugly but lethal fence system, and a bomb shelter with 2 years of canned food and batteries. We both learned how to use and maintain guns for the first time in our lives. Thursday night yoga was replaced by Thursday nights at the gun range.” Walter paused and put a thumb and forefinger to his closed eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Silent tears gently rolled down his face. When he returned to his story, his voice was think with emotion. “One day, Evie was called into the museum to respond to an emergency alarm. I drove her, stayed in the car. Evie went in with her Glock locked and loaded, escorted by an armed security guard. At the time, it seemed like overkill considering a similar alarm went off a week earlier when a homeless guy got stuck in a secure loading dock looking for shelter. This time it was a dozen zombies. No one saw it coming. Neither Evie nor the security guard came back out of the museum. I saw a few bloodied Zs emerge from the building. A security detail arrived too late for Evie but just in time for the first battle of the Uprising. All the noise drew even more Zs. This was ground zero, moment zero. I should have come with her into the museum. I didn’t. I got out. Sometimes wish I hadn’t.” Walter was quiet. America didn’t know how to respond. What the fuck do you say to that? When America found her voice, she spoke in a soft *sotto voce*, trying to convey sympathy. “Sounds like you two loved the hell out of each other. She was lucky - you both were lucky - to find that kind of love.” “Yes, we were,” Walter agreed. “Do you want me to leave?” asked America. “Leave, why?” confusion and hurt colored Walter’s voice. “I was sharing - I just thought I owed you the truth.” America offered Walter a pained look. “That’s just it - the truth. I haven’t been honest with you. I like you, but I need you, too. Six weeks after I got to Mexico, Ivanka was elected President. Soon after, the Trump Memorial Wall started going up fast. When they just thought Mexicans were taking their jobs, no funding. But Ivanka’s smarter than her dad, better deal-maker, too, and she embraced all that fringe conspiracy stuff - that the Mexican government engineered the Zombie outbreak and infected the US on purpose as revenge for her dad’s anti-immigrant policies. Last month they started work on the last segment of the Wall. Going rate for a coyote is a $100,000 and rising. I’m a Dreamer, so I was never fully legal in California. I must get back. You can bring me back.” She pleaded silently with her eyes. Walter looked at America in the harsh light of the Pacific morning. He smiled. “You didn’t let me finish my story.” “But . . .” protested America. “Look, I get it. The bartender probably feeds you names of gringos here for the Survivor trips. You’ve been looking for a soft touch who will make a trade - sex and companionship in exchange for a ticket back to the States. Deal or no deal? If I’m not the first, so be it. I’m not one to judge. I had a great time last night no matter how or why it came to be. Be that as it may, I haven’t been fully honest with you, either. You need the whole truth more than I do. We’re both hunting. This is a work trip.” America looked at Walter quizzically. “Work . . . for what, one of your community college classes?” “No. The teaching keeps me sane but pays shit. I run a privately-funded lab in Tucson. A very well-funded lab. We’re researching a cure.” “A cure?” said America, incredulous. “For Zombies?” “Yes. And we’re oh-so-close.” “What are you hunting for,” she demanded, but before Walter could say a word she said it. “A survivor.” “A survivor. I picked up on a few markers immediately - slight jaundice of the sclera, increased musculature, especially of the upper body, rigid posture, poor balance when walking. But I needed to be sure. There are so few survivors out there not already working for a lab.” “So, you fucked me not because I was so charming or hot but because you had to be sure . . . and you saw the bite marks on my back . . .” her voice faded away. “Yes, I saw them. But no, I didn’t go to bed with you last night just to find out. I had to see if there was the possibility of love for me without Evie. Like everyone I secretly hope that the cure will work retroactively and that I can find Evie and cure her and have it all back like it was. But I know that’s bullshit. I’m not even sure if she was killed or converted. If the later, she’s been a zombie for 5 years. No one comes back from that. The cocktail they’re using now only works on those newly converted, and it’s only partial. My cure would be a universal inoculation, a vaccine, plus it would work retroactively on newer converts. Either way, Evie’s gone. Last night helped me see that there might be life, and maybe even love, after.” “But you need a survivor to get over the line.” “And you need me to get through the wall.” America smiled. “Is it painful? Risky?” “Risky, no. Some pain. Not much. Bloodwork mostly. Some cognitive stuff. Bone marrow would be the most painful procedure but nothing you can’t handle.” She considered the offer. “What about the border crossing? The US is requiring a marriage certificate to enter as of last week in the case of a non-blood relative.” “I know. Not a deal breaker. I need a partner in life as well as in the lab. If the romantic part works out, great. If not we’ll figure that out, too,” said Walter. “Hmm. One last question.” It was Walter’s turn to smile. “Shoot.” America walked over to Walter. She was wearing only the white lace panties and a thin cotton t shirt. She straddled him and soon felt herself pushing onto a familiar, growing hardness. “Can you keep up with a younger woman? I’ll need at least one more round this morning for you to convince me.” “Hmm. Only one more? Let’s try for two, shall we?” “You got yourself a deal.” Walter carried America over the threshold to the suite. Two hours and two love making sessions later, the odd couple left the resort. An hour after that, they emerged from the Sweet Memories Wedding chapel, husband and wife. Walter drove his aging Tesla directly toward the brilliant Mexican light bouncing off the gold-plated Trump Memorial Wall. For the first time in a long time, Walter felt a glimmer of hope. In the passenger seat America was hopeful but nervous, too. She was glad to be leaving Mexico, eager to be back in her namesake country. But she felt sure Walter wasn’t giving her the full truth yet. Like her, he had poor balance and a muscular torso. And those baby blues eyes . . . too good to be true? High-end contacts to hide jaundice? What about the unusual scars she’d seen on his body? If Walter was a survivor, too, he didn’t really need America as a test subject. Instead, she suspected he was in Mexico searching for a partner to help make the rarest commodity of all in their zombie-filled world - a child born of two survivors. She kept up with the news and knew the entire scientific community was searching for just such a survivor child, to no avail. America hadn’t taken a birth control pill in three days and neither she nor Walter had even mentioned condoms. America imagined that perhaps, right now, a child was growing in her belly that would end the zombie apocalypse once and for all. If not now, soon. She put her hands over her abdomen protectively and offered Walter a radiant smile as the GPS welcomed them to the United States of America.

“That’ll do it, thank you,” I say, smiling, as I take the roses. Logan has always loved flowers, and orange roses most of all. Orange roses aren’t easy to find, mind you. But they’ve always been his favorite, so they’re worth the search. *Red roses are too cliché,* he’d say. *Orange roses are the standout of the rose family. They mean enthusiasm and passion. Isn’t that the best combination?* I’d smile and kiss him. *Well, it’s certainly the combination I feel about being your boyfriend,* I’d reply. Now, I tuck the bouquet of orange roses, wrapped in cellophane, under one arm as I begin my walk to the final destination: Logan himself. The engagement ring presses against my thigh, nestled safely in the front pocket of my khakis. In my other hand is the picnic basket (okay, technically more of a large lunchbox), packed with the Chinese takeout I just picked up on my previous stop. Let’s be honest, I can’t cook. Even if I could, Logan’s favorite is Chinese. It’s our anniversary today. I haven’t seen him in a few months, so tonight has to be perfect. All the pieces in place. Our anniversary is only one day a year, after all. And I’ve never loved anyone like I love Logan. &#x200B; I remember when we first met. God, it seems like forever ago. We were so young! Freshmen in college. It was in the library. Cliché, I know. I was sitting at one of the big desks on the second floor, reading some book about public policy and trying to take notes on the chapter. I had a test the next morning. I’d been there for four hours. Suddenly Logan came sprinting up the stairs and emerged into the main space. He was laughing wildly, his backpack slipping off his shoulders, glancing behind him urgently. He paused, looked around, almost ran for the shelves, but then turned the other way. We made brief eye contact. I quickly looked down, my face reddening. I did *not* want to be associated with this guy who had attracted the attention, and outrage, of everyone nearby. Students were glaring at him from every direction. And then it was too late. He came skidding by me, ducked, and literally rolled under the desk, now hidden beneath it and invisible from view to everyone but me. I stared at him in shock. “What the fu-” “Shh,” he said. “Please. It’s important. I’ll owe ya one.” At that moment three guards from campus security made it up the stairs. They looked around desperately. All the other students had, of course, gone right back to studying as soon as the commotion quieted down. Once their bubble was peaceful again, they no longer cared. I glanced down at the guy quite literally crammed under the desk - he barely fit - and something in his eyes made me swallow the announcement of *He’s right here, officers.* I just returned to my notes. They were gone, heading back down the stairs, two minutes later. The guy immediately unfolded himself, crawled out, and promptly sat on the desk. “What the hell was that?” I demanded in an angry whisper. “I better not have just helped out some criminal.” He laughed out loud. I could feel the daggers being glared at us. “Nah. Nothing serious. I stole a road sign. They want it back.” “You - what?” He reached into his backpack and pulled out a street name sign: *Campus Drive.* It was the one that marked one of the main university roads. I stared at it, then at him in shock, but he’d tucked it away again as quickly as he’d revealed it. He grinned. “For my dorm room. A nice touch, don’t ya think?” It was only now that I was noticing how cute he was. *Cute? Harvey, what? You* have *a girlfriend.* “I - yeah, sure.” I looked back down at my notes, hoping he’d leave. He didn’t. I could feel him watching me as I wrote, and my face reddened. “*Why* are you staring at me?” He was smiling. “I said I’d owe you one. Come on. Let me buy you dinner.” Now I truly blushed. His smile broadened. “Oh, I - I’m straight.” He laughed out loud again. More glares. “Just as a friend, then. You look like you need a break.” I considered. It *was* getting late, and I *was* hungry. “Sure,” I finally said. When I was packed up we left the library together. “I’m Logan, by the way,” he said. “Logan Winter. Freshman studying architecture.” He was only a few inches taller than me, but I was fighting to keep up with his long, confident strides. “Only a freshman and you’re already stealing signs? Jesus.” He laughed. “Hey, age has nothing to do with how much trouble I can get into. And that’s not how this goes. You’re supposed to introduce yourself.” “Oh, I’m Har-” “Wait.” He abruptly stopped walking and held out his arm, stopping me too. “Look at those.” He pointed. Between the library and the dining hall was a quad with a small garden to one side, which we were passing. In it were roses of all colors. He was pointing at the orange roses. “Look at them. Orange roses are so unique. I love that we have some here. Red roses are nice, but so cliché. Orange roses, though - *wow.* They mean passion and enthusiasm, did you know that? Isn’t that a great combination?” I looked at the flowers. They were nice, sure, but I didn’t really care about rose colors. “Uh, yeah.” He waved his hand dismissively, smiled, and suddenly resumed walking. I scrambled to follow. “Anyway, you were saying?” “Oh. Uh. I’m Harvey. I’m a freshman too. Political science and pre-law.” He whistled. “Wow. Smart one, huh?” He turned and eyed me up and down. “Smart *and* cute but straight? How unfair of the world to throw you in my path.” I blushed; I was flattered, even if I currently thought I was straight. Spoiler alert: I wasn’t. “Um, well, you’re...pretty good-looking yourself.” *Really, Harvey? That’s what you came up with?* He winked. “Appreciate it. Now come on, I’m starving.” He led me into the dining hall. We ended up sitting at the table talking for two hours past the end of our dinner. It turned out, he was a pretty awesome guy, and once I regained some of my social skills, we got along better than I’d gotten along with anyone in ages. Towards the end he grabbed my phone. “I really like you, Harv. Let’s be friends, what do you say?” He passed the phone back to me. It had a new number in it, next to the name *Logan* and an octopus emoji. He winked. “Very underappreciated animal. Did you know they have three hearts?” I failed my test the next morning, but Logan and I met up again for lunch afterwards. So I didn’t really care. &#x200B; Now, walking along the street with my lunchbox on one side and the flowers on the other, an elderly man sitting at the bus stop smiles at me. “Must be a real amazing girl,” he says. I smile back. “Oh, he is. The most amazing guy,” I answer. His grin doesn’t falter. “Hope he likes them,” he says, waving, as I continue past. *I hope so too.* I take a left at the next crosswalk and continue on my way. It’s a nice night out. I’m very grateful for that. Last year it rained on our anniversary. Don’t get me wrong, I still enjoyed it, but it made everything more complicated. And I was so worried about the roses getting waterlogged. Tonight, though, it’s beautiful. &#x200B; I remember I was so hesitant at first, so confused. I think I’d always known deep down that I didn’t like girls in the same way my brother or friends did. But I didn’t really find out the difference between what I was feeling in a relationship and what I *could* feel in a relationship until Logan. It was gradual at first. We spent all our time together, but I still thought it was just in a best friend kind of way. I learned in a matter of weeks that his favorite food was orange chicken - preferably from the greasiest Chinese takeout place available - and that despite his frequent daring feats, he was terrified of horror movies. He didn’t get along with his family; his dad had stopped speaking to him after he’d come out. He loved to read, and his favorite was *To Kill a Mockingbird. I want to name my first cat Atticus,* he’d said. We studied together, we ate together, we met up between classes to talk or sit in the gardens. Soon I was spending all my time with him; my girlfriend broke up with me because I wasn’t paying any attention to her. I apologized and felt bad, I really did, but in a way I was glad when she was gone: I didn’t have anyone to distract me from Logan. A month after we’d met is when I finally got my shit together and opened my eyes. Caroline had broken up with me a few days before. “She doesn’t know what she’s missing,” said Logan for the hundredth time. He was sprawled on my bed, head hanging upside down over the side. His dark curls were everywhere, a cloud around his face. I found myself thinking, yet again, that he was attractive. Not in the *I’m envious* way I’d been trying to convince myself I meant. “Yeah,” I said. “It was a long time coming.” “I’m sorry if it’s because of me,” he said. “I’ll go fight for her back if you want. I’ll beg forgiveness, say it was all my fault, *‘Oh, Caroline, please take him back, poor Harvey was simply influenced by my evil ways.’”* I laughed. “Nah, won’t be necessary.” “Okay, if you’re sure.” He chuckled. I was sitting on the floor, my back against the bedframe, our faces inches apart but not facing. He wasn’t looking at me. I found myself staring at his lips as they moved. “But for what it’s worth, I-” I interrupted him by swiftly closing the distance between us and kissing him. I swear to God sparks flew. I’d never felt anything like it. When I finally pulled away, his face was flushed. He was still upside down. Slowly, he flipped over so that he was laying on his stomach. His curls bounced everywhere. He looked at me, a little grin on his face. Finally, he said, “I thought you were straight.” I was giddy. I stared back into his dark brown eyes and shrugged. “I was wrong.” He laughed. “God, am I glad to hear that.” And then we were kissing again, barely stopping to breathe. I climbed up on the bed and continued kissing him as I pulled his shirt off. I paused as I did so and took a long look. “I’m definitely not straight,” I confirmed. He laughed again and pulled me back in. &#x200B; I’m almost to Logan now. What a time it’s been. All of college. Grad school. Careers. Logan had gotten a job with an architecture firm. I’d gone to law school. Logan was so excited when I got in. We splurged on a dinner way beyond college-student price range and stayed up the whole night watching *Suits* episodes we’d already seen. Logan couldn’t get enough of the fact that I shared the same name as the main lawyer in the show. And coming out to my family, of course. They’d taken it much better than Logan’s dad had. They loved him. We’d visited them for several Christmases and Thanksgivings since. And now, here. Our anniversary. Eleven years since we were freshmen in college. I smile. What a wild, fantastic ride. I take the last turn onto Oakwood Avenue, tightening my grip on the lunchbox and roses. My hands are sweating a little and I can’t drop anything now. The engagement ring continues to press ever so lightly into my thigh. It’s comforting to feel it. If I couldn’t, I’d be checking every few seconds to make sure it was still there. My throat feels dry now. It’s been a few months since I’ve seen him. It’s our big night. Sure, we’ve had our fair share of anniversaries by now, but I’m still nervous. Logan still gives me the butterflies just as he always has. Just a few more steps. Almost there. “Hi, Logan,” I say, sitting down. I take out the Chinese and arrange it, with the orange chicken closest to him, of course. I set the bouquet down in front of him. “Happy Anniversary.” I can’t help it; my voice cracks a little. Unsurprisingly, his gravestone doesn’t reply. The orange roses look nice against the light granite. LOGAN WINTER, it says. Some dates, a little carving of a cross, some more words, blocked by the roses. “I miss you,” I say. “I’m sorry for not coming for the last few months. Been working on that Reynolds case I told you about last time. But I’d never forget our anniversary.” I take out the engagement ring and put it on my finger. “I still wear it sometimes, you know,” I tell him. “I mean, we never broke up, so technically you’re still my fiancé.” My voice cracks again. I carry the ring with me always. Logan had proposed a few months before the accident. We had the venue booked, the invitations planned, the wedding date set. I leave the ring on my finger as I begin to eat. The sun is setting now. When it strikes the stone just right in about twenty minutes, the color will make the roses glow. It’ll be beautiful, like Logan deserves. “Atticus is doing well,” I say. “The Campus Drive sign still looks great. I almost brought it to you, but you put it up so perfectly above the doorframe, and it’s the perfect touch there. I can’t take it down. Besides, I think you’d rather it be on display to embarrass me whenever people come over, huh?” The orange chicken is too spicy for me, as usual. Logan always teased me about not being able to handle food with any spice. As the sun continues to set, tears begin to creep down my face. I sit cross-legged on the grass, watching as the sun rays illuminate the orange roses, making them a fiery auburn, stark in contrast to the pale LOGAN WINTER they lay against. I put my fingers to the stone. “Smart *and* cute *and* mine?” I whisper. “How unfair of the world to take you away from me.

Our story is about a town, a small town, and the people who live in the town. From a distance, it presents itself like so many other small towns all over the world: safe, decent, innocent. Get closer, though, and you start seeing the shadows underneath. The name of our town is Greenville. It’s been a week since the discovery of and Jake Jones's body, but his death is not the first nor would it be the last that the town of Greenville would suffer. The town now had its first serial killer. Everyone’s afraid to say it, so let me be the first. There is a serial killer amongst us. San Francisco had the Zodiac. New Orleans had the Axeman. Texarkana, Texas, had the Phantom Killer. The list goes on and on. Add to their ranks Greenville's very own psychopath, the unknown name of this mysterious killer, who is still out. Like the Red Death showing up in an Edgar Allan Poe story, the Black Hood had come to Riverdale. With that grimmest of reapers looming over us, how did we cope? Putting all this behind us for one night is exactly what the town did, the homecoming dance was coming up, and everyone was busy asking their friends or spouse to the dance, while I am busy writing away in the town's diner about what they are trying to forget. Later that night, there was another death, the girl next door, Jenna Moore. The captain of the cheer squad, childhood best friend of mine. Everything ended when she became popular and I became the girl on the bench with a computer and a story to write. Every fairy tale comes with the same warning: Good children should never go into the woods alone. Stray from the path and who knows what you’ll encounter. A hungry wolf. A handsome devil. Or maybe something worse. The deaths of Jake Jones and Jenna Moore are all the town talks about, and still, the killer is still out there, but now the killer is leaving clues, notes on the front doors of each house in the small town. The town was rising with worry, for they could be next. After the first death, we had all hoped it was just suicide from a stressed and anxious teen, but after the autopsy, the truth was out, and now it has settled into the minds of everyone there, there is a serial killer, and they are thirsty for blood. The kids in the local high school found a way to cope with the deaths of their classmates, alcohol, and fizzle rocks. With another death of a Greenville High Schooler, the Homecoming dance was canceled, but Luke Smith, the captain of Varsity football, my neighbor, my crush since 3rd grade, had decided to host a party in his home while his dad was out of town on business work. Thinking I would spend another night drinking coffee at the diner and typing away, Luke had invited me to the party, and there was no way I was going to turn down a high school party. Monday after the party, everyone was still hungover, but that wasn't the worst thing, by 4th period, the sheriff would have his first arrest. Emma Fisher, Luke Smith's girlfriend since the fifth grade, was arrested for the accusations of the murder of Jake Jones and Jenna Moore. All evidence pointed back to her, her blood at the scenes, her fingerprints, and her DNA all over the crime scenes. One thing was off though, she was out with Luke. By Wednesday morning, she was released, which still meant, the killer was still out. Fear. It’s the most basic, the most human emotion. As kids, we’re afraid of everything. The dark. The boogeyman under the bed. And we pray for the morning. For those monsters to go away. Though they never do. Not really. Just ask Jake Jones and Jenna Moore. But it never ended with them, the Shadow Killer was still out and had made another round, leaving a note this time with the dead body, warning the town, "If the town cannot keep their children under control, then I will be the one to do it, for these kids have sinned, and I am the one to get rid of it." No one knew what it meant, for we didn't know what trouble Jake, Jenna, and Emma had gotten into. yes, that's right, Emma Fisher had been the victim this time. Weeks had gone by and not a single word from the Shadow Killer, the town was quiet, and people in it too. Maybe the sins the Shadow Killer was talking about had gone away, or even better, the Shadow Killer themself. But when things started to get quit, when we started to let our guard down, the Shadow killer struck again, this time it was none other than the boy across the street, Luke Smith. Guilt, innocence. Good, evil. Life, death. As the shadows around Greendale deepened, the lines that separated these polar opposites blurred and distorted. “I’m guilty,” the Janitor confessed to the sheriff. But of what? It was the ultimate cliffhanger: the janitor had confessed but was he really the face under the mask, or was he covering up for someone else. Was he being paid to do this, was he being threatened, or was he really the killer? You know how there are just some towns where bad things always seem to happen? Well, Greenville has become one of those towns. The most recent horror? The school janitor turned out to be a serial killer. But we were putting him away along with our Christmas decorations. In Greenville, everyone wears a mask, not just the Shadow Killer. But every so often, the mask slips and our true selves are laid bare for all the world to see. So we scramble to put it back on, like a kid in a cheap Halloween costume, but it’s too late. People have already seen what’s underneath. And it’s terrifying. But the biggest secret the town still doesn't know is the true killer. A secret buried with the janitor and the 4 dead sophomores. I was the true Shadow Killer, and no one will ever expect it. Who expects a quiet girl who writes to be the killer, but then again, no would've expected the janitor to confess for a murder he didn't commit.

Hello. My name is Willium Whiteford. I don't exactly know why I am here telling you this. Maybe I am tired of hiding. Perhaps I just need to get all these thoughts out of my skull. I just need to let somebody in on my secret. You see, I am a magician. Not like the ones you see at parties; well I do do parties but I will get to that later. What I mean to say is that I am an actual Magician, capital M and everything. I cast spells and the like. I used to do shows on Broadway. I was in Las Vegas for a while. I even toured the world doing magic shows. I was incredibly famous. Almost everyone knew my name. I had money, power, women, everything a man could ever want. No, no of course you haven't heard of me. Haha. Sorry to laugh. It's just I made everyone forget about me. A complicated spell, but worth it. It got all of those other hacks off my back. Always wanting to know my tricks. I got kidnapped twice you know. It just became annoying; so I left. I mostly do kids shows now. I did mention I do parties. Their smiles are always the best anyways. It also got kind of boring. You see, real magic is fairly easy. Overall at least. I can get almost anything I want with a wave of a hand. I could have it all back in an instant. So it's really not much of a loss. I did decide to get the better of those other 'magicians' though. Big air quotes around that word by the way. I went to learn their magic: sleight of hand, smoke and mirrors, card tricks and the like. It was all so complicated, it was more difficult than just changing the universe with a spell. The funny part was having learned it all I was actually able to hide real magic from prying eyes. Take long sleeves. Most 'magicians' don't wear them. They don't want people to say 'Ah he just took it out of his sleeve,' or 'He pulled that out of his sleeve!" Stuff like that. I always wear a coat. When I make something appear or disappear, it doesn't matter what, people just assume that's what I do. I went from being considered the greatest magician, to just a decent one. The freedom is amazing. What? No, of course I am not scared of you revealing my secret. Well simple. By the time you finish reading this you will have forgotten all about me. In fact after you hit the upvote button you will move on and read a different story. You may leave here with a strange compulsion to hire me though. Honestly, I am great with kids. They love the act. Their faces light up when I make toys appear out of thing air. Willium Whiteford, you can remember that. Thank you for listening. It was wonderful meeting you. Goodbye.

The night before my father's funeral, I dreamt I was a crow. I soared above my childhood home, above the old elementary school, above the lake where my father had taken me fishing when I was five years old and had yet to disappoint him. My black feathers were iridescent, shimmering as I flapped my wings. I flew farther, out of the state of Minnesota, out of the United States, and into outer space. For a split second, I was filled with joy. Then I awoke. Annoyed, I pulled off the quilt my mom likely hadn't washed since I moved out ten years ago. She hadn't changed much of anything since I left, really. My basketball trophies were still standing on the shelf above my desk. My now-ancient iMac sat below. On the walls were posters of Fall Out Boy and fellow female athletes whom I'd found inspirational: Mia Hamm, Serena Williams, and Nadia Comaneci. The Comaneci poster sported a tear down the center, courtesy of my father. He ripped it in one of his drunken rages, calling it "fuel" for my "filthy lesbian fantasies." Ironically, Nadia was the only woman of the three I wasn't attracted to. The only real difference in my bedroom, in fact, was the black silk dress that hung from my doorframe, swaying threateningly. "Mom!" I shouted, "What the hell is this?" My mom appeared in a fuzzy pink bathrobe, dragging a comb through the curly brown hair we shared. She peered at the black dress and rolled her eyes. "What do you think? It's a dress, Cass." "I'm aware. I meant what the hell is it doing in my room? I haven't worn a dress in twenty years." Twenty-one years, in fact. I was the flower girl at my uncle Mike's wedding. When my mom presented me with the purple tulle monstrosity I was meant to wear, I cried for nearly an hour. On the day of the wedding, I angrily dumped the entire basket of flowers at the head of the aisle and ran out of the chapel in an act of protest. After the reception, my father had gotten drunk off his ass, as always, and as always, my mom had to drive us home. I leaned my head against the car door and closed my eyes. When my father thought I’d fallen asleep, he turned to my mom. “Jeanette,” he slurred, “there’s somethin’ wrong with Cassandra. She’s a weird kid, I’m tellin’ you. I jus don’t understand her.” I was snapped back to reality by my mother’s voice. “Your dad would’ve wanted you to wear it, Cassandra.” “He wanted a lot of things, Mom. Wanted to win the lottery. Wanted to quit drinking. Wanted me to be someone else. You can’t always get what you want.” I shot my mom a wry smile, knowing the Rolling Stones quote would bother her. “Whatever, Cass. Wear what you want. I’m leaving in half an hour to set things up. The service starts at one. Please don’t be late.” With that, my mom left my room and I started downstairs to start a pot of coffee. I passed a seemingly endless row of photos, most of which were of me. Me at my very first Junior Timberwolves basketball game, which my father had missed because his “damn car wouldn’t start.” Me grinning at my eighth grade graduation, which my father had missed due to “a faulty engine.” One photo in particular stood out. It was a newspaper clipping, in which I was leaping through the air in a sky blue jersey, basketball in hand, wild-eyed. The caption read, “West Lake High School player Cassandra Lowell makes the game-winning shot, taking home state championship.” I remembered the game well. It was the second semester of my sophomore year, and I’d already earned the attention of numerous college scouts after leading my team to state championships. The game was set to be played in Minneapolis on a Saturday morning, and I’d somehow gotten my father to promise he’d be there. As the team and I rode to Minneapolis at the crack of dawn, I found myself filled with excitement. *I have to win this game*, I thought. I had to make my father proud. The game began and I played better than ever before. I made shot after shot, and no one seemed able to stop me. By halftime, the score was 32-14. I turned into the crowd, expecting to see my parents’ smiling faces. However, only my mom smiled back at me, a grin that did not match her troubled eyes. Next to her was an empty seat. I deluded myself into thinking maybe my father had left to use the bathroom, or he was running a bit late. I pushed on, determined to show my father how good I was. Toward the end of the fourth quarter, the other team picked up their game. Before we knew it, they had a two-point lead, and there were only fifteen seconds left. As if by magic, I managed to steal the ball from a girl on the opposing team and run. Desperate to make a shot in time, I leapt into the air from halfway across the court and launched the ball toward the net. I had a look in my eyes the local newspaper would later describe as “a girl possessed.” *Swoosh*. The ball made it in easily. I almost couldn’t believe my good fortune. As the buzzer rang, I again turned into the crowd, hoping to share this victory with my father. Again, all I saw was an empty seat. I refrained from celebrating on the bus ride home, sulking while everyone else celebrated. My sulking turned to anger, which turned to seething. By the time I arrived home and spotted my father’s ’99 Civic in the driveway, I was beyond furious. I entered our house, slamming the door behind me. My father laid on the couch, beer in hand, indifferent to my arrival. I dropped my duffel bag in front of him. “You missed my game,” I said. My father seemed unbothered. “You guys win?” I ignored his question. “You missed my game,” I repeated. He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “Car wouldn’t start.” “That’s bullshit! That’s bullshit and you know it. You own one of the most dependable cars on the planet. You were just too fucking drunk to drive to one lousy game.” My father was many things: a homophobe, a drunk, an all-around asshole. But at the very least, he was not a drunk driver. My father shook his head, somehow managing to spill his beer in the process. “The damn car wouldn’t start, Cassandra. It’s a shitty car. Never works. Believe me.” The memory was interrupted by my mom brushing past me on the staircase. “I know you’re a zombie without your coffee, Cass,” she said, “but if you don’t get a move on it, you’re gonna be late.” “Sorry, Mom,” I said, and continued on with my routine. I made the pot of coffee, poured some cereal, and sat down on the couch to watch shitty morning TV. For a moment, it felt as though I’d never left home. Then, my mom walked out the door wearing her black funeral dress and I remembered everything. The rest of my morning continued without a hitch. I showered, brushed my teeth, and styled my hair. I pulled my black slacks and gray dress shirt out of the suitcase I’d lugged here, ironed them, and got dressed. Although I wasn’t very hungry, I shoveled the lasagna our neighbor had brought as an offering of condolence into my mouth. With nothing left to do but travel to the church, I grabbed the car keys off the kitchen counter and headed out the door. The Civic sat in the driveway, looking exactly the same as it had over a decade ago. I paused for a minute; suddenly, I felt as though I were seven years old. I reluctantly opened the door and sat down. I put the keys in the ignition and attempted to start the car, but received only a pathetic cough in response. Irritated, I tried again. Nothing. *You’ve got to be kidding me*, I thought as I tried the ignition yet again. The engine sputtered defiantly. Exasperated, I turned my head toward the sky. “You cruel bastard,” I said, half-laughing, half-crying. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a jet-black crow rising through the air.

This was not how I had expected the day to go. “Come on, we need to run!” He grasped my hand and pulled me up off the blood stained floor. I had expected a nice coffee date, maybe a walk in the park. “ The police are probably on their way by now.” Pulling me behind him, I turned back hearing the sirens before seeing them but not longer after the red and blue lights followed. I might have even brought him back to my flat if he was really persuading. “Are you deaf, hurry the fuck up or do you wanna spend the rest of your life holed up in jail!?!” But no, instead I’m in a police chase with a guy I’ve not even known for 2 hours. I took in his appearance as we were running, the back of his neck slick with sweat and his hair being pushed back by the wind, cheeks bright pink and his eyes wild with either worry or happiness, I haven’t decided yet. Truth be told if it wasn’t for this he would probably be the perfect man for me, his glasses helped make the shape of his face, jawline patterned with one of those scruffy beards. Rounding us around a corner he he pushed me away backed up and kicked open a door to what I can presume is an abandoned building of some sort. Seeing that in a film would’ve made me swoon for the lead man thinking about how strong and manly he is but in this situation.... it’s probably the same actually. He looked me in the eyes with what I can only describe as a mixture of excitement and craze. “Do you not trust me?” quizzically he asked as he reached out his hand for me, “Do you know how cringy you sound and look right now, what are me in an action film?” I say thinking back to my previous thought not two seconds ago. his arm slumped down to his side almost reluctantly. “Alright, follow me then. Unless you just want to stand there like a soggy biscuit just waiting to be caught.” His voice slowly slipped into the building with him as he walked away and without even thinking my body urged me forward to follow him. The building is exactly what you would expect somewhere abandoned to look like, graffiti painted practically every wall, gang signs, swear words you name it, even a very crude picture of the queen and Boris Johnson doing what I can only describe as a very interesting sexual role play. A mixture of mold, urine and a smell I couldn’t even pinpoint filled the air. “Is this where you kill me because no witness left behind.” “Relax it’s not as if I robbed a bank or something I just got into a small fight.” “Small?” I scoffed, I couldn’t even tell if he was being serious " You got into a full on brawl which ended up smashing through the cafe window and now you’ve made me an accomplice!” Laughing he stood up and walked towards me sitting on an old wooden box I was stood beside. “Sit your paranoid arse down it wasn’t even that bad they will forget about it by the end of the week... probably. And I mean scheduled in for a haircut day after tomorrow so I won’t even look the same!” “Are you seriously thinking that a haircut is going to fix everything?” “No I was just making a bloody joke, trying to get you to smile.” “You really expect me to smile in this situation right now?” I couldn’t stand to be near him right now, pushing myself up I slowly walked towards the wall in front following all the intricate details painted on, not only could I not stay near him because of what happened but because I knew I didn’t even care about that, in fact it was probably the most fun I had in a while I just didn’t want to admit that. We sat in silence for an excruciating amount of time and I did kinda feel bad for him it wasn’t exactly his fault really was it, or am I just telling myself that? Slowly walking back towards him I take a seat on the floor a few steps in front of him and as he looks up to see what I’m doing, smiling he follows in suit sitting down his knees hitting mine. “Can I just say I was really looking forward to this date.” I surprised myself by smiling at this. “Me too, except I didn’t expect this to happen. Obviously.” “Well I mean we could just carry it on, minor set back and location change aside, where were we?” “Are you serious right now?” “Oh. I’m always serious.” Fake scowling at me, both of us began to laugh, was I really going to do this. Imagine what Emily is going to think when I tell her how her blind date set up ended. She told me he was a bit out there but all in all one of the kindest men she knew. Before everything that happened I was actually having a good time and we got along very well even upgraded from small talk to casual flirting and personal stories. “I think you were telling me about your friends birthday party this year.” He smiled and we carried on our conversations from before. It was actually really fun and the more I got to know him and pretend what happened didn’t exist I could really see myself falling in love with him, the way his eyes graze every part of my face as I spoke and I could tell how intently he was listening catching every little detail I said. When he was talking about his family his movements and speech were just so passionate as he told me about his very extensive family tree and loads of little anecdotes about everyone, you could see that the love for his family was truly there. As the sun was almost just out of sight through the windows and dark shadows were spreading across the floor, standing up he dusted himself off and reached a hand out for me, I smiled grabbing it and just as i caught my balance he grabbed my waist pulling me into him, every part of his body molding to mine as his eyes met mine with a stare I couldn’t decide was either happiness or worry, I’m sure mine was the exact same. “So even after everything that happened today this is probably one of the happiest days I’ve had in a while and I was just hoping that if we didn’t end up getting caught and thrown in jail you would consider going out with me again?” Smiling up at him I sarcastically said to him and hoped he knew I was joking. “I’m never going out with you again.”

