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Allura 55

I am not what you might call, *heroic*. i was completely content living my life, ignoring other's problems, i had a few friends but no one close. that is, until one day i leave for a run, i walk out the door and feel the quake, 'huh, has doom eternal released?' i wondered. i turn and notice a silver dragon of about twenty feet in length from head to tail, ten feet at the shoulder, and crimson red eyes staring right into my soul. i open my door once more and slowly back away inside, then, "ALEX! Where have you been?" i hear in my head. 'what?' i wonder to myself. "I've been looking everywhere for you. why are you even hiding in this dimension?" She, judging by the voice in my head anyway, looks around. "it's so beyond bland" i frown, 'why has she been looking for me?', "dimension?" i ask aloud, then shake my head. "sorry, but i've never met you before, you've got the wrong guy," i explain. i then slam the door shut and run to my basement. i grab my shotgun, and wait, "Alex, for the love of god, stop with the games." i hear in my head, "Crystal is worried sick and rocky is about to die of boredom!" she angrily exclaims, "i haven't a clue what you're talking about." i shout in my head. "not so loud you're gonna give me an aneurysm." she chided "you have the wrong guy, i've lived here my whole life, just stop will you?" i plead, not wanting the dragon to destroy my house but not wanting to leave for fear of my life. "oh please," the dragon said again, "as if i'd ever hurt you." great, she can read my mind, "because you gave me permission to do so" she said annoyed, that gave me an idea, so i poured out all my memories, relived my life and showed her everything i knew. "oh," was all she said, "deep cover?" i frown, "what?" i ask, "nothing. you're right, i have the wrong person," i smirk, "finally," then frown some more, "what did you mean by 'deep cover'" but i didn't hear anything else, i slowly walked up the stairs, not believing for a second that she's gone, i look outside to see the world has gone back to normal. i look at my hands to find them empty, no shotgun. how is that possible? i looked at the clock, "damn, need to get to work," i rush up to my room, get ready, wondering what the hell just happened. i get into my car and sit there for a second, something was bothering me, i grab my car registry and take out my license, 'Richard Margret'. i rub my temples, the dragon had called me Alex, and it felt completely normal. i shuddered, remembering the dragons question "deep cover". i shove the registration into the glove box and my license into my wallet and drive to work, something's wrong, and i need to figure it out before i can return to my precious status quo. "this is gonna be annoying, isn't it?" i ask no one in particular, and drive to work. "well, it could be worst," i mumbled, typing away on my computer. my job was simple, find ways for my clients to save money. of course, my clients were a few small business owners who wanted to make their hobby their job and haven't a clue, so i more or less have to explain that the best thing they can do is to do as i say or close up. i deal with the occasional ass, but all in all a good and well paying job. i find myself only an hour into my shift when i'm forced to engage a 'Mr. Positive'. "sir, your numbers look quite promising, if you keep up with the plan you'll be well on your-" "that's bullshit and you know it!" he shouts, i mute myself and give a sigh as he berates me. i look at the cubicle across the way and see an old friend smirking at me. "what?" i ask, he just smiles and looks over my shoulder. i turn to see my boss's secretary stealing glances at me. so i wait until she looks once again, giving a wave, i make her blush and look away. i turn on the microphone and interrupt the screaming man and decide to call his bluff, "sir, if i find you are attempting a bankruptcy scam i will call my supervisor and-" he apologized, thanks me and hangs up. i shake my head, been there done that. i get up and register my 1 hour lunch break. "oof, pleasant customer?" my friend asks, "shove it Michelangelo" i reply. i sit down and begin eating my salad, until that secretary from before sat down next to me, "hey," i smile, "hey," i sit there, waiting. i always find silence is the best answer for women, "look, i hear good things about you from mike and-" i groan, "dammit Mike" her eyes widen, "what's wrong?" she asked. i look at her, she looks back at me with a concerned, well-meaning gaze, and she's pretty cute. no harm in trying, "he keeps trying to get me hooked up," i smile, "though i suppose a date with a beautiful woman isn't the worst way to spend my evening," her eyes widen, her blush deepens. "what do you say? meet me at Rodear's?" i ask, she beams, lighting up like a spotlight. "see you there." she nods, gets up, and walks away. i smirk, catching Mike's eye, he winks and i flip him off. tonight's gonna be a good night. i left the club with the secretary, Alice apparently. As we both stumble in the night, she pulled me into an alley and straightened up, this put me on edge. she lost her stupor and i frown. "you look way to sober," i mumble. she grinned then opened her mouth, a pair of fangs revealing themselves, "what?". i awaken in bed, i get up and go through the motions, until i'm at the table. i grip my neck and rub the area she would have bitten, "what was that? a dream?" i groan as i look at my bare chest, i was covered in bruises. "ouch" i hiss, then i realized something, i don't have a hangover. "what the hell?" this was getting ridiculous. i go to work, and notice mike at work early. i go up to him "hey mike" i say, smiling. he starts, "Rich?" he asked in genuine shock, then recovers. "Alice called earlier, said you guys hit it off. wanna share details?" i laughed a bit, his shock was enough proof for me. "so, why did she try to kill me?" i asked, going dead serious. he looked guilty, Mike sighed, "and here i was hoping you really didn't remember".

(Note: inspired by the WH40k story of Ollanius Pius, who is without doubt the bravest bastard in that entire universe. Look up his lore if interested. Also, cross posted from r/HFY. I’m proud of this story and wanted to share it here.) He wasn’t even supposed to be there. He should have been on one of the hundreds of evacuation ships that left weeks before. He should have left with the remnants of his company. He should have at least been standing a bit to the left when the final desperate assault force was teleported thousands of miles into the air and onto a ship that should not have even been there itself. Fights like this one were supposed to be off in the distance, where awestruck souls could watch the air strain on the horizon as swords that could cleave mountains and guns that could destroy cities clashed. These fights were only supposed to be between legends made flesh. Heroes who stood head and shoulders taller than any normal person and who wore shining armour emblazoned with medals, heraldry, and battle honours, not some foot slogger in a flak vest whose only title was his name and whose only gifted marking was his serial number. Battles like the one outside this ship were supposed to be fought in the space between stars and only seen through long range sensors, in battle reports, or told as hyperbolic war stories by old veterans, not felt through the hull or witnessed through the porthole. Battles like this decided the fate of entire star systems, where fleets of grand cruisers, imposing destroyers, and personal flagships slugged it out in devastating broadsides. This one was far to close, far too real. A confusion of thousands of battleships, cruisers, and frigates clashed in blinding light above the surface of Terra itself. Entire ships were torn in half by volley upon volley, only for the detonation of its reactor to claim vengeance from the grave. Even the ship he stood in was wrong. Twisting corridors that led to nowhere, doors and rooms in every position but upright, and flickering lights that revealed the silhouettes of those that never were. Daemons were supposed to be the villains of ghost stories, told by parents to frighten their children into behaving. They should not have even been real, but the walls of this ship dripped blood and the sounds through the bulkheads echoed with maniacal laughter and agonized screams. Control panels that should have displayed air pressure and door switches now blinked with bloodshot eyes and chittered with fang filled mouths. But of all places, he should have been anywhere else in the vastness of the galaxy but right here. Before him stood hatred incarnate. A warrior in armour that put tanks to shame, wielding a mace larger than that tanks turret. The warriors hand was encased in a clawed gauntlet of pure malice that dark gods had chosen to be the instrument of their will. Draped across his Herculean shoulders was the hide of an alien monster that would have taken several tank companies to bring down, but personally claimed by this warrior as an earned trophy. His entire body glowed with the fires of hell and he stared into him with an intent so absolute it could melt the steel floor he stood on. All he had was his flak vest, rifle, and bayonet. His knees almost buckled from fear. But there he stood, in the worst place he could have possibly been anywhere in the universe. He stood because behind him lay someone he saw as a god. The last time he saw him, he stood proud and tall, clad in brightly polished and untarnished golden plate. A hero who, despite being at the frontline of countless battles, always emerged unscathed and triumphant. A man who could walk past the field hospitals and bring every soldier back into fighting shape. He was supposed to be the hero of the story, riding in at the last moment to save the day. He should have been the same charismatic and fearless leader he always was, but now lay bloodied and broken behind him and on the verge of death. He should have been disillusioned, abandoned his beliefs that this man was invincible, given in to the whispers and promises that spoke in the back of his mind. He should have thrown down his weapon and run for his life. But there he was, standing ill equipped between the avatar of untold horrors beyond reality and the broken and dying hopes of all humanity. It was a pointless stand, but one no one else was there to make. He held his rifle with tightened fists, regained control of his legs and planted his feet, and took a deep breath before banishing the insidious voices from his mind. When he opened his eyes again, that unholy warrior looked down at the puny mortal that had the gall to stand in his way. What he saw was not the terrified visage of someone scared of death, but instead the stern face and disciplined military stance of someone who would not move without a fight. Just as he saw his leader struggle to get an arm under him to push himself up even just a small bit, he heard a new voice in his mind. He heard his leader, his emperor, his _god,_ beg him to stay, and gave him one last order. ‘Hold the line.’ And there, in the one place he should not be, he held the line. If he died, ten will take his place, and a thousand more of them. If anyone was willing to take up arms against the horrors of the galaxy, the bastion would never falter. If there was even the faintest ghost of hope left in the universe, planets themselves would break before those that stood guard. With the strength he never knew he had, he stood his ground against hell to his final moments.

The clock struck 11:00 and Darlene looked over at her oven. How did she mess that up, she wondered. She was sure she had timed out the turkey so it would be done before the 12:00 dinner, yet the timer said there was 1 hour and 45 minutes left to cook. She checked her rolls and they were raising perfectly. They would be ready to go in on time, but that turkey worried her. In Darlene's world, you don't undercook turkey. Jeremy was turning 18 today. It had been a difficult year, 2020, and Darlene was determined to give her youngest son the best birthday she could. All her other children were given large parties on their 18 th birthdays, but the health regulations forbid it during these pandemic times. So, Darlene had to opt for making his favorite meal and buy all his gifts on the internet. They might even try a virtual interaction with his grandparents, but Darlene had her doubts that would work. Neither were really comfortable with new technology. The phone rang just as Darlene was about to drain the potatoes to be mashed. She turned off the burner and walked over to the phone to look at the caller ID. It was Jeremy's girlfriend, Carla. Darlene hesitated. Should she answer it? Jeremy has a cell phone, why wouldn't Carla call him on that phone? Darlene picked the cordless phone off of its charger. “Mrs. Tyson?” Carla asked, her voice stressed and concerned. “You need to go to Jeremy's room immediately.” Darlene turned and ran towards the stairs. “I'm going there now. What is going on?” “I was talking to Jeremy on the phone when suddenly he dropped it. He sounded a little strange right before he dropped the phone. I don't know what is going on and it scared me so much I called the house.” Darlene burst into her son's room and found him flat on the floor, jerking back and forth. “He is having an epileptic seizure,” she said into the phone. “Oh my God,” cried Carla. “Is there anything you can do?” Darlene knelt down on the floor next to the dark-haired boy. She moved his hand so that the arm was at a right angle to his body, his hand pointing upwards. Darlene then took Jeremy's other hand and placed it on his cheek. She took the knee furthest from her and bent it so that the foot was flat on the floor. Gently, the mother rolled the young man onto his side so that he was facing her. Darlene then moved his top leg back a little to help balance him in that position. The woman then went to his head and tilted his chin back to open up his airway so he could breathe. By this time Jeremy was beginning to come out of the seizure and stopped moving. His eyes slowly fluttered open. “Stay still, Jeremy,” Darlene said as she sat on the floor next to him, her hand resting on his arm. She noted his breathing was normal. “Mom,” he muttered. He sat up slowly, still blinking his eyes as he became more aware. “Mrs. Tyson? What is going on?” Carla's frantic voice came through the phone line. “I'm sorry, Carla. Jeremy is just coming out of the seizure now. It is going to take a little time for him to orient himself.” “I didn't know Jerry had epilepsy,” Carla exclaimed. “What if that had happened when we were together? I would have had no clue what to do to help him!” Panic was in her voice. “He hasn't had one in a long time, I am sure he was thinking it was completely under control with his medication. We can talk about how to help him later. Right now I have to make sure he's OK before I rescue any of my food that may be burning at this time.” “Have him call me back when he's doing better. I don't want to bother him now.” “Carla? Thank you for calling me and letting me know something was wrong. Your quick thinking may have prevented him from hurting himself and alerted me to the fact this condition isn't under control.” “You're welcome. I'm glad this turned out alright. Have him call me when he feels better.” Carla hung up the phone. “Mom, I'm feeling fine now,” Jeremy said as he stood up from the floor. Darlene looked at him, trying to determine if he was back to normal. He smiled at her and reached out his hand. His grip was firm. Darlene was sure he was OK. “How long has it been since the last seizure,” she said once she was standing up. Jeremy walked over to his desk and pulled out a black notebook from the top drawer. He turned the pages until he came to a chart. “5 years, Mom. 5 years, 6 months, 10 days to be exact. Do you know the type of seizure this one was?” Jeremy was making notations on the page as he spoke. “No, I came towards the end of it. You collapsed and were jerking around a little bit, but not as bad as some of the other times I found you.” Jeremy wrote some information down. “Looks like we will be visiting Dr. Nordahl sometime in the near future,” he said as he closed the book. “Thanks, mom, for being here when I needed you.” “You better thank Carla as well. She's the one who called me and alerted me something was happening.” Darlene looked at her watch, “Oh no! I've got to get back to the kitchen and try to salvage this meal! Do you think you will be up to eating?” “Yes, Mom. I'm fine now. You go back to the kitchen and I'll call Carla and let her know everything is better. I'm sure she's worried.” Darlene gave Jeremy a kiss on the forehead before leaving him in his room. Once in the kitchen, Darlene looked at the oven timer and found she still had 15 minutes left on the turkey so she put the rolls into the oven and set the second timer. She then hurriedly mashed the potatoes and put them aside and started the stuffing. Meanwhile, she put the green beans on, the corn, and the canned cranberry sauce. When the turkey was done she pulled it out of the oven and verified the temperature gauge said it was 165 degrees inside the bird. She then punctured the oven bag it was in and drained off the juices so she could make the gravy. Soon that was done and it was time to finish setting up the table. Scott joined her and together the parents finished setting the table. Scott had been delivering mail and managed to finish his route before noon. He was able to get home in time for the meal but had to go back to the post office in an hour. As they worked together, Darlene told him about the seizure. He nodded when Darlene told him Jeremy would need to see his doctor as soon as possible. The timer went off and Darlene gave Scott the turkey and utensils to carve it while she rang the old dinner bell Scott's family had used on their farm when he was growing up. Jeremy came running down the stairs, followed by his older brother Craig, who was home taking virtual college classes. The other 4 children in the family would not be able to attend the meal, due to health regulations and not being a part of the family bubble. After they sat down at the table, Scott asked Jeremy to say the prayer for the meal. The young man bowed his head, cleared his throat, and said, “Thank you Lord for this fine meal my mother managed to prepare despite being interrupted to rescue my sorry ass. Thank you for creating her so she could create me and so she could make this marvelous meal. Thank you for the food we are about to eat, for keeping me alive for another day, and for the love of this family who has always been here to support me. We pray to you, Lord, in your son's name, Jesus Christ, Amen.”

Outside snow fell softly to the ground. It almost floated as it covered the sandy dunes on the other side of the boardwalk. Winter at the shore was rather surreal as the town was practically deserted outside of summer. What kind of lives did these people, left behind to maintain it until it could come alive again, live? *** Kelpy looked down from their summit, the lithe strong frame posing triumphantly, “I told you, fortune favors the bold!” “I swear that arm of yours is cheating. It could prolly grab the bare wall and hold on. You know that wasn’t how the routesetter envisioned it right?” Her belayer yelled back up the wall at her. He slowly let the line out as she repelled back down. “Don’t be such a spoilsport. Just because I beat your dumb challenge in a way that didn’t fit your vision doesn’t take away from it.” “Yeah yeah yeah. I’m just hoping next month’s competitors don’t exploit it the way you do.” “Don’t worry Bads, your routes will be fine. I’m just a bit of an outlier. She knocked on the cybernetic arm. Besides you know The Federation doesn’t allow augs to compete.” “That may be true, but it’s still a blow to the ego.” He sticks out his tongue. “Besides, the aug circuit is rumored to get started in a few years in Khartoum. I’m sure you’ll tear through the challengers, Kel.” She laughs and undoes her harness and takes off the forcefully arched shoes. “Nice of you to say that, but at forty six I’m past my prime. Professional augs will have way more done, and I’m not looking to get more silicon, y’know. Only have this cause of the explosion.” “True. Just wish you could be a bit more known is all Kel, you deserve it. Anyhow, lunch and then open the place up?” “Sounds like a plan.” The two got out of their equipment and headed to the communal break room behind the counter area of Mainsail Park Quintessential Elevation Gym, or MPQEG for short. Bads had opened the gym years ago to train himself since there was nothing in the area and climbing actual rocks had become quite dangerous after they burned the sky. He discovered that contrary to popular belief, managing a place like this takes away from precious wall time even if he lived there. Kel had joined on a few months ago. Apparently no one wanted to hire a reformed convict. As she tells it, she accidentally threw a bit of dynamite out of a car she had stolen and ruined some classic Grecian concrete facade of a historic building. A count of grand theft auto and reckless endangerment later landed her behind bars for thirteen years. It was hard to believe that she had been behind bars for the entire run of the Marvel Cinematic Universe. She often said it was the worst of times, but she got through by being as clever as a jackdaw and as fierce as a wyvern. She had been upfront about the void on her resume and had great people skills too when he trialed her out. Her blithe demeanor made customers forget about the world outside while they were here. It was an easy hire. It took some time for her to get used to living at the gym since affording a private residence was nearly impossible for any but the elites. She’d often ask questions like Is there a chemist shop nearby? or Is the chimney supposed to be blocked? The answers which were no and yes, unless you want your lungs to corrode respectively. She had gotten used to the place quickly and even gotten to know the other people in the area. “What’s in the lunchbox today?” Bads asked, pulling out a ham sandwich. “Apfelstrudel, chocolate truffles, and sugar cookies with ginger frosting.” “You should probably eat something more than desserts, you know.” Mouth full, Kel muttered something unintelligible as sweet crumbs fell to the table. “Try that again as a civilized adult?” “They are too delicious not to. Plus we get plenty of nutrients from the shipments from Halex. Let me enjoy something I missed for a long time.” “Given the chance I am sure you’d enjoy these things until the inevitable heat death of the universe.” “Fuck yeah I would.” *** “Cody. Cody! CODY!” the voice cut through my concentration. I shook my head and put the snowglobe down. “What? Sorry. I got distracted.” “I noticed. You have to submit that story for the Secret Santa. Did you get any ideas?” “I think so. Post apocalyptic sci-fi action story about a small business and a blooming romance should be good?” “In 800 words? I don’t think you can do all of that It'll end-"     This was written for the Secret Santa Event. If you want slightly more coherent stories, maybe go check out r/FoxFictions.

Kioko sighed heavily, each step she took a little weaker than the last, until she finally reached the elevator. She was exhausted, but ready for another day at work, though she toiled away each day at her office. It was hard, but she enjoyed what she did, to an extent. The elevators had large windows that reflected the skyline of the beautiful Tokyo, the glistening sun bouncing light from the buildings, reflecting onto the glass. Kioko smiled as she stared out the window, her exhaust briefly wavering. She always enjoyed the sunshine. The sun was always there, when other people weren’t. It stood by her side, making her feel warm inside. Unlike the moon which wavered and changed, Kioko could always rely on the sun. Then again, she could always rely on the moon to change, too. When change was what she needed, Kioko always felt her heart drift towards the night sky, with it’s graveyard of stars and it’s obscure pale sickle. It was comforting in a way, too, to know that every night the sky would be different. She could rely on the sun for familiarity, but the moon for it’s ever changing nature. But of course, there was that one night, all those years ago, where neither the sun nor the moon could bring her comfort any longer. The night when she lost everything, when she realized her true power. When she gained an ability, one that no one else, to her knowledge, also had. The ability to control the sky, in all its forms. To manipulate the weather. Kioko remembered that night very well. She remembered the darkly lit sky, and the sounds of the thunder up above her. She remembered the lightning, cruel and beautiful, and the sensation she felt as she ran through the rain, the pitter patter of raindrops hitting the streets. She remembered slipping on something, and falling. Falling, falling, falling, until she was on the ground. She remembered the feeling of terror she felt as the lightning grew closer, as the sky closed in on her. She remembered the coursing of electricity through her body as she felt the lightning in her heart, in her soul. She felt tainted by the sky in that moment, like she’d never be complete again. And then she remembered screaming, screaming and screaming out the pain that she felt, the salt water from her tears mixing with the freshwater from the rain. She remembered the light of the moon echoing out through her body as she felt the surge of power, power and pain go through her. And then the storm stopped. The clouds brought themselves together again, the moon smiled, and the lightning faded away. Kioko felt sheltered, at last. But somewhere, deep inside, she knew that she wasn’t safe anymore. That nothing would be the same again. Kioko looked out again through the large walls of the elevator. Even though they were glass, she felt as if they were closing in on her. Suffocating her, reminding her of the night, and the pain that she felt as the energy coursed through her veins. She sighed heavily, thinking about that night. The walls felt just like the sky did all those years ago, pushing her inwards until she throttled through the energy she felt. The sky started to darken, the clouds folding in on themselves and turning a sober grey. Kioko started to cry again, her tears reflecting the rain that began to start spilling from the clouds outside. Her long dark hair clung against her shoulders, as Kioko slouched down and curled into a ball on the floor, feeling as if she was falling. Falling, falling, falling, she had all those years ago. Her once calm and rhythmic breathing turned into frantic gasps for air, as Kioko continued to remember everything that had happened. She thought about how she would panic like this again and again, causing tsunamis and thunderstorms. Ruining people’s lives as hers had been ruined by that storm that cursed her. And the worst part was that she had no control. Her panic would always rise above her fear, her past and her future going on a race against time, a race she would always lose. Oh, how Kioko hated time. It did nothing but slap her in the face with adversity. The rain continued to pour, the echoing of the splats onto the sidewalks growing louder and louder. Kioko had no control - she was trying and trying to calm herself, but nothing would happen. “Breathe,” she said to herself, biting back her tongue. “Just breathe, Kioko. Just breathe.” Her tears grew harder with the rain, as she thought about that line. How she wanted to breathe so badly. How she was forced to just breathe or else inflict death upon innocent people by way of storms. Each time she heard about another person who died, another human being, she couldn’t breathe. They were gone, and it was all her fault. She would cry and cry, but it only would cause more death. She was cursed, ever since that lightning struck her. Cursed to become a killing machine, no matter what she did to try and stop it. Sometimes, Kioko wondered whether there were any lightning bolts she caused that gave others her powers. She wondered if hers were given to her by another poor cursed soul, who wanders the streets at night gloomily through a little foggy rain. Happiness would cause fleeting sunshine, a comfort to Kioko, but deathly to some. Panic would cause storms, but sadness would just cause simple drizzling night rain. Safe, but not favored. Not reliable. Not welcome. But it was the only time she could breathe. The only time when she couldn’t feel the suffering of others, just her own pain in her heart, telling her she had to move on. It was the only time that she could truly survive. Kioko’s breaths started to resurface, as she counted them, slowly. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Repeat. Again and again. She was being tortured by her own self, but at least she could breathe again. At least she wouldn’t cause anyone any harm. Just a simple little drizzle. The clouds were still grey, but they revealed the sun out from behind them, shining luxuriously through Kioko’s sorrow. Comforting her at last, but keeping her hopeless enough for the moon to come out at night. A single tear dropped down Kioko’s cheek, causing a sprinkle of bitter rain.

Hey guys, This is another piece I've written involving the character of Attacus. A servant to the gatekeeper who controls passage to the afterlife. It's a older piece, so it may be a bit rough around the edges, but I particularly enjoyed writing the action scene between Attacus and Annaculeese at the end. As always, I appreciate any thoughts or feedback you might have on the piece, please let me know what you think. Cheers, Lordchimp ​ ​ In the glorious woodlands, neither in the Midland or the Afterverse, he found Annaculeese and his men. Their camp was large and proud, with at least fifty tents and fifty fires. They were all laughing and joking, merry and joyful with fine ale, delicious food, wonderful music and plenty of singing and dancing. There were humans here, as well as elves. A pity. Humans have very short lives. He made no attempt to conceal himself, or to avoid detection as he approached the huge gathering. After all, he was chosen by Oronus himself, the gatekeeper. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* Izael glanced back to the festivities and sighed heavily to himself, leaning heavily on his spear with annoyance and weariness. The other guard on the perimeter, Novak scoffed to himself and spat on the ground with venom. “It’s not pitting fair. Why should we have to stay on guard while those lot are enjoying themselves?” Novak grumbled, angry notes leaking into his voice as he spoke. “Because, every elf and every human must do his part. It is just unfortunate that we happen to have been fated for this eve.” Izael replied calmly and lazily, fairly confident that he had already explained this to his mortal companion. He looked over at Novak again, who looked lustily over to the camp before spitting onto the earth again. Izael stopped the laugh, but couldn’t prevent a warm smile from emerging onto his face. Novak was much like a dog in some respects, angry and unable to see the big picture, not caring for manners and etiquette. He was brash and almost too honest, not attempting to hide his faults and flaws. But, he had a few of the good traits from the beasts as well, sharing their fierce loyalty and unwillingness to give up on a fight. Novak was making no attempt to perform any guard duties and instead had leaned onto a nearby tree taking a sip out of a waterskin that Izael suspected was not full of water. He smiled again and allowed himself to relax. There was nothing in these woods that would harm them, and even if there was, nothing could be stupid enough to approach their camp. *For there be gods here.* He thought to himself. Then he heard the distant clank of chains. He stopped leaning on his spear and cocked his head, unsure if he had actually heard the sound, or if he had dreamily imagined it. He listened carefully, straining his ears for more telltale noises. But, after a few moments, only the quiet sounds of the woods rang through the night. Izael relaxed again, returning to his spear and sighing once more. “Did you hear that?” Novak suddenly whispered, his eyes now trained on the trees ahead of them. A few moments passed. Nothing. “You are hearing things-” Izael started. “No! There it is again! Can’t you hear it?” Novak said in his hushed tones. The clanking of chains rattled, still faintly in the distance. The noises were getting closer. “I hear it.” Izael stood tall, with his spear held firmly in his right hand, with his left he raised it up to his chest. With a few whispered words of power, his hand began to glow with a soft blue light. All the while, the rustling of metal drew nearer. He moved his hand in a sweeping motion, like a man scattering seeds, causing flames to burst into existence on the edges of the camp. The fires illuminated a wide arc around the camp with yellow flickering light, but nothing but the trees were there. Both of them scanned the outskirts intently, searching for the source of the mysterious clanking. As it got nearer and nearer, unseen bells began to chime. They started as a tuned symphony, which was a wonderful mixture of different notes and pitches. But they cascaded quickly into a concatony of jarring, mismatched tones, which clashed and rang out against each other harshly. Izael looked to Novak with concern heavy in his eyes. “Get to the camp. Sound the alarm.” Novak nodded, his face stained by fear and panic and began sprinting off towards the festivities. The Bells stopped. When Izael looked back to the trees, his breath was taken away in a gasp of sheer terror. All the air left his lungs and he felt his hands and body grow weak. In all of his years of living, he had never seen a more dreadful sight. A figure stood, shadows emanating from his body, curling around his feet like a thick, black smoke. He wore dull, worn, scratched armour all over his body, not a single piece of flesh or skin showed. A cloak of pure darkness hung over his shoulders, with the shadows twisting and coiling at his feet. Soft blue light gently pulsed in his visor slit, the only thing on him that wasn’t black. “By the Gates...” Izael whimpered. The figure looked around lazily, completely unconcerned with the trembling spearpoint that was pointed at him. His hidden glare seemed to pierce deep into Izael, almost as if he was looking *into* him, not *at* him. When he spoke, his voice seemingly came from everywhere and nowhere, echoing all around, but barely audible. “WHERE IS ANNACULEESE?” Even the sounds of words forming sent spikes of horror shooting through Izael’s blood, it was like speaking to the physical manifestation of fear itself. He found himself struggling to think, struggling to talk and it took him a few moments before he could bumble the words out of his quivering lips. “In the center...the ring of the sun...by the gates save me...” He managed to whisper. He dropped the spear onto the rough forest floor and fell to his knees, hands clasped together tightly, words of desperate prayer spilling out uncontrollably. Sobs racked his body as his mind attempted to grasp the concept of his impending death. All of his memories, all of his experiences, all his passion would be gone. Snuffed out. Extinguished. The bells began to toll again, ringing, crashing, chiming, building and building in volume until it was deafening, drowning out everything else that might have been making noise. Izael closed his eyes. Then, as quickly as the jumble of conflicting bells had arrived, it vanished. Through panicked breaths, he slowly, opened one of his eyes. Nothing. No black figure, no bells sounding, no chains clinking. Just an empty section of forest, the tree branches swaying softly, as if nothing had happened. As if the Gatekeeper’s man hadn’t just been there. He could hear distant screams from the camp, the sounds of joviality and merriment fading and the sounds of terror and fighting emerging. *What have I done?* Izael’s body was racked with silent sobs. *What could I have done?* \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* Attacus moved through the camp like a dancer through a ballroom, after all, why shouldn’t he? The chosen of Oronus may walk where he please. The occupants of the camp were in a state of utter panic at the sight of the black clad warrior, elves and humans screaming and running, trying anything possible to get away from the shadow of death. Terror seemed to protrude from his horrifying form, seeping into the hearts of all who were nearby. There were a few brave, stupid souls who thought that they could fight him, even hold him back. They were woefully nieve. Such unfortunate creatures. A man known as “Shatterhand” was one of them. He was said to be the strongest of all the beings on the camp, save for Annaculeese himself. He had killed over two hundred men in battle and he had looked upon the tears of the gods themselves. Shatterhand had steeled himself, pushing down the feelings of fear that had welled up inside of him, the feelings that had threatened to send him to his knees weeping. He had looked death in the eye more than once, he was ready to do so again. In a painfully casual motion, Attacus glanced at the hulk of a man stood before him, roaring his defiance. He was at least a foot taller than Attacus, with much more muscle. Attacus waved his hand offensively lazily, and the man called Shatterhand erupted in an explosion of black smoke, spraying blood and gore onto the dry forest floor. In one little movement of his hand, he extinguished the spark of a mortal, utterly and completely. This happened to the few who stood in his path, either a wave of the hand, a click of his armoured fingers or a sharp nod of his head. No matter the method, the result was the same. Death. He strolled all the way through the camp, only killing those which opposed him. He had no feelings on the matter, because Attacus could not feel, he could only do. After all, he was bound to serve. He eventually reached a ring of trees that sat in a calm pocket of quiet, away from all of the chaos of the encampment. It was like walking through a curtain of gentle air, for once Attacus entered the ring of trees, everything he saw was bathed in a bright light. His monochrome vision was splashed with detail and sharpness, whites and blacks he saw seemed so detailed, more vibrant inside the circle, like he had entered a different world entirely. Even his jet black armour seemed to be made up of a hundred different shades of grey. It made him pause for a moment, contemplating what exactly his eyes were seeing. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” A serene voice asked, interrupting his thoughts. It was like a tranquil song when he spoke, like every syllable was it’s own sweet form of poetry. The voice belonged to an elf with a simply perfect appearance, who was sat cross legged on a huge boulder with his arms resting on his lap and his long silver hair flowing down his face, covering one of his eyes. There was not a single part of his appearance that was not perfect, even the long scar down his cheek seemed like it had been put there intentionally to give his face strength and character. “ANNACULEESE. I HAVE COME FOR YOU.” Attacus boomed, his voice echoing all around, from everywhere and nowhere. The bells chimed softly. “It is a shame... You come on behalf of Oronus do you not?” Annaculeese sang, standing himself up as he spoke, seemingly unworried about his impending death. “YES.” Annaculeese looked around at the beauty that surrounded him, savouring the sights, drinking in everything his senses would permit. He reached out gently and grabbed hold of a leaf that hung off a low branch near him. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, breathing in deeply as he felt every texture of the smooth leaf. “THE GATEKEEPER DEMANDS YOUR SOUL.” Attacus boomed again. “Do you ever stop to think why? Or what he plans to do with it?" There was a significant pause. It was a good few moments before Attacus answered. “I DO NOT QUESTION. I OBEY.” Annaculeese seemed to understand his response, nodding his head slightly. “Maybe you should. Even pawns can make moves.” He said solemnly. With a sudden flourish, he clapped his hands together which created a burst of blinding white light. In an instant, the light had faded and his hands now gripped a long, slim, curved sword which gleamed and shone with a soft, pure radiance. “RESISTANCE IS USELESS.” Attacus said, his voice booming, but lacking any emotion or passion. He reached out a hand, as if to touch Annaculeese, even though he was on the other side of the ring of trees. Then, he violently clenched his fist. Nothing happened. Annaculeese still stood there, completely intact with his sword raised in front of him. Attacus cocked his head ever so slightly, in mild confusion. He was expecting a bloody mess where his opponent stood and yet, he remained intact. “You cannot draw upon his power. Not here.” Annaculeese stated solemnly. Attacus drew his wicked, long, heavy blade from his back with the clinking of heavy chains echoing around him. “SO BE IT.” Attacus exploded into a sprint, the chains clanging with every step he took on soft earth of the forest floor. Annaculeese roared with desperate rage and fear, swinging his blade in spinning arcs, making the air whistle as it swirled around. When he was only a few more mere strides away, that was when Attacus struck. He swung his dark greatsword like a woodsman might swing a hefty axe into a tree, with the full weight of his body behind the blow. Annaculeese danced backwards, exploding with sudden movement and turned the blade upwards with a hiss, but the heavy blade was much harder to parry away than he expected and it smashed into his shoulder with a glancing crash of metal on metal. The instant before the steel landed, a golden shoulder pauldron flickered into existence and was then sent spinning from his body as the swing knocked it cleanly away. Annaculeese danced further backwards, shock evident in his anxious eyes. If it weren’t for the armour, he would undoubtedly be missing a large chunk of his shoulder. Before Attacus could wind up another brutal swing, Annaculeese dived forwards, thrusting his glowing blade towards Attacus’ breastplate with lightning speed. Attacus took his sword in a peculiar grip, with one of his hands on the hilt and another on the blade. He then jerked the steel to the side in a sharp motion, slapping the stab away. Annaculeese had already skipped to the side with a beautiful grace, slashing at his helm, his leg, then thrusting again at his chest. Attacus managed to turn the first two blows aside, but his heavy blade was too slow to stop the thrust. The glowing sword rammed into his armour with a horrific screech, then erupted in a huge blast of crackling lightning. Attacus was thrown twenty feet from the force of the explosion, small flickers of electricity arcing from him into the ground. He crashed into the mud with a dull thud, he did not groan or grunt with pain however, like any normal man would, he merely got to his feet slowly and stared at his adversary with a newfound wariness. He glanced down at his chest plate, surveying the damage. Although the had blade only scratched his thick armour, the lightning had gouged out a large chunk on his right side, exposing the dull grey metal underneath the black outer layer. It was as if a giant fist had torn the metal away with an ugly tearing swipe. Annaculeese smiled and began spinning his sword again. He ran forwards and began a series of slashes and cuts, whipping his blade across Attacus in a furious salvo. He gave ground and defended well, using his strange double handed grip to block the slices that he could not step away from. However, his thick armour was not meant for deft movements, especially when he could not draw from the Gatekeepers power. One of the swipes made it through his defence, scraping against his leg plate with a ear-piercing shriek. Once again, there was another crackling burst of angry lightning, which carved a neat line deep into his plate. He backed off, trying to make space, but the swift blade of Annaculeese followed him mercilessly. After taking another glancing cut, he changed tact. He deliberately left his leg open, using a high stance to fend off the never ending blows. As predicted, Annaculeese took the bait, feinting one way, then cutting savagely downwards, causing another vast crater in his armour with the hiss of metal on metal, and the raging hum of twisting electric. Then Attacus made his move. He suddenly shot forwards, despite the mighty blow to his leg and smashed his helm into Annaculeese’s face. A golden helm flashed into being just before the impact, but the sheer force of the headbutt made it crack with a sickening crunch. Attacus pounced on the elf, like a wolf that senses it’s prey weakening. He reigned a fusillade of heavy, powerful chops onto his surprised victim with relentless pace, cracking yet more pieces of armour when Annaculeese could not parry the hits aside. With a titanic swing, he sent Annaculeese flying into the dirt with golden pieces of his shattered chest plate spiraling through the air, the golden light catching on the gleaming shards of metal, making them twinkle and sparkle as the tumbled. Annaculeese had lost an arm piece, a leg plate, his breastplate and his helm was now missing the left side from the headbutt, crimson blood flowing slowly from a deep cut on his forehead. Annaculeese by some feat of determination managed to rise to his feet, groaning and cursing under his breath. At some point during the clash, he had dropped his sword, the blade sat on the ground still resonating with a quiet hum. He looked at Attacus, who was stood motionless in his battered armour, smoke curling from the great craters that had been smashed into it. He moved over to his sword, in an awkward, jerking gait from his missing armour. Attacus made no move to stop him. “Do you know why Oronus wants my core?” He said though pained breaths, still walking towards the sword. Attacus said nothing. “I will tell you something now, servant of the gatekeeper.” He spat out a mouthful of blood as he picked up his blade. “To stand at the behest of another, using an oath as a shield, does not mean you have no choice.” He looked upwards at the beautiful colours mixing in the branches. Attacus strode forwards, sword raised high. His blade fell at lightning speed, making even the air shriek as it cut through it. Annaculeese swayed to one side sluggishly and feebly parried the blade, embedding it into the dirt with a thud. But instead of digging the blade out, the black clad warrior rammed his shoulder into the wounded elf, sending him stumbling backwards with his arms flailing searching for balance. There was a scrape as the tip of the great two handed sword was dragged out of the earth, then another whistle as he slashed again. Annaculeese parried once, twice, then another powerful swing clashed into his blade and his tired, weak fingers were unable to hold on. The sword span out of his hand clattering to the floor a few feet away. He sank to his knees, his vision blurring from fatigue. Attacus looked at the sorry sight before him and sheathed his wicked sword, the metal sounding like it was angry at being caged before the work was done. He stomped forwards, with no passion or fury in his gait, just a disturbing, clear minded focus. There was no malice. It was like a carpenter hammering a nail, or a blacksmith shaping a horseshoe, just a task to be done. He grabbed the groaning elf by the neck and dragged him, kicking weakly and struggling feebly to the end of the circle. Attacus did not care for his soft pleading and bargaining, his sweet honeyed words meant nothing to him. It was like trying to reason with a clock to stop ticking. As soon as they left the circle of trees, the drab, undetailed monochrome shades returned into Attacus’ vision, making him pause for a second to adjust. Everything that once was sharp and focused inside that ring of trees was now bland, simple and dull. Annaculeese groaned again and attempted to remove the iron grip around his throat, batting and pulling at the gauntleted hands with his remaining strength. It was like a babe trying to struggle against a giant. He dragged the helpless elf a few more meters before dumping him unceremoniously onto the ground, coughing and spluttering. With a small flourish of his hand, a jet black lantern puffed into being with a loud ring of a low bell and a small explosion of black smoke. “Once more I gaze again into oblivion, once more I face the void.” Annaculeese whispered quietly, in barely audible tones. Attacus held up the lantern, it swinging gently from the motion. There was a rattle of clinking, heavy chains as the lantern began to glow with an eerie green light, it hummed with a dark power. At first, it was barely audible over the rattling of metal, but as the seconds passed, it got louder and louder, drowning the clinking out. Annaculeese was groaning, trying to get away, but the vice-like hand of Attacus held him down firmly. He tried to speak again, but his lungs felt like they had no air to breathe. They heaved and heaved but no breaths would come. His eyes started to glow, turning green, mirroring the lantern’s light. The humming grew louder and louder, turning into a piercing whine which could set anyone’s teeth on edge. It was sharp and shrieking, like fingernails on glass, like a blade on stones. After a few moments, a green shimmering image seemed to form around Annaculeese, like a second skin, mirroring him completely. His body seemed to go pale, as if the colour itself was draining out of him, turning him as white as a ghost. The after image’s face began to twist and snarl, fighting desperately against the pull of the lantern’s horrifying light. It was his soul. His very soul was being pulled into the dark, battered lantern. It was getting further away from his body with every passing second, where once it was fighting, forcing itself away from the pull, it was now wide eyed in horror, it’s hands desperately struggling against the air, searching for anything that grant it purchase against it’s impending fate. But, this was the Lantern of Oronus, its power could not be denied, not even by gods. With a last, ethereal cry, the spirit of Annaculease was finally claimed by Attacus. The spirit disappeared into the lantern and then everything was quiet. Everything was still. The light died. It was like that for a few minutes, the battered form of Attacus stood over the corpse of his foe, the silence encompassing everything like a blanket. He was motionless, with his head bowed. Even the wind was still. Then the bells began to chime. The sound of the great chains clinked and clanged, signaling the gatekeepers arrival. He appeared in a burst of black smoke, the chiming of the bells stopping as soon as his presence touched the realm of the living. Attacus raised his head in greeting to his master. “Master. It is done.” He said, holding up the old lantern emotionlessly. The great hooded figure that was Oronus took the lantern in his skeletal hands which seemed to slowly leak out black smoke, trailing it through the air. He inspected it, or at least looked like he was inspecting it, but it was difficult to tell with the black hood obscuring his head. After a few moments, he waved his hand and the lantern vanished in a puff of black smoke and with the caw of a crow, it reappeared in Attacus’ gauntleted hands. “THIS CORE IS YOURS. YOU WILL NEED IT. FIND THE OTHERS.” With a small flash of light, the spirit of Annaculeese flowed into Attacus. It was like a river of glowing green flooding into his eyes, making him shine like a beacon in the woods. He crackled with radiant energy. The most astonishing thing about the transition was the sudden presence of something extraordinary present inside of him. He could feel again. His sight burst into colour. A multitude of thousands of different shades blossomed into being, making him gasp and shudder with pleasure and delight. It was incomprehensible. It was like he had been living blind, deaf and dumb and suddenly he was thrust into the light. He dropped to his knees, overcome with ecstasy. He wept like a babe, the tears streaming down his face freely. He clasped his gauntleted hands onto his helm in a vain attempt to stop his senses from feeling. An involuntary groan escaped his lips, his own voice sound alien to his ears. After what seemed like hours, he shakily looked up, to see his master’s reaction at his moment of weakness, but Oronus was no longer there. He was just left alone in those dark woods. “*I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect this.*” Attacus screamed, his newly found voice cracked and buckled under the sudden strain. He whirled around desperately, trying to find the source of the voice. For so long, he had been alone, not even having himself for company. “REVEAL YOURSELF.” “*Well, you took my core, my spirit.*” “WHERE ARE YOU.” “*We are bound together. We are entwined now, you and I.*” “WHAT IS THIS.” “*Hello again. Attacus.*” Annaculeese said.

Breathe life into me weary traveller, let me occupy your thoughts for a little while. I'm dot, pleased to meet you.. You're not much of a talker are you? That's okay, I can do all the talking, you just relax and take it easy. Has it been a hard day? That's okay, kick your feet up and stretch out a little. Close your eyes and.. wait, don't do that, you won't be able to read. And if you can't read then I'll just turn back into words on a page, and it's much more interesting to be wandering through your mind than on this page. You might be wondering what business I have in your head - what could this little dot possibly want to do with me? Well, I'm here to ask a few questions, provoke some thoughts, perhaps change some minds. Do you know what's amazing about me? I've been on this journey before, in many minds. I'm sorry if you thought you were special, I'm afraid not. Others sing, have sung, and will sing from the same hymn sheet, it's amazing. The power to build structures in other people's minds. The power to build the same structures across many minds.. Anyway, I have a couple of questions which you may find strange, but hear me out. Okay, here's the first one. How do you feel? Or, perhaps I should ask a different question. Why do you feel? As a little dot, I have no feelings of my own; I only move when you move me. You can pick me up, and put me down. I require no energy, and have no senses. I have no need for such earthly occupations in the safety of your head. I must say though, it looks like this brain of yours does require energy. In fact, I do believe you are spending some of that energy right now reading me. That's okay though, you have lots of energy left, and if I have a look through your head, I'm sure I can find a recent memory of a place where you last saw food. You do know where you can find food right now, right? Good. As I was saying, have a think about why you feel. Peel back the layers here and really think - why do you feel? Why was it necessary for your body to build senses into you? Eyeballs just seem complicated and expensive, ears just look silly and, oh my God you can talk. Hmm, that's interesting. You can talk, and you can talk in intricate ways. That voice box of yours can sure make some interesting noises when you want it too. Isn't that funny? In my poising of the human blueprint I have come to admire the intricacies and range of his interfaces with the world. He can thread the needle, bang the hammer, detect light from distant stars. You sure do feel man, but more than that, you change your environment too. To appreciate what I'm saying about range and detail, let's have a closer look at your eyeball, truly a portal into another world..

Oh! How they laughed when first they heard the other’s name. This was a story some would dine out on, but not Dave and Dave. Dave, always Dave. Never David. Someone once asked whether it might be a little easier if one of the Dave’s used the full version of their name. Dave narrowed his eyes and told the wrong-headed miscreant, “Dave is the full version of my name.” The other Dave said nothing. He didn’t see the point in repeating the same conversation all over again. Later, Dave would ask him if he was coming down with something, “yes, I think I am,” said Dave, “it’s very unlike me to say nothing isn’t it?” Dave nodded an affirmation, “especially upon the matter of our names,” he said. This was true. Dave is almost unique in being a supposedly involuntary truncation of David. Davids introduce themselves as David, not as Dave and at the very next opportunity a certain type will call them Dave. Not using someone’s name and using a different name is rude. It is name calling. Everyone knows this, but still they do it to Davids. They can also do it to Richards and Williams, but mostly, they do it to Davids, as though there is a secret society of rude people who have it in for Davids. Maybe there is. All descended from Goliath. Dave was glad that he wasn’t a David so that he could at least avoid a lot of that truncation-related trouble. Other than this wrong-headed suggestion, no one had ever called him David. Not even a strict, disciplinarian mother. She might have missed a trick there. Mothers who want to put the fear of the gods in their child need only to use the full version of their name. They teach this in Mother School along with a bunch of other useful weaponised words and violent exhalations. Dave was also glad that he wasn’t a David, but only because he didn’t like the way the word clattered out of his mouth. There was something clunky and awkward about it. He once had a nightmare when, in the throes of passion, his celebrity crush cried out DAVID! He awoke screaming and filled with terror. This was not helped by his chrysalis state, swaddled in his duvet and struggling to break free of that word. David. His crush ended that night. He was so disappointed in her. He thought she was better than that. Today Dave was at the county fair with his best friend Dave, and they were competing for the most prestigious of prizes at said fair. They had been friends for as long as they could remember, which was not to say that they had been friends since childhood, no, they had awoken within minutes of each other on the same hospital ward. A statistical improbability, they had both suffered a severe bout of amnesia. At that stage, all they remembered was their name. Dave. As a basis for any relationship, this did not afford all that much. A single word. But Dave had this in common with Dave and so too did Dave have this in common with Dave. Then it dawned on the both of them that they also had another thing in common. They both had brown hair. Falling prey to that thing that so many people do, Dave and Dave missed the very obvious thing that they had in common, that they were both in hospital and they both had memories that had been almost entirely erased. They were too busy getting to know each other. Slowly. Frustratingly slowly. They shared that frustration and were kinder to each other than they were to themselves. They helped each other out of the fog of nothingness and built something to distract them from that fog, and that something was their friendship. After a couple of false starts and a bout of comfortable silence in which Dave contemplated the philosophical implications of having nothing and being nothing and what that meant in terms of a starting point in the midst of a life that had obviously been lived and then carelessly lost in the woods or aisle three of a budget supermarket, and Dave stared at his toes and wondered why he had an uneven number of them on each foot, but when considered as a collective came to a beautifully round ten, then went on to consider why it was that he’d lost his memory and yet knew his numbers and the labelling word for the small appendages on his feet, the Daves had a conversation. “I was thinking,” said Dave. “As was I,” said Dave, “a sometimes dangerous preoccupation, but it must be done.” “We have a fresh start,” said Dave. “And it isn’t a bad start,” said Dave. “How do you mean?” asked Dave. “Well,” Dave considered how best to translate his discovery of his ability to label and talk about his toes, “have you noticed that we have not lost language?” “I hadn’t,” said Dave as he thought about it, “and yet I had.” “In that you’ve been using language,” ventured Dave, “but had not noted it’s use until now?” “Something like that,” said Dave. “Funny old lark this life isn’t it?” said Dave whimsically. “Yes, I suppose it is,” agreed Dave. Dave smiled. Dave saw Dave smile and enjoined with him in the smiling. “I wonder how it is that we remember words, but not how we came by them?” asked Dave. “A different part of the brain,” said Doctor Dave as he strode into the ward and cut a fine figure of a man and of a doctor. Which was just as well, given that he was both a man and a doctor. “How do you know that?” asked Dave. “I’m a doctor and it’s my job to know things of this sort, and nature and other things of that ilk,” explained Doctor Dave. “He’s right you know,” said Nurse Dave, and Nurse Dave knew Doctor Dave was right because he was studying things of this sort, and nature and other things of that ilk. He was also Doctor Dave’s lover and they had talked about things of this sort, and nature and other things of that ilk as they spent pleasant time together creating golden memories, such as the ones that Dave had carelessly lost, and Dave had also carelessly lost. “I suppose this is a good thing in a way,” said Dave. “And a frustratingly bad thing in another,” said Dave. “Yes to both,” nodded Doctor Dave, “now if you’ll just roll over for your rectal examination.” Dave gave Doctor Dave a quizzical look and wasn’t at all for rolling over. In return, Doctor Dave reached into his wardrobe of suitable looks and gave Dave a look that would not be denied, it was a strong look, so strong that Dave wilted underneath it and with a sad sigh rolled over, wondering as he did, why he had not asked whether this was strictly necessary when he had lost his memory, and, as far as he was aware nothing from up his bum canal. “Is that strictly necessary?” asked Dave. “Not at all!” exclaimed Doctor Dave, then he burst into paroxysms of laughter. Nurse Dave cracked up also, Doctor Dave’s hearty laughter being of the infectious sort and Nurse Dave’s soft spot for Doctor Dave making him all too receptive to Doctor Dave’s broadcasts, especially of humour and things of this sort, and nature and other things of that ilk. They laughed and they laughed until they had to hold each other upright. It was the sight of the two men clutching at each other in order to stay on their feet that brought Dave late to the laughter party. Dave looked from the laughing Dave to the chuckling medics, “you were going to probe my bottom for a cheap laugh!” he protested. “They were going to do what?” asked Dave the Porter, but then the delayed meaning of the words Dave had cried hit him like a comedy blancmange and he burst out laughing, “Doctor Dave! What are you like!?” he boomed before wheeling Dave off for his bum operation. “Is that the doctor who will be operating on my bottom?” asked Dave timidly. “Oh no! Doctor Dave is strictly a head doctor,” Dave the Porter told him. “Then who will be operating on my nether regions?” asked Dave. “That’ll be Doctor Dave,” Dave the Porter told him. “Oh,” said Dave, “that’s all right then,” he said this for something to add. He didn’t know whether it was alright, he just didn’t like the thought of Doctor Dave operating on his behind and cracking jokes like that as he went about his work. “So that clock up your Jacksy?” said Dave the Porter, “tell me again how you slipped and fell?” Dave didn’t reply. Instead he screamed twelve times as the cuckoo in the ensconced clock celebrated the noon hour in the most painful of ways. “What was all that screaming?” asked Dave. “I think I’d rather not know,” said Dave. “I could hazard a guess, if you’d like?” said Doctor Dave wickedly. “Don’t wind them up doc. Can’t you see they’ve had enough already?” said Dave. “Dave! You’re awake!” cried Doctor Dave at the patient laying opposite Dave. “Too loud!” hissed Nurse Dave. Doctor Dave had indeed been too loud and Dave fell back into a deep sleep induced by the loud noise of Doctor Dave’s voice. Doctor Dave was not having much luck with Dave. Exploding a brown paper bag filled with air in an attempt to wake him from his coma-like state had backfired as Dave woke up a split second before the surprise that sent him right back to the land of nod for another prolonged stay. Then there was the time he dressed as a clown to celebrate Dave’s previous awakening. How was Doctor Dave to know of Dave’s morbid terror of killer clowns? It wasn’t like the fear of clowns was at all common. Quietly, Doctor Dave examined Dave. Having done so he shook Dave’s hand, “it’s been nice knowing you,” he said. “Does that mean I can leave?” asked Dave. “You could leave at any time,” Doctor Dave told him, “we’re not keeping you prisoner here.” “But what about my memory?” asked Dave. “What memory?” asked Doctor Dave. “My memory,” said Dave. “I don’t remember anything about a memory?” Doctor Dave said forgetfully. “Erm, Dave?” said Dave. “Not now,” said Dave, “I’m speaking with the good doctor.” “But I think he’s pulling your leg,” said Dave. “Oh...” said Dave. Doctor Dave scowled at Dave for ruining his fun, but the joke was on Dave, for he was retained in hospital for a further two days for a test that never materialised, or rather it did, because the test was whether Dave would realise he too had been subjected to a pull of the leg. Anyway, that was then and now Dave was at the county fair with his very bestest friend Dave. “Nice day for it,” observed Dave. “That it is,” said Dave. “Who’d have thought all those years ago that here we would be, basking in the sunshine and you’d be showing your prize boar,” said Dave. Dave nodded, “it’s a funny old life isn’t it? And here we are warmed by the Summer sun, you showing your prize bull.” “Have you ever wondered...” began Dave. “You know I have,” replied Dave, “frequently.” “After all these years,” said Dave, shaking his head and chortling, “neither of us has recalled a single thing.” “Probably for the best,” said Dave. “What makes you say such a thing?” asked Dave. “Well imagine it,” said Dave. “The myriad possibilities of our former existence?” said Dave. “Exactly,” said Dave with a dour dourness that really doubled down on the dour. “You say it like it’s a bad thing,” said Dave. Dave stroked his chin, “I have stroked my chin and thought on this to some considerable extent,” said Dave. “And?” asked Dave. “I can think of few outcomes that would trump the life we are living now,” stated Dave. “Really?” asked a sceptical Dave. “Really,” confirmed Dave. “But we could have a sizeable fortune awaiting us,” said Dave, “and a beautiful wife,” he added, “and wonderful kidlings.” “There is that,” conceded Dave, “but for every eventuality that promises to enhance these lives of ours, there is an army of dire consequences that would really put a downer on things.” “Do you really think so?” asked Dave. “I know so,” said Dave. “I do not understand your certainty,” said Dave. “Alright,” said Dave, in a way that conveyed that Dave had asked for it, so he was going to get it, “what if the one thing you remembered was wrong?” “I don’t...” began Dave, then the light of a dawning realisation arose within him, “you can’t possibly mean...” Dave nodded a frightful nod. “But!” blustered Dave, “I’m Dave and that’s all there is to it!” “Prove it,” said Dave. Dave’s forehead wrinkled with thoughts that were in the midst of having a car crash in the confines of his head and somewhere in this pile up was a horrible what if that masqueraded as a certainty. Try as he might, he could not unwrinkle his forehead and a dread knowledge began lurking in a foreboding manner that was most disconcerting. Dave experienced a pressing need to distract himself from this awful development... So he punched Dave. Dave promptly left the county fair with Dave the Pig, which was a shame because they missed the judges by less than a minute and the judges had come a-calling with the winner’s rosette. Dave cut a sorry figure as he stood by his prize bull. He had completely forgotten that he had entered his bull in the prize bull competition, his focus and mind were elsewhere. The judges almost turned tail as they rounded the corner and saw the figure that Dave cut, he had deteriorated from sorry to a much less cohesive state. However, the judges retreat was thwarted by the tannoy announcement. “This year’s prize bull winner is Dave’s bull!” There was a cheer right across the entire expanse of the county fair, for the prize bull competition was the most prestigious of all the competitions at the fair. More prestigious was it than the best jam, the best pork pie, the best cheese, even the most interestingly shaped, oversized vegetable competition was eclipsed by the prize bull competition, much to the annoyance of Dave and his eye wateringly large and intimidating marrow. In fact, the only competition that could hold a candle to the prize bull competition was the prize boar competition, and there was an unofficial assessment of the best of the best once the two winners were announced. This year, the piggy winner had been declared in absentia and so there could be no best of the best assessment and life was a little less rich as a result of this deprivation. The tannoy crackled, stilling the jubilant crowd and it burst into life again. “Yes everyone, this year’s winning bull is Dave’s bull, John...” A terrible hush befell the proceedings. Dave the Tannoy, had left the tannoy on as he held the card before him, “wait? That can’t be right? John? What’s that all about?” But Dave knew. Or rather John did.

She was known as a Goddess, one always in a hot spring in her temple. It was small compared to the other gods, but she was visited more often than the others. People travel from miles to see her, and to ask her to grant them a wish. And she does, as long as they offer her something just as valuable. But doesn't take it as far as others have. Never shorten someone's life, never has some trick up her sleeve to deceive anyone. From her generosity she has became a well known name, and also a big target for some. Many have tried ways to kidnap her, trap her, or threaten her to obey to them. And only grant them wishes. All have failed, and as punishment by her. They were publicly humiliated for trying. And usually I would have never thought of trying to take her, she was a goddess, minor or not she could easily have done worst. But when my father started getting ill, we needed the money to survive. After many jobs, late nights, and exhaustion from still never making enough. Soon a group of thugs came to offer more money to do some of their dirty work. If my family wasn't in such a bad spot I would've said no. I would've kept working, not caring if I was breaking my body to get us by. But even with my mother's and I effort we could hardly make it. I usually went to bed hungry weeks at a time. Making sure bills were paid, and the rest of my family had something to eat. They paid decently enough, and most of what they had me do was scout out a location for them. Be a look out guard, or deliver things for them. I told them I never wish to know what it was I was dropping off, it keeps my soul at ease to just be ignorant of what I was helping with. But this new task, was different. They told me that I was going to see the Goddess, and ask her to be my wife. They said she would yes, they had a reliable source that said it is the only way to capture her without her punishing you. I was reluctant, but the amount they offered was enough to sway me. It could get my family to a stable place, so we won't be fighting an endless battle trying to get ahead. And I could still ask her for a wish, then I could make sure my family never has to struggle again. So I agreed, and spent a week trying to work the nerve to go there. Her temple was just at the outskirt of the town. There were always people there, all waiting to see her. Many came with offerings, she had a few beings made of boulders as her guardsmen to keep the peace. As some were inpatient to see her, and tried to push through. I finally worked the courage to go to her temple, it was later in the night. Fewer people around, and the the cool autumn air easily showed the steam coming from her temple. Leaving a light fog around her temple. I didn't wait long to see her, an hour at most. And when it was my time, I heard my blood rushing in my ears. I concentrated hard to just breathe, nervous to put the plan in motion. A water nymph escorted me to her, the room was heavy with steam, but yet it wasn't suffocating as it would be in a enclosed space. In the middle of the room was the spring, the Goddess floating inside. The room was lit from candles surrounding the springs, illuminating the Goddess. Dark hair floating elegantly in the water, eyes closed as I approached. As I got closer I realized she was floating on her back, and steam surrounded her body to hide what she didn't want to be seen. Only her arms, legs, shoulders and head were visible. Golden brown skin had an unearthly glow to it, memorizing. She soon opened her eyes and looked right at me. I felt a blush creep in my face as I realized I'd been staring. Looking away to regain my composure she spoke. "Hello human, what is it that you wish for?" She ask, voice so calming and soft. I looked back at her when she stood up. The water reaching her midriff, steam still covering her chest. I had to remind myself as to why I was here, to stop getting distracted. I'd heard of her beauty, as most Goddess are inhumanly beautiful, but to be in front of an attractive woman was harder then I thought it to be. I cleared my throat to get myself prepared to accomplish my task. "I do not come for a wish, I-" She looked at me confused but said nothing, curiosity filled her dark eyes. "I would be honored if you would marry me." I said, my voice shaking. Even with the thugs assurance she wouldn't punish me, the memory of seeing all those she had filled my mind. She no longer spoke with a soft calming voice, it was filled with anger. "Marry you? I-" She was cut off, having submerged in the spring. I stood frozen as I saw her figure thrash under the water. After a moment she emerged, coughing violently as if she was trying to catch her breath from drowning. Her face hidden from my view by her hair. Which no longer held it's previous elegance. It cling to her body as she continued to catch her breath. She spoke again, voice hoarse from the coughing. "How dare you?" She moved her hair from her face. Her skin lost it's unearthly glow, she sneered at me. My heart tried to leave my body as my head raced with all ways she could hurt me, she might even kill me for this. "How dare you!? You selfish man! You have taken me away from my child because you wanted a bride!!?" She yelled, voice echoing off the walls, her words pierced my body. A child? "I could've granted you money, power, status to gain a bride! You fool! You've taken my power!" While glaring at me tears began to fall from her eyes. "I-What? I-I didn't know. I'm sorry I-" I stopped when she got out of the spring, her body fully exposed but fear over took any interest to look. She began charging at me, I knew I should move but I couldn't. My feet were frozen to the spot, and a small part of my brain told me whatever was to come was deserved. Just as she was about to slap me, I saw her body twitch and she moved at the last moment. Swinging at nothing, and her momentum flung her body to the ground. Hearing her hit the ground, I snapped out of my fear and tried to help her up, when she screamed. "Don't touch m-AH!" She screamed again and curled into a ball. Holding her left hand out, I watched in disbelief as a ring formed on her finger, the ring was glowing as if hot. The skin around turned red, being burned by the ring. It soon dimmed and looked like a simple silver band on her finger. The skin still red as she sat up and looked at me. Tears continued to fall. "I hope you're happy. You have taken the power of a Goddess, taken me from my child. My lifespan less than half of theirs. They'll be alone, because of you. Nymph!" She yelled out, one quickly ran in and looked shocked at her. "A robe." Was all she said as she sat in a fetal position. I remembered she was still undress, and looked to the nymph leave the room. The nymph quickly came with a robe and helped her put it on. "I am now your bride, an unwilling one. And while the ring won't let me hurt you, I will still make our lives together torture." She said as she stood up, her eyes red from the tears. But she still looked at me with hatred. My stomach seemed to jump to my throat, this wasn't what was supposed to happen. What am I supposed to do now, I didn't think I'd actually have a bride. How could I handle taking care of someone else now? I started breathing rapidly as she spoke to the nymph. "Call my sister and have her bring my daughter." Daughter. She had a child, one that aged slower than humans do. I took her away from her daughter. I took away her powers, all because of money. The guilt began to eat at my insides as a bright light filled the room. Next to the former Goddess was another that looked similar to her, which makes sense if she calls them her sister. Golden brown skin, dark hair, in regal clothes. And holding a small bundle that began to coo as soon as the Former Goddess reached them. "My sister! What happen? What-" The other Goddess looked at her in shock, lightly touching her cheek. "The curse?" She barely whispered, receiving a nod. The Former Goddess took the little girl from her sisters arm and held them close, whispering to the child. The sister looked at me and glared. "You did this to her." She raised a hand and lifted the water out from the spring, and was aiming at me. Just as the water almost hit me, the Former Goddess left hand shot out and pushed her sisters arm. Making the water miss me, hitting the wall with a lot of force. That the building shook on impact. "What?" The Goddess looked to her sister in confusion. "Ugh, stupid ring. Forcing me to protect him. Gah." The Former Goddess said, see looked at me and it was easy to tell she wished she let her sister hit me. "Don't waste your effort sister, it has already been done. I am now mortal, and wed to him." She looked back at her sister with sad eyes. "Please watch over her, let her know of me. Even after I've passed." They stared at each other, speaking in a silent language. The little girl between them, unaware of the misfortune I've placed on her and her mother. "Wait, I'm sorry. This wasn't my intention. Is there a way for me to reverse what I've done?" I said, their heads snapped in my direction. While my blood ran cold, I didn't stop talking. "I wasn't told of what asking you to marry me would cause to you. I'm sorry, I know me just saying so doesn't mean much to you. But please, is there a way to reverse what's been done? Whatever it is, I'll do it." "Would you die to fix your mistake?" Asked the Goddess in a cold tone. My mouth went dry, die? What about my family? "Wait sister." Spoke the Former Goddess, she still held to the child tightly, but looked at me with more curiosity than hate. "What do you mean you weren't told of what would happen? Were you sent here?" "I-I was sent by a band of local thugs. I was only told to come here and return for a reward that is supposed to get my family to a more financially stable place. So we won't struggle, had I'd been told that asking you would do this to you. I would've said no, and I know you have no reason to believe me. But what I say is the truth, so is there something I can do to fix what I've done?" I pleaded, the Former Goddess looked at her sister who just stared at me. As if looking into my soul to see if I spoke the truth. "He isn't lying, but even so. We don't know how to break the curse. It was place upon her by our loving mother." The Goddess spoke, venom on her lips. The Former Goddess looked hurt for a moment, before concealing her thoughts. "And we haven't spoken to her in centuries, not as if she'd tell us if we asked. Our... our mother is a wicked one. It's best to just make due with what she has thrusted upon me, instead of trying to stop her." She said, guilt ripped through my being again when she looked to her daughter, a small tuff of dark hair was visible from the bundles of blankets. The baby girl still cooed at her mother, small chubby arms wormed their way out of the blankets and reached for her mothers face. "Oh my darling. What I'd do to stay with you." She brought the baby up to her and gave a kiss, tears welling up in her eyes. "I will do all I can to see if there is something that we can do." Her sister said, placing an arm around her in a side hug. Looking at the baby girl, "Even if she isn't yours by blood, she's taken after you." She spoke softly, I shifted weight from foot to foot. not knowing what to do in this intimate moment. "It's better than not trying." "True, but my hopes aren't high sister." "Then I'll keep my hope high for the both of us." She turned to me again, anger still in her eyes. "And you, since she is now your wife I expect her to be well taken care of. She may be a former Goddess, now mortal. But she must be taken care of rightfully. That work , you do for the thugs will not be suitable to take care of her." "I-But-" My mind was racing, now thinking of how I was going to go home with a bride. Someone else to care for, not as I could ask her to do work to help my family along. "Sister, enough badgering. I may have been a Goddess but don't forget who I was before becoming well known." They shared a knowing look. "I can handle myself, and it seems you forget he was send here to get me for payment to take care of his family. I can still live here-" "No, that is not proper, this marriage wasn't proper, let's not dwell from tradition so much." They continued to talk as if I wasn't here. "And if he needs money so much your dowry should be enough." "Oh no, don't tell me you kept that? Dowries haven't been used in years sister." "And? Wasn't it good that I saved it? Look now, married to someone who isn't worthy. Let alone someone who can't take care of you. At least with this I can sleep well knowing you'll be okay." Her words struck me, and filled me with more guilt. "You, since you truly regret what you've done to my sister I will spare your life. As long as you take care of her while I find more out about the curse. I will visit her often, and if I hear just ONE thing that you've done. Like hurt her, or deprive her of anything she is worthy of. You will suffer the consequences." "Sister enough, you know I am more than capable of handling my own issues." The Former Goddess stepped in, looking at her sister with a look I understood since I've seen my younger sister give me. ' I can handle myself, I'm no longer a child .' "Which I would usually agree, but with the ring now stopping you from harming him. Then it will be up to me to punish him." She took the baby girl back, rocking her back and forth. "Mortal I will be back in a days time with her dowry, you will live together and be a couple. I won't let my sisters imagine be tainted. Understood? So you will tell no one, and I mean not a soul of the curse or this plight." My throat felt tight, so I could only nod to let her know I understand. She soon left, in a blinding light just as she came. "I love her, but she can be so old fashion." The Former Goddess said, looking at me expressionless. "As for her, request. It would be best no one else knows of what is going on, it could cause more issues. So ground rules, if ever in public we are a happily married couple. Though beware of your hand at all time. We will live here, I don't want to join your family and risk being found out. And lastly, don't EVER expect me to fulfill ANY wifely duties in private. Or so help me I will find a way to hurt you. Am I clear?" "Yes ma'am." I choked out, reality fully hitting me full force. Married, to a former Goddess because asking for her hand took her powers. How am I going to explain this to the thugs. It will cause a lot of issues with them, I though biting my lip. "Good. Nymph!" The same nymph from earlier runs in. "Close my temple, without my powers I can no longer grant wishes. Say I've decided to simply be worshipped through prays and offerings. Anyone who tries to come in without permission, have the guards punish them. Severely." She said in a hard tone, she looked over to me briefly. "And I guess since he's my husband now, that he is to be tended to. But as only a guest. His own room, far from mine. He can only give simple orders, anything higher must come from me. Now go and get another guard to go with him to gather his personal things." The nymph looked at me suspiciously but nodded and left us alone.

It all of a sudden started to rain. The weather called for thunderstorms all week but the downpour was so unexpected. By day 3 it seemed as if a month of rain had already fallen. Very bizarre for a July. But we weren’t worried. It kept the 2 of us inside. We were already working from home for the last year since the pandemic started but this time it was something about the storm that kept us in concentration mode. We’d spend most of our days in front of our computers aligned with our huge bay window that overlooked the trees and beautiful forest in our backyard... miles away from the busy city life that we left behind when we got married 10 years ago. In front of the window we sat at our table across from each other, coffee, snacks and laptops being a divider and when our work day was finished we’d have a meal, alternating who would prep and cook, then clean. That’s how we’ve been for year's. We’ve become accustomed to being in The same room in silence. We’d Then use the evening to convene and talk about our day as if we weren’t together for most of it. It wasn’t until day 4 of the heavy rain that we became privy to what was actually going on beyond the walls of our home. The city around us was beginning to flood. If it wasn’t for her randomly taking a break that Thursday afternoon and turning on the news that we discovered that in fact it was almost 2 months of rain that had fallen in three and a half days and most of the city was becoming submerged under water. The media stated it as a “possible human extinction event” but we brushed it off slightly. Not that we were non believers, just more skeptics of the news. Something we rarely watched for factual information, but more of an outlet for entertainment. But then on Friday something happened. The rain suddenly stopped and it was Unusually hot. We cranked the AC but to no avail. It seemed as if the ground outside looked like it was almost melting. That an egg had no chance and would turn to char almost instantaneously. I had to check it out for myself. I went to step outside cautiously but was met with the singe of the sun burning the hair on my knuckles as I stuck my arm out to test. I quickly shut the door and surveyed the damage. My hand was almost burnt. I could see the hair on my arms almost scorched off and a blister began to form on my hand. I ran into the kitchen for some aloe and met her looking at me with tears in her eyes. She was standing watching the tv in our kitchen with her hands over her mouth. The news reporter looked just as frantic. I held her close, ignoring my pain and listened intently as they explained that there had been a major heat wave around the world. The earths core was heating up by the day that it was almost melting within itself. According to scientists, the world was imploding and we only had days to go. With No chances of survival, we as humans would just merely dissolve in the heat. That’s if we did not die from the floods, the hurricanes and the earthquake that would happen sometime before or after. The sky had opened up in major cities and turned a vibrant red. We ran to the bay window over looking our work station and gasped. It was as if the sun had turned into hot lava. A big molten rock about to fall from the sky. I looked over at her and at that moment we knew; this was the end. Perhaps now we were glad we never had children. How would we explain it to them? The news said days but we were surrounded by trees and shrubbery, if they became ignited that would be it for us. But there would be no where to go. As night fell it seemed to give relief. The sun went down in a fiery ball as we watched it from our window. The moon, however, gave us a kind of peace. Some comfort that things may be ok. We finally opened the door and sat on the porch to watch the stars for what may be the last time. It was still extremely hot so we stripped down to our bare and tolerated the heat. Saturday morning everything came to a head. The sun was now expelling huge pellets that it was actually raining fire. The cable seemed to have been burnt out. Phone lines down. There was no one we wanted to call anyway. Both our parents were deceased for years. That was a good thing. We watched from the window and saw billows of smoke arising beyond the trees, people were out there being obliterated. Not being able to run for cover. The terror and chaos must be dire on the other side of the trees. I felt a sense of guilt, though I knew what was coming, I found solace in the reality that id die a happy man, in our quaint, almost cottage like home, with her. We sat in front of the window all day and watched the crimson and bright yellow sparks fly like little bugs around our house. We didn’t panic. We were never the type to. Why we were so calm was beyond me, maybe because we've always been people to welcome the inevitable, or we were both consoled by the fact that we've always just had each other. Being only children and moving away to a house so secluded that you had to drive 20 minutes from the main road will do that to anyone. Not to mention, the isolation, because you know, pandemic. We've already felt like we've been the only two people on earth for over a year. That evening I sat with my back against the window and watched her intensely. She seemed no more worried than me. I hugged her tightly as we danced to the sweet serenade of Coltrane playing from my phone. I smelled her hair. And kissed her slowly. She embraced me and smiled. We made love for the last time. We got up before sunrise Sunday morning and the smoke was so heavy that it enveloped the sky and earth around us. I watched from the window with my arms behind my back and sighed. “Babe breakfast is ready!” I turned to our table where she had a whole set up. We sat across from each other and ate quietly, eggs, bacon toast pancakes, almost everything in our pantry, prepared on the gas stove. At that moment I was glad I decided to not argue on the gas or electric. She was In charge of all decor of our place. We smiled and laughed at each other between bite full, eating happily in front of our bay window as the world around us literally burned, loving each other’s company as always, something that would never change, not even during the end of the world.

It was just before dawn when I woke to the alien invasion. It began with the thumpings on the roof. One followed by two, then three, then four, then just a dull roar of heavy objects hitting the roof. I ran to the window and looked out to find the sky filled with small kittens in parachutes plummeting to the Earth like cotton candy. "My time is now." I said to myself. I had known this was coming. It was in the lore of the world handed down throughout history and only the right person, with the right mind could read between the lines. Like the line in the bible about Jesus and that one dude and that other dude - it all spelled kitten invasion. If you think I'm joking, open a dictionary sometime and under the letter K, you will find kittens. Luckily, I was ready. I had been storing milk for years in my fridge. It all went bad, but that's not how I was ready. How I was ready was I had also stored guns and ammo. Lots of it. I ran to the closet where I kept my guns and ammo and opened the door to find more expired milk. I realized two things in that moment - why my house smelled and why there were so many guns and ammo in my fridge. Back to the fridge, I grabbed a gun and some ammo and loaded up what looked like a shotgun and ran to the door. The kittens were still floating to the ground, but many had landed and were helplessly clawing at their parachutes or tangling themselves up in them in some sort of attempt at comfort. It dawned on me that the kittens may not have any ill will towards humans and were simply just kittens that parachuted in great numbers on to the Earth on one given day in the entire history of kittendom. But that was too easy. I opened the door and opened fire. For five minutes I pulled the trigger again and again and not one kitten was harmed. I had either extremely bad aim, as their were thousands of them, or I was holding a chili dog in my hand. It turned out to be the latter. Once again, I had failed to study guns and ammo and what they were and realized a hot dog was not a gun and chili was no sort of ammo. I resigned myself to the notion that I would be of no use in the rebellion against the kittens and sat down and had a big bowl of ammo. The TV was reporting that there was no cause for alarm as the kittens posed no danger, but still there was no explanation as to why they had parachuted in great numbers to the Earth. I looked back out the window. Most of the kittens had removed their parachutes and lo and behold - they were now pulling revolvers out of their fur and moving towards the homes in my neighborhood. I quickly Googled revolver and realized that this time - yes! This time! I knew what I was talking about. They were revolvers. But before I could congratulate myself there was the sound of gunshots at my door. The kind of gunshots that don't come from chilidogs. No, these were real gunshots. I crouched behind my couch and noticed that the TV had gone to static. The first ploy of the kittens had worked - they had been trusted to not have revolvers hidden in their fur. "You won this round." I muttered to myself. Then the door broke down and a kitten standing on two feet with a kazoo in it's mouth entered the house. "Put down your weapons and surrender!" The kitten ordered. I threw the chilidog at him and yelled "I surrender!" There was silence. I rose from behind the couch and there on the ground was a dead kitten. The childog had bore straight through it's abdomen and killed it. 2. I surveyed the scene. Dead kitten? Check. Chili dog that had bored a hole through the kitten? Check. Somehow, the kittens had some vulnerability to chili dogs. I barely threw the sausage and yet it had burned through the kitten like a chili dog burning through....a....kit - you get it. I looked outside and found that the kittens in the immediate vicinity were again acting cute and pretending to be caught up in their parachutes, while mere yards away other kittens were thumping every last human with their revolvers. Yes, it was clear that the kittens at my front door had seen the carnage created by the chili dog and were playing cute. I ran to the fridge and grabbed more chili dogs. I had a box I kept full of them just in case. In case of what? Well, that's my business, buddy. I walked out of the house and began lobbing them at the kittens. Huge explosions roared from the Earth, as the chili dogs were now acting as incendiaries and lighting the landscape up in burning kitten meat. "Don't tread on me!" I yelled, lobbing chili dogs at each and every kitten I saw. But then, from over a hill, I turned to see nemesis: the kittens had an armored chili dog that they were driving towards me. I yelled "I am not vulnerable to chili dogs, you brutes!" The kitten at the helm, a general of sorts for he wore a beret with medals, smiled at me and meowed loudly. The front of the great armored chili dog exploded and a volley of kittens erupted out and at me. The kittens clawed at every fiber of my being and brought me down. I knew this was a death stroke. I had, like many men before me, put my faith in a deli food and found that it had not been quite what I expected. Well, twice. Because at first I didn't think chili dogs would kill kittens, and then later (see above) when I realized I could no longer huck chili dogs at kittens in the hope that they would die because there were like 30 kittens clawing me to the ground. This isn't to say that chili dogs are not useful - they are. They are a delicious source of protein...and OH YEAH, I know they are full of nitrates and fat people eat them, but every once in awhile I think it's...OK. Well, I did have a whole box of them and I understand what that implies but I woke from my slumber and found myself hanging from a tree, wrapped in yarn. The kittens had cocooned me and I was awaiting whatever terrible meal I would become. There was then meowing. Followed by more meowing. Then silence. Then there was a boatload of meowing. Like mass meowing. You know like millions of kittens. Point is - it was deafening. Because it was deafening, I was able to kind of block it out as white noise and I grabbed my phone and looked at some sport scores. Then I felt myself being lowered to the ground. I made an attempt at escaping, but the yarn was too tightly wound and I was only able to flop around on the ground. I could see through the yarn and the General kitten was approaching. "Meow. Meow. Meow-meow." "I don't..." "MEOW. MEOW. MEOW-MEOW!" "I don't speak kitten. I'm a simple man. I don't understand what you want of me. I have a Safeway club card and feel uncomfortable peeing in public!" "MEOW!" There was some shuffling, and then a smaller kitten in a lesser suit (it wasn't really a suit, it was like some kitty parachute pants and a tie ridiculously hung around it's neck) approached with a kazoo. The General took the kazoo and put it in it's mouth. "We demand antioxidants!" The General shouted through the kazoo. It seemed the kazoo acted as a translator. "I still don't understand." The General looked at the kazoo and then fiddled with it with his General kitty kitten paws. It was really cute. The General then put the kazoo back in it's mouth. "We want milk." "Ah, that makes sense. There's plenty of milk. There is no need to kill anyone. Our two races can live together in harmony." I said, with a tear running down my face and into the yarn. "Remove the yarn from his face! I cannot hear him. He is all muffled and the author just realized that I need kazoos in my ears as well. A simple mouth apparatus cannot translate language coming in. It's simple logic. The General retrieved two smaller kazoos from the kitten in the bad suit and put them in his ears. Then another kitten removed the yarn from my face. "I said we can live in peace. Plenty of milk. Don't have to shoot everyone. I pee freely in public and am quite proud of it." "Ah." The General said. "Where's the milk?" "It's like, everywhere. In every house. Just ask nicely or purr at a doorstep." The General looked around at the throng of kittens and then came in close and whispered "A bit much? The revolvers? We just didn't really know. Typically, on other planets, they are stingy with the milk. That guy with the parachute pants totally thought it was a good idea. He saw some movies you people made and it made sense. In retrospect, they were really stupid movies. But he was wearing parachute pants. That's like hardcore ironic, so I figured he knew his shit. So, you guys are like cool with us just...drinking your milk?" I whimpered "Yes. Yes. We'll be cool." The General looked around, threw the kazoos down and then meowed as loud as a kitten could possibly meow. The kittens ran back to the giant armored chili dog and I made out kitty whisper. They were planning a response. Little did they know, I was also planning a response. I had another chili dog up my sleeve, so to speak...