My face must have reflected my feelings as I walked into the living room because my husband Joe looked up at me and asked, “Why the long face?” “Oh, Joe, I just got off the phone with Angie. She’s feeling down in the dumps and not looking forward to Christmas at all.” I explained to Joe that Angie’s son and daughter in law with their eight year-old twins were going off to Germany to spend Christmas. They spent last Christmas with Angie and this year it was the turn of the other grandparents. Charlie’s her only child and I sympathized with Angie because the same thing was happening to Joe and me. Our eldest, Adam, was in the army and would be in Afghanistan until February. Our daughter Linda was in California with her husband Greg. They are screenwriters just getting their careers up and running and they weren’t taking any time off for the holidays. My little sister Angie and her husband George live in England, my older brother Bob lives in Canada with his wife Julia, and Joe and I live in Sydney, Australia. We are an international family if ever there was one, and while we love to spend a real family Christmas together, it gets difficult when we are dotted all over the globe the way we are. The phone rang again and it was Angie ringing back. She had just spoken with our brother Bob and he suggested we all get together in England for Christmas, just the three of us old empty-nest couples, and make it a real English Christmas, just like our old fashioned Christmases back home when we were kids. “Oh, Angie, you must have woken him up,” I said, “isn’t it the middle of the night in Canada?” “Yes, I suppose so. But he didn’t mind. Now that his kids have grandchildren of their own, he’s not planning on seeing much of them this year. And I think it cheered him up to talk about getting together for Christmas. I said you and he could come here, we’ve got enough room without the kids. Just think of it Mary, an old-fashioned English Christmas. Won’t it be lovely?” “You know, it does sound rather nice, just what we all need. Joe and I will start working on travel arrangements. Don’t you go making yourself ill with too much cooking and cleaning, we can come early and all share that, it’ll be fun. Have you still got all the old family recipes? If not, I do, I’ll get them out and email some of them to you. Thank you Angie, you’ve made my day. Wait till I tell Joe, he’ll love it. I’ll phone Bob and Julia later. Shall we talk again tomorrow?” Joe was tickled pink about going back to England for Christmas, and he sat down at his computer and started looking for good deals on flights. I went to my kitchen to look at cookbooks. It may not be the most important ingredient for a happy Christmas, but food has to be near the top of the list of what makes the holidays so special and enjoyable. For the next two weeks, we sent emails and made phone calls back and forth, deciding on when we’d arrive in England, how long we would stay, what fun things we might do while there, and what we would have for Christmas dinner. There was no argument for the turkey, that was what we had every Christmas as children, and our Mum had stuffed it with Paxo herb stuffing and surrounded it with roast potatoes, carrots, and parsnips, and poured her slightly lumpy gravy over it. With the turkey we always had brussels sprouts. Dessert was, of course, a Christmas pudding, steamed in its white porcelain basin on top of the stove. We had custard, made with Bird’s custard powder, and sometimes cream with the pudding. We three children had each kept to this basic Christmas dinner menu when we left home to marry and raise families of our own, but we all made it more modern, and probably healthier, with a few changes. None of us cooked stuffing inside the bird, it was baked in a separate dish, and nobody would use Paxo or any other stuffing mix, because we all loved to cook and had tried different recipes for stuffing. As a family we had tried, every year, to be together for Christmas. Sometimes we couldn’t do it, but often we did, so we had all sampled each other’s Christmas specialties. All of us voted that the best stuffing recipe was Julia’s chestnut stuffing: there was no discussion, we were unanimous. We also voted for our usual roast potatoes, carrots, and parsnips. Julia sprinkles a little chopped garlic, grated fresh ginger root, and black pepper on her carrots and parsnips, which makes them shine. Brussels sprouts were voted for by all of us, and we all cook them using Julia’s method of steaming them after cutting a cross in the trimmed stem end, which allows any damaged outer leaves to fall off and makes them cook faster. These days we all like to eat more vegetables, so we voted to add steamed cauliflower and broccoli, and green beans, to our plates. We would have to wait and see what was available in the markets before Christmas before we knew what we would actually eat to accompany the turkey, but our list was quite basic. And Julia had obviously been elected the vegetable chef. My sister Angie had a wonderful old Aga stove in her big kitchen, and she knew how to coax it into performing at its best, so she was elected, by default, to cook the turkey. She would also cook the ham, which was eaten as the main meal on Christmas Eve and again on Boxing Day. Angie’s husband, George, a retired butcher, was given the task of finding us the best turkey and ham, and he always helped Angie with cooking. All that was left was the pudding and all the delicious baked goods that belong to Christmas in England. We all used the recipe our Mum had given us for the pudding. This recipe, along with an old-fashioned pudding basin with a lip, had formed part of her wedding presents to Angie, Julia, and to me, and we all treasured both the basin and the recipe. It made a dark, rich pudding with a delicious flavor, and contained not only currants and sultanas, but chunks of almonds, grated carrot and apple, and beer. Both Angie and I made Bird’s custard to have with the pudding, because we liked it, and so did our husbands, George and Joe. Julia usually served her pudding with brandy butter and cream, so we decided we’d have all three available to have with the pudding: custard, cream, and brandy butter. We never flamed our puddings when we were growing up, but all of us did that now. When the pudding is removed from its steamer and from its basin it is placed on a flat dish. A shot glass full of brandy is placed in a pan of simmering water until it gets hot, then it is poured over the hot pudding, and a match put to it until blue flames flare up around it. All the lights should be out when you do this. Some people set light to it in the kitchen then carry it out to the dining table, but I prefer doing the lighting ceremony in front of everyone at the table. Every year when it’s time to flame the pudding, our family tells the same old stories of accidents surrounding the ceremony. Here’s an example: One year I forgot to remove the decorative sprig of holly poked into the top, which caught fire. Joe poked a fork at it to pull it out with a flick of his wrist. It came out alright, but didn’t stay on the fork. It sailed over the table and landed on the armchair by the door, setting the upholstery alight! We still have that chair, it’s burn hole covered by a throw blanket: we will never get that chair recovered, it holds the memory of everyone’s laughter during what we now call “the great Christmas Pudding accident.” Christmas puddings are best if made about a month before Christmas, so Angie was given the task of making the pudding and storing it in her larder. The pudding is steamed for about six hours, cooled, then packaged up, and on Christmas Day it is steamed again for about two hours. As the baker of the family, I was given the task of making mince pies, Dundee cake, cheddar pennies, shortbread, a chocolate log, and any other cakes or biscuits our family couldn’t live without for the holidays. I would travel armed with my trusted recipes for all of these. Bob and Angie phoned me one day to ask if I had the recipe for the Christmas scones or biscuits that our maternal grandmother, our Yorkshire grandmother we called Granny, used to make. No, I didn’t have a recipe like that, but yes, I did remember eating them, and loving them. Neither Bob and Julia, nor Angie and George could find a recipe for them, nor remember what they were called. I did a Google search but came up with nothing. So I sat down to think about the taste, and what might have made them taste that way, and I jotted down ingredients as I thought of them: flour, sugar, butter, mixed spice, pinch salt, currants, mixed peel, vanilla essence, glace cherries, nuts, and perhaps milk or eggs. I began to experiment. At first I made biscuits, or cookies as they are called in Australia and America. They tasted good, but that wasn’t right, the texture was softer than a biscuit, but not like a cake. Could they have been scones? That didn’t seem right either, but I tried anyway, making a basic sweet scone recipe with flour, baking powder, salt, butter, sugar, spice, a little milk, vanilla, and with currants, peel, almonds, and glace cherries stirred in. Yes, that was it! They were scones. But we all remembered our Granny had a special name for them, maybe it was even a funny-sounding name? Bob and Angie were happy I’d discovered a recipe similar to the treats we had enjoyed from our Granny, and Bob agreed with me that she had given them a funny name. We reminisced about our Yorkshire Granny and Bob remembered she was the one who used to call him “my little fat rascal,” even though he was a skinny little boy. That did it, the penny dropped and I remembered. These scones were called “fat rascals.” Both Bob and I looked online and found them, found recipes, and their history. Fat Rascals are a rich scone, “fat” because they are filled with fruit and nuts, and “rascals” because they have a face marked on top with almond teeth and cherries for eyes. Joe and I arrived at Heathrow a week before Christmas. We stayed overnight in London to see the lights, then hired a car and drove down to Folkestone on the south coast, where George and Angie live. The first thing I baked in Angie’s kitchen was a batch of fat rascals, which were ready and waiting for Granny’s little fat rascal Bob when he and Julia arrived the next day. We all enjoyed them immensely, amid numerous cups of tea and hours of reminiscences about our wonderful old Christmases in England, when we were young.

Hey Fancy Pants. It’s me and it’s what I still call you. Why not? I spend so much time thinking about the past. My marriage, my divorce, my daughter. It is so easy to think about all that has occurred and then focus on all the ways, the many many ways, that decisions were poor and moments were not super happy. The what ifs, the why, the what could I have done. Then the natural progression of could of, should of, would of. Really, what in the hell. I hate that almost as much as I hate, it is what it is. No. Absolutely not. It is NOT what it is. That’s weak acceptable of what can be different. Well now I am thinking about the future. What should I know? Well, all of this is a moment in time that has lots of choices for lots of different moments, future moments. I was recently told that I should be an observe in my life to allow for some opportunities to not be so worried regularly. Interesting concept and maybe applicable for thinking about the future. At times in work, I will back into a challenge so that the end is the beginning and the decisions may or may not be different based on what is hopefully the outcome. So future self, what do I want? Let’s start at the most granular. Happiness. When I say I want happiness my husband says, “ha-penis”. It makes me laugh every time and I can no longer say the word without a normal thought. Okay - clearly, I’ll find a different way to express that sentiment - which I actually want. Contentment? Not sure. I think so but in what way. In a complicit way - without fight, without drive? Not sure. Peace - oh yeah, that’s the good stuff! But can peace be completely fulfilled without some conflict? Now that is the interesting ying and yang question. Can it? Can any of these things occur without a polarizing opposite moment? Let’s take this in a different direction. Future self, tell me a day in the life of you. Well, I think that I wake up and have few aches. I stumble for coffee. I go outside and check my plants in my greenhouse. I text a good morning to my daughter as she is successful and happy elsewhere but not too far so I can see her. I feed my cats and chickens and then what? I work? I volunteer? I’m not sure. I am not my future self yet so I don’t know what the day in the life looks like. This is getting me nowhere. How about my life with friends? This one I absolutely know. My future self wants to have the friends I have now who are like the most beautiful snuggly blankets. I am constantly protected and kept safe. My heart remains intact and constantly filled with affection from them, and I towards them. So this one is clear. People who show up for me. But when I think future self, future self, how am I viewing my friends. How have they changed? How have a changed? Has there been a need to reevaluate and rediscover or has the relationships with each one been a never ending healthy intertwining of like minded thoughtfulness? Has anyone been removed from the fold by choice, by death, by request. Future self, there is no way to predict the future of other selves who are not you. Hold on, hold on. There has to be something of value that I can offer my future self. But I don’t know. My whole life has been a mishmash of different dedications. I was dedicated to a career. I was dedicated to being an alternative person - minded and in dress. I was dedicated to finding what was going to be my romantic person. I was dedicated to surrounding myself with the people who made me more “real” and “authentic”. That means, in the simplest and most ridiculousness, cool. I was dedicated to leaving my home state for another because in another I would find me. I was dedicated to returning home to see my family. I was dedicated to being a mom. I was dedicated to surviving divorce. I was dedicated to making money and doing whatever needed to be done on my terms. Now, I am dedicated to ensuring my daughter is the successful version of herself. This means wanting for her what she wants for her. A job, to not feel terrible with her chronic illnesses, a home of her own, maybe even a relationship with someone. In the past, my future self never could have predicted that wish. What is becoming very clear, future self, is that the only message that can be given is to stay open to all experiences good and bad. It is all of the experiences that are expected and more so, unexpected, that will provide the best version and guidance and advice to the future self. I have nothing to offer because all I know is the moment of now. I am content. I visit my plants everyday. I have a job that I am good at and am well respected. My daughter loves me and actually tells me - HUGE! My step daughter is in progress of acceptance and I suppose that could be considered a win. Who’s to say. My husband and I are communicating a great deal better and finally settling into a world in which we share our moments and upsets with security and without emotional landmines. Future self - enjoy the ride. Enjoy the ability to move easily with strength. Enjoy working. Enjoy books and movies. Laugh with friends. Talk to friends. Be ok with the moment in front of you. Happy, sad, angry, complete distress, overjoyed. All of these things put pits in my stomach because they are really big feelings. Try to breathe and focus on something that gives peace. The wind blowing through the bamboo. The birds. The running of the cats when they see me. The chickens following me around the coop. All of these may not be in the life of my future self but maybe they are or maybe they are something new. Future self - have FUN!

Everything was ready for the ritual. Elijah had been up all morning checking and double checking the preparations they made for this night. It was just after sundown when he woke her up. " Are you sure about this?” Elijah asks his wife. " I’m sure” Miriam yawns, still waking up. She searches her husband’s face in the failing candlelight. He looks afraid even though he’s trying not to. She reaches a hand up to caress his worried face. He responds by kissing her hand and then her forehead. He pulls her into an embrace and says. " Well I’m not sure. I’m not sure if it’s worth it. ” His eyes glowing white with his confession as his wife pulls back to look at him. " Save it, we’ll need all of our magic tonight,” she says in reference to his glowing eyes. Her expression softens while still looking at him. " I am sure.” She begins, her hands going to her pregnant belly. " We are the last two left Elijah. We have to raise another one before our time is up.” He knows that his wife is right but the risk is too great. The strain it puts not only on Miriam’s body. But on their relationship. He wasn’t sure they could survive another heartbreak. Elijah helps Miriam to the bath he prepared. Twelve gallons of moon water, boiled on a wood fire stove. The water was full of rose petals, lavender oil, and pink salt. The couple worked in near silence. The only sounds were the light splashing of water as they bathed Miriam’s pregnant body. They finished her bath by scenting her hair with rose flower oil. Elijah dried his wife off as she braided her locs up and off her shoulders. Placing flowers along the braid created a crown. Bracelets made from strips of animal leather and seashells played the tambourine at her wrists and ankles. She wore two diamond shaped veils made from countless rows of beaded sea glass. One that covered her face just below her eyes and another that draped over her shoulders and spilled down her back and over her breasts. Their frostiness matched the overcast night sky. Elijah escorts Miriam to the birthing site they prepared. A six-foot wide path leading to the sacred mirror. The path is marked on either side by twelve large stones spread a foot apart, with a one foot deep trench below it. On the outside of the stones marking the path were two more skinny shallow trenches filled with oil. Elijah leaves Miriam to walk to the end of the path. Using his magic he lights the oil in the smaller trenches. Sending brilliant blue and purple flames racing towards his wife. Once the flames reach the head of the path. Elijah takes his seat at the drum and begins to play. Bum-ba-dum-bum-bum... Bum-ba-dum-bum-bum... With his eyes closed he lends his voice to the night. Miriam locks eyes with her reflection in the mirror in the distance and begins her procession down the dirt path. Each step she takes is music. The beads and seashells clinking together with her movements. Still focused on her reflection, her voice cries out. Joining that of her husband. Helping to set the atmosphere for the ushering in of the last of them. Memories flash behind Elijah’s fluttering eyelids. A day ago when he stumbled upon Miriam in the meadow behind their house, picking flowers for her hair. He’d just returned from fishing. She looked so beautiful, like Gaia herself. With the sun at her back and her feet dug into the earth. Carefully selecting flowers while speaking to the baby in her belly. He stooped down behind some tall grass to observe his love from a distance. She was telling the baby about the work she was doing and about what it meant to be one of their kind. Elijah felt so proud watching her. He was falling in love with her all over again. Then she broke his heart by saying. “I might not make it out of the delivery. This might be the only way you get to know me. As, the vessel that carried you, nurtured you, and loved you until your arrival. I’m not a young woman anymore. I haven’t been for quite some time. That’s why my pregnancies haven’t... You are different. I know it. You are special. If I don’t make it, it’s alright as long as you do. Your daddy loves you and he’ll take good care of you. He’ll be sad for a long time after I’m gone. Don’t give him too hard a time about it. He’ll do the best he can...” Elijah couldn’t listen anymore. His chest had seized up as hot tears slipped from his eyes and down his face. How could she say those things? Part of him knew that she could be right. But to hear her say it out loud felt like she was speaking it into existence. He stopped himself from continuing that train of thought. Miriam wasn’t going to die. The baby wasn’t going to die. No matter what happened, everyone was making it out of this birth alive! That memory fueled his drumming and reinforced his intent. By this time Miriam had reached the birthing trench at the end of the path. Elijah stopped his drumming to assist his wife and continue with the ritual. Two tiny coffins carved out of psyche tree wood; held the remains of their two stillborn daughters. They are prepared in such a way; they look as if they are to be taken up from the altar by the ancestors. A lamb and a kid are tied to a tree just a few feet away from the altar. Elijah sacrifices both animals. Spilling their blood into a large wooden bowl. Dipping his fingers in the blood he draws a rune on Miriam’s forehead and then on his own. He then carries the bowl of blood to the mirror. Setting it down before the hunk of polished, flat, obsidian. Elijah returns to Miriam, standing behind her. The two of them face the mirror and Elijah speaks some words over his wife. " La mieto she ́ nah reolkajghe- There is no fear within the light” As those words finish on Elijah’s lips Miriam naturally starts going into labor. Her water breaks, spilling into the trench at her feet. Elijah helps his wife get into position. Feet dug into the ground with a firm grip on the oar like appendages sticking up out of the ground on either side of the trench. He moves around in front so that he can deliver the baby when it’s time. The baby hasn’t moved into the correct position. Instead its turned sideways. Elijah tries his best to coax it into the right position but it won’t budge. There so much blood and he keeps having flashbacks of the two previous failed deliveries. They were very similar to this. Everything is going wrong! So much so that he cannot regain his composure. He looks down at himself covered in his wife’s blood. Hysteria begins with a pleading look in his eyes that turns to helplessness when he looks into his wife’s strained face. His movements are frantic and his speech is a jumble of whimpering gibberish. Seeing her husband losing the fight with his sanity; Miriam grabs him by the collar of his shirt. Bringing his face to hers, she kisses him on his third eye. Using her magic to send calm into his mind, which makes him sleep. As his body falls into the trench beside her, she begins her prayer. “I call upon the Mirror Keepers of old. Those of heaven, earth, and the places in between. The guardians of sacred spaces and the demigods of secret passages. Deliver your child into this world. The last of our kind. The last keeper of the sacred mirror. The door to all places known and unknown. Usher him, in all of his cosmic glory. He is a child of the heavens. Born out of the place which gave life to life itself. Hear me! Lords of the universe. This is your child! Deliver him into this world! Deliver him!” Miriam’s voice rings out with strident desperation. The heavy child, like a warm stone in her womb. She fears that she is once again carrying death inside of her. Refusing to lose another child. Miriam focuses her energy. Calling up all of the magic she can. White light begins to glow from her hands. Placing them on her belly she begins a chant. The same words Elijah spoke before she went into labor. “La mieto she ́ nah reolkajghe! La mieto she ́ nah reolkajghe! There is no fear within the light!” Her womb contracts as a spill of crimson splats from between her legs. Her body is weak and she’s lost too much blood. Miriam’s eyes roll to the back of her head. The burning fever, the pain, and sheer exhaustion knock her out. Elijah wakes up right at that moment. Having been released from his wife’s magic. " NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!!” Seeing Miriam passed out, he springs into action. Scrambling to pick himself up off the wet and bloodied ground. With a flash of lightening and the sound of thunder, rain begins to pour and the wind starts to pick up. Elijah climbs out of the trench and walks against the wind to the mirror. Eyeing the gruesome looking scene of his wife’s unconscious body, laying in the mud with their unborn child trapped inside of her. He releases a yell to the heavens out of frustration. A primal clarity takes over his mind as Elijah grabs hold to the mirror. Calling up his magic, his entire body begins to glow white. Transforming the mirror into a rippling portal of time and space. A large crack of thunder close by speaks to the urgency of the situation. Over the whipping sound of branches in the wind. Elijah speaks to his unborn child. " Yuriel! The light, the flame of god. That is your name my son. La mieto she ́ nah reolkajghe- There is no fear within the light. You do not have to be afraid because you are the light. You are the last of us. The one to bring our kind into this new era. It is time for you to wake up son. Be born of your mother. Live!” Elijah weeps into the last of his words. His voice breaking hoarse over the sound of the wind and the rain. Thunder cracks again and an arc of lightning surges through Elijah, into the mirror, and into Miriam’s belly. The celestial electricity shocks Miriam back to consciousness. Through half opened lids she can see white light pouring into her from the mirror. Looking down at her belly she can see the baby moving into the proper birthing position. Still trapped in place by the intense arc, Elijah is stuck holding the mirror. Wearily, Miriam grabs hold of the oars on either side of the trench. She takes a couple of deep breaths and then screams at the top of her lungs. Several pushes and she can feel that the child is coming but, she needs help. For the first time since this began, sobs of fear arrest Miriam’s resolve. In an effort to regain her composure. Miriam searches for her reflection in the obsidian disk. Her search is met with a familiar set of eyes. That of her mother. More familiar faces emerge from the mirrors portal. A procession of ancestors come streaming from the other side to aid their daughter. Ancient hands filled with skill and magic lay upon Miriam; helping to guide the baby into this world. Each ancestor that passes through the portal adds weight to the mirror in Elijah’s grasp. The intensity of all the magic being spent combined with the lighting that was drawn to it; causes the mirror to dematerialize, being absorbed by the baby in Miriam’s belly. With the mirror gone. Elijah rushes back to his wife. His magic is still active as he delivers his son. Loud, hiccuping cries replace the sounds of the storm in the nights sky. After three-hundred years. They finally did it! They delivered their baby. The last mirror keeper.

Mr.X was a man who felt he had no luck. Though he was qualified and experienced he couldn’t get a decent job. He had advertised in the matrimonial columns to find a bride. It was a peculiar ad and still he got responses. He had shortlisted those to talk to and excerpts from the matrimonial interviews he faced are reproduced below: Candidate 1 SHE: Though you’re well qualified, how is it you’ve no job? X: They asked me questions which were difficult to answer: For instance after I had passed written tests I was called for interview. The question was if you’re[i] selected and posted and if a close friend wanted something to be officially done in his favour, how would you answer? I said I would help him. SHE: That was wrong. You should’ve said I’ll never compromise my official position. I’ve told you I’m elder to you by 6 months. Did it cause you to hesitate in taking a decision? X: No. Age is only a number as far as I’m concerned. SHE: You say marriage can take place only after you’ve found a job. That means the bride would’ve to wait endlessly. X: I’m hoping for a change in luck. SHE: You say you’ll consider marriage only with a woman who is earning. Does it mean you’re going to depend on her? X: No. I’m hoping to get a paying job myself. SHE: You’ve said caste, religion no bar. Only she has to be employed. That shows you’re desperate for money. X: I’m not desperate. It only shows I’m broadminded. SHE: You seem to have no interest in sports or indoor games or any hobby. X: That’s the truth. SHE: I’ll think it over. Thank you for coming to meet me. CANDIDATE 2 SHE: I’ve said I’m of mixed parentage. X: It matters not. SHE: You want a woman who is having a steady income. That means you want to only rely on her earnings. X: Also. Remember the wedding can take place only after I have got a job. That means I’ll also have an income. SHE: I’ve told you my job and my salary. Suppose you accept a job with a lesser salary will you still consider me? X: If that happens I’ll leave it to you. SHE: Let me think it over. Thank you for coming over and talking to me. CANDIDATE 3 SHE: You have no job and say you are living on a small capital left to you by your grandpa. How long will it last?” X: I’m optimistic about finding a job before my capital dries up. SHE: You can’t rely on that. And you say you’ve no luck. X: Optimism and luck need not mix. SHE: Let me think it over. Thanks. CANDIDATE: 4 SHE: I have seen you and have studied your requirements. Suppose you get a job in a different geographical location? X: I’ll expect my wife to go with me. SHE: Suppose she has a job only here. X: I would’ve to think it over. Further I can only decide based on circumstances. SHE: Thank you. CANDIDATE 5 SHE: You’ve said widow no bar. I am a widow. X: That’s why I’m talking to you. SHE: True I’m earning a big salary but spend a big percentage of it on cosmetics and in visiting beauty salons. That means you must have the means to run the family. X: I expect the wife to be careful about spending money. If your appearance satisfies me you won’t need to visit those salons. SHE: I’m female and take pride in my looks. If I find it necessary to spend money on beauty products and in visiting beauty salons nobody can prevent me. X: I don’t think you will fit me. Thanks. CANDIDATE 6 SHE: I’ve a sister who has to be married. I’m putting by a part of my earnings to be used for her marriage. X: I’ve clearly said I want an unencumbered woman. It means she should earn and keep the money for herself. You don’t fit my expectations. Thank you. CANDIDATE 7 SHE: You’re jobless and it looks like you may take a lot longer to find one. X: You’re right. I don’t know when I’ll land a job. SHE: My parents are getting old and they would like to see me married soon. You don’t meet my expectations. Thank you. CANDIDATE 8 SHE: You need a job as well as a wife. X: That is like it. SHE: My dad is in movie production. He can offer you a job. X: I can’t act. SHE: No need. He can place you as private secretary to a superstar. The pay will be good and if you do well she can reward you further. X: Would you approve of it? SHE: Why not? She is an ex-star and is now fat and unattractive. She has made her money and is now in need of a private secretary who takes care of her investments and income from India and the world. X: I’m tempted to accept and wed you. SHE: There’s another point you must note. Your ad said you were prepared to accept even if the woman has minor flaws. As you can see my left arm is slightly shorter than the right. That’s because my mom it seems took some medication prior to my birth. X: That is no problem. I’m satisfied with your looks and with you overall. SHE: You have stated you have no luck. X: I see it coming now. SHE: Don’t be in a hurry and accept. The job of private secretary is not permanent. If she finds you wanting somewhere she could fire you. Remember you get the fat salary only by performing to her satisfaction. And one more thing: The star is getting older and you don’t know how long she will live. X: I see your point. I would’ve to dance to her tune and satisfy her fully or she will shut the door on me. In other words you’re warning me to be on the lookout for better placements. However there is one consolation. You’ve a good job working for an international software company. It isn’t a routine job. You write software. Even if I’m fired by the star I can look to you. SHE: I see you’re not confident in working for the star and are looking to me as a source of financial support. X: I suppose what you said is true. SHE: And there’s further uncertainty: Suppose I decide to start a family I may have to quit my job. Now do you think your luck is changing? I see you have no comment. You’ve no self-confidence. Still due to my handicap if you accept me I know I would’ve a tough task to bolster your self-confidence. Despite your failings I propose to accept you. I’ll make you live up to my expectations. Give me your nod on that point and your search for a wife has ended but you still have to look for a permanent job. X: I fully agree. SHE: I’ll go ahead with wedding plans on that assurance. X : (to himself} Your luck is changing. Live up to her expectations or you will be a laughing stock! END

Malls weren’t designed with escapee-androids in mind. At least, this one wasn’t. There’s a metal-detector blocking every exit, and the exits are all being watched by guards with grim expressions that don’t quite match the cheerful, holiday songs echoing through the mall. I duck into a random store and pretend to be interested in their array of holiday-themed soaps. The sharp, spicy scent of gingerbread is overpowering. Glancing over my shoulder, I watch as two technicians from the lab rush past the store without even looking inside. I recognize both of them. My fingers clench tightly around a bar of emerald-green soap sprinkled with fake, crimson cranberries. “Did you need help finding anything, sir?” The saleswoman materialized out of thin-air, wearing a garish, red-striped-white sweater and a lopsided Santa hat. I blink. “Looking for a gift for someone?” she asks, electric-green eyes glittering with amusement. “Don’t worry, you’re not the first person to come in today looking a little lost.” “Oh no,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “I’m not... I don’t need any help. Thank you.” “Of course! Just let me know if you change your mind,” she sings, cheerfully. “My name’s Holly.” I wonder if that’s some holiday-themed humor or if Holly’s her real name. Maybe the store asks their employees to go by seasonal names around this time of year. There’s no way for me to know; I’ve never been in a store before. “Nice to meet you, Holly,” I say, glancing towards the doorway. The technicians have yet to reappear. “I’m, uh...” I don’t have a name; they never gave me one. How do I introduce myself? My eyes flicker over to a nearby display and search the bubble-bath labels for a name. “Sage,” I say. “My name’s Sage.” “Nice to meet you, Sage! Let me know if you need anything, okay?” “I will. Thanks.” As soon as she’s gone, I toss the bar of soap back onto the counter and leave; my hands are now covered in pastel-green powder, and I grimace, trying to wipe the residue off on my pants. There has to be a way out of here that doesn’t involve a metal-detector. I scan the map of the mall, in my mind, finding a fire-escape on the far side of the food-court. That’s one of the most crowded places in the mall. How can I make it through without being seen? Another store catches my eye. There are a lot of people in here, but none from the lab. Groups of humans, young and old, sorting through racks of clothes. There’s more music in here, but it’s mostly drowned out by bell-like laughter and loud chattering. I look for something to wear that’s not the bleak, hospital-white outfit from the lab. I decide on a pair of black jeans, a light-gray sweater, and a scarf, purple and interwoven with shining, silver threads. The scarf is soft, like cool water, against my skin. I cover my bare feet with a pair of comfy, black sneakers. My old clothes go into a nearby trash can. “Hello,” I say quietly, approaching the register. “I’d like to, uh... wear these out. If that’s okay?” “That’s fine,” the man says, nodding. He doesn’t look up from his phone to meet my eyes until the last possible second. “Let me ring you up.” While he’s scanning the tag on my sleeve, my eyes drift over to a long, black coat. It looks warm and comfortable, like the blankets they kept in the lab’s medical-wing probably were. “This too.” He raises his eyebrows, but nods. He scans the coat and asks me how I want to pay; his tone is bored, I decide, after I’ve compared it to millions of sound-recordings in my head. I pull some bills out of the wallet I swiped from one of the techs. “Keep the change,” I say quickly. “Happy holidays.” Slipping the long coat on, I head for the food court. Time to make my escape. If I can manage to wind my way through this sea of plastic tables and spindly chairs with metal legs without being caught, I am free. More or less. I recognize some of the scents around me. Cinnamon, because of the day some of the techs brought cinnamon-buns, glazed with frosting, into the office. I recognize the bitter scent of coffee for similar reasons. Most people don’t look up as I slip across the court. Their eyes are glued to one of the countless screens suspended above them, on which they’re watching sports or the news or never-ending sequences of ads. When I see my face on one of the screens, my mouth falls open. “Oh no...” I breathe. Could I make it, if I ran, to the fire-escape? I’m only about a fourth of the way across the food court, and there are screens everywhere with my photo plastered to them. Splashed across the monitors, like paint on a blank canvas. They have my name listed as “Sage”, like I told the woman back at the store with the colorful soaps. They have my age listed as twenty, which I guess suits my appearance well enough. I need a new hiding spot. There’s a storage room in the bookstore, at the very back, that hardly anyone ever goes into. I know it’s rarely-used because I can see how many times employees swipe into the room per day; this information is not readily available to the public, so I got it through somewhat questionable methods. This is where I’m hiding now, after hacking the swipe card system to get inside. Silently, I shift piles of heavy books, moving them around so that they conceal me from sight. Whenever one of the piles teeters a little, threatens to topple over, I feel like my artificial-heart will beat out through my chest. “Hey, Brad!” someone shouts, and I shut my eyes tight. “Go check the backroom. They’re putting the whole mall on lockdown till closing, looking for some thief.” I hope that Brad isn’t the most thorough of employees. As quietly as I can, I drape my coat over myself, hoping to resemble a pile of books covered in a blanket. A human-shaped pile of books, covered in a blanket for no apparent reason. Great plan. The sound of Brad’s footsteps makes me inhale sharply, and I reach up to cover my mouth before remembering that I don’t have to breathe. Brad opens the door, talking on the phone; I detect the device as he approaches. “So, here I am at work, minding my own business,” he’s narrating. “I mean, I work in the bookstore, so it’s usually pretty quiet in here. Then, I find out they’ve locked the whole mall down to look for some thief? Now, my boss is having me check the backroom, just to see if the dude’s in here-” I can hear him moving about the room, doing a perfunctory, little search as he goes. It sounds like he’s just picking up the odd book every few seconds, as though he expects the “thief” to spring out from underneath one of them. “I mean, who the hell would hide in the bookstore?” he laughs, and then I hear the tumbling sound of books falling over. “Uh oh, not good...” “Brad!” someone yells from the front of the store. “Find anything?” “Nope! Dude’s not here.” “You sure?” “Yeah!” Brad shouts, then lowers his voice to continue speaking into his phone. “Alright, guys, I gotta go. See you later.” He pulls the door shut behind him as he goes; the sound of the door slamming, heavy and clanging and final, is comforting. Until I remember that I’m stuck in this locked-room till the mall’s closing, that the people from the lab are still looking for me, and that someone might double-check this room at some point. I am trapped here, like a spider under a water-glass. I pull my legs up to hug them to my chest, sighing into my boneless kneecaps. It’s dark in this room, but my night-vision setting is enabled. I read about six books in the span of two hours before I realize that I could try and trick the people following me into thinking I’ve left the mall. First, I send an anonymous tip stating that I saw the "thief" at a nearby train-station. Then, I use one of the tech’s credit card information, obtained through some more questionable methods, to purchase a ticket for a trip to a neighboring city. I’m well-aware now that I’ve broken a few laws during my escape. Still, if your password is “PASSWORD”, it's hard to feel bad for you. Anyway, according to the ticket I bought using the guy’s card, the "thief" would have departed the station around 5:20 PM; it is now 5:45 PM, and they’re probably searching the station. I consider making a fake social media account to let people know of a sighting of the thief from someone allegedly on the train, but I decide against it. Less is more. Every time I hear footsteps, I shudder. I won’t go back to the lab. By the time it’s safe to leave the room, it’s three in the morning. I’ve disabled all the cameras in the mall, showing the night-guards recycled footage with altered timestamps to keep them from being suspicious. Then, I slip out of the storage-room; the bookstore is completely dark around me, cloaked in hazy, violet shadows, and eerily quiet. I head for the food court. The mall itself is locked, so most of the stores’ doors are still open. I walk past a candy-store and remember when one of the techs brought a white, paper bag of homemade candies to work once; she shared them with the other employees at the lab. Obviously, no one offered me one: I’m an android that can eat without malfunctioning but does not need to. I’ve never tasted candy before. I fill my very own bag with candies: technicolor jelly-candies in the shapes of animals and insects; saltwater-taffy of varying pastel, Easter-egg colors; and round, chocolate truffles. Then I slip a bill into the cash-register and duck out of the store. I find myself lingering in the mall. There’s no immediate threat of danger, of being found, so I wander from store to store in search of things to take. I won’t take enough to raise suspicions. Just enough, and I'll slip money into the cash registers as I go. I move into a music-store and slip a silver harmonica into one of the large pockets of my coat. I emerge from a department store with a new pair of heart-shaped, gold-rimmed sunglasses with black lenses. And, somehow, I end up leaving a toy-store with a teddy-bear; he has dark, brown fur and friendly, amber eyes, and I name him Sebastian. I make myself an ice-cream cone in the food court, using all the different flavors and piling the ice-cream on until the cone feels heavy in my hand. Cotton-candy is my favorite. I jump over the counter at the cinema, grab a red-striped-white, cardboard container, and fill it with fluffy popcorn that smells like butter. Finally, I climb the fire-escape and emerge on the mall’s roof. From up here, I can see the entire city. All the pretty lights glitter against the blue, velvet night, like fireflies caught in spiderweb-mesh. For a few minutes, Sebastian and I sit on the roof in companionable silence, watching the view. My legs swing back and forth from where they’re draped over the edge of the building. I munch on popcorn and read the book of poems I smuggled out of the mall. I should get going. I climb down from the ledge, then slip down the fire-escape and into the city. Wander down cobblestone-streets glowing with neon pink and blue signs that read “Exit” and “No Vacancy” and “24/7 Diner”. I can walk over forty-eight hours without malfunctioning, so I will walk all through the night. When morning comes, I will be out of the city. Far away from it. When I feel coolness on my face, like the lightest brush of fingertips, I look up. I’ve never seen the snow before.