(Content warning for animal birth) When my husband left me, I felt like I was going to die. My heart ached so fiercely that I swore it would simply shatter into a million pieces within my chest. The only small consolation I could take from my husband abandoning me was that he hadn’t left me for another person. He just left because he didn’t love me anymore and he didn’t like the life we had created. “I hate this place!” he had shouted at me over breakfast. He gestured aggressively out the open window to the rolling plains and sloping hills as far as the eye could see. I didn’t understand at that moment how he could hate a place so beautiful, so full of promise. “This place takes and takes and takes and we don’t get anything out of it, Rebecca! It’s a prison!” I stood up and pointed to the cows grazing peacefully in the pastures, and the birds chirping in the little apple tree in our front yard. “How can you say that?” I had asked him. “We have so much here.” Exasperated, he stormed out of the room before turning around to say one last thing. “That answer is exactly why I think I made a mistake in marrying you. You can’t see it! You don’t understand me,” he had said before slamming the door shut behind him. His words floored me. I crumpled into a chair, shocked and wounded. Never before that fight had he said our marriage was a mistake. I loved him with every part of my soul and every fiber of my being. How could it have been a mistake? How could he not love me the way I loved him? That fight was our last fight. After that, when he returned home, he refused to even speak to me. I begged and pleaded for him to just explain to me in a way that I could understand. But all he did was shake his head and pack his bags. He left the next morning and I fell to the floor and held myself together to keep from breaking apart. I wanted to scream and cry. I wanted to smash things and tear my eyes out. The hurt was so big I wanted to jump into the void to forget it. My dad’s words crept into my head, whispering in my brain as I contemplated giving up. “You’re a rancher’s daughter. You come from a long line of ranchers who have worked to the bone to live this life. You don’t give up, you don’t cry. Wipe your tears and quit wasting your water.” The memory hurt, bringing back all the years as a child when I had to hide my tears from my dad. He wanted me to be strong and thick against the hurts of the world. Well, my chance had come. What better time to show how strong I was than when I’ve been betrayed by the one person I truly loved. I wouldn’t cry. I might die inside, but I wouldn’t cry. “Wipe your tears and quit wasting your water...” my father’s voice echoed in my head. I spent the rest of the day curled on the floor in a miserable heap, but I didn’t let myself cry. I locked the tears away, somewhere deep inside me. When it came time for my husband and me to go to court, I wore my best clothes and rallied together the last of my strength. I did my hair, put on makeup, and met him in the mediation room. As I walked into the room and saw my husband sitting beside his lawyer I almost ran away. How was I supposed to face him? How could I look that man in his eyes and discuss the fact that I would never have him again? I would never kiss him, never hug him, never share quiet evenings together. We would never again work side by side as we sorted cattle or stayed up long hours of the night to help a cow give birth. That life was gone. “My client wants full access to the savings account and the new truck. That’s it. He is willing to be amicable as long as this process isn’t drawn out. He says Rebecca can keep the ranch and the old Chevy, as well as the SUV, and the checking account,” my husband’s lawyer announced. My lawyer looked over at me carefully. “No!” I gasped, grabbing my lawyer’s arm for support. “He can’t take the savings account! That’s got all the ranch money in it! How am I supposed to feed and doctor the cattle without that money?” “My client says that money was contributed by his own income and--” the lawyer began. “Bullshit!” I interrupted. “That money was built up by my father and his father before him! My ex -husband is just the one who convinced me to put it in the same bank as his account and put his name on it! It’s not his!” My ex’s lawyer cleared his throat in annoyance. The man who once loved me stared at me, no emotion in his eyes. I hardly even recognized him. “He can take the SUV, the new truck, and half the checking account,” I offered desperately. “Rebecca...” my lawyer warned me. “No, I don’t care,” I insisted. “Take most of what we’ve got. I just want the ranch, the Chevy, and the ranch account. I need that money to keep the ranch afloat,” I begged. “I’m sorry, my client is very firm on what he wants,” my ex’s lawyer said. “How could you?” I snapped at my ex-husband. “ How could you ?” My lawyer fought on my behalf for what felt likes days, though it was only a matter of hours. But despite how hard we fought, we lost in the end. When it was presented before the judge a few weeks later, my ex won the account. Once again, I wanted to cry. It was so unfair. But I held it together somehow, pushing the tears and the sorrow down, down, down. Each day it became easier to not feel the pain. But for some reason, each day the world became a little bleaker. It was as if the color was slowly leaching from the world. Once vibrant sunrises now seemed thin and pale. The birdsong I had loved so much sounded off-tune and annoying. Food lost its flavor, and I stopped cooking for myself. When I worked cattle, I only referred to them as numbers, rather than the loving nicknames I used to give them. I had pushed that pain and sorrow down so far, but as it was drowning, it pulled my happiness and joy down with it. Time ticked by in a monotonous cycle of work and sleep. Each day melted together into one blurry haze. Without the ranch account, money was tight. There was a nagging voice in the back of my mind reminding me that I was one hardship away from losing the ranch. This ranch that my family had worked so hard for, that we had poured our blood into. Any second it could be taken from me. Spring came around and I looked forward to the rains. It hadn’t rained all winter, since my husband left me. But with the spring here, I was optimistic that the land would get the water it needed. Rain was the life-giver on a ranch. Rain made the grass grow and filled tanks for watering animals. Rain nourished the fields of hay that would feed the cattle all winter. We needed rain. March came and went. So did April. May rolled around and the skies were as clear and dry as my heart had become. The rain did not fall. Tentative shoots of grass that had begun to grow in the warmer weather soon withered and died. The cattle lowed in protest as I shoveled them hay to feed them. They too had been looking forward to lush grass pastures. My tanks began to dry up, the water levels dropping inch by inch every day. Panic soon choked my throat at night as I lay in bed, wondering how long I could afford to keep up like this if we didn’t get rain soon. June came, blowing hot dry air over the rolling hills. July was worse, with a scorching sun that cracked the earth. August came and went. Still no rain. Every day my account grew smaller. Every day I burned through the reserves of water and hay to keep my animals alive. Every day I pushed my emotions further and further down. Inside, I felt like a dried-up husk, just like the ghostly remains of grass that crackled underfoot when I walked outside. September came and it was finally time to bring a load of calves to auction. The check I got for them would help to cover some of the costs of feed that I was accruing. At the auction, the cattle were a little thinner than I liked, and the prices were a little lower. Small-time farmers were unloading their steers as fast as they could, trying to stay ahead of any long-term drought. The influx of cattle kept market prices lower. Worry began to twist my stomach. With my measly check, I returned home to pay the vet bills and load up on more hay. I groaned when each bale of hay came out to an extra twenty dollars each. My last, tenacious bit of hope reminded me that we still could have rain before winter came and froze the land. We still had time... Winter came. It came hard and fast and early. The pastures frosted over, and the cattle devoured the hay to stay warm. I was almost completely out of money. The ranch I had loved so much was slipping away from me. I had nothing to sell to make up for the lost savings account. My old Chevy was on its last foot and I had sold the SUV to pay for my lawyer’s fees. I wandered the barns, walking amongst the cows and patting them each one by one. “It’s ok girls,” I whispered to them. “We will make it through this.” “ You don’t cry,” my father’s voice reminded me. So, I pushed it down again. I didn’t know how deep the reserve of my soul went, but it seemed endless. More color leached from the world as I thought about what I would have to do next. The next week I rounded up ten of my breeding cows and took them to auction. A year ago, I would have never done that. A year ago, I would have sobbed as I said goodbye to each cow. They were the backbone of my entire life, and here I was, selling them off. When I returned home with an empty trailer it seemed fitting to me somehow. Everything had become so empty. The winter months dragged on. Christmas passed by as a forgotten holiday. There was no cheer this time, no flickering lights and fragrant trees. My herd grew smaller every week. I couldn’t stand to see the cows thinning out so miserably. The fat dissolved off their haunches from the lack of nutritious food. To try to combat it, to give myself just a little bit more time, I sold off a couple of cows every week. The money was less each time. There were too many farmers in the same situation as me, too many skinny cows coming through the auctions. I wasn’t making much money back, and the cost of feed just kept getting higher and higher. Soon enough it was calving season. What had once been my favorite time of year had become something I dreaded. I used to get such joy from the sounds of baby calves mooing for the first time. My heart used to burst with joy at the sight of wobbly legs as the calves learned to stand. Each calf got a name, and I poured all my love into them. This year all I could think was that I was going to have a hundred more hungry mouths to fill, and nursing mothers that needed extra supplements and nutrition. This year all I could think about was the muddy water that barely covered the bottom of my tanks and ponds. About a week into calving season, my favorite cow began to show signs of labor. She had separated herself from the other cattle and was restlessly alternating between standing and laying down. Dolly had been my first breech calf that I had pulled with my own hands, all by myself. Because of her traumatic birth, she required extra care and love. As she grew stronger, our bond strengthened as well. Out of all the cows, Dolly was the one who came when I called for her, who laid her head against my shoulder, and who comforted me when I needed it. She was my last friend. I knew Dolly very well, and because of that, I knew that something was wrong. Her births were normally very fast and easy. This one wasn’t the same. I got Dolly situated in one of the barns and I sat with her all night. By morning, she was finally beginning to push. Still, no matter how hard she labored, she wasn’t making any progress. Fighting back my panic, I made the decision to intervene. When I felt around, I realized the calf was too big, and its legs were folded back, causing it to be stuck behind Dolly’s pelvis. The situation had become an emergency. If I didn’t act fast to fix the problem, the calf, and Dolly, would die. Dolly watched me with her baleful brown eyes, trusting me to help her. Gritting my teeth, I tried to move the calf’s legs to the proper position, but it was too stuck. Dolly grew weaker with each contraction. Panic made bile rise in my throat. I couldn’t lose Dolly. I couldn’t bear to lose her too, after all the losses we had survived this last year. With every ounce of strength that I possessed in my body, I worked to save Dolly and her calf. “Come on Dolly! You can do this!” I urged her desperately. She bellowed in response, exhausted and in pain. “We can do this together Dolly, I promise you! I won’t give up on you. I won’t give up on us!” At one point Dolly went down and refused to get back up. Her eyes rolled back, and she panted shallowly. Pulling on her halter I tugged her face towards mine. “Don’t give up girl, please,” I begged. “Don’t give up just yet. I love you too much to lose you,” I whispered. Dolly bellowed in pain but lurched to her feet one final time. “That’s it! Cry it out, Dolly! Cry it all out! Cry that pain out of your body and let me do the rest of the work for you,” I didn’t know if I was going to manage to do it, but somehow, I did. With one final tug, the calf’s legs pulled forward into position. With a big push, and with me pulling on the legs, Dolly finally labored the calf out onto the straw of the barn. As if she had just been given a big shot of pain killers and energy, Dolly turned around to care for her calf. She began to lick it clean, softly mumbling to it with gentle sounds of love. But the calf did not move. Its chest didn’t rise and fall with breath. “No,” I cried. The labor had been too long for the little calf. “No!” I repeated. Grabbing a towel, I roughly rubbed the calf, hoping to stimulate it. When that didn’t work, I cleared out its nostrils with a suction. Desperation kicked in. I had never done CPR on a calf before, but I started it then. I blew into its nostrils and pressed its chest, trying to force life into the body. Dolly watched me, patiently trusting me to save her calf. “Come on little baby,” I urged as I blew into its nostrils. “Please don’t die. Please don’t die.” Something warm and wet filled my eyes. My chest heaved with sobs. Before I could stop myself, I realized I had tears flowing down my cheeks. All the pain of the last year bubbled out of me. Deep racking sobs broke free, and I cuddled the calf to me as I cried into its fur. I don’t know how long I cried but it was as if a dam had broken and released a river. Small movements shook me from my daze of tears. I lifted my head to see a dark eye blinking at me. The calf snorted, weakly looking around. Dolly nudged it, urging it to stand. “Thank you,” I sobbed. I was crying so hard that I could barely see as I stumbled out of the barn into the fresh air. I felt mildly confused as to why my tears were splattering so hard against my boots until I looked up. Rain hit my face, gently at first, and then harder as the clouds opened overhead. It was raining. Laughter soon took the place of my tears as I spun around under the thunderstorm, dancing wildly in the rain. Raindrops soak into the parched earth. Cattle bellowed joyfully in the pasture, licking water droplets from their damp noses. The drought lasted a year, and for a year I was a dry husk of a person. Bitter and broken, I did not let myself feel, for fear of breaking down completely. As the raindrops and my tears soothed the thirsty earth beneath my dancing feet, the color came slowly back into the world, as vibrant and wonderous as it had ever been. We would be ok.

Down the long driveway we went and there it was; a house. A house, what? Did we go to the wrong address? No, it was the right one and there was a sign. "Courtney, it is a house! What if this is a snake dancing church, I will die!" She laughed so hard she was about to pee on herself. "Well she is our friend and we spent a long time in college with her". We had been praying for her husband all those years, and he finally gave his heart to the Lord. Going back to the week before; my friend Maraleigh called and asked me to come to their church anniversary service. She knew I would not come to her church because she was Muslim. She said it was her husband's church and they were Baptist. I didn't really like that idea either but at least we worshipped the same God. So there it was; a church in a basement. It looked like a normal sanctuary inside. Now I remember my friend Barry had talked about remodeling this basement for a church. But I noticed that he was not going here. I wonder why because he gave his life to the Lord. Oh, this was not a good sign. But everyone here is so friendly and kind. I noticed it was all Asian women married to American men. They must have met in the military or I wondered if any were mailorder brides. Wow, this could be an exciting adventure learning of others' way of life. The little man behind the pulpit called for the singers to come forward and they sang traditional hymns. No one ever sings these good old hymns anymore. There were only about twenty people there and they all knew each other. There was prayer and announcements next. Then the preacher got up and asked everyone to meet and greet. Oh, this was a hugging bunch. I just quenched my shoulders and went along. I thought if my sister were here she would die. She was Miss untouchable. I liked that it was a friendly church. Maybe I would have a home now because I had become an introvert. The preacher had a descent sermon and then closed with prayer. He told everyone to go to the garage to sit down and have a meal and to fellowship. It was nice to be fellowshipping once again. Down the drive came a truck and a man got out and greeted the pastor. He went to get something out back and he puts it on the table. I am about to shriek. It is a cooked pig with its head still on. They said they had cooked it for about 24 hours. I thought back to the time I was in Mexico and my friend told me not to offend anyone by not eating. Just take the food, eat a couple of bites and then swirl it around the plate. Pretend to like their food. Now here comes another shock; a plate with a long fish on it with fixings around it. As you guessed, the head was still on the fish. How will I ever get through this dinner? Lord, please help me get through this with no offensives. After putting the food on my plate, there were trying to give me chicken soup with whole eggs in it. They told me it was duck eggs. I just took a little in the bowl. Looked like egg drop soup to me. There was a dish that did catch my eye. It was sweet potato souffle'. Now you are talking my language. We have this every Thanksgiving. This I can relate to. There were some ribs and chicken wings that caught my eyes. Those ribs look like they would melt in your mouth. The chicken wings were Teriyaki. One thing I noticed; that it was all meat. Where were the veggies? No bread? It would have been great to have a salad and green beans with this meal. I finally got sat down and I ate the things I dreaded first. Two bites each and then I ate the things I liked. They were all talking in a language I never heard before but I couldn't understand their English either. They were all laughing and having a good time. I guess Courtney and I looked isolated when a woman came over and started talking to us. I found out that she was Japanese and she was a mail-order bride. She said she did not mind because he took good care of her and she got to hang out with her friends and come to church. She was so happy and bubbly. I really liked her. After I got through dinner, we ate celebration cake. I got to talk to the pastor for a while and then I knew I wanted to come back. It had been so long since I had been to church. Most were so dead and dry and the women were always in cliques. But this one; I felt as though I might fit in. Now it was time to leave and I already couldn't wait to come back. The next Sunday, I came alone because Courtney already had a church. I decided to come to Sunday School. This was the best because they didn't go by anyone's programs. He let the Holy Spirit teach him and guide him. He knew all the things I had been studying for the past eleven years since I left the church. So we went through the service and we were going to have dinner. It was someone's birthday this week They said they celebrated everyone's birthday. I was looking at the food to see what I really wanted to eat. There was this cabbage, noodle, and pork dish. This would be my all-time favorite. One day, maybe I would get to go somewhere exciting. All my children moved to Florida. Time for a new adventure. One day, maybe I can travel to Europe and Asia. Maybe we could all take a trip together. It's only twenty people. I just know I love being here and I finally found a home.

This year, I’m going to change my own bedsheets. Waking up in the morning is easy enough. I open my eyes, shrug the crick out of my shoulders, and wait silently in bed until my blinds darken enough for the night light in my room to flicker on. It’s a bit embarrassing to still be using a night light at eighteen years old; the last person to mention that to me was my mom. I haven’t seen her in a year-which explains why my bedsheets are so dirty. She’ll laugh if it’s not clean by the time she gets back home for dinner. I guess I should take out the dirty laundry, then. The aged wooden floor creaks precariously as I slowly pad my way through the house to the kitchen. There’s an anthill in the sink that’s been there since last summer; I softly greet the wiggling mound of insects and edge around their steady line to the pantry. The doorknob to the small storeroom is coated in rust, bits of copper plating flaking onto my hand as I turn the handle, and a plume of dust greets me as the door swings open. Coughs instinctively rip through my chest and I harshly bat a hand through the air, reaching with the other for the light switch on the far wall. A warm yellow light flickers on. Through the dust, my eyes settle on the rows of merchandise neatly arranged on the shelves before me: dresses. A stunning rainbow array, albeit slightly faded, ranging from youthful summer maxis to elegantly effortless pinafores and beyond. I already know what I’m looking for, though; a bit of rummaging around the top shelves reveals a still-stunning bright blue bardot dress. I remember my mom mentioning something about wearing it to her senior prom, but the specifics are lost on me. An experimental shake sends a volley of ants spraying into the air-the dress has gained their approval. Right then and there in the pantry, I strip down to my boxers and shrug on the dress. It’s a bit of an awkward fit, the waist pinching into my sides and the skirt scraping high against my calves, but the warm feeling that washes over me entirely overshadows the faults. It’s perfect-or maybe that warm feeling is just from the ants. A giggle slips from my mouth as I whirl around in a dramatic arc, my dress spinning in an obnoxious circle in turn. Rifling through the kitchen cupboards, I thumb past the shoes spinning by their laces on coat hangers. My hands settle over a pair of worn denim combat boots-a gift from my mom, from a random yacht party years ago-and I instinctively snatch the shoes from the hanger, bearing my weight against the doorframe as I toe them on. They’re a bit too big and something soft and small briefly wriggles against my right foot before stilling. I hope Henry got a good day of rest. The ants stream beside me like a river as I stomp my way back over the bathroom for a final lookover. I grab the countertop so hard that I feel the marble splinter underneath my fingers. A wide smile spreads across my face, toothless gaps visible in the bathroom mirror’s reflection. The hem of my dress is frayed and rotted and the ensemble almost reeks worse than my bedsheets, but I cherish this outfit all the same. I wonder what my mother looked like in it. It’s time to go to the laundromat. Slipping back into my room, I strip the sheets from my bed. They’re molded and practically falling apart in my hands; I clutch them against my chest like they’re made of gold. There’s a mountain of other dirty laundry for me to attend to, but I don’t bother with them. With sheets in tow, I stroll my way back through the kitchen and kick open the front door. Quite literally-the frame crumbles as I step into the threshold. I wander out into the night, walking aimlessly along the sidewalk until I spot a homeless man crouched with his back against a wall. There’s a flicker of orange light washing across his face; he’s sitting by a small fire. I approach the man wordlessly, stopping right in front of his line of vision. He squints up in my direction, pale eyes seeming to stare right through me. His gaze darts between the sheets in my arms and the small campfire that crackles at the edge of his site and then realization flickers into his eyes. I yelp as he grabs my wrist and yanks me towards the fire. He stops just short of throwing me in. Then, with his slightly smiling face illuminated by the flames, he waits. With a resigned sigh, I dump the bedsheets into the fire. The flame gobbles up the bizarre kindling and then hisses before growing to twice its previous size; the man’s smile grows all the same. Before I can even get a word in, he thanks me profusely before whirling around and tipping face-first into the campfire. I watch on with a blank expression as the man lets himself sink into the heat, curling onto his back as flames lick at his pruning skin. A weird sound bubbles up into the air; a laugh, my brain eventually recognizes, and it’s coming from the charring mass of man that lays in front of me. He laughs, and coughs, and laughs some more, all the while roasting in a hellish blaze. His sharp, canine teeth glow like embers in his smiling mouth; beads of spittle hiss against the heat as he chokes on manic laughter. I linger beside the commotion, hastily stamping out the tiny flame that edges onto the hem of my dress. I wait there for a minute. It starts to rain. The fire only seems to grow under the downpour. Finally, after ages , the laughing ceases. The man’s giggles slope down to humored gasps before he sobers completely. Then he jerks abruptly and his eyes flicker over to me, almost as if he’d forgotten that I was waiting next to him. In the midst of the still roaring fire, a hand jerks into his coat pocket and I step forward to hold my own hand out as the man turns back towards me. Into my outstretched palm, he pours two gold coins. I curl my fingers around and pull my hand away sharply as the fire suddenly blazes anew. The man mutters his thanks again before stilling completely, letting himself be swallowed under the inferno until he’s lost from view under the flames. Satisfied, I set out for the bus stop. It begins to pour in earnest as the bus stop comes into view. Cold rain begins to seep into my shoes, but I can’t bring myself to run without fear of scruffing the boots. Instead, I let myself get drenched as I walk the final few meters. The bus is posted along the sidewalk with its hazard lights on, as if it’s been waiting for a while. It’s as if it’s waiting for me. I finally manage to clamber aboard amidst a gust of wind and rain. The bus driver wordlessly fixes me with an owlish look, blocking my path with an outstretched arm. I wait there silently for what seems like ages before it finally hits me: my fare. I unclasp rain-slicked fingers to reveal the two coins impressed into my palm. I’ve barely begun to hold out my hand when the coins are snatched with terrifying agility and then the bus is thrust into motion. I scramble to brace myself, dragging my body into one of the nearest seats before I can fall. I take a moment to catch my breath while eyeing the only two other passengers; it’s a baby and his mother in the seat across the aisle. The mother doesn’t even look up, eyes lost in the rolling nothingness outside the window, but the baby is fixated on me. I smile kindly towards him, but he never breaks eye contact. Innocent, baby blue eyes slowly cool to a deep navy as he stares back, as if he’s slowly figuring something out as he stares. His mother remains completely unfazed, her tired gaze lost in the view through the window. In my peripheral, I see the bus driver’s eyes flicker up in the rearview mirror before returning to the road. My smile drops. The rest of the bus ride is notably quiet. Some time later, the bus screeches to a halt; I, at this moment, decide that this is my stop. The woman sighs softly at the pause in movement. The baby’s head turns slightly as he follows my movements. Though the bus has stilled, the bus driver’s eyes are fixed on the road. There’s something hanging in the air, but no one decides to mention it. I get up wordlessly and mutter a thank you before stomping down the steps at the front. The sliding door snaps shut behind me, the bus taking off down the road towards the toll bridge. I absentmindedly wave at the retreating tail lights of the vehicle before turning in the opposite direction and continuing the final stretch towards the laundromat. After a minute or two, I faintly hear the sound of car horns and a considerably large splash some distance behind me. Something in the back of my head tells me it’s better not to question it. I follow my own advice and keep walking. I’m not quite sure where I’m going, but it just feels like the right direction. A few more steps and the rain picks up. This time, I take my chances running and sprint down the sidewalk towards the only lit-up building on the block. When I manage to slosh inside from the rain, the scent of fabric softener hits me like a truck. I’ve made it to the laundromat. There’s a desk with a receptionist in the front. She spots me at the door and immediately fixes me with an uncanny smile, bright white and sharp like a shark. There’s something oddly familiar about her; without half of her face turned to look out a window, I can now fully see where the bus baby got his unusual demeanor from. I don’t question her sudden reappearance as the lady leads me through the facility. She holds her arm out as a means of displaying the walls of washing machines before us, but I shake my head no. I just need to get some bedsheets. The lady pauses for a moment, brow furrowed in thought. Then the smile is back and she’s leading me through a door that’s marked for employees only. It’s cold in here. The room is littered with tables, arranged in oddly perfect rows with crisp white sheets spread out atop them. There’s something off, though; I can sense that there is more to this room. The lady smiles that strange smile and motions towards a random table on the opposite wall. I pull the sheet off the table and stare at what’s underneath. He’s staring at me. I’m awake. I’m laying on my bare mattress, the bed stripping of its sheets. There’s soft sunlight trailing through the curtains. None of it makes any sense, but nothing has for a while now. My mom is standing in the corner of the room, quietly stuffing laundry into a hamper. Words begin tumbling out of my mouth before I know any better: “You... You never came back.” She turns at the sound of my voice and smiles sadly. I try again, more firmly: “It’s been a year, and I never learned how to change my sheets.” Something in the look she gives me tells me that I never really woke up, either.

Like Emeralds There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Asher loved his wife, Evelyn. The way he looked at her made it abundantly clear to any passerby that this was surely a match made in Heaven. Asher had been his small town’s prime bachelor for a long time, thanks to his gentlemanly qualities, sharp looks, and ample fortune left to him by some relative (of whom nobody was entirely sure). He was known for his seemingly random acts of philanthropy, and constant willingness to be of service. Asher always had a smile on his face, and carried an air of optimism everywhere he went. When Asher had reached thirty years of age the townsfolk started to suspect that perhaps their favorite bachelor may have succumbed to a life of singleness. After all, it was not uncommon for people who live on their own for too long to decide that marriage may not be everything it’s chalked up to be. It was to the town’s both dismay and delight when Asher married a woman from a few towns over. “Rumor has it they met at one of those spring dances,” the townsfolk would say, “I hear after their eyes locked they already decided to marry one another.” “What was wrong with the bachelorettes here?” others would say, “Ought to give them a fighting chance hasn’t he?” argued the mothers of said bachelorettes. Regardless of how they met or how the townsfolk felt, no one could argue that the couple’s life appeared idyllic. Asher had both the undying respect and envy of his town. He had wealth, status, and a beautiful wife. Evelyn had also garnered a fair deal of envy for herself, having acquired the security of a rich, warm, and loving husband. It was typically at this stage in a man's life when he started to relax and bask in the blissful years to come. Men who appeared to possess all the treasures one could attain in this life often slowed down and did nothing more than enjoy themselves. Unfortunately, the same could not have been said for Asher. As the months continued to trek forward, he began to appear increasingly more disheveled. Dark circles imprinted themselves on Asher’s eyes, and that air of optimism soon began to disappear as though it had been blown away by some malevolent force. No one was entirely sure what the root of this seemingly spontaneous depression was, and in such a small community it was common to make somebody else's personal business your own. People would stop him on the street every chance they got to ask him how everything was going, in a futile attempt to gain any semblance of an answer to their mystery. “I’m right as rain!” he would say with a smile, “and why wouldn’t I be?” Asher did indeed love his wife dearly, and treated her as though she was entitled to every good thing on Earth. Despite this, there was just one, singular, minute problem that Asher could never seem to get over no matter how hard he tried. It was her eyes. If you were to ask any outsider, they would describe Evelyn’s eyes as nothing more than a beautiful shade of green, like that of an emerald. While this was indeed true, there was something missing that any keen observer would notice. Even Asher, with his acute observation skills, was blinded by everything else about Evelyn to notice her eyes during their hasty engagement. Evelyn’s face was fully capable of displaying anger, fear, joy, but no matter her facial expression her eyes remained akin to that of a corpse. Asher loved her, but he felt that at times they were too much to bear. Her cold, loveless, stale eyes penetrated his every thought and action, and caused him to lose sleep at night. There was something deep in Evelyn that appeared to be missing, some essential inexplicable something that made someone human. While everything else from her actions to her voice appeared human, her eyes were the critical tell that this was nothing more than an act. Asher did everything he could to overlook this. He began to pour himself into project after project, looking for work in every place he could find in an effort to avoid being home. Even though Asher had enough money to live the rest of his life comfortably, he still found himself working nine hours a day in the fields or in town. Evelyn seemed ignorant to this change in behavior and continued to live her life as though Asher had not come under some sickness in the head. Asher dreaded when the workday came to an end and had to head home. Unlike most working men, Asher counted down the hours until he was able to go to be in the fields again. Every second that he did not have to look into his wife’s soulless eyes was a relief to him. Life fell into dreary equilibrium for the couple, where Asher would go out and work in some neighbor’s field, while Evelyn would go into town to visit friends and run errands. Asher was by no means happy, but he felt that he was able to make do with the situation. Then something changed. When Asher arrived home one evening there was a very subtle change in Evelyn. So subtle that not even the most scrupulous of individuals would have been able to notice it. Her eyes would appear to blink just ever so slightly less frequently, and her stare seemed to penetrate just a little bit more. This was more than Asher could take, and that ever-so-fragile equilibrium was now beyond repair. After having endured months of paranoia and insomnia, Asher snapped, and he began to scream incomprehensible accusations at Evelyn. Something along the lines of her “being the devil” and that she was “inhuman”. Evelyn’s emotionless face and eyes remained on Asher until he lost all semblance of reason. He started to claw at the walls, topple furniture, and destroy any poor innocent décor that happened to be in the madman’s path. “Asher” Evelyn said with a tone of one trying to replicate sympathy, “Is something the matter?“ Asher turned to look at his wife and what he saw was not his wife. It was as though an unholy creature was wearing the skin of the woman he thought he loved. Not being able to contain the growing fear and apprehension, Asher evacuated the hell he called home. The destitute Asher remained missing for forty-eight hours, and the following morning Evelyn decided to take action. She notified the local sheriff, and search parties were arranged to help find her missing husband. The sheriff couldn’t help but remark on how calm she appeared, given that she was reporting on the seemingly random disappearance of her husband. Regardless, they found him unconscious in a field and had a doctor examine him for any physical ailments. Appearing perfectly healthy, the doctor dismissed it as nothing more than some stress-induced panic that caused him to act irrationally. Asher was sent home, and when the townsfolk were told to recount their side of the subsequent events, seeing him leave the hospital was the last time anyone could remember seeing Asher again. It had been a little over a month before anyone had seen Asher leave the hospital. No one had seen anyone leave or enter his residence in a suspiciously long time, so a neighbor of Asher’s took it upon himself to be a good Samaritan and check up on the couple. He knocked, waited, knocked again, waited a little longer, and knocked harder. When he realized this was a fruitless endeavor he decided to go to the sheriff. The neighbor asked him to go and make sure everything was okay, and with an air of tired reluctance at the affairs of the nosy townsfolk, the sheriff fulfilled his request. The sheriff knocked and waited. He continued to knock for the better half of ten minutes, and when he realized this wouldn’t work he resorted to busting down the door. With only a couple strong kicks the door surrendered and collapsed to the floor, and lying before him in the center of the home was Asher’s lifeless body. The sheriff pulled out his gun and entered the premises cautiously. He inspected Asher’s corpse, and saw a kitchen knife residing in his abdomen. The blood surrounding the wound was a dark crimson, indicating that this wound was not fresh. The sheriff looked around the home and saw no indication of domestic unrest, or any sign of Evelyn either. The sheriff had no idea what to make of the situation. Occasionally, maybe every couple of years, reports would float around of a newly married young man found dead in his home, with no sign of his newly widowed wife.

Aria Dauntair had been waiting for this night for five years now. She had been fifteen when she had found the solar maps in the back of the town library. Her eyes had been drawn to a table with a chess set, the pieces stopped mid game across the black and white board. She had walked to the table to examine the game when she had noticed scrolls stacked beneath it. They smelled of ink and old paper and felt rough against her callused brown fingers. They contained the most beautiful maps and calendars ever, for they depicted the night sky. Pouring over the scrolls all night she had come upon the alignment of the calendar that portrayed a complete lunar eclipse in five years' time. A full lunar eclipse meant the moon would become drenched in blood and turn an ominous red. And as a painter it was her deepest desire to capture that catastrophic color. So on the day of the eclipse Aria packed up all of her best paints, brushes, papers, and canvases into her brown satchel. Then with her easel beneath her arm she walked into the fields that separated the town from the Crass palace. In the East of these fields there lay old castle ruins from a time long forgotten. And what better place to use as a landscape? The ruins of royalty and the death of the sky; it would be a most poetic painting. Her dress was yellow and her breathing heavy as she carried her supplies to the ruins. She set them down to take a rest and pulled her springy black hair into a twist at the back of her head. Noticing a sunflower, she picked it and wove it into the twist of her hair. It was early April and the air was still cold despite the emergence of flowers. For this reason the exercise felt exhilarating, the chilly air pressed onto her hot skin to create an enchanting contrast. Aria glanced at the Crass palace momentarily before continuing to the ruins. The palace stood taller than a mountain, with buttresses like shooting stars and balconies like jutting cliffs. It was both white and black like a game board and it frightened her. The Crass’s were the royal family that ruled her town, and the town past that, and many towns beyond. In her mind, they ruled the world. They felt like gods compared to her, an orphan raised by a prophetess, taught to paint and live simply. The ruins were raised slightly upon a hill and she trudged up it, only stumbling on her skirt twice. When she reached the top she dropped her things and sat down on a piece of concrete rubble, once a great pillar, now a stone surrounded by grass. She heard a laugh and fell backwards off the stone. She stood up hastily and turned to find the source of the laugh. A girl was laying across an old dining table, her lips open with mirth. “Why are you laughing?” Aria asked. The girl stopped laughing to level Aria with a piercing stare. Aria shifted her feet uncomfortably. “What’s funny?” she demanded. The girl shrugged her bony bare shoulders. “Only that you are here. I did not expect anyone to come up here.” Aria looked the girl up and down, hoping to puzzle her out. She had unnaturally pale skin, the opposite color to Aria’s warm dark complexion. Her hair was black, straight, and long like a curtain. She was wearing a deep red dress that fell around her in petticoats and ribbons, a pool of blood drenching her slim body. Her feet were bare and her toenails painted. In one hand she held a bottle of wine and in the other her fingers clutched a small velvet purse. “You, you are very pretty,” Aria managed. “But why are you dressed like you’re going to a ball?” The girl shrugged. “I do not know. It is a game I must play. I must pretend as if I am lovely and together. It does not do anymore. I quit the game. Or perhaps I lost. I’m not sure.” “I don’t understand what you mean.” The girl slid off the old table to her feet. She tipped drunkenly to the left for a second but managed to stand upright. Then she moved towards Aria. “You have beautiful eyes,” she remarked. “I could stare into those all day.” Aria turned her face away, flattered and embarrassed. “Do you always compliment strangers like this?” The girl laughed again. It was a harsh laugh because it sounded empty. It rattled from her throat, out her pink lips, like a last breath. “You’re not a stranger to me. You’re a subject.” Aria tried to make sense of this. The girl rolled her eyes at her confusion. “I’m Lorelai Crass. Or at least I am told that is my name.” “Oh!” Aria cried and she fell harshly to her knees. They would be bruised in the morning. Lorelai laughed. “Do not kneel to me. Didn’t I tell you I quit the game? Stop playing it. We are just too girls, that is all. Call me Rosy, that is what my friends call me.” Aria stared at the flowers that poked up between Lorelai’s dainty bare feet. Bright red wild poppies and blue cornflowers. They wrapped around the princesses ankles and grew stubbornly from the cracks of concrete on the ground. Aria slowly stood up. “Why do they call you Rosy?” she asked. Lorelai, or Rosy for that matter, held out the wine bottle in front of her, tipping it back and forth in Aria’s view. The wine was a light pink and on the bottle in gold lettering it said, “Rosé.” “Why do you think?” Rosy asked, her eyebrows raised and her voice full of satire. Then she took a swig from the bottle, spilling some of it down her front and staining her satin dress. Aria was unsure what to do in this strange situation so she turned back to the reason she had come to the ruins. She set up her easel on a piece of flat marble, what could have been a ballroom years before, and propped up a canvas on it. Then she sat down on the cold floor. She opened her case of paints, their chemical smell filling the air. Rosy was behind her and suddenly leaned her chin onto her shoulder to look at the paints. “You’re a painter,” she noted quite obviously, her words tickling Aria’s ear, the alcohol on her breath wafting about. “Have you come to paint me or the ruins? We are one and the same you see. No one remembers a time when we were one piece.” Aria was becoming more worried for the princess. She glanced sideways at her and their faces came close, Rosy’s pale skin and dark eyes alarming at that proximity. Aria pulled back instinctively and Rosy’s harsh laugh echoed about once more. It was at this moment that Aria noticed something odd. Something in Rosy’s handbag was moving. “What’s in your purse?” she inquired as she fiddled with one of her ivory brushes. “Oh!” Rosy exclaimed, standing up with excitement as if she had forgotten. “I brought along a friend! Yes, a dear friend.” Aria did not like the way it was moving about in the purse, making the velvet material pulse and ripple. “What kind of a friend?” she asked, her voice trembling. The sun was beginning to set behind the purple mountains. The air was growing very cold. Rosy looked as if she was going to answer but then suddenly turned her head, her mind completely sidetracked. “That’s right!” she announced to the open air. “I almost forgot. I chose this day on purpose. Perhaps you did too?” Aria smiled, remembering the excitement the night would bring. “Yes, the blood moon! I am going to paint it. I have wanted to paint it for five years now.” Rosy sat down next to Aria on the marble, taking another quick swig of her wine. “Five years. That is a long time to wait for something. I presume nothing could be more important than being able to paint it. I suppose you would not miss this for anything.” Aria bobbed her head, the sunflower falling from her black hair. “I can’t wait,” she said breathlessly. “Perhaps you could paint me too,” Rosy suggested. “Would I look terrifying in the red light? Or tragic perhaps?” Aria thought for a second, watching the color of the clouds darken to deep blue. “Why do you say you are like the ruins? What do you mean? It doesn’t make sense.” Rosy stood up as if the words had deeply affected her. “Doesn’t make sense,” she muttered. “I sense the moon rising, that is what I sense. Do not worry about it painter girl, I mean nothing. I am nothing. Just pretend I am not here.” Then she turned her back to Aria and disappeared behind a pile of rubble. Aria was not sure how to respond so she laid out her paint brushes, touching them with affection, preparing for the moment when the moon would appear. Something cold and wet suddenly graced her cheek. Like a kiss from a corpse’s lips. She touched her cheek, surprised. The air was icy and she watched her breath billow out of her mouth. Another cold thing landed on her nose. “Snow,” she whispered, understanding. She watched as small snowflakes fell down around her and the ruins. They seemed to be falling all together, as if one body, one white unstable body. She sat beneath the snow and thought of Rosy's strange words. They became more concerning in her mind the more she tried to puzzle through their meaning. She stood and walked towards the princess to see what she was doing. She sat against the pile of rubble, the bottle of wine empty and broken into shards on the ground. Rosy had evidently cut her wrists with some of the glass shards because there was blood spinning down the skin of her forearms. The snow settled around her, landing on the bright flowers and her bare feet. The world felt terribly wrong. Rosy had the purse clutched in her hands and she stared at it as if she was about to make a great decision. The look in her swirling black eyes was haunting. “Rosy,” Aria said, trying to bring her into reality. Rosy’s eyes snapped up to the painter in front of her, clad in soft yellow, skin warm, body steady. “Rosy, what’s in the purse.” Rosy said nothing, her eyes fixed on Aria. The smell of Rosy’s blood hit Aria suddenly, metallic and musty, the snow fresh and stark in comparison. “Rosy, won’t you let me bandage up your wrists? They are bleeding so much.” “Good,” she hissed. “I love blood! Don’t you see, you lovely girl? I am not just like these ruins, I am them! I am the blood moon, and the clouds. I am everything you have ever painted. I am poetry and I, am, death.” She paused between each of her last words, her voice tense with drama. “You aren’t making sense Rosy,” Aria said, feeling like a broken record. She began to cry and it felt odd, crying over someone she did not know. But the tears came anyways, warm and heavy. “Let me bandage up your wrists,” she pleaded. But when Aria took a step forward, Rosy unclasped the velvet purse and pulled out, with one swift motion, a thin black snake. Aria flinched backwards at the sight of it. The laugh came again, echoing against the stone ruins again, echoing back at them. The snow was still falling and it came to Aria’s notice that the moon had appeared. It’s glorious blood light shone on Rosy, willing her to die. “Know what this is, beautiful painter? It’s my mother’s snake. She keeps a whole tank of poisonous snakes in her room. She likes them. One bite from this one will kill me.” “Rosy, put the snake back,” Aria pleaded, afraid to step forward again, glancing up at the blood moon then back at the girl. “Go on!” Rosy cried, hysteria running rampid along her face. “Go paint your moon! Paint it and these ruins, all these ruins! Paint my ruins! Don’t miss your chance!” Rosy laughed again and stroked the back of the thin black snake. Aria was breathing hard with anxiety, watching those cold white fingers stroking the black scales. Her hair was cold and wet on her face from the snow and her body had begun shaking from cold. Her tears had frozen on her face. She should go paint her moon like the princess said. After all this girl was ruined wasn’t she? She looked into Rosy’s eyes, asking what to do. “Go on!” Rosy commanded again. “I won’t keep you waiting!” Aria glanced at the moon and knew she could not paint it. Not now, perhaps not ever. “What about your chance?” she whispered to her. Rosy scoffed, watching the snake coil around her hand and slither between her fingers. “Now you don’t make any sense.” “You said I shouldn’t miss my chance. But what about you? You deserve a chance to keep living.” “No I don’t! What will another chance do for me? Nothing! Nothing you idiot!” Aria was overcome with pain for the girl, and stepped forward, ready to grab the snake from her hands. “Don’t move!” Rosy snapped. If I press on the back of this guy's little head he will bite. I’ll do it now if you move again! I will!” Rosy had begun to sob then. Her eyes were glossy and the tears streamed endlessly down her shallow cheeks. Aria stood frozen, feeling the whole world tipping on a scale. Possible consequences echoing all around. “I know you don’t want to die. So don’t. Don’t.” Rosy shook her head no. “You can’t stop me. You said you have been waiting for five years. Well I have been too! I have been planning this death, my death for five years! For five years I have wanted to-” And then mid-sentence Aria made a decision. She flung herself forward and stopped Rosy’s words short with a searing kiss. Full brown lips against thin pink ones. Lips frozen and wet with tears. Rosy tasted of the sweet pink alcohol she was nicknamed after and it sent a woozy sensation through Aria’s nerves. Rosy had gone still beneath Aria’s embrace, as if she was a machine, her lips the off button. Aria pressed her lips harder to hers, not daring to pull away. Willing to stay there until the end of time. It was Rosy who pulled her head back slightly, disconnecting their cold lips. Aria looked down at the snake. Rosy had not made it bite her. It sat in her hand calmly, coiled up in her white palm like a sleepy pet. Rosy’s eyes were still shut and her eyebrows were scrunched up, her jaw clenched. Aria carefully grabbed the end of the snake tail and picked up the snake from the girl’s hand. Then she placed the poisonous creature in the handbag and clasped it shut. She tossed it far to the side. Rosy’s eyes remained closed. “I still want to die,” she whispered to Aria who sat close on the snowy ground, flowers crushed beneath her thick legs. “I know. But you don’t have to. You don’t have to die.” Rosy’s eyes opened to Aria, wide and vulnerable, two open wounds. Then she fell into Aria’s arms, her sobs drenching her neck. They sat there in each others arms for an hour, the snow still falling lightly, the red moon still shining. Aria’s paints were ruined and the canvas soaked through but she had forgotten their existence. Aria realized how hard both of them were shivering and stood up, pulling Rosy’s limp body with her. “We need to get somewhere warm.” Rosy nodded against her. “Okay. Not the palace though. I don’t want to go back there. I’m done with that game.” So Aria scooped up Rosy into her arms and walked towards her paint studio, the town lights in the distance guiding her through the darkness. The wet grasses were shocking on her bare ankles and Rosy felt light in her arms. Rosy watched Aria’s face as she struggled forward. “We hardly know each other,” she whispered to Aria. Aria nodded, a curl of her hair falling over her forehead and brushing an eyelid. “And we don’t share any blood,” she continued, clutching onto the fabric of Aria’s yellow dress with her quivering hands. “But we are family now. Aren’t we?” Aria looked down at the princess in her arms. “Why do you say that? I have never had family in my life. I’m an orphan.” “Family is people who take care of each other. And save each other. That’s what you did for me.” “I only kissed you,” she remarked, not sure she could accept such a bold statement, such a word as family. “No, you brought me back to life for a moment. I was already dead years ago but for a moment I felt alive again. How can that not be, be what family does? How can family be more than that?” “I’m not sure.” “Do you not wish to be my family?” “Of course I wish it.” “You think I’m terrible don’t you? A mess.” “No. I think you’re lonely. And stunning.” “So...” “Of course I wish to be your family.” And Rosy’s lips tilted into a tipsy smile as Aria stepped onto the cobble path that led to her studio, the blood moon shining above.

"It's been what? Fifteen years. Yeah." "What is or was? I no too sabi this English thing." "What made me me." "Ahhh. This one you're making sense of today. What happened Kay?" "I never talked about my twin right?" "Yeah. I didn't want to probe. It was like you wanted the past to remain where it was. Although, I did want to know." Mide says a bit thoughtful. "Well... Here we go." "I'm the different one in the family. (Some people may replace the different with ugly if you get the gist.)" Mide knows better than to interrupt but he still does. "What! Mide screams. You've got to be kidding me. Or did you do plastic surgery and I'm not aware? How can you look like this and you say you are ugly? I can't believe you. Let me see pictures." "Nah. I didn't do plastic surgery. But here's a picture of us all." "If that's the case, then your family must be fine. Like superb. Spec. That kinda thing." I show him a picture that never left me and for a moment he is stunned into silence. He just stares at me then back at the picture. His mouth agape with shock. "Your family is beautiful. At this point, I think I know what beauty is". He says. I blush. But continue. "So, everyone had light. They were so fair. They even had strands of brown hair scattered around. And I was like this. Their hair was a crown. Mine was more like a comedy. They took me for a joke. I mean a joke. There were several jokes. But, I could not forget one, it said, we know God doesn't make a mistake, but when we see you, we doubt that. Everyone always laughed. And the joke never lost its humor. Tai was the sun and I was just a reflection of him. The moon. The closer I was to him, the more I shone but I still could not be as bright as he was. The farther, he went from me, the less I shone. Just like the sun, everyone loved Tai. He was like warmth. Shining. Even jollof rice could not compete with him. He was loved. He was smart. And you already know he's a head-turner. He was approached by several modeling agencies but he turned them down. He said he wanted to be Doctor. He was so ambitious. I hadn't figured a thing about how my life would go. He was just perfect. He could run so well, when he ran, you would feel his breeze past you. When we were fifteen, we had a small birthday party. More like Tai had a birthday party. After the party, Tai said he had a headache. Mum gave him painkillers. And just as he was about to put the water in his mouth, he fell Mum screamed. Everyone rushed down. It was so scary. Tai never fell ill. If we had known there were scarier things ahead, we would have prepared our hearts. But no. He was going to be a doctor and everyone held on to that. Tests were run on him and we waited. We were asked to go home but we just couldn't. We waited. The tests results came out and mum and dad were called into the Doctor's office. When they got out, mum couldn't look up and we knew something was wrong. Dad was still cool. He was cool in the storm kind of man. Keeping it all together till it fell away. He said it was fine but Tai would not be coming home with us that night. After much persuasion, we agreed to go home but it was obvious that the sun was absent on our planet. Tai kept his cool. He knew he had cancer. He knew he was close to the end of his life. He knew he couldn't be a doctor anymore but he still kept his light on. He was fighting cancer armed with a smile. When I found out, I became numb and dumb. I couldn't feel. I couldn't speak. I forgot how to. I just didn't how I was living all before then. The only word that kept on spinning in my head was cancer. It was ironic. He wanted to be a doctor but now, he would need several. Days passed in a blur and when the pain could no longer be masked, when his hair was gone and his face looked gaunt, Tai began to crack. It wasn't as quick as an egg. It was a slow and painful cracking. He couldn't keep up with the bits of himself that were lost. As each hair fell, so did his spirit drop till nothing was left of him. He and I now shared the same feeling. We were united in our numbness and dumbness. No one could make us speak. Not even ourselves. It was this time that I turned to self-harm. Blades, hot iron, fire were used. I enjoyed the only sensation I could feel. One day, no one knew why but Tai talked. He emptied his empty soul. And I received the only piece left of him. The next day, he died. He knew. He knew he was going to die so he left a piece of himself as a legacy in my heart. When I heard, I screamed or maybe howled. It was an ear-splitting sound that only meant pain. I tore at myself. I grabbed my hair, intending to pull it off. I couldn't do much more because I was sedated. When I came to be, I wept and wept. I did all types of crying. Loud. Silent. Tears only. The sound only. Whichever way. The numbness had left and the feelings that had been accumulated needed an escape. Seeing my state, mum and dad decided to take me to my aunt. I was always happy in her presence. She hated the jokes made about me. Affirmed me. Loved me. She's who I call Mum. She nursed me to full emotional health. I became the crazy happy person that I am. So unlike then when I had no words and no tears, I now have words. A lot of them. And as for the tears, I've become an expert in shedding tears in public without being seen. So, Mide that's what made me me." "Wow. Wow. You went through all that? I'm so sorry" "No, need to be sorry" I said. He gave me a hug and when I looked at his face, I saw tears in his eye. Tears for me.

“Ahhhh yes. Now where do we begin with Lucy?... The first thing everyone notices about her is her hair. It shines golden. Bleach blonde actually... Just like her personality. During those winter months - you know, when it’s dark when you arrive at the office and when it’s dark when you leave - well she’s a shining light... And why not? Who doesn’t need a bit of cheering up at 6:40am on a Tuesday morning? It certainly wasn’t the tea that had me coming back... I could even say, at times it tasted like fresh horse piss! No... It was something most people don’t understand anymore, a certain class, a connection, a candour. She played the role of host perfectly, a smooth blend of frankness, service and... and respect. In years gone by she would have run an establishment for the local gentry, or nobles - or something. As it was, she was a waitress at a greasy spoon just off the A34. But she played the role marvellously... Just marvellously... After a while, we got to know each other quite well. She would always joke about what a lucky woman Mrs. Dowd was... I would joke about how one of these days I was going to leave Mary and run off with her... Yes, a very pleasant woman. Well then, you can understand my surprise when one morning, while in the toilets just before work, I heard two of the regulars chatting. A gruff voice let slip a secret. It turns out our Amy was making a little money on the side. Working discreetly shall we say. I mean, she can’t have been making much as a waitress... But what shocked me was the nature of it you see - she was a dominatrix! Imagine that! I can see why though, she understood roles very well. A good actress.... Psychologically gifted... As a gentleman I never made a peep about it, but you can be damn sure that I watched her a more closely after that! People are like that.... They lead you one way... Then they take you another... The next big surprise came a few days later. She was distracted behind the till one morning. Reading a book or something... I only noticed because we’d normally be having a chat at this point, but instead my only company was the breakfast news on the radio. So, interest piqued, I made my way over to her. Without making a sound, I leant over the till to have a look. Well, I’d never seen her move so quickly in all these years! Like a rat up a drain pipe that book was out of sight! She managed the situation well, as though nothing had happened, and the conversation ran smoothly before I headed out to work. But something changed. From that day on... A look... A feeling... Yes, some sort of distance had grown between us. She was watching me and I was watching her. Of course, it’s only natural for a man to feel a certain... frisson, in such a situation. But you must understand, as a married man... No, it was a purely intellectual curiosity. So, there I was, Mr. Nosey Parker, like a basset hound sniffing for blood. It was quite innocuous at first, just a peek into her car at the car park, through the passenger window. Well, let me tell you, there was... there was... well there was a lewd instrument! Just there, laying on the seat! I tell you, I almost had a heart attack! Oooh she wanted to get caught, I can tell you that. She knew I was sniffing around, and she wanted to get caught. She was leaving me tracks... What’s a man to do in such a situation? There we were circling one another like... like a whirpool, it was only a matter of time before we... plunged down into the sinkhole, as it were. Anyway, like a fool, I decided to take the initiative. I took the day off work. I went into the café as normal, suit and all, of course. So as not raise any suspicion you see. Then I parked my car around the corner, just off the T-junction, and waited. What was I thinking! Well, there it is, that’s what I did. So, I waited until... it must have been just before midday. Out pulls her little coral red Fiat 500 and starts off down the road. I followed just behind. It was rather exciting, but there I was cool as a cucumber, hanging back a car or two. I almost lost her when she turned off just after Stafford! But the hunt was on! Twisting and turning we meandered through some country roads. It was all becoming rather personal, what with the single lane and the hedge rows obscuring everything else. Tunnel vision. Just me and the back of her car. Just me staring at her... behind. Well eventually, she turned off down a dirt track towards the most derelict looking barn you have ever seen. Luckily, I saw a layby on the other side through a gap in the hedge row. What a find! But then I’ve always had the best luck. Without giving away the plot I drove on and parked up at the layby. To cut a long story short, I crept round to the front. The heavy front hung loosely from the top hinge, just, ever so slightly... squealing in the wind. My heart was racing and my blood pumping! What if... what if I saw... Well I skulked through... into the darkness... There were no lights in there, you see, just slats missing in the roof, through which great... shafts of sunlight thrusted into the dusty dinge. Blinking, my eyes adjusted to the gloom, when, there in front of my eyes, I saw... I saw a dungeon. A scaffolding of straps and chains and what not. I couldn’t quite take it all in! Then just as suddenly... darkness. When I came to, I was hanging. I was groggy... Strapped up by my arms and legs, just like this... I remember the drool running down my chin like syrup. I was gagged... Then, from the shadows she emerged... Mistress Lucy...She... She was... I had never seen her like that before... In a tight leather corset, with... And so imperious, such an... She looked at me like she owned me! ‘Hello Piggy’ She says! Her! To me! Well I was shocked, as you can imagine, but there was more, there was... a fire, do you understand? I tried shout, to call out for help, but it came out as a muffled whimper. ‘You’ve been a bad little Piggy haven’t you, following me around in the shadows.’ I struggled... I kicked out, I tried to break free... I did... ‘Mistress isn’t happy.’ I noticed the garden shears in her hands, and I tried... I really tried to break free in a twitching frenzy... ‘Mistress isn’t happy and you are going to make it up to her.’ My screams just came out as a bubbly moan. ‘She’s going to train you, she’s going to turn you into a good Piggy slave or...’ The shears clapped twice like snapping of a hungry crocodile. ‘Mistress wants you to kill Mrs. Dowd and serve Mistress from now on...’ Oh how I screamed... “ The feverish glimmer of his eyes was the only light shining from the abyssal black of the gimp mask. He had been declaiming in this manner for some time now, his zipped-up mouth muffling the monologue. Mark was pouring with sweat. He couldn’t help but notice the pair of garden shears in the gimps hand. “So you see,” whined the gimp. “Everyone learns to serve her, but in the beginning, we just need a little help.

It's a text-based game that you download on your phone, that lets you make choices and develop your 'bitlife' by aging them up. I found it while looking for a game to occupy myself during a 6-hour flight, and against all odds, I got hooked to it. I’m not much of a ‘gamer’, unless you count Candy Crush, but for some reason this game really drew me in. All the options and unique scenarios just kept me coming back for more. My first ‘Bitlife’ died as a mid-level salesman. The next was a famous musician. The one after was a notorious serial killer. Every new ‘bitlife’ was different, and every one more interesting than the next. One day, I was lying on my couch, sipping on a vitamin water as my latest bitlife lived out his final years. He was a very successful CEO, married to his partner for 40 years, and was the loving adopted father of two boys. The black ‘death’ screen popped up, as I aged him up one last time. “*Gary Newell died at the age of 82.*” “*He passed away peacefully in his sleep.*” I let out a satisfied sigh. Gary lived a very fulfilling, very successful life. I took another sip of my water, letting the silence of my apartment envelop me for a few moments. I checked the time. 9:18 p.m. Enough time for me to start a new life. I clicked the little sperm icon to start again. My phone froze, the screen becoming unresponsive for a few seconds. Frustrated, I locked and unlocked the screen to try to get it to work again. It flickered back to life, the app opening again. I gasped as double-checked the new name. “*Rita Thatcher*”. The exact same name as me! I let out a laugh, trying to imagine what the chances are that the random name would be mine! I decided I was gonna give little Rita the best life possible. Make her a CEO, or a famous painter. Maybe even a movie star. Feeling excited, I took a look at the information screen. “*I was born a female in Glasgow, UK.*” My eyes went wide as I double-checked the location. I was born in Glasgow. My excitement slowly faded to a dull sense of dread as I continued to read. “*Born 28 November.*” Same day as me. The feeling of dread grew as I read the names of the parents. "*David Thatcher, writer. (age 29)*" "*Willow Thatcher, police officer. (age 27)*" Those are my parents names. My dad was a writer, and my mom was a police officer back in those days. I quickly did the math, and the ages also matched. With shaking hands, I clicked "Age up". "*Age: 1 year. My mother and father had a baby boy named Jenson.*" My blood turned to ice as I read the text again. "No way." I said to myself over and over, unable to believe that this is really happening. My stomach wrenched itself into knots as I thought of my poor, sweet brother. I clicked "Age up." Nothing showed up for Age 2 and 3. With each blank screen, the feeling of dread that sat inside me eased up just a little. I tried to imagine what the odds of all this being a coincidence was. Probably impossibly low. I clicked "Age up." "*Age 4: your parents want to buy you and your brother a pet spaniel named Daphne!*" I let out a shriek as I dropped my phone and scrambled to the other side of the couch. I fell off the edge, my butt hitting the cold, tiled floor. I sat there for a bit, curled up and taking deep breaths. I remembered Daphne's sweet, brown eyes and golden coat. My parents got her for Jenson and I when I was four. She was my sweet angel, my best friend for five years. I sat on the floor for a few seconds more, as the weight in my stomach eased up enough for me to get up. I went to the kitchen, grabbed a glass from the cabinet and poured myself some water. I leaned against the counter, taking slow sips as the feeling of dread faded little by little. I placed the empty glass in the sink and turned the hot water on, grabbing the sponge and dish soap as the water heated up. Still in a daze, I cleaned the glass, rinsing off the suds and placing it on the rack to dry. I think I'm just tired. Overworked and delusional from working a double shift. I'll just turn off the game and go to bed. I jumped as a 'Ping!' sounded from the lounge. It's my phone, letting me know I had a message. I made my way to the lounge, sitting back on the couch as I picked up my phone and glanced at its screen. Bitlife was still open, it's text waiting patiently for me as I swiped down and checked the notification. It was from Bitlife. "*Don't leave just yet!*" it said. "You must be losing your mind, Rita." I told myself, as I clicked "Age up", bracing myself for whatever came next. "It's just a game." I tried to tell myself. It didn't help. "*Age: 6 years. My dad is now addicted to alcohol.*" I tried to lock the phone, my hands fumbling over the button over and over in a panic. The screen refused to lock, the text becoming blurry as I started to cry. In frustration, I threw my phone across the room. It gave a loud **Crack!** as it bounced against the wall, it's screen ripping off and hanging from the main body. The phone started pinging. Slowly at first, but picking up speed until it became a torrent of noise. Mechanically, I made my way over to it, delicately picking up the screen as its cabling snapped off and left the main body behind. Impossibly, notifications flooded across the top of its lit screen. "Don't leave just yet, Rita!" it said, all from Bitlife. I watched as they flickered by. Suddenly they stopped, one final message popping up from the Text app. It was from my dad. "*Keep playing, Rita.*" I clicked "Age up." "*Age: 7 years. My brother Jenson died at the age of 6.*" My eyesight became more blurry as tears flowed down my face. "*He died in a car crash.*" My dad was driving that car. He picked him up from nursery school and was on his way to pick me up from my school when it happened. It was a head-on collision. The police found my dad over the limit, and halfway across the other lane. Another notification, this time from my mom. "*Keep going!*" Numbly, I clicked "Age up." "*Age: 8 years. My mom died at the age of 35.*" The phones speakers came to life from the other side of the room, giving me a start. Two voices flooded out of it. It's been years, but I recognized my parent's voices. It started out hushed, both of them whispering to each other so as to not wake little Rita. Soon the voices grew louder and louder, filling the living room as they screamed angrily at each other. I cupped my ears, trying to drown out the sounds. It grew louder, the noise filling the room until I screamed, trying to drown them out. Suddenly it stopped. A door slammed and the sound of heavy footsteps marched away. I heard someone open a kitchen drawer, the utensils clanging together inside it as someone rifled around. They pulled something out, slamming the drawer shut as they made their way back to where they came. I heard another 'Ping!' come from my phone. "*She was stabbed by my father during an argument.*" The screaming turned my blood to ice. It started off loud and shrill, the sound reverberating throughout the house. It started becoming hoarse and choked, before cutting off to a gargling silence. I cupped my hands over my ears, dropping the screen as I curled into a ball. I began screaming, telling it to stop as the sounds of my dad's labored breathing joined the sounds of his knife. Suddenly it cut off with another 'Ping!'. As my vision returned, I looked up at the screen. "*Keep playing, Rita.*" I clicked "Age up." "*Age: 9 years. My father committed suicide in prison at age 38. I've been sent to an orphanage.*" I clicked again. "Age up." "*Age: 13 years. I was adopted by Adam Whiteley and Sarah Whiteley.*" Another 'Ping!'. "*Almost there.*" "*Age: 15 years. My adoptive father hit me for not finishing dinner.*" 'Ping!'. "Age up." "*Age: 18 years. I ran away from home.*" "*Age: 19 years. I got a job as a barista.*" "*Age: 20 years." "*22 years*" 25. My breathing is shallow, my head is fuzzy and my hands are shaking as I stare at the screen. 25 years. I turned 26 today. I jumped as I heard another 'Ping!'. "*Almost there.*" I clicked "Age up." The black 'Death' screen popped up.

HARRY GET OUT YOUR CANE. Ginny sat, once again, in her therapist's office. She wondered if she’d ever be done with this woman, yet in the same moment looked upon her with deep gratitude. This person had stood beside her for almost two decades. She stored an encyclopedia of details about Gin’s life and knew things and connections to things that few others did. Gin could be quite a blabbermouth and though she told people much, she hid even more. Her words often became a shield that protected her from those she felt most vulnerable. The woman who sat in front of her knew exactly the myriad of ways Gin tried to twist and squirm in her attempts to get off an invisible hook. With one sentence, she could reel Ginny in to a standstill. In this brief moment of respite the therapist's words then had a chance to penetrate a rather thickened outer shell. And so...the therapist’s words, “You deserve a relationship in which the person is equally invested in you!!” sent Ginny into a tailspin. This woman rarely spoke with exclamation marks and Ginny was taken aback by the directness of her observation. The words zapped her like an electrical charge. She had little to say, her tongue felt tied. The thrill of the shock from her words, sent Ginny out of the office, into Luke's waiting truck. The pair headed off into the wild blue horizon. More precisely, home to Gin’s garden. Ginny had great hopes for getting this man into her garden. He certainly had been generous in planting seeds, which, watered by her imagination, produced erotic scene after erotic scene. Most of Luke’s suggestions culminated with him generously spreading his seed across her already lush landscape. She held onto a vague dream where this fantasy would become reality. It didn't happen. As the couple sat and visited, Gin watched Luke retreat into his ivory tower and as hard as she tugged and enticed, he obstinately refused to budge. As Luke coolly spelt out his position, a lovely white feather drifted down and settled at Ginny's feet. She smiled, glanced up into the clouds and...admitted defeat. She was tired of fighting, of always seeking the best in others so that they would then see that reflection through her eyes. She'd begun to see what an arrogant, pretentious act this was. Yes, she was capable of great insights into human nature and had the ability to scour and dig past places few dared to explore. However, having the ability to do something and then ACTING upon that ability, were two different things. What happened most often for Gin was that the person ended up resenting her intrusion and, rightfully so. Her 'marks' would at first be amazed at her abilities to sleuth out hidden secrets and then once they realized the full scope of her powers, would turn and run. Most often they grabbed whatever weapon available to cut the insidious ties that had begun to bind them to this rather remarkable woman. Gin's default position then became a weighty tome of resentments. She would work very hard to stab herself in her heart, in her belly, in her side, over and over again, crying out, "Poor me, why am I so hard done by?" She had finally begun to learn the lesson set out for her by a power so much greater than herself. She entered the safety of her apartment, alone, no Luke in hand. She ate some yogurt and fruit, drank water and retired to her bed for a rest after an emotionally charged morning of activity. Ginny promptly fell asleep.... Lilith woke up panting. She slipped a hand down to her throbbing Netherlands and immediately exploded in a fiery burst of rippling waves of pleasure. She sighed, knowing that her twin, Ginny was soon going to grab her, chastise her severely and then...well, Gin could throw a wet blanket over any fire Lilith started. Ginny could be a bloody pain in the neck. Her prissy assed morals and ‘good’ Catholic girl indoctrination often put a crimp in Lilith’s lifestyle. Sure enough, Lilith felt that irksome sibling’s hand snake out and grab her by the butt. The gentle pinch held promises of a more painful prodding. Lilith’s still rippling orgasm began to settle down and out of the ashes, arose...a beautiful fiery Phoenix. This mythical creature born again and again, silently admonished Lilith with a gentle reminder - “Love should never be a weakness or a place of harm, It should stand rather as a pillar of strength, offering a soft refuge in a turbulent storm.” Lilith had been engaged in a rather steamy affair with a guy that had caught her twin’s attention. Luke wasn’t quite sure what he had trapped, but sensed that Gin’s rather sedate, prissy assed exterior was but a facade for a hidden beast that roamed wild and free. He would have been wise to pay heed to Jim’s warning in the song 'Riders on the Storm'... “There's a killer on the road, his brain is squirming like a toad.” "Into this world Luke had been born, like a dog without a bone." Luke was a musician and easily got caught up in the passion of rhythm. For it was in those brief moments of time that he escaped the prison of his brain and flowed down rhythmically into the rest of his body. He felt hostage to the urges that prodded him to entice, tease and manipulatively nudge Ginny into places that horrified her. She would admonish him severely for his ‘inappropriate’ behaviour and in the same breath, ponder the size of his penis. He’d been rather blatant in his attempts to hook her interest in that organ. One of his observations, “Yes, I fared well when we moved from Imperial to metric, I went from 7 to 17” was an offhand enticement that may have crossed an invisible line. What he didn’t quite realize was that his teasing had aroused Lilith. This creature had been with Ginny for many years. She had sensed her presence many times throughout her life and though she had vague recollections as to Lilith's birth, chose instead to ignore and sublimate this rather troublesome companion. When Lilith came out to play, Ginny’s response was to run and hide, hoping that her twin would grow tired of the game or, get bored and leave. Ginny had allies. Her mother for one. Trixie sensed that her daughter housed some mysterious stranger and she did her best to squelch this rather irksome guest. She ran herd on a child that could be quiet, obedient and rather angelic in one breath and in the next, turn into an unrecognizable feral cat. Trixie did her best to tame this being but came to realize she was fighting a losing battle. Had she been of a generation that understood certain signs in a child, she might have guessed that what happened to her oldest child, at the age of three, at the hands of an inquisitive, hormone driven teenage boy needed to have been addressed. Sadly it took Ginny over 40 years to face the inner issue that had coloured and tainted every moment of her life. Her memory of being carried through the deep forest, was as fresh as the day it happened. Her family was very close to another family who had several children, some older than Gin and some younger. Gin's favourite was the 13 year old son. A hormonally driven teenage boy who was quite indulgent with her. The two families had gone camping. Ginny at 3 adored her 13 year old hero and followed him around like a little puppy. The families joked about their relationship and no one seemed to think it anymore than a little girl’s crush. What happened to end this innocent arrangement, left an indelible scar on Ginny's psyche. The betrayal that happened twisted and jaded her sexual experiences for most of her adult life. Ginny distinctly remembered sitting on the boy's shoulder as he carried her through the forest on their way to the beach. What anyone observing, even carefully, would never have guessed was that while he ‘protectively’ cupped her behind as they walked, he managed to wiggle two fingers into the deepest recesses of Ginny’s body. Her memory? The boy she adored, touching her in a way she found incomprehensible. Her body, however, perfectly comprehended what was being done and...responded. It was at this moment Lilith was born. As Ginny retreated further and further into the sky, Lilith settled deeper and deeper into the body they shared. Lilith loved the sensations produced as the boy stroked her clitoris and slid his finger further and further into her vagina. Ginny? Not so much. She remembered somehow watching what was being done to her body and she flew high up into the sky. It was many years later, as an adult in group therapy that she was finally able to look at what had happened that day in the forest. It took many more years, two failed marriages, an affair with a woman and years of recovery from a disease which frequently took the lives of those who hosted this unwanted guest. Into her sixties, Ginny finally began to trust men...tentatively. She was still suspicious and not quite ready to risk being stabbed yet again. She'd carefully tested the water a few times but usually found a myriad of excuses as to why her dreams could not be fulfilled. Luke, for her, was a great puzzlement. Their relationship, as it developed, brought more and more confusion for Gin. And as always, when Ginny was confused, especially about sexual matters, Lilith came to the rescue and dealt with the problem at hand. With Luke, she was ruthless. She took his provocative teasing and carried it to a level that shocked even a rather jaded musician who had been immersed in a world of “sex drugs and rock’n’roll.” He may have been able to handle Ginny, but not Lilith. She was a hard one to control and when she came out to play, well, no guarantees on what could happen. Lilith was wild, crazy and totally unpredictable. She flew with whatever wind blew her way and when stuck in a doldrum, found many ways to entertain herself and her fellow shipmates. Life was rarely dull when Lilith was in charge! Lilith highly approved of Luke. She smacked her lips, thought to herself “what a delectable morsel this one appeared to be.” Her biggest problem was how to ditch Ginny and her annoying habit of trying to duck out of ways to have ‘fun’. Luke, Ginny and Lilith began spending many hours texting one another. Luke may have believed it was Ginny he was communicating with, when in fact, it was mostly Lilith. She cast out her lures and Luke bit...till he realized that something strange was happening and that he was caught up in an adventure that, at best, was headed for a train wreck. Luke was actually a pretty cool headed guy. His attention to this woman he had unsuspectingly snagged was like a soothing balm to a deep wound. Someplace inside him recognized a troubled soul and he reached out as best he could from his own well of experience, strength and hopes. The odd part was that his own personal issues meshed very well with this woman he had engaged in extremely scintillating provocative texting. Eventually he seemed to come to his senses and sent Gin the following message: “ I'm trying to focus more on what's really best for me, and less on what I think is best for the world. 🌝I have to be honest.... You really need to know that I have no intention of becoming involved with anyone, in any type of romantic endeavors for the foreseeable future. I'm now happy and free...but yet very much wanting to continue with a program of recovery I'm thankful that you've decided to continue looking for "that person" in your life. My friendship with you is not in any way contingent on whether you should find 'that partner.” The message was loud and clear to Gin. Most importantly, it got through to Lilith! Ginny knew this was a man of integrity and honour and one who was doing his utmost to live a life of peace and serenity. She reigned Lilith in, hard. She doubled up on her vigilance over her twin and made every effort possible to accept the situation as it was and at the same time demand and expect accountability. She knew in her heart that even Lilith was not so cruel and selfish as to continue with behaviours that caused harm to herself, Ginny and those who crossed their paths. One of Gin’s decisions was to cease texting, not just with Luke but with those that used this format as a way of avoiding...much. She suffered a small amount of grief, but knew her love for this man was deep enough and pure enough to overcome whatever trouble Lilith may have stirred up. She was very grateful for the catalytic charge he’d detonated within the deepest well of her being. Over the course of the next week, much fell into place for Ginny. Lilith decided to behave, for the most part, and life became...very good. Ginny pondered her therapist's words and the years of counseling that led up to her advice. She knew without doubt that Luke had set a wonderful example for her and her gratitude spilled out into total acceptance of the fact that indeed, “She deserved a relationship in which the person was equally invested in her!!” She began looking beyond the limitations imposed by her previous experiences and saw...a sea of possibilities. She smiled at the images that swam across her imagination. She turned on her music just as Joni started singing “Carey”. Ginny had always heard 'Carey' as 'Harry' and in her mind, that was who Joni was singing about. The wind was in from Africa and images of elegant men with canes began to blow across the corners of her imagination. The next song in the iTunes shuffle just happened to be an old Skeeter Davis song, "Gonna Get Along Without You Now". Ginny laughed. Her Higher Power had a very droll sense of humour. As Skeeter finished up, Eric Clapton's old band, Cream began playing. Ginny gasped as the message sunk in... She was FREE!

Caution: mention of torture and cruelty. How would you react if introduced to a potential roommate or flat mate who promptly told you lots of negative things about himself? Top marks for honesty, but no one would choose to live with someone who is rebellious and will not do as he is asked, who whinges and whines when things don’t go his way and even wants to die when a situation gets unpleasant, who is more concerned about how he appears to others than wanting to help the unpopular. The reply would not be welcoming. It would be a suggestion to live elsewhere. Long ago, such a man lived. His name was Jonah, and God asked him to do a difficult job. He had to journey to a faraway city and deliver an unpopular message. Jonah knew God had opened a path through the Red Sea to help his people escape from the Egyptians. And let the waters fall back over their enemies to drown every last one. He knew that God had made the walls of Jericho fall down to enable easy capture of the city’s inhabitants. God told him, “Get up, go to Nineveh, the great city, and proclaim judgment against her, for their wickedness has come to my attention.” Despite knowing his God could back and protect him through every facet of his journey, Jonah disobeyed God. He went as far away as he could. Jonah ran away, heading to Tarshish, most likely in Spain - far in the opposite direction. He had no intention of carrying out what he had been asked to do for whatever reason. He first walked to Joppa, the port, to catch a ship heading to Tarshish. He may have had good reasons for not obeying, but it all amounted to a lack of faith. This did not mean God had asked the wrong person to do the job. It showed that Jonah had a lot to learn. And learn it, he did - eventually. He may have initially reflected on the cruelty of the Assyrians who populated Nineveh. The Assyrians’ treatment of prisoners was as unmerciful as can be imagined. Flayed alive, having hooks through the nose or lips and being dragged away, having heads, hands, noses, and ears chopped off. They were a military nation that loved inflicting pain and terror. Many chose to surrender rather than fight them. We don’t know why Jonah ran away, but any of the above facts could have swayed him. He found a ship heading to Tarshish and paid his fare. Soon, a violent storm flared up out of nowhere. The men prayed to their gods and threw excess articles overboard to lighten the vessel. The others on the boat were appalled as Jonah continued sleeping. He was harshly instructed to pray to his god. The men cast lots to determine who may be responsible for the catastrophe. They identified Jonah as the one. “Who is to blame for this calamity? . . .What is your work, and where do you come from? . . .” Jonah said in reply, “I am a Hebrew and I fear the God of the heavens, the one who made the sea and the land.” “What have you done?” they asked. He confessed that he was running away. Then, he showed his bravery. None of this wanting to drag down all the other men into a watery grave with him. “Lift me up and throw me into the sea, and the sea will calm down for you. For I know that this violent storm has come upon you because of me.” They called out to his God and said, “. . .please, may we not perish because of this man?” The men tried desperately to turn the ship back to dry land, but when this failed, they had no other recourse but to listen to Jonah’s instruction to throw him overboard. This action led to the raging sea being still. Calm or not, Jonah now faced drowning. Down he went, down and down, getting caught up in seaweed, running out of air, and fighting not to swallow water. His lungs felt like they would burst. He thought about his God and how foolish he had been to try to run away. The specter of death hung over him as he saw flashbacks of his life. Help came in the form of a submarine, albeit a primitive one. A colossal fish swallowed him. This would likely be a killer, humpback, or sperm whale. If it was a sperm whale, it would have been stifling inside. In a 5th April article (source: www.deccan chronicle.com), a story about another instance of this gives food for thought to the skeptics. “A Spanish fisherman who drowned in the sea is back with a fascinating story. The man who disappeared for several days after he went overboard during a bad storm has returned to share his survival tale. The 56-year-old fisherman Luigi Marquez claims that a whale swallowed him. According to Marquez, he stayed there for three days and nights. When Marquez didn’t return home, the coastal guard tried to find him but failed to locate him, and he was considered dead. ‘This great beast swallowed me the morning after the storm,’ he told local reporters. ‘It is the most frightening thing I have ever lived. Everything was pitch black and I was shivering cold. The only thing that kept me alive were the raw fish I ate and the light from my waterproof watch, that is how I kept in touch with time. And the smell, I will never forget that horrible stench of putrid decomposition. I had to wash for three days before the odor went away,’ Luigi Marquez told reporters. He may have felt he had no hope after three days. The story of the Spanish man helps us visualize the horrors Jonah went through. Three days would have seemed like an eternity. Another article on July 11th, 2021, told of a Massachusetts man, Micael Packard, who was grabbed into the mouth of a humpback whale before being taken to the surface and spat out. We can read Jonah’s heartfelt prayer, which reveals a humbled man who did not blame God for his wretched situation. Thankfully, not a moment too late, the fish vomited Jonah onto land. What was Jonah’s response when told a second time? “Get up, go to Nineveh the great city, and proclaim to her the message I tell you.” This time, he obeyed. Jonah had learned his lesson. It is always best to obey instructions the first time. It took three days for him to walk there. Three days during which he screwed up his courage to make the daily proclamation. Once there, he may have been ridiculed. Undoubtedly, he prayed fervently that the message would not antagonize the people. “In just 40 days more, Nineveh will be overthrown.” As each day counted down, Jonah could hardly wait until his ordeal ended. He focused on getting his task completed. However, his words had a remarkable and unanticipated effect on the people. Their consciences pricked them. These people worshiped false gods and led decadent and violent lives. Amazingly, they believed the message and behaved like any self-respecting heathens would - who are faced with annihilation. They repented and showed their sorrow by dressing in scratchy sackcloth and scooping ashes over themselves, men, women, children, and animals. People used sackcloth and ashes to show personal grief and signify repentance and humility before God. The King also humbled himself and ordered a fast. No food or water was to be consumed by man or beast, nobles or the poor. Their reasoning may have been, “Who knows? God may reconsider what he intends to do . . . so that we may not perish.” God saw their genuine change of heart represented by the sackcloth and ashes--and it caused Him to extend mercy and not bring about their destruction. How did Jonah feel? He did not think that it was a ‘job well done.’ He concluded the destruction of the whole city could better reflect this. Doom had been proclaimed. And doom it must be. He went outside the city a distance and sat watching to see what would happen. Nothing changed. He fumed and pouted. Muttered and growled. “Was this not my concern when I was in my own land. That is why I tried to flee to Tarshish in the first place for I knew you are a compassionate and merciful God, slow to anger and abundant in loyal love . . . Now, please take away my life, for it is better for me to die. . .” Jonah felt the mission had been a total waste of time and dwelled on suicide. He had no appreciation for being saved from the belly of the fish. This was tantamount to thumbing his nose at the mercy he had been shown. It filled him with anger that such guilty people had been pardoned. God felt Jonah needed an additional lesson. Jonah almost expired as he sat in the hot sun. He had constructed a shelter to screen himself, which barely helped. It shaded him a little but was far from adequate. God still showed him mercy. A bottle gourd plant sprouted next to him. Overnight, its twisty tendrils spiraled upward. First, it was tiny, but the growth gained momentum as the hours passed. Large leaves unfurled, and the shelter became a shady haven. Jonah awakened in surprise, wondering why his closed eyes didn’t have rays of sunlight shining on them. Looking upwards, everything appeared green. A verdant canopy had covered his primitive shelter. He beamed with joy. Even the fact that Ninevah still stood didn’t dampen his mood. All day, he sat sheltered from the scorching sun. God now caused the lesson, that he felt Jonah needed to learn, to unfold. At the break of dawn the following day, someone else discovered the bottle gourd. It became a banquet for a worm. It feasted on the juicy bottle gourd trunk. The sun came out, and a sweltering east wind blew hard, and slowly, each shriveled, dry leaf vanished. Jonah was left with the remains of his original shelter. Having the miraculous life-saving plant disappear before his eyes filled him with rage. He tossed and turned on the hard ground all night. As time passed, he started feeling faint. “I just want to die. Let me die,” Jonah begged. God spoke to him. “You felt sorry for the bottle-gourd plant which you did not work for, nor did you make it grow. It grew in one night and perished in one night . . . Should I not also feel sorry for Ninevah, the great city in which there are more than 120,000 men . . . as well as their animals?” Jonah learned from this object lesson. He ventured into the city, and the people recognized him. They gathered around to thank him. He felt overwhelmed. It humbled him to see so many people who didn’t even know his God show gratitude for the mercy extended to them. Later, he penned a personal account of what had happened. The fact that he wrote of his disobedience and disgusting attitude showed he had learned the value of showing mercy, just as he had also been shown. What about us? Do we shy away from helping our fellow man? Next time you feel inclined to think only of yourself, spare a thought for Jonah. The man who ran away.