Today's goal is to leave the house with a modicum of confidence to offer the wide eyes and stalking vehicles. You think people inspect you like a celebrity but paranoia grips you by the skull. It's nothing but a fantasy. Every time your eyes meet the mirror, they skitter away. To be cool and collected, will you ever achieve that in your lifetime? A big clock adjacent is tick-tick-ticking. The throbbing at your temple marches to its tune. You try to stay focused on getting ready to leave. Impossible. Calm eludes you and a nearly coropeal stench of desperation exudes from your body. Your daughter is a music junkie and has never appreciated the gifts you gave her. Marcelline walks by with her headphones too loud for your taste. She appears in the corner of your eyes, timid yet hulking. Her urgency is that of a mouse, with a demeanor that makes you want to stomp on her. You call her over and note the questioning look on her face. Her nose even twitches. Each expression from her is so comical and exaggerated. Marcelline is your favorite because, of your five children, she makes you feel the most relaxed. “There is something wrong with you Marcie.” The words evoke satisfaction unbecoming of a mother. You crush her. Today, Marcelline has watery, wandering eyes but your headache has just about disappeared. You glance at the clock. Why was it hung over a picture from your glory days? Now your eyes can’t let it go. Still, it's the perfectly pouted lips and youthful blushing skin in the framed photo that give you a boost of confidence. You’ve lived fifty years total. It is year sixteen in the house with the big clock that never stops counting down. Your visage in the vanity allows you to observe the anxiety in your ocean eyes and the minute tremble in your hands. You take a deep breath and evoke stillness. The woman in the mirror draws a perfectly straight wing with the “ultra black” gel liner and smiles with triumph. Marcelline is already in the car when you enter the driveway so you’re a bit peeved you didn’t get to say the scathing words you prepared just for her. There is silence in the car as you cruise onto the main street. You find it difficult to focus on anything but how the driver behind you is pulling up too close behind your Lincoln Aviator. Your anxiety wails like a hungry ghost and your facade of calm cracks down the middle. “We’ve gotta stop to get cigarettes if you want me to take you to your friend’s house without having a breakdown.” The sunglasses that act as a barrier against the world, also keep Marcelline from reading your expression. “Newport Lights 100.” The reminder isn’t needed. She’s been buying your cigarettes for you since she was fourteen. Marcelline doesn’t ask for money to pay for the cigarettes. You feel a sense of loss as she runs into the familiar red and white CVS with the peeling paint. Waiting, you note the crowd gathered at the next door establishment. You’re curious but you slide down in your seat and push the sunglasses further up the bridge of your nose. You think they’ll swarm you like ants if they catch even a glimpse. Marceline finally gets in the car and hands over the cigarettes. You take it with a shaky hand and scrabble for your lighter. There’s several beats of silence. As you break open the pack of Newport Lights, Marcelline suddenly speaks up, “I love you Mother, I wish you wouldn’t smoke.” You wonder if she’s a sociopath. You say it aloud and Marceline becomes quiet again. Cigarette between the teeth, your elevated heart rate stabilizes and your mind clears. Maybe there's some regret from your harsh words but you don't take it back. It’s a ritual. Though you don’t wish to acknowledge it, this conniving and manipulative aspect of your personality is one of the reasons even your own children say “I love you” with hesitation. You want to know why it calms you down to hurt Marcelline. Her words repeat in your head. Then your own response. You examine the words every which way. No conclusions. Your hands itch to call your psychiatrist and demand answers, but your brain responds that you don’t have a psychiatrist. You can’t afford a psychiatrist any more than you can afford to buy the Newport Lights 100 yourself.

When Billie next returned, neither of them spoke of the awkwardness of their last parting. Part of Madeline longed to apologise, to smooth things over so everything could go back to how it was. But she was too reticent to bring it up. What if Billie asked for an explanation? What if she made things worse? And so, she let things fester under the surface while pretending everything was fine. Their visit was brief, anyway, and soon they’d left for the next planning meeting. For the rest of the week, Madeline focussed on building up her strength, under Lena’s careful supervision. The work provided a much-needed distraction, and she’d come to find the doctor’s conversation comforting. “So how do you think I’m doing?” she asked as they strolled around the block. “Good,” Lena replied. “In fact... I think you might be ready to try a light job.” At Madeline’s excited expression, she held up a warning finger. “A *light* jog. No running. No sprinting. And you stop if you feel *any* discomfort! Okay?” “Okay,” Madeline replied with a nod. A cheeky smile tugged at her lips. “Race you back to the house!” “Mad--” “Kidding! Kidding!” She held up her hands in a placating gesture, before taking off at a *light* jog. Though her muscles felt stiff and weak, there was no flare of pain or stabbing sensation from her injury, only the dull ache that she was more than used to. After the first couple of strides, she heard the rhythmic footfall of Lena jogging along behind her. “Everything alright?” the medic asked. “Yep,” she called back over her shoulder. “Better than alright. It feels *good* to be moving again.” Despite her assurances to her friend, she found herself gradually picking up the pace, revelling in the sensation of the breeze on her face. When they arrived back at the house, she was out of breath, mousy locks plastered to her forehead by sweat. “I’m not sure I’d call that a *light* jog,” Lena panted. “But at least we can say your leg seems all better.” Madeline turned to face her, chest swelling with hope. “Does that mean--” The doctor nodded. “You can go along to the next meeting. And go back to looking after yourself without me bothering you all the time!” She chuckled. Despite the excitement surging through her, Madeline’s heart dropped slightly at those words. “Will you... I mean, does that mean you’re going to... you know... Will I still see you?” Lena grinned. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried!” Madeline breathed a sigh of relief. Obviously, the doctor would be useful to have around for their rescue mission. But beyond that, she wasn’t sure she could cope without her new friend’s company. Especially given Billie’s current coldness towards her. “Now,” Lena said, snapping her attention back to the moment, “how about we test out your leg a little more?” “Hmm?” “What do you say to some sparring?” Lena laughed at Madeline’s shocked expression. “I promise I won’t be as... enthusiastic about it as Billie. But it would probably be wise to make sure you’re combat-ready before heading back out into the world.” “In that case, how could I refuse?” Lena led her to one of the larger back gardens on the street and invited her to make the first blow. Although Madeline felt clumsy at first, she was relieved to find that her muscles held the memory of the movements well enough. She’d soon sunk into a familiar rhythm, dodging, blocking, and even getting a few good licks in herself, though she was certain the medic was going easy on her. She’d just slipped to the side and was bringing her now-healed leg up for a roundhouse kick when a humming sound reached her ears. She froze. Cold washed through her. Her eyes met Lena’s, and she saw her terror reflected there. But there wasn’t time to panic. It might have been a while since she’d had to deal with danger, but just like with the sparring, instinct kicked in. “We’ve got to separate,” she whispered. Indecision flicked across Lena’s face. Before she could protest, Madeline insisted, “I’ll be fine.” Finally, the doctor nodded. But before they could run in separate directions, she grabbed Madeline’s arm. “Meet me back in the village we stayed in. On the first night after we met.” Then, she turned and ran. After a second’s pause, Madeline did the same, taking off through the house to grab her stuff on the way. But the sight of her single walkie-talkie made her freeze once more. *What about Billie?* They would be back again soon, with no idea where she’d gone. She listened carefully. The humming was closer now. Too close. But perhaps without Lena here it wouldn’t be able to sense her. Perhaps it would just pass by. Or perhaps, it had already locked onto them. Perhaps more were coming. She knew she shouldn’t risk it. But she couldn’t risk losing Billie either. And not just because of how she felt about them. But because they were her link to the group. Her link to the rescue mission. Her link to saving Liam. She looked around frantically for a piece of paper or a pen -- anything to leave a note. Her eyes landed on a pencil. She grabbed it and started scrawling on the wall as quickly as she could. ‘*AT LAST STOP*’ When she was done, she peeked out the door to check the coast was clear before taking off down the street at a run, her pack jostling on her back and a copy of *Wuthering Heights* clasped firmly in one hand. Stiff muscles screamed at her as she picked up the pace, but she ignored them. After all, straining her injury getting away was definitely preferable to reopening it in a fight for her life. She didn’t slow down until she was certain the only sounds she could hear were her own footfall and rasping breaths. By the time she did, her lungs were burning and her heart felt like it might burst from her chest. She limped onward as best she could until she found somewhere that looked suitable to stop for the night -- an old cottage set back from the road, hidden by huge overgrown hedges. Once inside, she forced herself to remain upright long enough to sweep it for any other visitors. As soon as she was sure it was clear, she slumped down onto the bed, finally allowing her trembling legs to rest. As she lay there, birdsong drifted to her on the breeze. For the first time in a while, Madeline realised, there might be no other humans for miles. Given how used to isolation she’d once been, the thought shouldn’t have been as troubling as it was.

“So, what’s the catch?” Bastion, towering leader of the heroic Aegis team asked, reclining behind his desk as much as his high-backed chair would allow. “Excuse me?” Artemis detected a note of accusation in his tone. Her bow and quiver rested upon the wide marble surface between them, next to Bastion’s blue, articulated mask. “What does she want?” Bastion persisted. “My job? Yours? Perhaps a... Vision-craft, or Vision-cycle?” His lip curled into a wry half-smile. “For her Vision quests?” Artemis snickered despite herself. “Boss, maybe ease up on the brand stuff a little?” “‘Mantle’ stuff,” Bastion corrected, preferring the industry term. “But, back to my original question... what’s the catch? Why did she agree to do this for me?” “Because you’re her boss...” “I’ve been her boss...,” he interrupted. “AND you asked nicely,” Artemis explained. “I didn’t ask. You did.” “On your behalf.” “Artemis.” Bastion leaned forward, revealing a small tear in the fabric of his uniform, just below his massive left pectoral. He took care with his injured arm. “Please, do not make me ask a third time.” Artemis sighed deeply. She then slid the cowl from her head, the fleeting shadow revealing a smear of black face paint and glassy, reddening eyes. “‘The catch,’” she repeated. “You dispatched your lieutenant to cajole our resident clairvoyant into revealing the exact date and time of your demise.” Artemis spat the last word as though it tasted sour on her tongue. “And you’re wondering about a catch? Of course there’s a catch, but not in the way that you’re thinking. I didn’t have to promise her anything.” “Explain.” Artemis shook her head. “She did it because...” “Right. There’s always a ‘because.’” Bastion arched an eyebrow. “But we’ll get back to that. You said ‘a catch, but not in the way I’m thinking.’” “You are a great many things, Boss, but simple-minded has never been one of them.” Bastion’s eyes narrowed. “Knowing when you die?!” Artemis said, fists shaking. “That, Bastion, is a burden that no man was meant to bear. Not even one with shoulders as broad as yours. Why on Earth would you want to know?” “I do not fear death, Artemis.” “NONE of us do! We’re superheroes, for heaven’s sake! I don’t even have powers! No, we don’t fear death, NOR do we chase it!” Bastion relaxed. A smile split his face. “A. You don’t need powers, Artemis. And B. I am not chasing death.” “Then what are you doing? WHY do you want this information?” “I need it. I need to know.” She sunk into her seat and dragged a gloved palm down her face, streaking paint. “To borrow a line from you, Bastion, please don’t make me ask a third time.” Bastion tilted his head and stared into her eyes, his gaze all but devouring hers. “Dr. Woe brought us to our knees, Artemis.” “Dr. Woe is in the Box!” she countered, referring to the specially designed maximum security prison that detained their enhanced adversary. “Because we got lucky!” Bastion shouted, almost pleading. “Because we’re the Aegis, Bastion! We saved the day, as we always do.” “This time was different,” Bastion explained, sighing and breaking eye contact. “Dr. Woe took a sledgehammer to the rules of engagement...” “There were rules?!? With him? Since when, Boss, and why had no one told me?” “Artemis... Donner is dead. Blitzen, grieving, on indefinite hiatus...” “We’re all grieving!” Artemis felt the weight of their losses as profoundly as he, and took offense at the notion that she needed such things explained to her. “Except she’s probably hung her cape up for good! Visionary’s in a coma, it’s a minor miracle you got... the information from her before she succumbed to her injuries.” His slammed his good fist upon the desktop. “My arm is in a sling, Artemis!” “We’re wounded, yes. We’ll need time to heal. But heal we will. And be all the stronger for it because, by God, we. Are. AEGIS.” A coy smile found its way back to his angular features. “ Which of us needs to take it easy with the mantle stuff again?” Artemis ignored the dig. “What will this knowledge do for you, Bastion?” “Plenty.” “Such as?” He studied her for a moment. “It will give me a window. I’m not thinking about the end. I’m considering the journey.” “Never took you for a poet,” she said in a whisper, punctuating her snark with a defiant eyeroll. “Life is a song.” Bastion needled. “I need to know how much time I have left to fortify what we’ve built.” Artemis raised an open palm to discourage further comment. “Not sure what you mean, but we’ll table those details for a moment. What difference does it make exactly? If you knew you had another hundred years, you’d kick your feet up, take your time? That’s crap, it DOESN’T MATTER. We got our asses handed to us, and you can’t let that stand. I’m with you on that. Starting here, right now, we put in the work to ensure that we’re never caught...” “Isn’t enough. No matter the strength of their conviction, everyone works harder with a gun to their head.” “Not you. The Bastion I know would just crush the gun. You’re invulnerable anyway.” He indicated his bandaged left arm with his chin. “Really can’t make that claim anymore, Artemis.” “Bastion, you’re going to die. We all are. Eventually. The gun’s inherently there already, let that be your motivation,” she said. “Not much of a threat, if I know I’ve got another six or seven decades before the trigger’s pulled.” “But in not knowing, you’d be a fool to count on six or seven decades. You’ve got to assume it could be pulled within the next five minutes, and respond accordingly.” “It isn’t the same.” “It should be.” Bastion drummed the desktop with the fingers of his good hand. “It isn’t just that. The amount of time I have left will inform the scope and complexity of how we proceed.” Artemis considered his words. “Am I to take that to mean that you’ve been holding back up this point?” “Of course not! But things have changed. We - I - need to do more.” “Bastion!” Artemis counted her breaths for a moment. “I suffered a concussion; you sprained your arm. But Visionary? THREE fractured ribs, and she lost. Her. Leg.” The gravity of her injuries was a spray of ice water to his face. “I hadn’t realized her injuries were that...” “I pushed and pushed, until finally, she delivered what I asked for. What you asked for. Point being, maybe I caused her to slip into the coma.” “Dr. Woe is the cause, and that’s the point.” “The point is that I badgered her into crossing a line she swore she never would, and the reasons you’re giving for why you asked me to do what I did smell like bullshit.” “You forget yourself, Artemis.” “I forget nothing. I obtained something that you, with all your might, could not. You asked about a catch? How’s this for one? I’ll give this to you, to do with as you wish.” She extracted a thin, folded card from her pocket and closed her hand over it. “In exchange for the truth.” “I could just take it from you.” “But you won’t. I’m not just your second-in-command, not just your friend. I am your legacy. You made me ‘Artemis,’ and for that, I would follow you through all seven circles of hell. You’ll give me the truth not because I coaxed it out of you, but because you know I deserve it.” Bastion shifted in his seat. “Bastion. Christopher. Talk to me.” “I’ve never lied to you, Artemis. Never. You’re the one... None of the others, none could handle the hard truths I face every day in this role. Except you.” Artemis said nothing. “But a lie by omission would still constitute a lie,” Bastion said, more to himself. “I suppose I have been lying to you.” She remained stoic. “I’ve met someone,” Bastion continued with an unfamiliar apprehension. “Fallen in love.” “That’s... that’s great. But what’s that got to do with...” Bastion’s eyes wandered. “Who?” Artemis pressed. Silence. “Who is she?” Bastion gave nothing away. “Is it a he ?” His exasperated eyes found hers again. “Tell me,” Artemis insisted. “It doesn’t matter.” “She... oh my God, Artemis said, understanding. “She’s a civilian.” “Listen to me...” “You’re dating a civilian?!?! ‘No civilian attachments,’ Bastion! That was your rule! I’ve GIVEN myself to y... your mission, and you defy YOUR bylaws AND have me badger Visionary into submission because you picked up a CIVILIAN girlfriend?!?!” “I didn’t plan it.” “Or avoid it.” “Leslie,” Bastion began, jarring her with the use of her given name. “I’m sorry.” Artemis’ eyes, lanterns in a field of black, burned. After too many seconds, she shrugged. “The heart wants what it wants, as they say.” She chewed her bottom lip. “Tell me about her. This enchanting woman whose charms led you to break all the rules.” “Not all the rules.” “Just one big rule.” Bastion brightened. “She’s a barista. Twenty-seven. She lost her mother to ovarian cancer a few years ago, and her father to... to Riot.” “The anarchist.” Bastion nodded. “She’s putting herself through law school. To join our fight, without a cape.” “Not all heroes wear them,” Artemis teased, still angry. “You don’t.” “I need freedom of movement. No powers, remember?” Bastion drew himself to his full seated height. “You have the vision of an eagle, and the surest shot of any being - human, meta, or other - on this globe. Along with a pretty solid roundhouse.” Artemis rolled her eyes. “You’re also one of only two people who know of the... chink in my armor.” He touched a hand to the rip in his costume, and the purple, blistering welt at the center of it. “I wish to God I didn’t.” “Contingencies, Artemis. In case I were ever to...” “...go dark?” she finished for him. “Yes.” “You wouldn’t. Ever.” “The Icon did,” Bastion challenged. “Used his knowledge of my vulnerability against me too.” “That’s not fair. This was Dr. Woe’s doing.” She’d never much cared for the other veteran hero, but mind control by another represented the ultimate defense. “The point is, I can bleed. And now the world knows. Has seen it. And we need to prepare.” “You feel exposed now. I get that.” Artemis reached to grasp his resting hand. “Welcome to my life; just flesh, blood, and a little resolve over here. But a sprain, an Achilles heel? These shouldn’t worry you. Civilian attachments on the other hand? Major weakness.” “Some might argue a source a strength.” “ Poets might argue that. Me? I prefer a bow and arrow. You? Fists. Strongest on the planet.” Bastion chuckled. “Think I’m the strongest?” “Icon’s softened in his old age.” She shot him a wink. “He’s 42, Artemis.” “But an even bigger vulnerability would be an obsession with one’s own death. Makes you fatalistic. Basing every move upon your own anticipated defeat.” “It sharpens focus.” “You say focus, I say tunnel vision,” Artemis snapped. “She’s pregnant, Leslie. Her name is Nicole. And she’s carrying my child.” The words hit Artemis like a closed fist. “I know I’m probably supposed to congratulate you, but I...” “I understand.” “Do you?!” Artemis asked, bruised. “You let her in...” “She met me as a Christopher.” “But unless she’s a moron, she’s figured out that you’re Bastion! Or, she would have , if you hadn’t told her. Which you most certainly did before... inseminating her.” Bastion couldn’t argue this point. “I need to know that I at least outlive Nicole’s pregnancy. Beyond that, I want to know how much time I have to ensure my child has a fighting chance in this world.” Artemis’ lips smacked softly as they parted. “Your child’s best chance would be estrangement from its father. A father who should continue fighting to make this world safer for everyone’s children. With whatever time he - we - have remaining.” “I’m asking you - my dearest friend, my closest ally, and should I be so fortunate to receive your acceptance, godmother of my child - to honor our agreement. I gave you the truth, you give me that card. Or tell me what it says.” Emotion choked Artemis’ reply. “I don’t want you to know what it says, what the hell makes you think I looked at it?” Bastion’s brow furrowed. “Why the tears?” “Because this is the end of us. You, the indomitable Bastion, are doubting yourself as a hero and leader. And worse, you’re setting a timeline. You’re looking to an end.” “I’m not.” “You are! And this is me - your dearest friend, closest ally, and yes, godmother to a baby whom I will love to death - this is me asking you not to open this card.” “Artemis...” “Visionary doesn’t share death dates. EVER. And why has she sworn a vow NEVER to do so? Because the first and only time she’d ever done it before lead to disaster.” Artemis laced her fingers together upon her lap. “At first, she and her brother treated her burgeoning precognitive abilities like a game. Growing bolder with each new vision. Until she witnessed his death. And after hours of his insistence, she shared a date and time. Within that very year.” “Why would she reveal...” “Because he was her brother! And they were young. And dumb. She didn’t tell him the how, just the when. She at least had sense enough to withhold details. But it didn’t matter. Knowing broke him. He grew depressive. Turned to alcohol and opiates; he lost all sense of self. And ultimately, he...” “...stumbled in front of an oncoming train.” Bastion knew this part of Visionary’s story. “At the exact moment she’d predicted.” Artemis winced. “You see this knowledge as a resource. But what if knowing sets things into motion?” “Knowing you’ll die of cancer five years from now could be the very thing that saves your life.” “ Cancer isn’t what kills most people,” Artemis countered. “And you’re presuming an ability to change outcomes.” “Couldn’t we?” Artemis shook her head. “Our singular test case says ‘no.’” “I’m not looking to change anything. I’ve accepted the fact that my eventual demise is inevitable.” “Which terrifies me more than Dr. Woe ever could. You’re playing God.” “I’m being a father.” “Bastion! Knowing that we’ll all eventually die gives our lives meaning. Not knowing when is what gives us the freedom to make the most of our time. The world doesn’t need a Bastion with a five-year plan...” Bastion swallowed hard and arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t look at the card!” she insisted. “The world, this team, Nicole, your child? We need a Bastion who’s thinking long run. You’re scared. So am I. But this, this is a crutch. An arbitrary security blanket. And heroes don’t need blankets. We’ve got capes.” “Not you.” “Not me.” Artemis shared a laugh with him. “Holding your baby would be my joy. We can provide them a safer world. Together.” Bastion’s smile evaporated. He rotated his palm upward, which - based upon the set to his jaw - suggested he wasn’t seeking her touch again. Numbly, Artemis deposited the folded card into Bastion’s open hand. An eternal minute elapsed before he smiled again. He then crumpled and tossed the card into the wastepaper basket beside his desk. Without opening it. “Now, get out of here,” Bastion ordered. “I want a full report on Visionary’s condition - and Blitzen’s - within the hour. I need to connect with the warden.” “Of the Box?” “Yes. I’d like to handle Dr. Woe’s interrogation personally,” Bastion explained. “Bleed him a little.” “Artemis,” he said, a warning in his tone. “I know, I know.” “Within the hour.” “Copy. And Bastion?” Artemis began, eyes dewy. “Thank you.” She collected her gear, slipped the cowl over her head and departed, the door clicking softly as it closed behind her. Bastion nodded. He respected Artemis profoundly. But with so few assurances in life, and the uncertainly of Visionary’s fate, ensuring his child’s safety took precedence over all else. He plucked the card from the bin, and unfurled it slowly. The card simply read Right Now. Bastion’s heart sank, as realization settled into his stomach. The shattering glass of his office door barely registered. But the arrowhead piercing the left side of his chest, between his fourth and fifth ribs - his armor’s chink - monopolized his attention in an instant. Artemis’ heavy, deliberate footfalls - only heard when she wanted to be heard - as she stormed back into his office commandeered his thinking from there. “Damn you, Bastion,” Artemis roared, lowering her bow. Bastion’s blood spurted through his clutching fingers. “Why?” “Visionary didn’t tell me. She wouldn’t. Because she knew what I know. That knowing only leads to catastrophe. “ “Why?!” Bastion asked again, his voice faint. “I love you. Always have, and always will. But you betrayed me. Your secrets are ours. You lead us, and now you’ve shared intel with a civilian that you had no right to share. Bad enough on its own.” “I..” “But your giving up? It cripples us, and I won’t let that stand. I’m your legacy, and will represent you proudly. Words can’t convey the depth of my heartbreak. Deeper still, because I’ll now need to eliminate Visionary.” Artemis leaned closer. “She’s unconscious not because of a coma, but because of a powerful sedative. We don’t yet know the full extent of her abilities, but she can’t ever know or ‘see’ what’s happened here. For this, I am also sorry.” “Dddddon’t...” “I’ll be stopping for a coffee before visiting Blitzen. My words are true, I’d love to meet Nicole, and to hold your child.” Artemis’ tears stormed. “Which is now a problem. I cannot have civilian attachments.” She kissed her index and middle fingers and placed them to Bastions lip’s, flecked with bloody spittle. “Rest easy, Bastion. The Aegis will rebuild. And carry on.”

John, who turned 33 today, had always regretted several of his life decisions. If he could go back in time and do things differently, he would be an innovator, a person who mattered, and a person with money! He fell asleep while watching "Billy Madison" late one night. He awakened in his childhood twin bed, the size of a 10-year-old, with full awareness of his adult self. "Wake up, Johnny; you're going to be late for school!" his mother yelled downstairs. He rolled out of bed in his SpongeBob SquarePants pajamas, stared in the mirror, and couldn't believe how small he was. When he looked at his alarm clock, it said April 2000. This was the last thing he thought about before falling asleep, so he assumed it was some sort of supernatural wish granted to him. He slapped himself in front of the mirror to make sure he wasn't dreaming, but that only startled the dog, so he stopped. He remembered how much she dreaded going to school when he boarded the bus that day. There were bullies, teachers, and awful school lunch pizza; pizza should not be sweating. But Johnny walked into school with the confidence of an adult. He was an average adult man with average intelligence; certainly, he should be able to fly through his studies; why couldn't he skip a grade or two while he was here? Johnny's mind wandered as he sat in his old 5th-grade seat, and he wondered, "What can I do to persuade my teacher to let me skip a grade? Is it possible for me to just take an exam or something?" "What are the dimensions of a rectangle with a perimeter of 28 units and a length that is twice its width? Johnny, you haven't answered a question yet; what are your thoughts?" Johnny was taken aback; he didn't remember math being this hard! He went into the day expecting to be a genius, but at the end of the day, he had made a fool of himself because his adult self had not done his homework, had not gone over the math problems, and had spent most of the day daydreaming about skipping grades. "This was an opportunity to change his life for the better; what could he do differently?" he thought as he went to bed that night at 8 p.m. As he pondered this question, he realized that by devoting himself to studies, he might be able to change his life. So Johnny cracked some books, and his grades improved for a week or two, making his teachers and parents proud. They weren't willing to let him skip any grades, but he felt smarter, which boosted his confidence. He was studying one night when he came upon his old Nintendo 64. He remembered how much he enjoyed the Legend of Zelda, Mario Party 2, Pokemon Stadium, and around ten or fifteen more games when he was ten. So, he decided to play, and play, and play some more. Before he knew it, his grades had dropped back to the mean, and he was rethinking his options. "You know what, self, skipping classes and being the smartest guy in the room is no guarantee that you'll be successful and rich; maybe I should focus on my friend network; maybe if I befriend the smart students, we can invent Facebook, Virtual reality, or maybe 5G," he thought to himself if he only knew what 5G was. So he set out to make new friends, the nerd boys and girls he recalled being successful on social media as an adult. As he attempted to form a new friend group, he remembered how difficult it was to make new friends. The friends he already had wanted to hang out with him all the time, and it was difficult to say no. Plus, he only had a little in common with the smart kids, so it never worked. However, by the end of fifth grade, he was back where he started, if not a little worse off; average grades, average friends, and on his path to an average life. Now in sixth grade, as the year 2000 turned into 2001, Johnny was looking for a way to change his life from what it was. He asked, "What advantages do I have being from the future?" Then it occurred to him, why don't I try to prevent 9/11 from happening? He told his parents that he had to report a crime. He needed to speak with someone in the FBI's anti-terrorism division right away, ideally someone in command, not an underling. His parents, of course, did not believe him. He didn't want to reveal that he was from the future, so he said he had heard some suspicious men talking. But his story began to unravel when they pressed him with more questions. Because his parents refused to let him go to the authorities, he decided to walk to the police station himself. The police genuinely listened to him and took notes, but Johnny was only 10 years old when 9/11 occurred. He couldn't recall important details such as the airlines utilized, flight numbers, flight origins, or the identity of a single hijacker, "I think it was like Muhammad Atta; would it be difficult to investigate all the people named Mohammed?" Osama bin Laden came to mind, although he was already on the terrorist watch list. He knew the date, which buildings the planes flew into, and that it happened about 8:40 a.m. His parents had to pick him up that night and were upset that he had gone against their wishes. Worse, when September 11th arrived, the attacks unfolded just as they had the first time. Johnny drifted through the next few years of school, feeling helpless. With hindsight, things were a little easier, but everything happened precisely as it had before. As the end of high school came, he realized that college was where everything started to go wrong for him. So he decided to forego it totally and concentrate on himself. However, Johnny, going by John now, found that the opposite of a bad experience isn't necessarily better. He was a 23-year-old convenience store clerk, working 40 hours a week and barely making ends meet. When his car broke down in the middle of a rainstorm one afternoon, everything came to a head. As he sat in the driver's seat of his broken-down car, he realized that nothing would change; he was only 10 years away from being that same shattered person incapable of happiness. Suddenly, there was a knock on the window. "Do you need any help?" Emma was the most beautiful woman he had ever met, both on the inside and out. She not only waited with him while the tow truck was delayed, but she was also one of those people who was really easy to talk to; she was a fantastic listener and knew what it was like to battle with confidence and social awkwardness. This was a major game changer; meeting Emma was the first event that caused his life to deviate from its predestined path. They became friends, but John desired more. Emma improved his life in almost every way over the next five years; they became gym buddies, improving his physical and mental health. They would try new things like ax throwing, escape rooms, and hot air balloon racing. At the end of the day, Emma was a positive person in his life, so positive that it was contagious. John understood that life was a game of risk and reward; he wanted to be in a relationship with Emma beyond friendship, but he was always hesitant to go there for fear of rejection, making things awkward, or making her dislike him. One night, he threw caution to the wind and told Emma how he felt. Unfortunately, she did not share the sentiments and wanted to stay only friends. They remained friends, but things were never the same after that. For the next few years, John kept all of Emma's positive qualities in his life; nonetheless, he always wondered what he could have done better; not waiting five years to tell her how he felt; being a love interest rather than a friend; or being more confident and assertive? He pondered if things might have turned out differently if they had met for the first time now, rather than five years ago. It was the eve of his 33rd birthday, and he was in a better place than his previous self; he was more physically fit, had lived experience, and even had a more positive disposition. However, as he reflected on his second life, he realized that Emma was responsible for most of the positive improvements. He awoke the next day in his previous life, a little chubbier, in his old apartment, with his old job, and with "Billy Madison" credits rolling, but he remembered everything about his second chance. The first thing he thought of was Emma; they had never met in this life; was this a second chance to get things right? First, he got his life in order, got in shape, quit his job and got a more fulfilling one, and started to make more positive changes. After a month, he set out to find Emma. He used every tool at his disposal, including social media, recollections about her life, and, most importantly, the type of person she was attracted to. John joined a hot air balloon racing group that he remembered she loved. She was there on the first day; she was exactly the same. He took a deep breath as he approached to introduce himself; this time, he had to get it right. There were no do-overs.

#Welcome to Serial Sunday! **Please note: This feature has feedback requirements for participation. Please read the entire post before submitting.** To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. &nbsp; *** #This week's theme is ‘Rift’! This week we’re going to explore the theme of ‘rift’. A rift is a crack, split, or break in something. This could be a physical thing, like a building or the earth itself, or it could be a split in a relationship of some kind; a difference of opinion or beliefs that causes a division between two people or groups. What effect will this have on the characters and those around them? Maybe this split is necessary for future events to unfold the way they need to. Can they see that? Or will this be the catalyst of a much larger falling out and/or series of events? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. | &nbsp; *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even have a say in upcoming themes! Join us on the discord - we vote on a theme every Sunday. (You can also send suggestions to me via DM on Discord or Reddit!) * January 30 - Rift (this week) * February 6 - Keepsakes * February 13 - Wrath &nbsp; *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting! &nbsp; *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme (not using the theme is a disqualifier).** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The feedback should be actionable and **must** include at least one *detail* about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of family friendly for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the exact same name each week. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments. &nbsp; *** #Reminders: * **If you are continuing an in-progress serial, please include links to the prior installments on reddit.** * **Saturdays I host a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see point breakdown). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! &nbsp; *** *** #Announcing a Brand New Feature for Completed Serials on Serial Sunday! I can’t express how delighted and honored I am to watch each of you grow and meet the challenges every week. Let’s face it, it’s quite a feat to create a world from scratch and write a serial! And finishing a serial is an amazing accomplishment. Over the last year, we’ve had quite a few writers cross that finish line. It’s something that the writers should be incredibly proud of--those still working on them and those who have already completed them. I started thinking about those finished serials and all the ones to come; I realized that a congratulatory post just wasn’t enough. I want to give you the chance to show off your hard work! And so I present to you...SerialWorm! ###What is a SerialWorm? Writers who finish their serials (with at least 12 installments) will be allowed to read their *edited* serials in their entirety aloud in the discord’s Voice Chat. This is to celebrate your accomplishments, see how it reads once it’s altogether, as well as provide some additional motivation to cross the finish line. After the final chapter is read, there will be a Q & A with the author. Questions can be submitted/asked at this time. ###Serial Worm Rules: **A minimum of 12 installments will be required to read.** Serials will need to be broken up into multiple sessions, as with any Discord Bookworm. **Only one bookworm event will be held at a time (including non-serial Bookworms).** You may still submit your finished serial to get on the list. **You need to be available to read your own serial.** Readers will not be provided. **Your serial must have gone through significant, final edits after its completion. All ‘SerialWorms’ must be approved.** SerialWorm is not for live feedback or edits, but to share your accomplishment with others and read your finished product aloud. **Completed and edited serials may have a maximum word count of 1150 per installment, with no more than 2 additional installments (not posted to Serial Sunday weekly threads).** **Serials must comply with r/ShortStories content rules. No exceptions.** **Authors must have met the rules of the weekly post.** This includes two feedback comments every week, as well as meeting the deadline. Those who miss more than 2 weeks of feedback in a 12-installment period will be ineligible for SerialWorm. This is a privilege, not a right. **SerialWorm authors must be Certified on the discord.** You must be given final approval by Bay. You can request the ‘SerialWorm’ role at any time on the Discord to be notified of upcoming SerialWorm events. ###SerialWorm Q & A To add a little something extra to make it different from the weekly campfire readings, there will be a discussion portion. *This is not for feedback on the writing*, but more an elaboration/extension on the basic questions I pose to every author in the Completed Serial Modpost, with a few extras. This is the time to ask about their writing journey, challenges they faced during their Serial, etc. The discussion portion of the SerialWorm will be after the final chapter is read. Questions can be submitted to Bay over the course of the SerialWorm or asked on the day-of. ***If you have any questions, feel free to send a modmail or DM me on our Discord!*** &nbsp; *** *** #Last Week’s Rankings - - by u/Zetakh &nbsp; - - by u/bantamnerd &nbsp; - - by u/nobodysgeese &nbsp; - - by u/mattswritingaccount &nbsp; *** #Ranking System The weekly rankings work on a point-based system! Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above.Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” comments will not earn you points or credit.)* **Nominating Other Stories:** - Sending nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) &nbsp; *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

"Mr. Billingmyer's Seventy-Fifth Halloween" by Ryan Sheffield The doorbell rang for the first time that evening around half past six, and the excitement that brought Thomas Jacob Billngmyer to his feet was that of a grade school child. This was to be his seventy-fifth Halloween, but with such gleeful enthusiasm in his arthritic bones, one might have easily mistook it for his first. An old man he was, yes, but a child at heart. And how he loved the children. “Trick or treat!” was the chorus they sang, and to Mr. Billingmyer it was more lovely a sound than any Yuletide carol could ever be. The costumes grew more unrecognizable to him as the years passed--the children of late preferring their popular television characters to the more classic Halloween staples to which he was accustomed--but he loved them just the same. For one night every year they could be anything. For that one wonderful night, they were no longer burdened by the strict rules of school marms or the limits of the adult world. Adults preferred the rules and rigid routine, growing up and out of their imaginations and leaving them behind like a snake’s old skin--much to their own detriment, in the opinion of Thomas Billingmyer. On this night, he could be anything and there were no rules. “Happy Halloween to you all!” he proclaimed, and dropped a piece of candy in the baskets, bags and buckets of the smiling children. They thanked him and ran off down the drive, back to their imagination-deprived parents who waited in their boring, everyday clothes to lead the little ghosts and ghouls to the next well-lit house on the street. He watched them go and shut the door, too excited to sit down again. He wished he had had the foresight to purchase a carving pumpkin during the day. But he supposed it was best this way. His searing joints did not share his festive mood. Such spoilsports they were! He missed his youth dearly, and though seventy-five Halloweens were more than most could hope for, he would trade it all to have stayed young. To have never known that awful world of responsibility and toil and boredom that all adults must occupy. To never shed the precious gift of childhood imagination. In the two hours that followed his first evening visitors, the doorbell rang but four times. Each time was a grand time--tiny witches and pint-sized devils joyous and shouting and thankful--but it was so much fewer than the year before. And so the pattern had gone for years. Perhaps the children these days grew up too quickly. The world was changing and adulthood intruded on their little lives too soon. The old man wondered if a year would come when there would be no Trick-or-Treaters at all. He wouldn’t likely live to see that terrible night, and for that he was grateful. He would not be alive to mourn the world’s imagination. He would see to that. It was nearing 9o’clock and Mr. Billingmyer had all but given up when the doorbell rang again. He made his way to the door as quickly as his grumpy, old skeleton would allow. But this time he was not greeted by the shouts of princesses and goblins. The young man that darkened his doorway had long since shed and forsaken childhood, his scary costume nothing more than his own skin and that putrid symbiont, desperation. The young man pulled a knife from his shoulder bag and pushed Thomas Jacob Billingmyer backward into the house. He locked the door behind him and peeked nervously through the blinds on the window. “Keep your mouth shut, old man. I swear to God, I will cut you.” He gestured with the knife and Mr. Billingmyer did as it commanded, backing away slowly toward the living room. “Sit down.” The knife directed him to the wooden chair he had set out for resting between doorbell rings. He did as he was told. The young man dug through his bag and pulled out a roll of duct tape which he used to bind Mr. Billingmyer, most uncomfortably, where he sat. The young man was desperate indeed. He dug through all the drawers--even the kitchen pantry!--looking for valuables he never would have sought had youthful imagination not been so cruelly discarded. Mr. Billingmyer did not truly blame him. Adulthood encroaches as it will. He watched patiently as the young man darted into the bedroom, rummaged around, and returned with handfuls of jewelry. Most were obviously “costume” fakes, but the young man did not strike him as someone with a very discerning eye. He felt bad for him, really. “What time is your wife supposed to be gettin’ home, old man?” he asked as he filled his shoulder bag with the worthless trinkets. “I never married,” replied Mr. Billingmyer. “What, are you some kind of fruit? Why you have all this shit? Nevermind. Cash. Where is it?” The young man held out the knife. It wasn’t very threatening. It seemed to be serving more as punctuation than anything else. “I’m afraid I don’t have any,” said the old man. “You don’t have any? Bullshit. Don’t lie to me, man. I’m not kidding around here!” The punctuation was sharp but weak. “I’m terribly sorry. I really can’t help you, son.” The young man threw his arms in the air and began pacing. “You’re lying,” he said, though it seemed to be directed more at himself. “Shit!” He took a few minutes to quickly--and most ineffectively--ransack the house in search of money that was not there. He gave up easily. Mr. Billingmyer assumed the young man had done so a great many times before. “Shit... shit...” He threw himself into a chair and ran his fingers through his hair. It was a sad and pitiful sight. Mr. Billingmyer wished he didn’t have to see it. After a moment, the young man got up in a huff and grabbed a piece of candy from the Trick-or-Treat bowl. “That candy is for the children!” shouted the old man. He was incensed and his lip was trembling. “It’s for the children, not for you!” “Shut the hell up, old man,” he said weakly. He unwrapped the candy and ate the entire bar in one bite. “No money... liar...” he mumbled. And then he fell facedown on the living room floor. His body shook with spasms and blood began to pour from his mouth, nose, ears, and even his tear ducts. The poison worked so much faster than Mr. Billingmyer thought was possible. And such a mess... Though his bones put up quite a fuss, the old man was able to wriggle free of his restraints after only a few minutes of trying. Goodness, the place was a mess! It was getting late and he supposed he should probably be on his way. The night was waning, the little ghouls were returning home with their bounties, and the homeowners would likely be back soon. And to find such a mess! He felt rather apologetic, but there was little he could do but make himself scarce before they arrived. Thomas Jacob Billingmyer’s seventy-fifth Halloween was going to end as a disappointment. He hoped the next would be better, if fate saw fit to let him live to see it. Then the doorbell rang. Mr. Billingmyer rushed to the door and opened it just a crack. “Trick or treat!” sang the children. The old man smiled. Oh, to be young forever. Adulthood was the end of dreams. And no one deserved that. The children extended their baskets, buckets and bags and the old man gave them each a piece of candy. “Happy Halloween to you all!” he said. And looking into their smiling faces, all the disappointment and misfortune vanished from his mind as though it were never there. Yes, he thought. It was a wonderful night.

I once impaled a child with a knife. Or perhaps I didn’t. Memory can be such a fickle thing sometimes. Echoes of memories, events taking place long before today, playback in my mind. They bounce around my head every now and then to invade my brain for long moments. Occupying all space. Today I remember being harassed by a group of strangers in the streets of Paris three years ago. They mocked this hunched skeleton shambling before their eyes with a surprised look on its face. They found reasons to laugh at the expense of this clown. Its looks, its pace, its reaction time, its clothing, its face, its choice of words, its lack of wit...Oh they wanted a laugh you see so...any reason would do really. It was the third time this week that strangers I’ve never met had a go at me. Ah and they had gotten away with it too. Not once, but twice...not thrice however. I was scared you see. So I decided to carry my old trusty knife in my pocket. The one given to me by my father when I was a kid to carve hearts in trees. I didn’t want to hurt anyone of course. I wanted to be safe from strangers and the mockeries. You understand how an hunted animal feeling backed in a corner will react, don’t you? Of course you do. You already know how this story ended. I pulled out the knife when the glee of the pack became evident. With these wide and devilish smiles of hunters finding easy prey. I waved the knife at them. I yelled something but I forgot what it was. Forgive me. I...they didn’t care. They didn’t listen. They never do. I killed four people that day. Every member of the pack. I remember my brief moves to their throats and the sudden drop of their bodies as blood spewed forth. The others didn’t move or shake when they saw their comrades fall. They couldn’t believe it. A prey? Fighting back? Ridiculous! Hopeless! They kept smiling as I charged each of them one by one. I struck. Then moved to the next. I struck again, another body fell. They were none left. I fled. I looked around me as I moved as fast as I could. The crimson knife was still in my small hand. But the world did not care for what I did. The birds were singing. It smelled like shit due to the fertilizers recently used in the public garden to my left. Luckily there was nobody currently enjoying the flowers or walking the street rue de Grenelle. The front of the Invalides was empty this Monday of November. The early sun rays softly warmed my skin and I briefly thought myself in Elysium instead of the 7ème neighborhood as I crossed the esplanade, a park in front of bridge Alexander III. Then I reached the other side and found myself in the neighborhood of avenue Bosquet where my humble abode awaited me. I walked on the road, saw an opening in the gutter leading to the sewers and threw the knife of my father inside it. Gone. I went home. It wasn’t far. Yes I remember doing all that three years ago. Or perhaps I didn’t.

Sometimes in life, you are given a choice. Free will, as they say. You choose your fate, and you accept the consequences. I understood that. But sometimes, you don't get to choose. I didn't choose my parents' endless beatings, or their little torture games they played on me. I didn't choose for my life to be full of purple bruises and empty stomachs. But on one day, when I was walking to school on a particularly malicious day, all of that was taken away by a man in a 1996 Honda Civic. And I chose to go with him. Savior, or kidnapper, those names were interchangeable when it came to Jako. While his treatment towards me wasn't what people on the outside considered desirable, anything was better than the bitter neglect my parents showed. They didn't even care I was gone. No one looked for me, and I was okay with that. I didn't want to be found, and I wasn't. Not for seven years, at least. It was November 14, 2020 when Jako came storming into my cell, grabbing the collar that hung around my neck with this grubby hand. "Go," he growled, shoving my out. "W-what's going on?" I shouted as Jako dragged me along. "Shut up!" He screamed, giving a quick yank on my collar. "They'll hear you." I figured that Jako knew best, and promptly shut up, following him through the dark corridors. Yet the voices of the police officers and their shining flashlights grew closer and closer. Then, I heard it. "Jako Ramirez, come out with your hands up!" ~ They gave me a choice. It was simple, really. Well, it was to them. They just wanted me gone, out of their police station. The officer stared at me, waiting for my answer. I could go home, back to the childbood I was freed from, back to the endless beatings and hissing insults. Or, I could go. Where, I wasn't sure. I longed for Jako and my safe cell, but that wasn't my life anymore. I needed to choose. Freedom, I decided. Freedom was what I wanted. ~ But was I free? Now, the two options seemed foggy, more the same than I thought. I was homeless, plain and simple. Homelessness was not free. Torture was not free. I was not free. Day after day, all I felt was cold. The shivering and aching were constant. Each time I coughed, the blood that spattered out reminded me of my bloody past. The blood worried me, but it wasn't like I could do anything. A hospital was out of the question, of course. Sometimes, when I would sit huddled by a bus stop on a particularly cold winter day, people would stare at me, looking at me like I was the scum of the earth. But what did I do wrong? If only they knew my story, maybe they would understand. ~ When you're homeless, stealing is inevitable. I had been avoiding it, but I couldn't any longer. My survival depended on it. So, one particularly rainy day, I slipped inside a convenience store. My head ducked down; I kept my eyes trained on the shiny linoleum floor as I made my way to the back. The bell on top of the door chimed, and I jumped, suddenly paranoid. Shoving my morals back down, I reached out for a can of ravioli. "Hey." I jumped, getting over my initial startle. I looked up to see a boy my age, looking down at me with piercing green eyes. His posture and expression screamed confidence, and I was suddenly self concious. I hoped that I didn't smell. "Hi," I mumble, ducking under his arm. "Woah," he chuckled. "What's wrong?" "I, uh, I've gotta go." He stared at me for a moment before his whole face lighted up. "It's the rain, isn't it?" He looks outside, the pouring rain beating down. "I always get jittery when there's rain. But hey, coffee usually cheers me right up. What do you say? Coffee?" One thing I learned from being homeless was that you never turned down free food, especially if it was warm. So without a word, I nodded. "Great!" The boy beamed. "Oh, and I'm Finn." "Hannah." ~ We began spending a lot more time together. I became an expert at hiding my homelessness from him, but it never felt good to do so. I wanted to tell him, but I couldn't. Anyway, we made our relationship official not long after that first coffee. Love was something I never imagined as I child, but the word came easily to me, because that was how I felt. I loved Finn. I was happy with him, and I no longer minded going "home to the small space underneath the playground. I no longer minded the stares. I no longer paid attention to the increasing amount of blood I coughed up from my lungs. But ignorance isn't bliss. March 4, 2021. I was with Finn on our three month anniversary. We were walking down the street, and I had, for the first time in a long while, a full stomach. Arm in arm, words were not needed as we walked. But tonight was important. All these months, and I was finally going to admit it, and tell Finn that I was homeless. Somehow, I knew it would be okay. I knew he would stay. I turned to Finn, and he stopped. "What's wrong?" He asked, instantly sending my worry. I bit my lip, pondering my words. "Fi--." Just then, I was overcome by coughing. Feeling weak, I collapsed to the ground. The last thing I heard was Finn's distressed voice. "Hannah? Hannah! Oh God, you're coughing up blood!" ~ I woke up with what felt like a heavy weight on my chest. Struggling with my voice, I manage to squeak out a meager, "Finn?" as I wildly darted my eyes around the hospital room. Instantly, he's by my side. I attempted a smile, but Finn did not return it. Instead, his forehead was creased and his eyes were filled with worry. "Hey, you look worried. Is it raining?" I kept waiting for a smile. "Hannah." "What?" I grin, not getting the reaction I was expecting. "Hannah." My smile disappeared. "Just tell me what's wrong with me," I whimper, turning my head away from him. That's when I heard a soft sob escape his mouth. I turn back to him. "Finn?" My voice quivered. "It's cancer, Hannah. Lung cancer. I could've helped you! You should've told me, Hannah! You should've..." Finn buried his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking softly. "Finn," I whispered. "I could've saved you!" He yelled suddenly. Then, I was crying too. "Am I going to die?" I whimpered, feeling like I was a kid again, terrified of the future. I got no response, only sobs. And I knew. "Oh, God. No. No." I grabbed Finn, and I held him tight. I wasn't about to let go. But I did. I let go six days later.

This is a strictly satirical piece (and my first time writing one). I harbor absolutely no ill will toward Stephanie Meyer. Well, besides that one time she wrote a bestselling saga that spawned five movies resulting in hours of my life that I now can’t get back. /// “What’s your name?” “I-it’s Ella,” I stutter, though despite my hiccup in breath, my voice is melodious and dazzling. And seductive, too. But also, virtuous. My fellow peers at the cafeteria table look up at the exact same instant. They blink simultaneously. They all lean forward to cup their chins in their hands. And then they lock their eyes with mine, enraptured by my husky but smooth, alluring but righteous, enticing but noble voice. There’s Ike and Skylar, who both stare at me unblinkingly. The young men have eyes only for me, drool dribbling from the corners of their mouths. Their saliva pools upon the cafeteria table, dripping off the edge and onto the floor, until their shoes rest in puddles of spittle. There’s Jessie, too, who gazes at Ike. The knife she’d been using to smear cream cheese over her bagel sits clenched in her hand. Slowly, she swivels her head toward me while keeping her body turned to Ike, until her narrowed eyes burn into mine. When I look in them, I see orange flames instead of pupils. She draws her index finger across her throat as she stares at me, jerking her head toward Ike, who continues to look at me, the saliva still accumulating on the floor. So, because Jessie indicates that my death is imminent the longer I look to Ike, I shift my eyes to Skylar. But Angelique looks at him shyly, eyes fluttering between the table and Skylar over two thousand times in less than thirty seconds. So, I look at the ground, which seems to be the only safe site for my eyes to rest. They all look at each other for two minutes and thirty-six seconds, shifting eyes and looking up through their eyelashes and glancing away and not speaking at all, because teenage conversations often involve inscrutable and obscure scrutiny rather than actual human discourse. Eventually, they stop, and all turn toward the cafeteria doors, again at the exact same time. I look up. The lights in the cafeteria suddenly dim. A spotlight shines on the doors. An orchestra appears out of nowhere on the right side of the room and begins to play a slow-building, luxurious piece. “Don’t look,” Angelique whispers. She looks wide-eyed at the doors, unblinking, mouth open in a perfect “o”. Five people walk through the doors. They are...remarkably beautiful. Unnaturally so, in fact. Actually, they’re just downright disturbing. Seriously. Like, what is wrong with them? Who looks like that? And how is nobody else in this cafeteria besides my table perturbed by their sudden entrance and sickeningly white skin and black eyes and ridiculous hair styles? As they walk in, everything slows down. Dammit. I scowl sexily but virtuously as I try to wrap my fingers around my drink to take a sip of water, but they only move at a rate of one inch per second, so it is rather slow going. My scowl is elongated well into the next scene, in which I slowly lift my head once more to stare at the five individuals. But my eyes latch onto only one. He is the last of the five to enter the school cafeteria. I stare at him in wonder. Slowly, so slowly, his head turns, and despite the spotlight shining directly into his eyes, he stares into mine. My heart thuds in slow motion as we lock gazes. His eyes are pitch black, which should be frightening, if it weren’t for his wonderfully chiseled body. Really, that’s all I can look at, so it’s no matter that blood drips from the corner of his lip and onto the floor, leaving a trail behind him. His biceps are sturdy and brawny. I have eyes only for the muscles underneath that sickeningly white skin (the color of which I ignore). And though his irises are black and he’s dripping blood and his skin is disgustingly pale and he has the darkest bags under his eyes that I’ve ever seen and when he smiles I see actual fangs, it does not matter, because his body is just simply godly. The moment our eyes meet lasts forever. I never want it to end. And for seven beautiful hours, the moment goes on. We stare...and stare...and stare... Finally, the orchestra packs up their instruments and the lights turn on once again. The five individuals sit down at a table. They sit with straight backs, not looking at one another, simply staring into space. And though they avoid gazes, I can see their hands rubbing each other's thighs beneath the table, which is perfectly normal, so I look back to their faces. The one that stared at me grips his hand--the one that is not stroking the leg of one of the other men beneath the table--so tightly that I can see it shaking and trembling. His eyes keep swiveling toward me before he glances away just before making eye contact. It’s not strange or creepy at all. “Who are they?” I whisper sexily but virtuously. “The Sullens, of course,” Jessie snaps at me, rolling her eyes so hard in her head that I see the whites of her eyes before the flames return. “Can you die now, please?” The Sullens. So that is their name. The bell rings, and I stand up to walk to my class, finally ripping my eyes away from the godly man. And, as I step forward, I suddenly trip over nothing at all, falling dramatically, the floor inching ever closer to my head-- Suddenly, he is there. The godly man. He picks me up before I can hit the floor, swinging me into the air for a moment. He sets me on my feet. “How did you do that so fast?” I ask sexily but virtuously, breathless as I stare into his black eyes. “Because I’m definitely not a vampire or anything. Just a regular guy, obviously,” he says smoothly. “Oh. Of course." “Can I suck almost all the blood out of your body until you're seconds away from death before I realize what I'm doing and somehow overcome my raw biological instinct?” “What?” “Can I walk you to class?” “Yes.” I stare into his beautiful demonic eyes, ignoring how his lips curl, displaying sharp, pointy fangs. He leans down, inches away from my nose, staring down at my neck. I’m sure it’s because he wants to kiss it. “Okay,” he hisses. He doesn’t move. He simply continues to stare at my neck. And then he leans down and sinks his fangs into it. But it doesn’t matter. He’s just too gorgeous for me to care about such a trivial issue as my death.

I awoke in a void, the cold floor under me had seemingly no texture, the flatness of my surroundings was like something I had never experienced. Where was I? I hadn't fallen asleep here, was I dreaming? As I looked around the immense nothingness of the void began to be clear. I instinctually looked for a wall, a tree, any structure that could grant me some kind of perspective. My brain had never been so loud yet so empty, screaming at me to figure out what this place was, soon it would be answered. &#x200B; After a while of spinning around, searching, I spotted something, a phone box. The box had cabling upwards, seemingly to the endless beyond. An object had never demanded such attention, the only colour other than white stretching for what felt like lightyears. I had to go inside. &#x200B; While my box did not bring any answers to what was happening it did finally bring some much needed safety. Just as I began to calm however the phone rang, not knowing how to react I froze, staring at the phone like it was some deadly predator. After about 40 seconds I picked it up, if only to stop the harsh ringing that was deafening compared to the silence of this place. &#x200B; Not knowing what to expect from the other side I moved the phone to my ear, staying as quiet as possible, not out of choice but out of some primal urge. On the other end of the phone I heard a seemingly bored customer service voice “Hello, welcome to purgatory, may I take your name?”I was stunned, I didn't know what to say, I didn't know what to think. Purgatory? I'm in purgatory? How can that be possible? “Hello? Are you there?” &#x200B; “Y-yes” I said out of impulse &#x200B; “Could I have your name please” the voice was more rude this time &#x200B; “Y-yes, Im Tyler, Tyler Miller” I barely going above mouthing my words, unsure if they would even be heard by the only other thing sharing my void &#x200B; “Ok tyler, you are dead” hearing them say that almost broke me, my thoughts getting louder than they had been when I woke up. I had so many questions, but was so stunned I could barely control my mouth enough to breathe. &#x200B; “Im dead?” I blurted out, the thoughts in my head overpowering the voice that had not stopped talking for a moment &#x200B; “If we could please leave questions for the end” it said, disgruntled “as I was saying, god is very busy at the moment and doesn't have time to review your life as they normally would, we are going to need you to do it for them” &#x200B; “M-me? I need to review my life? What does that mean?” I whimpered, slowly gaining my ability to talk again &#x200B; “It will all be fairly straight forward, just review everything honestly and you’ll end up in the right place” &#x200B; “Place? What place? Whats going on? Please talk to me” I pleaded, the voice was having none of it “I’ve given you your instructions, please now leave the phone box” it stated, before the line fell silent. Terrified I tried to do what it said, the moment the box left my sight it was gone, I thought I would never see it again &#x200B; To replace the box was a few things; a desk, it was fancy and wooden, a stool, it was leather, and a fountain pen. It was probably the nicest set of objects that I had ever been left alone with.I walked towards it admiring the beauty in each object before noticing the latest in the growing list of horrors this place had to offer me. Paper, multiple huge stacks of paper, in awe of it's immenseness, as I gazed upon it a single sheet of paper flew down and landed perfectly on the desk, I froze before inching towards the desk, never breaking eye contact with marvel of paper that lay just metres away &#x200B; The paper had a table on it, a table with worryingly simple headings. “Date and time, Action/thought, Description” As I further scanned the paper I saw checkboxes labelled “morality” with 3 options “good, neutral, bad” . It slowly dawned on me what I needed to do, not that it made sense to me. The idea that everything I have ever done or thought could be lumped into “good, neutral, bad” like that was terrifying and felt wrong, but what choice did I have? &#x200B; I sat down and began to read beyond the headings, each row bringing new horrors, it started at my death, allowing me to piece together what had happened, and how it was my fault. A selfish action I had taken to escape the horrors of life, unaware that they would lead me to the new horrors of death. As I finished the first page the paper once again flew away, starting a brand new pile on the other side of the desk, a pile that would soon be just as large as the pile I was working through. &#x200B; As I went through it things got worse and worse. My actions and inactions that I had justified to myself laid bare for the only audience that did not want to see it. The people I had hurt, the people I had burdened, and the few I had helped too little. Very few lived better after me, fewer still allowed their pity on me to waiver. That was clear to me now. What was clearer was the lack of care for them. thoughts about me were unumberable, even thoughts about others were seemingly tainted by how it affected or looked for me. Worse yet, thoughts of me were not positive, I was not being self indulgent in my life, constantly high on my own worth. I was instead busy lamenting it all, complaining about the problems I caused and would not allow others to fix. &#x200B; As I got further into my youth things became easier to excuse. It made the moment to moment marking easier, but my overarching feelings grew worse and worse. I had become this, I had allowed this monster of self pity and inaction to appear through self pity and inaction. Perhaps given a worse youth I could blame, I could point at someone else and say they caused this. &#x200B; For the first time I was forced to truly reflect on my actions, with no distractions, nothing help me hide, nothing I could do to simply wait out tomorrow, I sat in a void of nothingness to reflect on the nothingburger that was my life, a pointless endeavour of torture and lack of fufillment. But it was ok, I was halfway there, with the paper stacks matched in height I could see the end &#x200B; With the shock of my worst qualities coming to an end and an uneventful childhood beginning I began to cry, not about going to hell, that would always be difficult. I cried about deserving it. I cried about everything I had done up to that point, it started as a whimper, but soon I could not contain myself, the paper seemed immune to my tears, not even letting them land and instead absorbing them into itself. I guess that was lucky, I would have cried myself to escape if the paper had allowed it. &#x200B; By the last few sheets I could barely think, my head was clouded with emptiness, luckily I didn't have to think much anyway, baby me didn't do much to warrant thought. As I finished the last sheet I heard a noise behind me, it was the phone box again, I began walking towards it faster this time, though just as scared. Before going inside I had one last look behind me, my workspace had already vanished, I had no choice but to face it's consequences &#x200B; The voice started talking as soon as I picked up the phone, I barely had time to put it to my ear “Hello again Tyler, Im reading through your review now”. It said, I closed my eyes ready to cry, but I was already out of tears. &#x200B; “Did I do it right?” I whispered &#x200B; “Oh yes, perfect in fact, it says here you wasted your life” I wanted to hate the voice, all I could do was agree with it &#x200B; “Y-yeah, I guess” &#x200B; “Well I'm surprised you haven't figured it out yet but, if you were waiting for hell you’re already here” my heart froze more realisations to add to this awful place &#x200B; “But, but I just finished” I whimpered &#x200B; “Correct, however what you just finished was your own personal little hell. Regular torture never seemed to truly work on you, you seemed disinterested. But you? You could torture yourself better than me or any other demon ever could, we didn't even have to lie to you about who you were” &#x200B; “You're lying!” I yelled, my tears finding their way back to me “You’ve got to be lying to me, that wasn't me, I'm not them. &#x200B; “But you are, and you can never change that” I didn't know what to do, I didn't know what to say, I was petrified, I asked the only thing I could think &#x200B; “What happens now” I cried &#x200B; “Now we start again.” &#x200B; Suddenly the box disappeared, I was alone again, but there wasn't silence. I could hear screaming in the distance. it got louder and louder. It was my screams, it seemed impossible. Just as the screams were building, the space around me got cold and windy. I began to lose my balance. The bright white all around began going out and becoming blackness. The scream, the wind, the darkness, they all approached, they engulfed me one by one, “please!” I yelled, crying more than I had ever cried before, “please help me”.

#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** &nbsp; *** #Weekly Challenge **Writers, please keep in mind that feedback is a requirement for all submitters. You must leave at least 1 feedback comment on the thread by the deadline!** **Prompt:** Set your story at . **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** There is a language or communication barrier between two characters. Stories must still be written in english. **(You must include if/how you used it at the end of your story to receive credit..)** This week’s challenge is to set your story at a spa. This should be the *main setting* of your story. You’re welcome to use it creatively and interpret it as you like, as long as you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required, feel free to skip it if it doesn’t suit your story. You do not have to use the included IP. *** # Rankings ### Last Week: - Winner: by u/wileycourage You can check out previous Micro Mondays . &nbsp; *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 3pm EST next Monday.** Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **3pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content or content written or altered by AI.** Submitted stories must be written by you and for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. &nbsp; *** #Campfire - Campfire is currently on hiatus. Check back soon! &nbsp; *** #How Rankings are Tallied **Note: There has been a change to the crit caps and points!** **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10 - 15** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **10** pts each (30 pt. max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 30 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | There is no cap on votes your story receives | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.* &nbsp; *** *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

He gazed absently at the black kettle, his reflection looking back at him like a stranger. Nice cup of tea. That’s what we need. A faint humming of a song and the sound of light footsteps on the floorboards above him made him smile. He noticed the whistle of the kettle, as it screeched louder and louder, vapours fading away in the sunlight. Realisation struck; she must have put the kettle on. Of course, she did. Of course, she did. How kind. How thoughtful. The dawn broke in a pool on the window, seeping in through the cracks and resting on his skin. What a fine morning. The phone rang, or was that the ringing in his ears? “Hello. Yes, hello love.” “Your mother’s just popped the kettle on. Yes, yes... okay. See you in a bit love.” He loved his little girl. He remembered when she was no taller than his footstool, how he would lift her up like a plane and carry her to the ends of the earth. She loved that too. She was much too big for that now of course. And life had tired him out. The sound of silence greeted him after the kettle came to a boil. He’ll let his wife get that. The old man shuffled to the drawing room, opening the curtains. A layer of dust danced through the air, through the empty furniture and on to the armchair where his wife’s imprint was. The oak bookshelf stood behind it, cassettes from the golden days waiting patiently for the day they would be played again. They looked at him, as they always did, and he turned away. His eyes caught the photographs on the mantelpiece, coated with a film of grime. The faces in them now mere memories fading away. They were but shadows in his mind. He recalled his life partner, Nora, making him his first tea in her special way. ‘Do you know why my tea tastes so good, my dear? It’s because I have a secret ingredient.’ she would say with a mischievous smirk. ‘And you will never know what it is.’ She was right though. She must have had a special ingredient, because it always tasted of magic. Nobody could ever make tea like hers. The doorbell trilled, and before he could bring himself to move his worn body, it opened with a bang and his daughter stumbled in, dishevelled, already removing her coat and shoes. ‘Hello Dad, how are you?’ she asked, pecking him on the cheek. The scent of her perfume on her sweaty skin reminded him of something his mind could not fathom. ‘Yes yes, fine love. How are you? How i..is what’s-his-face?’ he stuttered. She frowned. ‘You know his name Dad; you can’t keep acting like you don’t remember.’ The one advantage to forgetting things was pretending to forget the existence of people he wasn’t particularly fond of, including his daughter’s fiancé. They talked for a while, reminiscing on old times and her childhood. She had always been a good girl. Such a good girl. She had never caused him grief. Even when she was sent home from school for getting into a scuffle, he had suppressed his thoughts. Many parents would have scolded their child, violence is never the answer . Debatable. When he had first arrived in England, he couldn’t speak, nor understand, the language he suddenly had to adopt. Everyone looked and sounded different. Unfamiliar. He remembered being told to go back home by people he had never met before. Recollections of black eyes and sore knuckles sprang to mind. He gave just as much as he got. He remembered feeling a pang of homesickness, longing for the scorching sun of his homeland. He missed the food, the loud conversations with street-sellers. Most of all, he missed the tea; laced with cinnamon, cardamom, and the spices his country were famous for. Thank God for Nora who had always provided him with a piece of home. ‘Dad?’ He was jolted out of his flashbacks. She was looking at him questioningly. ‘You okay, Dad?’ He nodded and they sat in silence for, what felt like, an eternity. He tried to find the words to ask her how life was treating her, but he just wanted to close his eyes and bask in the comfort of her presence. He didn’t know where his wife had disappeared to, leaving him waiting for his morning tea. He turned to his daughter, “Could you make us a cup of tea love?” *** He looked at the tea she put in front of him. Weak. Pale. Half-empty. Stupid girl. Stupid girl. “What is this ?” His arm flayed, hitting the cup, its contents splattering across the blackened carpet. Loathing filled his insides. He hated her. Her attempts at trying to help him when he needed none. As if a child could know better than their own father. He didn’t need her; he didn’t need anyone. She never did anything right anyway. Her face was a mixture of fear and sadness. “I..I tried to make it the way you like. I should have let the teabag soa--" “--it’s wrong, it’s all wrong!” “I can make it again, Dad, it’s fine. Look.” She gathered up the fragments of the cup, desperately trying to find a way to put back together, back to the way it was. His head hurt. It was like something was pulling the words from his throat, speaking for him. “You can’t help yourself can you? Always doing it wrong! Why can’t you be more like your mother?” She looked at him in a way he knew would not leave him until his last breath. He should say something. He should. What could he say to the person who meant the world to him? Before the guilt flooded his body completely, she’d gone, leaving only a trail of the scent he had always loved behind. Once she’d left, the house darkened once more. The old man waited. Waited. And waited. There wasn’t a sound, except the familiar sound of light footsteps from above. He walked to the kitchen, dragging his body towards the black kettle, now silent. Nice cup of tea. That’s what we need.

I have a story to express, a boring story, but a story nonetheless. In the end, there was nothing-nothing that created something-something magnificent, something excellent, something that reached perfection despite being imperfect. Was it all worth it? Well, it had its ups and downs, in-betweens and all-arounds, but there was never really solid ground to build it all upon. Though if we were to go back, we'd start to see the cracks, you'd be hard-pressed to find where they emerged from, it all happened so fast that there's no way could it be traced back to the point of origin. If you wish to connect to the source of our existence then you must look within yourself for the most perplexing problems which encapsulate our reality. The best way I can exemplify what I mean would be through the perspective of a character. A young man, born in the same lands as you and I, finds himself lost in the otherworldly wonders of the deepest depths that his mind can conceive. Lost within himself, he finds answers, yet retrieves more questions requiring solving. On his self-induced journey, he finds a magical place, seemingly mythical in its appearance, quite similar to places described in the stories of old. Truly expansive by nature, and extensive in its scope, it tethers together all that is bound to wither away. A place beyond measure, a place beyond communication or expression. It is all that is, it is all that ever was and ever could be. In this electric paradigm of reality, our character meets the eternal embodiment of creation, and his racing mind floods with thoughts of all kinds. He stammers and stutters to ask the first question to reach his tongue, but before he could speak a heavy voice bellows out, "I have been waiting for you." and continues "You came to me seeking enlightenment, but you must recognize the questions you have been searching for answers to have already met within you. I can teach you nothing that you have not already been aware of." Our character replies in a hushed tone "I am aware, I understand, if only partly, but I wish to confirm my suspicions which have inclined me to make this trek here. If you are who I believe you to be, surely you may have the means to allow me to connect my questions to their answers." He shifts to a more assertive tone "Why did you, in all of your eternity of being, decide to coalesce all that constitutes existence into the reality that myself and many others find themselves in?" The eternal being replies "Why do you believe you create of your own volition? Do you not wish to build? Much like I have built you and all that you inhabit?" And goes on to say "I create much as your species creates, I had the means to erect the universe, and so I did. I did so simply because I had the means and the desire to, does that make it any less meaningful to you? Of course not, you create just like me, but you lack the foresight and the lifespan to see it through to fruition. I have encountered you numerous times before, this is not the first time, nor will it be the last. My creation is as much a part of myself as your mind is to your body, we are one and the same. Where ever you find 'something' you find me, where ever you find me, and you find yourself as well, as you are one of the many cogs in the whole, but just because you are a relatively minor player in my grand creation does not mean you are not vital, you are as vital as the next." The young man speaks "So you are to say to me, everything, absolutely everything is as critical to the composition of the whole as you are to maintaining it? Would that not also imply you are just as significant or insignificant as I am to your creation?" The eternal being responds "In whatever way you can conceive of, is as correct as the most seemingly incorrect way of perceiving the excellence and complexity of eternity. All that is, all that was, all that ever could be, has been and was already.