Alexander closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his stomach doing somersaults, nervous and excited at the same time. He heard the loudspeaker across the courtyard switch on. A booming voice came from it. “Launch in thirty seconds.” Alexander checked if his seat belt was securely fastened for the third time since he got in the spaceship. He gripped the armrests at his sides, trying to calm himself down. The astronaut took deep breaths, he had been waiting for so long to go to space. Ever since he was a kid, his dream was to be an astronaut and go to space. When he applied to NASA, his dream finally came true, after twenty five years of waiting. “Five seconds til launch.” The voice said into the loudspeaker again. Alexander took a steadying breath. “Four.” “Three.” “Two.” This is it, I’m finally doing it. Alexander thought. “One.” Alexander felt the spaceship vibrating beneath him, and suddenly, he was blasting away, towards space. He was finally going to space. The spaceship passed through the atmosphere and slowed down, the black sky surrounding him. Alexander felt the ship jump a bit, that must’ve been the carrier rocket detaching. He pushed a few buttons on the controls in front of him and made the ship coast for a bit. Alexander stood up and examined the spaceship from the inside, everything looked good. He made a quick report back to base and looked outside. He was amazed, he was finally here, the stars standing out against the black sky. Alexander turned his gaze to the left, and froze. The Earth was huge! It looked as if it was hanging in the void. The other astronauts had told him about this. It was called the “overview effect.” It happens to most people when they see Earth for the first time. Alexander remembered what they had told him: “That when you’re so far away from Earth and can see the whole planet, you become fully overwhelmed and in awe of seeing your planet. Of seeing the unity and fragility of life.” Another astronaut had said “It’s the uncanny sense of understanding the ‘big picture,’ and of feeling connected to and yet bigger than the intricate process bubbling on earth.” A few astronauts had said that it gave them a new kind of self-awareness. Alexander remembered the book Ron Garan wrote that he had read so many times, he had memorized one part of it, and thought about it at that moment. It was when he grabbed onto a mechanical arm on the International Space Station in 2008, he was flung over the space station and back: As I approached the top of this arc, it was as if time stood still, and I was flooded with both emotion and awareness. But as I looked down at the Earth -- this stunning, fragile oasis, this island that has been given to us, and that has protected all life from the harshness of space -- a sadness came over me, and I was hit in the gut with an undeniable, sobering contradiction. In spite of the overwhelming beauty of this scene, serious inequity exists on the apparent paradise we have been given. I couldn't help thinking of the nearly one billion people who don't have clean water to drink, the countless number who go to bed hungry every night, the social injustice, conflicts, and poverty that remain pervasive across the planet. Seeing Earth from this vantage point gave me a unique perspective -- something I've come to call the orbital perspective. Part of this is the realization that we are all traveling together on the planet and that if we all looked at the world from that perspective we would see that nothing is impossible. Alexander now understood what he had meant. He had the same feeling that Ron Garan had described then. Alexander had seen pictures of Earth from space before, but it was so different seeing it right in front of him. He now understood why Buzz Aldrin, one of his role models, along with Neil Armstrong and Michael Collins, had called it “a brilliant jewel in the black velvet sky.” The three of them were a part of the Apollo 11 mission, they were some of the first people to look down on Earth from space. Alexander could now say that he was one of those people to have experienced that feeling, to know what it’s like to see your planet from afar. He could now say that he had fulfilled his dream. His dream had been to go to space, but seeing Earth like that was more than enough for him. He considered himself lucky to have seen it, despite being on an important and relatively time sensitive mission. His mission was supposed to do some surveillance and repairs on a satellite that was hit by a floating rock and wasn’t reparable from the NASA headquarters. Alexander drank in the sight of Earth, of his planet, he never thought that he would actually be here, fulfilling his dream. Everyone had told him how hard it would be and how few people actually get accepted at those kinds of jobs. He had proven them wrong. He had shown all of the people who doubted him that he had done it. That he was living his dream. Alexander walked back to the front of the ship, making sure that he was still going the right way, that the autopilot was still working and it was taking him to the coordinates his superiors at NASA had sent him. Alexander remembered what they had told him, they had said that this would be his chance to prove that he was ready to start going to space, they had said that he had to do this alone, that this was a test. He remembered how the only person that believed in him had brought it up in the first place, and the others had actually listened to him. Alexander thanked him mentally. He promised himself that he would prove himself to his superiors and they would let him go on more missions in space when he got back. Alexander still couldn’t believe that he was finally fulfilling his dream. *I got all the information about the overview effect and what the astronauts said from here: https://www.businessinsider.com/overview-effect-nasa-apollo8-perspective-awareness-space-2015-8

The school bell rings. School is over, and I run to my locker and grab my backpack. I run outside to the bus, and I take my seat towards the back. I am always one of the first few people on the bus. The bus starts to fill with my classmates who sit with their friends. I make myself small in anticipation. A group of seven fifth graders sit in the back around me. We have an agreement where I won’t acknowledge them, and they don’t acknowledge me. I don’t pay attention to their conversations as it is rude to eavesdrop. The bus leaves the school, and I start to head home. On the way back, I see a basketball group assembling in the backyard for practice. My parents insist on getting me to play a sport every year. I always tell them that I am too clumsy for sports. Gym class is the riskiest time for me; my lack of athletic ability is on full display. The other students go from ignoring me to disliking me. I keep quiet and wait for it to be over. Sometimes, I am clever enough to find a way to excel at a sport. The students always cheer for me in shock, and I find their screams worse. Why do they have to be so loud? When the bus reaches my stop, the fifth-graders let me out of my seat. Occasionally, I am forced to get off the next stop by people who hate me. When I get to my house, I pull out my key and open the door. Right beside the door, there is a brochure. I sigh. I wonder what my parents will want me to do this time. I take off my shoes, and I run up stairs. When I reach my room, I pull out my notebook and start scribbling. The contents are a mystery to everyone except for me. It is a log of my adventures. There is an intergalactic society, a magic kingdom, an international spy organization, a superhero team, and so much more in this notebook. I have traveled to far away galaxies and other dimensions. I have survived a trip to the core of the sun and the day of the dinosaurs extinction. Even small things are grand adventures like the time I helped the elderly woman with crops or when I repaired a ship in space. I hear a knock on the door. “Hey Jamie, so I know you like your notebook so I was looking up various camps for you. I found this program ran by the community college that lets kids learn about exciting things that aren’t taught in school. There is a course on the science of Star Wars. I think you should look into it,” he says. “No thanks,” I say. He sits next to me on the bed. “Just listen. Your mother and I are worried about you. You usually go straight to your room after you get home. We’d like you to start trying new things,” he says. “I am trying new things in my notebook,” I say. I avoid his gaze. I always see disapprovement in his eyes. “Son, we mean new activities. We think it would be good for you. It’d be a chance for you to make some friends at school,” he says. “I did make a friend. Remember Quinn,” I say. “Quinn was not a good friend,” he says. I shrug. My parents didn’t like him because his parents let him dye his hair black, and they were worried he would be a bad influence on me. We see each other at school, but they will not let us hangout after school. “Look all I am saying is consider it. You might like it,” he leaves the brochure next to me. “That’s what you said about basketball camp,” I say. “Son, we told you that you never tried which is why you hated that camp. Please just try this,” he walks out of the room. I look at the brochure and start to flip through the pamphlet. Maybe I should take one of these courses. It could help with my writing. I did make a version of basketball that was played in space from the basketball camp. My parents didn’t understand why I was doing it, but at least, they are trying to understand me. I see a course called Harnessing Your Imagination. I look at my notebook. Maybe they were able to find a place for me. *Adolescent Tribulations* “Jamie, supper time,” I hear my mom yell. I sigh and leave my computer. I walk down the stairs, but I trip and fall on the last few stairs. My sister is standing there laughing at me. “Do we need to get you a Life Alert? Seeing as how you are always falling,” she says. “Shut up, Katie,” I stand up. “Is that all you have for a comeback?” she smiles at me. “Yep, your opening insult was so bad that I am not going to justify it with a proper response,” I reply. “What?” her smile fades, and I have thrown her off-guard. “It didn’t make sense. You are the one that fell in front of Quinn and ruined your chances of dating him,” I reply. “Mom, Jamie is being mean to me,” she explodes. “James stop being mean to your sister and come sit down at the dinner table, you too,” mom says. “I would stop being mean to her if you would start calling me James all the time and not just when I am in trouble,” I say. Dad sighs. “Son, can we please have a nice family dinner? I understand that you have an obligation to rebel as a teenager, but please let’s all enjoy each other’s company,” he says. I shrug and sit-down. The hunger in my stomach is overwriting the other moods that I feel. I grab a plate of lasagna and salad, and I am sure to sit away from Katie since she will steal my food. “So how was everyone’s day,” mom asks. “Fine,” I say. “Great. Olivia and I were invited to Ava’s pool party this weekend,” Katie says with a grin. “Ava,” mom’s brow furrows,” Isn’t her sister Taylor in your grade, Jamie. I mean James.” “Yeah, I don’t talk to her,” I say. “She is too cool for him,” Katie says. I ignore her comment. “Katie please don’t start it at the dinner table,” mom says. I quickly finish what’s on my plate and leave. “Wait, please don’t leave. We would like to talk some more,” mom says. “I don’t,” I walk up to my room and sit at my computer. I start watching streamers and playing games alone. I hear my dad knock on my door. “Sorry that your sister can be passive-aggressive, your mother and I talked to her about it after you left,” he says. “Thanks,” I say. “Are you writing again?” he asks with a smile. “Nope,” I reply. “Oh, that’s a shame. I thought you had a real talent for it,” he says. “Guess I didn’t,” my dad stands in the door, “Bye dad.” He leaves. I debate whether I should yell for him to return so I can explain why I don’t write anymore. After I took my first writing course, I refined my raw imagination into cohesive stories. The quality varied from unreadable to passable, but it was a consistent source of happiness. I felt invincible as a writer because I was fully in control of the narrative. Katie was the one who took that control. She stole one of my weaker stories where I was a space knight saving the galaxy from an evil serpentine race. It featured your standard child writing tropes: a plot that made little sense, constant space battles, and awkward dialogue. She read it with her friends Ava and Olivia to laugh at me. Ava’s sister Taylor found the story and showed it to her friends. Within a week, that story was the bane of my existence. One particular line was constantly used to taunt me. “You’ve shed your last skin, Vipro.” In the story, it was supposed to be the hero’s triumphant moment. In my life, it was emblematic of the lowest point in my life. After a few months, everyone forgot most of the story except for that line. Within a year, they pretty much stopped mentioning it unless they saw me writing for unrelated reasons. I rarely hear it now, but my reputation as a dreadful writer stuck and alienated me from my class. I never write now for fear of derision, and I still hold a degree of resentment towards Katie. Katie never apologized for stealing my story. I don’t think she ever will. If I brought it up to her now, she would tell me to get over it. My parents are dismayed that I failed at something else, but I am content with their disappointment. They won’t mock me for it, and if I’m not being mocked, then I am safe. *Adult Tragedies* James walks up the stairs and feels a sharp pain in his knees. These stairs aren’t that steep. He curses his failing body as he walks into the church. Funerals are an odd setting. No one knows what they’re doing. They are wandering around filling the time before it starts. James walks to the front row and settles into an edge seat. He hopes that no one talks to him. He cannot handle the emotional labor. His hopes are quickly dashed as multiple people take the opportunity to quickly speak with him. He forces a smile to avoid being rude, but he wants to be alone. More people start to enter the church and greet him. He finally sees his mom and uncle, Luke, enter. Both of them have red around their eyes. They go up to the stage. The funeral starts with full pews except for a small spot next to James. He looks around for Kate, but she is nowhere to be seen. James dissociates at the start of the funeral and misses every speech and song. He doesn’t want to believe it’s happening. Someone nudges him to stand to carry the casket. He can’t believe that it's over so quickly. Time passes faster now. He carries the casket with his relatives out of the church to the car. He gets into the vehicle and follows the procession to the burial. He has driven down these roads so many times. This is where he first learned to drive with his father, and now, he is driving on them to lay him to rest. When James arrives at the cemetery, he looks for a car or a person by the plot. The burial workers are the only people there. James carries the casket to the plot and watches it be lowered into the hole. He turns to his car to go back to the church for the repast. He grabs his sandwich and meats off the trays as well as a glass of water. He sits at the closest table to the front that has been reserved for family. His mother and Luke set their plates down by him, but they quickly leave to socialize with the crowd. They know that he isn’t much of a talker. His mom leaves her dog Terry on a leash by the table for James to watch. He always liked Terry, and he pets her between bites. His sister sits down next to him with a plate of food and a glass of wine. “Hey James, how’ve you been,” she smiles at James and accidentally reveals the lipstick on her teeth from when she hurriedly prepared for the repast. “I’m fine,” he looks down at Terry. “That’s good. Is everything going well at your accounting firm?” she asks. “Architecture firm,” he replies and takes a drink. “Oh sorry, I forgot,” she says. James shrugs, “How was the ceremony?” “It was fine,” James keeps eating. “Are you going to answer me in more than just simple sentences?” she asks. “No,” James says. “Come on. It’s dad’s funeral. Can we please get along now?” her voice cracks. James looks at her. “His funeral was earlier. You would’ve been there if you had any sense of responsibility,” he says. “I’m sorry. This is a really rough time for me,” she says. “It’s rough for us too. Mom was freaking out because you weren’t at the visitation. I texted you twenty times, and you never responded. Mom thought she lost you too. I knew that you were just being you. When you called her afterward, the only reason she was so happy was because she knew you were alive. She begged you to come to the funeral, and you no-showed. It’s no surprise that you showed up to the only event that serves alcohol,” James tries to maintain control of his voice, but a few people glance at their table. “James, why do you constantly judge me? I remember you used to be cool. You used to write those weird stories when did you become so so,” Kate stutters. “Kate, you mocked me for writing. I picked up writing again as a hobby, but I didn’t tell you that because you only respond when you need money. I’d walk away from you, but I’m not sure you’d be able to take good care of the dog,” James’s voice turns to a shout. His mother starts to cry. Luke starts walking towards them. “James, Rex loves me,” Kate shouts. James blinks at her. “Her name is Terry,” James walks away from her. Luke tries to stop him, but James brushes past him. “Make sure the dog doesn’t get any of her wine,” he says to Luke as he walks out the door. *Elderly Regrets* James sleeps in his bed facing the ceiling. He is unable to turn to the side as the wires and tubes in his body restrain him. The rhythm of his heartbeat provides a steady background noise. In his younger years, he wouldn’t be able to sleep in these conditions. At his age, he could fall asleep at a rock concert. When he awakes, he sees an older woman facing him with a smile on her face. His family is huddled outside of the room. For a few moments, James looks from side to side in the room before a frown covers his face. “Kate, why are you here?” he asks. Kate flaps her hand and gently presses him with a slight chuckle. She sits on a nearby chair to take the stress off of her feet. “My older brother had a heart attack. Of course I am going to visit you,” she says. “Where are you staying?” he presses onward. “Is that really relevant?” she puts her hands on her hips. “Yes,” he shoots back. “Your family offered to let me stay in their guest bedroom. I did not impose myself,” she huffs. “It was Chris wasn’t it. He has always had a soft-spot for you. I tried to tell him how,” James starts to raise his voice. “Just stop please. I’m not here to fight. I’m here to reconnect,” Kate starts to cry, “I always wanted to tell you that I was doing better, but I always felt like it was the wrong time. Your heart attack made me realize that I had to see you. Your family told me that you’d recover, and I thought that now would be a good time to start reconnecting.” James starts to cackle, “I read a quote a while back that said, ‘growing old is mandatory, growing up is optional.’ I think that describes you perfectly. If I were to have a relationship with you, I would be your father and not your brother.” “That’s where you’re wrong. You’re the one who refused to grow-up. I went back to college, and I have a job at a software company. I still love to party on occasion, but it isn’t holding me back in life. You on the other hand have refused to let the past be the past, and you abandon things that you love too easily. I was talking to Chris the other day. He had no idea that you used to write as a hobby,” Kate pulls out a notebook, “Your wife had this in the attic. It is all your story ideas. She says you haven’t touched it in thirty years.” “That was a product of childish naivety. Besides, there is no time to write a story,” James replies. “There is time now. You are just too stuck in your ways to try,” Kate stands up, “I came here to offer you an olive branch. You have taken that branch and used it as a weapon. It’s your turn to grow-up.” Kate walks out the door leaving her brother. His family comes in to comfort him, but his combative nature forces them to abandon him leaving him alone in his bed. Life is filled with love. Life is filled with loss. Life is filled with joy. Life is filled with anger. Life is constantly moving forward. Never let the aches and pains of the past prevent life from moving forward or be exiled from love and companionship at the end of life.

CW: Gore, death, mutilation, depictions of assault, violence The Governor's hands shake with delight as he scribbles onto the slab of paper the plans for the new Church. His little piece of charcoal barely suffices for the massive plans shaping in that pinhead of his. He stays up until the break of dawn, a streak of sunlight floods into the musty wooden room. Daylight dancing across the finished architectural plans. The Governor clasps his hands together, a shy smile forming across his small face, "At last, the people of my town can praise our fine Heavenly Father." He scratches his stubble, then rolls the paper delicately. Wouldn't want to destroy his precious markings. As his feet find the mud that lingers outside of his luxurious home, he notices a strong metallic icky smell that makes him shudder. "What in God's name is that?" He turns his head left, then right, then left again where he notices a faint red painted onto the tall grayish grasses. He sighs bitterly, then begins to follow the red into the large field of tall grasses. As he walks, despising the stench, he notices he steps onto something mushy, like the mud outside his home. He looks down, and yelps. A dead cat, with its insides on the outside, lays before him. A footprint shown in the middle of its diaphragm. He looks ahead, trying to ignore the vivid image of the dead cat. He notices a group of girls dancing around in the forest. His eyebrows knit together in distress, whatever could this be? He approaches the girls, and says, "What the hell is going on here?" They look at him with black eyes and merely reply, "Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour." 1 Peter 5:8-9 . The Governor groans and throws his hands up in the air, recognizing each of the girls easily. Polly Shepard, Maisie Williams, and their ringleader, Talia Smith. The citizens of the Church always looked down on these girls and their families, they were at the bottom of the social status of course, who could bear to be associated with them? But The Governor always had a dreadful feeling around these girls, his stomach twisted and spun, his heart pumped blood at a notorious rate. He rubbed his temples delicately, then stared at each of the black-eyed girls, "If you three spawns of Satan are practicing the devil's teachings, then you'll all be hung. Thou shall not practice that of the devil on my premises." "Governor, you worry we are practicing the wishes of the devil ?!" Polly rolls her eyes mischievously, then adjusts the bonnet atop her head, "How could that be?" "We are well-minded Church-followers, sir, hast the people of our town rotted your brain, Governor?" Peeps Maisie, she wraps a strand of golden hair around her slim finger, the Governor's heart rate palpitates, not because he is frightened, but because of the beauty of this young girl. Maisie must feel the Governor's clear attraction towards her because she immediately stares at the mud before them. "Governor, you shouldn't be fearful." Talia waves her hands in front of her in defense, "Don't be frightened." A devilish smile lingers on Talia's face before the Governor turns his body and faces back towards the village. He hears the little giggles of the girls, and he turns his head slightly to face them, but finds nothing. They are gone. The Governor clears her throat, and begins to preoccupy his mind with the architectural plans. *** "What the hell?" Peter scoffs, he rubs his eyes meticulously, then stares at his younger sister Maisie with shifty brown eyes. "Peter don't be frightened" She reaches out to her older brother, but he flinches. "You're a devil! Satan's incarnate you...y-you..." He trails off shaking his head, the feeling of the warm stinging blood dripping down his back envelopes him into his own fever dream. Maisie traces the mysterious symbol with the tip of her finger. Peter feels goosebumps rise as he acknowledges his sister's cold fingertips etching his back. "I did not commit this terrible act, 'fore I do not practice the teachings of the devil, dear brother." Maisie retorts, her sweet voice gives Peter a toothache. "Where the hell did it come from then?!" Peter seethes sarcastically, the back of his hand meets Maisie's face, she finds herself on the ground. "Brother, I do not know of your sins, but perhaps the devil is taking you away because of your acts." Maisie rubs her hand against the wood below them, then looks up at her brother with blue eyes, "You mustn't be afraid." Peter scowls then stands in front of his reflection, and turns his head to the left to stare at his own bare back, a bright, glowing pentacle stares right back at him. *** "Yes and Doctor Joseph was so scared he near threw up into the well." "I heard that Peter is now the Devil's host." "Best watch out for those troublesome Willams and all those other rats." The hens cluck as the ladies run their mouths. Talia grips her basket tighter as she overhears the town gossip. As she plucks eggs and rests them into her wicker basket, she hears approaching footsteps behind her, and notices she is cornered in the hen house. She turns around and is met with Henry and Charles, the righteous boys. "I heard you and your little Satan worshippers are carving into our mates." Henry says, jabbing his oily finger into Talia's chest. Charles takes a bite out of a yellow apple, chews it up in his mouth, this spits it out at Talia. She flinches, letting the chum fly past her. "I do not practice the teachings of the devil, for I only worship one God." She points her finger upwards, the boys begin to whoop with laughter. "She says she isn't a devil worshipper? How amusing." Charles scoffs, Talia can smell the sweetness of the apple. Henry grabs her arm abruptly, Talia becomes panicked. He licks her arm slowly, his dark eyes cut through Talia, the saliva resonates upon her bare arm. Charles grabs her by the waist and whispers in her ear, "Begone, devil." *** Polly hears the screams loudly in her head, bouncing back and forth and around, playing double-dutch in her brain. She drops the basket of yellow apples, and begins to run out of the sour-smelling orchard. "Polly where are you going?!" Her father yells after her, but she is being pulled towards something. When she stands in front of the hen house, she notices Maisie beside her, their black eyes study the hen house, then they enter it. Henry has his hands holding Talia's face as Charles holds her arms behind her back. They arrived just in time before Henry and Charles could proceed in their terrible crimes. "Look, the other devils have come to play." Charles sneers. Those were his last words. *** "They're devil's! All of them!" Cries the Governor, the cold lifeless hands of the righteous boys clutched in his, "Everything is changing!" He stares at the peculiar pentacle deeply carved into the boys. Their eyes are missing from their sockets, blood slithers from the eye's beholder's onto the pointy grass. The mob had clustered the girls into their circle of hate. Shouting insults and the Priest reciting samples from the Bible over the wave of noise, "Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you." James 4:7. Each of the girls study the mob insightfully, black eyes intertwine with their natural God-given eyes, the devil has forever taken them. The Governor begins to quiet them down, urging them to listen to what he has to say, "These girls have been nothing but trouble!" He nods to the obeying crowd, and nods to the Priest. The Priest then reads directly from his hefty Bible, "But if it is by the finger of God that I cast out demons, then the kingdom of God has come upon you." Luke 11:20. *** The rope rubs against Talia's neck, she distributes weight between one leg to another, the hollow wooden boards under her squeak with delight. The Gallows had been waiting for them. "Because of the use of Satanism and disrespect to our Heavenly Father, and the murders of the righteous boys, Polly Shepard, Maisie Williams, and..." The Governor's voice cracks, "Talia Smith have been sentenced to...d-death!" There is no hesitation as the boards under them are removed, and the snapping noise vibrates the Earth below them. The sound made the people feel satisfied, yet an acrid scent punched their noses and an acidic feeling remained in their stomachs. The three girl's families whooped with glee, except for Polly's father, he looked upset, but still a shimmer of glee swirled in his eyes. They had received the perfect gift, their wretched daughters had been removed from their beloved town, no more witchcraft or devil-worshipping. What a delectable gift. What a tasty treat. A meaningful ending. A match drawn in the darkness. At last, The Governor's town was free of darkness, that was his gift. Building the Church was now the only thing on his mind. That night, the bodies of three young girls swung with the cold breeze. *** Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil. Ephesians 6:11

A loud knock on the door woke me up. "The rent!" said a voice sharply from the corridor. I pull myself up from the couch slowly, shaking off the confusion, before darting towards a pre-prepared envelope I left on my desk. I must have fallen asleep while watching the news about the pandemic again. I make my way towards the entrance while still struggling with the disorientation before carefully slipping the envelope under the door. I feel it snatched from my fingers halfway through, followed by the sounds of impatient footsteps echoing away from me. I don't know how long he was waiting, but he probably came back to my door as his last stop at this complex. I straightened myself up while staring blankly at the door - or rather, at the only semblance of human interaction I've had in a while - pondering the time when I will have to make a choice between rent and food. My thoughts were suddenly interrupted when I noticed a post-it on the door. "Don't go out", it said in no uncertain terms. When did I leave it there? I make my way to the refrigerator to pour myself a glass of water, stopping to take a mental inventory of how much food I have left, my hand firmly grasping the door handle while my eyes gaze at the emptiness inside. My trancelike state was interrupted when out of the corner of my eye, a view from my kitchen window grabbed my attention. My neighbour from the adjacent complex, with whom I exchange an insincere half smile whenever we cross each other's view, was being dragged out of her apartment by two men in suits. Was she being evicted? Her struggling and face contorted by pain and hopelessness rendered the scene all the more eerie due to the silence of it - broken only by the sound of my refrigerator's motor, slightly straining from the door I left open. I knew I should be sad in that moment, but the guilt of my indifference at her distress was washed away by my own weariness and powerlessness to help. I tried to muster a tear, but nothing came as I stood there observing a now empty dwelling, a stark reminder of my loneliness. I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, dimly lit by my nightstand lamp. I always found its warm luminescence comforting during lonely nights. I used to hear the arguments of the couple with whom I share a poorly insulated bedroom wall - from the tidbits of information I could gather, their quarreling had to do with his insistence on scrounging up food from nocturnal expeditions while she implored him to wait for government help. Now all I could hear every night was the sound of her lone crying. The thought of reaching out to her dissipated as I turned to the side and stretched my arm out to turn off the lamp, closing my eyes and shutting myself out from the world. I was washing myself up with soapy water after my morning task - toilet paper having become a luxury at this point - when the sound a box being dropped at my doorstep and a businesslike knock had me sprinting towards the door. "Wait!" I shouted, positioning myself at the peephole like a child anticipating the return of his parents. The soldier in full hazmat suit stopped mid-step and turned his head towards the door, his face hidden by his hood's reflective visor, his shape distorted by the lens. "Last month's delivery only had about 2 weeks' worth of supplies!" I protested. "That's all we have to give, if you're not happy, I can take it somewhere else!" his cold muffled voice replied, as he crouched to pick the box back up. "No, please! Stay - I mean, leave it there!" He froze for a second before getting back up. "Don't come out until I'm gone!" said he with an authoritative finger pointed at my judas, before anxiously getting back to his deliveries. I sat down Indian style, listening to him complete his task, before his footsteps receded out the building. I waited a while longer, for the sounds of neighbouring doors opening and closing to stop, carefully paying attention that nobody was approaching my own supplies. I did notice the sound of my neighbour with whom I share a bedroom wall grabbing her box in a hurry, with the absence of meowing from her usually very vocal cat worrisome. I struggled to pull myself up, partly because of the numbness in my legs, partly because of the hunger. A quick inspection through the aperture showed a now quiet hallway with the sight of my goods still there providing a sigh of relief. I grabbed the box expediently before slamming the door shut, its weight much lighter than the previous shipments. In my hurry to open it, I omitted wiping it down first; my stash of disinfectant wipes was dwindling anyway. My excitement was stifled when I took a look at its contents. I only had about a week's worth of rations and a single soap bar. "The rent!" said an impatient voice from the hallway. I picked myself up from the floor, observing my surroundings while I regained consciousness. In my haste, I had already eaten through a day's worth of food already; the sour stench of bile filled my lungs as it didn't agree with my weakened digestive tract. What a waste, I thought. "One second!" I made my way to the living room before rushing back with an envelope in hand. Kicking the box of supplies out of the way, I paused before slipping it through the crack; this was going to be last payment I could afford. I pondered telling him about my situation when the envelope was suddenly snatched from my fingers once more, leaving me with the scuttling of departing footsteps. I made my way to the kitchen to grab a mop to clean up my vomit, when I noticed that the vacant apartment facing it was once more occupied. The curtains that were usually always open were now drawn. All I could see were two silhouettes dancing - no, not dancing... slithering. I stood there mesmerized by their movements, until they abruptly stopped. One of the silhouettes outstretched an arm to turn off the lights, the apartment once more drowning in shadows. The landlords never bothered to replace the burnt-out lights that illuminated the narrow alley between our buildings. All I could see now from my first-floor window was a chasm of endless darkness, a reflection of my own state of mind. The hunger must be getting to me, I'm starting to see things. It has been weeks since my TV antenna stopped receiving, but that hasn't deterred my nightly attempts at getting a signal so that I could get an update on the progression of the virus. I would've gotten my information online, were it not for my Internet connection being one of the first casualties of my current financial situation. My attempts of communicating with the outside world were also fruitless prior to having my phone line cut. Who could I call for help when nobody answers? No signal seemed to be going out. Or coming in. The last time I had an update on the virus, it had crystallized into a pollenlike substance. We were told to keep our windows and outside doors shut and taped up to avoid any infiltration, which I did diligently. Perhaps too diligently, as the stale air irritated my throat and caused me to occasionally cough. I peeked through my curtains and waited a while. The pollen that had fallen days ago had all dissipated and the air was still. I decided to take a chance and unpeeled the tape around one of the windows before cracking it open an inch. I bent down and closed my eyes as I took in a lung full of fresh air. The slight breeze on my face reminded me of the pre-pandemic days: the feelings of freedom and being carefree. I started to crack a smile when a gust of wind abruptly snapped me out of my daydreaming. I hurriedly closed the window and resealed it again as a cloud of pollen was making its rounds between buildings. I sat down on my couch, defeated, on the verge of tears. I had no desire to die, yet no will to live either. I feared death and hated living; I was stuck in limbo. A month had passed, the rent was now due. A payment that I knew I couldn't make. "The rent!", said the landlord, in a voice that was different from usual. "Uh...", I replied through the door, trying to come up with something to say. "THE RENT!", he sharply cut me with. I was taken aback by his lack of empathy; surely I wasn't the only tenant that was struggling during these times? Noticeably frozen by him, he corrected his demeanour: "Your rrent iss due..." he reiterated calmly in oddly stretched syllables. I slowly approached the peephole to take a look, my vision greeted by a featureless hooded cloaked figure. Sensing my attempt to take a glance at him, he bluntly attempted to peer back through the judas. I jumped up in shock at the sight of a serpentine eye staring back at me. "Yourr rrent iss duue..." he repeated while raking long fingernails across my door, scratching away the paint. "I'll have it tomorrow!" I blurted out in panic. The strange figure was now hunched over, a mouthful of sharp teeth scraping at my doorknob, while a thin tongue extended itself and wrapped around it, trying to jiggle it open. I backed away from the door while holding it closed with my hands, putting my full weight behind them, which was almost nothing at this point. "I'll have it tomorrow, I swear!" I shouted, drowning out what little logical sense I had left. I heard him withdraw from the handle while I waited for a reply - nothing but silence. I turned my ear to the door and listened carefully - nothing still. I worked up the courage to take a peek again; he was already gone. No footsteps. I was about to back away, when I noticed scratch marks on the floor near my neighbour's door, the signs of a possible scuffle. It must have happened during one of my blackouts from starvation. I'm going crazy. I know that now. I had learned how to tune out my neighbour's nightly wailing and fall asleep regardless, but tonight was different. I was kept awake not only by the stress of trying to come up with a solution for tomorrow, but my neighbour's sudden silence was also deafening to me now. I picked up my phone, which was now a glorified boombox that only played whatever music I already had on it, and headed to the living room. I set myself in a fetal position on the couch while scrolling through my library of songs, scrambling to find one to break up the quietness. I closed my eyes and hit play. ♫ A candy-colored clown they call the sandman Tiptoes to my room every night Just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper "Go to sleep. Everything is all right." I close my eyes, then I drift away Into the magic night, I softly say A silent prayer like dreamers do Then I fall asleep to dreams, my dreams of you ♫ A ringtone woke me up from the couch. I grabbed my phone and looked at it in puzzlement: "One Missed Call". When did my service come back? My train of thoughts was interrupted by a draft on my skin. The front door! I rushed to it, paralyzed in horror at the sight of my door wide open. No signs of forced entry, it must be the landlord with his set of keys. Not daring to peek outside, I slammed the door shut and locked it up again. I backed away from the door slowly, thinking about my next move. A wisp of air and sharp punctures on my neck are the last things I feel before collapsing on the ground.

Just as I was about to exit the garage to wash all blood off of my hands, I heard: "Dont leave... please" Michael panted, already out of breath. There was blood crusted beneath his nose, and he was tied to the chair that once belonged to my desk. I could see tears form in his eyes, and after everything I've done, I know that he still loves me. "You're not like this Oliv-" "Its Miranda. And you don't know me. Dont think that you do, because you're very, very wrong." "Please. I do know you. I know that you are amazing, I know deep down you love me, I know your favorite color Is red, I know-" "Just stop. Don't make this harder than it already is..." Now I could tell that I was starting to cry, so I turned around as fast as I could, hoping that he didn't notice. I tripped over my own heels, and fell flat on the floor. I heard footsteps coming towards us, and I knew what was about to happen. I gulped down the puke that I could feel coming out of my system. "Good evening Michael," She side-eyed me "Olivia you don't look too good". There was an annoyance in her voice, as always. "Its Mir-" "I don't care. Anyways why are you on the floor? Get up. We've got to get to Oregon in 3 hours to steal that painting! Dont cost me 1 million dollars you little girl. Remember whos in charge here." "Always nice to see you too boss" I gave her a little wink. She looked at me very angrily, and then she heard heavy breathing. Uh-oh. "He's still alive. Why? You have one job. ONE!" "I- I can't bring myself to do it." "Fine then I'll do it myself." She grabbed a Glock pistol out of the strap attached to her long, red dress, and held it to his head. "Boss don't do this. Please. He doesn't even have anything we want!" I was panting at this point, and I knew that the mascara was smeared all over my face, and I bet it wasn't pretty. "Yes, but he knows everything! What do you think he's going to tell the cops?!" She practically yelled. "I promise I won't tell the cops anything just let me go-" BANG* Just like that...he was gone. I felt like my heart just shattered, and I ran over to where he was laying, and rested my head on his chest. He began to whisper- "You are my sunshine," and then it faded away... That was our song, and he always sung it to me to fall asleep, since I had trouble sleeping, and his voice always soothed me. "NO! NO!" I cried even harder. "It's going to be okay, you're going to make it." "It's no use Miranda," She blew on the tip of her pistol, as she called it "He's gone for good." "What is wrong with you?!" I got up and headed her way. "Just doing my job," She puffed out her chest, to make herself look bolder "as you should too." "No." "What did you just say to me?" "I said no." She then pointed the gun to my chest, and I heard the sound that the gun usually makes before she pulls the trigger. "Take it back before you end up like Michael." She blurted out. "You wouldn't dare-" BANG* My chest hurt, and I gripped my shirt as I fell to the floor once again. It hurt so bad, but all I could think about was losing the love of my life. I saw her lean over me for the last time, and then I felt my eyes shut. I had thought I died, but I kept on thinking. I felt dizzy, and cold, and I was on a very hard surface. I slowly opened my eyes, and realized how much pain I was in. I noticed that I was in the back of a van, and instead of being the one kidnapping someone, I was the one being captured. "Why good morning sleepy-head" "What do you want?" "Be nice to me I could have let you die then and there." my boss smirked "Ugh I wish I had died, I want nothing to do with you. I hate you more than I've ever hated anyone in my entire life." The smirk then left her face, and she removed the vibrant red hair from her face. She was so beautiful, and as much as I hated my boss, I loved her blue eyes. I have never been able to stay mad at her for long... "Where are we?" "Well we're not in Oregon I'll tell you. I had to drag your body into the van." She sighed "It was a lot of work." "Wow Im so grateful" I said sarcastically, then rolled my eyes. "Listen, Miranda" She actually sounded kind of... sorry? regretful? "I know you are upset with me now, but I'll make it up to you I promise." I heard a loud yell from a foreign language, coming from the driver's seat. "Well would you look at that" my boss said smiling "We're in LA". "WHAT?!" "You heard me this time." She opened the back of the van, and I climbed out, drawing attention from everyone at the gas station. I looked down at my chest, and realized they were staring at my white button down shirt, that had a giant blood stain. I grabbed the leather jacket that was tied around my waist, and zipped it up over my chest. I had a red mini-skirt on, and black heels, and my legs were freezing off of my body. "Oh sweetheart we need to get you some clothes!" my boss hugged me like she was my mom. I pulled away. "Don't call me that" "I was just trying to act normal." A police car pulled up, and asked us if everything was okay. "Officer I need he-" I tried to say "Everything is okay officer. Thank you for stopping by." My boss said, looking at me disappointingly. "Well Im getting disturbing reports coming in, so if you guys could tell me what the hell is going on here." "Officer I've been kidnapped help me!" I got the chance to yell. He grabbed out his cuffs, and as I thought he was about to cuff my boss, instead he told me to turn around. "Wait what are you doing?! She's the bad guy!" "Ma'am something seems a little off about you, we're going to get you drug tested okay?" My boss came over and whispered in my ear: "This is why you don't mess with me. I know everyone in this city- Sweetheart." I could feel her dirty smile on my ear "Have fun spending the night in jail."

“Are you coming tonight?” I was starting to regret the moment I decided to pick up the call when I saw Veer’s name flashing on my phone screen. “Ahmed, I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer!” I weighed out all the excuses in my mind that I could give him - I have to help Amma cook mutton korma today, I have a head ache, I have to rearrange the shelves in Abbu’s shop; but apparently he had heard every single one of them by now, more times than I could count on my fingers. “Who all are going to be there?” I asked and began tapping my foot uncontrollably against the wooden desk. “Suraj, you and I; just the three of us.” I hummed in agreement and hung up before he could make any other stupid requests, like, let’s go to Karan’s house on the way back home, or, let’s go to a party instead. And then it dawned upon me - the realization - I was to step outside the safe and secure premises of my house after contently avoiding social interaction for a month. It had been a blissful month, the mandatory bed rest recommended by the doctor - my savior. I could stay at home without being coaxed by my parents or friends to ‘go for a stroll’ as they liked to call it. I stayed on bed all day long, coming out of my room for a quick shower, or to sneak into the kitchen at night to eat Amma’s delicious rasgullas which I wasn’t supposed to eat considering my health status. The fact that Amma made sure I didn’t help in the daily chores because I was supposed to rest was the cherry on the top. Don’t get me wrong, I had in fact been sick for two weeks - my muscles too stiff to cooperate and the uninvited chills - but it wasn’t as bad as the doctor portrayed it to be. Dr. Rashid, our family doctor, can be a bit dramatic at times. I hastily walked towards my room, threw open the closet and scrounged for a piece of clothing that was ‘presentable’ enough for my night out. After dressing and undressing for several futile hours, I settled on an olive green shirt matched with khaki pants. I changed into them and glanced at the mirror - my face looked like a shrunken grape, the ever-present dark bags under my eyes looked more prominent and my body looked too slender to be mine. Maybe Dr. Rashid wasn’t as dramatic as I thought him to be. As I stepped over the metallic threshold of the main gate, I could feel my heart beating frantically against my chest. I continued walking away from my sanctuary, the ominous feeling in me at its peak when I crossed the road to reach the local market. My eyes scanned the long, dingy and stuffed path that lead me to ‘Guru Dhaba’ - a place with the least amount of sober people at this time - which was owned by Veer’s father. Seeing a horde of people congregating around the vegetable seller, I felt constricted; the familiar warm and salty air lightly brushing my sticky face as I hurried my steps. I came to an immediate halt as I saw a familiar face walking towards me - her gaze fixated on me - with a smile on her face. I went over a few options in my head, like running away as fast as I could, or better than that, pretending to have amnesia - refusing to have any association with her. I knew it was too late before she came face-to-face with me. She used the hem of her dark green saree to wipe her face which was as sweaty as mine, if not worse. I greeted her with the best fake pleasantries I could produce and touched her feet. “Ahmed beta, how are you? I haven’t seen you around since a month now! You have lost so much weight.” she said as she looked at me - Head to Toe. It felt like she was scrutinizing my face, my body and my soul under her gaze. We chatted for a bit which mostly included inappropriately irrelevant questions from her side and awkward smiles from me in response. “Come to my house, I have prepared ‘Besan Ladoo’ using desi ghee. After eating them you’ll become healthy like before.” I joined my hands together in regard and continued finding my way through the labyrinth of cramped lanes. I did not walk much further when I felt an unusual vibrating sensation on my thigh - my phone. It was 7:40 P.M. and I couldn’t understand why Veer was calling me already. “Veer, I’m almost here.” I barked into the phone’s speaker. “Ahmed, change of plans; I have to go pick up my sister from the airport. It’s my mom’s birthday tomorrow so she wanted to surprise her.” I pulled the phone closer to my ear, if it were possible, and placed a hand over the other. “I am so sorry. I know I had insisted for you to come out today but this was totally unexpected.” He hung up the phone after apologizing once again. I stood there, stunned, for several minutes before the tormenting smell of a leaking sewage pipe compelled me - I don’t know where - to leave. The silence was comforting; all I could hear was the burbling of the river and the distant tintinnabulation of bells. I could see the sparkling buildings on the other bank of the river, the glow of the full moon adding more to its beauty. I came across a familiar brown bench, its rusty smell engulfing me as soon as I sat on it. I remember coming here whenever kids at school called me out for being ‘the only Muslim’ in my class, or because I would pray in a manner which was different than theirs. The knowledge that I could be here myself without being judged or treated like I was an extra-terrestrial being provided me solace. When I reached back home Amma opened the door to let me in. “How was your night?” she asked and I noticed the creasing lines on her forehead. She probably didn’t have dinner yet because she was waiting for me. “It was good, but, right now I'm starving and I can't wait to eat your delicious mutton korma.” I replied. For the first time in a while, I meant the words I said.

"The Wallet" The afternoon rush hour was slower than usual, and as Tina’s mind raced with all that she had left to do before Christmas in two days, she found herself the recipient of a honking pickup truck riding her bumper. “Yeah, I’m moving,” she responded angrily. “Can’t wait a second then, can you?” Glaring at the driver who then passed her with a whoosh in the left-hand lane, she swore under her breath. “Season to be jolly - really?” Continuing her steady but slow trek to her exit, she saw the daylight dim and the dark settle upon the city. Up at dawn in the dark and home early evening in the dark. Was there even an ounce of light in her life anymore? Her apartment was a block away now and Tina sighed heavily in remembrance of all she had left to do this day. She’d pay the sitter, make her son a quick dinner and then see if her mother could watch him again tonight so she might search the department stores for that expensive Dino Dinosaur toy Clay had been begging Santa to bring. All this yet to do, when her only desire was to crawl into her bed and get a good night’s sleep. ‘Oh well’, she moaned, such were the joys of single motherhood. No money, no sleep and work, work, work. Mother came over begrudgingly saying she had a really bad headache and she hoped Clay might go to bed soon. Tina bathed and dressed him in his cute dinosaur pajamas and thanked her mom. Didn’t grandparents want to spend time with their grandchildren? Her mom apparently had too many already and Clay the last one to arrive, probably had not made the grade lately. Digging out her keys and trudging through the gray slush that once was white snow, Tina’s eyes focused on a black blob near her car’s trunk. Kicking it with her foot, she realized it wasn’t trash. When she bent to examine it, she discovered it was a leather wallet. Tina picked it up timidly, and then looked around her. Who might have lost this, she wondered? One of her neighbors? No one was in sight. Unlocking her car and sitting still in the dark vehicle, she turned on the overhead light. Opening the wallet, she saw a driver’s license with a name she did not recognize, a few credit cards and then the cash. Removing the thick wad, Tina’s eyes grew enormous. What? There had to be hundreds here. She counted it then, looking around her and locking her car doors. Whoa! She counted it again. $500.00. $500.00!! Tina sat back and closed her eyes. What a windfall. This could totally make her son’s Christmas so much more thrilling! She could even pay her rent on time and buy that new coat she had eyed recently at the department store. This was a miracle she deserved. Opening her eyes and looking out her window again to see if anyone was around, she started her car. Shopping would not be a pain now. It was such a wonderful turn of fate. She was rich - for an evening anyway. Seeing a nearby McDonalds drive through ahead, Tina made her way to it. Yes, a Big Mac was in order. Her favorite sandwich she rarely had an extra dime for. Opening the wallet to pay for the meal, she was surprised when the teenage girl at the drive-up, pay window smiled and said that the car ahead of her had already paid for her meal. What? “Oh, you know, that thing on the Christian radio,” the young girl said in a sing-song voice. “Bless someone unknown today! Make their Christmas!” Tina’s eyes widened. “Someone already paid for this?” “Yes,” the young girl repeated. “Now, as they say on the radio program, pay it forward!” Tina pulled ahead stunned and retrieved her food from a young man wearing braces. He was smiling broadly, apparently knowing she was the recipient of the previous car owner’s generosity, for he handed her an envelope with her food. As she pulled over to eat the sandwich, Tina shook her head in disbelief. The envelope had an invitation to a local church and wished her a Merry Christmas. “Wow! This certainly is my lucky day,” she said loudly to no one but the car’s interior. “Now for Dino Dinosaur”. The Target parking lot was packed, and she took a deep breath before leaving her car. She had to brave the crowds for Clay and his Christmas. It was only once a year, and now she had the money to buy six Dino Dinosaurs if she chose. Heading into the back of the store where the toy section was located, Tina grimaced. There was one Dino left on the top shelf. As she searched for a clerk to help her retrieve it, she noticed a tall man reach for it. The clerk, who certainly looked unenthusiastic to reach up to the top shelf, shook his head at her, knowing that now he was not needed. The tall man had Dino now in his cart. But Tina was not deterred, replying authoritatively, “I’m sure you have another one of these back in your stockroom. Could you please check? My son has to have this dinosaur for Christmas! Has to!!” The red vested clerk just shook his head and frowned saying, “Sorry, ma’am, it’s a popular item. That was the last one.” Tina stared at the man who was walking to the checkout with the last Dino Dinosaur. Traipsing close behind him she exclaimed, “Sir! Sir, excuse me!” Tina saw the man turn to face her with a quizzical look on his face. “Sir, would you consider selling me that?” The tall man was white haired, bearded and his dark eyes crinkled as he answered, “What young lady? You want to buy this from me? Why, I haven’t even paid for it yet?” Tina blushed and put on her best smile. “Sir, my son is so sure Santa is bringing this to him. I’d pay you double once you purchase to have it!” “Really?” The man stroked his beard and winked at her. “I’m told it is a popular toy so maybe triple would be better. Triple the price, yes, for that price I will sell it to you.” Tina took a deep breath. Triple the price? Well, she now had the money so she could make the deal. “Ah, ok. I’ll meet you at the register. The two walked together and Tina watched the man pay for the toy and his other purchases. As they left the store and stood out front near the big red Target balls, the man handed Tina the bag with Dino in. As Tina began to dig out the money from the black wallet she had found, the elderly man laughed heartily and proclaimed, “Merry Christmas young lady! Consider this a gift from Santa to your son. My grandson will never miss this. I wish you and your son a blessed Christmas day! Remember the reason for the season, will you? The gift at Christmas God gave to us, we can never repay except to bless others.” Tina stood with her mouth open, hanging onto the gift as if it were a precious gem. Really? He was giving this to her? Blinking as she watched him walk away, she grinned profusely. She had Dino. She also had not spent a dime to get him. What? What kind of generosity was this? The reason for the season? She hadn’t thought lately about any reason for this season except the Santa myth. Was there something more she should know about this Christmas season? She watched as the man walked to his car and unlocked it. The car was not a Cadillac or even an SUV, but a dented, black, old model Honda. Looking down at the cement under her feet, Tina felt a tinge of regret in planning on using the black wallet’s money. Shaking her head to rid herself of the guilt, she found her vehicle and got in. “I’ve got Clay’s Christmas!” Driving quickly home, Tina turned on the radio and finally found, after rummaging through the variety of radio channels, a peaceful Christmas song she found herself humming to, “ Away in A Manger ”. She remembered this from her younger days when she and her family attended a church service at Christmas time. Tina had always liked the tune and now she listened to the words a bit more closely. Not paying attention to her speed, she found herself the victim of blue lights flashing brightly behind her. Had she been speeding? She was so overjoyed to have Dino beside her she hadn’t paid much attention to her speedometer. Pulling over as soon as she found a space to do so, she blew out her breath. Guess her Christmas luck was waning. Wonder how much this ticket would be? After handing over her license, insurance and registration to the stern looking officer she heard him say, “Only a warning now, ma’am. Watch your speed please. Want everyone out there to be safe this Christmas.” Tina stared at him for a moment, thanked him and added, “Merry Christmas officer.” Arriving home and relieving her mother, Tina sat quietly in her apartment staring at her small, tabletop Christmas tree. Again, her luck this evening left her speechless. Might she actually be experiencing what Christmas was truly all about? Eventually crawling into her warm, narrow bed that evening, Tina could not fall asleep. The day had been long, and she should be exhausted. Yet, her mind churned with her good fortune today. She hadn’t spent a dime, got a free dinner, obtained Clay’s present and then escaped a speeding fine - not to mention the wallet she had found which still lay in her purse. She tossed and turned, until finally she sat up with a jolt and declared loudly. “You’re better than this! Tina Ledbetter you are better than this! The world is a hard horrible place at times, but you don’t have to be!” Throwing the covers off her nightgown clad self, Tina padded barefoot to the kitchen where her purse lay on the counter. Removing the wallet from her purse she drew out the driver's license and looked at it closely. She didn’t recognize whose picture was there, nor the address, but she would do what she could tomorrow to return this to the rightful owner. Sighing heavily, Tina returned to bed and now slept like a baby. Amazingly, she awoke without the alarm clock ringing and with a contented smile on her face. Today she would do the right thing. Today she would make someone else’s day. It felt wonderful! On her lunch break, Tina walked into the local police precinct and explained to the officer who greeted her why she had come in. The officer took the wallet, located the driver's license and looked up at her after he counted the money it held. “Whew” he exclaimed his eyes wide. “Someone sure must be missing this! Lady, you are certainly a saint to turn this in. Honesty is a rare quality now- a -days. Now if you would please give me your name and contact information, in case the owner wishes to thank you himself, or just in case the wallet is not claimed.” Tina nodded, gave the officer her information and left the precinct with a light heart. Although that money would have done she and Clay a world of good, it just wasn’t right to keep it. The generosity of others last evening had reminded her there was still good in this world. It was refreshing and her spirit soared with the reminder. Christmas morning deemed bright sunshine and a sleepy Tina crawled out of bed to hear the gleeful chattering of Clay in the next room as he discovered Santa had brought his Dino Dinosaur. Stepping out to view Clay’s happiness, she thought of the white bearded man in Target and smiled to herself, wondering how his Christmas morning had turned out. Was his grandson as happy as Clay seemed to be? Walking to Clay’s side, she ruffled his blond curls and sat on the floor near him to watch him play. Finally, she urged him to dress so they might go over to her mother’s house and have brunch with her siblings and their families. Leaving the apartment, Tina found an envelope tacked to her apartment door. As she opened the envelope slowly, curious who might have left this, three green bills fell to her feet with a sticky note, upon which was written “thank you.” Retrieving them from the ground she gasped. Three, crisp one hundred-dollar bills gleamed in her hand. As she and Clay drove to her mother’s home several miles away, Clay asked from the backseat, “Mama, what is Christmas all about anyway? Is it Santa’s birthday?” Tina looked back at her son clutching Dino Dinosaur tightly and said confidently, “Why Clay, it is about being loving, kind and generous to others just as God has been to us today. Christmas is Jesus’ birthday.” Looking back at Clay to see his reaction to her answer, she saw him smile and kiss his Dino on top of his purple head before exclaiming, “Yes, Mama I understand. Then Jesus gave me a present I guess, huh? Santa brought it though, right?” Tina smiled, her three-year-old son was so young, yet she might teach him soon the real meaning they celebrated Christmas. Tina helped her mother serve the brunch and as they all sat down to enjoy the meal, Tina paused and looked around. Her sisters, their husbands and nieces and nephews were digging in hungrily while her mother picked at her food. “I’d like to say a prayer of gratitude, if you can all pause a moment.” Faces looked up and some smiled. Others looked confused. Tina began, “Thank you God for blessing us with this food, family and wonderful Christmas Day. Amen.” Clay smiled at her, his mouth full of food and Dino in his lap with a spot of egg on his purple, Dinosaur head. “Ah mama, that is a nice prayer,” he chirped after swallowing. Later in the kitchen, Tina approached her mom as they looked at the mess of dishes in the sink. “Mom, I have a little something additional for you,” Tina said quietly. Tina’s mother smiled her tired smile and shook her head. “Oh Tina, you already gave me a gift. Why I love the scent of Wind Song! Thank you, you remember I have loved that scent for a long time.” “No, mom. There is something else.” Tina’s mom pulled a face and then shook her head. “I’ve got all I need with my family here today.” Tina stuffed a bill into her mom’s apron pocket and replied, “Yeah, mom. I know you do. Here is a little something extra though for you. I love you, mom. Now you can get that coat you really need.” Tina’s mom retrieved the $100 bill from her apron pocket and stared at her daughter. Her eyes teary, she shook her head slowly. “What? Surely you can use this for Clay or something you need!” “Merry Christmas, mom. Enjoy! I’m headed out to play with the kids.” Tina left her mom staring at the money, her face clouded with doubt. Tina and Clay drove home satiated. Driving a bit below the speed limit and humming to herself, Tina noticed the truck behind her, right on her bumper, until finally it had an open lane to pass her. Rushing by Tina's vehicle, the driver looked at her and gave her a middle finger, mouthing something ugly. Biting her tongue, Tina gave him the peace sign in return and looked at Clay with a smile. “Some folks just need a bit of kindness, Clay. A bit of Christmas spirit today.” Clay nodded and gave Dino a kiss on his purple, fuzzy head.

The Moon Program In July 1969, when man first landed on the moon there was talk of colonizing it immediately. The earth was becoming very overcrowded and the Authorities were looking for different places to stash warm bodies. Years later, the Mars idea surfaced and some people actually signed up to become pioneers or settlers on the Red Planet. Well, that idea fell through and it was back to the original plan to populate the moon. Fifty-one years later from that initial moon landing there was a nasty virus outbreak and a section of the world’s population was decimated. There were still too many people on the planet, but it would take some time to sort things out. A vaccine appeared and it proved to be very, very dangerous. For some reason, the vaccine urged people to commit crimes at a higher than normal rate. Suddenly, the world didn’t have to deal with sickness any more but violent outbursts that brought on a very high rise in homicides. It was impossible to control the chaos and the madness. The craziness that had erupted when the virus first broke out exposed the underlying mental illness that was prevalent in every society in every country across the globe. Then there was another breakthrough. But, it wasn’t some new vaccine; it was the ability to make life sustainable on the moon. The light bulb was turned on so brightly that it nearly burnt out in the Authorities heads. In the beginning, only one person was taken to the moon. The Authorities didn’t want to admit it, but life on the moon wasn’t perfected. There was still some chinks in the hardware that had to be worked out. The one person a year program turned out to be more like a thousand people a day. They simply lied to us and professed that everyone that was picked up were kept in a holding tank. Nobody was allowed to visit their loved ones in this secluded place. Of course, no one believed them. The deception went even farther. The Authorities claimed that there was no jail on the moon but instead a real paradise and one lucky person every year was allowed to stay there. They claimed it was like winning the largest and most prestigious power ball lottery. The violent offenders were taken to the moon on a one way ticket where a vast system of prisons were stationed. It was the perfect solution to the crime problem because escaping was impossible. The space bus brought all the prisoners to the moon, they were jettisoned through a tube into the prison and the vehicle left. If anyone tried to escape since there was no gravity on the moon, they would float out in outer space until they died. How did the prisons not float away? A buoyancy system had been developed and the jails were like floating buildings that would never drift off into the universe. Of course, as it always happens with human nature the rumours of how horrible life on the moon began to circulate. There were tales of cruelty and beatings and horrible conditions that were inhumane. In six months, fourteen million people were shipped out to the moon. Life on earth had begun to settle down and all of the people that had received the vaccine were now mostly extracted. Well, almost all of them. There were a few left the estimates ranged from less than a thousand to maybe five thousand. The vaccine that had appeared was only destined for the worst cases of the virus. Some of the front line health workers received it. As usual, there was some mystery and lies as to whom exactly got the shot. Unfortunately, there was no list made so the Authorities couldn’t know who had been injected. For those that had escaped the brutal non-return ticket to the moon, they walked among the ‘healthy’ citizens. There had been a flood of theories as to what had caused people to grab a hammer and kill their spouses or children or co-workers or neighbours. Like every other similar situation no one could agree on one single factor. The real reason why half the world had gone stark raving mad was still clouded. So far, I had eluded the Authorities. Now, when I mention the Authorities what I am really talking about where the men in the red and white health suits driving around in what was called the ‘Test Mobiles.’ You see, the governments had carte blanche when it came to random testing. Under the law, they had the right -- or their goon squads had the right -- to pick anyone right off of the street if they exhibited any of the signs. So if you were allergic to dust or something else and sneezed or dared to cough when your throat was dry, there was an alert that went off. On a daily basis, people were yanked off the streets and taken to the testing facilities. Only a few were returned and they were so brainwashed that they could not explain what was really going on in the ‘testing facilities.' Like the moon jail, there were also rampant nasty rumours about what exactly happened in those facilities. The thing is when the sickness hit a lot of people lost their jobs. Many of the industries never truly rebounded and a lot of small shop owners went down fighting. There were millions of people unemployed that needed a job. So the government simply hired anyone and everyone to be part of the goon squad. This is why there was a unit at every street corner in every city. It also explains why there were thousands of people picked up on a daily basis to be tested. The numbers were fudged and nobody really knew how many good citizens were complying to do their part to wipe out the virus once and for all. The goon squad moved about in pairs and in nondescript vehicles. There had been news reports about people trying to intervene when someone was innocently swept off the street, but for their efforts the heroes were quickly subdued. The goon squad were armed with highly sensitive tasers. One rumour claimed that they carried disease sticks and if you were hit with that then a person instantly became virus sick. Of course, that only got them a one-way ticket to the moon. The news reports were filled every day of how someone’s spouse or parent or child has been taken away without any explanation. Accusations of racial profiling and vindictive choices spread like wildfire. But, nobody really knew truth from fiction. I didn’t have the virus thanks to the vaccine. I mean it did work but there were some very nasty side affects. There was such a rush to find a cure that researchers in the labs didn’t and couldn’t take their time to do it right. Plus there was real anticipation like the space race during the old days of the cold war for one country to be the first to discover the vaccine. It was like the debate who was going to be the first human to step on the moon back in those heady, hippie days of the late 1960s. There were more than just bragging rights attached to being the first to devise a vaccine that worked. The country that managed to do so had their entire debt and deficit wiped out. Plus, they had exclusive rights and were the only nation on the planet to be able to administer the vaccine. Nobody else held the rights and had the ability to do so. So, whatever country was the first then they had a tremendous amount of power and the chance to make an enormous pile of money. The vaccine was expensive. Nobody was going to take advantage of the rest of the world, but only a fool would give it away. I walked back and forth to work quietly with my mask and gloves on. I was just another lost and lonely soul trying to keep it all together. A couple of times, one of the vehicles had followed me down the street. But, I didn’t flinch and just kept walking pretending that I didn’t know they were watching me. Big Brother was no longer watching; Big Brother was stalking like some midnight rambler striking fear in the hearts of good and honest citizens. Did they have me on the list? There was great debate as to whether there was a list at all. I must confess that when all of this abduction of people to be taken to the moon jail started, I had gone back to the clinic where I was given the vaccine and broken into the lab in the wee hours of the night. As a trained computer programmer, I had no problem breaking into the system and wiping any potential lists that had my name on it. I was pretty sure that the work was done without any one noticing. I was careful to wipe down all prints that could have been left. The camera system had been de-activated upon entering the place. Besides, I wore a bank robber’s mask, not the medically issued ones that were worn on a daily basis. I thought I was safe. But, the paranoia was slowly creeping in. I lived alone. My wife had died of the virus and we didn’t have any children. My sister-in-law attempted to have us move in together, but I never could stand her. She was just looking for someone to take care of things. The sad part was that if she had moved in with me and I had murdered the conniving, annoying bitch, it would have been for insanity reasons like her driving me insane and not because the vaccine had turned me into a homicidal maniac. My work office was sparse and it was a good thing in many ways. There was more room in the fridge. Before, with a full staff, it was nearly impossible to find a spot for your food and if you did some cretin like Fletcher would just steal it. The goon squad had picked him up and taken the fool away. I applauded their move. It was Friday and around lunch time, the Authorities announced the lucky ‘winner’ of the one way ticket to the moon jail, er I mean paradise. It was broadcasted around the world to much pomp and circumstance. I was numb when they announced my name. Everyone in the office applauded sarcastically. The cold-hearted bastards. I was out of there in a flash. Some rat had alerted the Authorities. The vehicle approached me, but I had been planning this for a very long time. My next door neighbour was a kind old man and he had died about two weeks before my wife. I always thought that Mr. Hendricks had given it to her as she tended to him. There was no way of telling. He was a kind, law-abiding citizen and a collector of all types of stuff. I had the pleasure of cleaning out his spacious house when they had shut down the office for a few weeks while the place was being sanitized. The biggest collection that Mr. Hendricks boasted was guns. He loved them and took very good care of each and every weapon owned. So, I was well armed just in case some homicidal maniac came at me. We had been encouraged to be armed, which I thought was strange. When the craziness had broken out and so many went on a murder spree, the Authorities thought it was a good idea to carry a gun. The vehicle stopped and they landed on the ground with authority. But, the guns were blazing before they really knew what was going on. It was one thing to be accused of killing someone when you didn’t, but to be an actual criminal was something else. I hope that my dear Elyse wasn’t watching. I ran and suddenly the entire world seemed to explode right in front of me. There were pairs of goon squads everywhere. “Halt, you are the winner and everything will be okay.” I pulled out the two black beauties and started to shoot. It was chaos on the streets. But, in the end, I was overpowered. So, I won the ‘lottery and I am sitting here in cell #315 in my greys telling you exactly what happened. There was no homicidal outburst on my part. I was just defending myself. There is no right in abduction. There is no paradise on the moon. There is no joy in winning the ‘lottery.’ There is no justice in pulling my name. There is no government conspiracy.

My life is a farce. Just yesterday, my master sends me down to the swamp. He says, swim down to the bottom of the bog. Down there at the bottom, you’ll find a piece of seaweed that feels just a *little* bit different than all the other pieces. Pull that piece. Nothing will seem to happen, but something *will* happen--another piece of seaweed somewhere else will feel different now. So go find that one. And do that until all the pieces feel weird. Then pull all those seaweed pieces out, one by one. Two at a time ain’t no good. Gotta be one by one. Then line ‘em up on the shore. Wait for the hot sun to come out, the one that comes out on Thursdays. We got three suns. Cold sun, Color sun, hot sun. Gotta wait for hot sun. So hot sun comes out, dries out all the seaweed. Now it’s rigid. Except it ain’t brittle like regular seaweed gets when Hot sun does it’s thing to it. It’s fucking hard like a rock. It’s the hardest god damn thing I’ve ever felt. I’m feeling pretty good. So I ask my master, what next. What do I do with this rock hard seaweed. He tells me, okay. So take that seaweed, and you’re gonna weave a basket out of it. A basket. Okay. So a-weaving I go, and I make a nice basket. He says okay. Now buy a hot air balloon. And attach it to the basket. I tell him hey man, I made the basket too small. You didn’t tell me what the basket was for and I made it way too small, there’s no way I can sit in this if it’s a hot air balloon! He says, that’s part of the test. So I buy a hot air balloon. Attach it to this rock hard seaweed basket thing. And he says go up to the ionosphere in this thing. Fine. Okay. I barely know where the ionosphere is but I figure it's upwards. So I stand in the basket, one foot only, that’s all that fits, and I light the flame of the hot air balloon, which is hot as all hell on my head because I can’t sit down, because the basket’s too small, and I ride it up to the ionosphere. It’s starting to get real cold, even with the flame and all from the hot air balloon. I’m getting real worried that the balloon is gonna deflate, because the air’s so cold and thin. The oxygen is hella thin. It's completely inconvenient to breathe, in a way I'm loving roughly 0%. I call my master and I say okay, I’m in the damn ionosphere, what now. I did everything you asked. What do I do. He says okay. He googles something. He’s kind of trying to hide that he’s googling something but I see him do it, it’s facetime and I can see him typing something on his phone with a really puzzled look on his face. So I say it. I don’t care that he’s my master, I let him have it. “Hey man, I see you’re googling shit. You’re just making this up as you go. You don’t have anything to teach me. The only thing you’re teaching me is that you don’t know what the hell you’re doing!” So I say fuck this guy. And I lean to my left and I fall my ass out of the hot air balloon on purpose, and I’m plummeting to earth with my arms folded, because I’m pissed off and I want everyone to know it. I see the earth racing up to meet me. I’m about to hit a rocky outcropping and I’m about to cry, I’m visualizing my body breaking on those rocks and my ribs and my lungs cracking and collapsing and all my blood flying everywhere, and my hands being pulverized to dust and my eyeballs flying out of my skull and going 500 feet, and I’m weeping uncontrollably, the images are flying through my head faster than I’m even falling, and I cry out to god. And I say, “fuck you, you old bastard. You’re gonna make my fucking eyeballs fly out and my knees pop off and my feet explode on this crumby old fucking rock outcropping. You made these rocks and you made gravity and that’s why you’re the dumbest old bitch alive.” And suddenly I stop. I look down. I’m an inch from the rocks, from the rocks that were so sure to end my life, but I’m not falling. I’m levitating. I look up and there’s my master. He’s levitating me. He tells me I passed my final lesson. I was ballsy enough to call him and god a dumb old bitch. And then, I fought him in that rock outcropping, and I kicked his head clean off with my first punch. And that’s how I got to be the proprietor of this dojo here. So it’s 45 dollars for the first month, and then 90 for the rest. Yeah. We send you a bill in the mail and you mail a check. No, I’m sorry, we really don’t do direct deposit. Yeah. Sorry.

The sun was scorching as Luthar set foot on dry land. Five days he had been aboard the ship, and two of them were spent vomiting. The captain had set a fast course, and the winds had been kind, but the summer waves seemed intent on rocking Luthar’s guts overboard. Even the limestone dockside seemed to sway under his weight. The only joy he could take from coming ashore was the gentle breeze that licked his face. Men rushed this way and that, with tightly packed wagons of goods ready for shipping. Customs officials checked paperwork from captains before barking their orders in some strange, harsh language. On the larger piers wooden cranes lifted large and heavy cargo onto dry land, ready for the next leg of its journey. Warehouses with vast wooden doors lined the perimeter of the docks, a constant stream of wagons and carts emerging. A few men-at-arms here and there watched business commence with steely expressions. ‘Come Luthar, you will settle quicker than you believe.’ Lady Akindra ushered him along and into the city proper. As they passed the enormous warehouses that held everything from cotton and silk to timber and gold, the sheer size of the city began to feel intimidating. Each side of the narrow street there were buildings of five and six stories, casting the two of them into shadow. Luthar followed Lady Akindra closely, afraid that if he lost her, he may never find himself again. The streets criss-crossed at perfect right angles, at the meeting points they opened into small squares where dark-skinned men wearing white linens congregated to flaunt their wares. Lady Akindra strode on, turning right, then left, then right again. They passed yet more merchants, battling with their neighbour to declare their own wares the greatest. Whorehouses, inns, and dream dens lined the thoroughfares, contributing to the din that assaulted their ears. After another sharp turn, the buildings fell away and Lady Akindra led them into a great square, far larger than any Luthar had seen in a three kingdoms city. A park sat in the middle of the expanse, strange trees, bushes, and hedgerows lined gravel pathways. Every few yards a bench supported some well-dressed man or woman enjoying the morning sun. Its centrepiece was a large fountain, in the shape of a mermaid, standing at least twenty feet high and spraying water into a clear pool. Lady Akindra paused for a moment to speak to Luthar. ‘This is called Park Square. Over on the north side are the government buildings.’ She pointed to a plain, rectangular building five stories high that stretched along the whole side of the square. ‘On the south side, the temples of sun and moon.’ She pointed again, this time to two totally different buildings that gave the appearance of being stuck together. On the left, a golden coloured temple, sloping on three sides and at least double the height of the government building. Fires burned in huge baskets to its front and lanterns swung in the breeze at its door. It seemed the very personification of light. Joined to its straight wall was another temple, exactly the same, yet opposite. It had the same three sloping walls, and looked to be identical in height, to the inch. But it was built from stone as black as night, polished to a fierce shine. No fire baskets or lanterns burned, giving it a sinister and unwelcoming appearance. ‘We will find L’Beira in the temple of the sun.’ She finished, before heading off straight across the square. They approached the golden building, weaving between hundreds of people going about their daily business. Two men in simple white linen gowns and sandals hailed them as they approached the door. ‘Good day to you both! Would you care to make a donation to the giver of life?’ He rattled a small wooden cup at them, implying it wasn’t optional. ‘Of course sir, thank you for your service.’ Lady Akindra dropped a couple of coppers into his cup and beamed her best smile at him. His partner pulled open the wooden door and beckoned them inside with a bow. Luthar couldn’t help but notice the cudgel hung at his waist. Despite his baggy attire, his muscular frame was evident. The door led them straight into a vast, dark hall. It was cooler in here, soothing Luthar’s delicate stomach. In the centre was a large pool, sunk into the floor some ten feet deep. Directly above, Luthar saw there was no roof, a square of blue sky was visible where the sloped walls ended. Arches ran along the back wall, casting the rear of the room into shadow. Another robed man stepped out of the darkness and approached them. ‘All that lives welcomes you to the temple of the sun. I am L’Beira, child of life.’ He was tall, towering above Luthar and Lady Akindra, but not intimidating. He had an easy manner about him, and a welcoming smile stuck firmly to his face. ‘I am Lady Akindra of the Mage’s Guild. This is Luthar Shoresmith, member of the Warrior’s Guild.’ ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance my lady.’ He bowed smoothly to her, showing the top of his shaven head, before turning to Luthar. ‘And you’re Luthar are you? You still bear your family’s name. Some would call that fortunate.’ ‘What do you mean?’ The strange introduction had Luthar baffled. ‘Some boys join the guild without even knowing their father’s name, the guild is the only family they have. Your family name is Shoresmith, meaning you know your family. Do you still visit them?’ ‘No. I’ve never seen or heard from them since I joined the guild. The men of the guild are my family now.’ ‘So why bear their name? There is still some love there I think.’ ‘It’s something I’ve always done. Is this part of my training?’ The line of questioning was making Luthar uncomfortable. The less he had to speak about his family, the happier he would be. ‘Ah yes, your training. Follow me.’ L’Beira led them through a door that was almost invisible in the shadows behind the arches, and into a small room where two more robed men were praying to a stained-glass window depicting the sun. They waited silently at the back of the room for them to finish and rise from their simple wooden benches. ‘Acolyte A’Mad, please escort the lady to our guest rooms, she will be staying with us for some time. Make sure she is comfortable and has everything she needs.’ ‘Of course, Master.’ He bowed to L’Beira before approaching Lady Akindra. ‘My lady, please follow me.’ Luthar and L’Beira followed them from the room before turning left and exiting the building through a rear door. Outside, a square had been built from hastily erected fences, almost identical to the one at the guild. Luthar’s face must have shown his confusion as to why a temple would need a sparring square. ‘We train our men fiercely in all manners of combat. We must defend our temple, and our faith, rigorously in times of war. In this world the strong take from the weak, and we cannot be weak in the eyes of life and death.’ He approached the gate and removed his gown, leaving just loose linen trousers underneath. Luthar could see the man was pure muscle, he hoped that would slow him down. ‘Here we fight in our skin. Remove your shirt.’ He pulled off his shirt over his head and left it in a pile with his two swords, other than to sleep this was the first time he’d removed them since leaving the guild. He stepped into the square and stood opposite L’Beira, awaiting his next instruction. ‘In your three kingdoms you fight with swords and shields, here, it is spears. Much more graceful, like a dance.’ As soon as he finished speaking, he kicked sand in the air, showering Luthar and stinging his eyes. When he had regained his vision, L’Beira snatched a spear from the air, then stood to attention, holding it in front of him. ‘Leyton informs me you need to be faster.’ ‘He said the same to me. I’m not strong - ‘ Before Luthar had finished speaking L’Beira lunged for him, spear aimed for his heart. He retreated backwards, away from the onslaught. Still, L’Beira pressed him, spear whirling in the air, forcing Luthar against the fence. ‘No, no, no. How do you propose to win a fight by running away?’ He turned and walked back to the centre of the square. ‘You need to fight back, Luthar.’ ‘But I have no weapon.’ ‘You have your hands, your feet, knees, elbows, head. These are all weapons if you care to use them.’ Before Luthar could think of a response, L’Beira charged him again, spear slashing the air. Not sure he was doing the right thing; Luthar dodged sideways, trying to stay too close for the blade to strike. ‘Good, good.’ L’Beira noted, before lashing out with an elbow into Luthar’s chest, knocking him to the ground. ‘You focus too much on the spear, not what I am doing.’ He offered a hand to Luthar and hauled him to his feet. A barefoot boy dressed in tattered clothing approached the fence, watching them both intently. He looked gaunt and starved and his eyes were heavily shadowed. ‘Sir, a message from the games master.’ He held out a scrap of paper to L’Beira over the fence. ‘Thank you boy.’ L’Beira took the paper and nodded to him before fishing in his pocket for a copper piece. He tossed the coin to him and turned back to Luthar. He bit his lip as he read quickly. ‘Good news, you fight tomorrow.’ ‘Tomorrow? But I haven’t even held a spear yet.’ ‘Then we have much work to do this evening.’ Luthar drilled through the afternoon and evening. Finishing only when the sun vanished, leaving the square in darkness. His muscles burned in protest at the ferocity of the work, but he felt glad that L’Beira had not seen fit to kick him into the dirt as Leyton often had. As they headed back inside, L’Beira led Luthar through a stone arch, then a door, and into a private bathhouse. The room was completely made of stone, somewhat darker than the light limestone of the exterior. Torches burned merrily in sconces on the walls, throwing an orange glow over them. A steaming pool of water, at least ten feet at each edge, took up the middle of the floor, with steps leading down into it ahead of them. L’Beira took of his trousers and descended the steps, as naked as the day he was born. Luthar followed suit, the hot water draining the aches from his tired body. The water was not quite clear, a white mist seemed to float under the surface, he scooped a handful out, but could not catch the strange substance. ‘Ocean salts, they’re good for relaxing after a hard day.’ L’Beira’s head bobbed above the surface, the rest of him submerged. ‘I wondered what it was. How do you manage such luxury in a temple of the gods?’ L’Beira laughed, a deep rumbling sound which set his shoulders bouncing up out of the water. ‘It’s funny how people assume a servant of the sun should live in poverty. Our teachings are centred around kindness to others, building friendships and worshipping the giver of life. Nowhere does it state we cannot enjoy this wonderful world which he has created for us.’ Luthar thought he made a valid point. Every religious temple and cathedral in the three kingdoms housed men in simple woollen robes living a life of restraint. Rules stated they could never marry, or drink wine, or even grow their hair. How this could prove they were closer to the gods, he couldn’t fathom. An acolyte opened the door and bowed Lady Akindra into the room, resplendent in a green silken robe. She approached the bath and let the robe slip onto the floor, descending the steps clad in only her skin. Luthar felt the blood in his cheeks rising, he turned his head away until she was just a floating head alongside the two of them. Something stabbed his heart as he thought back to Elisabeth and what she would say if she could see him naked in a bath with her. When she was seated next to L’Beira on the stone ledge that ran around the perimeter of the bath, she engaged him in conversation. Luthar was too busy enjoying the relaxing water to pay any mind to what they were saying. He leaned his head back on the stone rim and closed his eyes, trying to visualise his fighting stances to rid himself of the painful thoughts of Elisabeth. ‘What do you think Luthar?’ L’Beira asked, bringing him back into the room with a jolt. ‘Sorry, I must have dozed off.’ Replied Luthar, slightly embarrassed. ‘I was just telling Lady Akindra that you’re due to fight tomorrow. I’ve got ten of your three kingdoms silver on you to win. You’re going to make me rich; I can feel it!’ ‘I’ve only had a day’s training; how can you be so confident?’ ‘Leyton speaks very highly of you, and he never rates anyone. Plus, you’re a quick learner, you’ve mastered techniques today that it takes some men months to learn. I’ve a good feeling in my belly!’ ‘Some of the gladiators will have been training years, how can I hope to compete with them?’ ‘But you have trained for years with a sword. And if you meet me at first light, you’ll have had another half days training!’ L’Beira laughed again, Luthar couldn’t tell how serious he was. But if more training was on offer, he would have to take it. ‘Don’t worry too much Luthar. The people you’ve fought before have always been many years older and more experienced. Trust your abilities.’ Lady Akindra cut in, her calm, reassuring manner soothed his nerves slightly. ‘Thank you, my lady, it’s just a task I never thought I would have to do.’ ‘The world often has a funny way of testing you.’ She smiled at him, like a mother to a favourite son. ‘Besides, you’ll never know unless you try.’

Per usual, I am listening to Linkin Park. I am listening to their 2003 hit song “Breaking the Habit,” which I initially assumed was about some catharctic break-through yet is apparently about suicide. The theme makes sense in hindsight, considering that lead singer and lyricist Chester Bennington killed himself in 2017. Just like any artist, he wrote about himself, predicted his own grim future in some sort of twisted self-fulfilling prophecy. The wind from the May clouds spews itself into my ears. My left-side earphone falls out. I quickly put it back in- the auditory imbalance always unsettles me- but not before changing the song to something more bland, more happy. I always worry that if I listen to a certain type of music too often, I will subconsciously begin to embody it. I lean against the park lamppost and watch the sun slowly crawl down into the horizon: aware of its own surrender, but shamefully so. I close my eyes; I have never been one for sunsets. The closing of the light seems too philosophical, so that I cannot stop thinking. Suddenly I think I hear my phone alarm go off. I listen closer, trying to discern the authenticity of the sound: my alarm ringtone is the sound of a duck quacking, carefully selected as a joke when I was twelve years old. The quacks remain small, elusive enough to seem both tangible and imagined. If you are just imagining that your alarm is going off, that would be very unfortunate. After a moment’s hesitation, I turn on my home screen; there is no alarm going off. I smile lightly to myself. That is very unfortunate. “Hey!” The noise jars me. I look up from my phone to see my boyfriend, Cole, who I have been waiting for. “Hey.” I smile at him and scrunch my nose against the sunlight, a habit which I know he likes. “Long time no see.” Of course, we saw each other yesterday. Cole likes to think that such statements are charming; I can tell by the self-satisfied glint in his eyes, a small crease in the bottom left corner of his cheek that only emerges when he feels surreptitiously cocky. His joke lacks humor, but I let out a small laugh for his benefit. The crease grows wider. “So, what did you do today?” My question seems like idle small talk to any outsider; but after a good three or four months of being with Cole, I had long ago learned that that was the dynamic of our relationship. “I worked until six-ish, picked up Ellie, ran along the reservoir, you know. The usual.” “You worked until six?” “Yeah. My legs are killing me.” Cole teaches rich elementary school students to play soccer at a family club downtown, which means that his outward patience for spoiled children translates into a good $20 an hour. “That’s really late. But, you know, if you’re exhausted, we can just meet tomorrow.” I start walking towards my house, which is in the opposite direction from his. “No, I still have some energy. For you, at least.” I don’t have to look at Cole to notice the wideness of his crease; likely the size of a small crater, enlarging as he awards himself credit for what he considers romantic. Cole matches my pace evenly and puts an arm around my shoulder, his dark blue sweater grazing the tips of my hair. The weight of his arm is sizable, but not unpleasantly. “So what do you want to eat?” I pause, as if genuinely thinking. Cole always asks me what I want to eat in the context of him being some sort of dignified gentleman, giving up his manly culinary tastes for his picky woman. Either that or he has no distinguishable taste buds, which would make sense given the general basis of his chameleon-like personality. I can’t decide which alternative is worse. “How about just pizza?” “Sounds good.” He strokes my hair gently, smoothing the edges and brushing through the knots. Of course it sounds good. Everything sounds good to you. You have no opinions. Ignoring myself, I think of the appropriate way to reciprocate his intimacy. I mat his hair playfully, letting myself enjoy the softness of his dirty blonde locks. It is moments like these in which I remember why we started going out in the first place. I inhale deeply. “So what about you?” “Uh... What?” The moment now broken, we pause at the sidewalk in unison as we wait for the light to turn green. I wonder what we look like to passersby, if we seem to be one of those couples that move as one. “I mean, how was your day, Spacey?” His notorious crease returns; “spacey” is his nickname for me whenever I daydream, which is admittedly often. “Oh.” I momentarily think of how much information I should disclose to him. “Well, I was on the subway to my painting internship and listening to my music was good. But everyone was so peppy on the first day, and it was way too early for all that smiling small talk. Anyone who actually wants to socialize at 7:00AM is clinically insane.” I wait for a response, but Cole simply walks ahead as the light turns green. My chest slightly constricts, only loosening when I choose to believe that his silence urges me to continue. It is either my fatigue or the three shots of coffee I drank previously, but my openness both terrifies and invigorates me. “Then I went home, and my mom asked me about you and our relationship, I guess because we have nothing else to talk about. Obviously I avoided all of her characteristically invasive questions. I think she noticed, so she left my room kind of abruptly. So I went for a run, and it was great with the trees and my music and everything. But Melanie has been a bit cold to me recently, and I don’t know if it’s all in my head or maybe she’s sick of m- I don’t know.” I stop talking to take a breath. I open my mouth again, having a lot more to say, yet gently close it. The silence looms again, stretching itself wider like some sort of invasive grass. “It’s probably just all in your head.” Cole responds lamely, his words dripping into themselves. “Yeah.” Subconsciously, I find my body inching away from his, the cold of the air seeping into my shoulders in his absence. I hate how my body always resorts to depending on him for heat, as if too indolent to deal with itself. I resist the urge to shiver. “What?” His murky blue eyes slowly turn to face mine, as if reluctant. “Nothing. It’s just, you could give me more of a response. I was pretty... you know, open, just now.” I look down, feeling my cheeks betray my inner self as they tint red. “That’s rare for me.” I ignore the biting edge to my tone, try to dilute it with a gentle fold to my eyes. “Yeah, you were pretty open.” He pauses, pursing perfectly-crafted lips into the quintessential pose of discomfort. “You just have to understand- I’m kind of realizing recently how you’re really moody. Like, you only listen to sad bands with angsty lyrics that you pretend to relate to, or like weird artists who complain about life. And you get annoyed at people easily, but then the next moment you love them. Or you’ll be all mad at the world, but then you’ll do something else and feel all fresh and lively.” “I’m not moody. That’s just... how I’ve always been. I’ve always been defined by my emotions.” I hear my voice as an outsider: soft, as if unwillingly squeezed out from my core like some unwarranted slug. I try to make my last sentence have more conviction, but it only manages to come out more high-pitched. “No, you are moody. You’re all cheery one second, and then the next you’re like going through something.” “I don’t know, life can be tiring.” I smile lightly. I imagine myself drawing furiously in charcoal, as if each jagged black strand is a desperate attempt to infuse humor. “Just be normal. You don’t have to pretend to care about weird things or to feel so intensely all the time.” Cole gently pulls me into his chest, lets his chin rest on the top of my head. He releases me and holds my hand as we turn the block, his grip loose as a stray ribbon. I am grateful that we are not facing each other: my heart beats faster as I try to restrain the tears gathering themselves into a small arsenal inside me, ready to attack Cole with what a part of me knows is well-deserved guilt. But another part of me- the larger, more prominent one- claims that this guilt is unnecessary. For better or for worse, Cole is one of the few to have truly gotten to know me well, and must be given some sort of objective credibility. “Yeah, you’re right,” I whisper. I imagine a thin gray wall separating myself from my emotions, and the wounded sizzling in my chest begins to subside. My mother’s words echo in my head: You want a boy like Cole, someone who is stable, that is what’s good for you . I lightly brush my fingers over Cole’s as we head into our usual spot, which is a pizza restaurant owned by Italian immigrants. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom, order for me?” “Sure.” Cole smiles at me; it culminates in his eyes in a playful twinkle, so that I cannot resist smiling back. “One spinach, one mushroom, right?” “You know me well.” Turning my head before I can see his reaction, I briskly walk to the bathroom. The click of the lock immediately calms me, a physical iteration of having temporarily separated myself from external reality. I stare at myself in the mirror. I adjust my hot-pink bra to show a bit more cleavage, and pull up my denim pants to cover more of my lower stomach. I take my pointer finger and brush it under my eyelashes to have the pseudo effect of mascara, and do the same for my eyebrows. After fixing a few frizzes on the top of my head, muttering about the hairy halo I was apparently sentenced to, I apply a tad of dark pink lip gloss. Finally I observe the one part of myself that I have been avoiding: my eyes. Of course, my glassy gray eyes are irritatingly expressive, reflecting my every emotion like the most disloyal of rivers. As if observing a different self, I have seen my eyes at various lights and colors. Presently they are vacant, rows of willow trees reflecting a dead sort of nothing. I look down at the sink and slowly close the faucet. The paper towel ingraining itself into my hands feels like a grainy push from reality, and I practice a frozen half-smile in the mirror. My eyes now look poised, crafted to the very cusp of perfection. They irrefutably belong to someone who is simple to understand, who is as grounded as the most gentle kind of breeze. This girl is who you are, I tell myself. Her, and only her. I walk out of the bathroom and check the time: 7:36PM, which means that I have time to eat with Cole and then study for my chemistry test tomorrow. I turn my phone off and put it into my back pocket. My chest feels lighter, stronger, as if I painted it in some sort of golden lining. “Hey, I’m here!” I see Cole in the far-right corner of the restaurant, his three plain margherita slices already in front of him. My order is more detailed, so it always takes longer to come. That other girl within me notices the indicative symbolism behind our orders, and demands I leave the restaurant. I smile and hug Cole from behind, my arms gently wrapping around his neck and chest. I take my phone out of my jeans pocket. “The picture will just be for me,” I tell him shyly. “But I have longer arms.” Cole takes my phone and lifts it high upwards, an angle which he knows I prefer. After he takes the photo, I sit down and move my chair closer to his. Cole shows me the picture. Per usual, his smile is wide and natural, accompanied by creased eyes that have an easy mirth within them. I look like a robot next to him, haunted by a characteristic frozen half-smile that makes me appear unsettled by the camera. I stare at Cole across the table and feel a slight jab in my chest. His mind is effortlessly arcadian, without question, without thought: an open plain, mostly grassy with a few dandelions wedged here and there. In my head, I see him as a surfer, gliding endlessly into the sunset as if the very meaning of life is some joyride. “What?” Thankfully, Cole is at least occasionally able to pick up my social clues. “Nothing. Just hungry.” I tousle his hair and take a bite of my pizza. I chew slowly, as if the rate of my chewing will hopefully transcend into the rate of my thoughts. In response, Cole places a lock of my hair behind my ear. I force myself to smile at him. In such a public sphere, we easily look like we are in love; the whole restaurant takes notice of us, desperately eager to observe and inhale our youthful vigor for themselves. Their attenuated yearning reeks in the air like tobacco. I recognize it like an aged friend, because I recognize it in myself.

“You know what really boggles my mind?” “What’s that?” “The concept of this whole “beginning and ending” thing.” “What do you mean?” “What I mean is that the concept of beginnings and endings are all relative and when you really think about it, don’t stand up to reason.” “Ok.” “For example, let’s take Little Red Riding Hood. The story begins with Little Red Riding Hood being told to stay on the path and don’t stray, and ends with the wolf plan’s being foiled. Yet, what led us to that point? What came after?” “I guess another story?” “Exactly! Little Red Riding Hood lived a life before the famous story, and, hopefully, long after. These concepts of start and finish are bookmarks we have artificially created to tell a specific tale.” “All that seems like common sense though? Of course there is a start and finish. Things begin and then things end. Everyone knows that.” “Of course they do, it’s easy to apply those labels to a story that is broken down for you by the bindings of some hardcover or the tolerance of some bard. What I’m really trying to get at is the concept of life and death and our perception of loss and sorrow.” “John...I’m not ready to talk about this.” “Sam...It’s been three long years and I can count the amount of times I’ve seen you in that time on one hand. You are my brother and my best friend. I won’t give up on you and I want to help you.” “I’ve tried. I’ve done all I can and nothing will ease the pain. I’ve seen psychiatrists, talked to our family, and so much more and I keep getting taken back to that one moment...” “Sam. That’s the problem.” “Excuse me?” “You are trying to forget and move on. However, there is no way you will ever recover from the love of your life passing away.” “Are you fucking kidding me? What kind of game are you playing!?” “No game. All I’m trying to do is...” “I don’t need this shit. Fuck you and Fuck this. I’m out of here.” - What fucking nerve? Are you kidding me? Who does John think he is coming in here and talking to me about Little Red Riding Hood and wanting to make my life better? What has he ever lost in his life? How much pain could be earned from living off our parent’s money and smoking the days away? God Damnit. I’ve been doing so well too. - I leave the café and begin walking the same walk Claire and I used to walk before...well... Before... For the first time in...I can’t even remember...I think about before the accident. Before the phone call at 4:23am. Before all the sirens and questioning looks and the flat line of my wife’s now still heart. I see her face. I see her smiling beautiful face with her eyes that are slightly offset. I see her infamous top bun that she was so damn proud of. I look back to our engagement, the moment I knew my life was complete. I begin to look beyond the circumstances that shattered my very existence and begin to see the larger story. Damn, John, how did you do that? I was too blinded by rage to see what he was getting at. Life isn’t defined by a single story but an entire library. For these past three years, I’ve been reading the same book over and over again and have been missing out on all this world has to offer. I know what I need to do now. - “John?” “Hey Sam.” “I want to apologize for before. I was completely out of line and couldn’t see that you were just trying to help me.” “You have nothing to apologize for. I just care so much about you and hate seeing you like this. I’m just trying any and every angle I can.” “Our lives were so amazing together and there are so many incredible moments that will last with me forever. My life isn’t defined by her death, it’s just one story. It doesn’t end here.” “Exactly.” “All I’ve been seeing is her dying over and over again. It’s not a way to live. I’ve always assumed that was the end of her, but the truth is that she is always with me. From a walk we used to take in the park, to the dairy aisle where she was the sole suspect in the murder of 30-some milk jugs, her memories transcend her...her...” “They transcend all of us. Claire is not gone, she is all around us. Though we see death as an end, it is only another point in this crazy journey we are all taking. One that never truly ends. These stories of our lives are what WE make of them. They are not defined by simple boundaries but by ourselves. That’s all I was trying to get you to see. She may have passed on, but she is never gone, and her story never ends.” - I look at him in silence, fully grasping what his words mean. Her story is now my story. While her body couldn’t withstand the stress of a drugged out teenager behind a wheel, her soul always will. Her beautiful soul touched so many in this world and we all will take the torch to keep her fire alive. I will never move on from this or forget about her. She is, and forever will be, everything that I am and strive to be. She is my inspiration and the reason I wake every morning. There is no reason that should have ever changed. We are conditioned to believe that everything must start and stop, live and die, begin and end, but the truth is a much more wonderful thing. Time is relative and the constraints we place on ourselves arbitrary. We are the masters of our tale, and Claire, for me, the words.