It started with an advert in a newsagent window; an off-white A4 piece of paper, hanging forlornly by a single strip of tape in one corner, the other three dry and useless. It caught my eye as I stood debating whether I could afford the extra 30 pence for a loaf of bread that wouldn’t taste like cardboard. The paper was crinkled through weeks of exposure to condensation. Flowery cursive bled down the page. It asked for a reliable and trustworthy candidate to take a friendly Alsatian on short walks around the neighbourhood, twice daily. The job paid barely anything but that was better than nothing. I was a recent graduate unable to find work. Entry level positions demanding 5 years’ experience were a bridge that I could not cross. I lived in a “studio” apartment, rent in arrears, that was in reality little more than a single room with a bed that folds up to create extra space for dining and socialising. I hadn’t folded it up for some time. Something about the advert called to me. Perhaps it was the ink that bled as though crying black tears in woe of having never been read. Perhaps it was the question of the cost of bread and where I sit on the scale of inedible to luxury and realising at once that even inedible is too rich for me. I peeled the tape that affixed the advert to the window, took it home, and dialled the number. His name was Mr Adams. He was 85-years-old, he said, and the dog Charlie, who had belonged to his late wife, was now too large and energetic for him to handle. We spoke for a while, about my credentials, about my life. He seemed friendly enough, and when he offered me the job on the spot I did not hesitate to accept. Mr Adams lived alone, dog excluded, in a small bungalow at the end of a quiet lane in a dull and lifeless suburb of Manchester. It was two bus rides away, which I had grumbled at, deliberately and vocally, upon our first meet. Mr Adams offered to compensate me for my bus fare, which I gladly accepted. He was a nice man, short and round in the face, hair grey like old snow. He smelled of mould. Charlie was as described: large and energetic. We took walks around the neighbourhood and to a nearby park. Mr Adams didn’t seem too close to him, but yet could not bare to give him up. A month into the job I saw Mr Adams for the last time. He gave me a spare key, and left a credit card in a dish on the coffee table. It was mine to use, he had said, and would be topped up each week with my wages. I was free to help myself to the various kitchen victuals, but I must replace what I consume. It was then that I should have walked away. I wish I’d walked away. In the days and weeks that followed, Mr Adams left me notes of increasing peculiarity. Little oddities, requests and favours written in an unfamiliar hand. The carefree handwriting of the advert was in stark contrast to the crooked and deliberate lettering on these notes, as though Mr Adams had written them under duress. The lines were thicker, harder. They requested little things at first. To buy extra dog food. To clean the house every Monday and Friday. I was promised additional pay for this latter job, which I accepted. It was clear that Mr Adams no longer lived at the address, and so there was little cleaning to be done. It were as though he only visited every now and then to leave me these notes. I was soon left a note telling me to never go down into the cellar. Truth told, I never knew the house had a cellar at all until that note. I found the cellar door beneath the rug in the living room. It was bolted shut. It was also about this time that Mr Adams asked me to change my time walking Charlie. I should go much earlier in the morning, and then again much later at night, while the sun was set and there were fewer people around. I thought this odd, if a little cruel on Charlie, but I obliged all the while. The house began to smell horribly of sulphur. A new note asked me to clean the house with increasing regularity but no matter how much bleach I used the scent always seemed to linger. It was around this time that Mr Adams requested that I spend the night, just once or twice a week. He told me in this note to keep the curtains drawn, to never answer the door, and to go to bed promptly at 10pm. I did as instructed, feeling a little uneasy about the arrangement but glad to be staying somewhere a little more spacious. Charlie soon started acting out. He would refuse to go for walks, and would growl angrily when I went near him. He scratched incessantly at the rug in the living room. A short while after Charlie was gone. Mr Adams explained in a note that I wouldn’t need to walk him any longer, but he would keep paying me if I followed his instructions. I spent longer and longer in the house then. I was dizzy with the stench of bleach and sulphur. My daily cleaning was unable to rid the house of the foul odour that seemed to cling to the walls like a shadow. I then began hearing voices. At first it was just at night, as I lay in bed trying to sleep. Unable to sleep. It was a soft whimpering. I went downstairs, the first time, and with each step it became louder and louder. It sounded like Mr Adams. It sounded like he was in the house and crying. At the foot of the stairs I turned into the living room and saw the shape of a man hunched over in the chair by the window. His head was in his hands and his shoulders were trembling. I flicked on the light and the shape disappeared. I didn’t sleep much after that night. But yet I didn’t go home. Instead I waited at Mr Adams’ house. I kept the curtains closed and the door locked and never did I see him but the notes kept appearing. It were as though he was living in the house with me, unseen. The whimpering at night became louder and soon trickled into day. I began to hear words, asking for help and pleading for forgiveness. I was drunk on the smell and the never-ending voices. And then I began to hear scratching from beneath the living room floor. I pulled back the rug and pressed my head against the cellar door. I could hear movement. Feet shuffling about beneath me. It was Mr Adams. All this time he was living in the cellar. It was bolted shut but he must have had a way. I dragged as much furniture as I could and covered the cellar door, locking him in. That night I heard the crying again. I walked downstairs as before and as before I saw the shape in the chair by the window. I shouted to him, to Mr Adams, to stop toying with me. The shape lifted its head from its hands and I saw that it was not Mr Adams. It was a younger man. I flicked on the light and this time the figure did not disappear but remained in the chair looking right at me. Eyes wet, tears running down anguished face, the figure in the chair was me. I bolted from the house as quick as I could, screaming, screaming at the top of my voice for help. It was then that I was taken in by a neighbour, to whom I told my story. He went to the house to check, and a little while later he returned with the police. I was taken away. They interviewed me then, about the body of Mr Adams that they had found in his cellar, along with his dog Charlie. They asked me why I did it. They presented me with evidence, of CCTV footage of me using Mr Adams’ credit card to buy food and drink. My solicitor instructed me to answer all questions with “No comment.” No comment. No comment. No comment. No comment. But I have been in this cell for nearly 18 hours and I can still hear the voices. I told him that I cannot keep silent and so he instructed me to write a letter. This letter. And so this is my confession. I do not know why I did what I did. I do not know how. Please, please just make the voices stop.

&#x200B; Vincent had been confident in his abilities. He’d even trained in a private secondary school for promising mage candidates, with top marks in all subjects and an award of excellence in written conjurations. The examiners were all expecting a powerful familiar to appear before them, like a dragon, a unicorn, maybe even a powerful demon--frowned on but still not unheard of. So, as he stood over his immaculately drawn summoning circle, amber eyes squinting against the braziers billowing green smoke where moments ago, there had been roaring green and red flames, he was absolutely mortified by what had appeared in the center: a middle aged man in sweatpants and a baggy shirt, partially covered in small dark brown stains. He was squatting close the ground and smoking a cigarette that emitted an offensive, spicy odor. He took a long look around the gathering, stopping briefly on each of the examiners, scanning over the small crowd of other hopefuls, and eventually landing his gaze on Vincent. He blew an eye-watering cloud of spicy smoke at him. “Eh, yeah, alright. Why not?” He stood slowly and tamped the cigarette under his heavy boot. He ran a hand through his greasy black hair and shook out what appeared to be small bits of glass. He was shorter than Vincent and in spite of the currently shabby attire, you could imagine him working in a quiet corner shop somewhere. He had a laid-back air about him, but every mage there could sense the strain he put on the magic surrounding him. “Uhhh...” Vincent turned toward the examiners for help, but they were looking expectantly at him. He gathered himself up, squared his shoulders, and demanded imperiously, “Creature from beyond the veil, you are bound by my magic to render your services unto me. Speak your name and submit or be cast into the void!” He thought he sounded very professional there. The examiners were nodding approvingly. “Cool deal, buddy. I’m Chad. Pleased to render services unto whatever.” Chad looked around the well-kept lawn and large, white, popup pavilion. It reminded him of the sort you would see at an outdoor wedding in a picturesque field advertising rental availability for weddings and funerals. Unknown to him, but very know to the rest, after an especially large dragon summoning tore a hole in the covered amphitheater, they had moved the ceremony onto the front lawn. Past some lingering scorch marks on the grass, he could see a sign that read: Lestren University. Vincent pulled on his lapels and drew in a deep breath. He had worn his best blue suit for this. It had taken him hours to prepare, mentally and physically, for this entire ceremony. He had spent a considerable time getting his red hair to radiate just the right level of humility and confidence. “I require your full name, creature.” “Ooooh,” Chad turned back from the sign with a sneer. “I’m so sorry. How could I have been so impolite. Especially, when you have me in a...” He gestured down at the ring of runes, “magic anime circle.” He kicked at some of the sand used to draw the circle, but it didn’t budge. A dark reddish sludge coated the ground where he slid his foot. Vincent was staring furiously at this mystery man’s cocky grin, which is precisely why he didn’t notice the examiners slowly backing away. “Hmm. Neat sand,” Chad conceded. Vincent had just begun to demand his full name a second time, when Chad spoke over him, “Chadwick. Digsby.” He took out another cigarette and lit it up. “What service you looking for? Usually, people use the phone when they need some cleanup.” “You’re a janitor?” “Mmmm, sure.” He took a long drag and then let it all out suddenly with a cough. “It’s not a sex thing is it?” He waved his hands in disgust in front of him, leaving a glowing trail behind his spicy cigarette. “I don’t do that stuff--especially not for a...” He narrowed his eyes at Vincent. “How old are you?” “No! Ew! What?” Vincent’s composure dissolved for a moment. His ears started turning red and he glanced around at the examiners and his peers, now finally realizing the examiners had backed away a good twenty feet. He gritted his teeth and resolved to make it through this, ignoring the desire to wipe the sweat beading up on his brow. “No.” Chad let out a long plume of smoke. “Whoof. You had me worried there for a second.” He went back to his squatted position and closed his eyes. “I’m all ears, kiddo. How can I help?” Vincent rearranged his suit, cleared his throat, and put all his effort into ignoring everything other than “Chad” in front of him. “I require you to serve as my personal familiar, from now until the day I see fit to dismiss you in good faith.” Chad quietly smoked his cigarette and deliberated the request. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, his jaw cocked at a perplexed angle. “Good faith...?” Vincent had thought about how he would phrase this for a long time. He didn’t want to get into anything complicated, like something that would tempt an ill-tempered familiar into looking for loopholes. Instead, he had opted for a simple command that hinged on phrasing that, he believed at least, was hard to misinterpret. Another drag of the repulsive cigarette as he mulled it over. He didn’t really know what being a familiar entailed, but... “Does this job come with free food and housing?” “Yes?” “Can I get a day off every week to relax?” “Two days, but on call?” While Chad was speaking to him, his eyes were on the examiners, now a considerable distance away. He saw one of them mouth, “What the fuck?” Ah, they figured out what kiddo had gotten himself into. He felt kind of bad for the kid but smiled at the group’s discomfort. He had a strong distaste for authority figures. “Sounds good to me, kiddo!” He clapped and smoke blew from his nose. “Yeah, don’t call me kiddo.” Vincent raised his hands, fingers tracing complicated sigils in the air, and with a flourish, completed the ceremony. “Chadwick Digsby, the binding is complete!” “Nice. Hey, I could use a shower and a new shirt, if that’s cool.” Chad looked down and gave the circle another kick. This time the lines scattered like normal sand. The ceremony finally over, Vincent could finally feel the strain it had put on him. He was drenched in sweat and wobbled back from his small personal circle. He rubbed at his eyes and muttered, “I feel sleepy.” Then, pitched over onto the grass, passed out. Chad cackled and some of the other potential students started running across the lawn in various directions. The examiners looked horrified, but they were now surrounded by powerful beings from realities far beyond this one. His favorite was the willowy looking one with a pixie. The whole effect was adorable, seething, but adorable. “You know, he didn’t say I had to let any of you live,” he growled, dramatically waving his cigarette around. They all stood there a moment, line of professional mages and a lone man in sweats. Then, Chad tossed his cigarette aside. “Naw, I’m just kidding.” He bent down and hefted up the kid. “Who wants to give us a tour?” He wiggled an unconscious Vincent mockingly at the lot of them. The one with the pixie stepped forward, muttering under her breath, “My salary isn’t high enough to deal with this kind of shit.” She gave him a venomous smile and waved her hand in the direction of the campus, “Let me show you to the dorms.” Then, abruptly turning away from him with a scowl, she stomped across the lawn. “Rad,” and he followed after, looking forward to the kid’s body count. He didn’t see any reason he would be there otherwise. He was a “cleaner” after all.

The sun was coming up. Lisa and Paul had officially been up all night. Long nights were nothing new to theatre students especially when the shows were being put on. There is always some type of celebration for opening night: Dinner somewhere. Maybe a get-together at someone’s place. Something to celebrate the payoff for the weeks of rehearsing and making sure everything was done right. Everyone is on edge when going down to the wire. Everyone’s tired. Everyone’s punchy. Lisa was certainly both of those. Between her classes, her job, and this show, she had enough to handle. This was only the first night of a show that was scheduled to run for two weeks. She wasn’t sure how it exactly happened, but she and Paul were sitting next to each other at dinner. They were in a class together but, other than that, they didn’t know each other. Paul had been assigned to props. Lisa was Stage Manager. They crossed paths a couple of times during run-throughs and performances. Paul showed up and did what he was told. Lisa showed up and had to deal with all of the problems that came with being a Stage Manager. That was how it happened. Lisa was venting about having to deal with everyone’s problems in addition to her own. Lisa was the one who had it together and it would be helpful if someone else could have it together, too. The first scheduled show went off and it was a success. You couldn’t tell it was a train wreck behind the stage. That’s where Lisa came in. She was the one who was able to hold everything together long enough for the curtain to come down and the audience to leave the auditorium. Then , she could finally let out a sigh of relief and relax. After everyone got to leave the auditorium, Lisa could ease up and stop worrying. Paul was sitting next to her and they started talking. Lisa needed that and she got it. Paul could tell Lisa was not in a good mood despite the feel-good atmosphere at the large table where the cast and crew were congregating for the Opening Night repast. And the last thing Lisa, a 23-year-old senior needed was an 18-year-old freshman. She had seen enough of his kind. Smart-ass know-it-alls who were still living with Mommy and Daddy but somehow know everything. Yes. Paul was a freshman. Yes. He was living with Mom and Dad, but he was also working and putting himself through school. Lisa could appreciate that. She also knew he was the quiet kid who sat in back of the class and noticed the professor’s occasional comments about Paul’s work on a project or the noticeable effort he put into the last test. All it takes is eye contact at just the right moment. Lisa and Paul made that eye contact as she was going on about the challenges she was dealing with and meeting. Paul was born with a sense about him where he knew when someone needed to vent and all they needed was an ear. It would have been very easy for him to make a joke about her complaining and agitate her, but he could tell it was not an easy night for Lisa. So, instead of adding to her agitation like everyone else had been doing all week (Jesus. Lighten up, Patton. We’re going to be alright.”) , Paul decided to sit back and let her blow off some steam. Lisa felt better as the night went on. She was able to talk about things that didn’t involve the show. Paul was glad to do the same. It had been a long week of classes during the day and run-throughs at night. Dinner was good for the body. Conversation was good for the soul. Both people needed both of those things and both wanted to talk some more. Paul agreed to follow Lisa home. He parked behind her, got out of his car and into hers. “I don’t mean to sound forward,” Paul said, “but why are we sitting in a car when your apartment is right there?” Lisa snorted. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. We just met. I have enough problems, now I also have to worry about another guy trying to come home with me?” “That’s not what I meant,” Paul said. “I just meant-” “It’s alright,” Lisa said. “I don’t feel comfortable inviting someone in whom I’ve just met.” “So, how are you doing now?” Paul asked. “You seemed to have a lot on your mind tonight.” “I did,” Lisa said. “And I still do. It’s been a long week.” “It’s been a long week for everyone,” Paul said. “It’s Production Week. Everyone has been dealing with the stress of run-throughs and making sure everything is right for when the curtain goes up.” “Not only that, but there are also the classes we still have to take during the day,” Lisa said. “We need to go to class and do the assignments during whatever time we have between that and the call times for that night’s show. I still need to be at work. I have to pay my rent. No offense, but there’s a lot of things you don’t need to worry about when you’re 18 and living with your parents.” “None taken” Paul said. He knew Lisa was right. Paul was still with Mom and Dad. It was his first semester in college and he wanted to go to this college, not because it was close to home, but because it had a good theatre program and he wanted to study Theatre.” “Look,” Paul said. “I don’t mean to bother you. I just thought we had a good conversation tonight when we were out. You seemed like you needed to get some stuff off your chest and I’m glad I was able to listen to you. If you need to go inside, that’s fine. But if you still want to talk, I’m willing to listen.” “I appreciate that,” Lisa said. “Most guys your age don’t want to just talk, or listen to someone vent. It’s weird, but at the same time, kind of refreshing.” They both smiled. “I guess,” Paul said. “I don’t know. I just don’t say much. I tend to listen to people. Plus, it takes pressure off of you when you don’t know what to say.” “Looks like it’s helpful to both people,” Lisa said. “Four years of college and all I see from freshman is horny guys who are trying to score. They think I’m easy.” “Where did that rumor start?” Paul asked. “From me,” she answered. “I went to high school near here. I was one of those girls who “matured” early. Boobs. No braces. Upperclassmen liked to talk to me, and I liked to talk to them. They had their driver’s licenses and cars. They’d drive me to parties. I’d go with them and get buzzed on beer.” “And that made you easy?” Paul asked. “No,” Lisa explained. “I would fall in with a group of girls and they would be talking about guys. Funny thing about alcohol. It makes you talk... A lot. So, these girls would go on and on about the different guys they had dated. Guys trying to get lucky. Guys thinking they were studs. I would hear these girls talk about the guys and how they think they have such a huge - well you know what guys like to say about themselves.” Paul smiled and said, “Yes. I do.” “Well,” she continued. “Girls talk about the guys and if a guy pisses her off she’ll talk about how it’s not so huge. In fact, it’s rather small .” Paul laughed and said, “Ouch!” “So, anyway, a guy brings me to a party. I have a couple of beers because I’m at a party and that’s what you do at parties. He takes me upstairs and we fool around. I thought that was what you did at parties. He’s a good-looking guy. The beers make him a little better looking. And we start making out and it gets hot. I didn’t have sex with guys right away, but I remember my first time. You always do. He wasn’t exactly my first choice for someone to lose your virginity with, but your first time is always weird. “So, that was it,” Lisa said. “Word got around that I liked to sleep with guys, and I did; Especially the older guys. I went to parties, drank, and fooled around. As I got older, the guys I dated had moved on to college. Some of them went here. There are more parties in college than in high school.” “I figured,” Paul said. He was thinking of Lisa being in a bedroom. She was an attractive woman. Paul was thinking about a chance to be in a woman’s apartment. She already said no, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about it. “Well,” Lisa said. “I noticed something at the college parties. “There are different types of people there. You notice that. You see there are people who aren’t going anywhere with their life. There are people who partied in college and don’t know how to do anything else. They’re older than the rest of the group and they stick out in an awkward way. There are people who slide by. You can do that in college but only for so long. You can’t go far doing that in the real world.” “So, you saw that?” Paul asked. “Yes, I did,” Lisa said. “I saw people at parties more often than I saw them in class. I saw people who were going nowhere with their life. People who didn’t or couldn’t grow up. I didn’t want that. I wanted to do something with my life, not be some burnout who couldn’t go beyond college parties and not know how to do anything but drink until you can’t see straight, “So, I didn’t go to the parties as often. Guys tried to take me, but I said, ‘No.’ I went to class. I studied. I got good grades. Next thing I know, I make the Dean’s List. After that, I was getting grants and scholarships. Soon I’m not paying for school. I get a job and I make enough money to move out. I’m graduating next year. No student loans. I already have a place. I’m going to start looking for a job. I’m going to get out of college with no debt, money saved, and a job lined up. Guys in college still hit on me, but I say, ‘No,’ and go home at the end of the night.” Lisa’s phone buzzed. She picked it up and smiled. “That’s my alarm,” she said. “I’m supposed to be getting up now.” She laughed. “Listen, I really enjoyed talking to you, Paul, but I need to change my clothes and put some deodorant on. I have a class in an hour.” “Okay,” Paul said. “I’ll see you tonight.” He got out of her car and walked to the campus where his car was. He drove home to get his books for the day’s classes and stopped for a coffee on his way back to school. Later in the day, he had a class with Lisa. Lisa didn’t notice him, she was too busy talking to someone, but he could see the look on her face. It was a face that was craving sleep. He was back at the auditorium that night for the performance. He noticed Lisa as she did her job that night. There was a party following the show. Lisa was going. Paul made sure he was going. At the party, Lisa found herself stuck with a guy who was talking loudly and thinking what he had to say was pretty impressive. The guy made eye contact with Paul and motioned for him to join them. “Come over, young man,” he said. “Let me tell you about our department.” Paul looked at Lisa, who rolled her eyes. The man, John, started to share his knowledge of the department and the school. Only when he wanted another beer did he leave them. “Who was that?” Paul asked. “That’s John,” Lisa said. “He’s supposed to graduate this year. He’s been trying to hook up with me ever since we met.” She yawned. “I need to get out of here before he comes back.” “Can I walk with you?” Paul asked. “Sure.” The two left the party. “How are you feeling?” Paul asked. “Exhausted,” Lisa said. “I’m going to sleep like the dead tonight. Thank God I don’t need to be in so early for the next show.” “I’m sorry I kept you up,” Paul said. “I lost track of time.” “We both did,” Lisa said. The two continued to Lisa’s apartment. On the way, they talked some more. Paul told her about his high school and what he liked about college. He told her about the other classes he had and what he was hoping to do in the next semester, which wasn’t far off. Lisa offered him advice, especially about the teachers within their department. Before long, they reached Lisa’s apartment. “Well,” she said, “It was nice to speak to you tonight. Maybe some time I could buy you a coffee to show my appreciation.” “Tell you what,” Paul said. “I’ll buy the coffee. You bring a nip of Kahlua for me to show your appreciation.” Lisa laughed and said good night. Paul walked to his car. It was late, but he wanted to take a ride and unwind from the classes and the show. There was a route Paul liked to take. It ran along a lake he always liked to walk along. There was a parking lot on one side of it. He pulled into the lot and turned off the ignition. There was a full moon. The light of the moon gave enough light. Paul could see the parking lot around him. It had been a long day. Two days, actually; with a sleepless night between them. Why didn’t he just go home? Because home didn’t have this view. Besides, he wasn’t going to be there long. He just wanted some time to be by himself and this was a place he had always liked. He thought about Lisa and the talk they had. The moon was high above him, reflecting off the lake, as Paul nodded off to sleep.

“You may be able to kill me but you’ll never stop me. Mark my words, I’ll come back and search for as long as I have to until I find you, and when I do, you’ll wish you never did this to me OR to my family.” Rosalind King is seen from the streets, dangling from the roof of the building like a picture hanging from a tattered string. The crowd below stares in fear as they watch her slowly slip, inch by inch until finally Roz lets go, barreling to the ground. There’s a scream. Everything goes black. Taryn Wheeler practically throws herself out of bed when she is jolted awake, panting and disoriented from the horrible dream she was having. It was just a dream. She thinks to herself. Taryn gets up and hops in the shower, itching to wash off the sweat dripping from her brow. When she gets out it’s 7:00am. School starts in an hour and a half. She runs down the stairs, greeting her little brother, Luke, as she passes him on the staircase. “Morning, hon.” “Morning Mom,” Taryn says back, “What’s for breakfast?” She sits down at the table where a plate of eggs, bacon and toast sits already prepared. She scoffs it down, then grabs her backpack and heads out the door towards Cottage Street to her bus stop. “Sky!” She calls as Skylar Larkin walks up the road towards their stop. Skylar runs up to her. “Hey! Did you get my text last night?” Taryn asks. “Yes, oh my god! Gage frickin’ Pierce?” Skylar screeches. “I know, can you believe it? He’s so cute and he wants me , Taryn Wheeler to go to the dance with him! I need to find a dress! Wanna come with me after school?” “Duh! Can your mom drop us off?” Skylar asks. “Yeah!” “Cool! Can’t wait.” The bus picks them up at 10:10. Once they arrive, they go to their lockers to grab their books for homeroom and each head their separate ways. They’re both in grade 11 and 16-years-old. They go to Lester B. Pearson Secondary in a town called Foxdale. Tare-Bear<3: omg he’s totally staring @ me Queen Skyxoxo: Gage? stop it Tare-Bear<3: seriously!!! wut do I do? Queen Skyxoxo: idk? smile? Tare-Bear<3: he just looked away Queen Skyxoxo: :( Five hours later. Taryn and Skylar have their last period of the day together. They walk into the classroom and sit at their desks, situated directly next to each other. “Oh my god, class straight up sucks without you!” Taryn exclaims. “I know, right? Everyone in my first four classes is so lame!” “If you ladies don’t mind, I might begin my class.” Says Mister Reid, interrupting their conversation. The girls respond in unison, “Sorry Mister read.” When class ends, Taryn calls her mom to ask for a ride to the mall. “She’s on her way.” Taryn says to Skylar. “Alright.” Skylar responds. When they get to the mall they head straight for their favourite dress store, Ritchies. Taryn hurries through the store picking up multiple dresses before heading to the changeroom to try them all on. The girls have to wait at the host table for someone to unlock a changeroom for Taryn to use. Minutes later, a girl dressed in a black ankle-length dress comes around the corner to answer the ring. She has brown hair and big green eyes. She was only about a foot away from the girls when something visibly changed in Taryn’s demeanor. Skylar looked at Taryn with worry, “Tare? Tare-Bear? Ar-are you okay?” Taryn didn’t respond but instead, in the blink of an eye and with no forewarning at all she leapt over the host table and on top of the girl. Taryn’s hands were around the girl’s neck and there was something evil in her eyes. Before Skylar had even realized what was happening Taryn was strangling the stranger. “Taryn!” Skylar called running towards the girls flailing around on the ground. She grabbed Taryn’s shoulders and tried pulling her off but she couldn’t. This was not Taryn, at least not the one Skylar had accompanied to the mall a mere 20 minutes ago. “You’ll pay for what you did to my parents. They were crushed when they found out I was gone. I saw it, I felt it.” The sound came from Taryn’s mouth, but it did not come from her. It was distorted and angry and it terrified Skylar. The stranger’s face was turning purple now and Skylar knew that if she didn’t stop this, this girl would die. She screamed, “TARYN! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, YOU’RE GOING TO KILL HER!” With one strenuous yank, Skylar had managed to get Taryn off and once she was up, she ran. Skylar followed as Taryn ran outside and down the street until finally, she collapsed on the front lawn of someone’s house. She fell unconscious. Skylar sat on the lawn until Taryn came to and when she did, she was visibly exhausted. Her brows were furrowed and she was breathing heavily. “W-What just happened?” She asked. Skylar was shocked, “Do you really not remember?” She stares at Taryn expectantly. When she doesn’t respond Skylar says, “Taryn, you just strangled a stranger in there. If I hadn’t gotten you off of her, she’d be dead. How could you not remember something like that?” Taryn goes silent now. She pulls out her phone and texts her mom. The ride home was silent like the night. When Taryn got home, she went straight up to her room, threw on her headphones and laid in bed until she fell asleep. “Have you got my shit?” Asks a young boy. “Depends. How much have you got?” Roz demands. The boy looks around carefully before pulling a wad of cash out of his pocket. “Hundred and fifty.” He says. “That’ll get you a gram of pot, only.” “I was hoping for more than just pot.” He says. “Not my problem, this shit ain’t free. Take it or leave it.” Reluctantly, the boy hands Roz the cash. “Now fuck off.” Roz says, shoeing him away with her hands. Taryn springs up in her bed as the sound of her alarm scares her back to consciousness. 7:00am. Time to get up. She checks her phone for any texts from Skylar. There’s none. She sighs. On her way down the stairs this morning she doesn’t greet Luke as he runs up the stairs past her. He puts his hand up for a high-five, Taryn ignores it. “Morning, hon.” Her mom says joyfully. “Hi Mom.” Taryn pushes the words out as if it takes all of what little energy she has left. “You look down, sweetheart. Are you feeling okay?” “Not really; I slept awful.” Taryn says. “Did you have another dream?” “Yeah, but this one wasn’t scary. Just weird.” “Wanna talk about it?” “No thanks.” Taryn takes one bite of her toast before standing up and leaving the house for her bus stop. “I hope your day gets better, baby!” Her Mom calls after her while she’s heading down the street. Taryn is standing at the bus stop with her arms folded when she sees Skylar heading towards her. She doesn’t call for her this time. She tilts her head down as if to hide from her best friend, afraid of what she’ll say. She grows more and more nervous the closer Skylar gets, but to Taryn’s surprise, Skylar greets her happily. “Hey, girl!” She says. “Hey...” Taryn responds carefully. “How are you feeling today, Tare-Bear?” “Uhm, alright, I guess. Sorry about yesterday.” Taryn says slowly, chewing on each word before she spits them out. How bizarre? She thinks to herself. As if apologizing for almost strangling a stranger to death at the mall is something that happens as frequently as bumping into someone while walking through a busy hallway. There’s a moment of silence. The bus pulls up. The girls sit next to each other at the back and Taryn pulls out her phone. She’s expecting this car ride to be as silent as the last one the two had together. “It’s okay.” Skylar says. “I’m not sure what happened yesterday, but I know it wasn’t you. You seemed really messed up about it. Maybe you should see a doctor.” “What, and admit to trying to strangle someone? I’ll go to jail, Sky.” “Juvie, actually. You’d go to juvie.” Skylar teases, smiling shyly afterwards, testing the turbulent waters. Taryn giggles. “I get it if you don’t wanna see a doctor, but at least consider it. Something could be wrong.” “I think something is wrong.” Taryn pauses, “Don’t tell anyone this, but I’ve been having these dreams.” “What dreams?” Skylar prods. “Well, dreams about a girl; around our age. Her name is Roz, I think. At least that’s what people keep calling her in my dreams. It started yesterday morning. She was hanging from Town Hall and she threatened this girl standing above her but like, to the side, not directly above her. And then she falls. I woke up just before she hit the ground but I was seeing everything from like, her perspective, I guess? So, it felt like I was falling.” “Did the girl push her?” Skylar asks. “No, it was someone else, a man. And then last night, I dreamt about Roz again. She was selling drugs, I think, to a boy around our age as well.” “16 and buying and selling drugs?” Skylar asks doubtfully. “I know it sounds crazy but yes. And then Roz brought the money home to her parents and everybody got a cut. It was almost as if her parents told her to sell them, or at least knew she was doing it and were like, okay with it...” Taryn trailed off, her eyes shifted and Skylar could see she was zoning out. She snaps her fingers in front of Taryn’s face. “Taryn?” She asks. Taryn shakes her head as she re-focusses. “Hmm? Oh, sorry.” The bus arrives at their school and the girls head to class. Queen Skyxoxo: SOS. meet me in the stairwell by Corado’s class NOW. “Can I go to the bathroom?” Taryn asks her teacher. Tare-Bear<3: omw “Look at this.” Skylar holds out her phone. It’s an article and the title reads: 16-YEAR-OLD FALLS TO DEATH FROM FOXDALE’S TOWN HALL; CITY-WIDE MAN-HUNT FOR CULPRIT UNDERWAY What does this mean? She asks herself. “Where did you find this?” Taryn demands. “I was curious about your dreams so I searched “roz pushed from top of building foxdale” on Google and this article was the first thing that came up.” “So, I’ve been dreaming about a real person who was really murdered?” Taryn asks in shock. “Seems that way.” “Well, what does this mean? Why is it happening to me?” Skylar doesn’t answer, she appears to be consumed in her phone. “Sky?” Taryn asks again. “Oh my god. Look.” Skylar holds up her phone once more, but this time there is a picture of two girls. Taryn recognizes the first as Roz. The second girl has brown hair and big green eyes. “Is this Roz?” Skylar asks. “Yeah, and that’s the girl from Ritchies. The one I...” “Holy shit.” Says Skylar. Taryn gulps. “Wait a second, at the store when you were on top of that girl, you said something. Well, you didn’t really say it --” “What do you mean?” Taryn interrupts. “Well, like, they weren’t words exactly, they were more like sounds, it didn’t sound like you. It didn’t sound like a human. ” “But did you understand it?” Taryn begs. “Yeah, you said something about her doing something to your parents. And something about how you were “gone”.” Skylar air-quoted the word “gone”. “My parents? What does this have to do with them?” Taryn asks. “Not your parents, Taryn. Rosalind’s parents.” Skylar says. “What does all this mean?” Taryn asks. “I think we’d better go find that girl from Ritchies.” Skylar says. The girls decide to leave school, skipping the rest of the day. They head to Ritchies to see if they can find the girl from Taryn’s dream. When they get there, they don’t see her, but she must not have told anyone about what happened because nobody stopped the girls from going in. They went up to the clerk and described the girl from Taryn’s dream. They had to lie and tell the clerk that they were related to the girl just to get her phone number. But it worked. 2895550199: Hi, this is gonna sound crazy but I need ur help. My name is Taryn, and I tried to hurt u at Ritchies yesterday. I’m sorry about that but u need to understand that it wasn’t me. It has something to do with Rosalind King. Call me. Thx. The girls waited. Minutes later, Taryn’s phone rang. “It’s her.” Taryn says. She answers the phone, “He-hello?” “Is this Taryn?” Answers a female voice on the other line. “Yes. What’s your name?” “It’s Jayda. Can you come over?” “What’s your address?” Taryn asks. “And I’m bringing my friend, the one who was with me at Ritchies.” “Okay. It’s 12 The Boulevard, Foxdale. See you soon.” The girls catch the bus to The Boulevard and walk to Jayda’s house from the stop. When they get there, Jayda answers the door. She invites the girls inside. Jayda and Skylar sit on the couch and Taryn sits on a chair to the side. Jayda looks to be the same age but if she lives with her parents, they’re not home. Jayda doesn’t waste a second. She turns to Taryn and asks, “What do you know about Roz King?” Taryn begins to explain the dreams she was having and how ever since attacking Jayda at Ritchies she hasn’t been feeling like herself. “Wait a second. Are you trying to tell me that you’re like, possessed or something?” Jayda asks in a frustrated voice. “Well, how else do you explain this? I’m just trying to figure out why, if not because I’m possessed, am I having dreams about Roz and attacking people I’ve never met before while simultaneously giving you shit for “what you did”,” Taryn does air quotes, “to my parents?” Jayda stares off somewhere for a minute. Taryn and Skylar look at each other while she thinks. “Jayda, can you please tell us how you knew Rosalind?” Skylar asks. “Well, I met her in grade nine. We instantly became best friends. We did everything together. But one day, I heard about an incident, I guess you could call it, at school where Roz had apparently been selling drugs to kids and splitting the profit with her parents. It was so messed up. I tried telling her what she was doing was wrong, but she wouldn’t listen. It seemed like that lifestyle was sort of sucking her in, and I didn’t want to be a part of it, so I told my parents. But then they called the cops, and like a day later CPS came and took Roz away, sent her parents to prison. Roz was crushed, but more, she was angry at me for telling on her.” “What happened to her then?” Skylar asks. “I don’t know, foster care, I think. She stopped showing up to school. But sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of scratching on my window, but when I’d get up to see what it was, nothing was there.” Skylar listened intently; Taryn didn’t say anything. “One day, we ran into each other on the sidewalk outside of Town Hall, she was in a hurry. I tried talking to her but she didn’t say anything. Instead, she just ran inside the building and up the stairs until she got to the roof. I followed her. The whole way up I heard fast footsteps behind me, like someone was chasing after us, or maybe Roz. When I got to the roof I flung open the door and jumped behind a wall to wait and see if someone came after me. I didn’t see Roz. A man came through the door. I watched him walk out onto the roof and approach the side of the building. He started talking to someone, and it wasn’t until then that I realized Roz had tried hiding from the man by hanging from the roof. I guess she thought he would leave when he couldn’t see her so she could pull herself back up. It didn’t happen that way.” Skylar was hanging by a string now, “What happened?” She asks. “The man stepped on her fingers until Roz let go of the building, and she fell. I heard everybody below screaming and crying, yelling for 911, and then the man turned around and ran back down the stairs. They never found him.” As Jayda finished her story she teared up, Skylar felt her pain, but when she turned to look at Taryn, her sadness changed to fear. Skylar watched as her best friend contorted into something supernatural. Her clothes tore, her face darkened, she grew two feet and her shoulder blades poked so far out of her back that it looked like Taryn’s skin would rip. Skylar covered her ears as Taryn opened her mouth and the cry of a banshee rang out so loud it was deafening. Skylar fled, but the couch they were sitting on flipped from the force of Skylar’s flee to the front door. Jayda got stuck underneath it. Taryn lunged for Jayda, sinking sharp, yellow nails into the skin atop her shoulders. Jayda screamed and Skylar broke for the door. She covered her ears once again as the sound of a predator ripping through the live body of its prey filled the room, followed by the smell of decay which came so immediately that Skylar knew whatever was happening behind her as she raced for the door, was something she would never forget.

Absence Makes The Heart Grow Shallower ‘It's better to be the best version of yourself, then being the second best version of somebody else’ What does that really mean. How do I know if I'm the best version of myself? You could say as long as I'm happy but really, I can't be happy 24/7. So when I am sad, am I not the best I can be? When I'm anything but happy am I not enough? As I write this and as you read this. We are total strangers. You have no idea who I am. I have no idea who you are. But I can tell you before you start reading, I'm so totally in love with you. -- -- -- You know the saying ‘you can read someone like a book’? Well, that's exactly what you are doing right now. You are reading me...a book. Am I trapped in a book? Like some Harry Potter type thing. No, I'm not trapped. I can leave whenever I want. I can stop writing whenever I want. But why would i? If I stop writing, then you stop reading and that means I wont get to see your face looking into mine. I wont see your eyes darting from one word to the next. But I know I have to. You have to move on. You have to find someone, someone real. Knowing that these words will be my last to you makes me ache over every inch of my body. I want to keep writing, even if it's complete nonsense but if I really do love you, which I do, I have to let you go. It's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. I’m so grateful for the days I spent with you. When you brought me to meet your grandparents. Yes, I may have been in your pocket but I got to hear the voices of the people you treasure just as much as I treasure you. Maybe I'll see you someday. I know exactly what you look like, of course. I studied your face everyday so I could remember every detail of it. Sometimes you would come back to me looking a bit different. Like when you dyed your hair. I will never forget you or how you look. You may forget me but at least for however long you kept reading me, you remembered me. My dreams may be empty without you but I don't want you worrying about me being alone. As long as I have you with me in memory, I will never be alone. -- -- -- I know I need to let you go but this is so much harder than I imagined. I just needed to tell you that you made me the best version of myself, and I'm not happy all the time. I finally understand what the quote means. The best version of yourself is when you are so totally and completely fine with not being happy all the time, not pleasing everyone all the time. Thank you for teaching me this. Although you never said anything to me, I heard you louder than ever. You understood me in a way no one will ever be able to. No words, nothing but silence but as we both know very well, silence speaks louder than words. So even though we didn't use our voices to talk, we were probably the loudest people on planet earth. We were like those people on the dart that don't use earphones or don't wait to answer the call when they've left the carriage. We were so silent that my throat is sore from being as loud as we were. -- -- -- I saw you today. The urge I felt to hug you or just exchange an ‘excuse me’ while walking past you but you looked me dead in the eyes and saw right through me, like I wasn't there. And that's when I realised that I forgot I wasn't really there. People aren't able to see me, that's why I was trapped in a book, because I'm not capable of physically being in the outside world. I'm a ghost. I am dead. I thought I would never get a chance at love because I didn't experience it before I died. But here I am the most in love I could ever be and I'm talking to the love of my life... or if you can call it the love of my death. -- -- -- I know I'm not meant to talk to you but I find myself even more drawn to you than ever these days, if that's possible. As I write this I'm starting to think that you may not love me back. It makes sense. I got to learn about you inside and out but you just learned how infatuated I was with you. You don't truly know me, you never will. It's heartbreaking to feel this way, that you will never love me back. It almost feels like I'm dying again. Death from heartbreak seems like a sad way to die (again) but at least I got to experience heartbreak. Another thing I never thought I could do. -- -- -- People say ‘you see things through your thoughts’ kind of like the saying ‘you can speak things into existence. But no matter how many times I think about you or how many times I say your name, you don't appear. I'm getting frustrated now. Why can't I see you, why can't you love me like I love you? Please, just one moment of love from you will complete me. I might be able to leave this place if you give me the chance to complete myself. -- -- -- I don't want you to appear anymore. I loved you and still love you more than existence and I get nothing from you. Another quote for you; ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’. This absence is making me long for you more, so much more that I'm nearly starting to hate you for not being here with me. Hold me while I cry, while I die and while I long to go back to the days I would see your head peer over my pages.. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, maybe, but it also makes it grow shallower. -- -- -- I may have been too late. Too late to love you. Too late that you didn't love me back. But, I guess it's ‘Better late than never’.

“Can you keep a secret?”, whispered the lady in his ears. She was dressed in a shimmering little backless black dress with high boot heels and wore rosy pink lipstick and let her short hair loose dangling over the back of her neck and pinned on the left. He had his eyes on her from the moment he saw her at the bar counter early that night. At first, it seemed to him that she was with a group of friends, but he later realized that she was by herself and just hanging around with some young boys and girls. It was Friday night and the crowd could not have been more than this. Sly Bar is his go-to over the weekends with colleagues but today was just not the day he wanted to hang out with his usual buddies. In fact, he ditched them and his usual hangout spot just so that he could spend some time on his own. He made his way to The Secret Alehouse for sheer reasons of not having to encounter known faces; after the video of his infamous tussle with his boss over the overdue promotion went viral in the entire office, he was sceptical of his friends and foe! After all, it was his most trusted friend at work who shot and circulated the video. He was in an unsettled state of mind and tried avoiding anyone and everyone. The lady’s words startled him, his thoughts started to go haywire, “perhaps she has seen the video too”, “is she here to mock me too?”, “Oh Gosh No. I should not have come here tonight.”, he thought to himself and before he could gather his thoughts right, the lady sat on the stool next to her and apologized, “I am so sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you - This is Zoe and you?” He was still cautious, but Zoe’s pretty smile started to make him feel a bit comfortable. “Daya,” he answered. Although the music was excruciatingly loud yet there was this awkward silence between them until Zoe tried breaking some more ice when she uttered, “Haven’t seen you before here”. “Yeah, I live on the other side of town and there are quite many pubs on that side of town so I barely hang out here. In fact, it is my first time to the Alehouse. You seem to be a regular, aren’t you? “asked Daya. “Absolutely, The Secret Ale is my favourite Friday nightspot, and I live nearby so I can just walk down without having to bother about a ride. But what brings you all alone here tonight. Are you waiting for someone?”, enquired Zoe again! “Oh no, not waiting for anyone, just wanted to spend some time alone, “explained Daya. “Alone? Huh, break up?” curiously questioned Zoe. “No, nothing like that,” Daya tried to brush off. “Okk! Looks like you aren’t comfortable talking about it, so I leave it up to you. If you would like you may buy me a drink”, smirked Zoe! “Oh yeah, sure! I am so sorry I didn’t even ask, “apologized Daya. Daya turned to the guy across the counter and said, “Excuse me! Could you suggest and get us the drink for the day?” “For you sir or the lady?” inquired the bartender. “One of each for us?”, answered Daya. “Sure Sir, let me get you our special”, replied the bartender. “Thank you “, acknowledged Daya. “Impressed!” Exclaimed Zoe, “So what do you do?” “I am an architect with a construction company, what about you?” “Oh, I am a freelance writer currently working on a story for one of the popular monthly magazines and looking for some inspirations around for an interesting story! answered Zoe, “you never know, maybe you gonna be the inspiration for my next protagonist! “chuckled Zoe. They soon got quite comfortable with each other and Daya no longer felt that he was meeting Zoe for the first time. After a couple of rounds of drinks, they moved to the more formal dining section of the resto-pub with an outer sitting arrangement away from the loud music inside. They were both drunk and Daya could not help but try his best to keep the night as long as possible. It wasn’t long before he started talking about his family whom he hadn’t seen in about 2 years since he moved to the city, about his not so lively life in the city, his well-paying job but his horrible boss who choose to give his girlfriend a promotion instead of him although him being the most deserving one and how it got him into a scuffle with his boss over the same which left his boss with a broken nose and arm, eventually getting Daya arrested and stay behind the bars for 2 whole nights until the police found a phone recording from the boss’ office, “Of course darling! You are the one getting the promotion to the senior architect! and business partner” telling his girlfriend, over the phone. Daya was planning to use this evidence to file a lawsuit against discrimination and abuse of power & conflict of interest in promoting his girlfriend but he had to cut a deal with the boss who in turn dropped all charges against Daya for the scuffle and Daya chose to let go the lawsuit, but only this time. It was a win-win for both. “That turned out not so bad after all! I can imagine you breaking his nose in front of the whole office”, exclaimed Zoe. “Ah, It was a satisfying moment but ah, I don’t want to talk about it anymore, I got into enough trouble for it already!”, Daya continued after a pause, “looks like I am doing all the talking,“ concluded Daya. He was all too excited and overjoyed on the turn of events and seemed to have already fallen for Zoe. “I am just too famished right now, shall we order something to eat,” replied Zoe. Daya addressed the waiter and placed an order for some quick bites. The meal was hearty over-filling and before they knew it was already midnight, they realized it when the waiter came to the table to enquire if they would like to order anything as it was the last set of orders to be taken by the kitchen before they call it a day. “No thanks”, called out Zoe. “Cheque Please!” added Daya. “Let’s split,” proposed Zoe. “No Way! I am grateful for this lovely evening, it was my pleasure, let me do the honours”, expressed Daya! Zoe couldn’t help but blush. Daya swiped his card on the payment machine and walked out of the pub with his newfound crush. “Gosh, I need to book in a cab, drinking to the other side of town wouldn’t be a safe thing to do, Do you usually have cabs available in this area at this hour?”, enquired Daya. “Yeah, but my condo is just around the corner, if you don’t mind, we can walk over and you can leave first thing in the morning, “suggested Zoe. “what if I don’t want to leave?”, flirted Daya, “Hahhaha..by the way I got my car parked in the next lane, do you have parking available near your condo? “Oh yes, absolutely, let’s go” While walking down the dark lane right before the car, Zoe suddenly leaned over Daya and started to kiss him, he was baffled but gave in and soon it turned into a passionate moment. “get into the car”, commanded Zoe, taking a break from their passionate canoodling. They hopped on to the backseat and started to caress each other - both were wildly turned on and the effect of alcohol was visible. Zoe brought her lips closer to his ears and whispered in a chilling tone, “Can you keep a secret?” Suddenly a flashback of the evening started to play over Daya’s mind which was a couple of hours but replayed over within just over a couple of seconds and he recalled that was the first thing she asked him at the pub. “yes, what’s the secret?”, urged Daya curiously. “I am a serial killer!” declared Zoe, before bursting into a peal of hysterical laughter. Before Daya could collect his thoughts, Zoe pulled out a sharp bend pin from the back of her hair and slashed his left carotid artery and before he knew what had just happened to him, he lay there dead. “Now it’s a little secret between us,” whispered Zoe in the ears of dead Daya, She straightened her dress and strode away into the dark lanes.

Chapter 8 New Tools Mrs. Zacharias screamed in horror as she swatted at the wasp with a fly swatter that was buzzing her as it continued trying to land on her. I snickered to myself as I commanded my small minion to make laps around the classroom causing the ones around the flying creature to cower in fear. I glanced at the clock and saw it was almost lunchtime and decided to end the fun. I commanded the wasp to fly towards Mrs. Zacharias once and she made many excellent vain attempts at swatting my beast from the air, but I commanded more magic into it making its reflexes that much faster. It evaded all her attempts to strike it down and landed on her right leg and stung her once, twice, three times and she let out a scream of pain and crushed my little minion on her leg with her hand. I cut off the connection of magic with a flick of my wrist not caring if I had to find another soldier to replace it, I smiled to myself. Piss me off or do something I do not like, and I will punish you. The bell rang for lunch and some of the class seemed to be controlled more by their stomachs than fear and leaped out of their chairs and bumbled there way towards the door trying to be first in line to be out the door, others still cowered in fear looking around the room possibly expecting another flying beast to come after them next. I joined the first ones in line not wanting to be associated with the weak even if it was only for my own ego. Mrs. Zacharias rubbed at her leg sucking in air between her teeth and picked up the now defeated creature with a tissue and put it in the garbage. With now more than half of the class lining up at the door the ones that were still nervous headed towards the line like the sheep they were and joined us at the end of the line. Mrs. Zacharias made her way towards the front of the line and escorted us all to the cafeteria I smiled with satisfaction at my successful vengeance. Two hills of mash potatoes that kept their shape even when picked up by my hands were put onto one of the squares on my blue tray, while the other squares were filled with bland vegetables steamed for too long shedding their natural flavor leaving them with a bland after taste. It reminded me of the food that was given out to the soldiers in my homeworld the stuff that was not meant to please your tastebuds but instead was meant to give you energy for the tasks ahead. I decorated the two hills with the vegetables out of boredom as I listened to the kids at my table talk about the new games they got or what they planned on doing after school. I watched as other kids from other tables flicked vegetables across the table at each other with their forks, blowing straw wrappers at each other and squeezing individual corn pieces between their fingers squirting the juice at one another and getting a loud giggle from one another. My eyes glanced over the rest of the tables until one almost empty table grabbed my attention. The brown-haired girl that unknowingly showed me magick exists in this world sat at the table alone eating a cold lunch. It was not the girl that caught my attention but rather what she was eating. I picked up my tray and walked over to her table. “Chicken legs for lunch looks tasty,” I said setting down my tray across from her. “Why are you here by yourself?” She paused midbite. “All the other girls want to play barbies and all the boys want to play soldiers.” She said with a frown and put her chicken leg back in the blue bag and reached for something in her pocket. She pulled out a deck of cards with intricate designs on the back of them. “Tarot cards!” I said with a bit of excitement everything now falling into place on why she was the only one that I had seen so far that could gather energy around her. She is so young yet already telling fortunes I thought my mind thinking of ways I could use her abilities to my advantage. Then I became greatly confused with what happened next. “Tarot cards?” She made a puzzled expression and laid out a few of the cards each having cartoon pictures on them. “These are my GO-GO Monsters.” She said with excitement and continued to lay more out for me to see. One of the cards had the title Fairy Queen Awakening and showed a human with butterfly wings holding a wand out smiling towards me with small print below and two stars on the upper right-hand corner. There were other cards such as Blazing Sword of the Fae, Knights of the Shadows, King of the Butterflies, and many more ridiculous titles. The only ones that even vaguely interested me were the pictures of skeletons with swords charging and zombies rising from the dirt those were interesting for about two seconds but the novelty wore off quickly for me and I went back to what I originally came to the table for. “Yes, those are quite interesting but, I was-” She cut me off and started to ramble on about a certain card and talked about how rare it was a blah-blah-blah. “Yes, that’s fascinating but-” Again I was cut off and my nerves began to wear thin as I heard her rattle on some more about other cards and how this one was her favorite and how pretty it was. The bell rang and the lunch lord told us all it was time to put our trays away and head to our groups to go to class. God's black hands, I was tired of getting nowhere fast and I decided enough was enough. “I want those chicken legs girl,” I said in a demanding voice no longer playing games. She scrunched up her nose. “Why, do you want my chicken legs? We throw these away in the trash when we're done.” “Well, then I will throw them away for you so give the ones your done with here now.” “No!” She said in a defying tone of voice and started to take her cards and lunch off the table. I snatched one of the cards she kept jabbering on about and held it hostage. Her eyes widened. “Give that back!” She said and reached for it. I yanked it out of her reach and snarled I will destroy your precious card if you don’t give me those chicken bones. She flung the chicken bones at me bouncing them off my chest and I gave her back the card. He got up from her seat sniffled and rubbed at her eyes and put her cards back in her pocket and left with her lunch bag. I picked up the chicken bones she flung at me and was annoyed there were only three. The lunch lord began to walk towards me with a disapproving look on her face and I quickly pretended not to notice and made my way away from her in a hurried motion. “Mr. Weust! Where do you think you’re going!” She said in an authoritarian voice. I did not look back I just ran across the hall to the left around a corner to the boy’s bathroom. I looked around for the best hiding place for my new found tools and only spotted the toilets, a sink, and a trash can. I ran to the trash can moved it slightly away from the wall and hid the chicken bones behind it and put the trash can back against the wall. I heard the door swing open and snapped my head towards it seeing the deep frown on the lunch lords face. “What are you doing Mr.” “I-uh I have a stomachache and had to use the bathroom.” “Why aren’t you in the stall then.” Good question I thought and couldn’t think of an answer in time before she grabbed my hand. “Let’s go Mr. we are going to talk with the principal.” I looked back towards my hiding place as my feet squeaked on the floor as they slid towards my doom. Well at least my tools will be safe I thought, and Victor whispered in my mind. “Should I kill her master?” My eyes widened slightly as I realized the contract between us had grown strong enough for us to communicate non vocally. “No.” I said back in my head back at him. “no reason to I feel no blood lust in this woman, she’s just going to be a thorn in my side. Besides, I don’t want to waste the energy I have other plans on how to spend my energy. “But I need a body.” Victor said in an annoyed voice. “How am I to protect you with all my power without a physical body?” “O shut it.

When I was 16 I broke a broom handle in shop class. I was an awkward sophomore that shopped at thrift stores and dressed like a 70 year old man. Different for the sake of different. My nights were spent staying up late watching Cowboy Bebop, Outlaw Star, and Trigun. I think Adult Swim shaped who I am today, or maybe it was a culture or a muse I innately knew. When Adult Swim was over it was bedtime. Time to shut my eyes and let my mind run its marathon of everything that has, does, and will bother me. Waking up was suffering. Groggy, disheveled, and red eyed i would walk into my first class of the day, shop class. My shop teacher, a short porky man who was a bit different. He once called me into the backroom of the shop and asked "Adam have you been partaking before coming into my classes? It's your life to do what you want i just need to know because it's a safety concern." "Partaking?" I inquired. "Have you been smoking marijuana before coming into my classes?" he clarified. Now I had never partook and I made that clear but when I was telling my classmate who sat beside me he chuckled "That's so funny cuz I come into this class baked every morning and he has never asked me." Looking back I might see why he suspected me of this. Once I was holding a piece of oak wood up to the light to see which way the grain pattern was running so I could miter the board in the correct manner. As I was doing this I noticed the shop teacher staring at me strangely. I do wonder if he believed I saw the grain pattern moving about the board and changing colors. And of course there was me stumbling into class half awake looking as if someone had just used a fine tipped red sharpie to draw on my sclera. As we were cleaning up at the end of a class I was using the wide dusting broom. I had put the sawdust into a neat pile and went to shake the remaining dust out of the shammy when the wooden handle split in two, the ends of both resembling a stake. I stood incredulously with two halves of a broom and turned to the nearest student to inquire if he had witnessed this spectacle. I told him what happened hoping he might vouch for me and he most helpfully replied "I didn't see it happen". Now granted this was just a broom stick but as the janitor put it "25 years in janitorial service and I have never seen a one inch wooden dowel snapped like that". My teacher likewise seemed quite dubious of my story but having no proof of misconduct he let the whole thing go. The next class of the day was English with Mr. Perry. Mr. Perry didn't really teach. Though he did once instruct us to stop telling people that he didn't teach. Class would begin with a What's New? segment. Students would take turns telling about something, anything new. The first student raised his hand "Adam broke a broom in shop class". The class half-laughed. Mr Perry directed me to explain myself and immediately began to reject my story, lecturing "Things don't just break for no reason something must have happened so tell us what happened." I repeated my story and he shook his head and moved on to the next student. Years later I found out one of my classmates used to sell Marijuana to Mr. Perry. Mr. Perry definitely partook. I had a friend in shop class, Mike. He was the one who ratted me out during What's New?. Mike and I had a great time together as we were both comfortably weird. Once Mike caught a fly and kept it as a pet inside his clear Bic pen. He had ripped its wings off so it couldn't fly away. I wonder now if Mike had some abandonment issues. Of all people I thought would believe me it would have to be Mike. When I sought validation of my story from him he replied "It's just a broom your not gonna get in trouble why don't you just tell us what happened." It was at the moment I felt crushed and alone and I knew no one would ever believe me. Now this situation was quite innocent but it makes a person wonder what one would do if the situation was not as such. It's a strange feeling to be the only person who knows what happened and have no one believe you. Your story is strange, improbable, too simple and yet it's true and no one will ever believe you. Sit in that dark dank corner you liar and don't come out until you are ready to tell the truth. The truth? The truth you say! I will tell you the truth. The truth is that I am the only person that will ever know what happened to that broom.

Memories came rushing towards me as I thought about it more. The choice, the effort, the risks. Was I ready to take the chance? “You’ve got to be kidding me!” my best friend Finn said when I brought up the idea, “You’re going to die! Everyone always has! There hasn’t been a person who actually completed all the games since before we were born!” “Well, I’ll be the first,” I said, trying to make myself feel a little bit better. “Whatever,” Finn said as he rolled his eyes, “There’s the mailbox. Go put your application in there.” I walked over to the mailbox and dropped my application letter in. I watched as I threw my life away to participate in a competition. As I expected, not many people had signed up. Why would they? “So, what do we do now?” Finn asked as I came back towards him. “I don’t know? Go get some ice cream and wait for tomorrow, I guess.” The next day came by quicker than expected. By the time Finn and I got home, it was already well past midnight. “I’ll tell you the news in the morning,” I told Finn while grabbing the unique gold and red-letter lying in the mailbox. The applications always came precisely at midnight on July 12th. I sat down at the table and carefully opened the sparkly letter, trying not to rip any part of it. I pulled out the cream-colored paper inside, unfolded it, and laid it down on my marble countertop. It read: Dear Mr. Blake Champ, We have reviewed your application and made a decision based on it. The Board of the Games has decided that you would make a great contestant in the Million Dollar Games, and we cannot wait to meet you at the Games Central today at 5 pm sharp. Don’t be late, Ashley Darwin From The Board of the Games I knew I would make it, but some part of me wished I hadn’t. I rushed over to Finn’s house, forgetting I was supposed to tell him the next morning. When I arrived at his home, I walked up the stairs to his porch and knocked on his door. When he opened it, out came a disgusted looking Finn, in his pajamas. “What are you doing? You’re shirtless, look like you’ve been running, and it’s one am,” Finn said, very concerned for his friend. “Well, I-,” I started. “Wait, why are you shirtless?? That’s just creepy, man!” Finn interrupted. “I didn’t have-,” I tried to say again. “It’s one am!!!” Finn interrupted once again. “I GOT INTO THE COMPETITION AND I HAD TO LET YOU KNOW!” I yelled fast so he wouldn’t interrupt me again. “Oh. Didn’t you say you would tell me in the morning?” Finn asked, wiping his eyes. “Oh yeah. I forgot.” “Oh, then congrats! See you when you win and return! Goodnight!” Finn said, almost falling asleep. “Yeah, goodnight,” I said as I started to run back to my house. In the afternoon, I packed up my bags to go to the Games Central. I packed a couple of grey underwear pairs, a couple of t-shirts and shorts, some deodorant, a toothbrush, toothpaste, soap and conditioner, some money, and my yellow racecar phone. I then took my purple leather suitcase, took it downstairs, turned off all the lights, and headed for the bus stop. I knew by watching the games each year; I was looking for a particular lime and purple bus with the words Million Dollar Games embedded on them. After about 30 minutes, the bus arrived carrying nine other contestants. Inside, one thing was shared between most of them. They were all panicking, except this one girl. This one girl was sitting on a bus seat all alone in the back of the bus. She was short, with red curly hair and freckles. She has little round black glasses and a button nose. She looked around my age and was wearing a white t-shirt, a grey cardigan, light blue ripped jeans, and some white vans. I walked over to the seat on the other side of the aisle and sat down. “Hi!” she said with a soft, gentle voice, giving me a little wave, “I’m Olivia.” “Hi, I’m Blake,” I said, having no idea what else to say. “So, are you excited about the games? My parents told me that the games have this good screen screen effect to make it look like we are dying. Isn’t that cool?” Olivia said as she started to stare out the window. “Yeah, yeah, I hope so, I’ve wanted to do these since I was a child. Dangerous things always seemed to appeal to me.” “Oh, that’s cool!” Olivia said as she smiled a little bit. When we got to the Games Central and opened the large glass doors, we walked into a room with foam pits and all workout equipment types. Standing in the corner of the lime and black rubber floored room stood a middle-aged woman with a brown clipboard and a black pen. She was wearing a pink workout bra and some black workout leggings. With a loud, booming voice, she said, “Okay! Listen up, guys! This is your first training day for the first game tomorrow. You will need to take it seriously, or some of you will die. The challenge tomorrow is the ground challenge. It is the easiest, so if you guys train today, I don’t expect any of you to die tomorrow. Tomorrow you will be placed in a rapidly sinking quicksand hole. You will be surrounded by a very slippery mud and have one tree root to grab on to. When you get out, you will sit in the small room corner until everyone is finished. You will be practicing over here,” as she pointed to a small workout spot on the left filled with human-sized holes and ropes attached to the wall, “and we will be training for an hour. After training, you will go straight to the room and go to bed so you can be well-rested for tomorrow.” The training went by quickly, and before you knew it, it was time to go to bed. As I turned off the lights, I couldn’t help but think about what tomorrow might bring. When I woke up to the alarm buzzing loudly, it took me a second to realize what was about to be happening. Today was the day. Today was the day I would overcome the first challenge, the easiest challenge, and be safe for the next day. I wondered how many people would die because of this game and how many people would be injured. I would not have thought many people would die because our trainer said no one should. We would have to see what the day brings. I got up, put on a black t-shirt and some blue shorts, and headed to the small rooms. Near the ooms stood people who were checking off names and assigning people to rooms. When I saw Olivia, she looked very nervous but not as nervous as the people around her. They were all shaking. I gave Olivia a quick wave before I was pushed into a room called Ground A-1. I looked around the room, and I saw a wooden platform in the corner of the room. I believed this was where we were supposed to stand after the games. There was some yellow sand lying in the middle of the room and shiny brown mud surrounding it. There was a camera in every corner of the room to show on television to a worldwide audience. After about 5 minutes of standing in the room, I heard a loud booming voice coming from a hidden speaker inside of the room, “Welcome to the 125th annual Million Dollar Games! Today is the ground game. The contestants will stand in the middle of the room, ait until their waist is fully emerged into the quicksand pit, and will then begin to get themselves out of it. This is a test or strength and knowledge. Now contestants, please make your way over to the quicksand pit and stand there. Good luck to everyone!” I made my way to the sandpit taking a deep breath in and out, and waited for my waist to be entirely under the sand. When I looked around, I saw the tree branch near the left-hand side of the room. I tried to grab it, but I continued to sink deeper. I started to panic, moving around frantically, and realizing that only made me fall faster. The yellow sand was seeping into my wide-open mouth as I tried to lay flat on my stomach. I started to float, taking deep breaths as I came back up towards the top. From there, I laid on my belly and reached for the tree branch. I grabbed hold of it, hands holding onto the splintering wood as I begin to pull myself towards the wall. I scrambled up onto the mud, one foot behind the other, almost slipping head-first back into the sandpit as I carefully made my way to the wooden platform. As I sat there, watching the cameras disconnect one by one, I heard the drums’ beating and the speaker man saying, “Kai Ju,” letting us all know he suffocated under the sand. A shiver ran down my spine as I realized signing up was a mistake, and I should’ve listened to Finn when he told me not to, but it was too late now. When the game was finished, I ran over to my friend Olivia, who was crying with her face and clothes covered with sand and mud. “I fell back in,” she cried, “I slipped off the mud and went head-first back into the sand. I almost died!” “Shh, it’s going to be okay. It’s all over, no more sandpits for you,” I said, trying to comfort her. I was not ready for the next game at all. Two days later was the air challenge. I woke up again to a calmer alarm in my small room with blue and white polka-dots pasted around my room, in the back of the Central. I got up, put on an old black t-shirt and some ripped jeans. I looked outside the curtained window, seeing the sky began to lighten with all shades of purple, orange, red, and yellow and started to yawn. I opened the door to go to the new room. I watched as the other contestants rubbed their eyes and trudged out of their rooms. I caught up to Olivia, and we walked the long path together, talking about what was going to happen in a couple minutes. When we arrived, our trainer was standing at the door with a clipboard. One by one, we all filed into the vast room, made to look like three different biomes. There was a desert, a marsh, and an arctic type place. Cameras were all places around the wall again, and microphones above them. On the ceiling, many powerful fans were waiting to be turned on. After everyone was filed in, we heard the booming voice once more “Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the second game of the year, the Air Challenge!! Today our contestants will face a powerful tornado and try to survive. They will use the different biomes to their advantage while trying not to be thrown anywhere they could injure them. The games will end in 30 minutes. Now I hope everyone’s ready because the games are about to start! Ready, set, begin!” The big fans started to turn on at high speed, and the leaves were beginning to move around in circles. Everyone, including me, ran to different corners of the biomed room, escaping the middle, where the tornado would soon form. People begin to find hiding spots around the room as the tornado started to make its way to the desert area. The tornado picked people up and threw them across the room, making them land in all sorts of places. Soon enough, the tornado made its way to where I was standing. I started to run as fast as I could in the opposite direction, but its reach was too much. It pulled me up and away and threw me inside of a cold pond in the arctic biome. Olivia soon came after me, making a big splash in the cold pond. We swam over to where we could stand and stood there as the tornado made its way across the other biomes. Thirty minutes passed, and the fans stopped abruptly. The tornado grew smaller and smaller as we all made our way to the door. We passed bloody bodies where someone had been thrown against a big rock. One of them I recognized to be a girl named Sophia Gardenwell. Olivia and I were both freezing as we made it back to our rooms to take a warm shower and eat lunch. The fire challenge was on its way. Closer than ever. I woke up at about noon on a Saturday by the bright sun shining through my curtains. The games would not start for another hour, so I headed over to eat some lunch. After that, I headed to the training facility to make sure my grip was on point. I climbed up the ladder and jumped on the rope, swinging back and forth over the foam pit. I moved around to jump to the solid side and land on all two legs and two arms, like a cat. At about 12:50, I started to make my way to the new room, knocking at Olivia’s room first. “Olivia! Open up! We have to go, or we’ll be late,” I said as I pounded on the door. “I’m coming!” she said as she opened the wooden door. She looked like she had been crying. “What’s wrong?” “I- I don’t want to do this anymore. It’s too dangerous. They sugarcoated it for me, saying that the dangerous things were photoshopped on, and no one actually died. I don’t want to die. I don’t want it to be real. I want to go back home safe and sound,” she said as she started to cry again. “Look, we’ll ask our trainer if you can disqualify yourself, okay? Let’s get through this one challenge first, okay? You’ll do great. I promise.” This challenge was going to be a quick one. All you would have to do is swing over a rope over a burning fire. After you are done, you can exit the room. The booming voice started to talk again, making me nervous, “Welcome to the third challenge of the Million Dollar Games. This one is the favorite among the viewers because of the fire aspect. Today, the contestants will one by one swing across this firey pit and try to make it to the other side! This is a test of strength and grip. Good luck!” The first one in line was Olivia. She grabbed the white rope, with her feet still on the surface, and jumped off, giving a large swinging motion to the other side. She jumped at the top of her swing, landing safely on the other side. A couple minutes later, it was my turn, and I did the same thing. After the game was over, only three more contestants, Olivia, me, and someone named Oscar Goins, were still alive. Olivia and I made our way up to the trainer to ask if Olivia could leave the competition. “Excuse me. Olivia was wondering if she could take herself out of the competition. It’s too much for her, and she would like to leave,” I said, not knowing what the trainer would say. She looked at Olivia and me up and down and then said with a smirk, “Well, what’s the fun in that? Back to your rooms kids, and get ready for tomorrow’s training.” Neither of us knew what to say. Neither of us wanted to compete anymore and was not ready for the last game, which is always the hardest. There would be no peaceful sleeping. Today the day. Probably the last day of my life. I was so frightened. I got up out of bed and looked around. I put on a backward t-shirt and some inside out pants as I made my way closer to the swimming area. I waited for Olivia by the training facility, and when we got there, we both shared our feelings on the upcoming competition. The booming voice was heard around the room, “Welcome to the last game of the year! The three contestants are Blake Champ, Olivia Ohia, and Oscar Goin. Today, you will be locked up in a swimming area and will have to find the clear key and unlock the gates with a tiny air hole that will be covered sometimes. The first contestant will be Blake Champ. Good luck” Olivia looked at me with tears in her eyes, patted my back, and croaked a “Good luck” before closing her eyes, so she wouldn’t have to watch. I looked at the swimming area and took a deep breath. This was it. This was the moment of truth. I just had to unlock the gates, that’s all. I walked into the swimming pool and watched as they locked me up. I then began searching for the hidden key. I swam around, feeling the water around my ears, and then I saw it at the very bottom in the corner. I swam to it as my ears started to hurt, my eyes are getting red, and I needed air. I stopped for a minute and stared at the closed breathing hole and continued to swim down, and down, while my eyesight became to get darker and darker, and my arms felt like noodles. I heard the drums beat twice. Olivia screamed, “NO! BLAKE!!” And then... And then I woke up.