It started when my friend said he’s never seen Star Wars and never will. I thought that was really funny. I realized I wanted to boycott something too. You know, people try to do a lot. They try to fit everything into their life. So it's a nice change to not do something. The fun is in not breaking the boycott. You know people break promises all the time. They get bored. Every day the boycott goes on the more fun it is. I decided to boycott the movies all together. It was an easy choice. The last time I went to the movies the person next to me took a call. He told the person on the line that he was at the theatre, like he hoped the other person would understand and hang up. The person didn't understand and they had a whole conversation next to me. It made me sad. They talked about their friends. There are techniques for boycotting: - You can replace the thing. I started gardening while my girlfriend told me about drama with her friends from her lawn chair. I imagined the flowers are the characters in her stories. This lilac doesn't understand that lily. It's like a movie but much healthier. - You can pretend you don't know what the thing is. Whenever people asked me to go to the movies I made them explain the whole thing. What is a theater? Is it hard to get tickets? Do they lock the doors, or can I get out if there's an emergency? My friends stopped asking me to go to the movies. - You can journal about it. It's good to be honest with yourself about how you're feeling. Sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night and imagine a huge screen above me, playing a Hallmark Christmas movie. The only solution was to journal about it. Nobody took it seriously when it was just two weeks. Of course not. But after a year, my girlfriend would bring it up to people. I think she was proud of me. They'd look at me across the room (she later told me) and say "Is that so? Why, I'd love to not do something." The first person to join me was her sister. She was over for tea and told us she was boycotting dating men. She looked apologetically at me when she said it but I was so happy. I said "It's very good for us to be able to say no, to anything at all!". That made her smile. After that she came over more often and we'd not do things together. I wouldn't watch a movie while she wouldn't date a man. It was nice. We finally had something in common. I told her my techniques. She told me she had one where she pretended she wasn't good enough to date a man yet, it would take many lifetimes of self-improvement to someday deserve to date a man. I like that one. It spread kind of quickly after that. Her friends got in on it. One boycotted doing dishes and bought a decade's supply of plastic plates and cups. One boycotted tea. "Every time I try it I'm disappointed. I'm done," she said. One boycotted swearing. "Years from now, I'm going to break the boycott and it's going to hit so _frickin_ hard," he said. The thing is, he still hasn't broken it. I don't know anybody who has. We'd have these parties where we'd all not do things together. The nights always started giggly. We felt so rebellious. But by the end, we'd feel a profound bond between us. Between people who can say no. I guess we felt a little superior, together, to all the people who couldn't say no to things. We knew when we said something, we meant it. It was a little sad when the night would end. Knowing we returned to the world of yes. The first time I heard about a stranger doing it, it was online. It was a chess player. He said he was boycotting rewatching his matches. It made him really unhappy, to be confronted by the mistakes he had made. His coach made him do it, but it didn't make him better at chess, it made him worse at waking up in the morning. That was what he said to all these reporters. While they were asking all their silly questions, he recommended everybody boycott something. Later he credited me, but I didn't mind waiting. The important thing is that it started to spread very fast then. This one CEO boycotted remembering his passwords. His assistant entered them for him. My favourite teacher from university boycotted seeing her students. When her school said they were done working remotely, that she couldn't keep playing this game, she just quit. She got lots of support from all of us. We talked online or at our parties. Online was good for the people boycotting parties, the parties were good for people boycotting the internet. The government began to make allowances for us. They had to, we were becoming a sizable voting block. Eventually you'd register your boycott with them so they could keep track. Many people boycotted things like doing taxes or voting, but other people wanted to save their boycott for something more personal, more intimate. This one opinion writer said he was going to boycott boycotts. Everybody felt really sorry for him. Around this time I was facing a lot of stress in my life. The only person I knew who wasn't boycotting was my girlfriend. It made me embarrassed. I wanted to ask what was going on, but because she wasn't one of us, it wasn't easy to talk to her anymore. It was kind of a paradox. I still loved her, but if I tried to think about how I loved her, I got distracted. I also felt this keen sense that something was missing. Or like, it wasn't enough. Life was, of course, ten times better from before, a hundred times. But it didn't feel as good as it did in the beginning. My girlfriend came to me one night like a swan over a lake. She told me she'd been thinking about it for a long time. She'd been confused. She hadn't known what she thought. But now she knew and she was ready to tell me. I held my breath. Then she told me she wanted to boycott being in love. I felt many things. This is hard for me, because I like feeling one thing at a time. But in that moment I couldn't even count my emotions. I was happy. I knew that. She was finally joining us. I was sad. For it was at my loss. I was angry. Because the next thing she said was that we could still sleep together and be best friends. That made me feel like she wasn't serious about the boycott, like it might end in a year or two. I told her I didn't want to play a part in her skirting the line. She cried and admitted she had been ignoring my values. We hugged, and she left, and my anger dissolved like snow in warm water. Soon things got kind of interesting for us because one woman boycotted eating and she died. Some people wanted the government to crack down on us. That was tricky though, because those people were a dwindling minority by then. You have to understand, you can win if you aren't in the majority, but only if you're more passionate than the majority. And besides, the prime minister had declared he was boycotting caring about how the voters felt, so that sealed the deal. We don't have term limits here, so we've sent him to office ever since. It was maybe a decade after I started it all and the gnawing feeling still remained. Something was missing. I hadn't been going to the movies for four thousand days. It was as easy as not going to Pluto. I'd talked to others, and they agreed, but they couldn't figure it out either. It was like something you can only see out of the corner of your eye. Then one night, I was at a party. With some of the old crew, my closest friends. The moon looked very close to the world and yellow, a trick of the light. Maybe that helped. It happened mid-sentence. I was explaining how it all started to somebody quite young, just out of high school. They looked awe-struck when I told them my techniques. There are very advanced techniques now, but you can go a long way with just the basics. I began to talk wistfully about that gnawing feeling, when my ex walked in the door. She looked a little lonely, but in a happy way, like a friend who visits for a long time but can leave very easily. It made me miss her terribly. It made me wish I hadn't boycotted movies, wish that I had boycotted dating instead. But then, I didn't just wish it, I said it. And I didn't say "instead", I said "I'm going to boycott dating _too_". This caused a tremendous uproar. Nobody had really thought of boycotting more than one thing before. You had your boycott and that was that. Maybe you'd support your friend for a bit (many's the night I've refused tea, alongside my dear friend), but that was it. Yet here I was. Boycotting two things. I don't know if somebody else could have come up with it. People might not have taken it seriously. But because I started the whole thing, people gave it an honest chance. And then the floodgates opened. You could boycott any number of things. Within a week I was boycotting movies, dating, seafood, lego, and websites with pop-ups. It made me feel like a complete person. It's a narrow personality who can only refuse one thing. It has been many years now. I boycott dozens of things. The latest is toasters and toast. One food shouldn't get its own whole appliance. I've lived a good life. I have a lovely wife. We were only friends for a few weeks. She always knew I was boycotting dating. She treated it with the utmost respect. She didn't seem surprised when I asked her to marry me. She boycotts much more than me, because younger people just seem to boycott more. My favorite of hers is sweaters. She hasn't worn a sweater in over twenty years. Says layers are for beds. I like to think that when I boycott life (in a decade or so?) I'll have left the world in a better way. A more thoughtful way. With people living lives of integrity and intention. Some of the kids these days boycott more than they don't. With what's left they take great joy. That's the funny thing about it. I got a letter from my friend the other day. The one who boycotts Star Wars. The letter was necessary because he boycotts emails now. But he sent it from the first trip to Mars. Somehow he reached the stars. Is it in spite of his Star Wars boycott? Is it because of it? Who knows. You don't ask these things. You just sit around and, with great pleasure, plan what you won't do tomorrow.

_*The "Switch"*_ I lied down to sleep. Tomorrow was my school play, but I was not at all excited. The unfortunate day came in my memory as I closed my eyes. It was the worst day of my life. Nothing sadder can happen than what had on that evening. On that evening, my twin brother had been dragged away to death. It hurts me as I think about it. I wish I had been able to save him, even if that meant I had to sacrifice my life. Next morning, I awoke to the call of nature. I heard the chirping of birds, the warm sunlight that entered through the gap between the curtains. I got off the bed. Everything seemed a little higher that usual. The table, window came up to my shoulders. Or was it that I had shrinked? "What time is it? Don't wake me up so early..." I spun around. Sleeping on the bed was my brother, William. He was just like I remebered. But how was he alive? I looked at the clock. I was deceived by my own eyes! The date it showed was 2 December, 2014; five years back! How was that possible? Then I realised. I was really in the past. And this was the day of our school trip to a zoo. I might be able to change the past and save my brother! I quickly packed my things, without forgetting "it". I was ready. Ready to save William. The school bus came to pick us up. After a while, we were at the zoo. It was just like I remembered. First, the monkeys, then the giraffes. After that were there reptiles -alligators and crocodiles. And finally- The Tiger. It was the cage, I remembered. The cage had a broken part due to rains and heat. And the Tiger had taken advantage of this opportunity to escape. Finally, the Tiger had got freedom. Freedom to kill. It was on the loose and our group was not aware of it. But I was. I told them, "Hey guys, the Tiger in the cage is out! We should go somewhere safe." Of course no one believed me. Then the announcement came: "Dear tourists, please exit the zoo immediately. The Tiger is on the run." Everyone started running helter skelter. We began to run in the other direction of the cage. My brother was in the front. That's when the Tiger came out of nowhere, right in front of William. All of our group started backing away, slowly. But I wanted to save him. William was trying to act ferocious, barring his mouth and growling. I got into action. I opened my backpack. I pulled out the expandable metal rod. I banged it against the ground and advanced. The Tiger looked at me. He growled and put a paw ahead. I got in front of William. I whispered, "I got this brother. Now, without showing your back to the Tiger, back down slowly." I hardly thought he would listen. He was too scared for that. But he managed to keep the Tiger in front and descend... I waved the rod above my head, while shouting at the Tiger. He looked at William, and growled loudly. That was it. Williams's could only hold on his own so long, and he began to run. The Tiger started to chase after him, completely overlooking me. This was my chance. I took the stance. I held the rod steady. The Tiger came running past my right. I swung the rod hard, like a baseball bat. It hit the legs of him, knocking him off. The Tiger stumbled to the ground, unable to get up. Then I backed away. The zoo officials and the security men came up shortly after that. They thanked me, and took away the Tiger. But I had not anticipated what could happen at that exact same time. * • *The Future* I woke up to the sound of cars and trucks. I was very much surprised and wondered how can there be so much traffic in the morning. I got up, and again to my astonishment William was out of the bed! He is such a sleepy head and he had wound up the bed and who knows where he was. So I too began to get ready for school. Mom was there in the kitchen. "Early today?" She asked. "What? Is there not school today?" "Hey have you forgotten? Today is your school festival and you are in the play?" What!? I didn't remember anything like that. I checked the clock. It showed: 2 December 2019. Five years ahead. This was not possible. Moreover there was this play mom was talking about. "...and then don't bend too much, it would look funny..." While she babbled away, I slipped out in the drawing room, snatching a newspaper. No way I had come give years in the future. This must be a bad dream . . .a bad dream . . . No luck. There was no luck in waking up, if at all this was a dream. Well, I decided I had to play along. See if things take a sudden turn . . . *** "Hey, why are you so sad today?" I looked to my right. Lucy was sitting there on the bench. "I . . .I just . . .am feeling a little weird," I stammered, not being able to say anything else. I had gone to school half an hour before our given time. I clutched the script in my right hand. The play was starting in an hour and a half, and I had barely read the first page, let alone learn my dialogues. I was just praying that someone, or something will take me back to my time. Lucy grabbed my hand and unfurled the script. "Oh I know you're nervous," she said, "but that's okay. It's your first time anyway. Let us rehearse the script. You are the Prince, and I am," she paused, supposedly looking for a good role she could pick up. She was not in the play, while I was. "Yes, I will be Hera." I turned and grabbed the script from her hands so fast that the girl yelped. "What? Hera?" I said, while reading the paper in my hands. I didn't know anything about the play. Hera was a Greek goddess, and I was pretty sure she was the Queen of all Gods. I read the script so quick that Lucy was surprised. "I didn't know you could read that fast." I just shook my head. It was such a stupid play, it wasn't even worth telling anyone. And on top of that, Lucy followed me everywhere like a dog. It was time to ditch her. She was getting on my nerves anyway. I told her to follow me. There was this scene that Hera suddenly appears in a closet beside me. So I took her to the staff room to rehearse. "Now you step into the closet here." I directed her. "Okay," she said, stepping in. "Ready?" "Ready," I affirmed. And slammed the closet door in her face. And turned the key in the lock.

I was five months old when I first met Death. I was in a stroller, kicking my little legs around while my mom pushed me along the sidewalk. I had a teething toy grasped in my chubby fingers, and I was gnawing on it, getting saliva all over my skirt. Then my mom gasped. I turned my head to the street, and lying right in the middle of the asphalt was a cat, limp and unmoving. Death was hovering over it, a figure shrouded in dark mist. He lifted his head, and although Death had no eyes, I knew he was looking right at me. My mom whispered “poor thing” and kept walking. I looked away, still chewing on my toy. \# The second time I met Death, I was six years old, and my grandfather was in the hospital. My mom was sitting next to his bed, clutching his hand with tears in her eyes. The white fluorescent lights were too bright for the occasion, and I was almost relieved when Death arrived. The darkness cooled my vision, providing a respite from the sadness and grief. We looked at each other, and I felt a comforting touch on my shoulder before he disappeared. \# I saw Death more often after that. He would come to me whenever I felt down, always seeming to know exactly when I needed him. We wouldn’t talk, but he was a reassuring presence at my side, a reminder that I would always have a friend with me, no matter what happened. When my best friend moved away, leaving me with empty spaces and a lonely spirit, Death was there. When my first girlfriend dumped me for a guy, telling me that I was just an experiment and coloring my heart blue, Death was there. When I was stressed about college applications, pulling at my hair and chewing my nails into blunt stubs, Death was there. He was a storm, taking away lives and leaving destruction in his wake, but the winds and rain would cover up my damaged pieces, leaving me impossibly warm and giving me an excuse to keep going. We didn’t have a lot in common, but we managed to form an indestructible bond. \# When I first met Olivia, I was twenty. We were in the same college lecture, seated two spaces away from each other and dozing off in our chairs. When the professor called us out, worried about our wellbeing, we looked at each other and chuckled, mirth dancing in our eyes. She pulled me aside after the lecture, and we went out in search of warm drinks, snowflakes decorating our coats and biting winds pulling color from our cheeks. She ordered a hot chocolate and I ordered a black coffee, and we got to know each other amongst soft jazz music and twinkling lights. And from then on, we were inseparable. \# There were some things about Olivia I would never understand. The way she would leave the toothpaste tube open after brushing her teeth. Her confrontational nature. Her hatred of fish. How she didn’t care about anyone’s opinion. How she wanted to travel the world. We were opposites in every way, but somehow, even after all these years, we just clicked. She was a force to be reckoned with, and I loved her all the more for it. Nothing would stand in her way. Not even Death. But Death was always there. He reminded you that you’d never be alone, that you’d always have him, even in your darkest moments. \# I was forty years old when I saw Olivia for the last time. We had had twenty years together, twenty wonderful years, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. We were in the hospital, and the fluorescent lights burned my retinas, the memory of white sheets and tear-filled eyes replaying in my head. I knew how it ended, with dark mists and cold bodies, and I wished I didn’t. Death was by the wall, lingering in the corners of my vision. Olivia’s fingers clutched mine, and she was so beautiful I found myself grateful for one last moment with her. Because although she was gone, Death would always be there, a comfort, a reassurance. A promise.

The rain fell through the night like bullets. John was speeding down the road of the rural countryside in his truck. Even with his windshield wipers on the fastest setting, he could barely see 5 feet ahead. Luckily, he had traveled up and down this road for many decades, so he wasn’t too worried about his lack of visibility. John was still annoyed with the rain, though. He had hoped to get out before it started pouring, but had been unsuccessful. His clothes were still wet. John was aware of the fact that he was almost out of gas, but because he knew the area, wasn’t worried. There was a gas station up ahead, he knew. He considered getting some food, but doubted his ability to eat and drive in the extreme rain. This rain was extreme. The weather had been hot the rest of the week, so the air was sickeningly humid. Luckily, John reached the small gas station before he ran out of gas. He mentally prepared himself to step out into the weather. The humidity, combined with the rain, made John feel like he was standing under water. He quickly filled his car with gas, and decided he would treat himself with something to eat, as well as try to wait out the rain. He sprinted into the gas station, and stepped through the automatic doors, soaking wet. If it weren’t for the rain, the emptiness of the gas station would have surprised him. As John walked in, the cashier’s eyes followed him. He browsed through the limited selection of snacks as the cashier silently stared at him. John settled on a nice bag of chips, and went to grab a drink from the refrigerators in the back of the gas station. He returned to the register with his snack and his drink, and noticed that the cashier was gone. John assumed that he must have gone to the bathroom. Five minutes passed, but the cashier didn’t return. John suddenly remembered that this gas station didn’t have a bathroom. Where was the cashier? John decided to continue waiting; maybe if he waited long enough, it would stop raining. After another couple of minutes or so, John decided to just put some money on the counter and leave. Just as he was retrieving money from his pocket, though, he heard a noise. It sounded like a voice. It had come from outside. John didn’t make out what the voice had said. He was surprised he even heard it at all through the rain. John, now sure that the cashier was outside, figured he would go tell him he was ready to pay. John stepped out into the rainstorm. Looking around, he did not see the cashier. Not wanting to get too wet, he stepped back inside. John heard the voice again. It had definitely come from outside. This time, John made out some of what the voice had said. John was certain he had heard “Are you... “ but didn’t quite catch the rest. Realising that this was a waste of time, John placed some money on the counter, grabbed his food, and sprinted through the rain back to his truck. As he started to drive away, he spotted the cashier in his rear view mirror, standing by the door of the gas station. John hoped that the cashier would notice the money on the counter, and drove back into the night. John opened his bag of chips and ate a handful of them. As he reached for a second handful, the bag tipped over and spilled onto the floor of his car. John checked that the road was clear before bending down and scooping some of the chips up. As he popped his head back up, he caught what looked like a hitchhiker on the side of the road out of the corner of his eye. John felt badly for him, standing out in the rain, but didn’t feel like driving back to let a wet stranger into his car. John continued on his journey. Through the heavy rain and the fog, John saw what he thought was another hitchhiker on the opposite side of the road. It was weird that there would be two different people hitchhiking so close together. He sped past, and noticed that the person did not have their thumb out. Now John was really confused. Why would two different people be standing on the side of the road, out in the pouring rain? More alert, John kept his eyes on the treeline. He was fearful he would see a third person standing on the side of the road. Seconds after thinking this, John, indeed, spotted a third person standing on the side of the road. He got a clearer look at the person this time. The person looked like the cashier from the gas station. That was impossible. Lost in thought and fear, John barely noticed that he drove past a fourth person standing on the side of the road. John was shocked. All of the people he had driven past looked exactly the same. Speeding up, he wasn’t sure what was going on, and just wanted to get home. John heard a voice. Through the sound of the car and the pouring rain, John heard a voice. It was the same voice he had heard back at the gas station. It said the same thing it had said at the gas station, too. John heard the voice more clearly this time. “Are you ok...” and then it was unintelligible. John was now terrified. Where did the voice come from? It sounded muffled, like it had come from outside his car, but he was speeding down the road. How could he have heard it? John passed two more people who looked like the cashier. John tried to ignore them. His heart was pounding. John was driving the fastest he had ever driven before. The rain now hit his windshield horizontally. He was full of adrenaline, and question after question raced through his mind. Who were these people? Why did they all look the same? Why were they standing in the rain in the middle of the night? Why hadn’t he passed any other cars? Thunder boomed as John raced around a tight bend in the road. The rain had made the road slick, and John started to lose control of his truck. He flew off the side of the road, and crashed into a tree. John awoke, unaware of how long he had been unconscious. It was raining harder than ever. His head throbbed with pain as he looked out his truck’s window. Twenty feet down the road stood the cashier from the gas station. John had had enough. John opened the glove compartment of his truck in search of his revolver. His vision was blurry from the crash. Keeping his eyes on the man down the road, he rummaged through the glove compartment, pulling things out as he searched for his weapon. He pulled a handful of old napkins, a candy wrapper, and a bottle of pills out of the glove compartment. John panicked. He couldn’t find his revolver, and he didn’t think an old Kit-Kat wrapper or medication would help him protect himself. John stepped out of his truck. As soon as he stood up, he became dizzy, and had to sit back down. The pain in his head was growing sharper and sharper. He staggered towards the man. The man kept staring. Slowly, John made his way to the staring man, yelled at him, asked him why he was following him. John shouted at the man, but the man remained silent. As John got closer, he realized that the man was smiling at him. Smiling, and standing completely still. John continued to scream at the man as he stepped closer and closer. The pain in John’s head was almost blinding. John slipped on the slick pavement, and fell to his knees. He looked up at the man. The man was still there. Still smiling. John got to his feet, and as he did, lightning struck. The lightning illuminated the whole forest and for a split second, John had a perfect view of the man who had been stalking him. The man was wearing a suit. He was standing in an odd pose. His arms were crossed. He had no legs. He was flat with an unchanging expression. There was something next to him. Letters were next to him. Words seemingly floating in the air. They read: Vote for Steven Erikson for Mayor! John’s vision started to fade. John collapsed to the ground, and called out for help. The campaign sign did not respond, just continued to stare, continued to smile. John looked up into the rain, and everything turned white.

As I walked through a pile of rotting bodies soaked in blood, I tightened my grip on my assault rifle with my finger on the trigger. I hated the smell of gunpowder but at least it covered the foul smell of allies and enemies alike--even just a little bit. The silence was deafening as well. I only heard sounds of my empty canteen every time I took a step and it almost drove me crazy. I wondered if this is what hell looks like and I’m seeing it with my own eyes. Being by myself also does not help at all. I was sent alone to accomplish an impossible task assigned to me by my superiors. Just 3 days ago, our camp received a message that a 10-year-old boy was trapped inside a building behind enemy lines. Apparently, this boy was the one who sent the message and was asking for help--there was even a description of what he looked like. No one knew if this was a trap but they immediately called me and told me to rescue the boy--no matter how suspicious the message was. But being the youngest in our camp, I had no choice but to obey them. Otherwise, I'd dishonor my country. Now, after three days of endless walking--with no food or water--I started losing hope. But I kept thinking to myself that I’m fulfilling my duty for my own country. If I were to give up now, I'd never be able to forgive myself if there were actually a boy crying for me to bring him back home. I bellowed to psych myself up and continued on my journey towards certain death. Just a few hours later, I finally reached the building and I fell to my knees in utter disbelief. However, there were a huge number of enemy soldiers around the building--come to think of it, there was an enemy camp nearby. I needed to find a way past them to enter the building--so I took the clothes of a nearby enemy soldier and wore them. There were a few holes on it and I just hoped that none of them would notice. I checked the pockets for anything useful for the mission only to find a bloodstained photo of him together with his wife and children. I had second thoughts and paused for a moment. However, I had to finish my mission--no matter what. I managed to sneak my way in but there were also a few soldiers inside. I tried looking for the boy without making any noise but I accidentally stepped on some shattered glass that caught the attention of the officer close to me. He asked me something and I just nodded my head--I didn’t speak their language. He was clearly confused and asked me the question once again. I panicked and answered in English without thinking. He looked even more confused and he eventually noticed the bullet holes. He realized what was up and was about to draw his pistol but I shot him without hesitation--I had my rifle in my hand after all. Blood splattered all over my face and I took his pistol just in case. I knew everyone in the building heard that--so I flipped a table and took cover behind it. I waited for them to get near and there were about four of them. While they were checking the body, I caught them off guard and unloaded all the ammunition of my rifle--it became obvious they were inexperienced like me. Their bodies fell one after another. I mercilessly fired at every single one of them--there was no denying that. My whole body was shaking uncontrollably but I had no time for that--the soldiers outside were rushing inside. But one person was still alive and my arm got hit. My rifle had no bullets left and luckily, I just grabbed a pistol from the officer earlier and I shot him in the head to finish the job. I went upstairs and used a bunch of grenades to destroy the staircase so I could buy myself some time. When I passed a room along the hallway, someone inside that room threw a flashbang and managed to blind me for a few seconds. During that time, the guy was continuously firing at me but he seemed to be completely missing--maybe he was affected by the flashbang as well. But he eventually hit both of my legs and I dropped hard to the ground. I was forced to blindly fire. After using all my remaining ammo, the bullets stopped coming at me. When my vision came back, I wanted to check if he was actually dead and not repeat what happened earlier. But there was blood all over my eyes and it was also painful for me to walk--so I crawled using my one good arm all the way to him. When I was near enough, I realized that he was just a kid. I was furious at the enemy for using a child to fight for their cause. But when I had a clear look on his face, my breath stopped and felt like my soul just left my body. He was the boy I was supposed to rescue with dead open eyes. I glanced around and it looked like he was just protecting himself from the enemy soldiers. I was wearing their uniform and looked like one--it was not his fault at the slightest. I banged my head repeatedly on the floor and screamed with rage at the top of my lungs. But just like the boy’s life, my screams were cut short when I heard missiles exploding outside. When one was about to hit the building I was in, I remembered that the enemy did not have any missiles at all.

# The Depth of Flesh By Chandler Morrison ​ You’re supposed to smile. You know this, but you can’t. You can’t smile. Even as you look out at the cheering mass of your classmates, you just can’t smile. You’re drowning in the applause. When you’re presented with the shimmering crown and the long silver scepter, you’re not breathing. You wonder if your face is turning blue. You wonder if it’s a shade that will clash badly with your dress. The boy next to you, the boy you hate...*he’s* smiling. His face, sculpted so expertly in its angles and lines, is swallowed up by his grin. His teeth are like milk sugar, his lips like strawberry lemonade. Applause, so much applause, coated and peppered with smiles and cheers. You force yourself to breathe. Your breath comes out in a harsh wheeze that’s mercifully drowned out by the clamorous cacophony. You try to smile. You fail. You try to wave, but you fail at that, too. You can’t move. You don’t want to be here. You never wanted any of this. Earlier this evening, you stood before the mirror, and it told you that you are the fairest of all. It was telling the truth. You know this, and you hate it. You hate the mirror for saying it. You hate it because it’s true. As you curled your hair and painted rouge your pursed lips, you knew what was going to happen. They would announce your names, and April Diver and Jake Barnaby would take the stage. You knew he would smile. You knew you wouldn’t. You wanted to cry, so you took a Valium because you didn’t want to ruin your makeup. You went downstairs and sat on the couch, taking care not to wrinkle your dress. You lit a cigarette, and the whisper of your exhalation was the only sound in the house. No one, save for the mirror, was there to tell you how pretty you looked. No one was there to see you off. Your mother wasn’t there to blot her teary eyes and say that she can’t believe you’re all grown up. Your father wasn’t there to hug you and kiss your forehead with lips parted in a melancholic smile. Your brother wasn’t there to make an amicably sarcastic remark. No one was there. No one ever is. You are alone. No matter where you are, no matter who’s present or who isn’t, you are shackled to solitude. Jake arrived in his shining silver Mercedes. You jumped at the sound of the doorbell, and then crushed your cigarette out in the heart-shaped ashtray on the coffee table. Your hand was shaking. You did not want to do this, but free will is a lie. When you opened the door, he leaned in to kiss you, but you tilted your head to prevent your lips from locking. His mouth lightly brushed your cheek. “I forgot the corsage,” he’d said, looking down at his gleaming shoes. “I knew that you would.” You raised your hand to show him the flower on your wrist. It was black. It was dead. You hadn’t refrigerated it, and you lied to yourself and pretended it was by accident. He opened the car door for you, and you hated him for it. You wished he wouldn’t do things like that. You wished he wouldn’t do anything at all. You drove in silence. No conversation, no music. You knew he wanted to say something, say anything, but he knew better. His one saving grace. He always knew better. You were swarmed with compliments upon your arrival. All of the girls clustered around you like head lice. They said all of the things they were supposed to say. No one commented on the dead flower. All of the boys averted their eyes because they knew they weren’t supposed to look. Inside, you drank the obligatory punch. Danced the obligatory dances. The Valium made everything hazy enough for you to do all of this without having to think too much about how horrible it was. And then, of course, the announcement. And here you are. Platinum crown upon your platinum hair. Scepter in your limp hand. The applause is apocalyptic. When it’s finally over, you stand smoking in the parking lot, leaning against Jake’s car and staring forlornly at the starless sky. You wish the blackness would swoop down and smother you in its nothingness. You look around at all of the laughing young couples sweeping the parking lot, clambering into cars that will take them to beer-soaked parties or latex-reeking bedrooms or, hopefully, deadly drunken crashes. You wonder how close you are to what *they* are. You want to think you’re different, but you can’t deny the fact that you’re all marching to the slow, ominous beat of the death drums. Drums that signify an end that just won’t come soon enough. Jake appears from somewhere, and with his goofy smile he says, “I’ve been looking for you.” You drop the cigarette and crush it under the long, pointed heel of your sparkly white shoe. “I have, too,” you say. He looks at you quizzically. “Huh?” “Nothing.” He drives you home. The silence is the same. When he pulls into your driveway, he kills the ignition and looks at you imploringly. Now, the world tells you that you have a choice at this moment. The world tells you that you can thank him for a good time, get out of the car, and walk alone into the empty house. The world tells you that, as a free and independent woman, you don’t have to do anything more than that. And maybe the world is right. Maybe you don’t. But none of that matters. It doesn’t matter that you invite him inside. It doesn’t matter that you lead him upstairs to your bedroom. It doesn’t matter that you undress yourselves in awkward silence. It doesn’t matter that he watches you as you do, but you look distractedly out the window. It doesn’t matter that you don’t feel anything when he enters you, because you can’t feel anything at all. It doesn’t matter that he drenches you with his sweat. It doesn’t matter that you have to pretend like you’re enjoying it, even though the world tells you with reassurances and hashtags that you don’t have to do that, either. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t know that you’re faking. It also doesn’t matter that he’s not wearing a condom, nor does it matter that he comes inside of you. He wants to stay. He wants to lie beside you and stroke your hair. He wants so many things. He wants everything that you cannot give him. None of that matters. You tell him to leave, but that doesn’t matter, either. It doesn’t matter that, as he dresses himself, he looks like he’s going to cry. It doesn’t matter that you don’t see him to the door. It doesn’t matter that he was ever there at all. For hours, you lie there, looking up at the ceiling. You lie there until you can’t take it anymore, so you get up and go into the bathroom and turn on the shower. You gasp a little when you step beneath the scalding water. And as you stand there, feeling the water glide over your skin in its eternal rivers, you imagine a coat of grime falling off of you in thick globs. It slides down you and swirls around the shower drain before being mercifully sucked down into the abyssal sewers beneath the shrieking pit of retarded children that is the World of Man. After an unknown length of time, once you feel at last that you’ve been washed clean, you get out of the shower and dry yourself off. You can already feel the grime beginning to collect again.

The whole kitchen smelled like caramel. Eleonora wiped her hands on her apron and muttered. "Please let it be right this time." Her hair was messy, clothes were wrinkled, and flour and sugar were everywhere. Several pieces of waffle were scattered on the counter. Some pieces were burned, others still raw. Would she ever master it? She lifted the damp towel and examined the new batch of dough balls. This looked better. Carefully, she picked up a scoop and placed it next to the waffle iron. She looked at her recipe again, crossed out some old notes and reheated the caramel. "Heat caramel and bake the dough ball on both sides in the waffle iron." The smell of the caramel was overwhelming, but she shouldn't be distracted now. "Carefully cut the waffle in half while it is still warm. Spread over half with the caramel and then press them together." Patiently, or impatiently, Eleonora was waiting next to the waffle iron. She glanced at her watch. Was it already half past one at night?! ​ An hour and a half later, six new balls of dough and two new caramel loads, Eleonora waited wearily beside her waffle iron. She yawned and didn't even dare to check the time on her watch. She quickly put on a jacket against the cold and walked back to her waffle iron. The caramel scent hung all over the house. She carefully lifted the waffle iron. Would it have worked? The waffles were well cooked! The color was perfectly light brown. Relieved, she clapped her hands and jumped for joy. Now she had to fill it with caramel. Eleonora took a sharp knife and with a towel to protect her from the heat in her left hand she took the first warm waffle. Concentrated, she carefully cut it open, quickly picked up the caramel and smeared one side of the waffle. Then she pressed the other waffle back on it and placed it on a plate. Immediately she took the second waffle from the waffle iron and carefully cut it open. She spread the caramel well over it before pressing it. "It worked!" ​ She ran upstairs with her plate. Her husband was sleeping. "Vincenzo! I did it!" Eleonora dashed into the room, Vincenzo woke with a start and sat up straight on the bed. "What is it?" Startled, he looked around. "It is still dark, what are you doing?" "It worked! Can't you smell it?" Eleonora proudly pointed to her plate. There were two warm fresh stroopwafel. Not perfectly round, but still perfect. "Do you know what time it is?" Vincenzo puts on his glasses and looks at the clock. "It is late, I know. But taste it! They are still warm now." Eleonora moved the plate in front of Vincenzo. ​ Vincenzo took a bite out of the warm stroopwafel. He knew the baking skills of Eleonora and he knew the fantastic stroopwafels they had in the Netherlands. He couldn't imagine she could copy it in Italy. The stroopwafel broke easily, the bite seemed perfect and the still hot syrup warmed his mouth. Slowly he started chewing, but soon noticed that he was wide awake. "This is fantastic!" he exclaimed with his mouth full. "You did it!" Eleonora proudly took a bite of the other warm stroopwafel. Her eyes shone with enthusiasm, and after the first bite, her fatigue was gone. ​ A few weeks later, Vincenzo fills the third basket with stroopwafels. He packs them in a stack, so that they stay warm as long as possible. He quickly walks down the stairs of their apartment complex. The famous bridge, just in front of the market, is three blocks away. Eleonora was already there with her stroopwafels waiting for Vincenzo to bring the new load. Eleonora could have secured a spot next to a coffee shop, forcing the Italians who had breakfast there to walk past the delicious caramel scent. And that had worked! In only a few hours, the stroopwafel was famous in their Italian village. ​ The moment Vincenzo walks around the corner, he sees Eleonora next to the bridge. He quickly takes his camera to take a picture of the situation: A line full of Italian coffee-drinking men is waiting in front of the stall for a warm fresh stroopwafel. Eleonora laughs. She succeeded. Her dream had come true.

This will be my first entry, as I feel that, for the moment, I'm safe enough to record this account. I'm not even sure these words will ever be read by another soul, but the witch did say that, so long as I filled the pages of this journal with this particular ink, its contents would reach someone, somehow. I never much cared for quill and parchment, but I suppose it couldn't hurt to try. Let me start by introducing myself. My name is Isaac Jacobs. I was born in the small village of Thrawlst, just north of the Coarsha River, I shall disclose no more of my home than that - for reasons soon to become apparent. At the present, I'm twenty-seven years of age, but I feel as if the dread that fills me could suffice to send me to an early grave. We're it not for this journal, I would be utterly alone. I've been running from it for longer than I can accurately attest, and I know not how much longer I can endure its chase. I should be thankful of my abilities, I suppose, for were it not for them I could not run between the worlds, and would likely have been caught by now. Though, it is possible, if what the witch told me is true, that this thing only nips at my heels because of my ability to do just that. I realise that reading this will raise many questions, and I shall try to answer them all in earnest. I discovered some years back - fourteen, if memory serves - that I could visit other worlds. I can't quite explain the process involved, but I suppose it's like fading from one world and arriving in the next, like being born, but fully grown. The world in which I am a visitor of just now, it seems, is empty apart from myself. There are indeed structures, manmade it would appear, but alas the world seems empty, as though everyone has left it behind. I can't say I care for such an atmosphere, but as soon as I'm able I should like to leave this one behind. Maybe I'll return to the last one I visited, I should like to ask the witch a few more questions. The journal she gave me, besides it carrying the words of my pen across - as she claims - time and space, it's apparently able to bring message back from those who have read it. This, though peculiar indeed, is something I would be utterly grateful for, it's been so long since I've spoken to anyone. But I spoke of a chase, and should this first entry also prove my last, it must needs contain the core reason for my writing it. A warning. In my travels across the worlds, and of the many cultures I've seen, and of all the different events that fill the pages of all the written histories, there is, I have found, something they all share in common. A connection. This pathway between worlds was something that I thought only myself capable of traversing, but I was wrong, very wrong. There is, among the countless stars and worlds of the universe, an energy, a presence. It is a living, conscious memory that encompasses all that has existed, and all that will. It does not know time, and it does not know distance, it has no beginning, or an end. It is called The Fade. It silently feeds off of the worlds that find themselves connected by this unseen pathway, and in return it fills them with something, a sort of energy similar to its own design. Though, for what purpose I can only guess. The witch told me that the entity that is the Fade seeks to consume all of existence. The reason it chases me is likely because I have intruded on its otherwise private domain. I wish I had never learned to jump between worlds, perhaps I would have married that girl. I like to think on what could have been, it fuels me to some degree. Maybe I'll go home one day, but I dare not risk the Fade learning where I come from, so perhaps it is best I not return there. But, back to the present. The witch told me of this world. She said there was someone here that could help me throw the Fade off my trail. She did not say exactly who it was that I was looking for, but she gave me a piece of parchment with a rather odd drawing on it. Seven figures sat at a long table, with one eye each. So far, as I've said, it seems that I'm the only one here. Perhaps I'm wrong though, but if that picture she gave me is of any real likeness to whom I seek, I'm somewhat nervous of the encounter. I would feel safer if I stopped writing now. I know I'm still safe for the moment, but I haven't much ink, and concerning the nature of what it's supposedly capable of doing, I shouldn't want to watse it all on my first testament. I thank you, whoever you are. Though you may not reply to this, believing that you've read it is enough for now. Though I do hope to learn your name, I remain sceptical of this journals abilities. We shall see.

Ten days I'd been in this area. Ten days of no running... Taking time to breathe. It was quiet, modest sized, and secluded. The ideal spot hidden away. Somewhere to blend. To disappear. So I rented a room on the edge of the town, and haven't been out since. An incredibly lonely existence, but it was safe. Safe from him. I'd been running for a few years. From place to place and everywhere in between. Never over staying my welcome. Never sticking around long enough to leave an impression...never leaving roots. I'm merely a shadow of the person I once was. Someone I barely recognized. A damaged soul with so many broken pieces I was sure I'd never put myself back together again. Maybe I didn't want to . Feelings had dissipated. Thoughts of freedom long gone. I was empty. Bruised and battered by the viciousness of what some call... love . Love had charmed me. Love had pulled me in, and when I fell deep, love watched me fall. Just to pick me back up to do it again. A repetitive cycle that wouldn't end. A cycle I'd barely escaped. Now, alive as I felt, I wasn't really living. Parts of me wanted to die, parts of me wanted to live, but I didn't know how to do either. I lived in a heightened state of anxiety. Fear consumed me. I trusted no one. Constantly looking over my shoulder. Knock, knock ! I jumped. My stomach turning. Could he have found me? As quickly as I could, I slid off the dusty old bed, reaching under my pillow. Pulling out a handgun, I made my way to the door. My pulse beating incessantly. I swear I could hear my own heart. Drips of sweat forming. Hands shaking. My mind on high alert. I was terrified. Could he have really found me? I shook the thought away. He couldn't have . I've covered all my tracks. .. Even as the voice in my head spoke, trying hard to convince me, I still held the gun to the door as I peered through the peep hole. Flinching, as my eye looked out, expecting to see the same icy stare and ominous smile eating at my soul. But as I refocused my eyes, gripping the gun so tight I thought my hand might break, I realized it wasn't him, but a woman. The woman who worked the front desk of the motel. Thank God. Breathing a sigh of relief, I relaxed, opening the door enough to allow communication. Her eyes were warm and inviting. A greenish blue color so brilliant it reminded me of the ocean. A place I'd always hope to end up...and her smile was bright. Much brighter than anyone I'd ever met. The glow of happiness shining around her. It made my heart ache. What it must be like to feel so wonderful... "Hi!!" She paused, smiling sweetly, but nothing came out of my mouth. "Sorry to bother you. I work at the motel." She turned, pointing to a small building. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting anyone..." My voice cracked as I said the last word. I couldn't help but glance around. "Right, sorry for intruding." She must've sensed my uneasiness because she continued, as if to reassure me she meant no harm. "I usually don't bother guests, but I noticed you haven't left your room...," she hesitated, "I wondered if you wanted to join me for dinner? The food here can't be something you're enjoying." She laughed. Her laugh eased my mind. If things were different we could be friends. "You don't have to, but I thought you might like something decent at some point." She laughed again and I managed a small smile. "Thanks... I don't know if going to town is a good idea. I prefer to be alone. I...like my privacy." "Oh...," she looked disappointed, "you sure? If we went now, it'd be empty. They have a back area. No one sits there." "Um...," I hesitated. "Gosh I'm sorry! You're clearly uninterested. Everyone says I'm too pushy." Shaking her head, the brightness of her smile faded and I felt bad. There was no harm in dinner. There'd been no signs indicating he was close... Against my better judgement, I decided I'd go. "Don't be, dinner sounds nice. It'd be good to get something better in my stomach." I said reassuringly. Her smile came back instantly. "Wonderful, do you want to walk? It's not far." "Sure, that...sounds nice," my smile met hers, "let me grab my bag." "Great!" She was beaming. Closing the door, I leaned back, taking a minute. Long enough for my brain to work against me. What if she knows him? Could be a trap. Oh God, what if it's a trap?? The scenarios flooded my head so quickly I shut my eyes, wanting to scream, but not allowing myself to. My heart picked up speed. I could feel the anxiety creeping through my bones. I grabbed at my chest when the constraints hit and it became harder to breath. I was inhaling and exhaling so fast tears where forming in the corner of my eyes and my fingertips were going numb. "Hey, it's Alexandra, right? You okay?" The sound of the woman's voice stopped me dead in my tracks. I released the breath I'd been holding and assessed my surroundings. Realizing I was fine. He wasn't here. I hadn't seen a hint of him...and she WAS being friendly. As long as I kept my guard up, I'd be okay. Quickly grabbing my bag, I slipped the gun inside, opening the door once more. "It's just Alex, and I'm fine." "Well, Alex, I'm Haven. Haven Wynters...let's get you something to eat." *** Weeks came and went. Then months. The longer I stayed, the more relaxed I got. Hanging out with Haven didn't help either. As our friendship grew, so did my hope of freedom and feeling safe. I even started helping her around the motel. Maybe after all this time he'd given up.. . My wedding anniversary was coming up. A date that brought up too many memories. Made me uneasy...but I was determined to make it through unfazed. However, when I met up with Haven, for breakfast, there was a chill in the air. Something felt out of place and I got the very distinct feeling I was being watched. Glancing around from side to side, clutching the gun, I saw nothing. Still, as I walked to the diner, I felt I was being followed. My gut telling me I was right to be worried, but my brain battled between: second guessing myself, being paranoid, and being right. When I walked into the diner, though, all I was met with was Haven's bright smile. Something I'd come to find comforting. "Alex!" She jumped up and grabbed me in a hug. I flinched. Which only made her hug me harder. Even though I'd never told her about my past, she seemed to have sensed something bad happened. Her daily hugs were always followed by... "You know, Alex, if you need to talk I'm here." "I know, Haven." She'd nod understandingly. Then we'd eat. Make small talk. Most of which was about Haven's life. But something about the way this morning had gone made me want to open after all. "Have you noticed anyone new in town...other than me?" "No... Why? Expecting someone?," she asked eating away at her blueberry pancakes, "Cause if you are I'll keep an eye out." "No...yes...it's complicated." Haven looked up inquisitively. Her mouthful of pancakes. "You okay, Alex?" "I'm fine...I just..." My voice trailed off. What could I say? "Alex," Haven's hand met mine, "I can see you're not okay. Always looking in every direction, you're never really here, and you flinch ANYTIME I touch you. You never even left that room until I asked you to dinner. Who knows how long you'd of stayed in there if I hadn't. It's okay if you're not alright. No judgments. I want to help." She sounded so sincere, I burst into tears. No one had ever been so kind. I hadn't expected to feel safe with her. So I opened up. "It started after we'd been married five years...five years? Can you believe that?... I met him when I was young. So handsome. So charming. And when he kissed me I felt I was where I was supposed to be. Such a deep connection. We had many years together. Happy years. Then something changed. It was like one day somebody flipped a switch and he was no longer the man I'd married. He was dark...dangerous, and he drank. I tried to help, but he'd get angry. Say horrible things to me... Everything I said got twisted. I was always wrong...and I'd end up feeling bad for something he did. How could I've ever allowed that!?," I sighed heavily, "But I did. Over and over. Taking everything he said to heart. Clinging to every shred of happiness he threw my way. Which was always an apology... I loved him so much, and I don't even know why." I paused. "It wasn't until he pushed me against a wall, knife to my throat, saying, "I could kill you. No one would notice. No one would care.", that I finally gathered up enough strength to leave. Since then I haven't stopped running. And I never stay anywhere long... Except here. But I shouldn't have, Haven. I feel like I'm being watched, like he's here. Taunting me. I can feel it. I swear. I feel that same fear in my gut. I know he's here. Lurking. Waiting. What should I do?" My eyes were so teary I could barely see Haven's smile. She squeezed my hand tighter and moved to my side, wrapping me up in a hug. I cried harder and she held me. "Oh Alex, you don't have to run. He's not here and if he is...so what? I can help, everyone will help. I promise we'll keep you safe. You don't have to be afraid of him anymore." Haven's words were comforting. But not enough. At least if he took me down, someone could speak for me. Maybe take him down too. She'd been such a marvelous friend that it hurt my heart to know I was leaving. She meant well and probably had every intention of protecting me, but I knew, all too well, he was better. I couldn't risk her getting hurt because of me. I would keep running as long as I had too. *** We'd finished our meal with the promise of me joining her for dinner. However, I had different plans. As I walked briskly back to my room, my stomach turned from the anxiety creeping up the back of my neck. Something was definitely wrong. Or maybe I was incredibly paranoid. .. My gut told me that wasn't true. I could feel him. I wrapped my fingers around my gun as I unlocked my room, ready to shoot, and swung the door open... Nothing. God, I was crazy. I breathed a sigh of relief. Haven was right. I was safe. It was my own paranoia causing these feelings. He couldn't have found me. Reassuring my brain was enough for me to release the grip around my gun. Not a second later, I felt someone shove me forward. Hitting me hard on the back. Causing my full weight to fall forward. My head smacked the corner of the bedframe and I was out. *** I awoke groggy, my head pounding, not sure what happened. Looking around I saw nothing. So I tried to get up. Realizing quickly that wasn't going to happen. I was tied to a chair. Tears forming in my eyes. He'd found me.. . Then I noticed the bathroom door was ajar. He was there. I could feel it in my bones. Feel his grip on my skin, see that malicious smile. My heart started racing. Sweat dripping, hands shaking. I could feel the familiar pain in my chest as my breathing quickened and I grasped for air as it got harder to breathe. Eyes darting in every direction as panic filled my entire body. "Alexandra, darling, breathe. It'll only get worse if you continue to panic." My heart dropped. Staring at me, with a smile I could recognize a mile away, was him. "Thomas...please." I uttered between raspy breaths. A moment later he was in front of me, his hand caressing my face. I flinched at his touch. "Do you know how long it took to find you," he put his face in my lap, "I was afraid I'd never see you again." "That was the point." I spewed angrily. His head shot up. Smile gone. He looked as if I'd just given him the worst news. "How dare you say that? Don't you know how much I LOVE YOU!" His voice increased in volume so much he was yelling by the end. He'd grabbed my arms and shook me around. "You are MY wife. Look at what you're making me do! I had to look every where for you! You stupid ,ungrateful, bitch. I do everything for you! And this is how you repay me? By taking off and disappearing!" I felt the sting of his hand against my face long before he made contact. He grabbed my hair, yanking so hard my head was thrown back. Through tear stained eyes, I pleaded with him. "Thomas...please..., just let me go..." His laugh cut right through me. "Let You go? Oh, my darling, Alexandra, I will never let you go. Ever. Again." The menacing tone of his voice caused me to cry harder. I'd made it this far to end up here...Thomas having the power. He grabbed my throat so tight I could hardly breath and untied me. Pulling me to my feet, he got close enough that I could feel his breath. "You are mine forever." I cringed. He dragged me forward. "I need you to pack your things. We're going home." "Please, I can't...I can't breathe." He let go, but turned me to face him. "No funny business, Alexandra. You will pack and we will go. Or I'll have to hurt you." I nodded and he released me. But never left my side. Scrambling, I rushed around grabbing my belongings. His body not a step away from mine. Bending down, to grab my bag, I realized the gun was still inside. I stood up. Not letting on I'd started forging a plan. With a gun I had a chance. Motioning to my bag, I asked if I could grab medicine for my head. He agreed, but eyed me with suspicion. Reaching in, I clutched the gun and slowly lifted my hand. A second later I dropped the bag, pointing the gun at Thomas, who was enraged and running towards me. Without hesitation, I pulled the trigger. BANG! The same time I shot, Thomas snatched me up. Narrowly missing a bullet to the head. He threw me against the wall. Then pulled me up by my hair. I winced as he put his arm across my throat. I could feel my trachea being crushed. Tears blinding me, I held tightly to the gun he was desperately trying to take. Grunting in frustration, I saw the evil in his eyes as he backed away. The second I breathed, I felt his hand connect with my face and I fell over. I tried to cock the gun, but he stomped on my leg so hard I was sure it broke. I yelped, crumpling to the floor while his laughter broke my heart. "Oh, Alexandra, look what you're doing to us. Look what you're making me do!" He was pacing now, one hand on his hip the other against his forehead. As if trying to decide what to do next while I laid in a ball whimpering. A few minutes later he'd changed completely. Anger vanished, replaced by the manipulating, apologetic, man I'd come to hate. He bent down to my level, wiped tears from my face, and hair from my eyes. I flinched and he smiled sympathetically. "I can't let anyone have you. You have to be with me." Taking a chance at getting through to this side of the man I once loved, I said what I knew he wanted to hear. "Thomas, baby..." He looked triumphant. "I...I love you so much. You know that. I was scared." "Darling, you don't have to be scared. I won't hurt you." "I know baby, but my leg. I can't move. I need a doctor." "I'll get you fixed once we get home." I could hear anger building back up. I had little hope of getting away. Words weren't enough. I needed something more. So I leaned in. Using my free hand to grab the back of his head, I kissed him like my life depended on it. Because it did. He pushed forward, kissing back, running his hands through my hair. Moving, I slid my hand down his chest and over to the gun, slowly pulling back the hammer. It was so slow it hadn't made a sound, even as I released. Thomas was so lost in the moment, it wasn't until I pressed the gun to his chest that his eyes met mine with complete confusion...then anger. "Alexan..." was all he muttered out before the bullet hit his chest. His eyes wide with shock as he fell back. The gun still pointing his way, shaking in my hands; which had turned white. I was breathing hard. Ears ringing. Then nothing. Everything was still. Nothing but silence. I was free.

To say I’m scared is an understatement. Terrified? No, that doesn’t sound quite right. Maybe horrified? Definitely not horrified. How about mortified? Yeah... that’s the word. I’m absolutely, positively, mortified to see my family. I wish I could just turn around and run down the faded red brick steps directly behind me, jump into my 2005 light blue Prius and drive back to Chicago. But I can’t. I’ve been standing on their porch so long I fear that the snow has frozen my feet in place, making escape challening. I didn’t want to come either, I don’t even know that I would be welcome back after everything I've done. But my sponsor, Sammy, convinced me otherwise. He said it would be good for me, that I have to start somewhere and sometime. And besides, the holidays are all about forgiveness, right? I can hear laughter inside and what sounds like Julia Louis-Dreyfus playing Margo in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation . From what I can make out, she just got blinded from Clark’s massive light’s display - one of my favorite scenes. As I lean to my right and look at the window, trying to catch maybe a glimpse, an inkling of the TV I notice the dingy white draping’s, likely the same ones from when I was a kid, pulled shut, obscuring any view of inside except for the pale-yellow light leaking out through the crack in the middle. Looking up, I can see smoke rising from the chimney. It’s pale and hard to see against the light-polluted December sky, but it’s there. Dad probably has the fire going in the sitting room to warm the stockings hanging on the marble mantle and getting things ready to make smores with my nieces and nephews. I was jealously hoping that my siblings wouldn’t be here tonight, that maybe they all would be with their in-laws, but as I pulled up, I noticed a series of cars, all with I assume their custom license plates: a maroon Honda Odyssey minivan named “Crist6,” likely Jasons; a silver Ford Escalade, “Crist3,” probably Jenni's; and a Black Subaru Outback “Crist4,” which would be Stevie's. My sisters kept their maiden name after getting married, something our parents protested for some reason, but I always admired. The truth is, I have amends to make to all three of my siblings and both my parents. Amends that, while a part of my narcotics anonymous, or NA, program are supposed to help me stay sober and show those I've hurt that I have changed, amends only seem to open up old scars, making them bleed once more. I don’t think it’s helped that I’ve been putting this off for as long as I can. When I made my amends to my friend Ben for stealing and pawning his grandfather’s golden monocle (but in my defense, who just owns a monocle and leaves it laying around) to buy drugs, he threw a fresh coffee in my face and walked away. Which, while burned, both from the hot coffee and his reaction, I can understand. Even though he may never forgive me, and I’m not sure that I would if I was him, I still desperately want his forgiveness. I was told when I started this that the hardest part isn’t always confronting people and making amends, but rather dealing with the fact that even though I’ve changed and I am deeply sorry for my actions, the people who I hurt may never forgive me. That includes my family. My addiction started when I was fourteen, a freshman in high school. I was, and I guess still am, the runt in my family. Jason’s fifteen years older, Jenni thirteen, and Stevie twelve. So, I largely grew up without them around, or when they were, they were just visiting from college, holidays, or to introduce their fiancés to mom and dad. Around the time I started high school, mom and dad were fighting constantly, screaming curses and shouting “how dare you” and "I would never" at each. To be honest, I never knew what they were arguing about, but for some reason I always felt like it was about me. Call me selfish, I know, but they never fought before I came out as gay to them and whenever I approached the topic with either of them, they would deny that it had anything to do with their arguing. I never believed them, though. The night of the Sadie Hawkins dance at my high school, which I neglected to attend, my junior friends from band picked me up and we drove to a party at the local college. We had gone to parties there before, with our parents just thinking that we were seeing some movie for the tenth time, and seemingly none the wiser about it. The first couple parties we attended, I didn’t drink or take anything, instead opting to just be a harmless little wallflower. But the night of the dance, the arguing had progressed to the point the cops came to investigate a "domestic disturbance". Of course, there was nothing for the cops to find other than an older-middle aged couple yelling at each other and a cowering fourteen-year-old boy sitting up the top of the stairs, hugging his legs closed. So when I got to the party, it had reached the point that I just wanted to forget. Forget everything. Forget mom and dad. Forget the almost non-existent Jason, Jenni, and Stevie. Forget myself. I didn’t care what I drank, snorted, or popped. Anything would do, anything to just finally get some peace, and it worked. I don’t remember too much more from that night except waking up to an unfamiliar ceiling decorated with the harshest lights and a gaggle of doctors hovering around my bed. Mom and dad never yelled at or punished me after my overdose. They both refused to talk about it with me. But I noticed their arguing only got worse after that night and remembering the dark, blissful silence, I did whatever I could to return to that point. Eventually, I flunked out of high school, would steal and sell things from around my house. I never discriminated, but jewelry always sold the best. For next eight years, I was in and out of rehab, constantly calling Jason, or Jenni, or Stevie to transfer money or whenever they would visit, I would solicit rides or more money from them. Jason missed the birth of his first child taking me to rehab because mom and dad were too tired to take me again. I managed to steal thousands of dollars from Jenni as she never knew how to say "no" to her little brother. As for Stevie, when she her and her boyfriend visited, I got high and screwed him. Although the last one doesn’t seem like that big of a deal in the long run, I guess they were planning on getting married before that incident. Mom and dad kicked me out after six years, and I lived on the streets after. Eventually it got to the point that I was in and out of the hospital for overdosing at least once or twice a week and that’s where I met Sammy, and he took me to an NA meeting and got me help. That was three years ago and a total of five since I’ve seen my family. And now I’m still here, standing on the faded red bricks that make up their porch, staring at the old oaken door, wanting to knock but can’t bring myself too. I’m, as I determined, mortified. There is a tiny, almost delusional, part of me that they’ll hear me out, hug me crying, expressing their joy that their little brother and son are back in their lives, and we’ll all roast smores and finish National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation as I get to meet my nieces and nephews, and everything will be alright. But the realist knows that is likely not how it’s going to go, and instead, I’ll be turned away. Shunned. Banished. Excommunicated. I slowly raise my arm, clench my gloved hand into a fist and bring it to the door. I lightly rap-tap-tap the door, just enough so I think they can hear. I slowly lower my arm back to my side and stand there, the snow falling around me. I wait for what feels like hours, but is probably only a couple minutes, and there’s no response. Nothing. No shuffling near the door, no loud voices exclaiming that their “Coming!” nothing. I raise my arm to knock again, but then quickly lower it, and turn my feet around, disturbing the fresh snow that slowly cased my boots. I’m halfway down the steps when I hear the door behind me open and what sounds like a little kid, no more than five say “Who’s there?” I turn around and there’s a girl, standing in the doorway in Polar Express pajamas with long, strikingly blond free flowing hair and a finger in her nose. I just stand there, my mouth refusing to work. “Daddy,” she shouts, “There’s a weird man at the door staring at me.” “What’s that pumpkin?” I hear a dismembered voice say as a man comes to the door, dressed in a blue sweater and gray slacks, his blonde hair parted to one side. Jason. “Are a caroler?” Jason asks me. I don’t respond, instead choosing to stare up at him. He looks older, but more or less the same. I guess I look a lot different than the last time he saw me, but being half obscured by snow and poor lamp light can’t help. “Are you okay, man?” Jason says. Suddenly, everything feels too real. I can feel the fear welling up in my stomach about to burst and flood the rest of my body. I back away and swivel around, my head swiveling left and right, trying to remember where I parked my car. I need to get out of here. I need to get back to Chicago. I need to see Sammy, go to a meeting. I need to not face them. I can’t face them. I’m snapped back to reality by a hand my shoulder and Jason’s voice, “Hey, are you alright?” I turn around and look at him, not saying anything as he stares at my face, perplexed. I don’t know what to do or what to say, and I don’t think he does either as he slowly starts to recognize me, as his eyes go wide and his mouth cracks open, emitting no sound. I can hear my legs screaming at me and my muscles urging me to turn back around and run away, but arms didn’t get the memo as I wrap them around his body and start crying into his chest, choking out weak “I’m so sorry!” between sobs and rivers of mucus. I’m not sure how long we stood like that before he wrapped his arms back around me, and I can feel tears falling on my head mixing with the snow, and Jason says, “It’s okay, Arthur. Let’s go inside.”

In the quiet town of Belmont, life tended to move at its own, unhurried pace. Main Street, lined with family-owned businesses, bore silent testimony to the passage of time. The town's calendar revolved around the school games, Sunday church services, and seasonal festivities. It was a life untouched by the capriciousness of the big cities, one that thrived on routine and familiarity. At the heart of this tranquil normality were four lifelong friends - Mark, an affable mechanic who ran the local garage, Lucy, the spirited school teacher, Peter, the town's lone postman, and Grace, the matronly cafe owner. Their lives were interwoven in the tapestry of Belmont, a friendship born out of shared school memories and countless summer afternoons. They were an inseparable quartet, each as familiar with the others' routine as their own. However, a day arrived when the rhythm of Belmont's life missed a beat. It began subtly, a slow crescendo barely noticeable. Peter forgot his mail route, a path he'd walked for the better part of two decades, while Mark found himself unable to fix a car problem he'd solved countless times before. Grace baked her famous cherry pie, but couldn't recall where she learned the recipe, and Lucy couldn't remember teaching lessons that her students clearly recalled. The strangeness didn't stop there. They began noticing the limits of their world. Attempts to drive out of Belmont were met with an inexplicable compulsion to turn around, or sudden obstacles that forced them back. Conversations began to seem eerily familiar, as though they were a script everyone knew by heart, a performance on repeat. Shared experiences abruptly ended at certain points, as if someone had cleanly snipped away parts of their memories. The small peculiarities snowballed into an avalanche of confusion. While Belmont still held its peaceful charm, the town's once comforting routine now felt more like a question, a riddle that the friends were unwittingly part of. It was this shared sense of unbelonging and the sudden anomalies in their mundane world that led them to an astonishing realization - they were starting to wake up within a reality they had always taken for granted. In the back room of Mark's old garage, cluttered with the remnants of forgotten auto parts and dust-coated equipment, sat an antiquated computer system. It was an inheritance from Mark's grandfather, a man who loved technology before it was fashionable. Over the years, the machine had become more of a relic, a testament to the past. One day, in an attempt to alleviate the disquiet that the recent anomalies had instilled, Mark powered up the computer, hoping to lose himself in the simplicity of wires and circuits. As he navigated the ancient operating system, he stumbled upon an old digital file titled, "The Tale of Belmont." Intrigued, he opened it and started reading, only to find his heart hammering in his chest. It was their lives, detailed in precise chronology. There were their conversations, word for word, their thoughts, their relationships, all chronicled as if they were mere characters in a book. The text even outlined future events, the school's annual fair, Grace's new pie recipe, Lucy's history lesson - events that were yet to occur. In disbelief, he shared his findings with Lucy, Peter, and Grace. Their initial reaction was dismissive. "It's got to be some elaborate prank," Peter scoffed, "or maybe you're writing a novel in your sleep, Mark." They laughed it off as a bizarre coincidence, a figment of their collective stress. Yet, as the days passed, the 'predictions' from the digital text started materializing, amplifying their unease. The school fair went exactly as written, Grace created her new pie without even realizing, and Lucy delivered her history lesson as per the script. The fear of an unknown observer puppeteering their lives gripped them. In a desperate attempt to debunk this unsettling narrative, they decided to defy the text. They changed plans, broke their routines, and deliberately acted out of character. If they were merely characters in a book, any deviation from the written script should be impossible. Yet, something even more astonishing happened. The text on the old computer changed. It morphed in real-time to match their new decisions, echoing their altered dialogues and actions. This realization hit them like a thunderbolt - they were indeed living in a story, but they were not bound by it. They were not just following a pre-determined script; their actions could influence it. The familiarity of their mundane existence shattered, replaced by the chilling awareness of their orchestrated reality. The lives they had led until now, the essence of their being, was it all simply part of someone's grand story? Did they exist only because someone else had written them into existence? With each passing moment, the lines between fiction and reality blurred, leaving them standing on the precipice of an uncanny revelation. The world they knew, the town they loved, and the lives they lived were merely constructs of a story, and they were the living, breathing characters. Anxiety and exhilaration commingled in their hearts as they grappled with the implications of their revelation. They were characters in a story, but they were also free, able to write their own narrative within the framework of this fictional existence. They began experimenting, testing the elasticity of their reality, pushing at its seams to understand the extent of their autonomy. They did the unthinkable, the unexpected, the uncharacteristic. Grace, known for her warmth, became aloof. Peter, the gentle soul, picked fights. Mark, the tech geek, abandoned his machines. Lucy, the history enthusiast, began ignoring her books. Each day they tested their boundaries, straying from their routine, defying their predefined roles. But the most audacious of their attempts involved trying to step beyond the physical limits of their town, a boundary they had never thought to cross before. They embarked on a journey to the edge of their known world, driving far beyond the usual scope of their existence. As their behaviours became increasingly erratic, the 'author' of their lives seemed to perceive their rebellion. In an attempt to regain control, plot twists started appearing in their narrative. An unexpected storm blocked their path out of town, forcing them to turn back. Fights escalated, resulting in situations that necessitated reconciliation. Old flames resurfaced, and unexplainable events occurred, all seemingly designed to return them to their intended path, their prescribed roles. These orchestrated interventions by the unseen 'author' became a source of both fear and defiance. They had caught the attention of their creator, and the very act of rebellion was validation of their existence beyond mere ink on a page. The climax of their resistance was met with a thrilling confrontation with the 'author', a battle of wills between the creator and the created. Their lives had become a paradox, a dance between predestination and free will, as they fought to assert their autonomy within a written narrative. The heady climax ebbed away, leaving the characters grappling with the aftermath of their audacious confrontation. The acceptance of their existence as elements of a story came not in an electrifying moment of epiphany, but rather as a creeping realization, like dawn slowly dispelling the darkness. They found themselves at a crossroads. Some, like Grace and Peter, took solace in the patterned predictability of their predestined lives. Their roles, though prescribed, had a comforting familiarity that they chose to embrace rather than reject. It was a solace tinged with resignation, a reluctant peace born from the understanding that they were mere strokes of a pen, figments of an author's imagination. Others, however, like Mark and Lucy, struggled against the constraints of their existence, the pain of their lack of autonomy a bitter pill to swallow. Their every action was now tinged with a haunting awareness of the unseen authorial hand guiding their lives. Yet they knew they couldn't rage against their reality forever. Change came, slowly but surely, as they began to understand that while they could not control who had created them or the narrative structure within which they existed, they had some degree of control over their own reactions and attitudes. They could choose to live their lives in the most authentic way possible within their confines, rather than simply acting out the parts written for them. With newfound resolve, they started to interact with their world in ways that felt true to them, regardless of the script. Their laughter was no longer hollow echoes of written dialogue, but genuine expressions of joy; their tears were not mere narrative devices but reflections of their heartfelt emotions. In acceptance, they found a semblance of freedom, their lives a testament to their resilience amidst the confounding truth of their existence. As the characters navigated the intricacies of their newfound reality, an unspoken unity blossomed amongst them. A bond formed, not merely born out of shared circumstances but from a collective acceptance of their surreal existence. They found solace in their mutual understanding, in the quiet acknowledgement of the reality that they were all ink on a page, characters crafted from the author's imagination. Through the strange twist of their existence, they stumbled upon an insight, a sliver of universal truth that transcended the confines of their literary world. They understood that even in the realm of the 'real', every individual has a limited say in the broader narrative of their life. Fate, societal norms, upbringing - there were countless factors beyond their control shaping their existence. Yet, it was their choices within those limitations that truly defined them. It was a realization that, although they were characters in a story, they too had the power to shape their narrative through their reactions, their emotions, and their decisions. They were not merely puppets dancing to the author's tune but beings capable of colour and vibrancy, breathing life into the words that shaped their world. And so, they decided to move forward. Not as mere characters bound to a predestined path, but as conscious entities capable of living within their constraints yet not entirely defined by them. The 'author' still loomed, an omnipresent force that could at any moment choose to pen a plot twist. But they chose not to let this looming presence overshadow their existence. They found ways to live, to laugh, to love within the written lines, the black ink of their existence infused with the radiant hues of their authenticity. They became more than just characters in a story. They became the story, their voices resonating within each word, each sentence, each page. Their lives continued, the spectre of the author a constant presence, but one they acknowledged without allowing it to govern their existence. Their world, once mundane, was now imbued with a peculiar profundity, a testament to their resilience and their ability to seek joy and meaning in the most unusual circumstances. As they navigated their narrative, they did so with a renewed sense of purpose. They were no longer just characters in a story but beings who had embraced their peculiar existence, turning it into a testament of the power of choice and the resilience of the spirit. The final lines of their story were yet unwritten, but they were ready to meet them, their hearts filled with the courage to live each day not as it was written for them, but as they chose to write it themselves.

Jasmine Thompson attends Davenport Elementary School. When she walked into the classroom today, she realized she had forgotten about the geography quiz. She begins to panic as the paper is placed in front of her on the desk. She is a perfectionist and must get all of them right. Jasmine is relieved as she goes over the questions because she remembers much of what was on the quiz. What is Maine's capital? What country is located to the south of the United States? Jasmine breezes through the 10-question quiz and hands it into her teacher, Mr. Colson. Mr. Colson was grading geography quizzes that night while watching the news on television. He arrives at Jasmine's quiz and examines her answers quickly. He is surprised when she gets question number 10 wrong, "what is the tallest mountain in the world?" "Sorry, Jasmine, Mount McKinley is not the tallest mountain in the world; Mount Everest is," Mr. Colson says to himself. A breaking news banner flashed over the TV that Mr. Colson was watching as he was ready to place the quiz in the completed pile. "We have some breaking news this afternoon: seismic activity in Alaska has caused Mount McKinley, also known as Denali, to rise 10,000 feet in elevation. Mount McKinley has now surpassed Mount Everest in height due to this seismic event, and it is now the tallest mountain in the world." Mr. Colson pulls Jasmine's quiz from the stack, looks at question number 10, and changes it from incorrect to correct. He knows Jasmine will be surprised and happy when she sees her quiz tomorrow. Mr. Colson considers Jasmine's answer a fluke and prepares tomorrow's science quiz. Little does he know that Jasmine will get another question wrong on the science quiz. What team of scientists discovered the double helix structure of DNA? "Lewis and Clark," Jasmine answers. The correct answer is "Watson and Crick." At the end of the day, another teacher enters Mr. Colson's room and informs him that they have located Lewis and Clark's missing journals. The lost journals discuss double-helix DNA, right down to its molecular structure. "The explorers are said to have discovered the double helix DNA structure 150 years before Watson and Crick!" "It's not possible!" Mr. Carlson looks at Jasmine's quiz, and lo and behold, Jasmine's answer is now correct. When Jasmine gets a quiz question wrong, reality corrects itself such that she gets the question right. Mr. Colson decided to put this to the test, so on tomorrow's Shakespeare quiz, he poses a question that none of his students will know: "In the play Romeo and Juliet, who is Juliet's cousin?" The answer is Tybalt, but the students wouldn't know that because they haven't read it yet. Every student in the class, including Jasmine, failed to answer Tybalt on the quiz, just as he had predicted. Mr. Carlson waits, remembering that the Mount McKinley transformation did not occur until he graded the quizzes. He takes out the quizzes to grade them; he immediately turns to Jasmine's; her answer is, Franklin. Mr. Colson shakes his head, filled with skepticism. How will reality change for this to happen? He marks the answer wrong, then takes out his cell phone and waits. Refresh, refresh, and refresh on the news website that he uses. All of a sudden, there it is: "Historians have discovered an alternative text to Romeo and Juliet; the only difference they see is that Shakespeare had not yet come up with the name of Tybalt, inserting the more modern Franklin in its place." He can't believe his eyes; this proved it once and for all, whenever Jasmine puts for an answer on a quiz becomes a reality. In tomorrow's quiz, Mr. Colson has asked, "Who is the richest man in the world?". Jasmine raised her hand during the quiz and asked, "We never studied this in class?" "That's OK. Just put in Brian Colson, and you'll get it right." "But you're not the richest man in the world; it's Jeff Bezos?" "OK, this is a bonus question; I won't count it against you as long as you put my name." When the quizzes are returned, he sees that Jasmine entered his name for that question. As soon as the students had gone to lunch, he got out the quizzes and scored Jasmine's, marking it incorrectly and waiting. He stayed up until 12:30 a.m., hoping for something to change, but nothing did. Concerned, his wife came down to the living room where he was waiting on his phone, and he told her about the strange situation with a student in his class. After she looked at him like he was insane, but wanting to go to bed, she pretended to support his crazy idea. "What if she needs to believe it for reality to change? You told me she already knew you weren't the richest man in the world?" "Makes sense, so it must be something fresh I taught her. Any ideas?" "The Super Bowl is this Sunday; how about asking who will win?" "You're brilliant!" Mr. Colson tells his students that the Rams will win the Super Bowl during class. He teaches it like an actual lesson giving bulleted notes and sound reasoning. Despite a few arguments from the boys in the class, the class took his word for it. On this question, Jasmine has circled the Rams to win the Super Bowl. When school was out on that Friday afternoon, Mr. Colson went straight down to the casino to place $100 on the Rams to win. He wanted to bet more, but he figured there would be time for that if she could predict the winner. He won! On Monday, though, he was called to the principal's office. "Can you explain why you chose to teach about sports rather than the curriculum?" Mr. Colson was startled but was let off the hook when he promised never to do it again. He was disappointed he had to toss away his NBA lesson for today, but he decided that perhaps something good could come from this. He taught about how the world was at peace. For the first time in human history, he told the students that there was no war and no one was killed in battle. He asked the quiz question, "Is there world peace?" Jasmine responded with the answer she was taught, yes. The major news that night was that everyone had called off all wars. He told his wife, who was completely taken aback. His wife was now a true believer and wanted to seize the opportunity. "How about you teach the class that a woman named Marilyn Colson received $10 million dollars she had no idea existed?" He told students the next day about a woman named Marilyn Colson, giving them her address and other identifiers, who had received $10 million dollars out of nowhere. He asked on the quiz, "What was the name of the woman who unexpectedly received ten million dollars?" To answer the question, Jasmine gave Mr. Colson's wife's name. Mr. Colson felt a rush of exhilaration as he drove home that afternoon, knowing that this could all come true. He was so engrossed that he failed to notice the truck crossing the median. The truck collided with Mr. Colson's car, and he died immediately. Her husband's death saddened his wife. The next day she found out he had a life insurance policy that she didn't know about; it was worth $10 million dollars.

I am not as crazy as everyone thinks I am. In fact, I’m not crazy at all, but what was I to do? Growing up in a big family makes it hard to feel distinguished. Everybody is always running around, screaming, getting better grades than you, getting more spoiled than you, it’s only natural that I started to act, let’s say, *special*. And since I went to school with my siblings, well, it was only natural to keep up the act at school too. It was all fun and games at first, it didn’t take much to make people think something was wrong, jumping more than was needed when my brother touched my shoulder, getting defensive faster than usual with my sisters, it was almost *too* easy. The thing is, people get used to it, you become known as the “stressed kid” at school, but no one thinks you’re *crazy*, so they stopped paying attention to me, my siblings were doing way more interesting things than me, of course, so I had to become crazier. I started rocking back and forth when watching tv, started mumbling to myself, I started replying to my brothers when they hadn’t asked a question and got offended by things my sisters hadn’t said, it didn’t take long before the attention was on me again. And god was it blissful to have that attention again. My parents eventually got me a psychiatrist, which was the epitome of being interesting. You *must* be pretty interesting for a psychiatrist to keep seeing you, right? I mean, those guys study for *years* to get where they are, if I can fool them, I can fool anyone. The day my psychiatrist told my parents I would need to be hospitalised I was ecstatic. What could be better than to be *constantly watched*? I was finally the star of the show. It all started crumbling though when I really did start to hear my siblings when they weren’t there, and I *knew* they weren’t there because I had been sent into isolation for getting into a fight, again. I heard my brother call my name in the left corner, I heard my sister ask if she could braid my hair in front of the door, I *felt* them near me. That was the first time it happened, but since then it has happened again, and again, and again, always at times when I know I’m alone. They’re always saying the same thing now. “Look at your file.” There’s a law or something that says that hospitals are legally obligated to show you your file if you ask for it, and after sleepless nights of my siblings telling me I need to look at it, I finally cracked. I wish I hadn’t. You see, the thing is I’m not *really crazy*, it’s all an act, and it wasn’t supposed to go this far. I just wanted attention and with what’s in my file, I think they might’ve mistaken me for someone *extremely* similar to me. Yes, that must be what happened. ​ You see, my file says I’m an only child.

It’s happened before. At least I think it has happened before. I have a memory. I am a memory. There is no confusion. There isn’t enough of anything for there to be confusion. I am small. I am inconsequential. A mote of dust propelled hither and thither by forces beyond my understanding. The winds of change swept into my life. I was not ready. I am never ready. I will never be ready. The whirlwind of my emotions calms for a moment, allowing me a rare moment of clarity. This is necessary. I am free. Free from my ego. Free from the arrogance of my self-pitying introspection. There is more to this life than my worried thoughts. There is more to this world. To this universe. I am nothing, and yet I am everything. The wind came and it transformed me. As it took from me I panicked and I clung on to what it was so intent on removing. Locked in a struggle that would only ever end one way. Pain. I wept as I lost what I thought had value. I watched as it was stolen from me and faded into the insignificance from whence it came. I mistakenly thought that that was also my fate. I wailed and screamed in my nakedness. Afraid to be so exposed. I thought myself vulnerable. I was wrong. We are vulnerable in our desperation. A desperation evidenced by how we cling onto the material. We are possessed by our possessions. They poison us with a drug that gives us the illusion of happiness, but is anything but happiness. In the falsehood of realities, that are all about taking and never about giving, we seek to possess others. And in that ownership we hurt and twist those around us so that they better fit the distorted expectations we have of how everyone should be. Again and again, in our bold ignorance we attempt to emulate gods. Moulding people into our muddle-headed perception of perfection. The gods do not deign to do this. The gods are not so presumptuous and craven. They gave us free will so that they could delight in our unfurling into the beautiful forms that we were always meant to be. Instead they witness our depravity and corruption and they lament our foolhardy ignorance, fighting to stay hands that would readily end so much sacrilege and heresy. The wind came for me and I fought it. I thought it had come to take everything that I was, but it was only here to free me from the prison that I had built around myself in my state of fearful denial. A state I thought was living, but was only ever existing in exile. The winds came, and they came only for me. Alone and in misery, I felt them embrace me and I despaired. If the winds had been me, they would have given up there and then. They would have reacted mindlessly and withdrawn. Thankfully, the winds were not me. Not as I was. Now they are. Swept adrift in the endless oceans of the universe, I closed my eyes and waited for the storm to pass. In stubborn return, the storm waited for my ignorance to pass. The storm is ageless. Waiting is what it does. Patience is what it is about. In the end, I opened my eyes. I had to open my eyes. Cautiously, I brought my surroundings into view. Flinching reactively at the prospect of the suffering of my imagination being made real. The least that I deserved in my self-tortured state. I scanned the world through a jaundiced filter and yet I did not find what I was looking for. The source of my pain and anguish was not out there. It took me an age to accept that I was the source of my own pain. Even then I tarried. Even then I delayed the inevitable with an unsubstantiated reluctance. Fear born of ignorance and growing all the time. For all the things I held dear, it was my fear that I held most dearly. The realisation of this, my folly, shamed me. But then I understood that it always had. Shame was the lock on my chains. Yet what did I have to be ashamed of and what did I have to lose? This was not the question. Always I asked the wrong questions so that I never had to look at myself face to face. It was what I had to gain that mattered. Me, that was what I had to gain. Me and a life well lived. I thought that required courage, but that was another glib, self-generated lie. I was born to be me and I was made to live. Somehow, I had allowed my ego to blunder around corrupting my true nature, and now the winds had come to blow the veil of my deceit and denial to one side and expose the lie that I had become. As the last vestiges of the lies I had shrouded myself in during my living death fell away in the slipstream of my wind-born flight. I felt the dread weight of false sorrow lifting away from me and it was then that I soared. I soared upwards into the light, and for the first time since my childhood, I truly revelled in the joy of my life. I found happiness in my being. I re-joined the path and began the journey I was always meant to embark upon. I remembered my destiny as I looked upon my fate. The loss that had wrapped itself around me, squeezing the very life out of me was the loss of me. I had lost my way. The winds came and they freed me. They took everything from me, but that everything was nothing. After all, it meant nothing. I had been smothered under a blanket of darkness that held no meaning and no value for me. Now? Now I was lighter than a feather and cast adrift in the universe. The prospect of this was once terrifying to me, but now I knew. Now I had the necessary perspective and I could see at last. I am the universe, and the universe is me. My fear was illusory and it blinded me to myself and my true nature. Now I relaxed into the wind’s embrace and went where I was always meant to go and lived how I was always supposed to live. Somewhere, in a faraway place that I still owned, but that might not be me, I hoped that this time I would make it stick. That this time I would stay on the path and would not succumb to the seduction of the bright lights of a place that smells so badly wrong, but that whispers sweet falsehoods about it being so right. I hope I don’t give up. Not again. Not this time. A cycle of loss and redemption beckons once again, but I do not see it for what it is. I never see it for what it is. The wind sighs as my head is turned yet again.

Joe was a ghost. If you want specifics, he was a poltergeist, but no one ever knew what that was, so, y'know, he just self-identified as a ghost. And he was anxious, because Halloween was coming up, and he had no plans. He debated scaring kids and stealing candy, but then again, he couldn't eat. He had started making a cursed VHS tape, but, heck it, who even had a VHS player nowadays? He even scripted spooky phone calls, but they had no effect, in a day and age where people hung up when they saw an unknown number. There was simply nothing Joe could do to scare people like he could back in his day. He paced around the graveyard. Some people came in, and mourned at gravestones of loved ones, he wanted so bad to pull them down into the graves with him but, well, those people with their scrolly scrolly social media and consent rules, and everything. He'd be ashamed and embarrassed before Friday the 13th. "If only people weren't so desperate for friends these days. Then maybe they wouldn't see me as a friendly neighborhood Casper!" but still, Joe wouldn't give up. He was a poltergeist, and poltergeists lived to scare. Hmm... A child would be easy to scare, maybe, if he was lucky enough to find one that didn't have a parent hovering over it at all times. He realized he couldn't come up with ideas all on his own. He needed inspiration, and he needed to watch and observe what really s cared people these days. He decided to start with the wisest of ghosts, Father Ghost. He started floating over to Father Ghosts grave, all the while observing the humans by the graves, death seemed to scare them, but he couldn't kill a human, could he? But these humans didn't even shy away from the spiders, so surely that wasn't it. He crossed spiders off his list of things he enjoyed scaring humans with. Just not scary enough anymore. Soon, he was at Father Ghost's grave, but Father Ghost must have seen how glum Joe looked. "surely you anticipate halloween, yes, O Joe?" he questioned. But Joe could not say he did. "It's just... I can't think of a single way to scare anyone this year!" He began to explain Father Ghost his troubles. But, before he could even get to the part about spiders, Father ghost said, "surely humans are still scared of some things. Grab my hand, Joe." Joe wasn't so sure that was a good idea. What Joe wanted was help, not some Christmas Carol reenactment. But he did as Father Ghost, the wisest of all ghosts, said. Suddenly, they were looking in the window of a house. "Is this Halloween past?" asked Joe. "naw, I just kinda moved you a couple blocks, I am Father Ghost, if I can bear nicknames like, "daddy ghost" I can teleport. Trust me." Joe pulled his hands away. Even the ghosts were using slang, and becoming less and less professional. Joe's suspicions were confirmed, not even Father Ghost could bring Halloween spirit to the table, Halloween was ruined. He ran down the streets before Father Ghost could ask what he was doing. Only his third ghost Halloween and just not one way he could scare someone. On his way walking down the street, visibly showing his angst to any ghost that would spend time to bat an eye in his direction, he listened to human talk. "Gotta pay my bills. Just looking at the number makes me sick." one human said while on a phone call. Sick. Like humans used to be when he haunted them. He passed through the human to go through the other side of the street, the man just shivered and pulled his coat tighter. No goosebumps like there would have been even a year ago. There was just no way Joe could... wait, could he? Joe's mind raced. If he could get into the man's house, use his poltergeist powers, higher the number of the bill... technically, Joe could scare this man! getting excited now, Joe began to follow the man home. occasionally, `he would make wind out of nowhere, or snap a falling twig, or even go inside the man for a bone-chilling effect. when the man reached his house, He was walking notably faster, and seemed all too happy to get inside But he’s not done yet thought Joe. He let the man close the door, then floated in, as if nervous his powers might disappear. He walked over to the kitchen counter, where the man was eyeing the bill. Muttering at the number. At first, Joe was discouraged, then he had an idea. If he could change the numbers while the man was looking at them, surely this man would get the added spook of thinking he was going insane? Joe was sure he could really mess with this man's head, in a way he couldn't in the past. Joe smiled to himself. $3,405, $3,450. up... up... up... $3,000,000. The man looked, wide eyed, at the bill. And ran out of the house, screaming. Joe laughed. I'll make sure to visit you in the mental hospital. He thought. He walked out of the house. Visiting more people. Every time they ran out, screaming or crying or both, he would smile, and laugh. Surely this will be the best Halloween ever. He thought to himself, still smiling, and laughing, and ready to haunt more people. He continued down the street, ready to up his game, no longer would he stick with people in this town, he would go to places like New York, California, and Hawaii. Joe knew he would be talked about for years, because he would target kids, too. He would change every right answer on their test for wrong! He would be diabolical. And the best part? He thought humans couldn't be scared this year. Hmmm, who's that knocking on your door? Its me, Joe.

They know that I'm pedantic. I'm a neurotic, OCD, perfectionist and I live alone. They know that I hardly venture farther than the post boxes that lined the front of our apartment. They call me Sheldon Pooper for goodness sakes! They know that I over analyse every single move I make, or anyone else for that matter. They also know that I don't do pets. I don't pet them. I don't look at people with pets and say, Oh, what a cutie. What's his name?". And I certainly don't take care of them. So why on earth would my entire floor go for the long weekend and leave the Rudd's bird with me? It is beyond me. I mean, don't they know that they might come back and only find a lone feather laying somberly at the bottom of the cage. I don't know... Maybe the bird looks tempting and I'm hungry (gross), or maybe I accidentally leave the cage open and little birdy Rudd decides he wants to go and meet his siblings in the Rain Forest or something. I really don't know! You see I'm already losing my marbles. Everyone knows that you don't just start a story in the middle of nowhere. A story needs an introduction, a body and an end. I started my story with all of the above. That's just not how it's done. I really don't know. Let's start over, shall we? My name is Marrie. Not Marie. You've got to drag the -ar in Mar, like car, and then say the rie. Not like pie, but more like tree. Mar-rie but without the dash. Right. My name is Marrie. I live in an apartment, on the second floor, because if I lived on the first floor and someone decides to rob the place they would get to me first. And the third floor is too high that if I had an accident and fell over I would die. And I wasn’t ready to die either way, by robber or by falling. So, the second floor is perfect. I know everyone on my floor because I need to know who I'm dealing with and how they would affect my life. I actually know everyone in the building, but just for this story about the bird, I will only speak about the people on my floor. There's Elsa, she lives next door in apartment 5. Elsa loves men, and can be seen bringing a different man home every night. I know. I checked through the peephole. Also, if Elsa is really into it I can hear the excitement as if I was next to her. Well technically, our rooms are back to back. My other immediate neighbour is Wesley. He is secretly in love with Elsa. Every night when Elsa brings home a new man and the sounds behind my bedroom wall, I get bored after a while and go to the lounge to make sure everything is in place and fetch my headphones before going to bed. That's where I hear Wesley on the side of the wall, sitting in his lounge and crying over a lost love. Then there's Mrs. Norrix. She is seventy five years old, but likes to think she's 16. Mr. Norrix kicked the bucket before I moved into the apartment shortly after I moved in. Don't judge me. I didn't ask him to walk into the wet hallway just after I had mopped. Mopping was essential. Probably they hadn't mopped the hallway since the apartments were built. I couldn't stand dirt. So everyday at exactly seven in the morning, I mopped the hallway and all the way down the steps all the way to my own postbox. If my pathway was clean I could be content. Right, let's move on to the Rudd's. The reason I'm in this predicament in the first place. They moved in just three months ago and also caused havoc. Staying just across the hallway, and next door to Mrs. Norrix in the bigger apartments, and also the apartments with the better view, I am convinced that they moved in just to toss my life upside down. They were over friendly and wanted to get in your space all the time. Boundaries! They had one kid, a little pig-tailed girl that everyone on our floor seemed to dote on. I mean, what was so special about the kid anyway. I guess I should be grateful they didn't leave her with me. I just got stuck with the bird. Anyways, I think Mrs, Norrix was secretly super wealthy and rolling the bucks or something, because she invited everyone on the floor for an all expenses paid trip to some holiday resort. What did she expect? I don't know. That she would get some tips from Elsa on how to get shagged, or maybe that Wesley would be the one shagging her? I really don't know... Why she would invite the Rudd's is beyond me and how they fit into her plan. She probably did have a plan. Maybe she needed them to pretend she was the granny type. I really don't know. Back to the bird. So, obviously, with everyone on the floor gone, what were they going to do with the bird? Of course, everyone knew that I never ventured past the post boxes so I was the perfect candidate to keep the bird. But the problem was, oh there were many problems, who was I kidding. I already said that I didn't like pets. I hate sharing my space with anything else, I didn't even keep plants. Everything in my apartment had its place and was kept out of sight, otherwise I broke out in hives. And that was precisely what happened when I opened my door at seven this morning to mop the hallway. I was greeted by the Rudd's bird, his large, overbearing cage and a packet of bird-food or seeds or something. Of course I shut my door as soon as I realised there was a thing on my doorstep. I didn't do well with people, or pets, or plants, or rodents, or anything really. I only knew what I knew and wanted what I wanted. I don't know. I really don't know how they expected me to look after a bird. After a while, the bird started creating a racket. I put my headphones on and played Chopin's Minute Waltz on full blast. When it ended I decided to check the hallway again, loudly praying that it would all be a nightmare. BIG mistake! The dumb bird was still there. So I shut the door again. That's when the hives flared up. The bird started making silly squawking noises, so I played Chopin's farewell waltz piece this time in the hopes that the bird would bid farewell to out apartment building. I don't know how long I kept the headphones on, but besides the itching due to the hives, I was starting to get irritable and edgy because I could continue with my normal daily routine and that was messing with me big time. It was also right about this time that my battery died on the headphones and I heard the bird screeching, "Open the door, Sheldon Pooper, Sheldon Pooper, Sheldon Pooper!" That was it! I opened my door with such force, it banged against my wall and caused a chip in the paint. Now that would haunt me for the rest of my life because I was too afraid to take a walk to the hardware store to buy paint. I also refused to buy online from paces I didn;t know because I needed to screen who came to my apartment door. And they wouldn;t just leave the paint in the postbox like they do with bread and milk every Monday morning at 8, precisely the time I'm done wiping down the postbox. The bird was now making a song out of the name the floor nicked me. I didn't particularly care about the name, secretly it made me a little proud to be called after somebody on TV. What irked me was that this bird was literally begging for me to confront it. I really, really don't know. I have never even said two words to anyone in the hallway. Not Elsa, nor Wesley or the Rudds, and not even Mrs. Norrix when Mr. Norrix slipped on the wet hallway, bumped his head and bled to death. I just continued to mop around him. That;s when it hit me. I grabbed my bucket, measured out exactly 2 scoops of washing powder and exactly 6 jugs of water. On the way out I collected the mop from the cleaning closet and proceeded to continue my daily routine. If the bird's cage should fall while I was on duty then I would treat it exactly like Mr. Norrix. For the first time in a long time, I actually knew.

The residents of Cottonwood Grove didn't like change. They or their ancestors had lived and died in the small community by the river for over two hundred years. Occasionally a member of the population would go to college and return with a new spouse. Usually, the community accepted the spouse. Nedra attended college in the closest big city. After graduation, she returned, married to a handsome man from that city. Everyone liked Wendell. He laughed at all the old jokes and told some well-worn jokes himself. He was always available to help with fieldwork and never complained about the hard work. April of the following year was very, very dry. In most years, the sky was heavy with dark clouds, and people worried about floods. This year the sky stayed a pristine blue and didn't shed a drop of rain. It was natural for the residents to look to the river. The banks were overflowing from the snowmelt in the high country. "We could divert the river to irrigate our crops," Mayor Donald Dean proposed during an emergency meeting. "Great idea! Let's vote," Adam Adamson shouted. Adam was one of the largest farmers in the area. Everyone knew that faced financial ruin if he didn't have a crop to sell. He purchased his land on credit, and he was stretched too thin. No one voted against diverting the river. The residents started the monumental task the next day. Fear of starvation and impoverishment drove the population to work quickly. Even five-year-old children helped by bringing sandwiches and water to the workers. In only two weeks, they were ready to divert the river. A large steel gate would reroute the precious water to trenches leading to the fields. The community arrived for the ceremony. Mayor Dean wanted to give a short speech before diverting the river. "We can all pat ourselves on the back. Every one of us has worked hard to save ourselves from disaster. Let's divert the river!" Sirens filled the air. "Stop!" A man in a black business suit shouted as he jumped out of a black SUV. He was waving a gun. "Don't touch that gate!" Men were starting to enter the river, but they halted at the sight of the gun-waving official. A woman stepped out of the government-issued SUV. She was waving her government identification. "Where's your permit? You will need a permit to divert the river. It's against the law to steal water from the people downstream," the woman shouted at the residents of Cottonwood Grove. The residents stared at the woman in stunned silence. Finally, Adam Adamson asked, "How do we get a permit?" "You need to hire engineers from the city to study the effects of taking water from the river. The engineers will also study the effects that the river water will have on your crops," the government woman answered. "How long will that take?" Mayor Dean asked the officials. "It shouldn't take longer than four or five years," the government man answered. "Five years!" The residents whispered to each other. "It only took two weeks to did all the trenches!" "How did you know we were diverting the river?" Adam asked. "We have eyes and ears everywhere. We received an anonymous tip." The government woman was smug. More government vehicles arrived, blowing the dry dirt into a cloud of dust. "These are our guards," the government man explained. "They have orders to shoot anyone who comes within twenty feet of this gate." The residents started to disperse, hoping to think of another way to save their crops. "Do you think we have a snitch in our community?" Mayor Dean asked the residents gathered in the Cottonwood grove. It was dark, but a few people met unofficially to discuss the fate of their community. "It's suspicious," Adam stated. "The government officials arrived, right when we were going to move the gate. Can anyone think of another reason for their untimely arrival?" Sean Wilson spoke, "I think Wendell is the spy." Murmurs of disbelief filled the air. "Let me finish!" Sean was shouting. "Wendell is from the city. The river supplies water to the city. I'm sure that he has friends and family living in the city that need water. There isn't another soul that has a better motive." Adam was thoughtful, "It makes sense, but Wendell has always been helpful. He worked by my side last fall when I needed help with the harvest. He was at the meeting when we voted to divert the river." "This drought will hurt his wife's family as much as it will hurt us." Another disbelieving voice came from those gathered. "I think that is another motive. We all know Edward, Nedra's father. It can't be easy having Edward and his volatile temper for a father-in-law." "Let's pay Wendell a visit!" The suggestion was met with approval by all those gathered. Nedra and Wendell were discussing the day's events when they were interrupted by the pounding on their front door. "I wonder who that is," Nedra said. "It's much too late for a social call." "Stay here; I'll see who it is." Wendell got up from the couch to answer the door. An angry mob was waiting for him. "You won't get away with this!" Wendell thought he recognized Sean Wilson's voice. "I won't get away with what?" Wendell was confused because he hadn't done anything. "We know that you called the government! You don't want us to divert the river." The anger in Adam's voice was unmistakable. "What are you saying? I want to divert the river. The livelihood of my family depends on getting water to the crops." Wendell defended himself. "How about your family in the city. I'll bet that they need water also," Adam challenged. "The city gets its water from a well. They don't drink river water." Wendell explained. "Let's string him up!" It was impossible to tell who made that suggestion. Nedra walked to Wendell's side when she heard those words. "Wait! Wendell is a rainmaker! You can't hurt him!" Nedra panicked and said the first thing that came to her mind. "A rainmaker! Why hasn't he done something to make it rain before now. We've been in this drought for over a month," Adam asked. Wendell looked at Nedra, hoping she had an answer. He wasn't a rainmaker. He had never heard of a rainmaker. "He can't bring rain unless he's asked. None of you asked him to make it rain." Wendell was impressed by his wife's quick thinking. "All right! Wendell, will you make it rain?" Adam asked. Wendell hoped his wife had an answer. "We need to meet every night at dusk for three nights," Nedra spoke before Wendell could think of something to say. Nedra was gone the next day. She told Wendell that she needed to do some research. Wendell hoped that she was researching how to make it rain. He was starting to panic when the sun started dropping in the sky. "Are you ready to go to the Cottonwood grove," Nedra asked when she came home. Wendell was so relieved to see her that he forgot to ask if she had a plan. Most of the residents were already waiting when they got to the cluster of Cottonwood trees. "Let's get started," Mayor Dean announced. Wendell looked at Nedra, who nodded. "Tonight we need to look to the sky and repeat, 'Please let it rain.' Think about clouds heavy with water." At first, nobody said a word. "Everyone; rainmaking needs to be a group effort." Wendell was surprisingly calm. "We have nothing to lose," Adam said. He looked to the sky and said, Please rain." Soon most of the residents joined in. Nedra noticed that Sean Wilson was looking at the dirt, and he wasn't saying anything. After an hour, Wendell said, "meet here again tomorrow at the same time." "Bring an umbrella!" Nedra instructed when everyone turned to leave. Nedra said she had more research to do the next day. Wendell hoped she knew what she was doing. "Open your umbrellas," Wendell instructed the crowd at dusk. "Please rain," Wendell peered around his umbrella to look at the sky. Nedra examined the crowd. She noticed that Sean Wilson didn't bring an umbrella, and he wasn't speaking. "I'll see all of you tomorrow night," Wendell said after an hour. "Sean, you need to bring an umbrella," Nedra called out. Adam turned to Sean, "I don't care if you believe, but you need to bring an umbrella. We need rain!" Sean muttered something inarticulate and stomped off. "Do you need to do research today?" Wendell asked Nedra. "No, I know everything that I need to know for tonight," she reassured her husband. They didn't speak much that day. Wendell was justifiably nervous. Nedra was preoccupied until it was time to go. "This is it," Wendell said. "If the crowd starts getting ugly, I want you to run to your father. Most people are afraid of his temper, so he will be able to keep the angry crowd away. You should be safe." Nedra smiled a bit mysteriously, "don't worry. Everything will work out." The crowd was waiting. "Open your umbrellas," Wendell instructed. Nedra spoke up, "Sean, didn't your grandfather own most of the land that Adam is farming?" Sean was belligerent. "What difference does that make?" He held up his umbrella. Nedra had never seen one that large. "You shamed me into bringing an umbrella, and I have. Leave me alone." But Nedra wasn't done. "Haven't you tried to buy your family's land from Adam, but he won't sell?" Adam answered, "Sean hasn't made a reasonable offer for the land. His offer has been less than a tenth of what I paid for it." "Do you think you can get the land cheap if the drought continues?" Nedra wasn't letting the subject drop. "I didn't cause the drought!" Sean shouted. "No, but you did call the government authorities. You didn't want us to use the river to irrigate our crops. I was able to hack into the telephone records. I discovered that you made several calls to the officials that stopped the irrigation project." Nedra took a deep breath before adding, "then you tried to blame my husband. I can't forgive that." "I don't need to listen to your accusations!" Sean turned to leave. The crowd was stunned. He turned back to face Nedra when he reached the edge of the gathering. "This stupid rain ceremony was probably your idea. You want all of us to look like fools!" He waved his giant umbrella. The deafening thunder was simultaneous with at the blinding lightning struck. The residents lifted faces to feel the water pouring from the skies. It was a few minutes before anyone recovered enough from the bright lightning to see anything around them. "Sean was struck!" Someone shouted. "Is he still alive?" Another person asked. "No, there is no pulse." Mayor Dean bent over Sean. "Someone help me get his body out of the rain."

Under normal circumstances, Enzo wouldn’t talk to strangers on elevators. He would lean against the cold metal, gripping the bronze handle to the point of white knuckles, and hum along to the cheesy music under his breath. But these weren’t normal circumstances. He entered the platform, his bulking figure taking up almost half of the space. Cradling the bag of pistachios with one hand, he used the other to type in the floor number. As the doors were closing, he heard a grunt from behind them. A thin, scrawny man skittered into the elevator just before the doors slid into place. The man had a gaunt face with an uncontrollable case of quavering. In his hand, he dragged a big black trash bag. He cleared his dry throat and turned away. A shinier version of himself appeared in the gray metal before him. And, despite Enzo’s disgust, he hugged the trash bag close to his chest. Enzo was a statue, sizing up the man from three feet away. He tossed another pistachio into his mouth, the loud crunch bouncing off the walls. Floating uselessly around the elevator was the Pink Panther theme song, which Enzo thought was very fitting. Considering the rat man across from him was probably holding stolen goods. Throwing pistachio after pistachio into his mouth, Enzo finally noticed the man staring at him with his snack, licking his dry lips every so often. Enzo was suspicious of strangers, but he wasn’t gonna let him starve. “Here,” Enzo said, flinging a hazel seed in his direction. The man caught it in his wrinkled hands, devouring it and then licking up the excess salt. He was too invested in the small kindness to say thank you. Enzo shifted on his feet. “So when’s the last time you’ve eaten?” “Not long ago,” the man stuttered, and Enzo realized he was actually younger than he appeared. “Why are you here?” Enzo asked, just as the elevator jerked to a stop and the music cut out like somebody had muted the world. The man cursed clearly, not bothering to give Enzo an apologetic look. He inched over to the array of buttons, randomly punching them with his palm. None of them lit up. He groaned, returning quickly to his black plastic bag which he had left unguarded. “You’re a thief, aren’t you?” The man ignored Enzo once again, banging his fists against the elevator. “Touché,” he muttered, but it was lost in the hopeless pounds for help. “What’s in the trash bag?” Enzo asked, his eyes glued to it. The man turned to face him, beads of sweat dripping down his face. “Help me. The power is out. We need to make noise.” Enzo dropped a pistachio that was headed for his mouth. “What? Really?” he strode over to the man, slamming his outstretched hands on the metal. “ Help !” he screamed, “ Help, help, help !” The man covered his ears and scrunched up his nose. They were stuck. An hour later, both pairs of hands were sore, and they were almost out of pistachios. They lay at the bottom of the elevator, sprawled out. Enzo’s ginormous build next to the man’s tiny one. By then, Enzo was convinced he was going crazy. His hand was intertwined with the other man’s. “So what’s your name? Mine is Enzo.” “Enzo,” the man echoed, “my name is Logan.” Enzo frowned, “I’ve heard that name before.” “Have you?” Logan asked, biting down on one of their last seeds. Enzo was quiet. All he could think about was the dull elevator ceiling, too-salty pistachios, and his large hand holding Logan’s shriveled one. He thought about his life, and how great it was going to get. But now they were stuck in a small elevator, headed nowhere, and they were probably going to die. “You’re new to this city,” Logan noticed. Enzo sighed, “Yeah. I was just moving in. To this building, actually.” “Hmm,” Logan picked excess pistachio out of the crevasses in his mouth. “But you were headed to Mr. Jones’ office. The last floor. Why?” Enzo’s eyebrows raised slightly at Logan’s observations. “I’m about to pick up my key.” Logan smiled. “I’m about to drop off my key.” “You’re leaving the city?” “Yeah. I came here with big dreams. It’s been three years, and I’ve accomplished nothing at all. Moving back in with my parents.” Logan bit his lip, grasping a handle of the trash bag. Enzo blinked slowly. “So what’s in the bag?” “My stuff.” “Oh.” Enzo couldn’t believe he thought this guy was a criminal before. “Don’t leave,” he blurted out before his tongue could catch the nonsense. Caring about strangers was probably one of the side effects of starvation. He honestly couldn’t think at the moment. A smile stretched on Logan’s lips. “I have to leave.” “No, you don’t.” “Yes, I do.” “Nope.” “Shut up.” Logan ended the conversation with his arms folded across his chest. Loud voices called Enzo out of his sleep. He couldn’t remember falling asleep, but his hand was still twisted with Logan’s, who was snoring loudly. “Can you hear us?” someone shouted from beyond the elevator. Logan twitched awake. Enzo’s jaw was dropped open. “Yes, we can hear you!” he called. Logan’s eyes were wide, although he was still groggy. “Saved?” he asked, yawning. “Saved,” Enzo confirmed, getting to his feet. He helped Logan up too. The voice came on again. “This is the city fire department. We’re here to help. What we need you to do is try and push the doors apart. We’ll be pushing from the other side. If there is anyone who should not be pushing because of injuries, we ask you to just stay still.” Both Enzo and Logan pushed. It wasn’t enough. “Step back, Logan,” Enzo commanded. Logan refused. Enzo picked him up by the back of his shirt and set him down next to the trash bag. Logan wailed like a child. He then rammed into the doors and used his thick fingers to pry them open. They squeaked and metal scraped against metal. Finally, the doors slid aside. Logan yelped, scurrying out of the elevator with his bag, past the firefighters, and onto the marble ground. He kissed it repeatedly. Enzo wiped sweat off his forehead and stepped outside the elevator. A fireman grabbed his arm and led him to a corner. “Here,” he handed him bottled water. “You okay? We got the power working again.” Enzo inhaled slowly. He nodded, but was actually feeling the opposite. Heading over to Logan, he grabbed the tiny man’s arm. “Let’s go.” “Wait,” Logan said, standing up. “You’re here to collect the key for apartment 17A, right?” Confusion crossed Enzo’s face. “How’d you--” “Here,” Logan put his palm flat on Enzo’s and he could feel something small and metal. A key. The realization dawned on Enzo a moment too late. “I’m moving into your old apartment.” He exhaled in an unnecessarily rushed way. “The sink leaks,” was all Logan said before hauling his trash bag into another vacant elevator. “Wait!” Enzo exclaimed, darting forward to stop him. But Logan had already pressed the button. His smile was faraway, and it disappeared as soon as the elevator doors clicked close.

Content warning: homophobia, child sexual abuse I understand that I will never see Father Felix again. I will never again hear the gaiety in his laugh, see the brilliance of his smile, hear the great charisms in his sermons, or eat any of the bread that he has turned into God. We have loads of bread at the church. That is where we go to think about God. God is the one who made our mothers give birth to us. He did the same thing to their mothers. Father Felix’s job is to turn the bread into God so that we and all our mothers can eat Him. Father Felix had plenty of other jobs, too. He was a busy man. He would organize retreats and food drives and pancake breakfasts and bring the bread that he turned into God to people who were too ill to come to the place where we think about God. My favorite job that Father Felix did was talking to whoever was supposed to admit things to him. I would see Father Felix once or twice a week to admit things to him and he would tell me that it was alright. * * * Me and Father Felix both had parts called a “dick” that could turn girls into mothers. Lots of people have them. If I touch mine too much by myself, God wants me to go tell Father Felix and then he will tell me that it’s alright. I touch it too much every few days because it is very hard not to, but then I go see Father Felix and he tells me that it’s alright. He does this for all the other people my age who have dicks. Most people with dicks tend to touch them too much every few days. Every time I go to the church to tell Father Felix about how I touched it too much the other day, there is always a long line of other people with dicks waiting there to do the same. We have chemicals in our heads that make us want to turn girls into mothers, but if we just touch our dicks too much instead, the chemicals don’t know the difference. Girls don’t want you to turn them into mothers all the time, so the people with dicks usually just touch themselves too much instead and the chemicals stop for a little while. Then we go tell Father Felix and he says it’s alright. One time he told me that I didn’t need to admit things so often and that I could just come once every month or so, but I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t too awkward or unpleasant, admitting things to Father Felix. He would always say it was alright and that God loved me greatly. It felt nice to hear someone who could turn bread into God tell me that God loved me. He meant it, too. When Father Felix said that God loved someone, he really, truly believed it. I’ve never seen anyone believe it as much as he did. There wasn’t a single person I knew who didn’t love Father Felix. Probably because every time he saw you, he would tell you how God loved you, and he didn’t even care if you had a dick or if you touched it too much every few days. * * * Father Felix is never allowed to turn any girl into a mother. Most other people can, if they go with the girl they love to the place where people think about God and get permission to. Several years ago, Father Felix went to the place where people think about God to get permission to turn bread into God. That permission was granted, but only on the condition that he never turn any girl into a mother. * * * I will never eat any bread that Father Felix turned into God again. I will never again tell him that I touched my dick too much the other day. None of the people with dicks who are usually in line to admit things to Father Felix will ever see him again, either. He didn’t die. He isn’t even very old. Father Felix will probably live a few more decades for all I know. We can’t see him anymore because they kicked him out of the place where people think about God. A lot of people who can turn bread into God have been kicked out because they did abhorrent things to children. Some of them got to stay. Some people who can turn bread into God have been kicked out because they tried to make girls into mothers. Father Felix never did anything abhorrent to children. Father Felix never tried to make any girl into a mother, either. He didn’t even want to, and the chemicals in his head didn’t make him want to. Father Felix got kicked out because the chemicals in his head made him want to be in love with a person who had a dick. Most people in the place where we think about God don’t want people with dicks to be in love with other people with dicks, so sometimes they get kicked out or told to go somewhere else. All the people who can turn bread into God have dicks, so none of them are allowed to be in love with people who have dicks. That’s why Father Felix got kicked out and that’s why I will never see Father Felix again. * * * I’m not happy with the people at the place where I think about God who kicked him out. I think I am mostly alone. The other people there liked Father Felix, too, and they loved when he told them that God loved them, but they could never stomach eating bread that was turned into God by someone with a dick who wanted to be in love with someone else with a dick. That sort of thing cannot be tolerated at the place where we go to think about God. Sometimes, I don’t know if I really want to keep going there to think about God. I wish they didn’t care if Father Felix liked when other people had dicks. It is becoming increasingly hard for me to bring myself to care. If Father Felix didn’t want to love a person with a dick, I might see him again. But I won’t. I won’t ever admit things to him again, so I will have to find someone else to admit things to. Someone else will hear from me and from all the other people with dicks about how we touch them too much sometimes and then they will tell us that it’s alright. Someone else will turn bread into God and we will eat Him. Someone else will tell me that God loves me, but I’m not sure if they will mean it as much as Father Felix did. I’m not sure I will believe it as much as I did when Father Felix was the one saying it.

Brilliant white evaporates before my eyes, the tendrils languidly dribble back into the suit. I reflect the stars momentarily as the metal washes over me, then it drains away into nothing. Me jogs my body back across the heath to the bungalow, bangs in through the front door and heads upstairs. He gathers his body up from the floor and presses a point on his chest. I slump down at his feet and he wakes, pushes me to the side with a boot and stands. ‘I’m, me?’ I say, looking at my hands. ‘All fixed,’ me says. ‘No leaks, no more blind hopping about fucking with normality.’ He peers blearily at one of the screens, ‘I’m sorry, mate, I’ve gotta go,’ he says, ‘looks like 172465988-795822-8-4 has a case of rogue particles again.’ ‘Right,’ I say, rising to my feet. ‘Right,’ me says, awkwardly, ‘this path’s a hugging path, yes?’ He embraces me, patting my back and smoothing my head. ‘People hug,’ I say, dazed. ‘Good, OK, well, you gotta go,’ he says, and harries me from the room. I wander out of the bungalow and stop on the gravel of the driveway as a whirr begins behind me. I look round and the entire house blinks out of existence and a giant, silver sphere appears in its place. A tiny door opens in the side of the sphere and my clothes are unceremoniously chucked out. They land all over where the roof should be, hanging flat against thin air. ‘Sorry, mate, forgot,’ me shouts, waves, ‘bye,’ then the door closes and the sphere disappears and there’s just the bungalow with my clothes scattered all over the roof. I feel a chill breeze bite at my nethers. I am completely naked. Thankfully there’s a ladder at the side of the garage, so I rest it up against the house and clamber onto the roof. I teeter across the angled surface, tiles shifting beneath my bare feet, slipping on wet moss. I collect all my belongings together, wrap them into a tight bundle and make my way back towards the ladder, then I freeze as two people, a man and a woman, walk out of the front door and crunch out onto the gravel. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ the couple say in unison as they catch sight of me. The couple who were passed out in a bed, full of wires, not a moment ago. I turn on my heel and leg it up and over the roof and skid down the other side, skinning my feet on the tiles. I vault off the gutter and down onto a patio, tweak my ankle and hobble the length of the garden. I throw myself through a mercifully thorn-free hedge and head for the forest. Eventually I stop and pull on my clothes then double back, dodging quickly by the bungalow and jogging through the village. The winding roads eventually lead me to the station and I hop on the first train anywhere. I’m exhausted. As soon as my body makes contact with the seat I sink into unconsciousness. I see myself, and myself again, in lines, moving in and out of time with one another. The lines bend around me, arcing above and below in great, gently revolving rings and spheres. The floor is liquid, shifting hexagonal patterns constructed from various iterations of my face. One foot forward sends a ripple through the floor and faces merge and dissipate. It all moves together. Another step and the entire endless, fractal expanse, tears and reshapes and expands and contracts around me. It’s all me. I begin to run, through a black tunnel lit with my eyes, through a tulip of squirming bodies, exploding back in on itself, my features twist and blur with every step. I’m coming apart. Faster and faster. I am a part. It’s all me. Whirling in unison. The whole universe, curled up tight inside of us. Looking back at itself. Who am I? I open my eyes. ‘Here I am.

The first thing I'm posting here, a little made-up dialogue I wrote. please tell me what you thought. “Well? What are you waiting for? You came so far, here I am, kill me.” “I didn’t come here to kill today; I came to stop what you are doing.” “Stop me? I’m not doing anything.” “Then who is trying to overthrow my father?” “Not me, as you can see, I am right here, it’s your people at gathering at the castle’s gates.” “Fueled by your ideas!” “I can’t take all the credit, I just said what everyone was thinking.” “Lies! My father is a good man, he is a worthy king.” “I don’t know your father, I never said he was evil. All I know is what he has done to us.” “Building libraries? Expanding this kingdom? Peace with our neighbors?” “Raising our taxes! Sending our friends and family to death in his name! more useless feast!” “My father is doing the best for this kingdom!” “Your father has blinded you.” “Hatred blinded you.” “Is that so? As we both see I am not the only one thinking your father should be dethroned “ “Stop this madness at once!” “Or else?” “They will die, you will die, your little coup attempt will fail.” “They might die, I may die, that is correct, I am very aware of this.” “So, you’ll stop them?” “No” “Why?” “Because this will prove my point.” “Explain yourself.” “The king is cruel.” “My father is a good man.” ”He’ll kill thousands of people to keep his seat, is that what a kind person will do?” “Will a good person gather thousands for a suicide mission?” “I never claimed to be kind, I’m starting what needs to be done.” “Starting?” “Yes, of course, I don’t expect to be the new king.” “Why?” “I am starting a coup against a tyrant; I will either die by your sword or the executioner’s axe.” “Then why doing all this?” “Because that’s what right.” “This attempt will die tonight, with you and the rest of the peasants.” “Nope” “How can you be so sure?” “These ideas are spread all around the kingdom, we are the first wave.” “And the last” “After the news will spread, about how the king massacred all those people, you think everyone will stay quiet?” “If they want to stay alive, yes.” “Like father like son” “I am proud to be like my father.” “You are proud to keep the citizens silent out of fear.” “Is that what you think about my father?” “It’s the truth.” “What my father has done to you?” “Personally, nothing” “Then why do you hate him so much?” “Same reasons as everyone.” “You’re all ungrateful.” “Have you lived one day as a peasant?” “Have you been burdened with the commitments of a king?” “No, but a king must see his people before himself.” “Why do you think he sent me here to stop you then?” “To stay alive and in his throne.” “To keep all these people alive!” “So he sent you?” “Yes, to negotiate. but you won’t listen.” “It’s hard to negotiate when there’s a sword to my neck.” “Same goes for me.

In the depths of a sprawling mansion, nestled among the ancient trees, lived a man named Victor. His imposing residence, once filled with life and laughter, had now become a haunting echo of its former glory. Victor, a solitary figure, found himself tormented by his own demons--fears of failure, hopelessness, and a creeping anxiety that seemed to consume his every waking moment. One fateful evening, as Victor roamed the dimly lit corridors, a flicker of movement caught his eye. A shadow danced along the walls, followed by the scuttling of tiny legs. His heart quickened, and a cold sweat dripped down his brow. There, on the edge of his vision, he glimpsed a monstrous spider--a creature of nightmares that seemed to defy the laws of nature. Its body was massive, its legs extended like jagged daggers. The creature's eyes glowed with a malevolent hunger, and its chittering whispers echoed through the empty halls. Victor's heart pounded in his chest as the arachnid vanished, only to reappear in his periphery moments later. The spider, an embodiment of his deepest fears, haunted him relentlessly. It appeared in his dreams, its presence seeping into every waking thought. He became consumed by an overwhelming sense of dread, his sanity hanging by a thread. Night after night, the spider grew bolder, inching closer to Victor's refuge. Its presence was suffocating, a constant reminder of his fears and failures. Each time he caught a glimpse of its monstrous form, his anxiety deepened, suffusing his soul with an oppressive darkness. Determined to regain control, Victor sought answers within the depths of his mansion. He delved into forgotten tomes and ancient scrolls, desperate for a way to rid himself of the haunting spider. The pages whispered tales of curses and malevolent spirits, but offered no solace. One evening, as Victor stood before a hidden bookshelf, a revelation struck him--a single volume, concealed behind a layer of dust. Its faded title, "Conquering the Shadows Within," beckoned to him, promising a glimmer of hope. The book revealed an ancient ritual, a desperate gambit to overcome one's deepest fears. Driven by desperation, Victor gathered the required ingredients--a vial of his own blood, a lock of hair, and a fragment of his shattered dreams. In the dimly lit chamber of his mansion, he performed the ritual, the air crackling with dark energy. As the final incantation left his lips, the very fabric of reality seemed to tear asunder. From the shadows emerged a grotesque creature--a reflection of Victor's inner turmoil and the manifestation of his darkest fears. The spider, magnified tenfold, towered over him, its looming presence threatening to devour him whole. But in that terrifying moment, a fire ignited within Victor. His fear transformed into determination, and he refused to succumb to the torment any longer. With a newfound resolve, he armed himself with a flamethrower--an instrument of destruction forged from his defiance. The spider lunged, its fangs dripping with venom, but Victor stood firm. He unleashed a torrent of flame, the searing heat consuming the arachnid's monstrous form. Its chittering cries filled the chamber, echoing through the mansion's hollow halls. As the flames engulfed the creature, Victor watched his fears crumble to ash. In the aftermath, Victor surveyed the scorched remains, his breath ragged. The weight of his anxieties lifted, replaced by a newfound sense of liberation. He had faced the horrors that lurked within, conquering the darkness that threatened to consume him. With the spider vanquished, Victor's mansion seemed to awaken from its slumber. Light returned to the once-dim corridors, and life echoed through the long-forgotten rooms. As the shadows retreated, Victor's spirit soared, no longer held captive by his fears. From that day forward, Victor embraced life with a renewed vigor. He opened the doors of his mansion, welcoming others into its restored grandeur. The haunted echoes were replaced with laughter and joy--a testament to one man's journey through darkness and his triumphant emergence into the light. And as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting its warm glow upon the mansion's walls, Victor stood in the doorway, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. He had conquered his fears, vanquished the spider, and emerged from the depths of his own despair--a beacon of hope for all who struggled with their own shadows.

Verity turned the key in the driver’s door of her red Taurus. It unlocked with a snick. She opened the door and pressed the unlock button to let her boyfriend Daniel in. The pair settled in on the tan seats. Daniel shivered; the leather was cold through his jeans. The trek across campus to the student parking lot had left them both chilled, and while the car provided protection from the wind, it did nothing to actually warm them. Verity turned the key in the ignition; the car whined a bit before it came to life. Classical music streamed softly out the speakers. “I think I failed the chem exam,” Daniel said as they waited for the engine to warm up. Verity rolled her eyes. “You say that every time and come out with an A.” “No, seriously, this time I think I really fail...can you hear that?” Daniel interrupted himself. Verity shook her head. They went back and forth about Daniel’s chemistry insecurity, and his math insecurity, and his geography insecurity. “Well, Mr. Straight A’s, when you start failing a class like I am in Calculus, then you can talk to me about academic anxiety.” “You’re not failing Calculus. You have a C. Do you hear that?” Daniel looked to his left, to his right, then to his left again trying to find the source of the sound. “I don’t hear anything,” Verity said, laughing. He looked like he was going to cross a street. “And a C is totally failing.” “It’s not failing. And we’re only, like, barely past midterms. You have time to bring it up. Professor Sparling is big on extra credit. Last term, Fred --you’ve met Fred, right?-- skipped half the semester and turned in enough extra credit to scrape a passing grade. And, really, you don’t hear that?” “A C is the same as an F to my parents. And, no, I still don’t hear whatever it is.” Finally the engine was warm enough to go. Verity shifted into reverse and backed out of her parking space. Her tires spun in the gravel and for the brief moment before they gained traction she thought she’d somehow hit a patch of ice. The university’s parking lot was huge. They made several turns before making it to the paved section of the lot. It took two more turns before they finally reached the driveway that lead out onto J Street. Daniel flicked on the heater and held his bare hands up in front of the vents. “Why is it so cold? It’s only October,” complained Daniel as Verity turned east toward town. “Because global warming is a hoax. It’s actually global cooling. The whole thing is orchestrated by the Chinese to get the United States to stop working on technological advancements and come up with alternatives to plastic straws and diesel engines instead, and possibly freeze to death in the process.” Daniel chuckled. Verity’s sense of humor was one of his favorite things about her. That, and her smile. He looked at her hands on the steering wheel and envied her thick, blue gloves. “Did you make a list of everything we need for the project?” “I thought you did.” “I guess we should make a list then so we don’t forget anything.” Daniel wrestled his phone out of the zippered pocket of his jacket. He pulled up the Notepad app and typed with one hand, leaving the other in front of the vent. “Styrofoam balls, toothpicks, paint,” he listed off. “Notecards, you don’t hear that?” “I hear the engine and Beethoven’s Fifth.” “It’s a ticking.” “It’s a ringing in your ears. Write down ‘paintbrushes’.” Daniel typed that in, then switched which hand was in front of the vent. Verity gently braked and rolled to a stop at a traffic signal. “We need a thin Sharpie, too,” Daniel added to the list. “Seriously, you don’t hear that?” Verity shook her head, paused, and held up a finger. Possibly she did hear it. The light turned green and the sound of the car accelerating overshadowed anything she may have heard. “Not knowing what that noise is is going to kill me. When you stop at the 9th Avenue stop sign, stay stopped until you hear it.” Three blocks later Verity stopped the car at the intersection of J and 9th. She checked her mirror, and when she saw no one behind her, she kept her foot on the brake and listened. She inclined her head and scrunched up her face in concentration. “I finally heard it,” she said, easing onto the gas and turning right on the one-way street. “Maybe the CD in the player is vibrating?” Reluctantly, Daniel moved his hand from in front of the warm air long enough to hit the power button on the stereo. The music cut off; the pair listened. “I still hear it,” said Daniel. He left the CD player off, however, in order to better hear the noise. He also didn’t want to move his hand again. His fingers were finally starting to feel less like sausages. “Maybe it’s the heater,” Verity suggested. “Turn it off and see if you hear it.” “I will freeze to death if I turn the heater off,” protested Daniel. “You will not. Just give it a try.” He argued back, “I heard it before the heater was on.” “Well, I didn’t. Give it a try.” “Absolutely not.” Verity sighed and turned the heater knob to off. She didn’t understand why a Louisiana boy would come to rural, upstate New York for college. Especially one that was such a baby about the cold. “I still hear it. Can we turn the heat back on?” “You hardly listened at all.” “It’s incessant and annoying. I can’t believe you can barely hear it. I’m going to get frostbite.” Verity scoffed but turned the heat on anyway. They’d been in the car long enough for it to warm up considerably; Verity knew, though, that Daniel wouldn’t be comfortable until she was absolutely roasting. “Has Walmart always been this far away?” “No. Last week it was a five minute drive instead of fifteen. Walmart was bored Friday night, didn’t have a date, so it got up and walked a few miles.” “How much longer, Ver? I think pneumonia’s creeping into my lungs.” “We’ve been driving for about seven minutes, and you’re not getting pneumonia. You’ve been blasting the heat for those seven minutes and it’s gotta be at least 60 degrees in here by now and you’re wearing a heavy coat for cryin’ out loud.” Daniel harrumphed. The native New Yorker he was in love with would never understand the plight of his thin Southern blood. The constant tick was grating on his nerves, bothering him almost more than the temperature. “Did it just get louder?” he wondered aloud. “Turn the music back on and drown it out.” “I need to know what it is.” “Why?” Verity did not understand his need to know. Annoyances were meant to be dealt with, circumvented, counteracted. How was prolonging it to satisfy curiosity better than just making it inaudible? She could barely hear it anyway. Daniel’s commentary about it was more annoying than the actual sound. She turned a sharp left onto Hill Road, which, though narrow and twisted, had not the slightest bit of incline. Daniel left her why unanswered and opened the glovebox looking for loose items that could be rattling. He pulled the car manual out. Under it he found three old insurance cards, a tire-pressure gauge, five nickels, a Dum-Dum lollipop, and a wrapper with chewed up gum. He pulled all of it out and listened for the noise. Still there, tick ticking away. He dumped everything back into the glovebox. He smacked his hand on the dashboard in frustration. “Yeah, that’ll help.” “C’mon. Help me figure it out.” Daniel groped around under the seat and in the pocket of the door. Then he turned his attention to the center console. There was only one thing inside. “Why do you have a Savage Garden cassette? You don’t have a tape deck.” “I took everything out of my old Toyota when I bought the Taurus. That car had a tape deck. I never really thought about it after I dropped it in.” “Do you have a clock in here?” Daniel asked suddenly. Verity pointed at the dash. “Not that one. Like a wind up clock.” “Why would I have a wind up clock in my car?” “You have a cassette tape in your car. I’ll take that as a no on the clock. How about a clock watch?” “A clock watch? As opposed to what, a sundial watch?” “Like a tick tock watch, not a numbers watch.” “Tick tock watch? How old are you? The words you’re looking for are analog and digital.” “Fine, Smarty Pants. At least I’m not failing Calculus.” “Harsh, and no, I don’t have a watch.” “Sorry. Well, not really since you know I’m joking. That noise is going to kill me, if hypothermia doesn’t get me first.” “Stop being so dramatic. We’re almost there. We’ll get out of the car, go shopping, you’ll forget all about the noise, and we probably won’t even hear it on the way home.” They pulled into the parking lot a minute later. Verity put the car in park in one of the closest spaces. Daniel grabbed her hand before she could reach for the key. He shushed her when she tried to protest. She looked at him expectantly. He finally gave up and shrugged. Verity turned the key. Without the sound of the engine in the background, the noise became more pronounced. Verity had expected it to stop. Daniel thought it sounded faster. There was a blinding flash and terrifying roar as the bomb detonated under the hood. Verity threw her arms out, but they didn’t stop the concussive force or hail of shrapnel. Daniel was stunned still as the world exploded around him and fire rolled through the car’s cabin. His last fleeting thought was, ‘Thank God it’s warm here.’

If there were ever an utterly inappropriate time to suddenly remember the song "The Wheels on the Bus go Round and Round"- It was definitely after the bus you were in ran someone over. Jolene thought as she unconsciously white-knuckled her bat. She looked back at the rest of her team as they all registered varying degrees of horror. It wasn't enough to survive a drive back from the NCAA softball tournament in Iowa, but to run someone over once they arrived on Del Playa boulevard? That was just fate delivering a bloody middle finger. The rest of the hand belonged to the NCAA after they revoked the medals after Darcy and the rest of the outfield tested positive for iguana testosterone. Jolene knew to have an Australian on the team was going to be trouble, she didn't think it would cost her the championship medal her senior year though. Tom, the portly driver, yelled and immediately slammed the bus to a halt. He sprung out of his seat like someone had rung the dinner bell. He opened the door, only to feel the teeth of a foaming frat boy sink into his generous neck. Tom's face twisted in pain and surprise as his blood across the first few windows of the bus. A fresh round of shrieks tore through the bus as Jolene stared in horror as four other button-ups joined the frat boy in his dinner snack. Smoke and screams rippled through the Del Playa Boulevard as the rhythmic bass of the Del Topia festival failed to drown out the immediate chaos. "Bats up, ladies!" Jolene barked at the rows behind her. Thirty pieces of hardwood popped up as she cautiously approached the open door that claimed Tom. "This isn't a drill, no bunts or short swings. These guys are animals out here, and we need to carve a path to the clubhouse." The screams surrounding the bus grew louder as it joined the sound of hundreds of desperate feet. "We don't know what's going on outside these doors, so new rules are in play. If they don't have a bat, they don't matter! Let's go!" Jolene shouted as she jumped into the chaos and cracked the first button up in her way. The rest of the team, clad in their warm-ups and bats followed her out the door. A few girls on edge shoved frantic runners away before Jolene took point and headed towards Uyesaka stadium. Darcy guarded the back as Jolene heard her outback insults cut through the din. "Move it, you fucking sheep! We're all screwed if you don't lift those knees, Brenda!" Jolene couldn't help but cackle as she delivered another homer as a sorority sister lunged at her face. "No rushing for me!" She howled as her Louisville slugger connected with a vicious crack. Jolene wasn't called Captain Thunder for nothing. The team fell into pods of threes as they broke through the crowd to campus. Their championship ears filtered out the screams like game day noise. The only voices that cut through the white noise were Darcy's and Jolene's. Their alternating barks kept the team on the path past the Storke field as they neared the stadium. The campus grounds opened up on all sides. They neared the relative security of the double reinforced doors of the clubhouse when a ragged girl with a single Birkenstock lunged at Jolene. Dani pivoted into the girl, and hip tossed her to the ground. The girl clawed onto Dani's ankle and took a bite before Jolene brought her bat down. "What the fuck?!" Dani screamed as Jolene pulled her up and hobbled towards the locker room together. Dark blood left a trail of pain that the rest of the team was careful to avoid. "Lock the door, Darcy! We don't want any of those psychos coming in." Jolene roared as Darcy shepherded the last of the team through the door. Stranded like the Maccabees, Jolene knew the team couldn't stay in the clubhouse forever. She looked around at the ashen faces that filled the once spotless room. Bats covered the floor as the girls stared at one another for answers. Answers that Captain Thunder didn't have.

Something Ive been writing for a couple of months. I'd really love some feedback! The story is kinda long. “Vinse Hannibal et non seppe usar' poi / Ben la vittoriosa sua ventura” -Petrarch, Sonnet 82 For a while now, there has been a beautiful woman named Eva. But everyone who knows Eva simply calls her “The Mannequin," owing to her astonishing beauty. Photographers from across the world have captured her soul thousands of times. She appears in magazines and medicine commercials, smiling and poised like a statue. Armies of photographers keep watch over her with soldierly diligence. Their mission is to catch her every pose. The seasons cycle passed her at a lethargic pace, while she sighs in boredom. Day after sickly dying day searches for room to bury itself in the skyline outside the studio window. The Mannequin wants nothing more than to be taken out of time: an almost-sexual experience to stem the hole which slowly drains her resolve out on the cold linoleum floor of the studio. Uncaring, the stiff-faced photographers illuminate her figure with their solar camera flashes. The camera shutters click, over and over. Meanwhile, she poses forlornly on a couch to make ends meet. It occurs to The Mannequin that she's forgotten what butterflies feel like. She thinks to herself that she's been caught in the monotony of the fashion world for too long, and she lets out another sigh. Her sapphire eyes finish their seductive gaze to contemplate the freezing, cream-colored floor. Her painted lips curl into a frown. She is lonely, but the photographers refuse to notice. Instead, their bulky professional cameras flash rapidly, irradiating the set like stars outlining her night black satin dress. They grunt like apes and cackle like hyenas, shuffling their feet around her with unyielding stares. The Mannequin can rarely see the studio past the line of photographers. They have her cornered. She is confined to a prison of human walls. Because of this, some of the photographers with a better eye for the camera shiver with orgasmic delight. They notice her captivity through their camera lenses, and they grin like newlywed grooms. She does not speak their language, nor does she share an eye for exploitation. The Mannequin knows only of her existence and the automatically visible. In the past, the Mannequin had dreams of being free. She thought that she saw ways out, cracks in the human wall that encases her. She’d marvel at glimpses of freedom, collecting the thin beams of white light that crawled through the prison walls and excitedly leapt to her eyes. The Mannequin would lose herself in such wild daydreams. Her mind wandered like a nomad on the Siberian steppe. She dreamt that she could transform into an agile mouse who could navigate the labyrinth of cold and shuffling loafers on the studio floor. But this was futile, only possible in the painted universe of the mind. As shape-shifting was hopeless, she dreamt up elaborate schemes and daring escape plans. She told herself stories of an intense battle with the photographers. One by one she’d beat them with their tripods and bite their makeup-caked faces, tearing off dry chunks of flesh until the parasitic vampires bled to death. But those too were dreams, and nothing more. The Mannequin thought these things were unfitting of her: so grievously barbaric that she couldn’t fathom acting on her daydreams. She couldn't imagine leaving. This was the photographers’ goal. They guarded her with vigilance, ensuring her dreams stayed up in her head and out of her hands. She would never leave them. “Miss, we need you to stand.” barked a round and sweaty tomato of a man. The Mannequin noticed breadcrumbs and bits of strawberry stuck in his unkempt beard. Her eyes wandered down to the camera strap on his swollen red neck. She wished it was a noose. The Mannequin stood up straight like she was told. She shrunk her hands into fists, sternly placing them on her hips. Head held high, she rolled her eyes away from the blinding camera flashes. The photographers eagerly scattered around her to capture her poses. She felt powerless to defy them in any other way. The Mannequin noticed it was difficult to move her legs. Her heart began to beat with the rhythm of a nervous drum. She shivered slightly, but she didn't know why. The Mannequin does not know herself. She knows only of her existence and the automatically visible. Her eyes began trickling tears, and she sighed for the third time that morning. The Mannequin began to feel the weight of her head upon her neck. A bubbly glaze filled her perception, like her skull was full of ginger ale. She was very dizzy. More tears welled in her eyes and drowned them in a pool of sorrow. Her legs felt unable to support her weight a second longer, and her hands softly unclenched. Her knees buckled under the weight of her form, and the Mannequin collapsed. She lay limp and unconscious on the studio floor. The photographers collectively shrieked like rabbits being torn apart by falcons. They leapt around in a frenzy, beating their chests like apes and crying confusedly like children abandoned in a supermarket. In a dream she opened her eyes. The Mannequin laid on a grassy slope in a vast field. A serpentine blue ribbon unwound down and around gentle green slopes, humming a soothing white hiss. It sprayed cool droplets upon the rocks and crevices around its belly. Scaly fish flickered in and out of the humid haze, scattering the Sun's rays with silvery cyan scales. In the distance, she saw towering rocks watching over the unkempt field. The cracked white crag cried a millennium of human tears onto the riverbed below. Millions of gallons poured forth onto helpless stones sanded from birth into smooth pebbles, weak enough to break with the hand of a strong man. Amidst the easy emerald pasture loomed a terrifying lighthouse. Water tumbled out from the windows in frantic flows filling full the rolling river below. The blue rope knotted itself around the lighthouse like a noose encircles a neck. A small rowboat sat tethered to a dock on the riverside. The Mannequin started towards it with a drive of curiosity that she couldn't place her finger on. The river flowed calmly into the endless garden, carving it up like a butcher to a pig. Turquoise threads traveled throughout the pasture like tentacles from an octopus, sucking away the leaves and trees with uncaring efficiency. The Mannequin watched as the river calmly carried multicolored flower pedals and bright green leaves on its back in a beautiful rainbow film that stretched across its surface. She rowed her boat through the kaleidoscope and her eyes teared at the thought of destroying such a sight. After quite a bit of rowing, she arrived at the lighthouse's dock. The Mannequin trudged over rocks to reach the door. She noticed it was detailed with a bronze plaque, engraved with the following: “We are laid asleep / In body, and become a living soul: / While with an eye made quiet by the power / Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, / We see into the life of things.” -William Wordsworth, Tintern Abbey The Mannequin looked at the engraving with a puzzled complexion. She knocked on the door and found it open, with stairs leading down an impossible depth. She started her descent into the darkness of the lighthouse. Following what seemed like an eternity, she reached a door at the bottom of the stairs. Just as with her wall of photographers in the studio, small pylons of light leapt out through the edges of the doorframe and climbed onto her eyes. She opened the door. Mounted upon the drywall next to the door was a small plastic bottle of crystalline hand sanitizer. Beside the hand sanitizer was a red plastic bin. It was filled with needles, and the bin seemed shrunken and boxy too. The Mannequin felt like a Barbie doll in a playhouse. She thought that she recognized the room as a doctor’s office. Her stomach growled quietly, and she felt a discomfort rise into her throat. The Mannequin realized that she hadn’t eaten at all that day. She recalled the morning's breakfast cart at work. The caterers bring in wide arrays of breakfast foods each day: tart pineapple slices, sweet oranges, bright green apples, firm strawberries, and a different dish each day: yesterday, bagels. Today, the caterers brought in soufflés. The Mannequin woke up later than usual. She sleeps on a small and lumpy bed in a little closet that grows out from the studio like an ugly mole. Loud noises scare the photographers, so she doesn't keep an alarm. This morning, no one had bothered to wake her. For this, she was partially thankful. Her loneliness keeps her awake until the early hours of the morning, and consequently she doesn't get much sleep. Her well-rested bliss was quickly interrupted when she met the morning breakfast cart. It had been raided to its metal bones. Food scraps littered the floor in an apocalyptic mess. She scoured the lower rungs of the cart for any surviving bits of breakfast, but all she could find was a chocolate soufflé wrapped in thin black paper. Her soufflé hadn't risen properly, and she found it far too sweet for her tastes. The Mannequin decided not to eat breakfast that morning, and she went to adorn her night satin dress. Back in the doctor's office, her eyes wandered to the large plastic clock hanging on the wall. Its narrow black hands began to express noon as her attention sharply turned to the door. Then the doorknob began to rattle. The office door slowly rolled on its hinges with a loud creak. It reluctantly came to a halt several inches from the door frame. A small and bony hand grasped the rotting wooden slab, shaking like an old man scared of death. Whether it shook out of fear or age, she couldn’t tell. The Mannequin knows only of her existence and the automatically visible. Perhaps she was projecting. “Right. What do we have here?” croaked an ancient voice. It radiated across the room in a sweet and slackening tone. A spotted head peeked into the examination room. His wrinkly dome was covered in bleach-white relics of a forest of hair. There was a pause for several seconds, a space filled with such confusion that there was no room for words. “Where am I?” she pleaded. The Mannequin’s eyes examined him cautiously. His forehead was scarlet and sweaty. The overhead lights made the man's cheeks glimmer, and a rose-colored hue that spilt over to his nose flushed the man's porous skin. His nose, she thought, was thick and swollen. Timid beads of sweat trickled down his face, but his warm smile spelt no signs of exhaustion. She mused to herself that he looked like a cherry. “What do you mean?” asked the man. His snowy mustache twisted somewhat as he bit his upper lip. The old man set down his ancient wooden clipboard with shaky hands and he cocked his head at her in a gesture of confusion. Then she froze for a moment. Neglecting to reply, The Mannequin examined the stubby man before her. He wore an ancient lab coat covered in fruity stains. His coat's breast pocket was embroidered with the name Puglisi in small cursive text. Taking note of her bewilderment, Dr. Puglisi began to counsel her again. “Well, miss?” he begged inquisitively “The lighthouse. Where are we?” “Yes; We’re in a lighthouse.” he joked “Is something amiss?” “Never mind.” she mumbled. A focus in her eyes illuminated a moment of shy embarrassment. The Mannequin shifted back onto a cushion against the wall. “Right.” Dr. Puglisi said, “What can I help you with today?” “I can’t recall how I got to the field outside.” she muttered with hesitation. “No memory at all?” he replied “None.” “Hmmm” he grunted as he picked up his clipboard. Then the doctor quickly began to scribble notes with a rotted old pencil. “Can you tell me what you do remember?” “Well,” she began, “the last thing I recall, I was at work, and I felt very ill.” She shook her head and gently shrugged her shoulders. Dr. Puglisi continued to feverishly note her condition. “Miss..” he said, his voice drifting as he flipped through papers on his clipboard “Eva.” she replied firmly for the first time that day. “Right. Have you been in an accident recently? Did you hit your head?” “No, why?” “I’m just doing my job” he replied as he continued to make notes, “how are you feeling today?” Her eyes began to water again. With hot tears rolling down her cheeks The Mannequin struggled to open her mouth and speak. “Well...” she began, trying so hard to control her sobbing. The doctor locked his inquisitive eyes on her, expressing a level of intrigue she knew too well. Perhaps, this time, it was with a different motivation than what she was accustomed to. "I feel so horribly exhausted.” she sobbed “It’s the sort of feeling you get when you can't eat anymore. And yet, there's still food on your plate. I grapple with the feeling that this life doesn’t belong to me." Dr. Puglisi faced his sobbing patient in silence. His eyes wandered down towards the floor, and then he tapped his shoe on the linoleum tile, over and over in spidery bursts. “Hmmm.” he grunted again, placing his hands on his hips. The ceiling lights overhead hummed electric hymns. He passively watched her rub her reddened eyes with tight fists. “I’m sorry about this” she said With unsteady hands the doctor reached into his coat pocket, and then he furnished her with a white handkerchief. Reluctantly, she trained her eyes on him and accepted. The doctor smiled warmly. She smiled back in the same fashion. “Where do you work?” he inquired with a relaxing sweetness. “I’m a model.” “Why don’t you quit?” The Mannequin’s eyes stared somber at the floor. She crossed her hands and set them in her lap. The overhead sodium lights continued their buzzing, and Dr. Puglisi rested his pen in his breast pocket. In the light of the doctor's office, the pair faced each other with sewn lips. There was a pause for several seconds, a space filled with such little confusion that there wasn't any need for words. Then Dr. Puglisi broke the quiet blanket wrapped around them to demonstrate his understanding. "Hmmm" he grunted. "Money is money, I suppose." "A couple of months ago," she replied. "I signed a contract in the hope that I could pay for my mother's funeral expenses." "I see." he added, "But that's over now." "She's been in the ground for nearly a year." "I'm sorry." he muttered indifferently. "We weren't very close." "She is your mother." "Exactly." she contended. The Mannequin's eyes drooped down to engage with the floor. She had an especially sad gaze. Dr. Puglisi's calm medical visage remained unbroken. "Don't blame yourself" he added. "There is no justice in car accidents" she sighed, "Enough about this." "When does your contract expire?" he begged. "In a couple of months. They like to keep me in the studio around the clock." "I'm sure that they wouldn't mind if you visited the doctor's office." "Someone will reprimand me, I'm sure." "I think you need to start sending out resumes" he joked. Before she knew it, The Mannequin began to cry again. Her eyes drooled fountains of slim tears. The Mannequin's face flushed with the doctor's cherry red hue behind her hands. "Doctor, why do I feel so sad?" "Is it your mother?" he begged, placing his hand on her shoulder. "I think it was at first. But it's grown so much since she passed, and every day the thought of her death hurts less and less." "Your job, then." "I want to leave them," she cried "but it's so unlike me and how I've treated them since I started work there." "Tell me" he began, "First of all, how do they treat you?" "As if I'm not even human!" she exclaimed, "I can't leave the studio, I can't talk, I have to stand like a statue, unmoving for hours at a time." "Hmmm" he remarked, jotting notes on his clipboard, "Second, how do you respond?" "As politely as the situation allows, of course!" she replied. Her tone was stern for the second time that day. "Finally, do you have freedom?" "Yes.” she declared, "Of course there is. All humans have free will.." "Interesting." he responded, clicking his pen to a close and placing it gently in his breast pocket. "I believe I have a diagnosis." he smiled. "I'm listening." "You don't have any teeth" he gasped. The doctor's mouth began to sputter like an old car exhaust. He laughed heartily and collapsed to the floor. Laying on his back, the doctor continued to cackle. "Doctor!" she exclaimed in a moment of utter confusion. "What's so funny?" Dr. Puglisi's laughing fit was interrupted by sudden choking. The Mannequin felt a balloon form in her mouth. The pair vomited teeth, and the doctor's incessant giggle grew in intensity. It was intermittently interrupted by choking and coughing. Tooth after tooth poured from his mouth into a mound on the cold floor next to his head. The Mannequin screamed in horror, and she resumed her cascade of tears. Her tongue pressed something hard and sharp up against the roof of her mouth. In the same fashion, she began to spit out her teeth, only she wasn't laughing. In the foggy dream, her choppy sobs seemed to merge with the yellow buzzing of the overhead lights. Her red face swirled and blurred with the sodium glow. Dr. Puglisi's white lab coat melted into the creamy floor tiles. The essence of the blue cushion bred with the endless black of her satin dress. All the colors in the room seemed to swirl into a kaleidoscopic palette around her. The hues danced around one another in galloping loops. Seconds smoothed Dr. Puglisi's haunting laugh into sweet chocolate symphonies. The Mannequin felt weightless, unbounded. Her terror was heightened to the uncut raw acidity of feeling that's only attainable in a dream. The orchestra of laughs tumbled over itself. At first, certain sections sped ahead of each other, until minutes later every instrument in the ensemble played a different tune. The bright hues of the doctor's office mixed into earthy tones. Her cherry red complexion and the lemon yellow lights became a deep pumpkin orange. The blueberry cushion dissolved into her black dress to concoct the color of a night sky polluted by the lights of a sleepless city. Dr. Puglisi was many hues sewn into one patchwork. He melted into a black puddle that dispersed over the cool white floor and climbed the walls like ivy on a brick façade. The bottomless black grew to envelope the room. The black mass climbed The Mannequin's legs and up her figure. Suddenly the bustling city slept. She wept profusely. At last, her field of view was enveloped in perfect black and her ears filled with the discordant symphony of screams. The Mannequin opened her eyes. The Mannequin awoke to find herself laying on her stomach. She woke up with her head turned to the side and pressed up against the chilly linoleum floor. She saw the labyrinth of shuffling loafers once again. For fear that she might be stepped on, The Mannequin sat up. Without delay, her ears collected loud and childish screams. She thought the photographers' shrieks sounded like injured infants. In view of the army of loafers milling about the studio, she crawled back upon her knees. The Mannequin retreated to the couch to avoid the panicked mass of grown men with cameras. In consequence, the photographers noticed her movement. They halted immediately. By the time all of them had processed that The Mannequin has awoken, it was as if nothing at all had happened. The photographers resumed capturing her image where she sat. It was with great passion and fervor that they skittered about the hopeless model. She attempted to regain her senses, at once bewildered and frightened by the dream she had, and equally angry at her captors. In contrast, the photographers picked up their intrigue off the tile. They once more begged at her figure with cold and haunting inquisition. The Mannequin's face scrunched into an angry frown accordingly. "In due time," she thought "all will be well. I need patience." Her stomach growled for the second time that day. The Mannequin looked at the studio's lunch cart. She started towards it, but was quickly rebuked by the photographers. They shrieked their dying rabbit screams in an uncanny symphony. In spite of the haunting cacophony that filled the room, she continued to the food cart. The Mannequin felt her heart race. Her hands began to shake in fear. A photographer stumbled towards her like a baby learning to walk. She rushed back to the couch. Her stomach growled once more. The discomfort returned to her throat as it was in her dream. She felt the teeth in her mouth slowly slide passed each other like interlocking puzzle pieces. The gears ground together in her head and she stared at the line of photographers with unwavering sincerity. She wanted to eat. They ceased taking photos and stared back at her with an unsure retaliation. The Mannequin started towards the food cart again. The photographers growled and murmured amongst themselves. She grabbed a bag of chips and walked past the wall of photographers towards the studio door. The chimps began their howling and stomping. The Mannequin felt like a new person. Now Eva, she opened the door and walk outside for the first time in months. Eva quickly shut the door and turned away. Fists pounded on its thin wood frame and crying could be heard inside. Outside, the city overflowed with people who were too busy to notice her plight. She lifted a chip to her lips and her finger touched one of her teeth. Eva’s eyes began to water. She dropped the chip and clasped her hands together. A smile began to wiggle its way across her face. She had forgotten how exhilarating it feels to really smile. The former mannequin turned her head towards the cityscape. The lethargic pace of the studio had faded from her perception. Time seemed to speed up before her eyes. The sky flooded with the melancholy pale blue of winter. Then the sky's sea evaporated into the hot red desert of summer’s sunset. A cavernous empty feeling as black as her dress filled the sky in the ocean's absence. The Moon rose, and light shrank back into the street lamps and neon signs. She saw trees weep their leaves and claw at the dark emptiness above amid an uncaring city. “Help!” she could almost hear them cry, but no one above would reach back.

Pinpricks of light illuminated the wayward ship against the interstellar void. The long, slender vessel proudly bore decades of wear on its white and grey hull. Scars and black scorch marks broke long stretches of its smooth surface. Collisions with minute objects could gouge marks into the hull traveling faster than light, and thousand-degree kelvin spikes were the mildest effect of a perturbed warp field. Past its prime but far from disrepair, it fell through space at sublight speed with patient grace. All external lights were dark, and the engine was cold as the void it traveled in. Seemingly lifeless, it was far from the nearest star - a single speck on the black velvet of space, growing imperceptivity closer. A common exploratory ship could spend five years charting the Deep, but the *Holiday* averaged ten. To spend years in a metal can separated from civilization, safe for the typical twenty crewmembers, could provoke the worst in humanity. It was not uncommon for ships to set course into the Deep and never return, but five years was considered the limit to human endurance in the endless reach past colonized space. Deep Sickness was more a rumor than a fact, but veterans of these expeditions knew better; it stalked their crew in every voyage. The symptoms were hard to see for outsiders, or new crew, but they assaulted everyone with indifference. When the fifth year was closing, some people chose to not see it - hiding behind the eyes. The plague of suspicion beyond diagnosis. Real onset was never reported, presumptively dooming the poor voyage to never return. Emptiness was a presence the crew could feel, and the hollow fact that they might never return spared no one’s peace of mind. Within the aft of the vessel, the second crew stirred as their rotation was about to begin. A room petered to life, the walls lined with twenty adjacent chambers, two high and ten long, separated by a neat row of lockers. Lights dimmed to life as displays for each cabinet activated. The suspense pods entered the final revival phase. Damage to soft tissues had been mended and adrenaline restarted their hearts. Each opened simultaneously, sliding second crewmembers out from the sensory, injection, and encumbering suspension equipment they had been under for five of the last nine - except for one remaining sealed. \- Captain Dracard opened his eyes and eased himself upright on the ice tray. The ambient air felt lukewarm on his exposed body. Disorientation would fade in a few minutes before he could get to the shower without hurting himself, but he had to fight the urge to go sooner. He could feel each of his bones like icicles inside his body - which wasn’t wrong, since his body was 10C but hard tissues were still closer to 0. The antifreeze serum kept crew mostly intact through the process, but it was really just another pain in the ass. One more expedition contract and Dracard would retire to a colony and leave this life behind. Still sluggish, he climbed down from the second row using the tray below him after Levingston got up. Amanda Levingston was his first officer for the last two voyages, and he had a hard time keeping his eyes to himself before and after being put on ice. Sometimes he would allow himself a couple brief glances at the attractive crewmembers, but he did his best to stay professional. With Levingston it was more than professionalism, though. On the last expedition their chemistry was more akin to family and he resolved to keep it uncomplicated. As the rest of the crew staggered into the shared showers, Dracard began his mental workouts to prepare for duty. Recounting street names, colonies and moons, all sorts of places and things along with a few riddles mixed in helped him break the bends after suspension. The practice was tried and true, so he was the first to realize they were missing someone. Adnan Montgomery did not wake from stasis. Standing in front of the chamber, Dracard read the display diagnostics: tissue regeneration failure. He was braindead, caused by an occasional fluke in the process. A null percent risk did not deter many people, but it accounted for over 1,000 annual deaths in interstellar travel. At least his family could collect the insurance. The Science Officer was a quiet one, on his first tour of the Deep, so Dracard could not feel any grief. But it meant their new charting data wouldn’t be sorted until they returned now. Something else felt off, but he couldn’t place the source of the feeling. The other 18 crew began leaving the showers with renewed life, a bounce in each step and chatter filling the air. Many took a moment to give homage to the lost crewmember before going to their lockers and getting dressed. They joked with each other or looked through their personal affects, trying to distract themselves from the loss and prepare for work. Dracard was half-dressed himself when he caught himself staring into this locker, at nothing in particular. “I like to think about how half of our pay is for five years of sleeping,” Levingston spoke over someone’s dirty joke that was at the periphery of his awareness. Two of the engineers, Jacobs and Muhammad, were talking about old sexual conquests from their downtime on different colonies. “Yeah, it almost makes the trip worth it when we only gotta work half the time.’ Dracard answered. He couldn’t force a smile to meet her. Whatever bothered him was almost at the head of his awareness. It was something bad. Jacobs rolled up a towel and slapped Riggs on the ass while she was reaching into her locker, prompting a hellish rebuke with a wrench to his stomach. Levingston yelled at him from her own locker, but it was clear Riggs had the situation under control. “Guys always animals after thawing? It’s someone new every time. Daws and Easler did the same shit last up.” Her question went unanswered as Dracard’s gaze fell on the room exit. The door was closed and the hallway dark. Pulling his jumpsuit a little higher on his waist, he deftly walked to the door. “Drake? Dracard? Captain?” Levingston pestered him as he ignored her. Using his full mental capacities, he valiantly tried to form a thought but could only continue forward as time slowed with each step. A question was on his mind, which footfall levied to gently prompt the thought to come forward. The door opened for him, following with the hallway lights switched on. A sinking feeling filled his chest and panic overwhelmed him as he stood in the doorway, staring at the blank wall ahead of him. *The first crew is missing.* It must have been at least a minute that he stood there, because Levingston was behind him now, trying to get his attention quietly. “Drake... Talk to me. Please just fucking say something.” She said hushed. Dracard felt his blood drained like he was in stasis again. Levingston understood now, too, and was trying to stay calm. More importantly, she was trying not to be noticed by the other crewmembers. When Dracard looked at her he could not conceal his expression. A pale face, unfocussed eyes that looked unable but begging to cry. Her expression matched his own for a moment as she looked away, then pushed him into the hallway letting the door close behind them. “No Drake. We’re not going to die here. We. Are. Not. Going to fucking die.” She spoke barely louder than a whisper and pressed a finger hard into his chest, clearly trying to convince the both of them. Finally collecting himself, Dracard placed his hands on her shoulders and moved her an inch back. “Listen to me,” his voice was clear and confident, resolved to be the captain she needed; what everyone was going to need. “We are going to face the hardest challenge of our lives,” he continued as boldly as he could muster. “The first thing we need to do is figure out what happened to First Crew. But whatever will happen to us from here on has already been decided, Amanda. There are scarce few moments in history where people are tested the way we will be, the first time anyone beats the odds. “All we can do, Amanda, is our very best. And that is all we will focus on, the two of us. Because if that is not enough, then our fate is already sealed whether we know it or not. Come to terms with that, because we can’t show the others. They can’t think there’s a chance we won’t make it, because that will doom us for sure. Can you handle this?” Levingston tried to stifle the terror in her eyes as he spoke to her but each sentence dropped like an anvil. She wanted reassurance that they would survive the journey, but in hearing his sobering truth knew he was right. Whether they would survive or not could well be out of their hands, but there was still a chance they might return home. “We need the crew to level their heads before they hear the news,” she suggested. Crew shifts alternated every year, and suspension was supposed to lower their stress hormones so they could spend longer in the Deep, but everyone was at their limit. Three fourths of this shift was meant for returning home, so the crew’s optimism would soon be ripped from their mental wellbeing with the like a predator tearing live flesh from its prey. “Good idea. And Amanda, if they don’t have faith in us, then they’re going to break like...” He bit his tongue and looked down the hallway toward the rest of the silent ship. “Like first crew did...” she finished his thought. They observed the crew from the closed door. Some of the men were still harassing Riggs, Chrisjen, Tali and Gao even though they were mostly covered now. Besides Riggs, the women teased them right back, but she preferred dealing bruises where they were earned. In all, they looked to be having fun. When ten minutes passed and neither Captain nor first officer interrupted their jeers, they noticed Dracard and Levingston outside the room and finished dressing. Dracard entered the room with Levingston close behind, prompting a somber mood among the men and women who had just been euphorically looking forward to beginning the trip home. He asked everyone to form a huddle between the lockers and their suspense chambers. They locked arms around him. Deep crews had their own culture of being close together and sharing contact to stave off the feelings of isolation. Everyone locked arms and began to sway while Dracard began an old voyage song. *I left the oceans, I left the breeze,* *...Got only the dirt left on my knees...* *I said my prayer, made my wish,* *...To see her again, that gorgeous bitch...* *And like a good husband, I know I’ll return,* *...To see the sky, taste sweet air, and then...* *I’ll promise my wife, to stay and be dear* *...Till like a good sailor, I’ll leave her again!* The cheer settled and Dracard stepped back. The huddle broke and most of the crew’s posture showed they knew hew as about to share bad news, but they assumed it would be related to Montgomery. Riggs said something to Jacobs and Mohammad, who had a hard time concealing their somber reaction. Everyone waited for him to continue as he searched for his voice. “This is no one’s first time in the Deep. We all set out here knowing the risks, knowing that not everyone returns. It is with sorrow that I report to you that first crew is unaccounted for.” He waited for the reaction to subside. “I do not know their fate, but if they have not reported for stasis, I suspect all hands have been lost. We will perform our duties, and we will see home again. Most importantly, we will trust each other. As soon as we figure out what’s happened here we will immediately embark on the return.” Everyone steeled themselves, pondering the information that was missing. They all knew rumors about Deep Sickness, and it was the only explanation for an entire crew going missing. But also no afflicted ships ever returned to tell fact from fiction. Some rumors were about radiation causing debilitating mutations, or even monsters in the Deep. Most rumors were just about crew going crazy and killing each other or destroying the ship. At least, as far as they could tell, their vessel was still intact. “We will proceed with caution and remember our training,” the Captain continued, “imagination can be as fatal as a system failure, so stay alert. Levingston and I will go straight to the bridge. I want groups of three or four to explore the rest of the ship and meet in the messroom before reporting to your stations. That is all.” No one had the guts to ask questions as an uncomfortable silence made the room stale, so Levingston broke the silence for morale. “Do you think we’ll be on time returning home?” It was a stupid question, but it was all she could manage. “I think we can count on some leniency if we’re late, but if we woke up on time then we can scrap the expedition schedule and get underway as soon as this is behind us. Salvaging the expedition ought to be worth a good bonus.” He appreciated saying something optimistic. Leaving the crew with their orders, Dracard exited the room with Levingston, both trying to exude an air of confidence. Others soon followed and he heard someone jogging to catch up to him. Riggs had patiently waited for them to separate from the others so she wouldn’t be overheard. “Captain.” “Speak your mind.” He didn’t put on a facade for her; she was too intuitive to be fooled and he trusted her anyways as one of his oldest shipmates. “What are our odds, sir.” Riggs hesitantly asked. “They are exactly what we make them.” He was trying to be optimistic again, but Riggs knew if he tried any harder it would be lying. “Sir.” She answered plainly and stopped where she stood, turning to wait for Jacobs and Mohammad. He could faintly make out her deflection when they asked her why she chased after him. “You asked what makes us animals out here...” Dracard was sure no one could hear them speak. “I know. Let’s not talk about it.” She knew the signs as well as he did, she was a quick study. Crews are more rowdy after getting used to each other’s company, but after years alone they got impulsive... and then *wild*. “We’re going to have to.

It was every student’s dream. The ability to learn on the job. Studying was a thing of the past. Each morning he would wake up, his coffee already brewed, his toast just pushed down. He'd put on his slippers as the blinds slowly raised, Beethoven’s 9th swirling around his ear. He stretched out his arms and let out a small grunt before standing up and making his way to the bathroom. His half of the bed made itself behind him. He picked up his toothbrush and the screen lit up, ‘3,856,923 CREDITS’, ‘TOOTHPASTE?, 5 CREDITS’, followed by a green tick and red ‘X’, he pressed the tick and held his toothbrush in the small hole in the bottom of the screen, he watched as the number trickled down, ‘3,856,918 CREDITS’. About a second later exactly 0.25g of ‘Toothpaste’ dispensed onto the brush. He took the brush from the hole and brushed his teeth, as he prepared the razor. He felt around his temple to find the patch before raising the razor and shaving the light stubble that had grown over the weekend, excitement filled his veins, he was going back to work. His body filled with bliss every time he walked through the main entrance of the hospital, he shook with adrenaline as he threw on his white coat. Lights flickered, blinds crashed like waves on the windowsill, complete pandemonium. Barely sitting at a table in the cafeteria, squatting over the chair, ready to take off at an instant, tapping the side of his mug, scratching his neck, waiting for his call. “TOM!” he heard being called from the emergency entrance. He took off, busted through the café doors, almost knocking over a nurse as he barged past her, his shoes screeched on the hard, shiny floor around every corner. He didn’t utter a word to the nurse at the patient’s bedside, it was already set up, he tried so hard to hide his grin a tear fell down his cheek. He stuck the node to his temple and put on the hair net. It lit up like a firework display, and he felt it immediately, he knew exactly what it was, he’d felt it a million times before, but he leeched every second he could get. It was a heart attack, the feeling that your entire chest has been squished down into a thimble, it was agony, and he fucking loved it. He felt everything, but it wasn’t enough. He started going in on weekends, just pacing up and down the wards, the hospitals were short of staff, they took all the help they could get. He didn’t even need to wait any more patients asked for him, they came in one after another, Appendicitis, Lung Cancer, Brain Cancer, he found things the doctors weren’t even looking for, he was a lifesaver, a superhero. Over the course of the next few months, he saved hundreds if not, thousands of lives. Medical journals all over the world praised him, one of only 5 in the entire world, he dedicated his life to his craft. He even began taking the hair net home, for ‘experiments’. He’d use it in the bedroom, his wife was fine with it at first, but going from one orgasm at a time to two wasn’t enough, he wanted more, he started hair-pulling, slapping, then punching, grabbing, squeezing. He was a mess, it wasn’t long before she left him, leaving him alone, still craving, shaking, scratching. He began cutting himself, he couldn't go too far, he still had to go to work. But he was a doctor, he knew how far he could go. He wouldn't even remember most nights, he’d just wake up in a bathtub of blood and semen, take a quick shower and get to work as quick as he could. Of course, they noticed the scars, at first, they wouldn’t say anything, but his superiors grew concerned and forced him to leave, it was only temporary, a few months at worst but he knew he couldn’t last that long... Home alone with razors, knives, hooks, screws, he was a kid in a candy shop, and he couldn’t get enough. The more it hurt the more he wanted it, the deeper he went, but there was something missing, it just wasn’t the same. When a 7-year-old child is rushed into hospital screaming in pain, they’re terrified, scared for their life, he knew, he knew that anything he did, would be non-fatal. The pain was a mere side by now, the fear was the main course, and he was starving. He knew that only a few nurses patrolled the wards through the night, he also knew the door that was left unlocked for mere convenience, the paediatrics ward, it was so they could rush in if they heard a scream or if a child had a nightmare, it only opened one way but getting out didn’t even cross his mind. He snuck in through the back entrance, limping through the pain of last night's ordeal. He opened the door, 6 beds, 4 children, only one behind a curtain... he could barely contain himself. He hooked himself up, shaking in excitement, the hair net lit up, he felt nothing. He was furious. He wrapped his hands gently around the child’s neck, hoping to wake her, then he felt it, but it still wasn’t enough. He tightened his grip, she clawed at his hands, she couldn’t even scream. This was it, the high he had been chasing, fear, pain and death all stirred up into the perfect cocktail and he drank it all in one gulp. They found him the next morning, dead, by the child’s bedside, missing both ears, the tip of his nose, long slits down the back of his thighs, everything you can imagine and so much more, yet still, there he lay, the edges of his mouth raised in a sadistic, mocking grin.

“OPPOSITE SIDES OF THE SAME COIN” It always irked me that we had such drastic opposing opinions - as close as we were there wasn't much we could agree upon. I liked my hair short, and she liked hers long. If I wore a tracksuit, she'd definitely wear a dress. Though we always found some sort of a compromise and that's how we've managed to live in our little chaotic bubble that we call a friendship. The one thing we do agree on is that we love each other, no matter what. On the first day of the year I sat beside her, Anna, staring into the mirror. She had such smooth long legs, mine looked like ever-growing tree trunks. "Shut up Jen, they do not. I wish I had legs like yours," said Anna, I could tell she was only trying to comfort me but it felt nice. We used to do this often, sit in front of the mirror and just contemplate things. That day was different though, we stared at ourselves for so long that despite an exchange of any actual words, we came to an understanding that if we weren't happy with something then we should change it. "Maybe we can hit the gym tomorrow?" I said hoping she'd object but of course she was more willing than me. She said she always went anyway to which I nodded and changed the subject, considering she spends all her time with me it was hard to believe. The goal was to get fitter, to feel comfortable in the way we look. It felt daunting, but looking at Anna it felt achievable. To some degree it almost felt like she had already achieved it, and she was merely my coach, not that I minded much, it was nice to have some support. We would wake up every morning at eight and go for a run, every other day in the evening we'd try our best to go to the gym, sometimes by sheer force of will. I remember us even changing up our diet quite drastically, from eating fast food on a daily basis to eating salads and home cooked meals, I even picked up a few new cooking techniques. Though by the time May came around the corner things started to take a turn for the worse, like a never ending tide that was beelining straight for us. Anna decided that she would go down a different route with her workout regime, we argued back and forth for almost a week. There had been a morning after our run that we went to grab a coffee and a couple of guys walking past our table exchanged a glance with me followed by a catcall. "At least one of us is getting catcalled," she muttered, her face a stagnant frown. It felt good, that for once I was actually the subject of someone else's attraction but for Anna it meant something else. That she was no longer the depiction of beauty, a standard I and others had once held her to. She stood in front of my mirror, eyeing up her waistline back and forth over and over. "Anna you look fine, seriously. You shouldn't worry!" She shot a scowl my way and continued, staring into her dysmorphic void. The next month was hard. I sat beside her as she threw up meal after meal, holding her hair back as well as consoling her from her cold tears. As a form of a deterrent from throwing up, she began skipping meals too. For a while she even started to feel better, she would stare into the mirror in my room and bask in how good she looked, even though at times she was paler than I would have liked and considerably weaker. There were moments when she couldn't even bear to be around herself. We ended up going to a birthday meal for our mutual friend, during the dinner our friends kept approaching me to compliment my weight loss and obvious cosmetic enhancements. I could feel Anna's leg bouncing up and down beside mine, by the time the food came out she sat without an appetite. After a couple of bites, she darted off to the bathroom, me not close behind. There was nothing to get rid off but she dry heaved into the toilet until she could barely catch her breath anymore, her eyes almost bulging out of her head. I spent many nights on the verge of tears, what good was looking as good as I did now if the person I wanted to share with it most felt the complete opposite, almost like we were bound to remain opposite sides of the same coin. During the month of August my mother rocked me awake with a hopelessness that filled the room from the moment I woke up, we drove to the hospital without a moment of hesitation. I remember sitting at the side of the bed, stroking Anna's hand as she laid unconscious with a bunch of tubes attached to her. I began thinking back to when we made the decision to feel comfortable in our own skin, was this my fault? Had I pushed her to the edge she's currently standing on? Whilst I was spending my days shedding as much weight as I could and my body finally swaying in my favour, Anna saw something daunting in herself nobody else could see and took methods I didn't realise were as severe as they quite blatantly were now. A week later I slept alongside her, having eerie soul sucking dreams. I stood on a podium surrounded by people with conflicting opinions they had no qualms sharing. Between obscenities being hurled at me, there were also bits of food splattering in my direction. I kept looking for a way off the podium that had me vibrating with uncontrollable anxiety. Till a hand reached out to me from the crowd, it was Anna. She no longer looked as weak as she did in that bed, her figure to her entire demeanour seemed like it was coming from a source of pure self love. I stuck my hand out and she dragged me straight into the crowd that fell silent in an instance, and then I woke up. My eyes felt like they were sealed shut when I woke up in the hospital bed, I surveyed the room till I caught my mother and the doctor talking, "She needs emotional reinforcement from you and anybody else in her life that can provide it - otherwise she's running a two leg race with only one." My mother snapped around and noticed me awake, she wiped the tears from her eyes and grabbed my hand, kissing it over and over, "Anna, you're beautiful. So beautiful." Her sentence rang in my ear like an angel on my shoulder, singing over the devil sat on the other. "Anna can you hear me?" she said between sobs. "You don't need to do this anymore, you look perfect just the way you are... Anna?" In that moment I felt loved, I felt like even for just a second everything was going to be okay. ---- I originally posted this on Reedsy ¬Discover more of my writing at r/silvacorner.

I am pathetic. Sitting here, under my favorite tree in the forest behind my house, I deduced that I am a complete coward. The books next to me were mocking me, so I glared even though it made no difference. My mother thought I was studying, hence the books. In reality? I was thinking. I had blown my only chance at actually scoring a date with the dreamiest boy in my senior class. Geeky old me had actually flirted with him, strung him along, poked myself in the eye repeatedly every morning in an attempt at eye liner and when the moment came? I choked. Literally. Note to all the attractive guys out there: don't ask a usually ignored virgin on a date when she's in the middle of finishing off her water at lunch. It screws with us. That was not an intentional pun, by the way. Anyway, here I sat, in the forest stuck with political science books that I had no intention of reading and a phone with too many text messages from a guy I thought would never talk to me again. I unlocked my phone to find a voicemail. To listen or not to listen, that was the question. Debating, I dropped the phone in front of me and stared. What did I want? Why couldn't I just say yes? What the hell was wrong with me? Groaning, I stood up, brushed off my sundress and picked a dandelion weed. With my books tucked into my side, I considered going back inside and consulting my mother. Instead the dandelion inspired me. It's tiny white spindles swayed in the wind and I decided to make a wish. Only a miracle would save me now. 'Give me the courage to say yes next time.' And I blew. I watched as the seeds floated along with the wind away from me. "Will you go out with me now?" I gasped and turned around, seeing the man who I had been plagued with thoughts of all day. I hadn't heard him crunching through the leaves as I had clumsily done. Being caught up in my own head could be all consuming sometimes. How did he get out here? In the distance, I heard my mother talking on the phone on the back porch and got my answer. He had come to my house. He still cared. "Well?" he said, looking awkward for the first since I had known him. His hazel eyes were squinted against the sun and he looked handsome in jeans and boots with a button up shirt. This time I breathed, opening and closing my sweaty hands. Do not choke, you can do this. Just react. Throwing my books behind me, I let modesty go to the wind and ran up to him, straight into his open arms. He twirled me around and laughed. I looked at where I had been standing and smiled secretly. I had my answer. As if in slow motion, the books fell to the ground like gravel, demanding my response. Without choking, I uttered the word my wish had granted me. "Yes.