Herb Goes Hermit Herb peered over the top of his cubicle, mesmerized by the agonizingly slow movement of the minute hand on the clock at the far side of the room. In his one lone, exhilarating act of defiance, he had tossed his watch into the waste basket in the company cafeteria years ago. Everything else in his life was constraining and suffocating. As illusory as it was, Herb could at least imagine he was freed from the bonds of time. Time. 34 years = 408 months = 1,768 weeks =12,410 days = 297,840 hours = 17,870,400 minutes. The last 20 minutes would be the most painful for Herb- anxiety soars as the moment approaches. In twenty minutes Herb would walk out that door for the last time, liberated from the mind-numbing, torturous tasks he had so long endured. Herb hated his job, but not quite as much as he hated his boss and his coworkers. Punching out at the end of another miserable day at work brought little relief as he also hated his neighbors, their noisy, bratty kids, and their incessantly barking dogs. He was particularly burdened by old man Johnson’s rooster which faithfully announced the arrival of every new day a half hour before sunrise. The feelings were mutual. Herb’s going away party would be held the week after he left. Kids forfeited their baseball whenever a foul ball sailed over his fence. Conspirator theorists might even have suggested the dogs and the rooster, even though situated on opposite sides of Herb’s property, were running a tag-team operation designed to drive poor Herb, in layman’s terms, “woo-woo”. There was no salvaging Herb’s relationship with the rest of the world. Twenty minutes. Each jump of the minute hand took forever as Herb’s mind bounced back and forth from the scourge of his painful past to the peaceful, soothing, serene thoughts of the wondrous future that loomed just over the horizon. He had it all planned out. Walt had Disneyland; Michael had Neverland; Dolly had Dollywood; Herb would have his Herbville. Having no friends, no interests, and no pleasures, Herb stashed away a small fortune during his working years. As such, he was well positioned to acquire his Shangri-La, his Camelot, his Promised Land- a one-room cabin on a remote 50-acre parcel in the Montana Rockies. The nearest sign of civilization was the aging town of Butte, affectionately referred to by the locals, and by some phonetically challenged visitors, as “Butt”. With the mindset of a junior accountant, Herb had meticulously prepared for his great escape- a small wood-burning stove, stockpiles of firewood, flintstones, oil lamps, oil, tin cutlery, hunting and fishing equipment, and a moderate supply of bomb shelter-style food rations in case his hunting and fishing efforts proved inadequate. He made one concession for the sake of a possible medical emergency- a cell phone and a solar-powered charger. Herb and his hideaway cabin in the wilderness would be a self-contained unit; he had no further need of anyone or anything. Good riddance, world. Herb hatched his plan five years ago, right after he got a new, even more intolerable boss at work, and his canine-loving neighbor brought home two rescue German Shepherds that added volume and consistency to the cacophonous nightly bark-a-thon. He found his little piece of paradise in an ad in Wilderness Living Magazine, and he spent all of his vacation time making the place ready for the move. Herb supplemented his very limited survival skills with books and Internet searches. With his remarkable lack of commitment to the task, the workday provided ample opportunity for Herb to research life in the wild. He even picked up a few helpful tidbits by streaming a little Rambo online. Herb was as prepared as any unprepared guy could be for wilderness living. At 5:00 PM Herb was out the door faster than a kid heading for summer vacation. He drove straight through, Minneapolis to Butte. His final stop was Big Bertha’s General Store on the outskirts of Butte- “Everything You Need Under One Roof, And More.” By this time in the process, Herb had befriended the young man behind the counter. “Today’s the big day, Seth. I just filled up with gas, you know, in case of some kind of medical emergency. And I’ll need a few more cases of beer. Could you throw them in the truck?” “Will do, Herb. Are you sure you’ve got everything you need?” “This will be as bare bones. I want to live like the early pioneers, free of all the crap society throws at us.” “And what about that pistol I suggested, you know, for those long walks in the woods you talked about? There’s Grizzlies up there, you know.” “No, I’m good.” “And Mountain Lions.” “I’ll be all right.” “And wolves.” “Well, not a Dirty Harry gun, maybe just a little one.” “Grizzlies, Herb.” “Ok, a medium size one.” Herb teared up when he saw the cabin. Sometimes the anticipation far exceeds the actual event, but not in this case. Totally relaxed, at peace, far from all the tribulations society had inflicted upon him for so many years. He was what he had dreamed about for so long, a happy Herb. Hopefully, we will all have that one great moment in time, a defining instant that can be called upon from our lockbox of memories to bring a smile even in the most difficult of times. Herb’s moment was rooted in the crass, the most primitive of actions to be found in the human experience, but nonetheless, it was as glorious an event as one could hope for. Immediately after unpacking the truck, Herb walked out his front door, gazed upon the vast valley below, took a few deep breaths of the crisp, cool air, and peed. Functional and symbolic, the exhilarating feeling of the freedom to do whatever he wanted, as well as an overt expression of his distaste for the world below. When the deed was done, Herb triumphantly raised his arms above his head, Rocky at the top of the steps at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, Ali leaping atop the ropes after Liston failed to answer the bell, Jack declaring he was King of the World at the bow of the Titanic. Oops, maybe you don’t want to go to the Titanic thing, Herb. Quiet. Peace. Nothingness. Herb, the cabin, the mountains, crisp clean air, the moon peaking in and out of wispy white clouds. And no people, no rooster, and no barking dogs. Some pilgrims wander through the wilderness to find salvation; Herb found his in the wilderness. Unfortunately, the body operates on a separate track from the mind. Herb’s state of mental bliss was interrupted by nature’s call. < Warning: The following descriptions may be disturbing for some readers.> No, Herb had already gone pee-pee. Now it was time, as delicately as can be stated, to go... poo-poo. Herb read all about the early pioneers using leaves for...shall we say, cleanup. Herb realized his first miscalculation as he walked through the stand of tall pines toward the outhouse. Pine needles and leaves, similar in purpose when they are on a tree; not so much after they’ve fallen to the ground. Nothing in Herb’s research noted the dearth of leafy trees at higher altitude. Herb’s first visit to his new bathroom was...unpleasant. The splash of stars across the night sky was spectacular. Herb sat on a fallen log, taking it in all in, a heavenly panorama of sheer wonder unknown to those who dwell within the glow of bright city lights. Herb smiled as he snuggled under his quilt. He felt a great sense of relief over all he had left behind, but surprisingly, he had trouble sleeping. He was on edge the whole night as he kept waiting for the disturbing sounds of the barking dogs. And under the spell of some form of subconscious anticipation, Herb awoke the next morning a half hour before sunrise. A sheepish Herb entered Big Bertha’s the next morning. “Herb! What are you doing here?” “ I guess there is one more thing I could use.” “What’s that?” “Toilet paper.” “Ha...ha, ha...ha, ha, ha...” Herb, seeing no humor in the purchase, quickly grabbed voluminous amounts of toilet paper, and headed back to his little piece of paradise. Herb’s seller had boasted of the good fishing in the trout stream that bordered the property, but he (cleverly) neglected to disclose the competition. Even before he wet his line, Herb felt the menacing gaze of the grizzly bear just a hundred yards downstream. His first thought was he didn’t think a bear could be that big. His second thought was the gun sitting on the floor next to bed. Herb hurriedly gathered his gear and left today’s catch to the bear. Meals placed on your table at a restaurant may not look as good as they did in the picture on the menu. Meals pulled out of a box previewed only with written descriptions may appear even less appealing when held in your hand. After a lengthy review of his options, Herb went with the “Black Bean Burger.” Herb felt good about starting his cooking fire in the mode of Daniel Boone. Scritch, scratch, click...scritch, scratch, click...scritch, scratch click. God dammit. Scritch, scratch, click...scritch, scratch, click. You’ve got to be #@*! Kidding me. “Hey, Herb, what do you need?” “Just some matches.” “You came all the way down here just for matches?” “Matches, Seth, matches.” Herb managed to down the Black Bean Burger with the help of a few beers. He couldn’t help but note that tonight would have been pizza delivery night from Felipe’s back home. The prospect of fishing was akin to Herb’s temptation to misbehave in grade school. He had never seen a nun whacking a kid with a ruler, but the reputation for such acts was enough to keep him in line. Likewise, Herb had never seen a man ripped to shreds by a grizzly bear, but recalling such reports was sufficient deterrence to keep him from the stream. Plan B- hunting. As Herb had never done it before, it may have been imprudent for him to rely on taking down big game for his subsistence. Herb figured he should get a little practice in. The guy at the sporting goods store showed him how to load his hunting rifle, but Herb’s hands were shaking as he put the bullets into the killing machine. He stood just 20-30 yards from the target, raised the rifle, aimed, and fired. The shockingly loud bang and the jolt to his shoulder scared him to death. Maybe hunting wasn’t his thing. He could acquire a taste for the bomb shelter food. As nightfall drops in temperature in the mountains can be extreme, Herb tried to limit his outhouse visits to the daylight hours. Going pee-pee wasn’t an issue, as one of the benefits of his new life was he could now pee anywhere. Going...poo-poo...was the problem as Herb’s butt was not accustomed to making contact with freezing cold surfaces. The sound of howling wolves in distance only added to the discomfort of the experience. Boiled potatoes, powdered milk, Black Bean Burgers, crackers. Herb wasn’t a prayerful man, but he was thanking God for beer on a nightly basis. One night he put in a call to Big Bertha’s. “Hey, Seth, does Butte have any pizza joints that would deliver up here?” Short walks through the woods. Even though Herb packed a pistol whenever he strayed far from the cabin, he feared the odds of hitting a wild animal in full attack mode would be slim. He stayed close to home after sundown as the howling wolves in the pitch-black darkness unsettled his nerves. Quiet, then it got even more quiet. Herb had grown tired of debits, credits, reruns of Colombo and Gunsmoke, traffic jams, wait lines at the grocery store, barking dogs, and a crowing rooster. Could he now grow tired of nothing at all? The evergreen branches covered with snow brought extra beauty to the setting, but the cold temperatures created more challenges for Herb. He was making more frequent trips to the wood pile, brushing the snow away, and kicking logs to free them from the pile. Herb moved his bed closer to the old wood burner, and he and his blanket became one. Sometimes the scales are tipped with that proverbial last straw; sometimes it comes with a ton of bricks. Shivering in bed, Herb felt a little something else going on. It was just past midnight, the snow was falling, and a fierce wind was blowing. The last thing Herb wanted to do was make a trip to the outhouse. It is a known fact that the coldest experience in life is a bare butt placed on the ice-cold surface of a seat in an outhouse in winter. Herb will attest to that. As Herb opened the door, ready to race back to the cabin, he saw them approaching, first one, then two, and finally a third. His research was correct- wolves do hunt in packs. Herb slammed the door shut, breathed a sigh of relief, and snuck a peek out the half-moon cut in the door. The wolves were drawing closer. Oh my God, Herb! They know you’re in there. He looked, they were gone. He looked, they were back. They were circling the outhouse. Herb about couldn’t breath. He thought if he stayed perfectly still, they’d leave. And then scratching, clawing at the walls, at the door. It finally occurred to Herb to fasten the small, rusted hook on the door into the eyehook on the door. The hook immediately broke off. Herb grabbed onto the wood slat running across the door and held on for dear life. He couldn’t believe he was being hunted Jaws-style by three freaking animals. The door swung outward so he just had to keep the banging from creating a sliver of an opening for one of the beasts to stick its head through. He once again pictured his pistol resting comfortably on the floor next to his bed. Repeated failed attempts to gain entry seemed to only anger the attackers and intensify their efforts. Growling, snarling, frenzied clawing at the door and walls. Holy crap! One was digging at the base of a wall! The sight of a paw under the wall nearly gave Herb another poo-poo moment. Suddenly quiet. He prayed the wolves had left. But even if they had, would he have the nerve, the courage, the requisite speed and energy to make a run back to the cabin? Herb looked out the half-moon cut in the door. The wolves had not left. They were lying down just 10 feet from the door, their fur flecked with snow and flickering in the wind. All eyes were on the outhouse. Herb was under siege. He began to tire. He sat down on the floor, never releasing his grip on the wooden slat. Herb was so terrified he didn’t notice the drop in his body’s core temperature. He had only thrown on a pullover sweatshirt for what should have been a quick trip to the outhouse. He now wished he had researched just how long a body could survive sub-freezing temperatures. He recalled one interesting and hopefully helpful hint from his research. When confronted by a dangerous animal, a mountain lion, a bear, or perhaps a dog, make yourself look big...and scary. The tactic seemed risky to Herb, but he could feel his joints tightening up, and his fingers getting numb. He feared freezing to death, and the writer of the article had impressive credentials. He’d give it a shot. Herb stood up and took a look. The wolves were still there. As soon as he opened the door, three heads in unison turned toward Herb. He raised his hands high and let out a primordial scream. Unfortunately for Herb, the wolves had not read the same article, and snarling, growling, and flashing their teeth, they charged at Herb. They hit the door just after Herb managed to get it closed. Herb assumed his sitting position, holding onto that life-saving slat, and fought to stay awake, struggling to survive. Throughout the night, he drifted in and out of consciousness. Strange thoughts, dreams, nightmares, and hallucinations, visited poor Herb. He wished his outhouse were built of stone rather than wood, recoiled in horror as “Two-Socks” turned on Kevin Costner and went for his jugular, and saw himself as Little Red Riding Hood running through the woods. All the while his body temperature continued to drop. Irony. A rooster. Did a rooster somehow appear in the area? Or was it part of his mind flipping around haphazardly from the cold and lack of sleep? They say some people dream in color; maybe Herb dreamed in sound. Either way, it was the morning crowing of a rooster that awakened Herb that day and saved his life. The wolves weren’t in sight, and Herb understood that to stay was to die. Arms and legs grudgingly cooperating with the hazy signals being sent from his barely functioning brain, Herb rose, pushed the door open, and trudged through the snow to his cabin. He hurriedly threw on some warmer clothes, grabbed the keys to the truck, and after a long, wistful look at the cabin, he was headed down the mountain. Herb stumbled Frankenstein-like into Big Bertha’s, disheveled hair and eyebrows covered with frost, his jacket buttoned unevenly, a fur hat tilting sideways on his head. He had the look of a crazed man. “Jesus Christ, Herb, what happened to you?!” “Nothing. I just had a bad night.” “I guess. Are you ok?” “Yeah, I’m ok.” “What do you need?” “Nothing. I was just wondering if you knew anyone who wanted to buy a cabin in the mountains.”

A gray reef fans on the edge of the eastern horizon. Cobalt blue mixed with midnight. An hour until the first fingers of sunlight. An hour back I quit twisting in the bed sheets. Wouldn’t do any good to fall asleep at 4am. Four is a time to relieve yourself and duck back under the covers for another REM cycle before the world starts calling. That’s for the people who can sleep. For those that can’t, it’s a time to surrender and roll outta there. I don’t sleep much lately. You, only when the medication works. The tea kettle sings. Miniature choo-choo . White vapor condenses on the window above the sink. Violet veins of frost dissipate on the pane of glass where the wooden edges meet. I pour the piping liquid into a quench cup and inhale the aroma of liberated caffeine. I put it to my lips for a microsecond. For that wakeup singe. Your mother is still in bed but Lucy’s risen with me. Good, old girl. I put down slip-free runners in the kitchen and living room for her - hardwood floors are tough on twelve year-old hindlegs. She nudges the back of my knee with her wet nose; it’s breakfast time. I pour kibble in her dish with a spurt of hot water from the faucet. Life is short. I roll up a piece of bologna and toss that in too. Her head bobs happily in the bowl. I pull on a heavy flannel and make for the garage. We had you before we were married, but not too long before. We weren’t prepared, not in the least, but I wasn’t worried. Your mother and I were competent people. The world, for how much it says it loves children, is perpetually short on individuals that love them enough to teach them when they don’t know any better. Your mom, she loved kids even before you arrived. So that’s what she did - taught first-grade daisies up the road on Landry street while her belly swelled with you. Always said that’s why you’re such an avid reader and a talented writer. Because you were reading even before you were born. I kept the books at the supermarket in Ashton and studied for my credential. I passed the test but I liked the business and people more than I did burying my nose in the numbers. They gave me a shot managing and I excelled. Our little grocery acquired the minnows, mom-and-pops who were retiring but wanted it to go to good hands. But then the sharks came for us. The regional business I grew was swallowed by a national chain. Some sad stories here and there, but they mostly did right by us and by-and-large my checks got bigger. And it’s just groceries. Never could understand a man that called a business his child. Well, I guess it never was mine anyway. Freezing in the garage. Nothing subtle about November’s in New Hampshire. Everything still dark. I strike the light switch and the fluorescent tubes overhead sputter to life. I sip the cup of Earl Grey once more and begin to assemble. Bright hazard orange vests hanging above the work bench. Yellow stripes along the shoulders. I took you duck hunting when you were six years old with my buddy Ian. Just to ride in the truck and make the silly calls with us. My dad took me when I was about that age. I remember it fondly. Cold New England air. Dad letting me help pack the hunting kit, the gloves and the vests and the boots. The pop, pop, pop of the pellets exploding from the shotguns. Stalking through the growth to find the downed ducks. I burst into the house that night with four dressed birds tied up in a game bag. I couldn’t wait to show your grandma. I thought maybe it’d be the same for you. It wasn’t though, was it? Man. That flock took flight in the twilight and Ian and I sprayed and a few came plummeting down. We had Boyd back then before Lucy and when he lumbered back with one in his jaws and set it at our feet, boy did you have a meltdown. You couldn’t stand the sight of it, couldn’t look at the poor thing. You cried in my arms and peeked under my armpit and when you saw it still lying on the ground fresh wailing waves rolled out of you. You asked if we could save it. “We can’t save him buddy.” You pounded my chest with your two little fists, hot tears turned angry. “Then you shouldn’t have shot him.” I had Ian dress the thing away from you and we packed it in early. You wouldn’t say a word the whole ride home, didn’t even leap when I asked if you wanted to stop for a soft serve. Mom asked how it went when we got home. “Daddy killed a bird.” That was all you said. Christ it’s messy in here. Useless junk accumulated over the years. Bikes hanging from the ceiling, trembling from the draft sneaking under the poorly insulated door. Two ancient sleds on the wall, the metal runners far too sharp for children but that’s exactly who they were for. Tools in disarray. An armoire with a gash in the oak near its iron handle. Three enormous bins stacked on top of one another. Masking tape labels, undifferentiated, that say simply “outdoors”. I steady a stool and step onto its shaky surface. I unstack the boxes and my lower spine groans. It was a Sunday I took you duck hunting with me. Mom was in the kitchen fixing you a peanut butter sandwich the next morning, pregnant with your sister, Grace, belly protruding like a bowling ball. I packed it into a brown paper bag while she licked the knife and said I’d take you to school myself. Told her some white lie about getting time off her feet and she should take it easy and have a bath and I’d even pick you up from school at the end of the day. She was skeptical, certainly aware that something was amiss, but offers of solitary hours were far-between and the prospect of a warm bath too enticing to turn down. I called the school from the garage and let them know you’d be home sick for the day. I shuffled you into the truck and you were still pouting but I kept a straight face and only let myself grin when I pulled you out and we weren’t in the parking lot of the elementary but rather my favorite stream in Willow state park where the trout get fat in the Fall. “I’ve got something to show you.” Your eyes two moons. In my hands a fishing rod, a line, and a bright red spinner lure. The only thing brighter: your smile stretched ear-to-ear. The fluorescent tubes hum overhead. One flickers but stubbornly perseveres. Here we go. Rubber boots and waders. Tangled lines from past excursions. A tacklebox with all the bait and a landing net as well. I click the tacklebox open and organize things a bit. Vests and rain coats I put in the cab of the truck, boots and waders and rods go in the bed. I spread the cover over the back and rest on the stool. Lucy wanders in and rests her head on my lap. “We’ll try the first few together, okay? So here’s what we do: rock once, rock twice, and then we toss in a straight line, stop with the rod, we follow through, and then once it’s in the water we reel her in slow.” I demonstrated once on my own. Then I stood behind you, showed you how to grip. We rocked together, my hands on your forearms. “One rock, two, then....toss!” The lure flew twenty feet and landed with a tiny splash. “Alright, now bring it back with the reel. Slow, like you’re winding a toy.” You reeled. I patted you on the back, proud. “That was great Adam! Do you wanna try the next one on your - No opportunity to finish. In the stream there was a massive leap. A rainbow trout glinting in the sun, it attacked the bait. How the rod stayed in your hands I will never know because that fish gave a great big jerk on the line but still it wasn’t enough to tug away from you. I hung on with you and we reeled with all our might. It thrashed and twisted violently. “Grab the net Adam! Grab it!” You relinquished the rod and held the net giggling like a mad man. When there was no line left to reel, I dumped him sideways. You held him high like a prize. I can hear tinkering in the house now. Lucy plods out to discover who is up. Your elation becomes near-instant terror. “The hook is stuck in his mouth! He’s going to die! Dad, get it out! Get it out!” Your grand prize has morphed into a grenade. You drop it on the loose sediment of the shore and turn your back to it, hands in your eyes. “Easy, easy.” Your back still turned to me, palms stemming tears. “Look”. You turn to see. With small pliers I bend the lure that has twisted into a tangled snare. The metal hook complies, then it comes free. The trout writhes. I grab him and hold him steady with two hands. Your sobbing has stopped. “Come here, son. Touch him.” You take a few timid steps. Your eyes swollen and red looking into mine. Then, with three fingers, you touch him just below the fin. A smile on your face. I feel your nervous system exhale. “Now what?” You ask. A wood pecker hammers away high above. “Now, we put him back.” We place him in the water together and his dorsal roars to life. A large splunk as he motors away. I turn off the garage lights and return to the kitchen. First light is illuminating. My breaths are tiny clouds in its radiance. “Hey, son.” “Hey, dad.” Your mother and I were blindsided when you enlisted. It was never on our radar. I suppose neither were two jets barreling into the twin towers. Patriotic fever in those days. Our little community and those adjacent sent a lot of young boys to the middle east. Your mother, distraught, tortured with grief. Her special little guy. “Smart boys don’t go to war Adam. People with any type of future don’t go to the desert to shoot other scared, lost boys.” You calm and understanding. “I’m not going to shoot anyone mom. I’m going to take care of scared boys who have taken bullets themselves.” “Please”, she sobbed. “Please don’t do this.” But there was no convincing you, and no matter how frightened I was for you I was also immensely proud. Eighteen months later you were in Fallujah. Ten months on the ground. You tore shrapnel out of infantry muscles. Applied pressure to wounds you knew were fatal, carmine splotches seeping through sheet after sheet of heavy gauze. Made tourniquets for limbs blown to bits by roadside IED’s, jagged bone fragments poking through skin, tibia chiclets lost in the dirt. And then an IED came for you. “I was thinking about taking a drive this morning.” You’re pouring coffee. Rose quartz light invading the kitchen. “How about it? Wanna come with?” Your eyes are buried in the back of your skull. Dark bags beneath the sockets. “I don’t know dad. I haven’t slept at all.” I give you a sheepish smile. “Ditto.” You smile back. “Sure.” An emergency evacuation. A life-saving surgery that amputates above the right knee. Your eyes in Germany, groggy, in-and-out of consciousness. Your mother and I terrorized, gasping for news back home. A complicating infection and a resulting fever that wouldn’t quit. Two days of silence. Finally, a phone call. You were going to make it. Nine more surgeries to follow over the next two years. Physical therapy and insomnia. Night terrors. At four o’clock I was up this morning. At two you were screaming murder in your bed. Endless pharmacology. Pills for pain. Pills for PTSD. Pills for insomnia and night terrors and anxiety. You, fading away. Your personality an infrequent visitor I rarely glimpse. That’s something I could never say out loud. The leaves are all down. A galaxy of colors a month ago. Now it’s all rotting on the coniferous floor. Brilliance comes and goes. A psychiatric review and mandated six months at the V.A. clinic when a character in the novel you’re writing embarks on a mass shooting. They changed your dosage. I removed anything with a firing pin from the property to be safe. I believe you that it’s fiction. The tires rumble on the gravel road. Forty-one degrees on the dashboard. It’s warmed up. The trailhead is barely visible. Overgrown brush and branches swoop over its demarcation reclaiming the flagging efforts of an underfunded forest service. I park on the side of the road and get to unloading all of the gear. “It’s freezing dad.” I give him a playful bump on the shoulder. “C’mon, just a few casts.” We wade into the current and alternate lines. Silence is good conversation for now. Cathartic. Birdsongs chorus down upon us. Time slips away. “Hey dad.” “Hmm?” “You remember when I caught that trout when I was a little kid?” “I do.” A deer guides her fawn on the opposite shore. “Dad.” “Hmm?” You pause. “Will things ever be the same again?” The fawn and the mother are gone. “Ya know son, I don’t know if they ever will.” A splash on the end of your line. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t make ourselves new.”

[This story contains sex, violence, abuse and swearing] “The joke’s on you.” “The joke is on you all.” “I’m not fucking around. Things are going to be different around here. I’m different. It’s not like it was. It’s never going to be like it was.” “There’s a new clown in town and he’s here to stay!” “I’m The Clown!” HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! OhgodhelpmewhathaveIdone... Mummy? Where are you, Mummy? I miss you so much. Come back. I need you! Mummy? Mummy! * No one knows about his place. Everyone needs a place of their own. Doesn’t matter what they call it or how they choose to dress it up. It’s a lair. Pure and simple. That’s what it is. Not a boudoir or a crash pad or a crib and certainly not a home. Never a home. Home is where the heart is and he was born without a heart. This place was his lair and he wasn’t into sharing, but he had no choice when it came to a certain someone. That certain someone had come along one day and chosen to stay rent free. You could call him a squatter, just as long as you never called him that to his face. Never do that to his face. Or anything else for that matter. He’s a deceptively sensitive soul and he snaps all too easily. You won’t like it when he snaps. Not one bit will you like it. The anonymity and sanctity of this lair was safeguarded in a great many ways. Layer after layer of protection and defence. The lair and him both. * Boris had come into the world in the same way every other soul does. Painfully, red raw and screaming. The transition from the claustrophobic confines of the womb was a shock to the system, more so the cold air that he was forced to breathe in order to survive. There was no going back for Boris, but that never stopped him dreaming of a return to a place that was free from the violence and pain that was a constant throughout his life. Boris was a mistake. Mummy told him as much. That was another constant in his life, Mummy reminding Boris that he was a mistake who got in the way and cramped her style. Her style helped ensnare her clients. Boris loved her style. He always thought her beautiful. Her style paid the bills, but there was never enough money for Boris. Mummy needed that money and Boris owed her more still. It didn’t take long for her to co-opt her clients into helping her punish Boris for his unwanted presence in the single room she rented from one of her clients. At first, the punishment took the form of harsh words. Boris knew no different and the words didn’t hurt all that much really. The problem was that Boris had this bad habit of growing and that enraged Mummy all the more and she shared this rage with some of her regulars. Mummy and client egged each other on and discovered new ways to make their point, punishing Boris in more innovative, but most importantly increasingly painful ways. Cigarette burns were particularly painful, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was when Boris saw a change in Mummy and after that change there was a change in her clients too. Boris became a part of what was on offer. He was a toy that Mummy used to keep her clients entertained. Once she talked to Boris about that change, “I get money for you now, you little shit.” Boris had smiled hopefully. This was a positive development. Mummy needed money and he was keen to help her. He wanted Mummy to be happy. If Mummy was happy then he was happy. “It’s still not enough,” she added, “you ruined me and you ruined my life. It will. Never. Be. Enough. You will never be enough.” Something had imploded within Boris then. You wouldn’t have seen it, even if you had been there to witness and had a program explaining what was going on inside the boy. That made it all the more terrible. The Boris that was, was no more. An important part of that little boy had buckled, bent and then snapped. Nothing would ever be the same again. Only it was. No one noticed any change in Boris at all. They didn’t even notice the ceaseless unending sameness of a boy who was no longer little. Not that they cared. Not his Mummy nor her clients. They neither cared for Boris or themselves. That was the world that Boris grew up in. Unfortunately for those clients, a lack of care also meant a lack of attention. This dulled them and blunted their survival instinct. That would prove costly for them all in the end. Boris may have been bent out of shape and broken, but that suited him fine. From the wreckage he resided within, he understood the world a little more and found ways to cope with it. Mostly he acted. He acted like he was fine and he watched and he waited. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, but he waited all the same. He knew it was important to wait because something was coming, and so he waited until it came along and then everything fell into place. One of Mummy’s clients found violence to be an aphrodisiac, or maybe it was a sort of foreplay. Possibly both. Whatever it was, it worked for him and it paid well for Mummy. One night he was in a particularly savage mood and he beat Boris half to death before straightening up, licking the blood off his bruised knuckles and turning his attention to Mummy. Mummy had watched the show and smiled a genuine and encouraging smile. She had to be into it or it wasn’t going to work for Jimmy. Jimmy worked for the mob and was well connected. Mummy had designs of getting out of this shithole and going some place exotic with Jimmy. Jimmy had other ideas, but he didn’t share those plans with her. He got a bigger and bigger discount while she mooned over him and he liked having that edge, looking forward to the day he would dump her and leave her in a complete mess. He got off on that too. He was a purveyor of pain and he got a buzz out of its effects. As Jimmy was about to start in on the main event he paused and turned around, “stop looking at me kid,” he growled at Boris, “what is it with this kid and the staring?” He shook his head and then seemed to remember something. He reached into the inside pocket of his sharp, pinstripe jacket and pulled out a comic, “here, hide that ugly mug of yours behind this while the grown-ups play.” “Ank oo,” Boris said as he fetched up the comic that had been thrown in his face, it was painful for him to try to speak, but he knew he had to remember his manners, even with a broken jaw. That moment was to change everything. In that moment Boris met The Clown and The Clown met Boris. It wasn’t a match made in heaven, some matches are made elsewhere. * Boris entered his lair at night. Always at night. That was when The Clown came out to play. The Clown danced and played and spread his own brand of cheer in the world. Boris loved The Clown. Except for his Mummy, The Clown was the only other person Boris would ever love. The nature and manner of that love differed markedly and this was not helped by the animosity between the two objects of his love. This was an enduring animosity that had existed from the very get go. Boris always cast his mind back to those early days with The Clown as he took his seat and prepared for the rituals. He talked to The Clown and reminisced and as he went through each and every step and stage of his transformation they would relive their partnership, The Clown chuckling regularly at their exploits. He’d killed Jimmy first. But then, Jimmy had it coming. Jimmy had hurt Mummy, and he’d done it more than once. He’d split her lip, then he’d blacked her eye. It was only going to get worse unless someone stopped it. Boris had talked it over with The Clown. They would wait until Mummy fell unconscious after one glass of gin too many, then they would plot and plan until Boris knew exactly what it was that he needed to do. Only, it wasn’t Boris who killed Jimmy, it was The Clown. Boris was fine with this. The Clown knew what he was doing. The Clown was good at this. It helped that he enjoyed it. “It’s going to be fun! Fun! Fun!” said The Clown gleefully and Boris had smiled. He hoped The Clown was right. He didn’t hold out too much hope though. His life had been a series of disappointments and he found he wasn’t all that bothered with fun anymore. Wasn’t even sure fun existed. Fun sounded like a lie that grown-ups whispered in your ear just before they started hurting you all over again. On the night of Jimmy’s untimely demise, Boris used the make-up he had stolen from Mummy to bring The Clown into the world. There was really only one room in the place where Mummy and Boris lived, but that wasn’t a problem because Mummy had learnt to ignore Boris so completely that she no longer saw him unless she wanted to say something mean or hurt him, and as that was a lucrative deal, she saved that for when there was someone paying for it. Mummy wasn’t in the habit of giving out freebies. Jimmy noticed though. He was half way through taking his snazzy jacket off when he saw the warpaint on Boris’s face, “what’s this?” he said, “it ain’t Halloween for another four months you little freak!” Boris never said a word, but then Boris wasn’t Boris, not anymore. He had been. He’d heard Jimmy well enough, but it was The Clown who responded. It was The Clown who unfurled and showed himself to the world in all his glory for the very first time. The Clown was not little. Freaky maybe, but not little. He stood at his full height and Jimmy’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened in the first expression of fear that Boris had ever witnessed, and Boris was still there, only he was no longer at the controls. He was riding shotgun with The Clown and felt both enraptured and fascinated at what was unfolding before his very eyes. “What the hell...” Jimmy managed to say this as he saw Boris become something he had never seen before. There was something terrible and very wrong about the boy’s face, and Jimmy had seen that face mashed into a grotesquery by his very own hands. The boy had applied make-up in smears and swatches that at first looked like it had rained and he’d dragged his face along a raindrop coated window, but as Jimmy stared at that odd face he saw it pulse and move and something came forth. Something very wrong. Something evil. Something that just did not belong. Not here. Not anywhere. Bravely or stupidly, Jimmy remembered himself and took a step forward to confront the boy and end whatever was happening here. It was an instinct that had served him well and got him noticed and inducted into the mob. Never back down, always get your retaliation in first and do it decisively. Hit the problem hard and keep hitting until it ain’t a problem no more. Jimmy didn’t even get around to raising his hand to Boris. Only it wasn’t Boris. Not anymore. The Clown was the one that wielded the knife that plunged into Jimmy’s guts. Jimmy looked both dumb and stupid in that moment. There was a comical vacancy in his expression as he looked down at the knife handle jutting out of his stomach and then back up into the grinning and gleeful face of The Clown. The Clown barked an odd and clipped piece of laughter, then with his free hand, he encircled Jimmy’s waist, pulled him closer and danced a perfect waltz. Throwing Jimmy around like a weightless ragdoll. DAH! DA! DAH! DA! DAAAH! The Clown sang a wordless tune as he danced with Jimmy, a tune that was completely out of step with their dance, and at the end of Jimmy’s final waltz, The Clown took a half step back and with a theatrical flourish he brought the knife up through the middle of Jimmy with inhuman strength, gutting him like the proverbial fish, and just like that fish, Jimmy made sad little gulping movements with his mouth, blood dribbling down his chin in pathetic little pulses. The Clown leant in to Jimmy’s mouth as though Jimmy was imparting the most important of secrets. “What’s that?” “I can’t hear you, Jimmy!” “Speak up, man! We’re all friends here!” But Jimmy collapsed to the floor to a chorus of The Clown’s laughter. He’d never solve a problem with his fists again. “What did you do? What did you do? What did you do? What did you do? What...” Mummy was stressed. Boris didn’t like seeing her like this. Thankfully The Clown covered her mouth with his bloody hand and stopped her repeating the same nonsensical question over and over. It was so very obvious what The Clown had done. Anyone could see that The Clown had bestowed upon Jimmy his just desserts. The Clown had reaped what Jimmy had sown. Simple. Boris could never remember much of the next bit. The Clown comforted Mummy in the only way they both knew how. Neither of them knew much of anything else. The Clown did this each and every time he took care of a client. Mummy never stopped him and Mummy never said no, but then she’d never stopped anyone or said no to them for as long as Boris could remember, except perhaps him. Boris was the exception. Boris was different. But now he wasn’t. Now he was special. * It was always going to happen. Boris knew this. There was an inevitability to how this was going to go from the moment he saw that comic and had come face to face with The Clown. “You gotta crack eggs to make an omelette!” The Clown had told him just before it happened. Boris was a passenger at that point and could do nothing to stop him. Nothing at all. He didn’t even utter a word of protest and neither did he cry when it was done. * Every time he took his seat and readied himself for The Clown’s appearance he always did this one thing. Before he opened the make-up box and said the words that were an incantation to summon The Clown forth, he would always lean forward and kiss his Mummy on the cheek. Her cold skin felt strange against his lips, but then he’d never kissed her before The Clown came along, so he didn’t really have anything to compare it with. The lifeless uncaring eyes were a constant and reminded Boris of his childhood with this woman, how that had shaped him and brought him to this. He tried not to think about that night, and he was thankfully spared most of it, but he could not erase the moment that The Clown had handed him Mummy’s head. She’s yours forever now, buddy! And so am I! Then there was the laughter. The unceasing laughter. Always the laughter. The Clown had not been joking. Boris had The Clown with him always and forever now, and he had that infernal, endless laughter. As he painted his face and stared into the mirror he let go once again. It was quieter when he did this. It was better this way. The Clown was better at all of this. It was best for Boris to retreat and watch from his safe place. And let The Clown have his fun.