​ Kyle Douglas is dying faster than most people. His genes are shot and he’s got more cancer in his chest than he’s got lung. Such a shame. When I told him the news he laughed so hard he coughed up blood. Good for him. Whatever he’s got there’s probably no treatment for. I say probably because we have no idea what he’s got. Whatever it is he got from breathing in that corpse dust on Mars. Whenever I go in to up Kyle’s morphine dosage (that’s what we do when there’s nothing left to do), I find myself talking to him about what it was like to be the first man to walk on Mars. He tells me that on Mars the gravity is weaker so it’s less tiring to walk around. The day Kyle fell from the sky was the day the media decided it was going to talk until we evolved to not have vocal cords. What he found on Mars was too good not to milk. The rover images that were transmitted to earth in the days after his return were stunning. Columns of red marble and crumbled statues of alabaster. The statue was of Atlas, or his martian equivalent, holding up the sky. Kyle got invited to speak on just about every single late night talk show in America. The invitations stopped when he started to cough up his lungs. I guess journalists must’ve collectively decided they wanted selective electro shock therapy because, while their coverage of the discoveries from the martian mission has remained consistent, they seem to have forgotten about the man who is dying from some illness we have no recorded cases of. Tourism companies have already started shipping off billionaires to get the privilege of breathing the same dust of the man who is dying from space cancer. The world will remember his discovery but not him for he will be forcefully forgotten because his fate does not align with the interests of those who control information. When Kyle opened the sarcophagus in the Martian Temple he saw himself staring back at him. I guess it makes sense that we would choose Mars. It is man’s nature to return home. A great man told me we were food for worms. A great martian told me we would be food for *Creatis Incelopathys*. That’s what we named the airborne disease Kyle contracted when he breathed the same air as that martian corpse. Don’t bother trying to make sense of the name, we gave something that we have no knowledge of an utterly nonsensical name in the hopes that its nature may reveal itself to us. We still have no clue why the cancer is spreading so quickly. I must remember to short the stocks of the businesses owned by the billionaires traveling to Mars to smoke the ground up bone marrow of their ancestors. Kyle tells me that he thinks he’s seen what happens next. That is to say, next after dying. He tells me he’s going to a world without pain or lies. I tell him that the morphine is causing him to hallucinate. I’ve already been forced to sign a non disclosure agreement by about twenty different corporations who funded the mission. “His body is ours and so is his fate.” they tell me. I suppose that’s appropriate, most of his cells are now infected by some disease they inadvertently caused him to get. When he’s lucid, I ask him who he sees when he sees what’s next. He tells me he sees his long dead love. I tell him she’s food for *Creatis Incelopathys.* He laughs.

I plunged deep into the river, the force of the water carrying me sideways. My body tumbled in the rapids, water pushing and punching me in every direction; buoyancy smothered out by the weight. I found the bottom of the river. Rotating my feet, I pushed hard against the bed, and shot up, breaking the surface. I gulped down air as I saw the giant mouth of the man-made cave hovering above me. The water swept me into the darkness. However, ahead, I could see a thin halo of blue, a small patch of shade brighter than the total blackness around me. The spot grew bigger, until I could make out the cloud-covered night sky and the grassy banks on either side. As I emerged from the tunnel, the grass banks looked climbable, but the pace of the river was too much to make clinging on to damp grass an option. I looked around for something to grab onto when I heard a voice. “Ferdinand!” I turned to see Alessia standing on the river bank, pointing to a branch that overhung the rapids.I swam over to the bank and reached up, grabbing onto the tree. The force of the water was such that the branch bent slight, but it held. Alessia walked over and held out a hand, and with one fierce grunt she pulled me out of the water. My back hit the ground, as I lay there, panting. The cold night air latched onto my wet clothes, as my chest tingled with the dissipating heat. Alessia sat down beside me. Her hair was soaking, falling like a long black sheet from the sides of her face, stray hairs clinging to damp skin. She pinched at her water-logged clothes, trying to stop them clinging to her. “We need to get moving. We’ll freeze if we stay put too long.” I forced myself to sit up. “Now what?” “Find out where we are, and hopefully get off this godforsaken island.” We climbed up the slope. On top, the land was flat. The thick forest had disappeared, replaced by low lying shrubs that broke through compacted brown dirt. And everywhere, there were buildings. We were in the middle of a large settlement, encompassed by scattered one storey buildings with wood-panelled walls. All of them were derelict. Rot and erosion had done their work over a couple of hundred years. Trees grew through the broken floors inside, bursting out of holes in the roof. The worst of the homes were little more than piles of splinters, plants munching on the island’s history until there was nothing left of civilization to consume. What were once homes, businesses, offices, were now little more than shells reclaimed by nature Looking between the buildings though, in the distance, I could see a small glow of light, a gentle orange tone projecting against the greys and blacks above. It was the unmistakable glow of streetlights. “That’s... not nature,” I said, looking towards it. “None of this is,” Alessia replied, looking around in a full circle. “Any ideas of where we should head?” I tilted my head towards the light in the distance. “Whoever’s causing that probably ain’t friendly.” Alessia pulled back one corner of her mouth as she spoke. “Probably. But, at least for the first time we’ll *know* what we’re walking towards.” Alessia took a deep breath, the damp clothes heaving with her body. “I guess.” We started walking through the forgotten settlement, passing by the shadows of a former time. I eyed up the buildings as we passed, looking for clues as to what had happened. All I could tell was that while the town had been forsaken a long time ago, the buildings left standing were too rudimentary to be of the old world. These were homes built with available, local materials in the aftermath of the Archipelago’s birth. This town had been abandoned, but in the new times, not the old. We came to what was once a crossroads. Four clear paths stretched out at right angles between the buildings. In the middle, there was a small set of stones arranged in a circle, a raised bed of soil behind it. In the middle there was a metal pole that had listed over the years of neglect, the soil rising slightly at the base. Affixed to its top were of series of signs with crudely drawn paint. *CIVILISATION IS OUR SIN. RETURN TO NATURE.* *NATURE IS BEAUTY. TECHNOLOGY IS CORRUPTION.* Past a few more homes we came across an old fence. Where it met the road, there was a large gateway some three metres high, an arch across the top. From what I could tell, once upon a time, the arch likely displayed a town name or some other marker. But the details had rusted away so that only jagged edges could be seen. The gate’s hinges had long since rust away, and the gate collapsed. However, the two halves didn’t lie on the road where they fell. Instead they had been dragged off into the shrubs at either side. This path was cleared after the city had fallen. We passed a few more buildings, and yet more signs: stakes stuck into the ground; paint on the sides of homes; scrawlings drawn over metal and wood that once indicated something else - a storefront, a direction. *WE NEED ONLY WHAT NATURE CAN PROVIDE. ALL ELSE IS MALICE.* *We were not made to control our environment but to live in harmony with it.* *NATURE IS PEACE.* *Humanity must be one with nature. Only there can heaven be found.* Eventually the signs ended, and the lights that had drawn us were now distinct bulbs. Iridescent light breaking through the darkness of the night, casting across the street. We began walking more cautiously, our stance crouched slightly into the ground. I walked up to a building and leaned against it, feeling the firm wood push back against me. It wasn’t rotten. It was maintained, varnished, inhabited. The settlement was at the base of a steep valley with large hills on either side. There were perhaps only twenty buildings here, but they were also much larger than the derelict husks we had passed. Yet one structure still dwarfed the others. It was perhaps only a couple of storeys tall, though the lack of windows made it hard to judge. However, it was at least sixty metres in length, stretching out across the open dirt till its back met against the start of a steep incline at the edge of the forest. My eyes glanced across the construction till my vision caught something at the front. Peering between the buildings, tracing the dirt path at the edge of the lights, there was a point where the ground changed. It wasn’t stationary. Instead, it swayed, and glimmered, with soft tones in waves. “Water,” I whispered to Alessia. “It has to be the sea.” “Not much good if we can’t sail it,” Alessia said. “Still, you’re right. Head to the coast, see what we find.” We set off once more, skulking between the buildings, pausing every few metres to check for any other signs of life. However, we seemed to be alone. Whoever lived here was likely asleep, and we had to hope it would stay that way. Soon we came across an open courtyard covered in electric lights that lit up the square like a stage. Ahead of us was a fifty metre sprint through bright beams across the centre of the settlement. “We can’t walk through there,” I whispered. “We’ll go round the back of that one.” Alessia pointed to the giant building off to the right of the courtyard. “Okay.” I pushed off from our spot, but Alessia grabbed my hand, and pulled me back. “Wait.” “What?” I replied, my eyes darting around me as my back lay flush against the wooden wall. Alessia pointed out across the courtyard once more, down to where the water was. “There, look closely, there’s something in the water.” I followed her finger towards the rippling light, till I could see the black void where something sat on top of the sea. “A rock?” I shrugged. “No,” Alessia smiled. “Just above it, you can see something rocking back and forth. A mast. It’s a boat Ferdinand. A small one, but a boat.” “You sure?” “I’ve seen a thousand boats in night seas, I’d recognize that rocking anywhere.” She turned to me and punched my arm with a grin across her face. “Ow.” I rubbed the impact piint. “Okay. We’ve got to get there first.” “Sure. Round the back of the building, sneak across the far end of the courtyard, then finally, we can leave.” Alessia grabbed my shoulders as she said the last bit, her grin briefly morphing into laughter. “Let’s go.” We darted back across the dirt, trying to keep to the shadows, avoiding anywhere the streetlights touched. I glanced across the courtyard as I scampered, but still we remained in luck. We remained alone. I slid up against the large building. I stuck so hard to the wall I could feel the splinters scrape against my back and the vertical slats pressing against my spine. We continued round. At the back, none of the streetlights’ energy reached, and we were once more returned to the natural gloom. Black shadows crept across an indistinguishable ground. The forested hill encroached towards us, no longer held back by the power of human technology, confining us to the few metres’ sanctuary between the trees and the wooden wall to our left. As we walked along the narrow corridor I noticed a patch of ground that was lighter than the earth surrounding it. A momentary break, perhaps half a metre wide, where I could make out the brown earth from the black of the night. It was a ditch scraped out from the dirt. The bottom of the wooden panelling was snapped off as well, creating a hole through to the inside of the building. The electric lights inside leaked out of the space, filling the whole with its yellow hum. I stopped by the small channel, leaning in closer. I could see scratch marks. “You don’t think... the varg?” I said, my voice uncertain. “Nah,” Alessia whispered back, scrunching her nose. “Marks are too small. Fox, dog. But nothing like those things.” I stood back up and continued, turning the corner to the far side of the building. I walked maybe three or four paces when I heard the crunch of a foot against the grainy dirt up ahead. “Someone’s coming,” I whispered. I listened for half a second, trying to tell which direction the shoes were heading. A few more paces confirmed the fear - towards us. We turned and retreated to the back of the building, once more huddled in the darkness by the woods, the steep bank of trees leering over us. “Hello,” came a voice from the otherside of the building. The footsteps continued. The slow crunching of boot on dirt creeping closer. “What are you doing?” A second voice called out. “I thought I saw someone. Go let the others know. Someone may have come down the river.” The footsteps began again. This time walking down the side of the building. Then they went silent; shoes transitioning from hard ground to soft grass. They were heading our way. I knew it. Even if I couldn’t hear them. “Now what?” I whispered, trying to remain near silent while hiding the panic in my lungs. “Inside,” Alessia nodded to the small ditch. “Will we even fit?” “It’s that or run to the forest.” I looked at the trees. I looked at the black spaces between. And I imagined the snarling jaws that may be in them. “You go first.” Alessia bent down to the crack in the wall, lifting the wooden slats to create a few extra inches of room. I crouched down, prone on the floor, and began slithering through, trying not to audibly grunt as my body writhed along the dirt surface. My shirt snagged against the broken wood. I tried to pull hard against the friction with my arms, but it wouldn’t budge. One more pull, and I heard a tear. The smallest rip that sounded like a gun going off. However, now free, I wriggled through. As soon as I made it, I turned and lifted up the panel for Alessia to squeeze through. She bent down and began wrestling through the hole, her smaller frame making the squeeze that bit easier. As soon as I saw a hand make it through, I bent down and dragged her to the inside, her body scraping across the dirt. “You okay?” I asked. Alessia got to her feet and brushed herself off. “Yeah. What is this place, you think?” We were in a small room surrounded by crates. I walked over to the nearest one and stared inside. Empty bottles neatly laid out in a grid pattern. The next one had various glass jars placed as uniformly as they could be. “Looks like some kind of warehouse,” I said. To our left, I could see an archway at the corner of the room leading through to the next part of the building. I walked over and peered around the corner, the room was empty. This room was bigger. While crates lined the sides of the room, they were also dotted around the middle, placed in random positions. Along the walls there were doorways to other parts of the warehouse, the labyrinth slowly widening around us. Alessia walked off to one side, inspecting a few of the crates. She looked over the edge of one, and pursed her lips, letting out a long, silent whistle. “What?” I asked. “They're not short on weaponry.” I walked over and looked inside. It was filled with guns. Some simple pistols, others much larger than anything I’d ever seen, needing at least two hands to merely lift up. There was no sorting, no organization, just a large pile of ready-to-go death. A place to grab whatever took your fancy and head on out. Looking over I could see the next few crates were filled with ammo. Alessia bent down and picked up a pistol. “You ever fired a gun before?” “No.” I said, recoiling slightly. “I used one on Kadear, to threaten. But... never fired it.” “Then let’s hope to keep that record. But just in case.” She walked over to the ammo and picked out a box, loading the bullets into the gun. “You ever fired one?” I asked. “Never in anger. Nothing good can come from making killing easier. But right now...” She handed me the loaded gun and reached in and grabbed another similar looking pistol. “I’m not sure I even know how to use one,” I muttered, looking at the weapon in my hand. It felt heavy, and my sweaty palms were slick against the handle. “Point it at the thing you want to go away, and pull the trigger,” Alessia replied, loading ammo into her own gun. “It’s not that simple.” “I know. But right now, it might need to be.” I kept the gun in my right hand, holding it by the butt, keeping my finger as far away from the trigger as I could. We approached another archway. I peered round the entrance, checked the room, and snuck into another empty space. One step closer to the front of the building. My eyes were immediately drawn to a mess of cables on the left-hand wall. “You know what that is?” Alessia said. “We had one on Kadear at the Citadel. Distributes electricity.” I pointed to a thick cable that ran out of the ground up to the clutter of metal boxes and exposed wires. “Wherever they get their electricity from, comes in from there, then gets sent to everywhere else.” “Interesting, but...” “We need to make a break for it across the courtyard right? If we find the right line we could turn off all the lights outside. They’ll just think it’s a broken wire and we can use the darkness to escape.” “That will alert them to something being wrong,” Alessia said, rolling her head from side-to-side. “By the time they fix the lights we’ll be three hundred metres out to sea.” “You think you can figure out which wire is those lights?” “Maybe,” I said. I looked once more at the chaotic circuitry, a complex web I had no true hope of understanding. But I was determined that I could reason my way to a solution. The system was the same principle as the one I had seen on Kadear, though this one looked a lot more delicate. I remembered how that circuit had killed Mary. And the exposed wires, the frayed, burnt ends of metal, all made certain I kept my distance from the board here. From the top corner of the board, I saw a long snaking cable, stretch off across the wall. “Maybe that one...?” I said, trying to seem knowledgeable, but truthfully acting mostly off instinct. “See where it goes.” I traced the line until it buried through the wall. I followed it into the next room. I stopped and looked up. Ahead of me were five people. Their faces and skin were pale. They wore long white cassocks that flowed freely down from their shoulders, brushing against the ground, hiding their form, as though they floated. The woman at the head of the group, stared into my eyes, and raised her hand. She pointed towards me, a gun clasped in the ends of her fingers. The Leviathans. \ Next chapter released 11th November.

I had a terrible nightmare and I couldn’t sleep afterwards. So, I transcribed my nightmare just for you right here! Agro whinnied as we reached the bottom of the canyon. I pulled on his reins gently, and gave him a reassuring pat. His instincts kicked in, bred over thousands of years, fight or flight. Good Agro. He was becoming unruly since dusk was falling over the canyon we found ourselves in. Also, he knew we were at the bottom of a canyon. Trapped. I dismounted Agro and pulled an apple out of my knapsack to ease his anxiety. A green apple. So help me god if I try to feed him a red one. We’ve been over this before. Argo ate the apple, at least content in his snack for the time being. I put my fingers to my mouth, and let it a shrill whistle. The only answer I receive are the echoes rebounding off the canyon’s walls. Silence. I sit down and pull out some smoked elk meet for myself. Agro and I enjoy our meals for the time being. A rustle in the bushes draws my attention. My hand instinctively goes to my belt loop. I feel the comforting leather grip of my bastard sword. I grip so tightly my knuckles whiten. I see movement, the rustling of a few leaves in the distance. Twilight draws near, but my excellent night vision allows me to at least see that there is some creature stalking me nearby. A blur of white fur rushes at me. My hand drops from the hilt of my sword, and instead reaches out in an embrace. My dire cat Daisy has returned from her patrol. She leaps into my arms and wrestles me to the ground. After our greeting I offer her food but she refuses. She has this strange look in her eyes, and she begins pacing. At first back and forth, and than in a ever widening patrol circle. I didn’t set her back on patrol, her instincts did. The winds had shifted. I now felt it too. My two animal companions, being in tune with the astral plane, of course sensed the shift a few minutes before me. The canyon grew silent yet again. My pets now sensed a real impending danger, and so did I. A low rumble shook the earth beneath me. An earthquake? Couldn’t be, it was too short in duration. Again. Boom. Boom. This could only mean one thing. The monsters had awoken. Impossible. I was reminded that winter had just started coming, as the brisk air hit my chapped lips. Our shaman assured us these beasts would lie dormant until at least the spring. A low growl revved up in the distance. Quiet at first, but it slowly grew in volume. The intensity peaked, and I could feel it in my bones as my inner ear and jaw vibrated. Then again, silence. It’s these silent moments that actually are the worst. The moments where you must plan, and think, and then ultimately make a decision. Noise tends to spur action, tends to trigger fight or flight, tends to be more comforting. Silence however is an insidious monster. Silence is malicious. Silence allows you to lose track of time. Silence gives you the chance to second guess yourself.

We ran screaming for the car. Jesse fell twice on the way. The first time I helped him up as he looked behind us. The second time I could hear the thuds. The water held in the pot holes were vibrating with each thud. Either he would make it to the car, or he wouldn’t. I heard him scrambling and scraping on the wet asphalt trying to get traction in his Vans. Great shoes for boarding, terrible shoes for running away. “Shit, shit, shit,” I heard Jesse repeat over and over again as he loped for the car in flinging array of arms, legs, and stringy wet hair. I ran around the hood sliding in the rain and grasped the driver’s side door handle on my way down. Thumb pressed on the button; the door swung open as I went sprawling. I heard a thump as something hit the passenger door followed by rapid pounding. “Hurry man, you gotta unlock the door! It’s right behind me!” I climbed out of the puddle, using the door as support, unlocking the doors as I slid behind the wheel. Jesse quickly got in slamming the door and repeatedly hitting the lock button. I didn’t think locked doors would help us, but you have to give an A for effort. I smashed the ignition button and the Mustang roared to life. We hydroplaned sideways as I gunned the gas. Jesse was yelling, “Terry we have to go! It’s gaining!” I gritted my teeth and hung on to the wheel for all I was worth, spinning the wheel madly to keep us out of a one-eighth where we would face whatever was chasing us. The Mustang peeled and fishtailed leaving us both screaming, but forward momentum was finally achieved. I never saw what was chasing us. As we pulled out of the empty warehouse parking lot a distraught screech could be heard. We sped down the street once the Mustang achieved purchase, and my white-knuckle grip on the wheel did not let up. I glanced back in the rearview mirror; I could still feel the thudding footsteps in my bones. I didn’t see anything, just rain glistening in street lights. Nothing was there at all. Jesse turned around in his seat looking out the rear window, “Shit. We could have died Terry. Who would have thought the stories were true? Do you think it will follow us?” I glanced over at Terry, “How the hell should I know? I’m not a monster expert. I didn’t even believe the stories. You were the one who thought they might be true!” Jesse slid back in his seat as I turned a corner on three wheels. “It didn’t seem to be following us... Or at least I didn’t see it leave the parking lot. I think you can slow down now Terry and put your seat belt on if you’re going to drive like Steve McQueen.” I did another quick glance, “Thanks for the advice mom,” and rolled my eyes. We just escaped with our lives, but from what? I let off the gas after we were about a mile or so away and latched my belt, “Better?” Jesse was wringing out his hair in my floor board, “Yeah man. We don’t want to get pulled over by the cops after all that. I don’t think I could do another adrenaline dump tonight.” We were both doing that nervous chuckling you do when you recover from a trip before you smack the pavement. Like, “Heh, heh, that was close.” I drove to a park not too far from the neighborhood where Jesse and I grew up together. I needed to make sense of what had just happened and get a grip on myself before heading home. I parked the car facing the water feature in the pond. The water feature was redundant with the rain still coming down. It didn’t matter any ways; the park was a dark Monte painting behind my windshield in the rain. I looked around the park before everything was smudged out of view to verify, we were alone. No lovers parking, no kids smoking joints outsight from mom and dad, not even a bird to be seen in the parking lot. Just my Mustang, just Jesse and me sitting in the pouring raining attempting to calm down after what we hadn’t really seen. Jesse blew out a sigh, unbuckled his seat belt, and folded forward in the passenger seat hugging his knees. I stared at him as I tried to get a grip on my own scared addled mind and process what had just happened. He turned his head to look at me through the curtains of his dark hair, “That was for real right?” I still had a firm grasp on the wheel, “Yeah. At least I know a heard something, and I know I felt something, but I didn’t see anything. Did you?” He sat back in his seat pulling his hair behind him, “I saw something. It was dark and huge, but through the rain that’s all I could see.” There was silence for a few moments, nothing but the patter of the rain on the roof of my car. I looked out into the shadows of the park. I could have sworn I saw something move in the dark gloom, but after a few more moments of nothing I decided it was my imagination. Terry interrupted my paranoid scanning of the park, “Should we tell someone? Like the police or something?” “Yeah, and what do we tell them Jesse? My friend and I were trespassing in the old, abandoned warehouse on 36th and this monster chased us out of there. No, I’m sorry officer we did not see what kind of monster it was. We only know it had to be big.” I rolled my eyes, “They’ll think we’re crazy or playing a prank. Either way, we will be the ones in trouble.” Jesse looked at me in disbelief, “But don’t you think people need to know? What if someone else goes out there and gets killed? How would you feel about that?” I turned in my seat to glare at him, “I tell you what Jesse, tell your parents and let me know how that goes. Ten bucks says they will say something about you being high and not go out there again.” Jesse glared back at me for a few moments before slamming back in his seat and saying, “I guess you’re right.” I shook my head in frustration, “Might as well go home now.” “Yeah,” Jesse said sullenly. I hit the ignition button, and the lights came on. Somehow the monster had found us. It started running towards my car. The quick thuds shaking the car and rattling my brain. I could not believe what I was saw. I reached for the gear shift, but the mechanics of how to shift left my mind in the moment of pure terror. The last thing I heard as the creature grabbed the roof of my car was Jesse saying, “What the...!”

As soon as Melany stepped into the restaurant, her heart pounded. She felt the burn of people’s hostile, disgusted stares. She didn’t belong there. It was a beautiful restaurant, with beautiful people, beautiful candlesticks, and beautiful tablecloths you shouldn’t drop wine on. The hostess greeted them behind her desk. There was that glass candy bowl with fun little white mints with colored lines. Melany stopped herself from taking one. A green one and a red one. Maybe they had the ones with blue lines too. So rare. She definitely had to take one of those. But people were watching. She could anticipate the look the hostess would give her, the comments people would make from their table. She has to stuff her face, can’t even wait for the meal . Melany followed her parents who followed the hostess. She looked down, the atom-shaped medal bouncing on her fat chest, careful not to knock over something with her fat thighs or her fat arms or her fat ass, carrying the large wooden fountain with uneven angles, unsmoothed curves, a dolphin that looked more like a kidney with eyes, and little panels posing as flower petals at the top. She had cut herself so much while making it that she had to add two layers of blue amd green paint to cover the bloodstains. At the table, she set the fountain on the empty chair next to her, and sat facing her mother. “Why did we have to bring it in?” she said. “People are looking at me weird.” “Because I don’t want people to break the car window thinking it’s a nuclear missile they could sell to Russia,” her father said. Melany glanced around. No one was looking. They were probably too busy thinking horrible things about her. “Can you order for me?” Melany told her mom. “No. You’ll have to do it by yourself at some point.” The waiter arrived like a lightning bolt through Melany’s head. With his square goatee, his black and red suit, his tie, his tall, in shape frame. All of that at once. He put the bread basket in the center of the table and filled their glasses with water. He talked to her parents, they talked to him, but Melany didn’t hear a thing. Then he turned to her, his kissable lips moved up and down, and she realized abruptly that she wasn’t invisible. “Huh?” she said. “What’s the story with that?” he said, pointing at the fountain. Melany cleared her throat. “It’s a fountain that runs on solar power.” She had to justify herself. “For a science fair. At school.” “That’s cool.” That’s cool. He said it was cool. Was that a compliment? “Thanks,” Melany mumbled. He left the table, left her in shock. Next time, she’d look him in the eyes. “A toast to our little genius,” her father said, raising his glass. Melany glanced back--the waiter wasn’t looking--and went for the bread. When she had won first place, she had forgotten to smile. When they gave her the medal, she was looking at a boy who wasn’t looking at her. When they took the picture, the boy was talking to some pretty girl who made a cheerleader skirt with napkins. It wasn’t like it was all that mattered, but kinda. You could be broke, sick, have a job you hate, but if someone loves you, you’re fine. The Beatles said it. There was a tradition in their family of women making the first move. Her grandmother loved the man who lived across the street. At night, she’d sneak in his place to leave little paper doves by his window until his brother tackled her to the floor, and as he was about to punch the lights out of her, the lights turned on, and confused grandpa, in his pajamas, said “Abby?” They spent the rest of their lives together. Her mother threw herself down the stairs so she could break her leg and spend time with a charming physiotherapist, Melany’s father. Would she fail at being the successor in this chain of determined women? Would romance die with her, alone in a dark apartment, of a cholesterol-induced heart attack, surrounded by cats? The waiter came back and Melany pulled her shirt down, tried to straighten up. He took their orders. “Blablaboo babadadou kranitchidu,” Melany babbled. The waiter nodded and wrote it down elegantly, charmingly, sexily. He smiled at her. Her blood froze. Was he flirting? Couldn’t be. She was fat. But maybe he liked that. Somehow. Why would he bring more bread? Why fatten his future wife if he wasn’t into thickness? It wasn’t like looks were all that mattered, but kinda. You could have the personality of Mother Teresa dipped in honey, no one would know if they didn’t even look at you, let alone talk to you. “Melany?” her mother said. “Huh?” “I said what’s next for you? Did you decide what you wanted to do for college?” “Sure.” Her gaze drifted to the waiter filling people’s glasses with his pitcher. Such a strong, helpful man. She downed her glass of water, and pushed it to the side of the table, in a very visible spot. “Melany?” her mother said. “College doesn’t matter mom,” Melany said. “The Beatles.” Her parents looked at each other. When the heavenly waiter came back with the plates, poured the wine, and filled the water glasses, Melany didn’t look up. She wanted to compliment him on his great job, but it would have sounded dumb. She downed the water in one big gulp. Her mom and dad made small conversation, rambled about aunt Susan’s mischievous Labrador, talked about politics and renovations and whether they should have a pool or a garden. The waiter appeared in the corner of Melany’s eye. She jumped, brought a hand to her mouth, threw the half bread back in the basket, and hid the pasta under the salad. Chew faster, chew faster. “Everything alright here?” the waiter said. He said it to her. He looked straight at her. She nodded, mouth full of bread. The temperature rose in her cheeks. He poured water with the grace of an angel. Before Melany’s mouth was free to say thank you, he was gone. She downed the water. Her bladder was filling up. She watched him walk away, stop at tables with better-looking women, smiling women, confident women, on-top-of-the-world women. “Are you dehydrated?” her mother asked. Melany turned to her father. “What do you find in her?” she said, pointing to her mother. “That’s not... nice,” her mom said. “It’s not insulting,” Melany said. “It’s investigating.” “Well,” her father said, unsure how to go about it. “She’s beautiful. She’s fun. She’s nice.” “Give me some substance, dad. You just described a cat.” “She... She knows what she wants. She’s loving and smart. What exactly do you want me to say?” “How did you know she was all that? Mom, how did you let him know you were all that?” Her mother took a sip of wine. “Huh... I was just... myself. And I guess we connected.” “Careful, there’s modesty falling out your mouth.” “Do you have someone in mind, Melany?” “No.” “Sounds like you do.” “You got something on you.” Melany reached across the table to wipe sauce on her mother’s shirt and knocked over the glass of wine in the process. “What’s going on with you?” her mom said. And then came the waiter, like a fireman through fire, to clean up the mess. Melany’s red face reflected in the wine glass. “Sorry,” she said. “Hey, no problem,” the waiter said. “You just added some excitement in my day. I feel like in a Bruce Willis movie.” Melany laughed, a weird and too loud laugh, the shriek of a fat pterodactyl. It squeezed her bladder. As time passed, as their plates emptied, as she looked at her empty glass of water wondering when he’d come back, the pressure was getting unbearable. But she couldn’t go to the restroom. What if she missed him? What if he wanted to talk to her again? But at some point, she had to go. She hurried to the bathroom, ignoring people’s stares, and relieved her bladder. Wouldn’t it be nice if you could flush away all the things that accumulated inside you over the years? The shame, the self-loathing, the regrets. There was no mechanism to evacuate the toxic waste produced in our brains. If she didn’t ask him out, she’d regret it for the rest of her life. If there was even the shadow of a chance he liked her, she had to do something. Honor the succession of proactive women in the family. Make a move. He couldn’t do it, he was at work. But she could. She would. She grimaced in the mirror. In what universe was it possible that a waiter would like something like this? Her hair was kinda nice. Kinda. That was something. Back at the table, she realized, in horror, that she had missed him. Her mother was putting the credit card back in her wallet. The bill lay face down on the table. Her father was getting ready to put on his coat. Melany looked at the tip they had left. “Really mom? Fifteen dollars? What does a man have to do to be respected in this world?” She dug in her pocket, pulled out her worn-out purple wallet, and took the five-dollar bill she was saving to buy batteries for the card-shuffling robot she was building. She placed it on the bill next to the little mint candies. The blue ones. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said. “Again?” her mom said. “Wait for me in the car.” Melany looked back at her parents putting their coats on and heading for the door. Her dad had the fountain in his hands. The waiter was leaning on the bar, chatting with the barmaid. The hot, thin barmaid. Melany stopped, then pushed forward again. One step at a time. He would admire her courage, her knowing what she wanted, like her dad found in her mom. The pressure in her chest grew as she approached the bar. She passed a hand through her hair, straightened her back. She put a hand on the bar. They didn’t notice her. “What was that... thing about?” the barmaid said. “Who brings a machine to a restaurant?” “Probably a butter fountain,” the waiter said. They both laughed. Then turned toward her. Gave another suppressed little laugh. Melany was frozen there, at the end of the bar. “Did you enjoy your meal?” the waiter said. Melany unstuck herself from the counter and dragged her feet away. Truth kills. It was just a façade, a routine trick to charm customers. For her, it was hope shattering. A slap back to reality. A memory that would burn her for years to come. Tears tried to slip out, but she held them back. He was too good for her. Her fat self. He was good-looking, he was charming, he was... kind of shitty. Fake. Mean. What would she do with a guy like that? Melany stood in the middle of the restaurant. People were turning their heads. The waiter and barmaid were probably looking too. Let them look. Let them laugh. Let’s see if his cute barmaid could build a solar-powered fountain. On her way out, Melany grabbed a handful of mints in the glass bowl, and shoved them in her mouth one after the other. She turned to the waiter, opened her mouth wide, revealing the chewing candies. Then walked out with a mouthful of love.

Once I met a man, and he knew of cake in the rain. People do not often know about this, and they most certainly do not talk about it. “What was that?” I said in repulsive confusion, “Cake? In the rain?” The man had remarked of all the sweet, lovely things that could be in the rain, but he remarked mostly of cake. A strawberry cake that had the most beautiful swirl on top, and all the various layers of diabetic intoxication it held. The man had seen many rings and stood tall as though I am true to my word. His golden breath escaped his lips in wavering motion, as did his wisdom from his shell. “Please keep to yourself sir, I don’t want to use this.” I held up my bright yellow umbrella, it was supposed to rain that eve. Prophets do not often speak plainly, and he surely did not. He continued speaking of all the cake in the rain, and how every car gave him the coldest chills; he spoke so much but didn’t say anything at all. I paced through the train station; tan tiles were ignited under my feet. Finally, after mumbling for some time, and shooting invitational glances in my directions, I asked him. “What are you on about?” For one moment, and for only one moment did I see his eyes. They were old, grey, tired demons burning through paper things cataracts. He peered at me with an expression that you don’t often see and laid his briefcase down. Creeping his body down to his makeshift chair, he finally lay steadily enough to explain. “Cake should not be in the rain, but I’ve seen it there. I’ve seen all the cake washed away, through and through, icing and all. I have seen the gentlest beast in the softest encasing rip through entire villages of cake. Its sharp claws would run through anything, but especially cake. I am a cake. I am sure that if I were to step out into the rain, or if I were to slip and fall into those tracks, I am sure that I would be a cake.” He ran his hands through his pockets and took out a photograph; it had a picture of a woman. Old, grey, lively demons ran in her perfect blue eyes, and she had the smile that only the birth of a child, or a particularly sweet piece of cake can bring. His demeanor had changed from confusion to sadness, for the torn, faded picture was held for a long time. “Who is that? Is that all? What do you mean by cake? How are you a cake? What do you...? Do you...? What...?” My questions became a wave, and in almost any ocean, seemed to be lost in the greatness of it all. The man held the photo for a long, long time; he seemed to want to hold it until it could be real. After some more time in his mind, the poor old soul put away the photograph and preached once more. “You know that cake is rare? I remember that there used to be no cake. Some people never got cake, and some people got too much cake. I had cake once; it was lovely until the rain came. I am sure that you have had cake too, I am sure it was perfect. I wish that I never had cake, I wish that all the rain would come early. I wish that all the cake was in the rain.” His old, grey, tired demons held seas now. I had stopped pacing and held my full attention to him. I wanted to ask more questions, and keep asking until my time was out, but I knew that there was only one question that mattered. “What is cake?” I asked quizzically. The man wiped his waterfalls, and spoke in a much quieter voice than before, for the rain had broken his mind, and his words. “I am a cake. She was a cake. You are a cake. I once drank a cake that had more years than me, and I had rain for many days. My cake was once in the rain, and now I have no cake. I am sure that if she were here, I would not be a cake, and I would be happy. I am sure that if she had as much cake as me, she would know what the rain does to it. You will have more cake than me I’m sure, as will everyone that does not find the perfect cake. I wish that I had more cake, and I wish that there was no rain, did you know that rain only comes where cake is?” My mind was now running faster than ever, faster than any tiger, athlete, and lie. I thought of all my cake, and how much cake I want to have. I thought of all the rain that would soon pounce, and how much of that cake would be worth the rain. We sat in the train station for a long time, and we thought for a long time. I thought about nothing and everything, as did the man. I wanted to ask everything, and I needed to ask everything, for one does not leave with just the thought of cake in the rain. I thought about how the world was almost dark if you stared long enough, and how the word “bowl” is a rather funny one if you say it enough. Eventually, after my decade long trance had rid my mind of any sense, my train had arrived. I wiped the sudden rain on my cheeks, stared at the man, and contemplated what to say. Although regretfully, I decided that nothing was best. I boarded my train with an empty plate and clear skies, for I had no cake, and therefore I had no rain. The window of the dark transit lay frozen in time, and as it pulled away from the station, the man looked up. With complexion lost in frosted panes, and cake left in the rain, I thought of where he would go, who he would be, and if he even knew I existed. Although I suppose that doesn’t matter, as he does not speak for my truth, as I most certainly do not speak of cake in the rain.

The truth is we were meant to be together, but I always preferred choice. It gives you the ability to snub anything resembling destiny. I spat in the face of destiny when I met you. My heart aches in a way that reminds me I can feel. I crave an interaction with you like the drugs I used to love. You are better. You are real. ​ It all began with a delightful conversation. How wonderfully free it was. Life and art, existential angst. It was never easy with you. Not from the beginning. Oh my god. ​ I happened into you again. Months later at a restaurant. You ignored the man I was with and bought my entire meal. Your long message was received in secret from the person that had claim over me. I remember that day you said. I remember you too. Meet tomorrow? Okay... ​ I told you not to fall in love as I straddled your broad, muscled chest. My beaten down heart laughed delightfully at the idea that I would break yours. My heart can't break you said. It is already broken. I'll never love you. That is what you said. I said I'd never love you either. We didn't fuck. I felt you as we moved against one another, our clothes not quite containing us. I'd made a pact with myself not to have sex. I wanted to feel temptation. ​ You asked me out with your friends not knowing how dangerous I was with playthings. All it took was a quick compliment, an honest observation of two others. Three pieces to make you feel pain and anger. One more would come later. The idea of others to follow. ​ I was friends with your friends from that day. A little too charming for one who became your enemy, later your best friend. Perfectly charming for a happy little couple, open to a visitor to join them in a tiny little home. You fucked me before it happened because you saw the invitation coming. It was an angry painful fuck. I liked the feeling of your strong arms grabbing me. The quick angry pumping as a result of you trying to lay claim over the one who had laughed about your feelings. I put your hands against my throat and you applied practiced pressure. The room blurred just the right amount. You don't hold anything sacred you said. I agreed even though I wasn't sure. I didn't know myself as well back then. You had a way of making me feel... so small and deadly. I was a secret monster determined to make you unsatisfied. You were determined to never be satisfied. We played a little game of tug o'war. We made a perfectly terrible couple. Your roommate hated me. Why are you here? He'd ask. I just smiled and shrugged. Hope your day was nice I'd say sugary. ​ You yelled at me when you found out about the couple. I showed up to apologize even though I wasn't sorry. I told you I wasn't. You don't understand I said. I had a relationship end that day, but it wasn't the one with you. I told you I enjoyed their cramped bed, eating and fucking and smoking and licking. We all moved together. We didn't talk. I didn't want to. You forgave me, but also did not. I was this evil you disliked. I was this evil you wanted to speak with. The temptation and mischief clearly sparkling in my eyes when I spoke to you. There was no one but us. Even as the small pools filled up with the bodies of stand in characters. I felt you. We looked at one another in comfort as a clown performed bad rap and I gave a knowing look that chided appropriation. The years that separated us glowed in your eyes with a "kids these days" look but it didn't matter as I knew I'd see you later. It had been a month or so since we last spoke. You picked me up when I saw you, scooping my thin but tall body up in a way that only a tall, muscular man can. I felt so tiny. Taken. ​ I did more bad. I liked to do that to you. I didn't trust you or your fucking broken heart. That stupid girl you loved in the past I didn't care for. I didn't do what you wanted. You hated my blatant disrespect. I hung out with your former acquaintance. Crashing at his place. He fell in love with me while I dated half the town. I didn't love him back. I loved him. I didn't want to fuck him. I fucked him. He was a virgin. It made things complicated. I didn't care about anyone. I didn't want to. I saw you off and on. Whenever we saw one another we were in each other. Taken over by something deeper than mere desire. I never texted you after if I could help it. You were always mad at me. I felt my addiction to you. I cried over it as your friend comforted me begrudgingly. Fuck I craved you. I sweated with desire with the hot sun reflecting on that stupid white fence. ​ I don't know when we stopped. It wasn't for awhile. I remember laying in your arms. We didn't fuck that night. I was upset. I'd found someone else while you were traveling Europe with a poor excuse for me. I told that man that I may not see him again. He cried. I thought it was strange. I had never seen you cry. This creature who didn't know me like you did was crying. I'd made other men cry, but this was different. He wasn't trying to control me. He was feeling. He thought I was good. You knew I was not. I chose him to make me better, but he annoyed me the way they always do. So I went to see you because I couldn't think of where else to go. Of course it had been months and many men and women between the two of us. Still, I felt so comfortable with you. I'd see you sometimes in a way that I attempted to make platonic. You were always trying to convince me to marry you. To leave him. I wanted you to show up with a ring. I wanted you to tell me we were leaving to go elsewhere. You never did. To be fair I never said yes. I made fun of you even while my heart beat with excitement. Don't be dumb I'd say. Don't. ​ He gave me a ring. It had been a long time since I'd seen you, but suddenly you were there. I felt my throat close up in a way that he never made it close. God I've never wanted anyone as much as I wanted you. All at once the time felt like no time at all. We stood in a crowded room alone pleasantly catching up. I felt your eyes devouring me. I felt my eyes asking them to. I thought we must have looked obscene to everyone fucking each other that way. My friends had not noticed. I realized that people were more blind that I thought. How could they not see us burning there. How was my secret still safe? We parted ways. You were working. I was happy. I told myself. I'm happy. I dreamt of you again. Woke up in a cold sweat of longing. I saw my rock sleeping peacefully beside me. How sweet he looked. How simple his love was. I swallowed the scream inside and burned for a week while I tried to forget. ​ They told me you had a baby and I laughed so hard. So very hard. It hurt to laugh. I didn't know if it was because it was funny or because I was so angry. You weren't supposed to do that. You were supposed to be like me. Childless. Free. We were going to be together one day. It was just as you would text me. You can be with him now, but I know we are meant to be. You would write such sweet nothings. So empty like nonvenomous snake bites. ​ You stole me away to the mountain. We watched the lights glitter below us and your hands were deftly feeling me and making me feel. No I said. I can't. It isn't right. I love him. The lights blurred below. The city so far down. The people so small. Again just me and you and him in the distant below. I laughed with you so freely. I knew it was ending. You did too. We held hands as you drove down the mountain. Even as the road curved dangerously out of sight our hands remained entwined. This is the end I thought. I kissed you and felt the craving inside. How would I say goodbye? I ran. I didn't look back to you. When I got home to my better side he was angry. He forgave me. I didn't want him to. I did want him to. He believed in the good side of me. You thought good didn't suit me. I tried to believe in myself. Still I dreamed that night of you pushing me against that stone fort wall. The cliff edge so near. I didn't jump but I pushed you. I let you take me over the edge. I didn't fight. Just fell into the sky. ​ "This is the moment where you trick people into thinking you are theirs." you said as you penetrated me deeply in the southern cemetery with the flashing of fireflies and coyote eyes. The blanket moved below us and the summer was early enough to cool my hot flesh. Every thrust I felt in my being. You said you could and should stop now. Maybe it wasn't cheating you mused. It is still cheating I said. We cheat when we look at each other you said. You pushed inside me. Earlier I had ducked into a tent. You had asked what was inside. The river was flowing beside us. The memory of the boat we were on was a shadow against the fabric. The whiskey tainted ice clinked against the glass as it slowly melted on the balcony we left. I smiled at you in the inner sanctum of that secret and public place. You can't get in me I said. I won't you said. And then somehow you were in me. No! I said to you and pushed you off me. You reached for me and I panicked. Memories of something less pleasant in my head. Hey what's wrong. We don't have to. ​ You sat down beside me and hugged me from behind. I hid my panicked tears. I was tired of crying in front of you. I felt safe again. Your body was warm and strong. I was the small part of you once more. I felt the lustful drive to be so very close. We walked away from our hidden sanctuary and arrived upon a place of play. It had been too long since I'd swung, so I didn't feel the need to. I sat on top of you and wrapped my hands around your neck as you relaxed your entire body to be defenseless. I don't care about her. I don't want to make you happy. I know you said. I love you. I know. I grabbed your wrists and thought about how I hated you. We kissed and I laid on you listening to your heart. It sounded fake. You dress like a whore but you're the smartest person I've met you said. Your words echoed in my ear. I do that on purpose. I know. I like it. You are interesting. We're the bad guys you know. I wanted you to know that. Heroes are boring you said. ​ You mentioned that people are notoriously bad at choosing things that make them happy. I know that is true. I've wanted to choose you, tried to choose you, and it didn't happen. I realize the reason we are drawn to one another, the magic of our connection, is that it can only exist in hostile conditions. I crave you in moments. Not the idea of who you are, because you are a frustrating man, but you. You see me. I see you too. I've seen you for so long. On an instinctual level I have known, despite our chemistry you're not the forever guy. I wish we could be friends, but I know it isn't possible. We burn ourselves up together. It is not fair to compare or good to have what we do. We don't make each other better. When I'm with you I don't care about anyone or anything else. I don't expect anything from you, myself, or the world. I don't pay attention to other people. I don't focus on the things I thought mattered. You make me feel more important than anyone and anything and you encourage me to think little of others. When I think about you I feel on fire. The rage I've had towards the weakness or slowness of other's burns. I crave to be with you so that we can laugh about them. I want to laugh at the thought of coyotes eating us in a land of the dead. You aren't healthy. You make me want to be a bad person. I love how it feels to be her. You're right that heroes are boring to watch, but interest is a bankrupt path. It ends dramatically. Hatefully. ​ The man whose ring I wear said he was worried about who I was. When he glimpses the part of me you see so clearly it scares him. He is a good man. He is simple. He is kind. He is slow and methodical. He doesn't enjoy watching things on fire or playing with people. He finds himself uncomfortable when he sees me smile and tease with sweet knives. So I try to find the good in life and smile at the small moments. I try not to have claws and walk quietly and put out fires. But I love you in the most selfish way. I don't care about your life or her. I love when you do things I know I should convince you not to. I watch with amusement while you blow up your life. My cautioning paper thin. Fuck I don't want to give up my addiction, but I also don't want to burn the world around me. ​ Okay you said. Let us try to be boring. I hate you so much my love.

I was born. I lived. I died. Trite words. They belittle what it is to come into existence, to live. They are sterile. Clean. A monochrome, safe, description of life. Life is anything but monochrome, safe, sterile, or clean. Especially clean. Life was messy. Squalling babe to squealing child to sulking teen to stressed adult. Not one moment clean, clear cut, or bland. The late appointments, job interviews, job rejections, bills, the clutter of life made life anything but monochrome, safe, sterile, or clean. Especially clean. I’m repeating myself. I’m losing focus. They say blood loss will hinder brain function. I guess they’re right. Focus, focus! My name is David Litke. I am 26 years old. I am married to Katherine Litke. I was born - Was that a footstep? Just my mind. Damned bunker. Life was anything but monochrome, safe, sterile, or clean. Especially clean. Fuck, stop repeating yourself. Focus, focus! My name is David Litke. I am 26 years old. I am married to Katherine Litke. I was born in Laramie, Wyoming. My parents are Mark and Jane Litke. I am a - Voices. No not voices. Grunts. Strange, primal grunts. You have time. You do. Life was anything but monochrome, safe, sterile, or clean. Especially clean. For fuck’s sake. I repeated myself again. They say blood loss hinders brain function. My name is David Litke. I am 26 years old. I am married to Katherine Litke. I was born in Laramie, Wyoming. My parents are Mark and Jane Litke. I am a frogman in the United States Navy. That’s it. That’s what I needed. That explained the body armor. And the grenade clenched in my fist. And the dead body. Joshua Pell. That was his name. Petty Officer Pell. An arm and half of his face was gone. How did that happen? Why am I still holding a live grenade? Other bodies were on the floor. They were wearing strange gowns - or nothing at all - and lay in tangled, bloody heaps. Life was anything but monochrome, safe, sterile, or clean. Especially clean. My name is David Litke. I am 26 years old. I am married to Katherine Litke. I was born in Laramie, Wyoming. My parents are Mark and Jane Likte. I am a frogman in the United States Navy. I joined because life was too clean. Too safe. They’re snuffling at the door now. That’s it. The people in the gowns, hospital gowns, had tried to kill us. Petty Officer Pell had dropped a grenade as they swarmed him. I must’ve been shielded from the blast. Most of it at least. My right leg was riddled with shrapnel, and stab wounds from the crazed doctor trapped in here had punctured my arms. And a concussion from a blast in an enclosed space - Life was anything but monochrome, safe, sterile, or clean. Especially clean. Stop that, or you might as well blow your brains out now. My name is David Litke. I am 26 years old. I am married to Katherine Litke. I was born in Laramie, Wyoming. My parents are Mark and Jane Likte. I am a frogman in the United States Navy. I joined because life was too sterile, too monochrome. And I am about to die. I shifted my weight from where I sat on the gurney. The movement knocked several platters and needles on the floor. The grunts and snuffling stopped. Shit. . . A primal, raw scream tore from some unearthly creature’s throat. It echoed for what seemed like forever. No. They weren’t echoes. They were responses. My name is David Litke. And I am about to die. It had seemed like an easy job. Raid the compound, snatch the doctors, and destroy the research. We didn’t realize the research would destroy us. The compound had seem abandoned, until we lost contact with Bravo. Then Delta. Then Charlie. My squad, Alpha, had been alone. Then we had started disappearing, one by one. They had hunted us, stalked us. My name is David Litke. We had run to this room to find it locked. We busted in anyway. The crazy doctor who had been hiding in here stabbed me several times before we downed him, all the while shouting “They’ll find us! They’ll find us!” in Arabic. Then the “they” he had been referring to had come. Then Petty Officer Pell had dropped the grenade. That’s why I still held mine. My name is David Litke. They had a hard time coming through the door a second time, those freaks. Their fellow lab experiments blocked the door. They shoved in eventually. Their twisted, grotesque forms lunged at me. Dirty, clawed hands outstretched. Teeth gnashing. Mouths spewing that vile scream. I hardly felt them tear into me. I only thought - David Litke. About to die. The grenade dropped to the floor.

I distinctly remember a scene from exactly a year, five months and three days ago, even as I forget what I’d eaten for breakfast before I went to school. The pink petals floating around my room, the text I’d gotten that day, the smile plastered on my face. Second-year, oblivious, Converse High me couldn’t even comprehend what happened next. He left. He had moved somewhere else, and he had forgotten all about me. No goodbye. Not even a glance back at me, who was waiting for him the whole time. But that... really isn’t my problem anymore, though. I’ve moved on from him, and I’ve adjusted to living without him who I’ve known more than myself. “San Aera!” I hear someone scream from behind me, and even before I turn around a slim, pre muscular arm slung itself around my shoulder. I wince at this, looking up at the boy beside me. He’s been at it for a year already, ever since that day. I call him Gyu, but his actual name is Choi Huigyu. We somehow stick around each other despite tipping our distress meters all the time. I wouldn’t call us friends. Definitely not a boyfriend, either. Our relationship general-wise is just... unnamed? He flashes that bothersome gummy smile of his despite deafening me just now. “Hey. Walking to school?” “Where else would I be going?” I ask, raising a knowing eyebrow at him. Gyu doesn’t say anything else and shrugs. “I don’t know. To me?” “Sure, I’d go to you instead of school and help you cram for a test that’s happening today. Isn’t that why you weren’t waiting in front of my house with my mother swooning at you as always?” “But you love helping me, don’t you?” I slap his arm in defence. He desperately needs a tutor, and yet he comes to me. He needs a friend, and yet he comes to me. I’m not a good enough friend, and yet he comes to me. Like every single day, lunch break, class break, class partner work, group work, and I never know why. Then we’re back to just silence, either one of us not saying much, and the atmosphere doesn’t change color. The sky is a bright blue and the clouds have decided to take a rest today, so the sun has all the space he wants. The road of cherry blossom petals in front of us has deepened a bit, the petals are running around everywhere. This scene seems a bit familiar... Gyu rips the word ‘silence’ from the air with a sigh. “It’s today, huh?” I look at him. “What’s today?” He says nothing when I ask. I’m used to this, yes, but at this point, I’m just so intrigued because he listens to me most of the time and I barely heed to him. He gives me encouragement but my advice-giving skill’s been a bit stiff. What’s on his mind? Gyu sighs again when I ask him. What the hell? “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but since he’s dead already there’s nothing I can do. You have to know something real quick.” I look at him, and he looks at me. It’s definitely not a joke, nor is it another school rant. It’s not about the teachers, not about his family. The look in his onyx orbs tells me it’s all about me and not him. What is it that he knows that I don’t? It looks like he’s hesitating to say anything else other than what he just blurted out because he’s constantly looking at things behind me, then me. He’s nervous. He’s never nervous. Gyu is always confident, if not, pride-ridden. He always boasts about himself because he’s that perfect. Everyone loves him and his milk-white skin, his lovely sharp onyx eyes, but I only hang out with him because he has no one who understands that he’s him because of his personality and I have no one in general. I’m about to interrupt him when he speaks, but his next words stop me and every fibre of my being. “Do you remember a distinct scene from this sidewalk? A scene involving... Sam Hyunjin?” He fiddles with his lost fingers and he doesn’t know where to look. I don’t know where to look, either, because I’m trying hard not to scream, or show that this shocks me, and all I’m thinking right now is What Is Happening . I think he knows that this is a pretty precious place for me. Because this was where my first confession took place. Hannam-dong High School. My second year. At about 4:59 pm when he insisted on walking me home. My silence is a gesture for him to continue, so he does. This time he doesn’t hesitate. “He’s always looked at you differently. Not in a bad way. Hyunjin really doesn’t mean you any harm by disappearing suddenly, so I’ll have to tell you what happened--” “ What? ” The question I’ve wanted to ask the whole time, from when Hyunjin told me he liked me back to the day he was deemed gone from Hannam-dong-- it finally comes out. And I start to speak this time, my blood starting to boil, bubbles sprouting from it. “What do I not know about Sam Hyunjin? What is it that I’m supposed to know? Gyu, this was last year, and if he wanted to ditch me, then why didn’t he just--” “ Sam Hyunjin was a cancer patient, Aera! ” My heart drops into my stomach and to the floor. Gyu’s words linger in my head, and the lava in my head has died down. It fizzes and dries out on its own, leaving me clueless, guilt-struck, and my knees buckle. Cancer . Hyunjin . A patient . Oh my God. Why hasn’t anyone told me about this at all? Who else knew other than Gyu? Who was Gyu to Hyunjin? Why... wasn’t I told? Then it struck me. I remember something from right after he dropped me off to my home, what he whispered in my ear when he pulled me close. I remember him breaking into a soft tear and him whimpering a bit. That wasn’t him being glad I liked him back. He was frightened. Those... those words-- “Thank you so much.” He was telling me something. Why didn’t I realize sooner? My eyes sting now, and I’m trying to suppress mixed emotions in my head right now. It hurts. It relieves me. It just... makes me a bit teary. I misunderstood. And now the consequences of not perceiving it hurt more than when he left. “He didn’t wanna say anything about it because he knew this would happen, Aera.” Gyu pats my back softly, I collapse to him, tightly pulling him close. I know he’s taken back by my sudden gesture, but he returns it as swift as I pulled him. Gyu’s heart beats steadily in his chest-- it consoles me just as much as a fetus. “You know...” I look up to these two words and see Gyu in a state that broke me even more. He was tearing up as he clutched my figure, but I could tell he was trying his hardest to stay strong. For me. For Hyunjin. “He... today was the day he died...” I shattered at this.

We were never wealthy. My family and I lived in a small village near the northern border of Romania, and we had nothing. 1852 was not a good year, as the crops were naught but dust in the wind of the coming Autumn change. Not only were we miserable, we were hungry. There was my father, mother, younger sister, and I, a tender youth of eight. The cold of that Autumn was like nothing I had ever experienced before, and my father became a brash man. An angry man. A... failed man. As any other time, our days were spent working in the field, trying our best to save each grain of wheat we could, hoping that Mother could produce a single loaf for the week, but the loaf never came. I had dreams of Bucharest butter and cream, visions of meat, the fat and all those wonderful things that other children could enjoy but us. The toil of an empty stomach wears heavy on the mind, this I know well. The pinnacle of desperation came when a traveling merchant made his way to our rat’s nest in the woods and my father murdered him to take his goods, but it was in vain. It was a con man, of Moldova, who thought to purloin what he could after gaining trust from a hungry family. As he pulled back the blanket from the merchant’s cart, Father dropped his bloody axe to the ground and followed it, falling to his knees and screaming. His screams were those of a child, a child wanting something it cannot have, and screaming the walls of the house down. Nothing quite shakes your view of the world as a young man as seeing your father falling apart in front of you. He told us to get back into the shack while he buried the slender man in the woods, where he would not be found. I watched through the window as Father slung him into his cart and took him deep into the woods. I heard nothing. He was gone for a long time, too long of a time to bury someone, and Mother was chewing her lips with worry, but she dared not disobey his command. Before long, as the sun was setting, Father came back into the shack, clothes bloody and grim, but he was back. As he stood at the threshold of our shack, he looked at us and, for the first time in months, he smiled. He smiled as he pulled out a blood-soaked sack from behind his back and exclaimed that he had killed a fox that smelled the dead man’s blood. He did not have the sack when he left. He did not have anything to hunt the fox with, only a shovel, and foxes are too quick for that. There was too much meat in the sack to come from a fox. Nevertheless, he tossed the sack to mother and told her to cook. “But it-” “Damn it woman! Cook!” She obeyed him and we had the first glimpse of a whole meal in weeks. Sitting at the table, we dined and ate the fox, lips smacking as toothless hounds, but it was wrong. We had had fox meat once before, and it was tough, difficult to chew, and tasted awful. Eating fox made us want to never eat fox again, but this fox was sweet, tender, almost like the pork we had one rare Christmas night. The idea of my father lying about the meat was a figment in my mind as its delectable taste overwhelmed my hungry self, and I gorged, consumed, even cried from happiness. Before long, the idea was completely gone as I sunk into a deep sleep by the fire, curled with my sister, whom I had loved with every fiber of my being. The Autumn night was freezing and our dire situation was halted for a single night. Until I felt the warm, soft feeling of my sister’s body against mine get ripped away from me. Her screams were piercing, as she struggled against my father’s grasp. Urged by a primal need to defend what is closest to me, I surged from the floor and lunged toward my father, but his other hand was promptly over my mouth and he was telling me to be silent. “They are outside.” Muffled screams died down into soft wallows as I realized he was not assaulting my sister, but keeping her quiet. We were huddled down in a corner of the room directly under the window, through which moonlight reared to reveal his face. He was stricken by a mortal fear, one of a man who had seen either a devil or something much worse. It was the latter. As he gently moved his hand from my mouth, I whispered the only thing on my mind: “Who is outside?” “Th... them, I am not sure. Be quiet and sit down. Do not make a sound.” He released my sister as well, threatening her with a high fist if she were to say anything, something I had grown to hate about him ever since the first time he had done it. Slowly, he crept toward the window to look outside. It was half-barred with wooden planks that we made the previous winter, so he could just peer outside without being seen. As his head came above the windowsill and he closed a single eye, and a breath escaped him. A shaky breath of a dying man, he was petrified. I could not help but satisfy my curiosity, and seeing that he was not moving out of fear, I dared to creep closer and reveal what they were. I wish I had never looked out of that window. There are things in this world that are better left for the mind to imagine, never behold. Outside our shack in the middle of nowhere, illuminated by the full moon above, stood a troop of men, all nearing the image of the wandering “fox” we had eaten for dinner. As my young eyes adjusted to the light and my mind processed the horror, the full gravity of our situation was made clear. Those were not men in our garden. They were corpses. Rotting, putrid icons of people the Reaper either did not care to take or was not allowed to take by something, they were animated, standing in our garden, seemingly pointing their eyeless skulls toward our small measure of safety - the broken and patched window. I was six years old. I was naive to the world, both the goodness of it and the horrors that resided in the recesses of the deep dark woods. I could not help it. I screamed. I screamed as those satanic amalgams burned themselves into my mind as I clawed at my eyes to make them leave. The sanctity of my own mind was raped by things that I could not fathom, things that any god would condemn and keep away from us. I sometimes wondered if whatever god there is was also afraid of what those men were... As soon as the terror escaped my mouth with my breath, the dead men sprung into erratic movements toward the house, as marionettes controlled by a cruel and twisted puppeteer. More came from the woods, but I dared not count them. My father was shaken awake by my screams and took my sister and I by the collars of our worn shirts and flung us into the miniscule cellar where we kept the spare nails and hammers. He flipped the table over and slid it over the door, so we could not get out. “Do not make a sound.” We heard the thumping sound of his footsteps getting further and further away as he took up arms, his axe, and opened the door of the shack. I’d rather not describe his screams or my mother’s wails as they had their way with her... The thing I remember most vividly is muffling my sister’s mouth and smelling iron in the air as it leaked through the floorboards, and remaining like that until the hazy light of the morning shined through the broken and bloody window. The men disappeared along with the night, and we were, at first, too afraid to move. Before long, the feeling of dread was back and we began screaming for help, for anyone to come and rescue us. Even though a god had not thought it merciful to spare my parents’ lives, it did think it wise to send us a smith, Florin, to save us. Florin was stunned by the scene in the house and did not allow us to look, and took us away to his home, where we remained, until my sister died from pneumonia seven years later. I, finding no joy in smithing and no purpose with my sister in the grave, left for a boarding school in Bucharest where I lived, until I established a family of my own. I was at peace until this night. I am writing this to express how thankful I am, truly, that my sister did die when she did. It would have been unfortunate for her to be here now. It is Autumn, a very cold night in Autumn and my wife and daughter are asleep in the bedroom. I have locked and barred the door. My inkwell is almost empty, and as I look out from my study window to the outside, I can see the same strange movements emerging from the wooded area in front of our house. I can see my father’s dead eyes looking up at me, bathed in moonlight. I have made peace with my fate. Irina, Iulia, I love you with all my heart, but I must go. There are foxes in the garden.

Thread of Destiny I have always hated elevators. It goes without saying really that being suspended in a metal box in an open shaft gave me a distinct feeling of vertigo whenever I was inclined by social pressure to ride in the death traps. I hated the feeling of that little jerk right at the beginning when the cab first started to move and then the counting beeps that signified just how fast the floors were passing by. I hated the little bounce whenever someone got on or off. I hated the way the doors closed and gave that little warning to stand clear. And I hated the stuffy paneling and the little rubber dots on the floor. All an all I just hated elevators. It was a cloudless and sunny Wednesday afternoon, one of those days that made me long for just a blanket and a book in the park, but I had a job interview. The place had been on the 12 th floor of some indistinct high-rise that I actually drove past three times before I figured it were to park. I anxiously smoothed my wrinkled blouse and the smooth fabric of my skirt as I stood in line for the elevator. Twelve floors was just too many to walk up in heels. I clutched my resume close to my chest and tried to appear like I belonged here. I could see that I didn’t. The people swarming past me were too posh and aloof to be my sort of people. I knew this was going to be a waste of my time, but I was here already. I might as well just answer the questions that all the others had posed and then go home to drown my continuing failure in a bowl of instant mac and cheese. Don’t judge me. The door made that annoying chiming noise and I steeled myself to step inside with two other people, both of whom looked like they were applying for the same job I was. The woman was a smartly dressed brunette who looked older than I was with her pressed jacket and briefcase. She took the choice spot in the elevator right beside the buttons and close enough to the door to be the first one out. The man had a kinder face with lines drawn in to the corners of his eyes and hair that was just on this side of untidy. He offered me a small smile as I stepped in behind him and positioned myself against the opposite wall. His fingers were trembling slightly as he drummed them silently across his slightly shabbier briefcase. He looked uncomfortable in his tie and kept rolling his neck from side to side. The woman was not trying to hide her distasteful looks in his direction as the elevator starting up, counting the floors with sickening tones. I had my hand clenched into the fabric of my sweater, my fingers fiddling with the bottom button. I was ready for it to be over when everything starting shaking violently. The brunette started to scream and I was thrown to the ground. The man’s briefcase smacked my across the face and smashed open on the floor. Paper exploded around me and I threw up my arms. It stopped, the lights flickered once and died. “Damn.” The man swore into the blackness. His face was close to mine, his voice almost shouting in my ear. The woman was still screaming, her voice bouncing around in the pitch. “We’re going to die. Oh my god we are going to die!” “Will you shut up!” the man’s voice was harsh as he moved away from me and I managed to scramble backwards and put my back against the wall. The emergency lights flared up casting the scene into a hellish red glow. The man was standing now. There was a gash bleeding freely on his cheek. His eyes were wild. The elevator creaked disconcertingly and the brunette whimpered. Her hair had come loose and hung in lank strips around her face, she had her briefcase clutched tightly to her chest and was rocking back and forth slowly against the far wall. There were tears on her face. I watched the man stride to the emergency telephone and pull it out. He held the receiver to his mouth and spoke into it. “Hello?” I studied his face, blood was dripping onto his collar. He wiped at it absently as he listened to the speaker on the other end of the line. “Yes. Three are three of us. We are trapped in the elevator. The power is out.” A pause and he frowned. My head was throbbing where the briefcase had impacted my temple. The elevator groaned again and the brunette whimpered louder, rocking harder. “I understand.” His voice was clipped as he hung up the phone. He set it back in its cradle and turned to look at us. “Well it’s going to be a while. That earthquake was a 5.8, there is a lot of power lines down and a couple of buildings collapsed. Turns out we’re lucky not to be squashed right now.” He slide down the doors. “I’m Garett by the way.” “Morta.” I said holding out my hand. We shook hands. The brunette sniffled, “Kayla.” We sat in silence for a while then. “So were you both here for the job?” I asked. Kayla just jerked her head, but Garett laughed. “Funny isn’t it? I woke up this morning thinking that I’d do this one thing and then go back to playing catch-up on the yardwork my wife keeps nagging me about. In today’s economy when they bite you yank the line taught. They say jump you say how high.” His laugh turned bitter. “Here we are three strangers bound by circumstance to be adversaries, hung in a metal box by a thread. I think there has to be a pun about destiny in there somewhere.” “I don’t believe in destiny.” Kayla tossed her hair. “No? Why not?” I asked. “Well its stupid isn’t it? To think that your life is preordained or whatever. Stuff happens because of action and reaction. People do things because other things happened to them.” I brushed my own hair out of my face as Garett turned thoughtful, “In college I had a professor who swore up and down that the reason people believed or didn’t believe in destiny was because they wanted someone to blame for how very ordinary their lives were. The man who believed in destiny thought surely that if he were designed for greatness then he would be great. The man who considered his own fate thought that surely if he wanted to be great there was nothing stopping him.” I snorted, “They were lazy you mean.” Garett’s eyes sparked and a smile quirked his lips, “Perhaps.” The elevator creaked again and the emergency light winked for just a moment. Kayla was picking at her fake nails compulsively and I shifted my legs to keep them from falling asleep. “Do you really think that we were all meant to be here today?” I asked suddenly. Garett looked up from his fingers. “Did you really think you had a good shot of getting his job?” I flinched as his words stung me. “I...well...” Garett waved me off, “It’s like I said before when they call you, you show up. It really doesn’t matter what the job is as long as it pays well enough and come with health insurance. Can you honestly tell me that you would rather come to an office every day and work for someone who barely remembers your name for the next thirty years until you retire and realize that you wasted the best years of your life making someone else money.” “Why are you so bitter? No one is making you apply for this stuff.” Kayla smarted. Garett sighed, “Really? Let me ask you something, if you said to your landlord that you weren’t going to pay rent because you didn’t have a job, do you think he’d be okay with that.” “No, but...” “It isn’t that there is someone who makes you work for someone else, it’s that you make yourself do it because you know that the consequences of not doing it are harder to bare.” “So where does destiny come in?” I asked sitting up straighter. “Ah destiny. When we think of destiny we think some grand adventure or heroic actions. We think that people with destinies will be great, but I pose to you the question of why? Why should all destiny be grand, wouldn’t it be better served to say that most destinies are quiet and subtle. There are hundreds of workers and only one queen, every society works like that. If we were all great then nothing would actually get done.” “You’re saying that we are destined to be no one?” I picked at a loose thread on my pants and Garett pointed a finger at me. “Got it on the first try.” He ran his hands through his hair and glanced towards the phone again as the elevator creaked more loudly. “Then what’s the point in saying you have a destiny at all?” I argued, “if we are all just meant to be no one.” Garett shrugged, “Who knows maybe you’d turn out to be the queen.” The elevator screeched loudly and slid down a few inches. Kayla started to mutter a prayer under her breath. “Somehow I doubt it.” I murmured. I could see the fear on Garett’s face as he offered me a smile. I just felt numb. The throbbing in my head had stopped and I could hear every heartbeat and every whoosh of breath that came and went into and out of my lungs. “I heard this story once about the three fates.” Garett started, “It was Greek I think. Anyway the story goes that the first fate is the one who gives you life and starts you on your path, the middle one measures the length and the third...” “Cuts the cord.” I finished and we stared into each other’s eyes. I reached into the pocket of my sweater and pulled out a pair of scissors. The cable sang as it snapped. The climb to heaven is long and hard, the fall to hell is swift and easy.

I got drunk last night. That’s not the point of this story, but it needs to be addressed. This morning I awoke at 7:45 to a jackhammer cracking my skull right in front where the wrinkles in your forehead split. I got up, chugged a mug off water, and went back to sleep. My only responsibility for this lazy Sunday was to collect a display from a grocer across town at 6pm. After a couple movies, a few episodes of Arrested Development, and some cheese and crackers it was almost 5. I hopped in the shower and thought of all the great places I could eat dinner. I was going across town, and had my pick of anything I wanted. While packing up the display I decided upon a delicious Philly cheesesteak from a sub shop I don’t get to frequent as much as I’d like to. The idea grew in my head overtaking all other thoughts, which is actually pretty upsetting. I was not starving by any means, just the night before I stuffed my face with a Chicago style dog and some cheesy fries.......If you haven’t already figured out, I eat pretty poorly, but that’s another issue for another story. As soon as I walked through the door I heard two things. The first being a Ding to alert them of my presence and the other was one of the young girls working, yell to the back “It’s your turn!” This in my head is already an issue, her lack luster work ethic is going to translate directly into my food in some weird way. Be it through her emotions as she angrily separates the steak, or even how she slaps the mayo to my bread. It might be all mental on my end, maybe my taste receptors won’t savor the same if my head doesn’t feel the happiness in my sandwich? When she didn’t hear a response she turned to me, gave me a little smile, and asked me “What can I get for you today?” I said in my blandest voice possible, due to my current dissatisfaction, “I’ll have a Philly cheesesteak please.” “Ok, what kind of bread, white or wheat?” “I’ll have white please.”........remember I already said I eat poorly. “Would you like onions and peppers?” The girl working has no way of knowing this, but I loathe onions. If I had the option to rid the World of three things, I would pick onions three times. So I said, “No onions, and could you also make that a large sub?” “No.” she replied. “Please?” I said with a confused look. “Yes.” She said with a smile, as she turned to make my hoagie. I started to think a bit about that exchange, and still haven’t yet decided what it meant. On one hand she could just be making a joke, on the other she could be flirting. For all I know she says it to everyone. I have no reason to believe it was flirtatious in any way, but, shit, maybe it was. I am so oblivious to situations like this that I have to calculate them out later to decide. If it was flirting, and I had even caught on at the time, I wouldn’t have done anything. I am too much of a chicken shit to even say something else. I’m getting off topic again, and this story is about my sandwich. She let me know when my sandwich was ready, and rang me up at the register. I paid her, and asked if Germany had won the world cup. She told me they had and said “Have a nice evening.” Now I know for sure that she wasn’t flirting, or maybe she was, I don’t know. I sit down to eat my sandwich. I pull half out, and wrap the other half back up for lunch tomorrow. The first thing I notice is the dark shade to my white bread. As you might have guessed my white bread was wheat, and this being an honest mistake, I had no issue with letting it slide. However, when I took my first bite I chomped straight into the nastiest, most bitter, tongue stinking, eye watering onion I have ever tasted. The flavor engulfed my mouth and ran all my taste receptors to their doom. Each chew spread this disease. I thought about returning my sub to the girl and asking her to remake it, but that would make me look like an asshole, which is something I am trying to avoid. I mean, I have the ability to pick onions out of my food, and if I return this food, it will go straight into the trash. What it ultimately boils down to is the fact that I got the wrong sub, and I had every right to get up, walk over to the counter, and request that it be remade.......but I didn’t........I picked the onions out, and left unsatisfied with my sandwich to the sound of the girl saying “Good Bye.” as I walked out the door. Does this story have a point? Not really. I dropped my sandwich off to a homeless man on the corner near my apartment. I have deemed him the most deserving, as if I could pass judgment. I offered him a beer one day, and he turned it down stating “That’s the reason I’m in this mess.” Maybe the point is that I need to eat wheat bread, or maybe just eat less, the universe interfering with my quest to get fatter. Or maybe the girl messed it up so badly just because she wanted me to come back and talk to her, which I doubt. In all honesty, it is just a reason for me to bitch and moan, fueled slightly by the fact that I watched “Annie Hall” earlier in the day. Take from this what you will, but if you learned anything. I hate onions.

I’ve heard from a mutual that you’d like to move out to the countryside. They told me you want some place quiet, away from the rat race, more affordable even. I’m the last person on earth to tell anyone what to do with their lives, really, but I have to give you my two cents for this. There is a lot of *Nothing* in between the cities. You might not have heard of it, it happened a semester before you joined. It was the Davies expedition. A group of about twenty-five researchers, mostly students, from our college that went out to collect some data. They all vanished, all but one. That one was me. If you didn’t already know, I’m not surprised. I don’t like talking about it, but if it can change your mind about the move I will. The Davies expedition was named after my friend, and its lead, Howard P. Davies. He was only a year older than me, but several years my academic senior. He was young for a department head, and had multiple fields of focus. I didn’t then, and still don’t entirely understand Davies’ research. We weren’t even relatively close in fields of study. So I was a little confused when he asked me to come along the expedition. He told me that he had enough researchers to do the work, but needed more bodies to carry the equipment. It was going to be a short trip, two days at most, and it would pay well. Of course I said yes. The canyon we were going to was in a heavily protected wilderness. So protected we arrived with a government escort. They picked us up in huge cars with wheels that were almost as tall as I was. The escort took us down a heavily wooded valley that ran between two monstrous mountains. It had a crystal clear river running through it too. It was like being inside a painting at the louvre. That all ended at the canyon. There was a clear line drawn between the rest of the valley, and the canyon. The tree line stopped, and the grass stopped growing. Only the river kept going, because it couldn’t be stopped. I picked up my share of the equipment and looked over the edge. The canyon itself was relatively narrow at the top, but widened at the bottom. It was really more like an underground cave, but there was more than enough sunlight coming through to light the entire area. So here comes the first oddity I noticed. I should have been able to see the whole breadth of the canyon, but looking too far down or up its length the light would disappear. I was sure that the sun should have been able to light up the whole of the bottom, but it just didn’t. It wasn’t a normal kind of dark either, it was almost blinding. Like there was *Nothing* there. It was hard on the eyes. I blinked a couple times and grouped up with the rest. I noticed that none of the people with the escort were getting off. “Isn’t anyone going to stick around?” I asked “No sir,” said the man. “What about animals? I thought you’d leave someone behind in case of animal attacks or something.” “There aren’t any animals around here.” No animals? This far from humanity and he was telling me there were no animals? I could hardly believe it. I wanted to ask him more, but the government men were on a timetable and they were sticking to it. My mind was buzzing, not quite alarm bells, but thinking hard. I watched the escort leave, thinking I should probably have left with them. I watched them until they were completely gone. My mind got snapped back to the here and now when the expedition let out yowls and cheers. Apparently Davies had given a speech and I had missed it because I was too busy wishing I’d left with the escort. The expedition started shuffling to the edge of the canyon and I followed. The walls of the canyon actually had some pretty nice natural stairs along its walls. They almost looked carved. The canyon was deeper than it looked too. It would take us most of the day to get down to the bottom. I took one step down and in the blink of a second I was at the bottom with Davies' hand on my shoulder. It was disorienting, one moment stepping down, the next second on flat ground. Even the shadows shifted, it must have been later in the day. “You weren’t listening earlier, were you?” said Davies. “What-” “Happened?” “Yeah.” “It’s basically highway hypnosis. Something about this place lets you really lose yourself. Have you noticed the air?” I hadn’t, no, but when prompted I realized that I couldn’t feel the air. Down here the air was skin temperature. It was like being in a sensory deprivation tank. “I can see you have now,” said Davies. “What about the quiet, awfully quiet right?” It wasn’t quiet. It was the absence of sound. Totally and utterly, I couldn’t believe it, and it shouldn’t have been possible. For one, sounds should have been echoing between the canyon walls, and second was my mild tinnitus. After attending one concert too many I was stuck with some mild ringing in my ears. If it got too quiet it was hard not to notice, but not here. I was put into a stupor. “It’s okay, you’re not losing. It’s hard to notice *Nothing*, right?” he smiled. I’m not sure how he could be so at ease. This place was unsettling. “Come on, it’s fine. I think it’s a little creepy too. Let’s just set up our gear, get our measurements, and we’ll be out of here in a couple days.” A couple days. I dreaded the thought. Davies put me at ease though. He was probably just putting on a brave face. If the expedition lead is panicking then how can you ever be at calm, right? Davies gave me the cliff notes on working around here. Basically I had to be mindful of the noise, and the people around me. Keep your mind focused on them and you won’t enter that trance-like autopilot. I did as instructed and before long I had managed to put off my mind from the unsettling aspects of the canyon. The sounds of everyone working to set up our camp was comforting. When the set up work was done, everyone gathered around the kitchen area. The kitchen had a fire going, and everyone welcomed the relative heat vs the *Nothing* of the air around the rest of the camp. You could be mindful of the smell of food too. Everyone was bunched up there, chatting with more volume than needed. We wanted to fill the area with sound, because the quiet was dreadful, haunting. Night time arrived soon after though, and with it, a deeper *Nothing* than before. While the area around the camp had been well lit by the sun, that void of light I had seen from above was still present. The camp was surrounded by Nothing on either side. It was somehow worse at night too, because you had real darkness to compare it too. Real darkness was dark, black, a lack of light. The void on either side was Nothing, an absence of reality on either side. One by one people dropped off to sleep, prepping for the next day. It happened slowly because we were all reluctant to leave the campfire and head for our tents. Little by little though, people did leave, and soon it was just me and one other student. A girl named Sasha. Neither of us wanted to get away from the fire. We were terrified, but also tired. We couldn’t keep the fire going forever either. We needed to save fuel for our last night tomorrow. She did the hard part for both of us, snapping to her feet and dowsing the fire then quickly retreating to sit beside me. We tried to make idle chatter, just to keep the quiet away, but to little use. “Don’t you think there’s something wrong with the sky?” she said. Internally I cursed her. Why would you say something like that, in this place, on a night like this. I looked up, just briefly, terrified of what I might see. It was just a regular night sky. “No?” I replied. “Good,” she said, a little relieved. “Good. I’m going to bed.” She didn’t get up though, she fluffed up her backpack and laid her head on it. I gave her a reluctant good night, and fluffed up my own backpack. Was there something wrong with the sky? I asked myself, cursing her again. Why would she even put that thought out there. I took one last look at the sky before I let sleep take me. No, I thought, the sky is fine. It looks just like it does back home. The next day was much smoother than the first. A quiet settled into the camp, but most of us, including myself didn’t mind. In no time at all we had grown accustomed to it, and had relaxed our active mindfulness. It helped to know that it was our last night there. I was tasked with setting up cumbersome equipment, building and tearing it down for the researchers. When I wasn’t needed, I passed the time hanging out with Davies, who had some free time himself since most of his job was just overseeing the work of others. “So...,” I started to ask Davies, “what is this place?” Like I said, I wasn’t in his department, had no clue what he was studying. I didn’t understand what we were doing here. “For starters, it’s not just this place,” said Davies.” There’s places like this all over the U.S.. We don’t have a name for them yet, I’m thinking something like ‘Null Zones’.” “So then these places are...?” “Right now they’re just holes in data. Nothing more, really. I noticed them while looking at a colleague's work. They had been collecting data on animal populations. They had notes on population locations and their spreads. Something seemed familiar so I pinned those populations on a map and noticed these empty pockets. Moreover I recognized these pockets too, from collections of meteorological data. I decided to find other data sets that I could map out and recognized similar empty pockets in all of them.” In other words. *Nothing*. Davies had recognized a whole lotta *Nothing*. I recalled what the government man had told me. No animals in this area. This place was a void. One of Davies’ empty pockets, a Null Zone. It was Nothing. Before I could ask more, a researcher interrupted us to tell Davies that Sasha had gone missing. The girl I had spent the last of the previous night with. When Davies and the other researcher had caused an uproar about Sasha, everyone else began to note that their respective partners had gone missing as well. All of us had been in a stupor, let our guard down just a little too much. Davies gathered the entire expedition together to count heads. In the course of the day, we had lost just over half the expedition. Everyone, minus the researcher who told Davies about Sasha, had the same story. They had been hard at work on their tasks since morning, and when Davies snapped them back to reality with his uproar, noticed that their fellow researchers had disappeared in the blink of an eye. One second there, the other second, gone. There was a panic in the remaining members of the expedition, but Davies kept a cool head. He knew, as well as I, that the first twenty-four hours that someone is missing, are the most important. Every hour they weren’t being searched for increased the likelihood they wouldn’t be found alive. I saw him dig into his backpack for a satellite phone. Myself and a few others had been entrusted with one in the case of emergencies. His face turned sour. I fished out my sat phone as well and knew why. Down here in the canyon, we had no signal. Davies had seen me fruitlessly try and make a call with the sat phone. We looked at each other and knew that someone would have to go up top to make the emergency call, to get a search party as soon as possible. To be clear, the horror of the situation hadn’t escaped us. People had gone missing in the middle of the day, in the middle of camp, without anyone noticing. The practical reality of the situation however, kept us grounded. Ultimately Davies made the executive decision as expedition lead, to go back up the canyon alone. Such a decision wouldn’t have been necessary except that the trip back up would take longer than the trip down, and it was already mid day. Whoever went up, would be climbing a steep canyon wall in the middle of the night. Davies got ready to leave, gathering the minimum to make the trip, just a lamp and some dry rations. A few others had decided to join him, citing that it would be safer to make the trip together, but in truth, I’m sure they just wanted to leave this place as soon as possible. So that was that. One part of the expedition would stay behind to make the safer climb at dawn tomorrow and the other would go up the canyon to get help as soon as possible. I said my goodbyes to Davies, and it was hard. It would be the last time I ever saw Davies again. When he left, I was too tired to cry, or do much of anything. So were the others. There were about ten of us left then, down from a team of about twenty-four. Night came, and with it more dread. We lit the campfire as soon as an inkling of dark came over the canyon. We all gathered around the campfire. I looked up the canyon wall, searching for Davies’ team. They should have been somewhat visible in the darkness of the canyon since they would be making the climb assisted by lamp light, but I saw nothing. Then again I had made the trip down in a trance, and did not know the path up. I held on to the thought that perhaps the way up curved around corners that you couldn’t see at night time. I patted my thoughts with the idea that Davies was just out of sight, somewhere up there, climbing back up the canyon walls. Time passed in laps of awareness. We all tried to maintain the mindfulness that Davies had instructed us in, but it was growing increasingly hard. There was also the issue of those of us that remained. No one wanted to acknowledge it, but we were all gathered around the fire and there were fewer and fewer of us than before. At that time I counted six left. All of them worried, and panicked in their silent isolated bubbles. We had been quietly losing people since Davies’ team had left. The fire started to die some time later. The fuel was dwindling, and soon we would be left alone with the darkness and the void on either side. We would be stuck down here with the Nothing that surrounded us.That’s when it hit me. Just as the fire died, it hit me. There was something wrong with the sky. We were far into a great protected wilderness. Far and away from civilization, there wasn’t any light pollution. SO WHERE WERE THE STARS. We should have been able to see the milky way out here, billions upon billions of stars should have been twinkling in the sky but there were hardly any. Just a few miserable twinkles. “Where are the stars!?” I tried to scream, but nothing came out. I looked to the others, frenzy clear on my face just as it was on theirs. They had made the same realization, the terror was clear on their faces. It was the last I saw of the others. The fire died out, and I only had the miserable few stars to keep company. There were so few I could count them, and they were blinking out of existence. The night sky was turning into a great blanket of *Nothing* right before my eyes. I must have willed myself to stand up and run. Despite the loss of all my senses I must have run. The air was indistinguishable from my skin, there was no noise, there was no sight. I had only my mind, and the faintest inkling of self left. Somehow I stood up and ran, I know it, and it saved me. The rescue party found me later the next day, babbling near a waterfall. At a guess, I must have run toward the booming sound of the river up top crashing into the canyon below. They found me screaming, spouting random gibberish, any noise to keep away the nothing. Later, much later, when suspicions of foul play had been cleared, I was allowed to read Davies’ journal, which had been swiftly recovered but kept for evidence. I tried to read through it, but as I said I wasn’t in his field and understood little. What little I could understand was most of what I had experienced myself. There was only one more horror waiting for me at the end of his notes. *The Null Zones were moving*. In his notes. I quote. “Conclusion: More in depth study needed, original hypothesis invalidated. Originally I thought the Null Zones spawned away from large population centers, but the readings here suggest that they migrated. Rather than large population centers being built away from the Null Zones as I hypothesized, it was the Null Zones that had been “chased away” by the life of large cities.” They move. Places like the canyon move. So I beg you to take me seriously friend, do not move out to the countryside. You may be fine for a while, but one day you might wake to the peace and serenity is just the absence of sound. You may even notice that the air seems strange, and wonder when the last time you saw any wildlife was. By then it would probably already be too late. Stay in the city friend, where it’s safe from the *Nothing*.

“Dad says we have to talk to other people too.” I refused to look at my sister, focusing instead on the fat neighborhood cat that had wandered up to me in the yard. He purred and rubbed his orange head against my hand. I smiled, but it was a fleeting one. Leah sighed and took my hand, forcing my attention away from the cat and onto her face. “Ji-lalo,” she said softly after making sure Dad was nowhere to be seen. “Jo-lali.” I wasn’t afraid if he heard us. “We should try.” “Why?” I was being purposely ignorant, and Leah knew it. “You know why he took us away from the compound. We are human, Lalo. We are meant to be around others.” “All I need is you.” I said it in our secret words. “And you, me.” “We’ll always have each other. In the whole universe, there is nothing that could change that. But-” “But what? Mama always said we were born with everything we need.” “Mama wasn’t right in her head, Lalo. She kept us separate from everyone and everything.” “I miss the woods,” I said, ignoring what Leah said about Mama. Mama loved us more than anything. “Don’t you wish we could go home, Lali?” Leah opened her mouth to answer but a shadow fell over the doorstep where I was sitting. I cried out, a wordless sound from neither language, but it was only Dad. He had his arms crossed, and that meant he was angry. Leah immediately ducked her head, but I held mine high. There was nothing he could do to make us give up our secret words. “We *are* home,” he said, and I realized he hadn’t even noticed our special names for each other. “Listen to me, Rebekah. Leah.” He sat down beside me on the step. The orange cat wound around Dad’s ankles as Leah sat on my other side. I reached over and her hand was already there, ready for me to take it. “Your mother,” he began, and I groaned inwardly. Here came the same story he’d been telling us for weeks now. “Your mother had problems. A lot of them. She had a disease in her head that made her take us all away and hide in the forest. You girls remember our church?” Of course I remembered. It was always so scary going to church for the week. There were strangers there, strangers who didn’t understand Leah and me. “Mama protected us,” I said. I would not hear of her sickness. She didn’t seem sick to me. She was perfect. “She kept the others away from us. She let us be with each other. You don’t.” My hands were in balls, angry little fists that I had no memory of forming. “If you really loved us, you wouldn’t make us change!” Leah gasped, and I expected a scolding, but instead, tears began to fall from my father’s eyes. “Rebekah... I love you more than anything on this planet. You girls are my heart and soul. I took you away from that place *because* I love you. Someday, I hope you can see that.” “You took us away from everything!” I yelled, and a man on the other side of the street looked our way. His gaze was too prying, too curious. I stood up and ran inside the new house, back to our room. Without Leah there though, it felt empty. I sat on the floor and wrapped my arms around my chest. Footsteps came from the hallway, and I scooted around so Dad couldn’t see me cry. “I can’t do this anymore,” Dad said. “I thought you were getting better, but you’re not. I’m getting you two some help.” That was when the meetings started. Twice a week, they made us separate into different rooms while a lady talked to us. Her name was Doctor Saltmarsh, and she asked us weird questions about mom, the compound, the woods. Each other. I knew Leah wouldn’t share our secrets, and so I refused too. This woman was a stranger. She didn’t know us. She didn’t deserve to know us. But every week without fail, she was at the new house waiting for us. It took a long time, but one day, I felt something change. Leah changed. “Jo-lali,” I said when she came out of the living room. Doctor Saltmarsh walked out behind her, and I shut my mouth. She didn’t deserve to hear our language, our secret words. “Hello, Rebekah,” she said. “Are you ready for our session?” I looked at Leah. She had tears on her face. Doctor Saltmarsh had made my sister cry. I said nothing, but took Leah’s hands. She held them for a brief moment, but then she pulled away, and I was left alone with Doctor Saltmarsh as Leah walked to our room. Doctor Saltmarsh placed a hand on my shoulder and led me into the living room where Dad was already waiting. He had a pinched, nervous look on his face. I stood in the center of the room, my arms around myself. “Please sit, Rebekah.” I wouldn’t dignify that with a response. They would get nothing from me until I got what I wanted: Mama and Leah. Dad sighed and forced me down into a squishy armchair. I hated it. We never had anything like this in the compound. I couldn’t sit up straight in this chair. “Listen to the Doctor, Rebekah. She’s going to tell you something very important.” I stared straight ahead. My eyes were for my sister alone. They were the same as hers. Dead grass green. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Doctor Saltmarsh shoot Dad a look before turning back to me. “Rebekah,” she said again. My name sounded foreign and harsh on her tongue. She wasn’t saying it right. Leah said it right. So did Mama. “We’ve decided we need to take some more drastic steps in your recovery. Your progress isn’t where we would like it. We have decided, and Leah agrees: you will be sleeping in separate bedrooms from now on.” It took me a moment to process what she said. When it finally clicked, I laughed. Leah and I would never sleep apart. Most nights, we even shared the same bed. It was so comforting being close. When we slept, our breath would rise and fall in time with each other. Mama always said that we were one in her womb, and should do whatever we could to be one in life. Dad looked surprised at my reaction. “This is for real, Rebekah. It’s happening. Leah is upstairs moving her favorite things into her new room.” Leah would never do this. Not without being in complete agreement. But even as I thought it, I knew something wasn’t right. Leah had been crying. What if they had forced her? I uncurled my arms from around my chest and walked away towards our room. Leah wasn’t there. My heart racing, I rushed to the empty room beside ours. But it was empty no longer. There was a bed, a table, and a desk that hadn’t been there before. Leah sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes red and puffy. “Jo-Lali,” I said, shaking my head. “They can’t make us do it. We are meant to be together. We were born that way.” Leah sniffled and looked at me. It was like looking in the mirror, especially since I had begun to tear up too. “Rebekah,” she said, and I frowned. She never used that name for me. I was always Ji-lalo or just Lalo. “We have to try. I... I think Dad is right. I think we’re sick, Rebekah.” “Don’t call me that!” I cried. That was what *they* called me. “I am Ji-lalo! Ji-lalo!” Footsteps came from the hall and Doctor Saltmarsh and Dad entered the room. “What have you done?” I hurled myself at Doctor Saltmarsh. “You broke her, you did something!” My fists beat upon her stomach and chest, and she dropped her clipboard. I kicked it away, ready to attack again, but Dad pulled me away. He wrapped his arms around me, pinning mine to my side. “Rebekah, please, Rebekah!” I twisted and writhed, but I couldn’t get out of his grip. Leah was still sitting on the new bed, not looking at me. They ruined her. They made her believe their lies. A fear so overpowering came over me, I stopped struggling for a moment, and Dad was able to pull me back into the hallway. What if I couldn’t bring her back? What if now, I was alone? I had never been alone. Not for longer than it took to take a shower, and even then, sometimes we would talk through the door to each other when the loneliness got to be too strong. “We want you to have your own personality, Rebekah,” said Doctor Saltmarsh. “We need you to thrive and flourish on your own as a little girl, not as a part of a whole. We want to hear your voice.” They wanted my voice? Well, I would give it to them. Summoning all of the willpower I had, I screamed. I screamed and screamed until Leah began to scream too, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Leave them be,” I heard Dad say over my piercing wails. “When they get like this, only they can calm each other.” Doctor Saltmarsh shook her head. “No,” she said. “We must separate them. They are feeding off each other. Take Rebekah to her room please. I’d like to speak with Leah.” Dad nodded, and lifted me off my feet. I refused to stop screaming, no matter how much he begged after he set me down on the bed in mine and Leah’s bedroom. Eventually, he left, shutting the door behind him. I screamed until my throat felt raw and my voice started to fade. Once I was quiet, I could hear voices in the hall, and I slipped off the bed and pressed my ear to the door. A pang of deep sadness and loss shot through me. Leah should be beside me. She always was. Until now. “...working for Leah, the progress has been incredible, but Doctor, what about Rebekah?” It was Dad, his low gruff voice carrying through the silent house. “The medication isn’t working. She clings to her sister. You saw what just happened, surely there must be something we can do.” There was a pause, and I had to listen with all my might to hear what Doctor Saltmarsh said next. “You may not think they’re ready, but I think it’s time, Jeff.” Another long pause, and Doctor Saltmarsh spoke again. “Good. I’ll take care of all the paperwork. They’ll have some of the best care in the state, Dunmore has a wonderful school system.” “They can live a normal life?” “We will start them a grade below where they should be. That will help them acclimate. This is an important step. The girls need to socialize with children their own age. They need to learn proper social cues and how to interact with adults. I recommend separate classes. They depend on each other too much.” “Of course,” said Dad. “Whatever you think is best, you’re the expert.” “I must admit, Leah and Rebekah’s case fascinates me. I am wondering when you feel it appropriate to talk with the girls about their mother?” “Not yet.” Dad’s voice was firm. “Let them have their innocence a few years longer. Please.” Doctor Saltmarsh hesitated. “Do the girls know that their mother is dead? Do they know what you saved them from? They had the poison in their hands when you arrived, isn’t that right?” Dad’s voice was heavy with something I didn’t understand. “Yes. I saved them... but I couldn’t save Carol. She had already...” He cleared his throat. “You know, maybe I’m not ready yet either.” “That’s alright. Trauma like this can take a long time to process, let alone heal.” The conversation continued, but I wasn’t listening anymore. I stood rooted in place. Mama was dead? That couldn’t be true. If it was true, I would have known somehow. I would have felt it. No, Mama was still out there somewhere, waiting for us to come back to her. I rushed to the window and threw it open, half-expecting to see her standing there with her arms outstretched, but there was nothing but some freshly-cut grass and a chain fence. The smell of the grass made me think of summer at the compound. Mama would let us swim in the pond when no one else was around. The grass there was always cut short for us to play in. When Mama had long meetings in the church building, Leah and I would roll down the hills or play pretend in the woods. We played that we were warriors defending our forest kingdom, or that we were animals who could talk. Even now, I longed to run outside and scale the lonely tree in the back of the house. It was as close as I could get to Mama. But I wouldn’t go without Leah. I opened my door to find Dad and Doctor Saltmarsh were gone, and hurried to the other room. The emptiness I felt without Leah was all-consuming, but when I pushed open the door, I saw that the room too was void of my sister. “Lali?” I called, but there was no answer. I went downstairs, and to my displeasure, Doctor Saltmarsh was still here, talking to Dad in the hall. I hid behind a corner, listening. “I know it must be an adjustment having the girls full-time, but really, you are coping so well. I can tell you truly want the best for your children.” “Of course I do. They are my life. You can’t imagine what I went through when I thought they were gone too.” “I know. Here, I’m recommending you to speak to a therapist. He’s a friend of mine. I’ll personally make the call if you want me to.” Dad nodded. “I think that would be best.” They walked towards me, but I crouched down behind a long table, and neither of them noticed. “I will see you in three days,” Doctor Saltmarsh said, and exited the house. Once I was certain Dad was alone, I leapt out from behind the table. “What happened to Mama?” I demanded. Dad’s face turned white. “How long were you-” “What happened to Mama?” I shouted. “Where is she?” I started to cry again. I couldn’t help it. Fat tears splashed onto the scratched wooden floorboards. Dad gathered me in a hug, and for just a second, it felt like Mama was there too. But then Dad spoke. “She’s gone, Rebekah. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want you to find out like this. I-” The sound that came out of me was like nothing I had ever done before. I fell onto the floor, unable to stand any longer. So it was true. Or maybe they were lying to me, trying to get between me and Leah. They were forcing us apart in ways I never thought possible. Leah came rushing in to the hall when she heard my howl of grief. “He killed her!” I screamed. “She’s dead, he killed her! She’s gone! Mama’s gone!” Leah was dumbstruck, unable to speak as the truth of what I was saying washed over her. She fell too and we held each other for what felt like hours. Dad didn’t dare try and tear us apart this time. After a while of him standing over us awkwardly, he went to the kitchen. We heard him talking on the phone, but he shut the door so we couldn’t listen. When he returned, I couldn’t look at him. He had done this. I don’t know how or why, but he was there the last time we saw Mama. There had been so many people at the compound that day, and this time we weren’t allowed to go off and play in the grass like we usually did. Mama gave us each a cup of soda. We never got to have soda. It was a special treat, she had said, but we were not to drink it until she said so. We listened to a man talk for a while, but Leah and I were more interested in us than him. When he was through, though, Mama told us we could have our special sodas. She even showed us how to drink it, in one big gulp. But that was when Dad showed up. He ruined our special day and knocked the soda out of our hands. After that, I don’t remember much. There were lots of blue and red lights, and strangers. So many strangers. After that day, Dad said we had to live with him now. But I wasn’t going to let him come between me and Leah. Taking her by the hand, I led the way up to our room, and pulled her down onto the bed with me. We were wrapped in each other’s arms. It was how it was supposed to be. But soon enough, Leah disentangled herself from me and sat up. I looked up at her. “I’m going to go to my room,” she said. “I think I want to be alone.” “But we are alone,” I said, puzzled. “No Rebekah, really alone. By myself. Not you.” My eyes filled with tears when I finally realized what she meant. “Jo-lali,” I began, but she held up her hand. “Not Jo-lali,” she said, and her voice was sharp, cutting right through my heart. “I want you to call me Leah now.” She turned and left my room, closing the door behind her. Leah stayed away all night, even going so far as to lock her new bedroom door. I went back to our room and sobbed. I couldn’t sleep, not while this wall of wood and stone blocked me from my sister. She came back to me in the morning though, and her eyes were narrow from lack of sleep. We held each other for long moments, until Dad showed up and made everything worse. “You’re going to school this fall,” he said with no preamble. “I want you to be prepared to meet new kids, so today, we’re going to the park.” I had read about parks. They were places where children played with their parents keeping a watchful eye on their comings and goings. “We aren’t going,” I said immediately. But Leah gave me a sideways look and my mouth opened in shock. “Rebekah, please,” she whispered. “I want a normal life. I want to be a normal kid.” “But we aren’t normal,” I said. She needed to know this, she must see it. “We are us. You and me. We are all we need. Ji-lalo and Jo-lali.” When I said our special names. Leah’s eyes narrowed even more, and she looked at Dad. “I want to go,” she said. The park became a weekly ritual. I hated it. Leah went off and abandoned me to play with strangers. Strangers! Anything she said to them had to be said in everyone’s language. I heard her talking and scoffed. She and I had secrets together. Once, she was playing with two boys and their younger sister. Strangers make me nervous, but I was determined to remind her that I am all she needs. “Play with me, Lali,” I said in our language. Leah ignored me. My heart seemed to shatter into a million pieces. She had never ignored me, not once, not ever. I hid beneath a wooden structure for the rest of the time we were there, and I refused to come out, even when Dad begged. Eventually, Leah did exactly what I had hoped and crawled through the sand to get to me. “Come back with us, Rebekah.” She still wouldn’t call me by our special name. “No,” I said in our secret words. “I’m never coming out again.” Making a face I didn’t understand, Leah spoke our words. “Come home, Lalo. Please?” Satisfied, I nodded. But the next time, my plan didn’t work. Leah refused to crawl through the sand to bring me home, and I felt lost all over again. Dad had to huff and puff his way through the sand and drag me out. There were no more visits to the park after that. I had won. But Leah didn’t see it that way. She didn’t understand that I was doing this for her, for *us*! Days went by, I’m not sure how many, because Leah withdrew from my comfort. Sometimes, she couldn’t help herself and would come crawling back to me with a strange red-faced look about her. There were nights where she couldn’t sleep alone, and I would find her curled up beside me. Those were the only nights I slept. School began just as the leaves were beginning to change. It made me miss our compound and Leah and Mama even more than I already did. Dad bought us new clothes that fit strangely and made the back of my neck itch. We looked bizarre in these. Dad drove us to school on the first day. We were starting third grade. Doctor Saltmarsh was there to see us off too. I spoke to neither of them. The stink I had put up this morning had hardly done any good at all. We were still here. At least I was with Leah. She was holding my hand. Her fear was palpable, but I wasn’t scared. I had her. Once I stepped inside, it was another matter entirely. Endless tiles led in all directions, and the lights were harsh and cold. There were metal boxes covering the walls, each with a combination lock on it. This place seemed alien and inhospitable. A loud bell rang and I screamed, which made Leah scream. “Let’s go meet your class,” said Dad. I shook my head, and Dad looked like he was bracing himself. I decided to let it go, just this once. Strangers had begun to fill the halls, and I was growing more and more uncomfortable. Dad and Doctor Saltmarsh led us to a room. “This is your class, Leah,” said Dad. “Your teacher’s name is Mrs. Kimball. It’s okay. You can go on in.” I tugged on Leah’s hand, but she slipped it out of my grasp. “I’ll see you later, Rebekah.” She walked into the classroom without looking back. Now that I was alone, my panic was starting to set in. “Lali!” I cried. She ignored me, talking to the teacher and receiving a handful of papers. “This way, Rebekah,” Doctor Saltmarsh said firmly. “You have Ms. Emerson. I’ve worked with her in the past, she is very nice.” Dad was shaking his head as we drew nearer to the classroom. “She’s not ready for this.” “Sometimes dropping in full speed ahead is the only way to make progress. Nothing else seems to work, we’re running out of options. It’s possible she will thrive.” I refused to thrive. I wasn’t sure I knew what that meant, but I wouldn’t do it. I stood silent and unmoving as Dad and Doctor Saltmarsh talked to one of the strangers about me. They directed me to pick a desk, but I wouldn’t budge. I won’t let them manipulate us like this. Eventually, I was made to sit down right in the front of the classroom. “We’ll be available via phone if you need either of us,” said Doctor Saltmarsh. “Thank you, Lois.” They left me. Dad and Doctor Saltmarsh. They walked off and left me all alone in the classroom filled with twenty strangers. But I knew where Leah was. I stood up and walked out the door. The teacher, Ms. Emerson, grabbed my arm and shut the door. “Come on, Rebekah, we’re staying in our seats right now. I sat. And remained sitting. When they all stood up to look at the American Flag, I stayed in my seat. When they started playing some inane game with a plush toy, I scoffed and stared straight ahead. When Ms. Emerson placed sheets of paper in front of me, I ignored them. The only time I was myself was lunchtime. I could see Leah then. We sat together and shared our food. It felt normal. Maybe I could learn to survive at the school. So long as Leah was with me, I could get through anything. But then, the teachers sent us outside with all the strangers. Leah left me alone then, and played a ball game with a couple other girls. I stood by and frowned at her, but she didn’t seem to see me. After that, it was back inside, and I was left alone. Dad came to pick us up when it was finally over. “How was it?” he asked Leah, carefully avoiding looking me in the eye, and for good reason. I was livid. “I made some friends,” Leah said, and her voice sounded like it used to when we played together. Happy and carefree. But how could she feel that way when I was so miserable? “Carolina and Melodie! They want me to play four-square with them tomorrow!” “That’s great!” Dad exclaimed, and hugged Leah. Then, as if he was dreading it, he asked me. “How about you, Rebekah?” I didn’t bother responding to him, though I spoke to Leah, softly in our secret language so Dad couldn’t understand. “Play with me tonight, Lali,” I said. “I miss you.” Leah didn’t say anything. We got home, and she went straight to her room, closing the door in my face as I made to follow her in. I understood all too well what was going on. Dad was trying to split us up. Him and Doctor Saltmarsh. It wouldn’t be so bad if Leah wasn’t falling prey to their tactics. But she was acting like she wanted to be apart from me. They had gone too far. “Jo-lali!” I cried at her door. “You have to listen! They’re doing this to us! It’s like Mama always said: strangers are trying to hurt us! They all do!” The door flew open and Leah stood there before me. I was overjoyed for a split second. Then, she shoved me to the floor. “I am *not* Jo-lali!” she cried. “It was a stupid game we played when we were little! But we’re not babies anymore, Rebekah!” I stared up at her like I had never seen her before. Not once had Leah ever laid her hands on me in a threatening way. “I want friends and classmates, like we read about! We don’t have to be alone anymore, don’t you see?” “We were never alone,” I said from the floor. “Until now.” One of Leah’s eyes twitched and she stared at me wordlessly for a moment before spinning around and marching back into her room, slamming the door. Dad appeared and saw me on the floor. “Rebekah, what-” He looked at Leah’s closed door and sighed. “You have got to let this go. Do you understand? I just- I don’t know how to help you anymore. Go to your room. I’m going to call Doctor Saltmarsh.” I stayed in my room all night, ignoring when Dad called us down for dinner, and when he told us to get ready for bed. It wasn’t like I would sleep anyways. I couldn’t. Not without Leah. The next day was a Saturday, so there was no school. I stayed in my room. All I wanted was to be with Leah, but maybe if she saw how much she would miss me when I wasn’t around, she would come to me. She didn’t come all Saturday, or Sunday. She got up to go to church though, I could hear her moving around in her room. I wasn’t going. Too many strangers. At the end of the day, Dad came to yell at me again. “You need to eat, Rebekah. Or at least have some water. Come on.” He held out a glass of water to me, but I wouldn’t take it. I wasn’t hungry. Monday dawned and Dad drove us to school. He didn’t look like himself. His hair was messy and he had a beard. His arms were shaking too. Sometimes Mama used to shake like that. Today, I decided I was going to *make* Leah pay attention to me. She would have to. I went to my classroom without a fuss and even stood up when Ms. Emerson made us look at the flag. But the minute her back was turned, I was gone. I burst into Leah’s classroom. All the strangers turned to stare at me, but I didn’t care about them, despite the squirmy way they made my stomach feel. “Jo-lali,’’ I said. This was how much I cared, I would come to her even amidst my own fear and discomfort. “I love you, Jo-lali,” I said in our words. “I need you back. Please come back to me.” Everyone turned to stare at Leah now, and I knew something was wrong. She had never looked at me this way before. She plunged her hand into her backpack and pulled out one of Dad’s kitchen knives. Leah leapt at me and I put up my arms to cover my face, but the knife sliced through them like paper. Her blade found my neck and I choked on something hot and metallic. “No!” screamed the teacher, Mrs. Kimball, who until now had been frozen in shock. It was hard to breathe, and my arms and neck hurt so much. I started to cry. The tears stung my throat. Then the floor was rushing towards me, and everything went black. \ “They’re not fit to be around people,” someone said. Her voice was familiar. I opened my eyes and found myself in a white room with strangers surrounding me. Over in the corner was Doctor Saltmarsh. Beside her, Dad paced back and forth frantically. “There must be something,” he said. “I can keep them at home! Homeschool. Please!” “I’m sorry,” said Doctor Saltmarsh, and her voice seemed colder than I remembered. I tried to speak, and a horrible pain went through my throat. “But Rebekah cannot cope with the separation of her sister, and after what Leah did, I’m surprised you would even consider-” “She was just upset!” Dad cried. “She didn’t know any better.” “I think you need to look at this.” Doctor Saltmarsh pulled out a recording device and pressed play. I almost leapt for joy when I heard Leah’s voice, but quickly realized that something was very wrong. Leah was laughing in a crazed, manic way. “I’d do it again! I want her gone! Dead! She’s in my head you know. The only way to get her out is to cut her out. Cut cut slice slice. Lalo? Lalo Lalo Lalo, come here!” The recording stopped and Dad was staring at it in horror. “Is her mind totally gone? What happened?” “It seems that she had a psychotic break. We will treat her to the best of our abilities, but there is the chance that she may never recover.” Dad shook his head, his eyes wide and tear-filled. “What about Rebekah?” They turned to look at me and I smiled big. Hadn’t they heard the recording? Lali wants me! She wants me to come to her! I tried to tell them that everything would be okay, but no words would come out. “I’m sorry. Her vocal cords are permanently damaged. She can’t speak. Jeff, I am so sorry. But your only hope now is to admit them to our psychiatric facility. We are the foremost in New England.” “My daughters,” said Dad, and he looked at me. “This is all my fault. If I had just divorced Carol when I had the chance-” “Looking back on what could have been will help nothing,” Doctor Saltmarsh said. “If you’ll come with me, the admissions assistant will help you with the paperwork.” I didn’t care where Dad was going or where he would try to send me next. All that mattered was that Leah wanted me. She was my sister. She was my everything. And I would see her soon, I was sure of it.

She woke up, in the middle of the night. She slowly reached out her hand to his side of the bed. His side was empty, and cold. I want to wake up and feel his warmth, and listen to his slow, regular breathing. Now there is silence, horrible, cold silence. I had hoped it was just a bad dream, but now I know it really has happened, and that I am now truly on my own. He used to say that rest is almost as good as sleep, so at least lying awake now will not make me feel too tired in the morning. He used to tell me such interesting things, and funny stories about other people. She felt a tear on her cheek. We had been so careful. We always wore our face masks when we went outdoors, and we only went outdoors when we really needed to. We had both developed the coronavirus cough, an unusual, dry cough. I had got over mine but his became worse, and he had difficulty breathing. Then he had to go into hospital, then he was in intensive care, and then the hospital telephoned. We had always known that, somehow or other, the dreadful day of parting would come, but nothing prepares you for when it actually happens. She tried to remember the good times. We were lucky with our children. They have all turned out well, and they often come to visit. Now I will need them more than ever. Our grandchildren are either at university or starting their careers, but there are no great grandchildren, yet. We worked hard with our children. Some people say that raising a family is twenty years of hard work and worry. I would say it is more like twenty five, but it is still worth it. Seeing our children develop into good, responsible adults always made us proud, and also made us feel that we had at last earned our place in society, where we were no longer taking, but somehow we were now giving something back. He had taught me that if you want to influence people, you have to encourage them in anything they want to do. This is because people always have doubts about doing anything new or different, and they will listen to whatever you say, and it is so useful to have this communication. We found that this is especially important with teenagers. He used to say that where youth sees opportunities, experience sees dangers, but it is no use telling teenagers what they should do, or not do, it just makes them more determined to do what they want. However, when they hear your encouragement, they will also listen when you ask, "Have you considered what will happen if..." and then they will realise possible dangers, and make changes which they think are their own ideas. We were late teenagers when we met, and how we talked. I felt as if we had known each other all our lives, and yet we still had so many interesting things to say. What a thrill it is to discover how someone else thinks. Afterwards I felt as if I were dancing on air. I would remember all the things both of us had said. Then I would think where we would go and what we would do next time, and what we would talk about. I spent hours imagining what I would tell him, and then what he would say to me. I would day dream, a young woman's simple ideas of marriage, a home, and children calling him Daddy. I would idly write his name, drawing pictures with his initials, and then join them to mine. I practiced writing what my married name would be. I would keep looking at the clock, unable to wait to see him next. Sometimes we would meet somewhere and be some distance apart, separated by many other people, and we would slowly look towards each other, and then suddenly turn away, with a big smile, when we saw that we were both looking at each other. Ha, that was such fun. I was in love, and I knew for sure that it really was love. We waited to get married until he had received his engineering degree. He later told me that when he first saw me, he knew that I would be his future wife. There were many temptations before we were married, but I am glad that neither of us had ever practised before our wedding night. It was so good, learning together, and putting it in its proper place by calling it "the pleasures of marriage". And what pleasure it was, when we both agreed, taking our time, each waiting until the other was ready, then watching him fall asleep afterwards, and laughing at how hungry it had made us both feel. We were free to do whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted and however we wanted. And also wherever we wanted, sometimes outdoors in the sun, or on a deserted beach, in a field or by a stream, and then lying together, naked, in the warm sunshine afterwards. That gave us a feeling of triumph, that somehow we had gained some advantage over the rest of the world. Of course, over the years, our desires faded a little. My female hormones had been telling me to, "Have a child", but after three children the calling was less. I know that the male hormones are completely different. They continually say, "Strengthen the species through genetic variety." This makes the man subconsciously think, "That means mating with as many different women as possible." It was inevitable that he would meet other women, and compare them with me, especially if they were single, younger and perhaps more physically attractive. He told me about one women who had said, "Divorce your wife and marry me". He said he had realised that things would be different, but not necessarily better, and that leaving me would make me very unhappy, and if I were unhappy, our children would be unhappy, and so for him it would simply never be worth it. If we had divorced I would have to raise the children on my own, but it is not like a cat bringing up kittens. Humans have a complication. A girl needs a mother as a role model, and a father to show her what to look for in the man who will be the father of her children. She wants to have good babies, so she needs a good man to be the father. But how can she tell if a man is good or not ? Just because he looks like a pop star or has lots of money is no help. She needs to compare him with a man she knows, and the man she knows best is the one she has seen all her life, her father. She knows the good things about her father, especially how he treats his wife, and can use this for comparison. But without knowing her father, she cannot make any comparisons, and a few hours every other weekend, away from her mother, is hardly enough. If I were head of the government I would make a law that people could not divorce if there were children, under 18's, involved. Also, often a girl who has been raised without a father, will fall for the first man she meets, to get what she missed by not having a father to look up to. But people who marry to get something, rather than for giving or sharing, are rarely happy. This is why children of divorced parents often end up getting divorced themselves, and how divorce seems to go from one generation to the next. Similarly a boy needs a mother to see the sort of woman to marry, and a father as a role model. A boy raised without a father may find male leadership in a gang, where the gang leader takes the place of the father he should have been looking up to. A gang can be attractive for teaching a boy qualities such as loyalty and a code of honour, but which we women rarely feel as being important. If I were a single parent I could make sure that the children brushed their teeth and did their homework, but this hardly prepares them to become emotionally stable adults. All children need the security of their parents' marriage, and to know that their mother and father will always stay together. "We did well," she thought, "but I am going to miss him so much." We tried to avoid talking about one day being parted, although we gradually made plans, like arranging things in joint names. I was never as strong as him, and I told him that if he were left on his own, I would want him to marry again, as I didn't want him to be lonely for the rest of his life. Now it will be me who will miss the laughter, the jokes and the old songs we used to sing together. Our lives had become so joined together, mainly because of the children, and running the home. We still liked doing some things together, like holidays, but we had also developed our own separate interests. Yet we also depended on each other, more and more as the years went by. We had discovered who was best at doing what, just as I had seen with my parents. We assumed that we could always rely on each other to do these things. We shared our things, even our shoes, which were the same size, and our money of course, although most of that went into paying the bills and the mortgage. Will he and I meet again ? If you go to church you are supposed to believe that we will all be reunited in Heaven, but the priest at the graveside didn't sound as if he believed it. Churches have changed. People used to say that churches were unfriendly, just you and God, but in those days you could at least go there, take part in the service, and leave without anyone bothering you. Now they all try to be so friendly, and you have to endure everyone welcoming each other. But it isn't friendly at all. "Lovely to meet you. What's your name ? Where do you live ? What does your husband do ?" All they really want is to make sure that they are socially superior. Such hypocrites. "... and everyone please stay behind after the service for tea and biscuits." More probing questions. If I go to church I want answers, not questions. She finally fell asleep. In the morning she woke, and she felt the warm sun on her face.

The Peace Revivors were down to their last soldier, but anybody still alive would agree it was a lost cause. Even he himself knew that the hopeful were fools. It wasn’t the total anarchy that killed their leader, but the excessive pollution. The former leader, a strong woman from what used to be Australia, was weakened by her asthma and inability to breathe from the waste in the air that the wars had caused, ironically. How she survived so long with asthma while those with stronger lungs perished, those who believed in God may have said it was His work. But, if alive, they certainly don’t believe anymore. But he tried, if only to give him the strength to not lay in the open clearing, with lead fire raining upon it. Instead, he ran from the bullets, narrowly escaping into a dead woods, a cave nearby. He knew it was only a temporary rest. He knew full well that they would come for him soon. That he shouldn’t be in a cave with no other escape besides the one behind him, but he stayed nonetheless. As he sat against a cave wall, he sobbed quietly into his hands. Well, tried to. His tears wouldn’t even fall anymore; he was too dehydrated. Nevertheless, his chest heaved, his body ached, and his throat and eyes yearned for clean water that he hadn’t had in a very long time. He cursed God as he pulled his head up, looking at the ceiling, to find spikes, dripping filthy water down onto the cave floor. Upon further inspection, those weren’t spikes. And that wasn’t water. They were bodies, corpses somehow suspended by their throats, thick ropes hanging from the stone, wrapping around their necks like snakes. Blood came from open wounds on their skin; he knew some were recent. He turned his head away from the gruesome sight. He groaned in frustrating grief, wondering how many of his old teammates, friends, family were hanging from the top of the cave. “If they were killed by anyone but their own hand, they would be full of lead.” The sickening thought struck his brain like the bullets he wished would have pierced him in the field. He looked back up, but it looked a little different, as one may say. The sight before was truly sickening, yes, but this was infinitely more terrifying. They were no longer lifeless, not even emotionally; far from it. They were grinning, bright, blue eyes boring into his cold, dead ones, bloodshot from lack of sleep and hydration. “Come die with us.” It sounded like a thousand voices, and yet none of their mouths moved. They just kept staring, grinning, almost cartoonishly. “I... Can’t.” He croaked. He hadn’t spoken in a while; his voice came out hoarse. “I have responsibilities, a world to save.” He knew that was a lie, the world was taken long ago. The animals were dead, and the plants were brown and dry. Deserts littered what used to be rainforests. He swallowed, his throat looking for something, anything to relieve the pain it felt. None was given; it felt like he was swallowing sand, the taste of metal between his cheeks. Never moved, their pupils turned into black birds, flying from their widening eyes, like the silhouettes of fowl, free against the sun and beautiful, blue sky he missed so much. They darted between trees, soaring almost idly, like it was something they’ve always done. Like something they’ll always do. The voices spoke again, this time sounding much more soothing, like a mother’s heartbeat against her newborn’s ear. It was water against his parched throat. “Come fly with us.

(Name of the story and of name of the story chapter are inspired by Three Days Grace and their album Human) In the distant space, among stars, floated trough space one gigantic space ship. Those inside it evacuated their former planet of origin. Why they left you might ask yourself. They asked themselves the same question, but the truth only remained hidden, generation after generation, none knew the reason. These beings on this ship lived up to around 100-150 earth years. And only the first generation of them knew why they evacuated. After many thousands of years, these beings, they lived in a "cage". Leaders and commanders of this ship were in cryonics chambers, but, their thoughts, their whole brains were recorded. This way if they want to tell something, they could. One day, at year 862 by the calendar of "The new rebirth", a boy was born. The part of the ship he was born at was where every poor families would come. His family was no exception, they were poor too, but when the boy was born, they were full of happiness. Boy's name, was Yiro. Yiro enjoyed playing with broken robots that were thrown away, also he lived pretty much close to the main junkyard where he could find some crazy robots. He loved to play with them in a way that few of them started working again, one of those robots that started working had some type of AI inside of it. When he found that out, Yiro immediately looked at robot's left foot. "The date, where is the date" -He said in panic as he was trying to clean of some rust and dust from robot's foot. When he found the date, it said 295. He was shocked, he never thought that he would find something this old. But there was also one strange rule here, everything found that was made before 600 NR needed to be reported to the main sheriff of the town. He could not do it, so he hid the robot and he named it Furui. Yiro and Furui played every day, together. Until one day, they wandered away from their parents' property. They accidentally entered land owned by the head sheriff. That sheriff was impatient man, he was very angry person. When he was Yiro and Furui enter his property, he grabbed them both. He threw Furui to the ground and he saw the label on Furui's foot. Sheriff put both of them to his car and he drove them to the station, he planned to put Yiro to the children's care center and his parents inside the prison. But to everyone's suprise, Furui, a small robot with old AI installed in it corrupted the main communication network. Sheriff tried to destroy it, but it was too late. Furui already installed a virus inside other robots that were used like police officers. Robots attacked the sheriff and other human officers. Pure chaos at the station. Yiro and Furui escaped, they ran and ran to their parents house. But when they came, they saw many officers there, they shot his parents already. Somehow, they knew about this even tough Furui corrupted the network. It was too late, they could do nothing now. When police saw them, they started chasing them, the duo (Furui and Yiro for short) lured the police away from their house. They waited till the night at nearby farm. Police later put their guard down and the duo went in trough the window, they packed most essentials, food, water, and other robots Yiro found. After the sneak in, they went inside the secret passage hidden inside Yiro's room. Passage went underground to the junkyard. After arriving at the junkyard, they had to make something for transportation. Furui had a great idea, they would collect parts of other broken robots, and they would make a "car". They got tires, seats, motors, electronics, everything they needed. Yiro was in charge of screwing things in and Furui was the designer. After hours of work, they made something. A "car" you could call it. They sat inside and they went to a secret place very far away, 50 miles atleast. That place was his dad's small junkyard, a workplace, where he made tons of things but never revealed them. Only Yiro knew where that place was. Duo drove there, they made a camp there. Yiro put some oxygen motors that could convert oxygen into energy. His dad made that device, but he knew that making something like that would put him into jail so he kept it secret. On the outside, that junkyard looked normal, but it had underground basement which was much bigger than the outside. Yiro and Furui spent few days there making devices and planning for the future. End of chapter 1. Please point out some mistakes, or suggest me what could I do to make this better. IMO I think I could have made this a lot better, but it is what it is. I am open to ideas, suggestions and critics! Thank you for reading.

A wave of fog gently crashed onto the cobblestone streets of Cortland, New Hampshire. The weather had just begun to turn towards autumn and the inhabitants of the tiny town were tucked into bed. The brick road beneath a flickering streetlight subtly changed color from orange to gray and back again, over and over with no discernible pattern. It was the dead of night yet a single figure lumbered down the middle of the street. The silhouette was tall but not wide. They were built like a wire hanger ripped from its functional shape. They even bent haphazardly to the left as if their profile had been snapped over someone’s knee. A slight wave at the edges of the figure revealed baggy clothing. No sound came from them, not even the echoes of their feet against the ground. The figure finally lurched into the blinking light and more details became clear. He was a man. Was being the operative word as he was clearly dead. His skin glowed a sickly, greenish-white with the texture of slightly melted Play-Doh. He was mostly bald but it was unclear how much of that occurred during his life versus after his death. His clothing, which he was assumedly buried in, was caked with fresh dirt. The man stared up at the lamp with unblinking eyes. It seemed as if he was trying to absorb as much radiation as he could from the quivering light. He reached into his open shirt and fingered a long, diagonal wound running along his chest. The slash was closed with the precise stitches only a trained hand could make. However, some of the stitches had broken, opening a window into the man’s hollow chest. After a few minutes, the light flickered to blackness and the dead kept walking. If one were to witness the man, well they would likely run away screaming. But if they were able to keep their composure long enough to study his movement, they would see something very odd. The man’s face was a mask that showed no sign of expression, yet his body language was that of a prisoner. He trudged along as if being pushed; moving in quick increments only to slow to a crawl and then stumble forward once again. At times it also seemed like he was being pulled. His body leaned forward into a dangerously unbalanced position and moved with small, shuffling steps. As far as an average person could see, there was nothing in front of or behind him. The push and pull of the dead man stopped again when he was much further down the road. He was far past the village now and surrounded by the forest’s coarse hair of pine trees. A fog soaked winded turned the man towards a drainage ditch. Even through the haze, the dead stared pointedly at one spot in front of him. The glaze on his eyes dissolved and two black pupils circled by maple rings became clear. He blinked for the first time since death. Another gust of wind blew the fog from the ditch and for a few moments, it was not immediately replaced by more. At the bottom of the slope was a bundle of pictures, flowers, cards, and stuffed animals. The pictures captured the luminous smile of an elementary-age girl. The man lurched forward and seemed to take in the light of her smile in the same way he took in the lamp’s energy. Most of the cards had lost all legibility to the weather, but a dry patch on one revealed a single phrase. “We’re Praying for You!” A deeply unnatural sound emanated from the man upon seeing this. A boiling broth gurgle in his throat like bile being emptied from a stomach. The sound had an indescribable tone of sadness to it. The trees were the only ones listening, however, and they showed no remorse for the depressed. The gurgling ceased and a blanket of fog was once again laid over the bundle. The man scratched at his wound again, tearing open several more stitches. Instead of continuing down the road, the dead slid into the ditch and climbed back out the other side, entering the looming forest. His eyes remained human as he navigated his way through the puzzle of pines. There was a new sense of purpose to the way he moved. He stood mostly straight and no longer constantly changed speeds. Something from that bundle had embedded itself into the dead matter of his brain. From a distance, one may have even mistaken him for the living. At times it seemed like there was a force trying to pull him away from his destination. He would suddenly jerk to the side, or his leg would become stuck mid-step. The man fought through these battles until he passed the barrier of the tree line. From then on, he was undisturbed in his quest. A strong north wind blew the smell of burning wood into his nose. It was only then that he realized he could smell again. In front of him was a grassy valley. At the bottom of the valley was a wooden cabin with small puffs of smoke exhaling from its chimney. The man tumbled down the hill, soundlessly. He landed only a few feet from the inhabitants’ chocolate Labrador. The dog tilted its head but made no sound. It only watched as the dead attempted to get up. The creature somehow knew that he was no threat. The man rose like a broken Jack exploding from his box in slow motion. Parts of his body that weren’t meant to hang, hung, Parts that weren’t meant to be stiff, hardened. One of his legs had become permanently straightened. He could now only move by pivoting. The dead traversed the circumference of the house in small, half-circles until he was in front of a window on the opposite side. Cozy, orange light glistening on the glass beckoned the man forward. As he grew closer, he could see inside the room. The girl from the photos slept on the bed. A tube running from her arm led to a stalwart IV stand next to her bed. There was an arrangement of chairs facing the girl, implying frequent visitors who needed somewhere to sit as they cared for and cooed after her. A pink blanket, with a unicorn emblazoned on the front, covered the girl up to her waist. Above that she wore a gray knit shirt that covered the majority of a long, crooked scar running along her chest. The dead man couldn’t look away. He reached again for his wound, parallel to hers, but this time his fingers came away wet. The scarlet stick of blood was unmistakable, and it was oozing from his chest. His fingers were no longer the gray-green of death. He refocused on his reflection in the window and saw the face that had died a few weeks ago. His skin had regained its life. His lips were once again rosy. Even his thick, black hair had returned. All he was missing was a heart. That rested just past the window, under a unicorn blanket, inside the chest of the girl he almost killed. The cavity inside his chest was flooded with molten guilt that blistered his lungs and burnt his ribs. Memories popped into his mind like firecrackers. The bachelor party, the bouncer he fought for his keys, the blinding light refracted through the windshield. After that was darkness for him, but his own memories were not the only ones drifting through his mind. He became a father waking up with his car in a drainage ditch, finding his little girl ten feet away with her chest caved in. He became a mother paralyzed by fear after receiving the worst call of her life in the dead of night. He became a doctor carving open a chest, his chest, to retrieve a still viable heart. He finally became the girl herself, floating in and out of consciousness for days as her body tried to kill the foreign organ behind her ribs. The dead man felt like Atlas holding up the grief of the world. But he was not a Titan. He collapsed under the weight and sunk into the dew-covered grass. The man knew that he was not truly alive again. There is a feeling to life that no living thing can discern because they haven’t had experiences without it. This man knew that feeling and he knew he didn’t have it. It was like being carried to bed as a child, rediscovering a memory of a late loved one, or realizing happiness in the moment and choosing to savor it. Even those were only partial definitions. In truth, even though many have tried, life is indescribable. The man felt his body giving way, not into the dead form he was before, but into the earth itself. He was sinking. Not to Hell or anything that easy. He was being pulled in to be used again. The idea of renewed life in many forms satisfied the man deeply in his final moments. Just like the idea that his love would remain on Earth in the heart of a young girl.

The hospital is packed. On one end of the building, the hospital has cordoned off a section to allow recovered patients to donate plasma. The opposite annex houses the pathology lab for testing. Thousands of people pour in on both of these wings, meaning the ground floor is constantly a swarm of people filtering in and out. As the warnings to wear masks, stay home and socially distance go unheeded, the number of cases are on an exponential rise. It is no wonder that the health systems are struggling to cope. As a result, the hospitals are taking in more patients than they can accommodate - and have become home to several well-meaning family members who insist on visiting despite the health risks. Dr. Song, however, is operating on a loophole. As a doctor employed here, he isn’t violating any health codes by being present in the hospital. However, as a plastic surgeon with fewer than 3 (minor) surgeries in a day, he isn’t actually needed on-call either. He claims he uses his hospital privileges to volunteer on the sixth floor of one of the many newly converted COVID-19 wards and help lighten the load. Coincidentally, two of his family members are currently admitted to a room on that floor. Right now, he is rushing into the pathology wing, taking a shortcut through the plasma donation center, to check the results on his family’s most recent blood test. The blood had been collected a few hours before he had entered the hospital premises, and he wants to request the lab technician to analyze the sample from Room 615 urgently. He is nearly out the door, when he hears a name he hadn’t heard in a long time. ‘Ms. Rebecca Singh? You left your purse on counter 4.’ Somehow the impact of distant memories flooding his head causes him to stop in his tracks. He has vague recollections of his childhood home and friends but unable to place exactly when he knew that name. Why does it feel so impossibly familiar? However, he does not have to wonder for long because his mental fog clears the moment she enters the room. The moment their eyes lock, he is transported back to 1983. In a flash, he can feel the hormones rush back into his 54 year old body as if he was 17 again. They were standing over his parent’s balcony when he first dared to cover her hand with his, his heart hammering against his barely-pubescent chest. She had pulled her hand away, slowly. Carefully, she extracted it from his grip. Though she continued to focus her stare directly beyond the balcony, over the horizon, he let his gaze drop for a moment to look at her hand. She was softly wiping it on the front of her dress. She was being kind, trying not to hurt him. She was trying to be as gracious as possible about his unwelcome advance.He could feel his heart sink to the deepest pits of his stomach, his cheeks burning red. He turns his gaze away from her, towards the peeling wall, wishing he had never invited her to study in the first place. ‘Rebecca, hi.’ Ms Singh, who has clearly returned in search of her purse, drops her gaze to his hand to see if he had it. When over his shoulder, she spots her purse. She breaks into an awkward smile as she prepares to cut around him to pick up her forgotten bag. At that moment, the doctor makes a (somewhat) calculated decision to pull down his mask for a brief second. In her surprise, she pauses. ‘It’s Robert... Robert Song. From Sainsbury High School...’ Then, suddenly, he felt a light brush against his fingers. He turned his head so fast, he got whiplash from his hair. Her hand hovered ominously close to his, palm up. Her gaze is still fixed in the far distance, but she had a shy smile teasing the corners of her lips. He thought he saw her eyes dart towards him peripherally, but they shifted back forward so fast that it could have been his imagination. Slowly - even though his whole body felt alive with nervous energy - he inched his hand closer to hers. He placed his palm atop hers, and immediately she intertwined their fingers. Recognition floods her eyes, as she stares at him in awe. ‘Oh my God! Robert!’ She remembers him, and for some reason this brings a giddy smile to his lips. The warmth of his smile extends to his voice. ‘It’s so good to see you - you haven’t changed at all!’ ‘Flatterer!’ she says with a tone of surprise. Even though she runs a hand to smooth over her greying hair, a blush creeps across her cheeks. ‘How - I mean, what are you doing here?’ He must have eaten fireworks for lunch that day, because his stomach felt like an explosion. Yet, the only thing he could process was the sensation of her hand in his. He felt electric currents wherever his skin met hers. His heart was beating faster than ever and he could feel her pulse match his. They must have spent hours there, hand in hand, experimenting with pressure and strokes. Dr Song glances down at his white coat, ‘I work here. 16 years now.’ Her smile is warm and genuine. ‘A doctor, of course’ She chuckles, ‘Your father must be pleased, I remember that’s what he had wanted.’ He waited on the floor of her bedroom as she put finishing touches on her hair. He was impatient to see her, and hold her. He kept trying to peer into her bathroom, but was keenly aware that her father was carefully pacing right outside her open (as was strictly instructed) door. The wait felt like agony - each cell in his body felt like tiny magnets being pulled towards her. Yet he had to wait until she was ready, and safely in the front seat of his old beat-up sedan. While he waited, his stomachs turned to knots at the anxiety of being apart. Over the months following the first time they held hands, the touch evolved to hugs and pecks on the cheeks, and then on the lips and beyond. They had become inseparable. Every waking moment was spent lost in each other’s thoughts, or in each other’s eyes. Together they felt invincible. Their love burned bright and hot, and it was easy for the world to fall apart when they were alone. He was just about to get up and poke his head into the bathroom, when her father walked in. They exchanged general pleasantries. In contrast with his father’s relationship with Rebecca, her father was usually friendly. They talked a little about some game that had recently transpired, and then Mr Singh asked what Robert’s plans were after highschool. Aiming to impress, Robert rattled off a section of his college essay to Mr Singh explaining how he wanted to study pre-med to become a doctor like his own father. Mid-conversation, Rebecca finally stepped out, glowing with her big coiffed hair and glossy lips. She jokingly reprimanded her father for interrogating her boyfriend (a word that still caused somersaults in Rob’s stomach) and then held out her hand to leave. He laughs back, awkwardly, ‘Yeah, I suppose. What about you?’ ‘Oh, I’m in real estate! Let me give you my card -’ She reaches near her hip where her purse would hang and laughs out loud again. ‘Oh, right. My purse - I should... I left it on the counter. Let me just go get it.’ He hears her words but doesn't quite comprehend them. Instead, he stands there, transfixed. Rebecca Singh, whom he had known and loved at the tender age of 17 going on 18. They had lost touch so long ago. There is so much he wants to ask her - there is so much he could say. The woman in front of him is one he knew better than anyone else, and yet is a complete stranger now. He is grateful for his mask, which hides his attempts to find the words to say something to her. All he knows is that he doesn’t quite want the conversation to end just yet. He doesn’t want her to leave just yet. ‘My purse?’ She tries again. Her voice breaks his trance, and he is pulled back into reality. ‘Right, yes! Please -’ Robert says, as he steps out of her way. He is angry - seething - as he blocks her path. He refused to let her go without finishing their conversation first, and he let her know this. Some part of him must have known that he was aggravating the situation, but he was hurting. Anger was much easier to express than vulnerability. He was afraid of losing her. Sadly, his attempts to keep her close only drove her further away. Then, of course, as quickly as it had started, the romance had run its course. It appeared that they argued more than they spoke, fought more than they kissed and spent more time apart than together. Like caramel heated beyond its burning point, what was once sweet began to taste bitter. One particularly vicious fight, two nights before their senior prom, resulted in a break-up. Words were said that they did not quite mean, but it was already too late to take back. Robert is waiting by the door as she returns. She holds up her purse at him as she crosses over. He holds the door open for her. As they stand at the reception area, they have both suddenly gone quiet. Rebecca looks down at her purse, fiddling at the strap. ‘Well, I should go.’ ‘It was lovely meeting you again.’ ‘Yes, you too.’ The moment hangs and he wishes he could give her a hug. Anything, to mark this strange moment, to give it an appropriate sense of closure. However, even without the pandemic, he feels that perhaps it would not have been possible. He moves to offer her a hand to shake, and realizes that too is not a sensible option. In the end, he raises his hand to give her a short wave. She smiles and responds in kind. Then, she turns to walk away. They both had taken different dates to the dance. Her date was quite a bore and wanted to sit at the table and joke with friends instead of dancing. His date wouldn’t give him a moment’s rest - she wanted to remain in perpetual motion. Still, they made a real show of having fun even though they felt miserable inside. They spent the whole evening looking over their shoulder at each other. What should have been a warm and happy memory became tainted with jealousy and rage. He had tried to talk to her once that night, but she purposely turned away when she saw him. It felt like a knife to his gut. Filled with wounded pride, he responded by declaring war on her. The last few months in school, spread some unkind rumours about her. She was strong, and denied them. He felt awed and angry, in unison, at her calm and grace. Then, with graduation, they went their separate paths and managed to avoid crossing them... until now. ‘Wait!’ Rebecca stops as Robert calls after her. ‘Sorry, I just never asked. What brings you to the hospital?’ Rebecca looks down, then sighs, ‘I had come to donate plasma - we recently recovered from the virus. I wanted to do what I could to those who were still suffering...’ Robert takes a deep breath. He knows better than to ask who the other part of ‘we’ was. He can feel the rush fade, and all at once he feels very much his current age. Coming out of this sudden, unexpected rollercoaster tires him out. He can feel the years that separates Dr Song from the 17 year old Robert who passionately loved Rebecca the way only a teenager can. The emotions were wild and fierce, and as invigorating as it was destructive. He has experienced a lot since then, and changed even more. ‘I’m glad you’re better Rebecca. It really was lovely to run into you after so long.’ This time he fishes out his card and hands it to her. ‘If you ever need any cosmetic work done, give me a call. I better get going too. Take care.’ With that, they part ways again. He feels a weight lift off his shoulders. It is as if some latent guilt he had been carrying about his behaviours in the past dissipates. He isn’t that Robert any more. As he watches her leave, so do the residual feelings or chemistry or sparks. He doesn’t love Rebecca any more. He has known this for a long time, and he chuckles at the visceral reaction that made him question it momentarily. As he tries to clear his daze, Dr Song finally reaches the pathologist’s room where he has come to find out about his wife and son’s health.

“Well, fuck you in the eye with a skewer then,” Jane quietly muttered. Whether her comment was heard or not wasn’t totally apparent, but the conversation continued. “I’m just reminding you that it’s always been this way. Every being has a purpose and this is yours. We all have to come to terms with our lot in life, although you do seem to have more trouble than most accepting this.” The priestess looked at Jane for what seemed like a long time, and then when there was no response, she went on. “You can call it Fate, or Destiny, or whatever you wish, but it is the will of the Gods and it cannot be changed. The Gods can be harsh but they can also be kind. Remember that everything we have, we have only because they have provided it, so we can not, we MUST NOT go against their will. Some would tell you that your place in the grand scheme of things is actually quite an honour, you know, “ the priestess patiently, and not unkindly, replied. Jane had heard the news earlier that day, and come to the hut of the priestesses for... guidance? Advice? Maybe a glimmer of hope or even a hint at another way? “I understand how it all works, I really do. Yes, I’ve heard it my whole life, but I just can’t wrap my head around it. I am not trying to ruffle anyone’s feathers, I just don’t understand why you have this life and I have a different life, and other races have other lives and our purposes are all so defined but also so different... Who decided it all, and why? I just don’t believe that this could possibly be everything there is...” The priestess let out an exasperated sigh. “It is the will of the Gods, my dear, and that is ABSOLUTE. Of course it is not entirely unusual to have misgivings in your position, and especially the closer you get to your time, to feel at least some measure of fear. The sacrifice is a great thing, but it can be frightening. However, you must accept it anyway. Continue to meditate on the very important part that you will play, and remind yourself that it is for the good of the whole flock. If nothing else, try to find some comfort in knowing that not only is this all necessary to keep our entire universe in balance, but also it is widely accepted that through this act, you will have earned a very exalted place in paradise.” Jane kicked and scratched at the ground nervously, unable to truly articulate what she was feeling. She knew she shouldn’t be arguing, and that so many others before her had gone through the same thing with acceptance, sometimes even with dignity, but to her it just all felt so wrong. Maybe she was just afraid, but she just couldn’t come to terms with the fact that her whole existence came down to this one thing and one thing only. She walked back across the dirty street to the hut that she shared with others who would share the same fate, some at dawn, (as she was), and some another day. She knew that her life had not been unpleasant. She had a warm place to sleep, plenty of food to eat, lots of friends around. She spent her days strolling about in the sunshine, talking with her friends, looking for something to do. Every now and then some new cock of the walk would come through and maybe provide an exciting distraction for a time. She could do what she liked for the most part, nothing was really prohibited and nothing was really expected of her. But if, from the moment of your birth, your fate was decided for you, do you really ever have free will? She had never lived anywhere else and she knew that each race had a purpose, all of which were decided by the Gods. She had known her purpose for as long as she could remember - this was not a new idea or a shock to hear about it. She had never known anything else. She was born and raised to eventually become sustenance for the Gods. Nothing else mattered. Still, her stubborn inner voice whispered, what if? What if there was a way to escape your fate? What if there was a way to just ESCAPE? She knew there just had to be more out there somewhere. Sometimes she snuck out at night and sat on the roof of the hut to watch the sun rise and she could see that the horizon went on way beyond their borders. It seemed to go on forever. She often wondered if there were other races, other whole worlds or even other Gods out there? She had asked a priestess this once and was told, not for the first (or the last) time, that it was very dangerous to daydream about such things. And even if there were other Gods and other worlds, they could be so very much worse. Out of the frying pan and into the fire as the saying went. It was better to just accept and enjoy what the Gods have given you for as long as you could. Maybe life being so short was part of what made it so precious. There was some wisdom on the priestess’s words, but still...? What if? That damned inner voice would not give up. She walked past her hut and just kept walking. Soon she was past her hut and long past the priestesses’ hut, and to the green space on the edge of the village. She walked through the grass, thinking for a moment of how cool the grass was on her feet, and how nice it might be to stop and sit and listen to the quiet of the evening, maybe poke her toes around in the grass and disturb a few insects and watch them scurry or slither for a while. Her thoughts roamed. The Gods came through her small village at dawn every day, sometimes there was one of them, sometimes more. They would stop first in the hut of the priestesses with their baskets to receive their offerings. Then they provided the day’s food to all. Other than that, there had been no real contact. Where did they go? Were there other villages with other purposes? She could not stop thinking about whether it was possible to escape her fate. If she accepted with grace and dignity, as hundreds (thousands?) before her had, then in the morning, she would be sacrificed. The gods would kill her and they would eat her flesh. So she kept walking. Soon she was further away from the huts then she ever went. With every step her inner voice repeated what if. Soon she wasn’t really thinking at all, it was just step, step, step, step, what if what if what if what if. She kept walking. Soon she was feeling the creeping cold of the night. She shrugged it off and kept walking. At some point, it dawned on her that if she kept going, she had no idea how to find food or shelter or care for herself. She decided she didn’t care and she kept walking. She had no idea how much time passed. Suddenly, she fell back with a startled gasp as she realized she’d run into something. She backed up and squinted. Wire? She eyed it slowly. She looked to her right and then left. Some sort of wire mesh that seemed to extend for miles, and was higher than her eyes could focus in the dark. She saw that there was a gap in the bottom between the mesh and the dirt so she scrunched down as low as she could and wriggled under. There was a point when she thought it might be too tight but she forced her way through and with barely a scratch or two realized she was on the other side. She saw a thicket not far away and felt the exhaustion inside her screaming at her to stop, even just for a few minutes. She had never really experienced the darkness so it was easy to convince herself how much she needed to rest for a time. She got down low and maneuvered herself into a well hidden spot in the dense foliage and closed her eyes. * * * * * * “Here she is!” Jane was startled awake by a shrill voice and a very large shadow looming over her. Before she had shaken the sleep away, a God reached into the bush and wrapped her within its massive hands. Jane could do nothing except let out one scared little squawk. She was walked past her village, where, from the dizzying height of the God’s hands, she could see her friends waiting for their daily rations and watching her go by with their eyes wide. The God who carried her passed her to another one, who seemed to be twice the size of the first. It took her by the feet and swinging her upside down, slammed her down onto a wooden block. It happened too fast for her to be anything but stunned. The God raised a stick with something on the end that glinted in the morning sunlight. She felt a sense of awe come over her. As the axe came down, her last thought was, “It is the will of the Gods.”

The silver armor of the approaching order of knights gleams with menace as they advance toward King Quentin Kaloric’s castle. Four knights detach themselves from the order, their metal shoes clanking loudly as they cross the drawbridge. Still standing at attention outside of the castle, their battle flags flying, the figures of the other hundred knights appear to fade into the moonlit night. Despite the warmth of his oversized robe, King Quentin shivers as he watches the four knights get closer, their metal shoes leaving a trail of blood. “They must be stopped,” King Quentin says. Julian Hammersmith, the King’s chancellor, smiles confidently, his pointy features giving him a wily appearance. “My best men are at the gate. They will cut them down like barley.” The silver knights march up to the gate. Eight of the King’s guards descend upon them, but they are cut to ribbons in a matter of seconds. The sliver knights march through the locked gate. Sitting on his throne, the diminutive fifteen-year-old king squeezes his jeweled scepter, hoping he won’t have to use it to protect himself. “Like barley, eh, counselor?” “They walked right through the gate as if they were invisible, leaving nothing but the torn bodies of the guards, and a trail of bloody footprints. They are obviously enchanted, or some sort of devils.” “Or ghosts,” King Quentin says. Quentin Kaloric has been King of Zaragoza for five tumultuous years, having ascended to the throne following the death of his beloved father, King Justin. Many of his countrymen felt Quentin was too young, too inexperienced, and too skittish to rule. They supported his uncle, Prince Thomas Blessing, as the rightful ruler. Quentin and his supporters acted quickly, executing his detractors as rebels, and imprisoning Blessing’s family. Quentin went on to sanction several unpopular wars against Tortosa and the much larger province of Kirwan, which have served to isolate Zaragoza and crippled its economy. A former soldier who attained his position through guile and the untimely deaths of his rivals, forty-six-year-old Julian Hammersmith has been at King Quentin’s side serving as his advisor for the duration of his reign, guiding him, some say, by the nose. The loud clamor of the silver knights marching down the hallway draws closer. The dozen guards summoned by Chancellor Hammersmith to protect the king timidly draw their swords. The knights march into the throne room, marring the stone floor with bloody footprints. Standing side by side, they draw their swords, pointing them at King Quentin. “They are acting the way they did the last time they appeared,” King Quentin notes. “Let us hope it stays that way.” They watch as the knights’ bodies begin to fade away and disappear. “They are our men, yet they threaten us,” Chancellor Hammersmith says. “I wonder what they want?” “Me,” King Quentin sniffles, struggling to hold back his tears. Magnus, Zaragoza’s most revered sorcerer, bows to the king. “The past five years have been kind to you, Magnus,” King Quentin says. “You look exactly the same. Not even a grey hair and you still carry the same air of mystery in your indigo eyes. Perhaps it is the freedom of not having a wife or children that brightens your appearance.” “My wife and daughter were killed by your soldiers. That did not serve to improve my health.” Chancellor Hammersmith leans over the sorcerer like a vulture circling its prey, his eyes lifeless and uncaring. “Yes, you look incredibly well for a man of what, a hundred and fifty? Have you forgotten we spared your life? A few more comments like that and you will not see a hundred and fifty-one.” “We have all lost loved ones in the struggle between myself and my uncle for the throne,” King Quentin says. “But that time is past us.” “As I told your emissary, your majesty, I have ceased practicing my former profession.” Chancellor Hammersmith’s sharp features knot together as if he’s tasted something sour. “You willingly served the six kings who sat on the throne prior to King Quentin.” “Which I hope has earned me the right to have a long rest, and to refuse your request.” “I understand that you agreed to leave court because you believed my uncle was the rightful ruler....” “Who was proven to be a traitor to Zaragoza,” Chancellor Hammersmith says, intervening. “He wanted to form an alliance with our enemies, the Valencians. When his treachery was revealed, he fled, joining them.” “And now we are at war with Valencia,” Magnus replies. “And we are losing. Our soldiers on the front are dying from hunger and disease, while others have thrown down their weapons and deserted.” A pop-eyed King Quentin looks to Chancellor Hammersmith for an explanation. “Is what he says true?” “Of course not, your majesty. Our troops are massing for a decisive offensive as we speak. But you were not summoned to spread political lies, sorcerer. Your task is to rid the castle of spirits.” “Your messenger said there are at least ten of them.” The king anxiously leans forward on his throne, his oversized crown slipping over his eyes. “Yes, four knights, two noblemen, and a woman with a baby.” “You fear a woman and a baby?” Magnus asks. “It is obvious they mean your king great harm,” Chancellor Hammersmith retorts. “Have they appeared before?” “Every night for the past two weeks. Their forms seem to linger a bit longer each time they appear.” “I will rid you or your apparitions for twelve hundred gold pieces.” Chancellor Hammersmith’s pasty face reddens. “That is robbery!” “You can always try to exorcise them yourself, Chancellor.” “I am losing sleep as well as my sanity,” King Quentin whimpers. “I cannot stand it another night. We will meet your price.” “I will need an assistant. Someone who is familiar with herbs, perhaps a cook or a scullery maid.” Chancellor Hammersmith is about to argue when King Quentin raises his hand, saying, “Fine. But you must begin immediately.” Chancellor Hammersmith smiles maliciously. “And if you fail, sorcerer, I will use your severed head to scare the spirits away.” Magnus and Opal, his assistant, lean over the castle’s turret, watching the troop of silver knights approach the castle. The raven-haired, eighteen-year-old maid’s violet eyes widen. “Why do they leave bloody tracks behind themselves?” “Perhaps it is a sign of guilt; not necessarily their own. We need to go to the throne room in order to put their souls to rest. Did you mix the herbs together as instructed?” “Yes,” she says, showing him a pouch. “Good. Our lives depend on the strength of our magic.” A horrified King Quentin slumps in his seat as the silver knights enter the throne room leaving behind them a gory, blood-stained trail. Raising their swords, they point them at King Quentin. The king’s trumpeters fidget nearby, inching away from the throne. “I ultionem habebo,” says the first knight. Magnus translates: “He speaks in an ancient tongue used by the Badajoz, who inhabit the farthest realms of the kingdom.” “What did he say?” King Quentin asks. “I will have my vengeance.” Turning to his assistant, he says, “Now, Opal.” “Are you certain they will not hurt me?” “I have cast a spell on them. They cannot see you.” Opening the pouch, Opal draws a line in front of the knights in white powder. “What is that?” King Quentin asks. “The powder will provide a barrier to keep you safe. The apparitions cannot move beyond that line.” Tuning to the King’s trumpeters, Magnus instructs them to begin playing a funeral march. Magnus and Opal salute the knights. Magnus says, “You fought for your king and your country. You sacrificed yourselves so that others could remain free. Your service is at an end. We will remember and celebrate your courageousness for all time.” Chancellor Hammersmith, his expression riddled with doubt, remains still. “This will not work if you do not follow my instructions,” Magnus says. Groaning, Chancellor Hammersmith salutes the knights. Sheathing their swords, the knights return the salute. “...I can’t...,” King Quentin says, his body shaking. “You must, or they will continue to haunt your castle.” Chancellor Hammersmith hands King Quentin a sword. King Quentin’s knees knock together as he walks toward the knights. The knights drop to a knee. Raising his sword, King Quentin says, “You men are heroes of our realm. Every citizen of Zaragoza owes you a debt of gratitude for the ultimate sacrifice you made to protect us. I dub thee The Duke of Virtue, The Duke of Wisdom, The Duke of Courage, and the Duke of Fortitude.” King Quentin backs away as the four knights rise. Saluting, the knights disappear. Shivering as he stands in the courtyard, King Quentin pulls his massive robe around his boyish body. “Can you feel their presence?” he asks. “All I feel is the chill of a fall night,” Chancellor Hammersmith snipes. Opal tightens her grip around the pouch as the figures of two men begin to coalesce. The two noblemen are well-dressed, wearing colorful jackets with hose, leggings, and breeches. They hold their heads in the crooks of their arms. The bearded men cackle at King Quentin. “Fop,” says the first one. “Fool,” says the second. The second nobleman throws his head at the petrified king, who reacts by catching it. Looking down at the laughing head, King Quentin faints. King Quentin falls backward, flopping onto the dusty ground. Chancellor Hammersmith grabs the head as its launched in the air. He angrily tosses it back at the decapitated nobleman, who deftly catches it. “Now, Opal,” Magnus says. Opal stares at the headless men, frozen. “Now, Opal!” Opening the pouch, Opal grabs a handful of powder, blowing it in the direction of the noblemen. The heads stop cackling and their expressions turn somber. “You have given something that cannot be measured by silver or gold - your lives,” Magnus says. “ You sacrificed yourselves so that others could be free. Your wisdom and selflessness will not be forgotten.” Placing their heads back on their torsos, the noblemen fade away. Chancellor Hammersmith leads the group through the dank, torch-lit hallways heading to the tower. King Quentin lags behind, whimpering. “Only the most nefarious enemies of the king are housed in the tower,” Chancellor Hammersmith says. The chancellor’s determined gait slows when the sound of a crying baby permeates the air. Offended, Opal says sharply, “You have imprisoned a baby in the tower? How cruel!” “Hush, girl!” Chancellor Hammersmith replies. “Presently, we are not holding any children prisoner.” They pass by a locked cell door with a black cross nailed to its center. Magnus and Opal glance at the cross, recognizing its symbolism. The crying becomes louder as they approach the cell. Chancellor Hammersmith unlocks the door. He and King Quentin hesitate to go inside the cell. Magnus enters, bowing to the apparition in front of him. Opal clings to his cloak, peeking out from behind his shoulder. A well-dressed woman, her amber hair arranged in elaborate ringlets, sits in a simple wooden chair, cradling a baby girl. “The child is blue,” Opal whispers. “She is as dead as m’lady,” Magnus replies. The woman looks up at them, tears welling in her gentle eyes. “...Help him... Help my daughter...” Magnus raises his hand, making the sign of the cross. “You are the mother of all that is innocent, pure, and righteous. You sacrificed yourself for love. Rest now, m’lady, knowing all will be made right.” The woman and the baby slowly dissolve. “Well, we made short work of them, did we not, Magnus,” Chancellor Hammersmith says. “We?” Opal counters. King Quentin and Chancellor Hammersmith enter the room looking around for other spirits, as Magnus and Opal back toward the door. “They are gone! I am free!” King Quentin exults. Magnus closes the door. Locking it, he tosses the key aside. Chancellor Hammersmith presses his crimson features against the door’s small, barred window. “Open this door, now! Your treachery will cost both of you your heads!” “Just as it cost Pierre Alsace and Georges St. Lorraine theirs?” Magnus asks. “What are you talking about, Magnus?” Opal asks. “The two noblemen, Alsace, and St. Lorraine were ardent supporters of Prince Thomas Blessing. King Quentin and Chancellor Hammersmith took their lands and their money, then had them executed in the palace courtyard. They told the public Prince Blessing had fled to help the Valencians. Then they imprisoned his wife Madelyn, and baby daughter, Katelyn, in the tower. King Quentin was too cowardly to kill his uncle’s wife and daughter, but Chancellor Hammersmith had no such qualms. He wanted to solidify his hold on the throne. He had Madelyn poisoned, and then drowned Katelyn.” “...Water...That is why the child appeared blue to us.” “Yes.” “And the knights?” Opal asks. “Four devoted commanders from Badajoz who supported Prince Thomas’ efforts to negotiate peace with the Valencians. When the King and Chancellor Hammersmith learned of their plans, he promised them they would become Dukes if they could bring peace. Then they sent them and a hundred men into Valencian territory thinking they were there for peace talks. They were slaughtered by a thousand waiting soldiers.” Sitting in the chair, King Quentin rocks back and forth crying, “I didn’t want to do it... I didn’t want to do it...” “This treasonous act will be your last!” Chancellor Hammersmith shouts. “When the guards make their rounds, we will be freed, and I will have the pleasure of seeing your heads roll off the chopping block!” “The guards are with us. They believe Thomas Blessing is the true sovereign,” Magnus replies. “Give me the pouch, Opal.” Opal hands him the pouch. Reaching inside of it, Magnus grabs a handful of powder, blowing it in Chancellor Hammersmith’s face. Chancellor Hammersmith backs away, sneezing. “The guillotine is too quick a death for you, sorcerer! I will starve you, then before you are about to die, I will have you tied to two horses and torn apart!” “Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” Opal asks apprehensively. “Do you believe Prince Thomas is the true king and not that simpering boy?” “Yes.” “King Quentin is the true king!” Chancellor Hammersmith shouts between sneezes. “Tell them, boy, you are the true king!” “...I didn’t want to do it... Hammersmith made me do it.” “Coward! I will stand by what I have done. I did it for his majesty, the King, and for Zaragoza.” “Then we feel the same,” Magnus says, backing away from the door. “Where are you going! Let us out!” Magnus turns to face Chancellor Hammersmith. “Thank you for sparing my life You gave me the opportunity to put it to good use.” Chancellor Hammersmith turns to admonish the blubbering king. “If you had the slightest hint of a backbone, we could have sat on the throne for decades to come!” Chancellor Hammersmith’s anger fades as the surrounding shadows turn into figures. Pierre Alsace and Georges St. Lorraine appear with their heads firmly on their shoulders and daggers in their hands. The four knights materialize, their gleaming, sharp swords drawn. Opal grimaces when she hears King Quentin and Chancellor Hammersmith’s screams, but she doesn’t look back, grabbing Magnus’ hand. “May I ask you a question, Magnus? Why did you pick me? Anyone in the kitchen could have assisted you.” “A man can trust his daughter.” The two of them walk to the door with the black cross. Magnus pulls the cross off the door, turning it to dust in his hand. “You conjured up those spirits to frighten King Quentin, then pretended to make them disappear.” “Yes. The powder you mixed together is useless, although it would make a superb chocolate cake.” “So, this was all to avenge the rightful king,” Opal says. Magnus unlocks the door, opening it. Thomas Blessing rises from the corner of his cell. “No, it was done to free him.”

Somewhere, in the vast Acathian deserts, where men go crazy under the screaming sun, lays the forgotten city of Cal’Haldron, sifting through the golden dunes, lost in time. Under the constant erosion from the waves of sand and the blazing wind, the cyclopean city had fallen into a state of decay as it descended further into new layers of fine glitter. But intriguingly enough, no matter how ancient, how fragile the crumbling city was, there seemed to be a wisp of force holding onto it. A force just barely strong enough to encase the city in unalterable time, keeping it’s destruction at bay, as if it were a wounded kraken, waiting to reemerge from the depths once the perfect storm has been brewed. Occasionally, when the heat is high enough and the season is right, the eastern winds pick up, conjuring flash sand storms that whip hard enough to rip through the hides of a desert beast. And ironically, the destruction of such a volatile sandstorm will bring about a new different perspective in the bleakness, changing the surfaces of the sand, transforming the face of the desert. As these flash storms being to slow down, settling the dust in the air, if there is a right amount of trembling at an exact rhythm from the earth below, the marble tips of Cal’Haldron will begin to resurface, catching a quick breath of fresh air from the cleansing skies, and all those in its vicinity will be lucky enough to at most glance at it for a few moments before losing it again to the sands. Many men, both gallant and tough, have ventured into the deserts of Acathia, and marched through the long days and the brief nights, in search of the whereabouts of Hal’Caldron. They had hoped to not only be the first men to uncover the sandstone pillars last touched by those from generations beyond, but also to be the men who uncovered this treasure of fame and glory that awaited for the first. Many men, both craven and fragile, have strayed far from their journey’s route, and lumbered through the long nights and the brief days, in search of the nearest signs of civilization. They had hoped to not only avoid being the men who forgot their names and lost their sanity, but also to avoid being the men who got covered in this wasteland of dust and wind that was indifferent to them. However, neither the gallant or craven, nor the tough or the fragile, achieved the goals they had originally set out for, with many concluding without beating hearts. Those who were unfortunate enough, succumbed to the rash cuts of the sand in the wind, and withered under the scorching sun. While most of those without the intentions of trespassing were eventually retrieved by other travelers, and those of the opposite circumstance were forever consumed by the shifting waves. Often, at the back of the tavern in a nearby desert outpost, amongst the drunken men and beyond the whores out looking for pieces of silver to earn, gathers all left in the tavern that can still pronounce their names properly. And in the center of the crowd, usually sits a survivor who has seen the dark grasps of the endless desert, accounting his perilous tale out beyond where knowledge knows. He will talk about his week long struggle to cling onto his own very life, and the crowd will murmur in awe. He will recall the last few gasps of air he takes before waking up in the rescue of a caravan, and the crowd will sigh in relief. And finally, he will describe the sight in the distance he saw in which he firmly believes was the lost city of Cal’Haldron, earning the disbelief and the attention of those who still bother to pay attention. While many men claim to have seen the white marble of Cal’Haldron off in the distance, and many more claiming to have spot a glimmering light off into the distance where no civilization lies, none could ever certify their claims with any firm evidence. But the arbitrary events of an unlucky, but well-built sheep farmer travelling to sell his stock in the capital to the west landed him in the wrong place at just the right time. Without a proper map due to his negligence the farmer strayed off his journey’s course, and found himself trudging in the sands through the long days and the brief nights. He felt the heat rise beyond its usual bounds, and witnessed the brewing of a flash sandstorm. Barely making it to the cover of a nearby plateau, and just whisking his life away from the death grasp of the cutting winds, he set tent in hopes to outlast the winds of the east. But no sooner had the winds begin to drop, did his unfortunate soul run into a seasonal earthquake that shook the plateau from below. And as he scrambled out of the falling cliffs and dodged through the rising rocks, he mistook one step and fell sideways and down into the shifting dunes. But when he came to a halt at the bottom of the dune, he no longer felt the heat on his neck, and the shaking from beneath had stopped. Slowly, carefully, he looked up, and found himself, at the gates, of Cal’Haldron. As the sand seethed through the cracks in the stone, and while the pillars began to slightly crumble under its own weight, the sheep farmer, so inquisitively, lifted himself up, leveling with a sculptured jackal. Lifting a hand up close to the jackal’s face, and as if drawn to it, he reached out instinctively, and touched it. The beige sandstone and the smooth surfaces seemed to distract his attention from the menacing glare and the sharpened teeth of the statue, as if it simultaneously welcomed and warded off the city to strangers seeking its fortune. The round edges of the jackal were the roughest, and the cornered sides were the smoothest. The sandstone that stood guard under direct sunlight felt cool and calm, but the base and neck of the jackal that remained in the shadows radiated with heat and energy. He could feel the integrity of the inanimate stone and its foundation; he could feel the life that swirled within the sculpture, within the city. Oblivious to his surroundings and current predicament, the sheep farmer, mesmerized by the energy and force that he felt within the lost city, detached from the statue, delved into the citadel that loomed over him. The bright sun that warmed both sand and stone around him glimmered off the golden arches, reflecting off the still settling sand, sparkling in his nearby vicinity. The silent alleyways that were strung across the city in no organized matter gave off a mysterious aura that lured his mind and body in, leading him through a string of abandoned sectors of the city that lay barren. As he exited the outskirts of the massive city and entered the inner rings, giant monuments that worship the old forgotten gods towered over him, casting long shadows that stretched further than expected. The hollowness of the parade ground before him looked a bit darker than it had from afar, and suddenly a cool breeze swept across the field, prompting the farmer to tug tighter on his robes, so he urged on further into the depths of the city center. At the end of the opposite field, cemented firmly into the ground, was a large temple built with blackened sandstone that featured obsidian figurines that seemed to keep a constant watch on the farmer. By then, there had been a noticeable change in the atmosphere that shrouded the sheep farmer. While the sun still stood bright directly overhead, he no longer felt any warmth from it. The winds that orchestrated the desert did not pick to even the slightest whisper, and the sand that had originally struck bright with its golden light were now a few shades darker, absorbing the brightness around it. Though the farmer began to feel the corrupting power that rose from beneath the ground, he no longer had the ability to muster his will and head back out of the darkness. Compelled by the bleak energy, he trudged, one step, at a time, up the stair of the ziggurat, and at the top of it was a set of trapdoors that slid open without command, revealing a dark descent into what lies beneath. On his very first step down into a crypt of insanity, the farmer, aware of his vulnerable mortality towards the malevolent energy but incapable of doing anything about it, was overwhelmed almost instantaneously by everything all at once. His past, present, and future flooded his memories. He felt afraid, confident, ecstatic, depressed, all at once. Every single bit of movement in the entire city was relayed through his head, every tick of sound that crept in the city rang in his ear, and every ray of light which shone in the city blinded his eyes. And within a second, all the chaos around and within the farmer ended, and the void of the temple opened itself up, consuming the collapsed farmer into its abyss. When he came around to his senses, the farmer found himself in a cavernous room with pillars supporting the slanted ceiling. The trapdoor above had long ceiled itself off, and the stairway leading down had retracted back into the walls. As he tried to lift himself up, he found himself unable to do so. His limbs were immobilized by an unknown force, and his soul was shackled to the energy that filled the room. Like the harbinger of insanity, time dripped into the farmer’s mind. Slowly, it drained into his pristine chalice of mental state, corrupting him while he gripped at what left of his clear thoughts he still had. Dazed with his back leaned against a marble pillar, he couldn’t rid of the clamorous silence that wouldn’t stop buzzing at his hears, and would regularly release a feeble whimper of pain and struggle. And it what could have been an eternity, the calmness that drove the farmer mad was disturbed by a rising tremble, breaking the silence and the stillness in the room. Out of the peripheral vision in his fading vision, he saw the swirling of physical energy that came together and formed a vague humanoid being off in the distance. Fear forcibly struck through his heart, the farmer, with his last bit of personal will, called out and questioned his own sanity whether he was seeing things or not. The figure, upon hearing his sound, dispersed into the air, and the farmer suddenly encountered a steadily rising feeling of anger and hatred. Without anymore will nor life, under the corruption and control of a split mind, he closed his eyes for the last time, and in the distance he heard the rumble from the ground. “Your time is up, farmer, but mine is about to begin.