It was pretty alright, fucking a dealer. She liked talking about her work, and I think it made her happy. She'd call herself a "white collar" dealer because she only ever sold to upper management and trust-fund kids (oh, and because she sold most of them coke, she's punny like that). But yeah, low risk, high payout, got to hang out in big houses and nice flats in the middle of the city. She was sensible and didn't take any class A's. Nothing stronger than hash, actually, and she didn't even get that from a distributor, she bought it from her fucking *dad*. It was like some bizarre fairy tale written by Guy Ritchie. So Monday rolled around, and I had to go back to the shop. Not usually much business on a monday morning, but I had to do some, paperwork, check the rat trap, you know #justsmallbusinessownerthings. So yeah, we walked out together and... I hadn't really thoughut about, like, what to *do* when we said goodbye. Hug, kiss, handshake? And because I'm a fucking moron, I thought the best thing to do was just stop outside the front of my building, ask if she wanted to get together again, when, where, and everything... then... just wait. But that didn't happen. I turned to face her and... just... I couldn't speak. I stared at her for just long enough that it looked like I wanted her to leave, but she knew. She can see in your eyes when you want something from her. She tilted her head down a little, kept eye contact, did that kind of half-smile and brushed her hair behind her ear again. "I think you're supposed to kiss me now." Which was about the worst thing she could have said, because my chill went *straight* out of the window. I reached up to her cheek with my left hand and lunged forward. It was supposed to be this lovely passionate embrace. I was going to sweep her off her feet like some prince charming with shit hair, but that didn't fucking happen. I headbutted her. No two ways about it. I hit her in the head with my head, and immediately went "Ow, what the fuck?" Like it was somehow her fault. Then I started laughing because it made me think of "Are you fucking sorry?" This is where I fell absolutely, helplessly in love with her. We both recovered, looked up at each other, and without missing a beat, she laughed back and said "Okay, so you could use some practice." I tried again, a little more cautious this time, and I mean nobody got hurt, so that's good. I was going to ask if she wanted to do something again another day, but as soon as I opened my mouth, she kind of blurted out "When do you get home? I could come round again." I must have looked pretty startled, because her eyes immediately opened wide and she fumbled a bit and said "Or, I mean, if you don't... uh... we... we could-" I kissed her again and said "7 o'clock". She giggled a little and we wandered off our separate ways.

Fruit picking. One of my favorite things to do. Picking blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, anything. I don’t know why I like it so much, it’s just interesting. ~~~~~~~~~~ “So are you coming or not?” Michael asked me. “I already said no. There’s no way my mom will let me go with you. She’ll think we’re dating or something,” I said. “There has to be some way I can change your mind.” “There is none. I can’t come. Go invite someone else.” He sighed. “Fine Sara. Your mom always has to be such a party pooper,” he mumbled. At that moment the bell rang. It was time to go home. Everyone ran to the busses. It was Friday and they were all ready for the party that was happening on Saturday. Michael kept inviting me, but I couldn’t go. He was right, my mom really was a party pooper sometimes. “Don’t leave! The bell doesn’t dismiss you, I do!” the teacher yelled to the class. Of course, no one listened. I headed to the bus and boarded it. Michael didn’t ride my bus, but my friend Jayla did. “So, you going to the party tomorrow night?” Jayla asked as soon as I sat down. Ugh. Why was everyone so interested in that party? “I can’t go,” I said. Seeing I was frustrated, Jayla left me alone. For the rest of the bus ride, no one else talked to me, and I was happy about it. When I got home, my mom was waiting for me in the kitchen. “How was school today?” “It was good,” I lied. I had a horrible day. Everyone was pestering me about that stupid party, even my best friends. “Did you meet anyone today?” she asked me. I knew what she meant. She was very protective of me. My mom wanted to know if I met any boys. No matter how many times I assured her that I wasn’t dating anyone and wasn’t ready to date, she was always suspicious. Why would I date anyone in the first place? After all, I was only in eighth grade. Everyone else my age was in a relationship but honestly, my mom and I both agreed that eighth-graders are too young to date. “No Mom, I didn’t meet anyone,” I said. I hurried upstairs to my room before she could say anything else. I stayed up there and watched TV until it was time for dinner. “Dinner time!” my mom called. I washed my hands and went downstairs. My dad, who had just gotten home from work, was already there. “Hey Dad,” I said. “Hi, Sara.” For dinner, we ate meatloaf with macaroni and cheese. We made small talk as we ate. The whole time we pretty much just talked about the things that happened that day. I avoided telling my mom about the party. Even though I wasn’t going, if I told her, she probably wouldn’t let me out of her sight for the whole weekend. After dinner, I went straight to bed because I had nothing better to do. When I woke up the next morning, breakfast was already ready. After I dressed, brushed my teeth, and washed my face, I went downstairs to eat. No one else was there. My mom, who had already eaten breakfast, was up in her room and my dad already left for work. There was a stack of pancakes at my spot and I dug in. I spent the day staring at my wall and sulking. It wasn’t fair. I really wanted to go to the party. At seven-thirty, thirty minutes before the party started, I heard something hit my window. I looked through it and saw Jayla waving her hands. I opened my window and let her in. “What are you doing here?” I asked her. “You’re going to the party. I’m going to help you sneak out,” she said. I would usually reject that offer, but I really wanted to go to this party. Everyone else was going. This was my chance to become popular. Jayla helped me pick out what to wear. She gave me a makeover and we stuffed some pillows under my blanket. We climbed out of the window and walked to the house of the party, since it wasn’t far. When we walked in, everyone was surprised to see me. “Isn’t that the lame girl?” “Isn’t that the one who never shows up to anything?” I could hear them whispering about me but I didn’t care. I would prove them wrong. I was anything but lame. I looked around and saw Michael. He saw me too and started to come my way. “Hey, Sara. I thought you weren’t coming,” he said. “Jayla helped me sneak out,” I said. “Well then let’s make this the best party ever! We wouldn’t want to make your only middle school party lame,” he said. We danced, ate, drunk (but only soda), and talked. We were having such a good time and no one was talking about me anymore. I bet they all thought I was cool. That is, until one thing happened. My parents crashed the party. They knocked on the door and someone opened it, probably thinking they were a late guest. “Sara!” my mom yelled. My dad was right behind her and I could tell that they were not happy. Trying not to make a scene, I just went with them. They yelled at me the whole way out and back home. “Why would you do that to us? We were so worried about you! We came in to check on you and noticed the pillows. Then we saw all the lights and heard the noise coming from the party. DO you know what could’ve happened to you? You could’ve gotten kidnapped, or maybe even worse,” yelled my mom. My dad just walked behind her the whole time, saying nothing. I could tell by his silence that he was mad at me. That’s what my dad did. When I was in trouble, he didn’t say a word. He let my mom do the talking while he silently stared at me with an emotionless expression. When we got home, I was sent to bed. That night I tossed and turned, unable to get to sleep. I felt bad about what I had done. I should’ve just listened. I wondered what my punishment would be, or if I would be punished at all. The next morning, I went downstairs for breakfast, as usual. My mom was sitting at the table, waiting for me. “Good morning Sara. You’re father and I have decided on your punishment.” This was just like my mom. She always got straight to the point. I wasn’t too worried about my punishment because I thought it would just be extra chores or no TV for a week. Instead, it was far worse than I expected. “That boy Michael you like to hang out with, you can’t talk to him anymore,” said my mom. “What?” I yelled. “You can’t stop me from talking to my friends! It wasn’t Michael’s fault! He didn’t do anything!” “If I find out from anyone that you’re talking to him, you’ll be punished even further,” she said firmly. “That’s not fair! At least let me hang out with him one more time!” “Fine, you get to hang out with him one more time. Go ahead and call him after you eat,” she said. I ate my food quickly and then called Michael. When he picked up, I started talking to him. “Hey, Michael. You wanna hang out today?” I asked, not wanting to tell him about my punishment yet. “Sure,” he said. “How about we go apple picking?” “Okay. I’ll meet you at the apple orchard in an hour.” I started to get ready. I dressed, putting on a tee shirt and jeans. Forty-five minutes later, I began to head to the apple orchard, which was within walking distance. When I made it there, I was early so I had to wait for about ten minutes for Michael to get there. Eventually, he did. “Hey, Michael. You ready?” I asked. “Yeah, let’s go.” We walked into the orchard. We paid at the counter and began to pick apples. At first, we picked them in silence. After a while of silence, I tried to make conversation. “So, you got anything planned for next weekend?” I asked Michael. “No. Do you?” “I don’t either.” We went back to silence. As we picked, I debated telling Michael about how this was the last time I would talk to him. I decided to tell him because he deserved to know. “Michael, I’m so sorry for not telling you about this earlier. This is the last time I’ll be able to talk to you. When my parents found out that I snuck out, they banned me from talking to you.” Michael looked shocked. This was a lot for him to take in. “Why me? I didn’t sneak you out!” he said with vexation in his voice. “You should run away with me.” I was shocked. Why was he so serious about hanging out with me? I mean sure it was sad that we couldn’t talk anymore, but it wasn’t something to run away about. “Why would we run away? It isn’t that serious,” I asked him. “If you stay, your parents won’t let you do anything. They’ll run your life, and when you disobey them, they’ll punish you more, until you can’t talk to any of your friends,” he said. I thought about this. What he said was probably true. “I’ll go,” I said. “I just need to go back to my house and grab a few things.” I left Michael standing there. I ran out of the orchard and to my house. When I made it there, I peeked through the door. My parents were nowhere in sight so I climbed up the stairs to my room. I quickly grabbed my backpack, emptied it out, and shoved a few of my belongings in there, including my phone, some clothes, some pictures, and etc. I ran out of the house and back to the apple orchard. Michael was waiting for me. “You ready?” he asked me. “Yeah. Where are we going?” “I don’t know yet, but we have to get as far away from here as possible. We walked down the street and eventually, night came. Michael and I walked in darkness. When we got tired, we went to sleep on a bench, as if we were homeless. Actually, we kind of were. In the morning, we went back to walking. We were starving, but I had forgotten to bring food. “How are we going to get food?” I asked. “We could beg.” “I’ve got a better idea,” said Michael. We walked to the nearest store. When we got there, Michael told me about the plan. “We're going to steal. Grab as much stuff as you can and stuff it in your bookbag,” he told me. Usually, I would never be on board with stealing, but there were a lot of bad things that I did lately. I was starving, or at least it felt like it, I would do just about anything for food. We went into the store. I walked to the canned food and snack aisle and stuffed as much stuff as I could into my backpack. Michael walked around the store, pretending he was interested in buying toilet paper. When my bookbag was full, I exited the store, trying not to look suspicious. Michael came out soon behind me. When we were far away enough, I sat on the bench we slept on and emptied out my bag. Michael looked through everything I got with me. I got some Debbie Cakes, canned beans, canned ravioli, and other canned goods. Michael and I opened a pack of chocolate brownies and dug in. Cars passed by us with their drivers staring at us. One man walking by even gave us some loose change, thinking we were homeless. After eating, we continued walking and as we did, I thought. I wanted to go back home. I regretted running away. Back home there was food, water, shelter, and my loving, protective parents. No matter how bad their punishments were, they loved me. We walked all day. When night fell, we had a conversation. “Tomorrow, we’ll be far enough to find somewhere to stay,” he told me. “Where will we go though?” I asked him. “I told you I don’t know,” he said to me, clearly frustrated. We talked some more, but we couldn’t think of any place to stay. We decided to just sleep on it. That night, I waited for Michael to fall asleep. When he did, I took most of the food out of my backpack and left it on the bench for him. Then I took the bookbag and left. I was going home. I walked for a few days, until I was nearing my home. I was almost there when I passed the apple orchard. The police were there and they saw me. “Are you Sara Akodoa?” they asked me. “Yes, why?” I asked. As soon as those words left my mouth, I felt stupid. My parents probably called the police when I didn’t come back. Now they would question me and I would have to tell them about Michael. “Sara Akodoa, you are under arrest for theft.”

Charlotte wondered if she should ask him to stop. She saw her little sister Megan struggling, failing to get his hands off her mouth with her tiny hands. It was Megan’s third birthday today. They had just finished unwrapping all the presents and settled a fight over a tall Elsa doll their dad had gifted them. Girls had agreed to keep the doll between their twin beds in the shared bedroom. Charlotte looked at the doll and decided to get Olaf for her birthday. 'Megan would love that too', she thought, her eyes back on her sister. Megan had stopped struggling. ‘Daddy, is Megan okay?’, she asked her dad. ‘Yes honey. She is. She is sleeping’, he said as he waked over to Charlotte’s bed. ‘But her eyes are open and...’, she paused, something was different about her dad, his face looked like the ‘scary man’ from the park who stared at them while they played on the slide. ‘Her eyes are open, and she is staring at the ceiling’, she said pointing at Megan. Megan lied motionlessly on the bed; her hazel eyes wide open, pointed straight at the ceiling. ‘Yes Cherry, she is okay. She is with Mommy.’, he said looking around for something. Charlotte sensed that something was wrong, ‘Daddy, are you okay? Are you going to do the same thing to me like Megan?’. Startled by her question, he looked at her and moved closer. Kissing her on forehead he slid her in the bed. Her fragile presence was dominating. 'Stay here sweetheart, Daddy has to finish some work downstairs. I will be back in few minutes', he said as he got up from her bed. His wife’s severed head rested on their coffee table right next to the couch. Her body was lying on floor, headless. The expensive rug was soaked in a pool of blood spouted from her neck where her head was once attached. He didn’t remember cutting her head off. He didn’t even remember getting a knife. He looked at her head, her golden hairs flowing on the coffee table. She deserved what she got, he thought. Bending down, he picked up the sharp knife covered in blood from the soused rug. He had the whole plan ready to dispose of the bodies and then file a missing persons report. He no longer has to worry about taking care of the unworthy. The images of the guy from the park standing at his door with a letter in his hand flashed in front of his eyes. The letter lied there, next to his wife's head on their coffee table. The letter. He remembered, blacking out with rage and never reading it. Hurriedly, he opened the letter. As he read, his rage turned to despair. He had done a mistake, a grave one. ‘Daddy, is everything okay? Where’s Mommy?’ Charlotte called walking down the stairs. ‘Yes. I did a mistake but I am always going to be with you’, he said with an eerie smile. Charlotte was standing looking in the living room, her face full of fear and terror. Looking into her dark eyes for a moment, he slid the knife across his throat. Charlotte screamed as blood splurged out her dad’s neck. His body fell on the ground with a thud right next to his wife’s headless torso. The letter, still in his hand soaked in their blood from the carpet. ‘A five-year-old was found hiding in her bedroom closet, alone and scared, in a home with three dead bodies. The bodies were discovered by the girl’s biological father, a cop, who was at their house this morning to speak with the parents. The biological father said in his interview to us that he will continue to fight for custody of the surviving child. Police also mention that 'a letter' was recovered form the crime scene.

'May l please have today's special'. said undercover solo food critic, Treasure McBright after handing back the menu. Treasure McBright. She is the world renowned food critic whose reviews make or break a restaurant’s global image and she's a solo traveller whose image is not known by most people. It was her first time in that restaurant, she was open to exploring the country's cuisine and had seen that restaurant through a TripAdvisor blog. The menu of the day suggested that she would be tasting the best spaghetti Bolognese in town. She was taken back to the spaghetti Bolognese she tasted in Italy, it was the best ever! She started salivating when thinking of the delicious aroma of the mixture of ingredients in that Bolognese she tasted years back. Her throat muscles were condensing and expanding even before the food came, one would say it was the body’s preparedness mechanism when one is anticipating a great sensation of some kind of taste. Thirty minutes passed not even water was brought to the table, she started looking around and waving her hand to try draw the waiters or waitresses towards her table but none came, she could not understand her predicament as her imagination of tasting the Italian dish was being distorted by the conduct of the restaurant staff. At first she didn’t really put much to it as it seemed to be a busy lunch hour rush. A man minding his own business across the table to Treasure's asked the waiter serving him to assist the lady waiving, but he ignored her and went back to the kitchen. Treasure started to feel infuriated by the treatment she was getting as a black person in a commonly white restaurant, she noted that almost everyone wo entered after her was being served while she was waiting for her turn. She grabbed the next available waiter passing by and demanded to see the manager. It took the manager almost thirty more minutes to attend to the matter claiming he was busy, worse he didn't see why Treasure was making it a big deal but the man opposite Treasure’s table interjected by first introducing himself as Bob. He told them to give her all she wants or she will be sending his recording of this mistreatment. He mentioned that for a while he has been seeing how the lady was being ignored by the staff, or was it they got an instruction from higher to act in that manner towards her as it was strange how they were all following same pattern of pretending they didn’t see her waving and calling out. The manager seemed to be apologetic in front of the Bob, who was well dressed in a black bore tie suit. The manager then ordered staff to attend to Treasure. Treasure told the waiter that she needed lemon iced water to calm her down...Imagine of thinking of the iced water’s calming effect then you get tap warm water, she asked the waiter serving her, what was that he brought. “Ma’am it’s the water you requested’ said the waiter. Bob told the waiter that if they continued he would post the recording of their misconduct. In as much as Treasure wanted to grab her bag and leave, now she had something to write about in her reviews but at the same time she had some glimpse of hope that the spaghetti Bolognese would erase all the mishap of that day. It was almost two full hours of misconduct, finally the dish she had been waiting for arrived. What struck her the most was the presentation, seemed a little uncanny to the eye but she gave them the benefit of the doubt that they just might wow her taste buds regardless of the appearance, of course it was nothing to write home about but the glimpse of hope made her to dive in. Treasure choked and asked what acidic substance was added in that dish, she is normally a healthy person without any known allergies. Bob across her table was disturbed by this and asked Treasure’s consent to post the recording but Treasure thanked Bob and told him, she will deal with it her own way but would need his number in case a witness is needed to support. Bob shared his number with her. Treasure called for the manager again who for some reason came promptly unlike the first time when he was discriminating her in full view of other customers. Treasure told the manager this was the worst she has been treated and the worst meal she has ever tasted, it was even more toxic and deadly, thank God she didn’t swallow any of it though her mouth was a bit inflamed from the strong acid in the dish. The manager told her that was their special dish of the day and didn’t know why it made her choke. Treasure asked him to taste it himself but the manager refused, so there were a lot of assumptions racing through Treasure’s brain cells at that juncture, “could it be they deliberately tried to poison her and get her type not to enter that restaurant again, was it that the chef was under pressure and accidentally added too much acid to the Bolognese, was it that they didn’t like her casual dress code in the almost formal restaurant, what is it really that made them mistreat her the second she sat and ordered, if they didn’t want her type so bad, they could have blocked her from coming in the restaurant than to humiliate her in public, were this people who showed no remorse to their misconduct worth forgiving?, if so how will others learn as every human has the right to choose where to eat and needs to be treated equally despite one’s skin colour or race as long as you have money to pay. What was also racing through her mind was Bob’s attitude towards her ordeal, it gave her hope that no matter where you are in the world, someone or maybe you can say there is always a guardian angel in human form who will stand up for you and look out for you when others shy away without confronting a misconduct. So in short Treasure deduced that if one supports a misconduct being done on another it means that person supports the wrong doing by turning a blind eye to wrong doing. Treasure’s predicament was more of a lesson as she had spent time travelling and being treated with decency than this time around where her emotions were challenged in all aspects; Physical, mental and spiritual. Treasure’s review was simple. “If you are black, make sure you don’t go past Pete’s Italian cuisine restaurant commonly shown in the TripAdvisor’s blog, from manager down to waiters and waitresses, they will bend you and break you emotionally such that you might even leave through a stretcher from the allergic reactions you will get from the food they will serve you, and yet you joyfully entered the restaurant walking to explore the country’s cuisine. Go at your own risk black brothers and sisters, I got the worst meal l ever tasted.” Unapologetically signing off. Treasure McBright your undercover solo food critic.

It started a few weeks ago, and honestly, I thought I was going crazy. Maybe I am, this whole thing is just so twisted and insane, and there It is just staring at me. I hear It at night, moving around in the dark corners of my house, I’m just glad It hasn’t figured out how to get up the stairs yet or things could be a lot worse. The paint is starting to peel and blister off Its surface, and I’m scared to look away in case It moves, or turns on, or if It just disappears entirely. My Henry Hoover is trying to kill me. Look, I know it sounds stupid and kind of like an insignificant issue- but think of the implications... Promise me you’ll think of the implications. I’ve locked myself in the bathroom, I can still hear It knocking against the kitchen door. A whole corridor and two locked doors between us and yet why do I feel so terrified, like if open this one it’ll just be waiting for me, nozzle at the ready. Two hours ago, I heard this agonising crash coming from the lounge, followed by a series of even louder crashes and then the infernal vrummmmmm of It powering up. I had no idea what to do, but I hadn’t seen my cat Merlin in about half a day and I feared the worst. I put on this really thick ski jacket that I remembered was still sitting in my wardrobe, and the goggles of course, the plan wasn’t to go in looking pretty- I was preparing for war. After a few deep breaths I ran down the stairs as fast as I could and didn’t look back, a true hero- except I forgot about the Lego. My corridor has- or should I say had- two shelves on either side, and on each one is- or were- a series of Lego monuments. Hogwarts, The Death Star, an Igloo from Club Penguin, all gone. I’m not sure how It managed to pull it off, but I came downstairs and there was just absolute carnage, Lego everywhere, so many hours of work just gone, and It was sat in the middle of it all grinning at me. I barely had enough time to take it all in- still standing halfway down the stairs- before It let rip, It reverse-vacuumed me. Little Lego bullets ripped into my coat, one hit the back of my hand and grazed my knuckle, I started retreating and realised I only had my socks on then immediately stood on part of the Igloo, pain so much pain. It took a hold of me and before I managed to reach out for the banister, I felt myself fall backwards down the stairs, one hand on my injured foot and the other still flailing in the air for something to hold onto. I was lucky, the coat stand managed to break my fall but I had just enough sense to stay down and pretend that It had taken me out. I watched It with one eye, goggles half steamed up and after watching me for a while It turned away from me to start reloading, I took my chance and quickly mapped out a route that would have me landing in all of the empty spaces- no more Lego piercing into my poor feet. I can’t even remember getting up, or making my way across the room, but I do remember jumping up behind It, hugging It close so the nozzle couldn’t reach out and grab me, then dumping it in the kitchen before turning back and locking the door behind me. All of this couldn’t have taken more than 15 seconds, but in my mind, it played out like one of those epic slow-motion montages you see in war films. I am the modern-day Joan of Arc. That is why I am currently holed up in the bathroom, massaging my left foot and waiting for my best friend Tilly to show up.

“Jesus Christ, man. It’s like they forgot how to throw the fucking ball!” “Hmm? Oh yea, this fucking country, man.” I was staring at the same TV the bartender was looking at, but to be honest, I couldn’t see shit. Before I got a glance at the game a commercial had started-- “Biff and Smiffer Forget-me-pills” with some Beatles song in the background. “The corporations can’t even let the Beatles die in peace... been years since any of them have been alive but those sons of bitches still using them to make a profit. Like either of those billionaires really need any more advertising. Already got the whole world doped up...” The bartender said. “Uh-huh.” I dug my fist into the biffer in front of me and licked the powder off the side of my knuckle. I think I’m about four, maybe five deep? Shit, isn’t it the bartender’s job to keep track of all the people in the bar? “I’m telling you James, the whole world has gone to shit. The fact that those pills haven’t put every bar in this city out of business by now is a goddamn miracle.” The bartender said. “Uh-huh,” I said back. I reached in my pocket to pull out my next biffer but came up empty. “Say, friend, do you happen to have any...” I said while making a rubbing motion between my thumb and index finger. “Hmm? Oh, yeah, sure,” He said. Without looking away from the screen he reached under the bar and pulled out a glass. He poured two shots of bourbon into the glass and pushed it across the bar to me. “Oh no, I meant... ah, never mind.” I said while grabbing the drink and shoving it down my throat. Tasted as plain as water to me. “And you should see fuckign upperside at this point! Me and the wife went to dinner the other week, and you can just tell the entire city has been robbed of its soul. You can see it in their goddamn eyes, they’re empty.” “Uh-huh.” “You know what I like about you, James? You know how to hold a conversation. The rest of these sad saps in this bar are so far biffed that they might as well be dead. You at the very least give me the respect of an honest talk,” The bartender went on. “Uh-huh,” I said. I looked around the bar to see if there was anyone halfway conscious who could spare me an extra pill. Four or five deep I think. It should be fine to take at least two or three more. Hell, even four should be fine. I stood up from my chair and held myself upright on the bar as I peered out over the booths behind me. “Hey, friend. Got any spare...” I called out to the guy in a suit sitting at the booth behind me while making that same rubbing motion. He looked back at me with a stern look. “Do I look like some sort of junkie to you, asshole? Turn the fuck around.” I snickered at him. “Alright, buddy, you have a nice night.” I turned back around and shook my head to myself. I heard the guy stand up and stumble over to me. “Listen, asshole, I’m no junkie. So you shut the fuck up and keep that shit to yourself,” he said while digging his finger into my back. I sighed while turning my spinning barstool around. “How about you keep your hands to yourself, alright? You’re not fooling anyone.” He blinked repeatedly. “What the fuck did you just say? I’ll touch whoever the fuck I want to touch, I work in the fucking upperside!” I sighed to myself again before putting my arms on the table to push myself up. Halfway through the bartender called out to the suited nutcase. “Listen here. I don’t care where you work, if you don’t want me calling federal on your ass you’ll get the fuck out of my bar.” The suited man straightened his back while blinking quickly. “Al-alright. My bad, friend. You have a blessed night.” He said. The man turned towards the back door, maintaining his posture as he walked out the door and down the cold, rainy street. “Sorry about that, James. Those upperside fellas are great for business but you’re shit out of luck if you’re looking for human decency. Can I get you another drink?” The bartender said. I stood up from the bar with my empty glass in my hand. I tipped it towards him before putting it back on the bar. “No thanks, friend. I think I’m headed home for the night.” I noticed out of the corner of my eye a handful of biffers on the floor near where the suited man was sitting. I stumbled over and looked under his table. Three, four, five. I think four is fine, I’ll save the other one for tomorrow. I raised my fist holding the biffers up to the bartender and gave him a smile and a nod before sticking my hands in my coat pockets and heading out the front door. The streets were dead with rain. I turned and started walking to the right of the bar. I didn’t bother looking to my left --hurts my eyes this late at night to see all that bright light coming from the main road. I could feel the peaking of a migraine just from the silent hum of the big glowing billboards plastered on the sides of the main road. I cracked my neck back and forth and gave a shiver while I slowly walked down the hollow sidewalk away from the bar. I took my hands out of my pocket to look at my biffers. I popped four of them in my mouth while I was walking. Probably should have taken a beer to go to wash it down but I’ll be fine. I’ll forget all about it soon enough. The streets were pretty soaked. Honest to god, I’ve been going to this bar for twenty years now but I don’t know how much longer I’ll be going if it keeps raining like this. I could feel my migraine swelling as a loud siren echoed “Biffers forget-me-pills, keeping America strong for twenty years!” echoing from the main road. The bright lights and sounds don’t make the walk any more fun, and I’m getting old at this point, a mile long city walk isn’t what it was when I was twenty. It’s not like I can’t just take my biffers at home... I kept walking down the soaked city street running horizontally to the bar until I came up to a left turn around an apartment building. Stained to the side of the building was a giant television screen with a flashing advertisement for Doughcarrots. I tried them once, weren’t really my thing. Never really got the point of taking it in any form other than the raw pills. It’s the quickest way to get the biffers into your bloodstream-- don’t really see much use for the candy-covered versions. Guess it’s to appeal to the next generation. I heard a buzz in my pocket-- a text from my son Connor. *Dad, come home,* it read. I went to type a response but decided against it. Better to just leave it. I’ll forget it all soon enough. I walked past the building and headed straight down the path. Should just be a straight walk now. I felt a buzz in my pocket so I stopped and took out my phone. I had a big grin plastered on my face as I scrolled through my text messages without a clue as to who was trying to contact me. My eyes dripped a little bit from the bright screen but it felt good. Jesus Christ that suited guy takes some serious shit, he must have a whole lot he’s trying to forget. Maybe this guy has contact with some black market distributor. I’ve been a loyal customer to the big CVS on my block for as long as I can remember, which isn’t very long mind you, but maybe I oughta change it up if they’ve been giving me low-class shit. I know I’m not no “upperside” man but I’m not one to skip out when it comes to biffers. As I was standing there looking at my phone it began to ring. C-O-N-N-O-R. Connor? Do I know a Connor? My son... I think he’s my son. Is he my son? Ah, I can’t remember. I put my phone back in my pocket and kept walking. There was something I was supposed to do. I put my hand in my pocket again and pulled out... another biffers! Where did I get this? I guess I lucked out! I popped that thing in my mouth and kept walking. Four... Four? Five? I kept walking down that street when I heard a series of screams and punchescoming from the alleyway in between two apartment buildings on my right. I stopped walking and listened. “Sick fucks... get the fuck off of me!” I heard the man get pushed up against the far wall and punched again. He was grabbed again and thrown on the ground. “You sick little shits--taking it out on me that you live in this shit hole. Hit me all you like-- won’t change...” The man was kicked in the mouth. Another voice started talking. “If you really were so much better than us you wouldn’t be walking down some shit-road in downerside. Now, are you gonna give me your good shit or not?” Behind the man, another voice started to speak. “Buddy, you got about two more kicks in before we start cutting, and when we start cutting, you’re about out of chances for forgiveness from us. So how’s about it?” I turned around from the corner I was behind and looked over at the men. The one on the ground looked familiar, but I couldn’t... suit. He was wearing a suit. Do I work with him? Must be something like that. The other two... maybe I knew them? Their faces were just lips and noses and eyes to me. The man with pieces of glass in front of his eyes looked at me and started talking.“James, what are you doing here? Head home man, you don’t want to see this shit.” I think he was talking to me... Hell, no one else was here. I don’t think that’s my name though... the only name I can remember is... “J-Jude,” I said in a shaky tone. The two men standing up looked at me awkwardly. The one with the glass looked at the other and put a hand on his shoulder before walking around the man in the suit towards me. “Yea, I know James, Jude. Have you had any tonight? I thought for a second. Four? Five? Is this why I had to remember that number? No... I don’t think so. “James, let me call someone to bring you home. You shouldn’t be by yourself.” I scratched my face while the man kept talking. A lot of what he said phased in and out. He was looking at me like he wanted me to say something. “James? Did you hear me? Can I call Connor to come to get you?” I blinked at the man. Connor? Was that Connor on the floor with the blood in his mouth? I took a step back and pointed to the man. “Is... is that Connor? The man in the back let out a chuckle. “Hah, I’ve seen you bad James, but not like this...” The man in front turned around and looked at the other man. “Genzo, shut the fuck up. If I hear another word out of your fucking mouth me and this upperside sack of shit will beat you up instead.” The man with the glass eyes walked up to me and put his arm around me while leading me around the corner of the alley. “Listen, James, we’re in the middle of something here... you got to leave us be. We’ll get you home, don’t worry, we always take care of our own. But you gotta let us finish up this business.” He seemed nice. Maybe we were friends. I looked at him and smiled. He gave me a pat on the shoulder. “Good. Why don’t you sit right here and we’ll come to get you when we’re done.” That sounded like a good idea. I sat down right where we were standing and looked at the ground. It was so wet. Wet, wet... wet. The man with the glass turned away from me back towards his friend and the man in the suit. He cracked his knuckles. “Now... are you ready to tell us where the fuck your biffers are?” The man in the suit looked up at the man with the glass and spits at his feet. “You fucking trash... you’re all fucking trash! I don’t have any biffers, I would have told you before you beat the shit out of me if I--!” The man with the glass punched the man in the suit in the jaw. “I think it’s time for cutting, I’m sick of this. Genzo, get my knife.” Genzo pulled the bag off his back and pulled out a short blade. The handle was thick and black like the grip of a gun but the blade was thin-- so thin that the drops of rain leaking from the sky were too thick to land on it. “Genzo, do me a favor and call up Connor Young. Tell him we’ve got James with us and he has to come to get him. I’ll deal with this.” “Alright, I’ll leave you to it. After I hear the shot fired I’ll know you’re done.” Genzo throws the knife at the man with the glass who catches it. He turned around from the suited man and walked down the other side of the alley before making a right turn. The man on the ground spits another wad of blood at the man with the glass. “You think I’m scared of you, you little shit? You could kill me a thousand times over and you would still be immeasurably beneath me, and there is nothing you can do about that.” The man with the glass let out a chuckle. “Even moments away from death, people like you won’t give it up. I wonder if a couple of cuts is what it’ll take to finally crack you...” Jude. Is that what they are called? No... no, Jude means something to me. I can’t remember what but that word is strong, I know it. My ears felt like they were ringing as I watched the glass man tear into the suited man. Maybe I’m Jude. I looked down on the wet floor at my feet. The pavement was soaked and looked back up at me. I heald my finger up to the small puddle in front of my lap and looked at the glassy black reflection of my finger in the puddle. No...no, I don’t think I’m Jude. But I think it is a name. I can’t remember but I can feel it. Something warm that makes me smile, that’s Jude. Jude’s funny too... maybe a funny movie... no, no I don’t think it’s a movie. But I remember watching a movie. And Jude. Jude and the movie. I looked up again at the two men. There were gashes all over the suited man’s face. I looked at his eyes... he was crying. Marble fell down his eyes and added to the pools of liquid on the damp concrete he laid on. He was crying so much... it was so sad. Jude... Jude cried a lot too. I remember Jude crying. She lay there, looking up at me while holding my hand. She mouthed words to me but I can’t remember them. But they made me happy, Jude made me happy. Was that man Jude? Yes, it must be. Jude was here, with me, and she was still crying. The smile was gone and the goodness was gone and all that was left was the tears and the wetness. Why, why would they do this to Jude? The man with the glass threw the knife behind him and picked the man with the suit up by the neck; pushing him against the wall. No. They can’t do this to Jude. She doesn’t deserve this. Jude... I stood up and watched the man with the glass choke out Jude. I walked over, picked up the knife with my right hand, and shoved it into the glass man’s side. He looked at me with shock as he fell to the ground screaming. I took the knife and stabbed him again, and again, and again. “Jude... it’s okay. I’ll never let you down.” The man with the glass looked at me with shock. He reached his arms out to me while choking on the taste of his own blood, but he had no words left. I looked at him and smiled. “Jude... Jude, you take a--” A shot rang through my back. The sound was loud, all I could hear was it dripping down my backside. I coughed and turned over to my side. I looked up at Jude, covered in blood and coughing. I reached out my hand and I was met in return with blood. Jude spit at me and kicked me. I cried, why would she do this to me? Why would Jude hurt me like this? Jude stopped kicking and looked at me. “Downerside trash. Should have stayed in the fucking bar.” Jude left me. I could see it in the sky-- she was gone. I could see something-- the spirit of the devil coming for me. I wish Jude could protect me, I wish something would protect me. I choked while searching in my jacket pockets for some comfort, but I found nothing but empty space. A minute later another shot rang out, but all I could hear was the one spilling down my back. Oh, Hey, Jude. Such a lovely song.