“Everything is changing, I really mean it this time.” She was looking at me with that spark in her eyes she always had when she assumed a new persona. This time, it was some sort of 80’s glam metal retro look. She’d grown out her hair like Bon Jovi and started wearing a ratty torn-up white muscle shirt that showed off those goddamn biceps I could never break free from. “From now on, everything will be about you, babe,” She had a pleading, hopeful tone to her voice. She really believed in herself. Then again, she always did. I just smiled and looked away, thinking about how many times she’d said that. all superstars are like that I suppose. Always changing, adapting, evolving. I think the one thing that never changes is that they never stay the same. “You mean everything, Ava?” “I’m past giving up on you. I need you more than anything, and I’m not throwing our love away this time. Please baby,” She reached in to grab my hand, her rough calloused fingers weaving their way around mine. “Stay with me.” Damn it, why is she so good at this? I fall for it every time, but god when she talks like that, it’s like I can see her heart. I can feel how genuine she is, and all I want is to reach in and touch her again. It’s like I’m her fucking dog, always coming back whenever she says my name. But I just can't help it. Jesus Christ, if she were an ocean, I’d drown in her every day she graced the shore. “I’ve never left,” I bit my lip, my stomach filling with the nervous pit it always did when I came back to her. At this point, it's more fear than excitement. But still, I hope. Still, I feel like she’s changed this time, that she's gonna make good this time. Her blue eyes spark even brighter, and she shone that smile that consumed your entire being in a flood of euphoria. “You’ve always known how to make me the happiest girl on earth,” she said, practically wrapping my heart in linen lace, and binding me even closer to her. “You’d better get out there,” I told her. “They're expecting you” She fell into a nervous frenzy as she looked down at the watch on her wrist. “Shit! Your right,” she grabbed the letterman jacket she had laying on her table and ran over to give me a deep, intense kiss before pulling back. “I love you more than anything, Cathy” “I know you do, sweetheart,” I said with a laugh, “I know you do.” She lingered in the doorway for a second, doing a quick scan of me before smiling and running out to the soundcheck. What the hell did I just rope myself into? Sure, those flirty little expressions of hers are fun now, but things will just fall apart. They always somehow fall apart again. I walk over to the little mini fridge in the corner of the room and look inside. There are a couple of bottles of chardonnay that probably cost a couple hundred a pop. I find a glass in a cupboard in the room, and sit back down on the leather couch that I was on earlier She used to drink shit like this all the time. When she had first gotten big, she’d wear these nice, tailored suits. She’d slick back her hair, and go for a real refined butch look. Even on stage, she’d be sipping chardonnay from an ornate crystal glass, which she’d keep perched on the piano. That was the first time she’d cheated on me. To be fair, she had no idea how to handle all the stress of actually keeping up with her image. She was refined on stage, but behind the scenes, she was falling apart. Backstage, she didn’t even bother with the chardonnay, just downing vodka and popping Adderall to try and calm and energize herself, desperately looking for some sort of balance. And so I guess when the piano player tried to reach out to her, and bring her out of that solitude, it was only natural to start spiraling into more intimate ways of comforting each other. It was the piano player who told me the morning after. She was a pretty decent girl, after all. She felt I deserved to know how big of a mistake they’d made, and she was right of course. So I called up Ava and told her I knew. We came to a pretty quick agreement that the relationship wasn’t going to be able to function anymore. So we broke up She had a few phases while we were apart that first time. It was the longest we’d stayed broken up, so I honestly forget some of what they were. I think at one point she wore a lot of leather and had a lot of neon lights, and she might have gone steampunk for a bit too. But I remember what she looked like when she showed up at my door for the first time in close to a year and a half. She had on skinny jeans and a simple white blouse. Her hair was grown out long, and she’d done a full face of makeup. Honestly, she looked straight, which was a little strange to see. She said that she just wasn’t happy without me. All she wanted was to come back to me, to be mine plain and simple. She’d said something pretty similar to what she’d said tonight. That from now on, it would all be for me. Every song, album, and concert would all be to me. And after almost an hour and a half, I said yes. That same cycle would keep repeating for years. She’d cheat on me, we’d break up, then get back together again. I came back to the comfortable leather couch I sat on, the sweet cold taste of the wine rolling into my throat. There’s a feeling. It’s not quite a high, more of a deep contentment, that comes whenever I’m around Ava. When she’s there, every emotion stills. It feels like everything will be alright, like there's this equilibrium. But then she leaves, and you realize how unbalanced being around her is. Maybe it’s something in her cologne, or some way she moves, but she lulls me into a trance. And once she’s left, the hallucination rots away, showing the beautiful decadent world she put me into is built on garbage and rats. I get this sort of pit in my stomach, the realization that I put my all into her again, and that I'm left empty once she’s gone. I put the wine back down on the table with a sigh. I shouldn’t do this again. I’ve been through it enough to know what to expect. I’ve lost money, health, and friends on loving Ava. I need to stop it now before things get bad again. I need to start making choices that sting again, so I can do what's right for both of us. The right thing to do right now would be to leave. To block and erase her number and never see her again. Build a life somewhere else, find someone who can stay devoted to me, and focus on building a life that isn’t centered on someone else. It’s wrong for me to only feel fulfilled, to only have equilibrium when she’s near me. Instead, I get up to go watch her. I don’t want to hurt her, so she at least deserves to hear from me that I can’t stay. After all, I need to be firm and rational, not cruel and cold. And I might as well watch her perform one last time, and enjoy being near her for just a bit longer. It’s not always heartache and pain. I make it to the front row just as the lights go down. People start cheering, and it's a big crowd. They fill out the entire 2000 seats of the theater. A voice starts to introduce the band, and then the lights turn on, illuminating them as they start in on one of their new songs, hard and fast. She’s at the front jumping and singing energetically into the mic. Then after minutes of build-up, she starts into an intense guitar solo, her fingers moving swiftly and deftly across her fender like it’s the natural thing for her to do. The song finally ends with a crash, and the crowd erupts again. She takes a minute to bask in the applause, her arms raised in triumph, that ensnaring smile plastered on her face. She egg’s them on, waving her arms to ask for more when the cheering lulls, greeted with an even louder cacophony of screaming. She’s a performer, after all, it's only natural that she’s good at this, at turning the entire room on. She gets back closer to the mic again and says: “Thank you! I love you all so, so much. But I want to take a little break, and dedicate this next one to my beautiful, kind, long-suffering girlfriend. It’s a slower song, tell me if y’all know High Enough by Damn Yankees” A few scattered bits of cheering came from the audience as one of her bandmates starts in on a soft melody on an acoustic guitar. She starts singing, with her eyes closed and the mic next to her face like it's something holy. God damn, this is going to hurt like hell. I try to distract myself every time she looks towards me in the stands. I awkwardly try to avoid eye contact, looking at anything else other than her. But my heart drops when the music does because I know what's coming. “ Don’t say goodnight, say your gonna stay forever...” her voice drops into an emotional quiver at that last part, and I can’t help but look back up at her. She’s staring right at me, and there's this horrific shining in her glistening blue eyes as she starts in on her guitar. “ Can you take me high enough? To fly me over, yesterday...” She starts in on the chorus, and it physically pains me to feel how much I still love her, each note sending daggers down my spine. I can’t do this again, I can’t let it happen again. She’s too inconsistent. She only relies on emotion, that's the reason I can't break free from her. I can't give in tonight, or we’ll never break this god-forsaken cycle. “ Can you take me high enough? ” it’s that second high note that unravels me. It’s such a pure, unfiltered feeling in her voice that she almost sends us all into tears. I look at her, and I don’t see any of the trouble from the past. All I see is the dorky girl I fell for all those years ago, who smoked too much and played music like the gods delivered it to her. And it was then I knew. She was the Phantom to my Christine, capturing me again in her song, leading me back down into the catacombs of our love. There was no way I could escape from her. Frankly, I didn’t know that I wanted to leave. Change can be great sometimes. But some things can never change.

I died yesterday. A bus hit me. I didn't see it. I was rushing to make it for my mother in law's birthday dinner. My family was waiting for me. My wife and two children. The driver did nothing wrong. She was not driving any faster, didn't go over a crosswalk. I must have jumped in front of her bus out of nowhere. I don't remember. The irony was that the dinner was not even ready. Nobody was anxiously waiting for me. Nobody rang on my phone. It was me that was rushing. The bus hit me on my right side. It broke most of my ribs, my legs and hit my head hard. I was bleeding in pain and agony. So many thoughts, so many moments. So many missed opportunities. The moment this happens, you think about everything that life prepares you for. And this is not part of it. Schools don't teach us how to die. Neither churches or mosques. Nobody talks about death. And it always comes as a surprise. It's the biggest surprise of them all. And it sucks. As I was trying to figure out if somebody is going to help me, one figure approached very close to me, rushing. Picked me up and started talking to me. "Can you hear me?", the person asked. I couldn't answer. My words were forming but I couldn't say them. The figure was a man, 50 or something, grey hair, strong grasp. He caught and pulled me onto the pavement. "Take it easy, an ambulance is coming", he said. People started to gather around. I slowly raised my head to see the point of the impact. There was a blood stain on the asphalt. And the front of the bus was damaged. “Is my head that strong?”. "How many fingers do you see?", the guy asked me. "Four", I tried to answer. "You see, you are doing much better", he said. "Can you try to stand up now?" I couldn't stand up. I tried to move my legs but nothing. "I cannot. Can you please call my wife", I said to the person as the air was becoming colder. "What is her number?", he asked politely. "Reach to my pocket for my phone.. I don't.. remember", I said. He took my phone. Used my finger to get in and called my wife. "Hi. This is Smoke...", he introduced and explained to her what happened. He was quite calm. He told her to come to the ER and did his best to comfort her. Who was this guy? "All good? Stay lying there.. things are gonna get better for you now.", he said. "How do you know this?", I asked. "Things always get better, don't they?", he laughed and looked towards the street. "Well not for me I guess...", I said. The pain was growing. My breath was getting slower. "Things become harder right before they get easier.", he laughed. I looked at him for a bit. He was very happy with what he was doing. "Why do you do this?", I asked. "Because we are humans and humans help each other." "Looks like you are the only one wanting to help me", I said. "I am the one that really cares, true.", he said. "But why do you care?", I asked with curiosity. He grasped over my body stronger and sat on the pavement right next to me. "Here, lay here over me, it's softer..", he said. “Don’t move your head...”. I was there. Lying on the pavement with a stranger that wanted to apparently help me. "Maybe he is an imposter? Maybe he is taking advantage of the situation and then will do something to my family?", I started thinking. "Sir, when did my wife say will come here?", I asked. "Don't worry about it, she will arrive soon...". "But sir, who are you?", I asked. "I am here to help you, don't worry.. take it easy..", he said calmly. "Well in case something happens, can you tell me who you are, for better or for worse... just in case?", I asked. "Sure, my name is Smoke. I live on the same address where you live, if all this goes well, you will find me there", he said. "Same address as me?", I asked surprised. I have never seen this person. And if I know something really good, that is my neighborhood. This guy is definitely an imposter. "What building and floor are you living on?", I asked him. He stood there quiet, still taking care of me. Still holding me not make anything stupid. "You make this more difficult for everyone, why don't you relax?", he said. "Relax?", I managed to push his hand off of my chest. "Please tell me who you are?". Smoke put his hand on his knee. "Well I am everyone you know and everything you do. All your experiences and all your knowledge. I am your mind.", he said. "I am here to make things easier for you". "This is nonsense.. to make *what* things easier?", I asked confused. "You are dying. I am your mind that presents to you as a person in an attempt to survive. We know how to interact with human beings the best. As you are dying, I am running out of ideas on how to help you, so I thought talking to someone will be easier for you...". "I am dying?", I said scared. "Come on.. isn't it obvious?", Smoke said. I raised my head again and saw an ambulance coming. The group of curious people was being broken down by the medics and the police. A body was lying in front of the bus, not moving. "Oh my god, I am dying...". My breath became fast. My thoughts became fogged, my vision turned blurry. "Help me... I am choking...", I told Smoke. "So what?", he answered nonchalantly. "I will die....", I said.. "Not more than you will die anyway", he answered. At that moment all of my fear turned into peace. All of my panic and anxiety turned into a feeling of calmness. The death destroyed all of my fears. The words of Smoke made it clear. This is happening. There is no need to be afraid. The fear will not make it stop. It's inevitable. "So why did my brain create you?", I asked. "You know when people say that when you die, you see your whole life in front of your eyes? Well that's not quite true. You see the things you choose to see. To re-experience. Your mind will go through its knowledge and memories seeking for a way to survive. The last drop of hope for it to help you. In your case, it worked wonders. It created me. So I am here now to bring you there, to your safe place.", Smoke explained. "And what is my safe place?", I asked shocked. "Your experience that you want to make through one more time before the curtains shut. Your mind is a great organ. It's unique that it can act upon your perception of time. If you choose to have your past 20 years be your safe place, your mind will make it look as if it's yet another life-time. Then you will live again those years. If you choose to have the last time you ate an ice-cream as your last experience, it's gonna be made into a complete life-time. It's like a first-class treatment from your mind. It's a classy way to say goodbye. I stood silent. I was not sure where I was. "Did you even call my wife?", I asked. "No. That was all in your head. A death-dream.", he said. "She doesn't know I will die?" "No. She doesn't. That's for the better of all I guess.". "So.. what's gonna be?", Smoke asked. "What's gonna be what?", I said. "What's your safe place?", he asked again. Things were calm. My breath was calm. I could feel its rhythm in sync with my heart beat. They were both slow. Getting even slower. I didn't try to avoid anything. Any thought that scared me. That made me sad, angry or even happy. I let it be. All I was thinking of was my family. My two angel children and my lioness wife. I wanted to see them again. "Can I mix experiences?", I asked Smoke. "You can. But not from your whole life. You can pick two experiences and I will do my best.", he answered. "My life was really great. It was complete with people and possessions. It was incomplete with time", I started. "All the way through it, I was always looking for more or less time. I was rushing to get there. I was always late. If not, I was about to be late. I was chasing situations to happen so that I can start living. I never started living now. I was waiting for 'it' to happen. And that caused lots of anxiety and stress. Made me feel scared and sad. But now things make so much sense. The fears are no more, the expectations are gone. That amount of calmness and peace was to be found only on one more place in my life: my grandma's home in summer. If I ever want to experience something again is that calmness, together with my family. I choose my safe place to be that house, in the beginning of June, where the grown-up me will go together with my wife and my kids. And my grandparents will be there and my uncle too. They will see us park our car and they will come at the front door to greet us. Then I will hug them. Feel the smell of theirs. Feel their warmth. Then I will introduce them to my family. "This is my wife, I really love. These are my children, mischiefing little piglets" I will say. They will all hug and kiss. Then we'll go inside and the smell of yogurt and cucumber mixed with freshly chopped garlic will fill in our nostrils. Kids will ask what that nice smell is. I will explain. I will give them to try the food. Then once we finish the main meal, we'll have our desert. A nice smelling watermelon. I will pick it up from the cellar. Then bring it to the table. Then we'll eat it and tell lots of jokes. The feeling would be complete, nothing more would be needed other than that small house with a small room that can suit 10 people or so. And those people inside. Then we'll announce rest-time and go upstairs to take some noon naps. The cushions will be cold and soft. The summer covers will be silky. The smell will be a mixture of the smell of old books and old furniture. After an hour we will wake up and go down to the yard. Hot summer. My grandma will be laughing seeing us. My grandpa will ask me to bring him water from the yard-fountain. Then we will sit under the house's shadow until the sun falls down. The kids will be playing in the yard, we will be talking, drinking coffee and eating my grandma's sweets. And this will be everything that we will be doing for one whole summer. Then when the summer ends, we will go. We will say our goodbyes and the hopes that we will meet again somewhere sometime. But if we don't then we can make ourselves, each-other, live into our thoughts. The one that will survive the last will carry that burden of the memory. Right before the summer ends, I will go and kiss my kids, hug them and say a few words as life advice. Then I will go and lay down my wife's lap and fall asleep there as she will be touching through my hair. It'd be the safest place for me to come to the end of the summer. And that will be my safe-place.", I said. "Ok. You got that right. That is your safe place. That is where you will wake up tomorrow. Was very interesting to be your mind, by the way. You were always onto something... and I really enjoyed your reactiveness your whole life. You could have lived a bit more, for sure, but what you lived is something many others cannot live for 100 more years. So be calm. Now close your eyes. Let your breath rest....that's it...", said Smoke. The noises disappeared. The voices went silent. A heavy curtain fell. The darkness overtook. The next morning started just like any other morning. "Are you ready?", I asked my kids. "Ready for what?", my son asked. "To meet your grand-grand parents and my uncle", I said. "We do it today? We are going there today?", my daughter asked excitedly. "Yes, we are going to visit them today. And you know what? We will stay there the whole summer”, I said. "Yeey, daddy that is so amazing!", they both exclaimed. We took the car to their house. As we approached the small street things started getting really heavy. I haven't been there for some time. We came close to my grandma's house. Then right in front of the front-door of their house. I honked. Then I started parking the car. My grandma, grandpa and uncle came in front of the door. They were cheerful and smiling. Super excited. We got out of the car. Locked it and went to them. I hugged them very strongly. All three of them. "I missed you so much", I said as tears rolled down my face. "How's it been?" "This is my wife I really love. These are my children, mischiefing little piglets", I said. All of them hugged there for a while. Then we all went inside. "This summer is going to be amazing", I thought.

(WP) Old Habits Die Hard You’re about to end it all when you are interrupted by a quiet knock on the door. The cold, silken weight of the firearm leaves your mouth, and you set it on the immaculate countertop. “I’m sorry, old friend, but you’ll have to wait for a little longer. It appears I have a guest.” The monster inside the weapon hisses, cackling with cold laughter. *Very well. I’ve waited this long; what’s a few minutes more?* Ignoring the triumph in its voice, you walk to the door, peering into the peephole. All you see is a cloud of bright, kinky curls, the color of a pink blush sunset. You open the door, frowning. “What are you doing here? I told you to stay away, far away!” “I’m worried about you,” Callie replies, pushing past you into the apartment, her dark eyes probing, searching for something, and frustration blooms in your chest, climbing up into your throat, threatening to cut off your next words. “I already told you, Callie, this isn’t your business--” “Bullshit it isn’t, Nolan! You can’t do this. You’re not all bad. We all have monsters inside of us--” “God damn it, Callie, this isn’t some philosophical discussion or a metaphor! *My* monster is something real. I’ve hurt people at its behest. And I can’t do it anymore. I’d rather be dead than to hurt someone else, accidentally or on purpose!” Your voice breaks on the last word, and your eyes sting; the room bows and sways, and you can’t help wishing that you’d bought some nice liquor for the occasion. You don’t understand why Callie is trying to talk you out of this; she barely knows you, in the first place. “I’m done, Callie. I can’t do it anymore.” “Nolan, please--” The spirit inside of the gun finally flows out of the weapon in a gout of sulfur-scented smoke, taking the form of a person with a bright, bloody red smile. *Foolish girl,* it sneers, swelling before her, almost preening in front of her. *This child has belonged to me before he even left his mother’s womb. And you think* you *can save him from his fate?* Its laughter echoes throughout the room, derisive and inescapable. “Nolan can make his own destiny!” Callie cries out, and you shake your head; you never wanted anyone involved in this, least of all a barista you made the mistake of confiding in one rainy day. “Please, Callie, I promise you, it would be better if you just left. And I could end it all. It’s safer for everyone that way.” “I’m not leaving you, Nolan, I already told you that! Please, don’t do this!” She grabs the front of your T-shirt, fingers twisted into the fabric like claws. But you don’t have a choice, regardless of Callie’s friendship. Every bone in your body is screaming with fatigue, desperate for release. You’re so exhausted, so tired of fighting for every ounce of control.

A caressing spring breeze carried the sweet aroma of the short-lived wisteria bloom through the garden patio in soft wafts, mingling with the scents of lavender and thyme and rose petal. Hummingbirds zipped in and out, flashing their red or blue or green bellies. The buzz of their tiny wings passing in loping drones over the distant laughter of children playing in the park. I sat in the cool dappled shade of the great oak, taking in deep breaths of the perfect spring day. The cubes in my iced tea tinkled against the glass like frozen raindrops as I sipped. “Aaaaaahh!” I raised an eyebrow and turned an ear when I heard the child shriek with rage from the other side of the fence. She sounded like she was about four or five. The guardian sounded like either a young mother or an older babysitter. The child wailed; I could almost hear her fists beating against her guardian. “Give it to me! Give it to me,” the kid screamed and wailed again. “I don’t know what to tell you, honey.” “Give it to me!” the child's wail turned to a high-pitched peal. “I don’t have it,” the guardian calmy assured. The child screamed again. “You’re lying!” “I promise. I’m not lying.” “Yes, you are! Give me forty million dollars!” The guardian wasn’t chuckling, exactly. But I could hear her smile. “I don’t have forty million dollars.” A shriek of frustration. “Give me forty million dollars!” “Why do you think I have forty million dollars?” “Give me forty million dollars!” This time the guardian couldn’t help but chuckle, fueling the child’s rage. “Why do you need forty million dollars?” The child answered between choking sobs. “I have... to buy... things.” The guardian laughed. “What do you have to buy?” “I have to buy movies.” “What if I buy you a movie?” The child audibly shuddered as she let the last of her cries subside. “O... k...” I finally let out a laugh. I had been holding it in even though there was no way anyone would have heard me over the child’s screams. I don’t know if the guardian heard me or not, but she laughed as well. Martha and I sat in the den that evening, laughing for the half-a-dozenth time since I had told her the story of the forty-million-dollar kid. She snorted, slapped her knee and shook her head. “Where do you think she even heard the phrase forty million dollars ?” “Probably from her parents.” She rolled her eyes. “Oh, yeah? Think we’ve got a lot of multi-millionaires in the neighborhood?” I shrugged and nodded in agreement. “Yeah, probably not. it's a good number, though.” “Maybe her babysitter really did have forty million dollars.” “I hear it’s a lucrative gig.” I turned to her. “You used to babysit. What did you get, two million a kid? Little more?” She snorted again and slapped at the air, only because I was out of reach and put on her little playful smile that I loved so much, her adorable dimples deepening “That was a long time ago. We didn’t get quite that much.” We chuckled together. “Who knows where she heard it. My guess is she heard it in a movie.” I flashed her my own signature smirk. “She sounded like a real cinephile.” We shared another laugh before turning our attention to the muted TV. Credits were scrolling across the screen, Martha’s cue to retire to the boudoir, and her novel, for the night. She took a deep breath, “Well, alright,” and pushed herself up out of her seat. “Guess I’m retiring for the night.” She bent, kissed me on the forehead, and came away with a stern glance. “Don’t stay up all night, Ok?” I grumbled and waved her away. “I know. I know.” “I’ll tell you what I know; the last time you fell asleep in the den you complained about the crick in your neck for a week.” I gave her the old one-eyed squint that said, Go to bed already . “Ok. I’m just going to watch a little news and I’ll be right up behind you.” She harrumphed and narrowed a dubious appraisal on me before giving my bald head a final tousle as she left. I watched her go. Smiling as her much-heavier-than-the-day-we-were-married derriere swayed back and forth as she shuffled away. I didn’t know how it was possible, but I somehow loved her even more today than I ever had. How did I get so lucky? I picked up the remote and unmuted the TV just in time to catch the dramatic opening theme of the nightly news. Red, white and blue graphics flashed across the screen, brighter than the anchor’s smiles as they were introduced. A mission statement from the local news team. I pushed myself out of my seat with a groan and meandered into the kitchen. I drank a beer as I slapped a quick sandwich together as quietly as I could. I grabbed another pop as I headed back into the den, the news droning. I slumped into my seat, slugged back a sip of suds and chomped a big bite of my sandwich. I leaned back and turned the volume up. ... We’re asking all residents of Jack London Park to stay indoors. Again, both suspects are presumed armed and dangerous. If you see either suspect contact the authorities immediately. I eyed the sketches. They weren’t great. “You're never going to find them from those,” I muttered aloud and waved a hand. The anchor lady turned to a window in the corner of the screen. ...and what do you know so far, Bill? Well, Carol, as we said before. The suspects are still at large after a violent and brazen bank robbery at Central Trust in downtown Saint Paul. The assailants are believed to have made off with over forty million dollars. I cocked my head and squinted. “Huh, what are the odds?” Again, we're asking all residents in the Jack London Park area to stay indoors. I slugged back another sip of beer. as the news segued into ads. I turned an ear. Had I heard something? I picked up the remote and nudged the volume down. Was that a rattle from the back door?

(I recently posted on r/writing prompts and I keep coming back to it. I have tweaked it a lot and hope you enjoy. Comments and criticisms are much appreciated.) "..uuughh.?" Was all I could manage upon my reemergence from unconsciousness. My brain felt like it had been the last tic-tac rattled around in its container by an obnoxious toddler. Was I blind? Did someone finally hit me hard enough to not have to witness mankind's atrocities like pineapples disgracing the face of a pizza? Or people who wear socks with their sandals? Awesome! I thought to myself trying to be optimistic until I remembered I could no longer see chicks in yoga pants or cute puppies in bowties. Great! Now I was sad again and still sparring with the swelling of my skull. How did I get blind? I was walking home and... I mean... shit happens, but.. fuck! Just then an auto-tuneish sounding voice came over a speaker saying, "You've got 30 minutes to kill them, or else..." I was beginning to wish I could see what the literal fuck was up when the lights came on and blinded that wish away *reeeaaalll* fucking quick. After the initial sting of the light, I noticed a freaked out looking dude with the specter of tears still haunting his cheeks holding a club with what could only be barbed wire wrapped around it. He was looking at an equally scared looking woman about ten feet away from me. The room? Or... bunker? Well, whatever disgusting place this was was lit by suspended fluorescent lights that obviously cast their flickery glow on countless horrors. The stains on the walls were probably not from salsa. Although, I *REAAALLLY* hoped it was salsa stains.. Oh boy. Oh boyohboyohboy. I. Did. NOT. Like this image. "You can make it dark again, please!" I half yelled while trying to change my sitting arrangement from 'finkle' position to 'dontcomeoverherebecauseimready' position, whatever that looked like. I would decide when my feet were lower than my ass.. "WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE!?" Cried Clubby-Boi, he was looking around frantically and beginning to notice there were about four of us total in this room. The woman from before seemed a middle-aged business woman still in her shoulder-padded magenta suit. There was a black guy with a button-up shirt and a really sweet fade. He must have just left the barber shop because, damn! And then there was a.. maybe not morbidly obese, but he was about two Big Macs away from riding in a rascal, white guy in maybe his mid twenties. "PLEASE! Don't hurt me, I have children!" Cried the business lady. She was wearing the clothes for power but she wasn't looking like a queen bee of business just now. "I *sniff* dont.. want to hurt anyone.." Clubby-Boi sputtered out trying and failing to not breathe life back into his tears. His cheeks were flooded again by them as he pressed on, "But... the voice commands.. *sniff* and I have to... do it.." "Hey! Whoa whoa hol'up a minute, man. I'm not about to die today. I got shit to do tomorrow." Spoke the fresh-fade dude rising to his feet and rubbing his head. "I have to agree with him, dude. I have a doggo at home, and who will explain to him how I just left my best pooch at home and never came back. His name i-.." "NO!! No fucking names, it makes it harder to do this!" "My name is Perry, then, Perry with a fucking y at the end, bro!" I said boisterously and with gusto. "I am Libby!" Shrieked the business woman also seizing the opportunity. "Also with a y, if it helps." I chuckled at that, trying to distract myself from the gravity of things. "Carlos." Said haircut man, "without a y." He said and stuffed his hands into his pockets with a defiant looking shrug. "J-J-J-John!" Said the big man. "With a j." "Th-th-th-thanks, John." I said sarcastically before I really thought about it. I always lost more and more filter when I was nervous. It got quiet for a moment and John shrank himself into a even more pitiful stance. "Sorry, it's just we had this whole 'y' thing going and you fucked it all up with your introduction, J-" "SHUT UP!" Cried the sad man with the club. His booming voice reverberated around the room like a forlorn echo demanding obedience which we readily gave considering his advantage. "You guys don't get it.. I HAVE to kill you, too. I have to do whatever he says or he will kill all of us." "How do you know that? ...What if at the end of the thirty minutes, he just opens a door and we are let free?" Libby ventured trying to reason with this scared man. "What's your name, honey?" "Henry.. *sniff* and he HAS to at the end. Why else would he say 'or else' at the end? We almost waited the whole time last time before that... BITCH went crazy on us." He said as he gazed upon the floor, but you could see he was actually looking at something far more grim than this terribly textured linoleum floor. He was seeing the last shit show this room bore witness to. "We convinced her to stay calm, and in the last minute...*sob* she started swinging on us." More tears watered the fields of his cheeks as he tried to continue, "after the other two were.. gone.. I managed to snatch this from her.. and end it.. I dont know what happens if we wait... but I can't go back to my normal life now! Ive..Ive..I've killed someone." "Sounds like self-defense to me, man. Wouldn't nobody blame you for it. Especially if you had us with you to explain what happened and all." Said Carlos diplomatically. "Ain't no need to kill anybody, man." "Y-Y-Y-Yeah! We-We could stick together and if he does come in and try to k-k-k-k-kill us. We-We could fight together." Said John straightening his posture a bit looking more confident now. "Oh yeah! Teamwork makes the dream work, Henry-boi. Don't kill us, and we won't kill you, I think is a very fair trade, an agreement we should ALL enjoy the benefits of, really." "Why dont we just put that club down and sit together to wait this out? Learn a little about each other, huh?" Libby offered in the best god-damned mom-voice ever. Just as it seemed Henry's grip was loosening on the barbed-wire club that same auto-tuned voice came back over the intercom and said, "If you guys don't kill each other until the last man is standing, I will kill all of you." I looked up and saw the intercom speaker and an array of cameras lining the walls. "Ah! Well! That puts a damper on this whole friendship I felt we were working towards huh fellas?" I said as we all started reacting in our own way. Henry gripped his club tighter and his face darkened as another tear threatened escape from its' source. A tense few seconds passed. Carlos' hands left his pockets and he looked back and forth between us all. John looked like he was about to shit himself, and Libby lowered her head and softly started weeping. My mind spun to how much I hate salsa. And questioning if I had it in me to actually *make* salsa. "I got shit to do tomorrow." Carlos stated matter-of-factly as he rushed Henry. A smacking sound reverberated the walls and three screams erupted as my thoughts drifted homeward to my puppy, Bilbo, at home. I rescued him. Fed him from a bottle. I was all he knew and all he had. My fists clenched until my nails broke skin. I gazed up at the carnage unfolding before me. I put all of my jokes aside and prepared to do whatever it took to come home to that sweet pupper. Damn the consequences. This sadistic fuck wanted a show, and like it or not, I was cast a lead role in this improv horror. "Break a leg.

The sound of the desperate wailing banshee cries of the grieving woman were broken only by the thunderous, booming clap of the rotors as the bird descended down into the sizable forest clearing, onto a makeshift landing pad, throwing up fountains of the fallen yellow red leaves as it did. A passerby hiker with no context to the events might have guessed that this was some sort of expensive private vehicle show which a pampered young billionaire had decided to hold in the local state park, for some reason. Henderson, a man in his later forties, with disheveled greying hair, wearing a worn and dirty ranger uniform had really wished it to be exactly that as he sat helpless on the trunk of a fallen tree. He looked out at the array of technology which was as if on parade in the clearing. Several ATVs had been arranged in neat little rows, each equipped with high powered lights, specialized tires and luggage attachments on the back filled with a variety of supplies. They stood next to several large canopies, the ones that you’d typically see at your local fair, under which were a tangled jungle of electronics and cables with a mountain of various assorted backpacks of the staff and volunteers lying beside it. The bird was a brightly orange colored former military “Huey” of Vietnam era fame with the words “Search and Rescue” written on it’s side in clear black paint. A strange device which at first glance may have looked like a threatening machine gun, a leftover from its war days, was in reality an expensive new thermal camera which was attached next to the side door of the helicopter. It, along with some of the ATVs, and a good portion of the volunteers were from out of state in a “Custer’s Last Stand” of sorts. Just half a week ago was it, indeed, just days ago Henderson thought, damn how long those four days had seemed since the disappearance of Jake Fulton and Catherine Helsak. They were a young teen couple, enjoying a gap year together before they were forcefully separated by destiny, he was planning to start work at a local mechanic’s shop while she had bigger plans and wanted to attend a fancy out-of-state university. Not allowing their Romeo and Juliet complex to stop them, they decided to go on a final fling before the start of school and their separation. By all accounts they had driven over to Lewiston Gap State Park at around noon on Friday, checking in at 2:00pm at the campground, and planned to leave early on Monday. When the local campground attendant saw that they were late to check out, he went down to their campsite, number 4 at 11:00pm on Monday just to find a dark, silent and most importantly empty campsite. The door to their cheap blue tent was torn open from the inside with considerable force as evidenced by the severe stretch marks on the nylon material, which in places had completely separated from the zipper. Dogs and Search and Rescue teams were first brought on site the very next morning, but still, it was nearly a day since the supposed time of disappearance. Henderson was there, every step of the way as a veteran park ranger with fifteen years of experience working at this park, he was among those first responders, and back then they still had hope. That's when things began to go wrong, right at the beginning of the search operation. The dogs combed the campsite, it was an open space of about ten by fifteen feet, just enough room for a tent, a fire pit and a nearby old, half rotten wood picnic table and a car parked in the dirt driveway leading up to it. Situated on a raised elevation of about twenty feet or so, a path led down the hillside and through a thick crown of pines which ringed the hilltop camp, down into a large open clearing nearby a sizable stream. It was a minor tributary that eventually flowed into the reservoir at the center of the park. The dogs sniffed and searched but Catherine’s scent was entirely just gone, as if she had just been picked up into the sky and right off the face of the planet. They did manage to pick up a faint scent when given some of Jake’s clothes, strangely it led away from the campsite, through the pines and dissipated into uncertainty near the sandy bank of the creek. That was where the SAR operation ground to a halt, they sent out single searchers on foot into the surrounding wilderness and divers combed the creek to find a body. Those divers seemed to be in the water for hours for the next three days, but the most that they dug up was a rusty pocket knife that somebody dropped, judging by the rust it seemed to be in there for half a year, so it definitely couldn’t have been Jake’s. Henderson was one of the searchers who were sent out on foot into the woods. There were ten of them in total, they were given a 5 mile radius of search area from the clearing, it was a huge area but they would walk through the woods and call out Jake’s and Catherine’s names but to no avail. There was no answer, just the heavy dread of the wet, mossy pines and sprawling leafy branches of the oaks high above which felt like an immense stone crushing your ribcage, pulling the air out of your lungs and not allowing you to breathe fully. It was on the third day of the initial search when it happened. They had gone out on a search in the mid-afternoon and they started only heading back when Apollo had ridden below the horizon on his golden chariot and replacing him came Selene. The darkness only compounded the feeling of unease, Henderson had to push himself, his legs were sore from the miles he had walked, and he was barely awake enough to avoid the thorny bushes on the sides of the trails, usually of an unknown species and the thick vines of poison oak which like pythons hung from the trees. That’s when he heard the scream. In the distance, he didn’t know how far away, but even then it was loud. There were no words in that scream, but Henderson didn’t need them to understand the immense feelings of fear and pain that it carried with them. He broke into a run, quickly, faster and faster, the feeling of absolute fear and the instinct of self-preservation flooded his senses, snapping him out of his tiredness and pushing his body to his limits, with torrents of sweat forming under his uniform and sliding down his skin, soaking his hair and clothing. One step, a jump to avoid a jutting out root, a dodge to avoid a thorny vine, another step, another step, everything was a blur. Henderson broke through the treeline and his boot sank ankle deep into the soft, muddy silt at the bank of the creek, he had made it into the clearing. He lost his balance and nearly collapsed face first into the dark rushing creek when a hand grabbed him and pulled him up, it was his co-worker and long time buddy, Franklin. “You alright, man?” Franklin asked in a worried tone, his voice was quivering. Looking up Henderson saw the blinding lights of handheld flashlights and camping lanterns rapidly approaching him. “Yeah, seem to be...” Henderson began before being cut off by a collective sigh of relief from the others which joined the lonely howl of the night breeze. “I ran because I heard the scream, what was that?” Franklin didn't respond at first, just looked back out into the circle of blackness which completely surrounded the lit up clearing, the trees waved in the slight wind, angrily shaking their branches in unison, as if part of one organism. “It’s Garthorn, he never made it back.” Garthorn, also Henderson’s colleague, was the only person at the park office with more experience than Henderson. A former Navy Seal, Garthorn was always a stern yet calm older gentleman who had turned 50 just this year, a secretive fellow he never told anyone much about his life, especially about the war. Nobody asked in any case, everybody could guess what happened, so silence was a sign of respect. And respect was well deserved, aside from his military service, he had earned his reputation as an expert woodsman and an amazing hunter, a crack shot with an old M1 which he always had with him in his truck. Out of anybody, Henderson didn’t expect Garthorn to encounter any trouble. Maybe it was a predator, a bear or a mountain lion perhaps, ambushing the poor man from the undergrowth? Perhaps. But, Garthorn was a “sizeable” fellow, and Henderson just couldn’t believe that a beast could’ve gotten him in one bite, he must’ve known if he was going into bear or mountain lion country, he had known these woods like the back of his hand, even in the dark. Why didn’t he fight back? He was armed, and with his history, there should have been a gunshot, or some sort of struggle... And the scream, that scream, why was it so short? “Are you sure that he isn't on his way back?” Henderson asked, “Last thing we heard from him he was heading back, was nearly here when he just cut off, we never heard a scream however, so that’s just you. We sent some guys to check it out. They found nothing, absolutely nothing. We need to get the dogs out there tomorrow morning, but now, nobody goes out there alone anymore.” Franklin solemnly but confidently stated. “We contacted the National Guard, they should be here tomorrow as well, we stay put for now.” The rest of the volunteers returned home and only Henderson, Franklin and three others stayed behind, huddled around a small fire, the flames dancing to the beat of it’s lively crackling, holding the deafening silence of the night forest at bay. The morning came to life with the roar of engines. The next day was spent circling the surrounding area far and wide for any trace of either Jake, Catherine or Garthorn, and none was found. Today with the newly arrived chopper things might be different, Henderson thought. No, he didn’t think that, he hoped for it because there was no evidence for him to base his thoughts off of. “Henderson, we're planning to go up again in ten, get ready if you want to join us.” came a yell from a man, the pilot, who groaned as he dismounted the cockpit of the Huey. The young man tore the heavy helmet off of his head, placing it haphazardly on the ground and hurried over to a large bucket of water, filled up a cup and emptied it, all in one gulp. Henderson readied himself, making sure all his gear was strapped securely to his duty belt, most importantly his treasured M9. He along with three others, climbed into the helicopter and strapped themselves into the seats, donning the headsets. A large screen which was connected to the thermal camera displayed a sea of re, orange and purple-ish blue. The pilot promptly returned, resuming his position in the cockpit and slowly, the rotors came back to life and the engines once again belched hot air, silencing the two crying women, the mothers of Jake and Catherine. The machine shuddered and before he could blink, Hendrson felt the Huey buckle and began rising into the sky. As they soared above the treetops, Henderson looked out at the screen of the thermal camera, the camera’s operator, a National Guardsman, same as the pilot, slapped the display, visibly irritated. “Classic percussive maintenance?” Henderson leaned over out of reflex and spoke into the headset. “Aye, sir, damn thing keeps displaying wrong temperature readings.” the camera operator responded before slapping the monitor again. “And why is that?” Henderson asked, puzzled, to him what the monitor showed now, aglow with colors, was no less legible than an alien’s abstract art piece. “You see this?” the operator gestured toward the screen with his gloved hand. “See what exactly?” Henderson asked. “Here,” the operator pressed a few buttons and the camera rotated a little to the left. The screen did change colors, Henderson admitted, despite being rotated to face a nearly identical patch of trees. Instead of the bluish hue previously shown, an irregular shape appeared, colored yellow orange and stretching out outside of the camera view. “And the significance of that is?” Henderson inquired. “Usually, trees would show up as usually somewhere around 50-55 Farenheit, that's the blue purple coloration, but this trash here is telling me that a patch of ground and the trees on it, right around the campsite about 2 miles by 2 miles has the same temperature as a human body, 98 Farenheit.” the operator explained matter of factly. The Huey jerked to one side, flying erratically. The thermal camera operator was nearly thrown from his seat, the web of straps creaking but holding him in place. “What the hell!” Henderson heard through the headset. “Turbulence? At this altitude?” Henderson murmured to none in particular. He looked out to see a pine tree, to extend, grow an additional 15 feet, nearly swatting the Huey. Another treetop, an oak, flashed just outside the open door. Problem is they were 150 feet high. Suddenly Henderson’s whole world shook and began to turn 50 degrees to the side. The last thing he remembered was a blurry orange glow of flames on the left engine, and the chopper careening into a sea of trees. Then darkness... “A strange smell...” “Pain?” “Pain in my leg?” Henderson’s thoughts flashed before his closed eyes. Another jolt of excruciating pain tore through his leg, he couldn’t move it. At least he was alive, alive, yes, it seemed he wasn’t dead yet. Carefully he opened his eyes, with leaves and mold meeting his gaze, he was lying face first in the soft, wet and mossy ground of the forest floor. Carefully he tried to lift himself up and turn around. However he found that he was still strapped into his seat. Carefully reaching with his hand he pressed the button on the buckle, releasing him. He tried to turn now, his attempt was only partially successful, only managing to turn onto his side without causing another jolt of pain. He looked down at his hurting leg, a shard of bone had pierced his lower right leg, almost slicing completely through his calf muscle, and soaking his pant leg with blood. Similarly with his left, he couldn’t move it either, both his legs were broken. Unable to do much about it now, Henderson gasped, his brow wet with cold sweat and looked around some more. His pained gaze darted over the twisted fuselage of the Huey which was suspended several feet in the air, held aloft by a tree trunk which directly impaled the cockpit, as well as the metallic bacon that had once been the tail of the helicopter, wrapping around the lower branches of another tree. Two bodies still hung lifelessly in the hull of the crashed chopper, the blunt force trauma of the intense whiplash killing them instantly. The pilot was most surely dead as well, judging by the blood dripping from the broken windshield where the tree trunk had impaled it. That only left him, and, and the thermal camera operator, Henderson remembered the only other person who was in the helicopter with them. He scanned around and saw the man lying nearby, just fifteen feet away, but he couldn’t tell if he was dead or not. “I have to call for help, somebody is bound to hear me!” Henderson thought out loud. “There! I hear it, the rumble of an engine!” A deep rumble was indeed audible, just with one tiny gimmick. It wasn’t coming from the north, south, east or west, as if those words meant anything to Henderson. Nor did it come from the sky, but instead, and it took a minute for this reality to register inside of Henderson’s head, it came from *below* him, from the ground. The rumble continued, growing louder but not by much, then the ground began to vibrate, and more than that, Henderson could’ve sworn that he felt something large *move* underneath him, up and down as if the ground was breathing, disturbing the earth all around. But nothing could’ve prepared him for what he saw next, the trees which held the wreck of the Huey up, simply *shifted* to the side. The helicopter wreck fell to the forest floor which in the span of about a minute had seemed to completely come to life, shaking as if in an earthquake, a plausible explanation if Henderson couldn’t have seen the ground 300 feet away, which was completely still. Still shaking, and getting more intense by the second, the soil around the Huey began to liquify, as the wreck sank into the dirt. Within another two minutes, everything stabilized and returned to normal, the birds were chirping and the ground wasn’t moving, but Henderson’s eyes were transfixed to the spot where the helicopter *was*, now there was nothing there, nothing at all, not even a tiny scrap of wreckage. He didn’t know what to do, what was there to do? He yelled and screamed, he unholstered his M9 and fired into the air three times, no response. He lay there for hours, the sun began to dip, and then the rumble came again. This time the ground opened up around the motionless thermal camera operator. Henderson could see a glimpse of something under the ground, something fleshy. He began shooting at whatever it was. One of the bullets hit a nearby tree which began to ooze not amber sap, but deep red blood. Then, the man was pulled under the earth as the ground turned into what was effectively muddy water, he was gone in five seconds. That left only Henderson, he knew he was next. He didn’t have to wait long. As the ground began to shake again beneath him, but he was ready. He racked the slide of his M9 one last time, the last round in the magazine was now in the chamber. He felt something, wet, slimey, pulsating with muscle, flesh and saliva and very much alive as he began to sink down into the earth. One single tear rolled down his cheek, he raised the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. No one was there to hear the gunshot, except the birds, the insects and Mother Earth.

Sean the Squirrel looked down into his small paws at the big ripe chestnut clasped between them, a proud cheeky grin spreading across his face pushing his cheeks up and making his eyes crescent moons. Placing the nut on the pile of other nuts stacked in a corner of his home Sean felt satisfaction spread through him. Winter could come now. As if hearing this a pattering started outside, thick drops of rain falling to the ground in a heightening tempo. The Squirrel walked over to the opening of his cave and pushed one of the big leaves away with his front paw looking out, he shivered as a cold wind blew, through raindrops blasting in his face making him drop his ears and scowl before promptly putting the leaf back in place and with harrumph shaking himself to be rid of the wetness covering his fur . He then preceded to illuminate the cave by giving the in a wood container held fireflies a deceased snake as incentive. Thus, casting the small cave almost completely filled with chestnuts in a greenish warm light and causing a soft humming noise to appear in the background. Sean was about begin his winter rest feeling sated. Laying down Infront of his pile of chestnuts he rolled up in a baseball like form, folding his fluffy tail around himself. Just as his eyes began to flutter close ha let out a mighty yawn showing his big front teeth. Just as he was slipping from a soft daze into a deep slumber, he heard a loud knock on his front leaves. A loud voice muffled by the winding weather outside was heard, “Heloooooouuu anyouuune at houuuumeeeee?”. Sean’s eye popped open at this before he indignantly turned around, so that his back was facing his leaf door and whichever rude visitor which did not know to leave a squirrel to its winter slumber. Once more a knock appeared shortly followed by the voice calling “Helllooouuuu , I said, I said Hellllooouuuuuu?”. Once more Sean purposely ignored the intruder and with his paws pulled his small ears down as to muffle the penetrating shrill voice of however desired entrance to his abode. The next time the voice called and his ears did not survey as ear muffler he also put his feet over his hand holding his ears, by the fourth time he had buried himself into his chestnuts and wished upon sleep so that he might ignore whoever was rapping so rudely at his leaf. Here there was a prolonged silence in which Sean made himself confutable amidst the chestnuts and once more closed his eyes in order for slumber to endow itself upon him. When suddenly once more the loud shrill voice calls out “Helloouuuuuuuuu, its couuulllld ́, I said, yes I said Its couuuulllllddddd” The startled squirrel shot upright forgetting that he was borrowed in a pile of chestnuts, making resounding Bonks ring out in the small cave as chestnut after chestnut fell upon his head. Sean’s before widened eyes promptly narrowed to slits, a small crease forming between his eyebrows, a livid frown contouring his face into a grim countenance. Puffing out his chest and clenching his small paws into round fists he stalked towards the Leaf being knocked against. Opening the door wide he bellowed “Whaaat?” Sean yelled in a mocking tone “What, What What?” he continued. The squirrel standing outside his cave drenched in rain, left paw still raised to once more knock looked at him in surprise before catching himself and asking in a rather timid voice “IT ́s cold, I said, yes I said It ́s cold...? Can I not come, yes, I asked Can’t I come in? Just till the rain stoops I said just till the rain stops?”. Sean, taking in the lanky big squirrel Infront of him, figured he didn’t look ice he would die so he plainly stated “no” before swiftly slamming the leaf back in place pivoting around on his feet made his way back to his former resting place. When he once more looked back at the front leaf, he saw the dark silhouette of the squirrel curled together from the cold now shivering, the rain must have seeped through his coat thought Sean, he felt a pang of sympathy before hastily pushing it to the side, thinking the godamn squirrel should have just built a lair in the summer, then he would not have to annoy innocent, hardworking tree civilians such as himself, he certainly did not malnourished or sick, as such he could take care of himself. With these thoughts in mind, he made to go back to sleep in his comfy tree cave. Shortly, once more before his mind could drift into slumber, there was a sneeze, snapping both eyes, a vein could be seen pulsing above his eyebrow’s, he shot up stalked over to the leaf ripped it open and yelled “come in come in make yourself at fucking home”. The drenched squirrel outside walked in with a happy, “Why thank you kind sir- I say kind sir” and quickly stomped over on its small paws to the fire burning in a corner chimney. Now that the stranger of a squirrel was illuminated, Sean could see him more clearly. Full cheeks and wrinkle free squished doe like eyes made for a round youthful face sitting on a rather scrawny body, with too big, clumsy looking paws connected to stick like arms and legs, wet fur hugging the squirrel’s thin frame. A nuisance Sean deduced in conclusion, as he stood rather hostile near his chestnuts, you never knew after all... After the foreign squirrel had warmed up a bit and his fur had begun to fritz, he turned to Sean with a gleeful smile Eyes squishing up even more before widening in apparent want at the stack of chestnuts behind Sean. “NO absolutely not” declared Sean, “I let you into my home, no more”. “Please I said Please kind sir just one it has been so awfully long day, so awfully long I said” begged the squirrel putting his hands together in mock prayer. Looking at the pitiful being before him even old Sean felt a semblance of empathy, after some back and forth between his conscience and his frugal self he compromised by giving the scrawny squirrel half a chestnut. He himself of course ate the other half. The strange Squirrel had of course taken the half of a chestnut with great gratitude, opting to sit down near the fire and start munching, Sean opted to once more sit Infront of his pile of chestnuts and after a few distrusting glances started slowly eating his piece of the chestnut in a much more dignified manner. After having eaten for some time the Stranger of a squirrel, who Sean had now dubbed balloon head, due to his gravely mismatched proportions, started talking... a lot. Sean being a squirrel of little words did his best to ignore this, in his opinion great annoyance, happily chatting away. After a while there was a penetrating question that kept popping up at the forefront of his mind, so interrupting the yapping balloon head he questioned, “why do you always repeat what you said?”. The strange squirrel looked at him in astound silence for a minute before cheerfully answering: “Ma Mama birthed a full litter you see, so I had a lot of siblings- a lot of siblings I said, as a middle child you got to say everything thrice- everything thrice I said. Just to be heard, yep, just to be heard”. Sean after hearing this in a more annoyed manner rather stated than said: “If you have so many siblings why could you not stay at one of their home ́s?” and get on their nerves he added in his mind. The question, as the older squirrel came to notice he would very much regret asking, as Balloon head now started into a whole, obviously over- exaggerated story about how he was chased by a fox, almost got eaten, then got lost, barely avoided becoming a living ice cubicle and lastly had found Sean’s house in an old tree. “Thought no one was home, I did-I said yes, I did, was about to give up till you opened the door, I said till you opened the door” the scrawny squirrel stated in-between munches of the chestnut. Great, thought Sean, had I just waited a tad bit longer, deciding he had conversed quite enough with this foreign squirrel he left to return to bed and resume his well-deserved sleep. As he was about to lay down, the younger squirrel still sitting next to the fire, empty half of a chestnut next to him carefully asked: “do you not have any Family sir, I as- Sean interrupted him with a sharp “no” breaching the topic no further he laid down, back to the stranger an closed his eyes, ready to sleep. “Sorry, I said I said I ́m sorry” came a sullen reply. Ignoring the stranger lying 3 meters away, Sean tried to desperately fall asleep. But in the wake of old repressed memories, he found sleep did not wish to grant him passage into the thick, dark, out of- reach oblivion of his dreams. Perhaps it was the warm enclave of his home lit by the comfortably crackling fire in correlation with the rough storm waging war on mother earth outside. Or maybe it was the fact that he for the first time in years had held a, if not very one sided, conversation with another living being for more than a few seconds. Perhaps it was none of the above an in a moment of forgotten rationality followed by intense emotions he, said very quietly “I do not have any living relatives”. The younger squirrels’ eyes popped open at the voice of his reluctant host. Happy that he was finally talking to him he sat upright looking at the back his companion he mindfully asked, “How? I asked How?”. “Winter” was all Sean said before once more trying to close his eyes, knowing that even a naïve squirrel such as balloon head, would understand the threat of a cold, cruel winter after all he himself had almost fallen victim to it. When the storm passed and the cold winter sun, shone on the white snowy forest ground, early in the muddy morning the scrawny, young squirrel left the home he had resided in for a night. Of course, not before leaving a note scribbled in the empty shell of half a chestnut announcing that he was to retrieve his stuff from his sibling home before coming back and moving in, haven chosen Sean as his new roommate. Sean none the wiser slept for tree day and nights having been deprived from his sleep on that stormy night, and when he woke up, he woke up to the sound of knocking on his door followed by a sing song voice yelling, “I ́m baaackkk, I said-I saiddddd, I ́m backkkkk”

What about power? Isn’t it the most wonderful of concepts? Power. POWER. It rolls right off the tongue, doesn’t it? Power. It’s never quite enough. We get a job; it gives us power. We go to school; it gives us power. We get money; it definitely gives us power. What? You’re going to say that’s not why we go to school or get a job. We do it because we have to. We do it because we need to survive, to live, to strive. Live for what? Strive towards what? Survive what? Most of us lead miserable lives. We’re just waking up, stretching midst the piles of shit the world is made out of, and what’s our need? To survive? Survive what? Power, that’s what. Other people’s power. Their need to identify themselves beyond their mere mortal condition. Their need to be beyond want, fear, doubt. That’s why you go to school and get a job. Because it’s a race. No, nobody cares if you don’t need to run alongside them. That’s not the point. You need to do it; you need to be there; you need to believe you have a choice. That’s what makes it so exciting, the belief you can win, the smell of your own power, the feel of freedom and escape. Just one more day, just one more dollar, just a bit more effort. And then? Well... who knows? We can’t really predict the future. But imagine if we could. Imagine how it would be to understand exactly where the line should be drawn. When enough would be enough. Not only to see that we finish the race, but how we finish it. To wake up one morning and immediately feel that today would be different. Today would be the day when we would finally understand who we are, feel that all your efforts would finally come to fruition. But no. Think further than that. You would wake up a century from that day, and you would get to learn that your struggle has paid off and see the ripples across time. Feel your power propagate and shape the world. Would you be able to notice it right away? Of course! What am I even asking here? We all know that feeling, that delicate elation when power comes within our grasp. That yearning. A morning such as that would be no different from any other, with the exception that from the moment we would open our eyes, we would feel complete. Effervescent. That’s how I would describe this morning. From the first breath of light, I know that today is the day. Today I will finally understand. What do I need to understand, though? This question has always racked by brain, stuck like a burr somewhere in my subconscious, floating just out of reach like a will-o’-the-wisp. It has guided me, molding me, fueling me, and now I finally feel as if it is no longer beyond my senses. Today. Today will be special. I get up at 7.00 AM and take a quick shower. I like to feel the splatter of the warm water over my body as the first thing of the day. The sensation keeps me rooted in my self, digging out the feelings of the previous night. This way, all the thoughts, all the dreams that I had borne throughout the night, get a final chance to sink in. Shedding their light and secrets as I bathe. I wash my teeth and eat something quickly. It’s not like I’m not a fan of breakfast, it’s that, how can I explain this. Food doesn’t do it for me anymore. I’ve tasted so much, so many times, flavor, well, there’s nothing new there or complex enough to get me started. I eat only what’s necessary. I love coffee, though. It’s hard to say why, but I do. If we go beyond the taste and its properties, I think there’s something beyond that which draws me in every morning. A freshness, an alertness, it’s like a distant friend’s handshake. It fills you up, makes you smile, even though he doesn’t say much. He’s just there. Today is a good day. I get dressed, grey slim-fit dress pants with a light blue shirt, also slim fit. A pair of dark blue Oxfords and a navy blue tunic to wrap everything up, and I’m off. The moment I step out through the front door, the feeling of completeness evaporates, a sort of anxiousness stepping in. I’m not worried. I knew this would happen eventually, feels somewhat romantic that it does the moment I walk away from the safety of my home. The dull grey of the lobby stares back at me. It’s such a lovely color, limited, silent. Normally, a driver would come and pick me up in the morning and take me to the office. Today I decide against it, well, I lie. I’ve decided against this last night, when I canceled the appointment. I feel like walking. I want to soak in the city as much as I can. It felt as if it would be one of my last chances to do this. It reminds me of my childhood honestly. Walking. I used to go to the central park or the central market square and sit somewhere and stare at people. Well, not stare. I would look at them, study them. Try to understand where they came from and where they went. I liked to imagine that I was a famous detective and looked for little clues about their lives. A piece of lint, a crease, a mark, anything. I didn’t notice them as much as I could, but I did get pretty good at reading people. Understanding them. Could this have been the understanding that I had been seeking all this time? Hmm, I don’t really see how this fits in. Why would everything change today? No. It’s got to be something else. Something that has touched me, but I’m still to touch it back. The elevator is rather busy in the morning. Today it jumps up at me from the shadows. I never heard it open. I’m glad I took the time to walk to the office today. It feels symbolic somehow. The apartment complex is in the city’s heart and its heartbeat makes itself known as soon as the elevator doors open. A healthy buzz of life and need, a static that presses and pulls and squeezes and rips. I love that first glimpse of... ‘What the fuck?!’ Where the fuck am I?! Everywhere I look, grey figures stare back at me as they step quietly on dark passageways. Higher up, what look like hovering cars hum back and forth incessantly. A man steps up to me and grabs me by the arm, and pulls me to the side. My body feels limp, so I let myself be pulled quietly. He lets go of my arm and walks away. I’m dumbfounded. I don’t understand what’s going on, but that’s not the issue. The real issue is, I don’t feel like needing to understand anymore. As if an existence was wiped out of me in the blink of an eye. The man took me to the left of the building entrance and I don’t feel the need to move from this spot. It feels safe. Is this why he dropped me here? Was I in his way? That’s some really strange behavior on his part. Socially conscious, though. The stream of people does not ebb. It has a steady rhythm to it, soothing and soft. What should I do? Am I dreaming? This hasn’t happened in quite some time. I’ve always had a sort of love-hate relationship with my subconscious. It never felt as if it were truly mine and yet, the only moments of care and tenderness I have ever experienced were the ones that it imprinted upon me. It felt as if I had a stern father within me. Sleep was something that always brought me closer to it, dreams especially, training me and nurturing me in the man I grew up to become, but I can’t really remember when I last had a lucid dream. I’m safe, I know I’m safe. This world that I’m having the privilege to witness mesmerizes me. Its precision, it feels as a finely tuned recorder, its sounds monotonous and dependent. What should I do? Normally, I would’ve turned right at the entrance in order to get to the office. I don’t have anything against this, so I find my place within the stream and step lively. Hmm. It feels so strange to fit in here like I do. My steps fall briskly on the metal floorboards and their echoes get sucked in. It’s as if I’m walking on linen. Comforting somehow in its unnatural way. The world sucks me in fully. I feel completely at peace. Even though the world in itself is strange and new, it’s not different from the one back home. The buildings are pretty much the same, more organized and neat, softer on the eye, but definitely the same. The passageways are easy to follow and there are guidance markers everywhere. My office is in the Central Square, and the path towards it is clearly marked. I have no issues getting there. The square is as magnificent as ever. The passageways are running along the edges of an empty square made of a black metal material. Having learned my lesson, I follow the path to one of the corners of the square and step off. Looking at it closer, it feels as if it’s not metal, but velvet; soft and inviting. An urge to touch the material comes over me and I begin to hunch down when a soft sensation prickles my scalp. I straighten and reach out an inquiring hand. The prickles flow through the tips of my fingers. Some sort of force field? Weird. From within the square, a ball of light gently shoots up, leaving behind a feathery trail. Upon reaching its climax, it floats for a second and then begins hovering with a slight delta. The feathery trail intensifies, sparks of light reach out every which way in unison with the hovering central light. The mute image feels soothing and welcoming. I explore the view from my corner and find my office building a little way off. It’s bigger than I remember it. Two banners hang from the sides of the building, furnishing the party’s colors: a black and white feather on a red background. Sublime! I truly think it is. If only I could see this in real life. I step on the path once more and approach the building. A large gateway bars my path and I step to the side to take it all in. To the left and right of the gateway, there is a security guard. As I stand there and look, several people approach and use an access pad, swiping a key card against it. A green light flickers, and the air clears within the entrance. The person steps in and then the following person approaches the access pad. Once the green light doesn’t show up and one of the guards gently escorts the person to a cubicle to the far left. When there are no more people waiting to enter, I go to one of the guards. ‘Good morning!’ ‘Good morning, Sir.’ ‘Would you be able to help me with some questions?’ ‘Yes, please.’ ‘I work here, but I don’t have my key card. Could you please tell me what I need to do?’ ‘Please go to the receptacle to your right and request a temporary pass.’ I look around for the place in question and quickly locate it; a small booth off the beaten trail getting here. ‘Thank you!’ I walk back to the main pathway and approach the booth. Several people had already queued up in front of it. I get in line and take the time to look at my colleagues. I don’t recognize any of them. They’re all wearing slim grey uniforms, zipped up just below the chin. I find the uniforms to be quite soothing to the eye, elegant too. There are only two more people in front of me and I can see the station in front of me. Although I can’t make out all the details, it seems to be some sort of scanning station. A crystalline voice makes itself heard: ‘I feel contempt.’ The person at the scanning station picks something up from a slot and makes its way back up the line. A quiet smile floats lavishly across its face. The person in front of me steps towards the station and inserts a key card. Ten seconds later I hear that voice again: ‘I feel contempt.’ The person picks up its key card and walks past me. I stare at the station and step towards it. Besides the slot to the right, there are two buttons leveled with my chest. One is labeled: “Scan” and the other “Temporary”. I press the one marked with temporary and the slot closes up. A couple seconds later, the “Scan” button lights up. I press it gently and feel a slight tingle in the middle of my forehead. ‘I feel empty,’ makes itself heard. The slot shoots out a key card and I pick it up. What does that mean? I make my way towards the front gate and scan my key card. The light doesn’t flicker green. The security guard approaches me and asks me to come with them. He escorts me to the cubicle located at the left of the building, the same cubicle that he had escorted the other individual towards. Inside the cubicle, a thin woman waits for me. She has close cropped hair and an easygoing smile. ‘Hello!’ ‘Hello,’ I reply. ‘State your name, please.’ ‘Jason Blumm.’ ‘Blumm? Are you sure?’ ‘Yes, Mám.’ ‘Like the father, do you find that odd?’ ‘Why would I find it odd? It’s my name.’ ‘Hmm. I see here that your empathy scan registered a deficit. We will now go through reprocessing in order to fix that.’ ‘Reprocessing?’ ‘Yes. There will be a series of questions meant to identify your mental state. Could you please attach these sensors on each side of your head?’ Why did she find it odd when I mentioned my name? ‘Because you share the name of our nation’s father, Mr. Blumm.’ What the... she can read my mind. ‘Impulses are registered through the sensors I’ve given you and the AI translates those impulses into a basic query. For example, it shows that you’re questioning your identity at the moment. I can only assume this is regarding my earlier reaction to your name.’ ‘Fascinating.’ ‘Indeed, is this why you’ve been feeling empty, Mr. Blumm. Does sharing the name of our father exact a pressure upon your being?’ ‘I’m sorry, but what do you mean through: Father.’ ‘Jason Blumm, head of state and creator of the wellness doctrine over a century ago. You were heading towards the administration building, weren’t you?’ ‘I was.’ ‘What were you intending to do there, Mr. Blumm?’ ‘I don’t know. I didn’t know where else to go.’ ‘I see. And the building’s significance drew you in?’ ‘I guess. I work here, if that counts.’ ‘What do you do here, Mr. Blumm?’ ‘Senior party executive of the Futurist Party.’ ‘Hmm. I understand. Mr. Blumm do you know what year this is?’ ‘2031?’ ‘Aha, that explains it. Reprocessing is complete now, Mr. Blumm.’ ‘Is it?’ ‘Yes, you’ve got nothing to worry about. You’re most likely suffering from fatigue brought on by the pressure of your name. Like I said, there’s nothing to worry about. You have been reassigned as an archivist in the administrative building, starting tomorrow. Please take these pills and report back to the scanner tomorrow.’ ‘But...’ ‘Here’s your new access key. Now, Mr. Blumm, the pills, should take effect immediately. Do you need help getting home?’ ‘No. Thank you,’ and I hand her the sensors. She tucks them away and dismisses me with a smile. She is right. The pills kick in as soon as I leave the cubicle. My thoughts get muddied, but they don’t impede my judgment or motor skills. The light show is still playing in the center of the square. Its velvety appearance as soothing as before, yet not as enticing. I wait for the feeling to pass and follow the pathways towards my apartment. I feel overwhelmed. I spend the rest of my day caught in a sort of reverie. I feel the presence of this place and the rightness of it. Is this the future that I seek, its understanding, its safety? Why would I not?! Outside my window I see the flow of life as it grinds to a halt in the evening, flickers of light shooting up from everywhere around the city shortly after. Life knows a peace and tranquility here hard to understand. The lack of need, of want. Could this be the future I imagined? Could I be this blessed? I fall asleep cradling these dear thoughts in my mind, and they nurture my sleep. Next day, I show up at the receptacle outside the administration building. I insert the access key in its designated slot and press the “Scan” button. The tingle feels familiar now, and a crystalline voice welcomes me into its world. I am content. Are you?! No? Could’ve fooled me. Peace.

I began, at 7 AM, by placing the mirrors I bought on the dewy grass in front of our little yellow house, and stomping on each one with the heel of my boot, one after the other, trying each time to get a perfectly symmetrical spiderweb-shatter, failing worse with each attempt. 7:04 AM to 9 AM was spent picking mirror shards out of wet grass so that the neighbor kids didn’t step on them with their bare feet. I spent 9 AM to noon purchasing a black cat on Craigslist, bringing it home, then patting its bottom lightly with my hands, gently encouraging it to cross my path as many times as possible. It got fed up with me after about 40 path-crossings, so I gave it a little milk and let it rest in our bed. Then I went to our kitchen and dumped a few saltshakers out onto our floor, making sure not to throw any over my shoulder. I left the pile on the linoleum. I spent the afternoon with an A-frame ladder open in our living room, walking back and forth through its legs again and again, an opened umbrella in my hands, the waterproof fabric getting loudly pinched by the ladder every time I walked underneath. I did this for about three hours, following the same path, wearing deep grooves into the thick, cream-colored carpeting. I escalated from there, down in our unfinished basement with grey concrete walls and floor and foam soundproofing on the doors and windows. I had ordered quite a few religious symbols--crucifixes, statues of Jesus and Buddha and the saints, bibles, Qur’ans, copies of the Vedas, the Torah, everything sacred I could get my hands on--and on the evening of that day, around 6 PM, I loaded my (licensed) handgun, put on noise-cancelling headphones, and unloaded every round I owned into the holy texts and symbols of most major world cultures. I then took off my headphones, laid my weapon on the ground (safety on) and proceeded to jump up and down on the religious items with my aforementioned boots, then set fire to them with gasoline and a lighter. I watched to make sure the fire didn’t spread, spit on the ashes until I was certain my salivary glands were tapped out, then went upstairs, leaving the pile there. It was 8 PM. The sun was almost finished setting and the neighborhood dogs were barking to each other in their sweet, faux-aggressive way. The sound of crickets intermingled with soft voices, drifting in through our open windows from the neighbors’ front porch where they smoked Pall Malls and watched the sun’s slow downward retreat, the horizon turning a grey-purple. I finished my work of nailing the number 13 in place of our old house number (78) and went inside, making sure to leave our door unlocked. I noticed there was a raven sitting on our driveway and silently cheered. I went to our bed and checked on the cat, who was still fast asleep, then kneeled down, lifted up the sheet, and retrieved a baker’s dozen of identical boxes from underneath the bed. I brought the boxes to the living room, the stack teetering in my arms, then gently opened each one and set up their contents in a circle around me. The sun was down now, but I had not turned on any lights. I sat in my dark living room, the only light from the streetlights outside and the full moon, which shimmered over the horizon, perfectly placed so that from where I was sitting it looked like a beach ball, balancing on the chimney of the house across the street. It was 8:30 PM. I reached out and touched the planchette of the Ouija board directly in front of me, hoping the power of the other 12 in the circle would flow through it, and me. I felt the day’s bad luck, cursed actions, and general terrible vibes that I had so methodically gathered running through my veins. Confident in the evil and misfortune I had accrued, I reached deep into my diaphragm and began to speak the words that I had spoken, every night, at 8:30, for the past 391 days. “Hi, honey. If you’re out there--just know--I’ve been really awful today. I’ve broken mirrors, crossed paths with black cats, burned bibles, spit on the spirits--13 Ouija boards, I--I changed our house number--and... if anyone deserves to get haunted, it’s me. I would hate so much for you to come and throw around plates and appear in dark mirrors behind me and whisper evil things in my ear while I sleep and punish me for my transgressions against the spirit world--but I deserve it. I must be the most sacrilegious, evil person alive. I know how much you hated people who disrespect the religious, and how superstitious you were...” I waited. There was only silence. “I shot eight bibles today, hun. With a pistol. And I stomped on them.” Silence. I looked at the planchette in my hands and waited for it to move. Then I looked around at all the other Ouija boards, surrounding me, and looked for any tiny movement, anything. The silence only grew louder. “If you’re here, make a noise.” The icemaker in the kitchen gurgled a little. “Another. Please. I need to know it wasn’t just a fluke.” Silence came, this time pointed and thick, like she was doing it on purpose. “Please, baby--it’s a full moon tonight. I won’t be this unlucky for another month. Just haunt me. Please. Break something. Make the walls bleed. Make me bleed. Anything.” I closed my eyes as tight as they could go and kept my fingers distinctly uncrossed and thought about the number 13 and 17 and 39 and every culturally unlucky number I could think of, and I listened with everything in me for even the slightest noise in our little yellow house, and then I imagined Jesus being eaten by an anaconda, and then I slammed my fists on the Ouija board and begged for my wife to come back and haunt me in terms that are too pathetic to repeat here. Then I sat and listened to the silence for so long that I could hear my heart beating and the fluid circulating through my skull. I packed up all the Ouija boards without moving the planchette to ‘Goodbye’, slid them under my bed, and gave my new black cat a little kiss on the forehead. It was 9:30 PM. Slowly I lumbered into the computer room and sat down. For a split second I saw my reflection in the hazy black of my monitor. My eyes were worn and ragged, my beard patchy, my veins pronounced from the mental exertion of trying to will her ghost into existence. I focused on the gap behind me in my reflection, over my shoulder, hoping she would appear with black pointed teeth and red eyes and talons she would sink into my throat and use to drag me down to hell with her, or wherever she resided. Or maybe she would just walk in through the front door, somehow returned in perfect condition, and I could tell her about all my efforts to get her to haunt me through superstition and desecration for the past year since she passed, and she could laugh and laugh, and know deep in her heart that I loved her more than anything. Then my hand hit my mouse, the monitor flared to life, and the white light of the Amazon home screen obliterated my reflection and my thoughts. Slowly I moved the mouse, transferring my consciousness to my cursor. I forgot my body and my face and let autopilot take merciful control. It was 9:38 PM. I ordered mirrors, and salt, and ammunition, and religious artifacts, and bibles, and Quar’ans, and some cat food for next week. It wouldn’t be a full moon. I wouldn’t be as cursed. But I’d just have to try anyway.

This story alludes to the loss of a child. My father sits at the piano playing “Piano Sonata Number 14” by Beethoven. It’s a slow song, a heartbroken song for a heartbroken man. God seems to know what’s happening this morning as a light rain falls dutifully on the windows. It keeps a steady rhythm like a metronome. But the time my father played to a metronome is long gone. His long, angry fingers crash into the keys as thunder roars in the background. I stand, lingering in the doorway. His body sways and rocks, a man lost in the song. Lost in his own devastating grief, unaware of the child who needs him for arguably the first time in her whole life. Instead, he crashes into the keys. Louder and louder as the crescendo dictates. I see his right foot, shielded in a black loafer, gently pressing on the golden pedal. The notes linger in the air and I want to rush to him like we did in the summertime. When Mama plaited my brown hair in a long, mermaid’s tail down my back. He lifted me onto his lap and let me touch the most valuable item in our whole home. Mama, stood where I stand now, watching with a joy on her face that at the time seemed indescribable. Papa’s calloused fingertips dancing along my infantile ones as he taught me scales. His laughter filled the parlor room with love, joy. I could swim in that laughter. Now, I depart from my father’s grief, watching as the laughter was broken down into tears. I step into her sanctuary, her bathroom. Mama always said, “It takes more effort to frown than to smile, my love.” She’d pinch my dumpling cheeks and mumble something about wrinkles before turning to face the mirror. Her face was like a painting, stuck behind the glass. Her blue eyes sparkling as she applied rouge, a little mascara, and her signature red lip. My little fingers reached up to grab at the perfumes, delicately housed in crystal castles. She’d smile down at me, her little dumpling. Her long, elegant hands, nails perfectly polished in pastel pink for Easter, vivid red, white, and blue come July, burnt orange in the fall, and a deep green by Christmas, would grasp the castles and release a cloud of love into the air. “Choose your perfume wisely, my little dumpling,” she’d say. Sometimes, I would get to mock her. I’d crane my neck up high and dab some lilac essence onto my neck. The bottles stand haunted, untouched. My little fingers still reach for them. I pull and let out little sounds of frustration as my hand flaps on the counter. I successfully feel the hard tube of one and grab on tightly, pulling as I go. I don’t notice as it edges off the counter and I gasp as it falls. I have destroyed a crystal palace. Tears rush forward as I hear my father’s heavy footsteps crash up the stairs. He’s set me on my bed in a new, black dress. My little feet dangle off my bed. My father sits at the piano playing “Piano Sonata Number 14” by Beethoven. My first dress lies crumpled in the corner of my room and I tilt myself back onto my pink comforter. I can smell Mama as I do this. So I sit up and throw myself back again, inhaling her as I do. I can see her face, bright as she clutches one of my dolls. She’s waiting for me. She says, “Let’s take a walk,” so we do. Mama reaches out her fingers and I grasp at them with mine. We walk down the wooden steps. She holds me up so I can skip one every so often. We walk out the big, red door, out into the front garden. Mama smiles at the rose bushes, coming into bloom in the spring and summer. She shows me how to kneel down and smell each of them. Her pearl earring brushes my cheek. It’s cold and it sends me into giggles. Mama smiles back at me. We walk to the Big Tree, just a bit away from our garden. I tell her all about Tilly, my doll, and how she is a princess and so am I. “Right you are, my little dumpling, a princess for the red of your days,” her lips press into my forehead. They leave a red scar of love. I awake to the soft song of a violin. Violet must be here. I brush my curls back from my face and smooth my dress. Downstairs, a shaft of bright, afternoon sun cuts across the wooden floors. I am an international spy as I plop down and dangle my stocking covered feet off of the balcony. My hands grip the wooden banisters out of habit as I poke my face down and peer. I can see Papa, playing the piano. His broad shoulders sit straighter now. Violet is indeed there with her violin. Mama used to watch them play. She would sit back on her warm, leather chair, with me in her lap. When I was too small to silence myself, she’d shush me softly in my ear. I can feel her warm breath as it breathes comfort and safety into me. Her arms would wrap around my waist as the violin cried or laughed or stomped in anger. However, her belly grew too big to hold me in the chair. She told me she had swallowed a watermelon seed and that made Papa laugh, even as the song crescendoed into joy. Violet laughed, too as she took a break to bounce her bow off of Papa’s shoulders. “Our home shall always be filled with music, my dumpling,” promised Mama. But now, Violet does not stand tall with her violin. In fact, she sits in Mama’s chair. That does not sit right in my tummy. I stand and rush down the stairs. My stockings make the journey slick. Papa doesn’t look up from his work. Violet plays deep, long notes as Papa crashes along with her. I rush to Mama’s chair and tug at Violet’s dress. The music stops. I see tears in Violet’s green eyes. Papa doesn’t turn to me. His right pinky reaches out and lets loose a high pitched note. Violet begins playing from Mama’s chair. I tug on her black lace at the bottom of her dress. She stands. I take my seat in Mama’s chair. It feels warm. I decide to make Mama proud and keep myself quiet. I button my lips. But music is boring. And Papa’s shoulders seem to slump down low, low, low like the lowest branches of the Christmas tree which brush the tops of colorful bows and boxes. I unseat myself, my stocking covered toes scratching at the leather. I wander into the kitchen. Juliet is there. She stands with her broad back against the white counters. Wisps of red hair escape her bun. I march up to her and she lifts me onto the counter, an act of rebellion against my father. “Cookie?” I ask. She doesn’t correct my speech. I am handed a chocolate chip cookie and crumbs soon fill my dress. I offer a bite to Juliet who refuses. My brow furrows in confusion; Juliet always enjoys a bite of cookie with me. She isn’t wearing her blue dress with white apron today. Just a long, black one. Like Violet. Like me, I realize. The door opens. I hear some adult speech and reach for another cookie. My father sits at the piano playing “Piano Sonata Number 14” by Beethoven. Juliet slams a glass of cold milk beside me before returning to the counter. I swallow it in three gulps. She lifts me off of the counter. I return to Mama’s chair. Papa does not look up, his fingers slam back into the keys of the piano. I am bored. So I stand and try to clamber into Papa’s lap. He doesn’t permit me. His music does not stop wailing. I huff and stomp my foot. Juliet comes in and mumbles an apology. We sit in Mama’s chair together. Juliet does not feel like Mama. She’s not as soft and she doesn’t smell like perfume or roses. Her hands are rough and unpolished. Juliet does not wear any earrings. I turn so I can whisper in her ear, “When is Mama coming home with the baby?” Juliet pushes my head to her breast. I can smell a new scent on her. It’s clean. Frustration echoes in my heart as I demand the question once more, “When? When is Mama coming home?”

Vampire movies make me laugh. In the movies, we can’t see our reflections in the mirror, which is absurd. You can’t kill us by stabbing us through the heart with a wooden stake. You can only kill a half-breed vampire with a wooden stake. My favorite myth is we burn up in the daylight. Why do they put these myths in movies? Oh, I’m sorry for not introducing myself. My name is Nina Vegas and I’m a vampire. I just moved into a lovely neighborhood with my husband and son. We purchased a nice four-bedroom home that has a glorious backyard pool. It’s sunny here all the time, and it’s perfect beach weather. I’m a financial adviser and my job pays well, but I have a second job that pays me another six-figure salary. I would say that my second job is morbid. It involves visiting funeral homes. I bought a new home in a suburban neighborhood that has plenty of funeral homes in the surrounding area. Sometimes funeral directors pay me to visit at night. Most of the time a loved one pays me to resurrect a family member. I can come out in the day, but I let people believe the myth that vampires can only roam the streets at night. You would never guess I was a vampire by looking at me. I look like a CoverGirl. I’ve had funeral director men flirt with me, and I have to tell them I’m a married woman. They see my curvy body, my scantily clad dresses, and my expensive jewelry. I’ve been told that I look like a runway model, which flattered me. Sometimes I wear a dark veil over my face whenever I visit a funeral home. I wear the veil to protect my identity and my family. There are people out there who want to kill me. I have a 4-year-old son and I don’t want to put my baby’s life in danger. We, vampires, are not completely immortal. We can still burn up in a fire. I’ve caused some funeral directors to lose their job and they’ve hired hitmen to come after me. I get paid mostly by the bereaved. A mother who lost her baby would gladly pay for the resurrection of her child, instead of a funeral director, since funeral directors make their business off the dead. If you resurrect too many people, you put a lot of funeral homes out of business. I’m not the only vampire who gets paid to resurrect the dead. There are other men and women vampires out there who resurrect the dead so they can flash their cash. It’s a great way to make extra money, but you gotta watch your back. Some vampires don’t just use their gifts to resurrect the dead. They also use their gifts to heal the living. An ounce of vampire blood can cure any disease. Doctors know this, yet they keep it a secret from the public because they don’t want to lose their job to an immortal. I’ve heard of vampires mysteriously dying after getting hired to do a few jobs at hospitals. Healthcare companies would lose money if they allowed every vampire to donate their blood to the sick. There would be no need for Medicare. Everyone would be immortal and free of disease, but the good old government won’t allow that. The government has investments in healthcare companies. They want people to stay sick so their investments can thrive. I know what it’s like to be paranoid. I’ve fought people sent to kill me. That’s why I’m always moving my family to a new area. You can’t be a healer or a resurrectionist vampire and live in the same neighborhood for a long period. Eventually, a paid reaper will come after you. I had to realize that concealing your identity can’t always save you from an assassin sent by an angry unemployed doctor or a mortician. A month ago, a man tried to shoot me while I was in my car. The bullet went through my windshield and it grazed my left ear, shattering my earring. My baby was sitting in his car seat right behind me and the bullet struck the headrest an inch above his head. I was taking my son to daycare when this happened. All I saw was a man on a motorcycle and the nozzle of a semi-automatic pistol aimed at my face. Only one bullet went through my windshield and I didn’t give this asshole a second chance to shoot into my car. I rammed my car right into his motorcycle. I drive an Escalade, which is an enormous SUV. So when I drove over his body, my tires squashed him. I heard his bones snapping beneath my car. I drove away after I saw that his body was flatter than the road. Later on, I found the funeral director who sent the hired gun. I executed him in his home. His wife was at work, so she stayed alive. Before I killed the funeral director, I made him apologize for sending a hitman to kill me. I forced him to get down on his knees. You should’ve seen the look on his face when I showed up at his house. He kept asking how I knew and I wouldn’t tell him. Vampires have a sixth sense. This guy didn’t know that because he was stupid. I made him pay for his ignorance. He died in his living room wearing nothing but his fucking underwear. I had no mercy on him, because the hitman he paid to shoot me, almost killed my child! I tortured him by biting off his fingers one by one. And then I sunk my fangs into his throat, putting a hole in his windpipe. I ripped out his throat, and I chewed on it. He had time to see my face before he died. Sadly, I’ve killed other funeral directors and the hitmen they paid to wipe me out. I killed a man who was twice my size. He thought he could surprise me by sneaking up behind me in a parking garage. I felt a needle pierce the side of my neck and I knew it was a tranquilizer. My body went numb, but only for a minute or two. When my attacker whirled me around, I saw that he had a black bandana covering his nose and mouth. He had a skullcap, and he wore a gray tank top. His arms were the size of boulders. Wow, you’re beautiful. It’s a shame that my boss wants you dead. This is what he whispered in my ear while pushing me against my car with his hand up my skirt. I told you the tranquilizer lasted for a minute. Sedatives do not affect a vampire. He made his mistake when he leaned his ear next to my lips, thinking I was trying to say something. I chewed off his ear and I spit it in his face. After I did that, I sunk my fangs into his nose. First, I ripped out his nose ring with my teeth and then I gnawed on his nostrils. I swallowed his nose, and it had a slight saltiness to it. He begged for his life, but I told him to stop talking. He didn’t, so I stretched his mouth open and I used my fangs to tear out his tongue. I dug my long nails into his throat and I lifted him off his feet. Yeah, he was a big guy, but a 6 foot 4, 240-pound man is no match for a vampire woman. I watched the life in his eyes disintegrate after I crushed his throat with my bare hand. A funny thing happened. My husband called me after I killed my attacker. We were discussing our anniversary plans. I kicked the hitman’s body away from my car and I got in, driving away while still talking to my husband. It was so nice to hear his voice. Later that day, I killed the funeral director who sent the hitman. It was a 42-year-old soccer mom and I hated killing her. I know you think my life sounds like the typical Hollywood vampire thriller. Let me tell you something, sweetheart, nothing is thrilling about paid hitmen coming after you and your family. This is my reality and I hate looking over my shoulder every time I'm out in public with my husband and son. I thought about purchasing a gun, but vampires don’t use guns. It's a dishonor to our ancestors. The only upside in my life is resurrecting dead loved ones. It’s not about the money. It’s about making people happy during death. Last week I went to a funeral home to resurrect a woman’s son who the police wrongly killed. The mother was African-American and I could see all the pain in her beautiful face. I understood how she felt because I’m a black mother myself. Well, I’m half black and half Latino. I knew how this woman felt because I almost lost my son. She told me that the cops shot her son when he reached for his phone in his back pocket. These idiots thought he was reaching for a gun. He was 17 years old and scared for his life. The police stopped him because he fit the description of a suspect. He wasn’t the suspect they were looking for, but instead of letting him go; they told him to get out of his car. He panicked when one officer tried to put handcuffs on him. The mother told me he reached for his phone to call her, and that’s when one cop shot him in the back. She wanted to know why God let a group of racist cops kill her only baby. The only thing I could tell her was that God sent me to bring her baby back to life. On this resurrection job, I told the mother to keep her money. I walked into a refrigerated room where I saw her son’s body lying on a table, dressed in a dark men's suit. I closed the room's door and locked it. When I saw the woman’s son, he was so handsome and young. I stroked my fingers through his short, curly hair while leaning over his face. I kissed his forehead, and I took a deep breath before sinking my teeth into the side of his neck. He had a beautiful lion tattoo on the side of his neck and I hated messing it up. If you bite a person longer than twenty seconds, you’ll turn them into a vampire and I didn’t want to do that. So I had to time myself. I reached into my purse to get my phone, and I set the timer on my phone to fifteen seconds. I gave myself enough time to resurrect him but not transform him. I do this with every human I resurrect. It’s euphoric for me when I feel a cold body turn warm. It’s like reviving a dead rose. I smiled at the young man when he opened his eyes and looked up at me. The sunlight coming in through the window made his eyes look like hazel colored diamonds. He had gorgeous eyes. He asked me who I was, and I told him that I worked for his mom. I took him by the hand and I watched him stand up. He was tall and slender. I told him how handsome he looked and he told me I was beautiful like the singer, Rihanna. That made me giggle. The best moment was taking him to his mother and watching her throw her arms around him. She cried so hard while kissing his face. She thanked me for what I did and she tried to pay me, but I refused to take her money. I messed up that day because I wasn't wearing my black veil, but I didn’t care. The funeral director was an elderly white woman who had a German accent. She had her silver hair tied up into a bun and she had a pinched up mouth. She rolled her eyes at me from behind these ancient-looking eyeglasses. She called me a freak under her breath and I gave her the finger before turning my back on her and walking out of the funeral home. I knew she’d send a hitman after me, but I didn’t give a damn. After I resurrected a young woman who died from leukemia, I packed up, moving my husband and son out of the neighborhood. We moved to a quiet little town in West Virginia. A few days ago, I went to a funeral home to resurrect a guy named Frankie Venza. That resurrection job didn’t go too well. I found out that Frankie was a gangster who had a lot of innocent blood on his hands. He had three sons, and they wanted me to resurrect him, but I refused. They offered to pay me 10 million dollars, and I still turned them down. All three of them pulled out their guns, and they aimed them at my face. They told me that if I didn’t resurrect their father; they would load my pretty face up with bullets. I never gave them a chance to pull the triggers on their guns. I was a small woman surrounded by three strong, armed men in black suits. These boys didn’t know who they were dealing with. I devoured them. Bullets tore through my body, but my vampirism gave me regenerative healing. I felt like I was killing the Backstreet Boys. All three of them looked like they belonged in a 90s hip-hop boy band. One boy wore a backward cap, and it amazingly stayed on his pretty little stupid head when I sliced it off using my fingernails. Blood soaked his black turtleneck and his suit jacket. To my surprise, I found out that these boys were human-vampire hybrids. One of them bit my shoulder and I saw he had 24 karat gold plated fangs, which matched the gold bling around his neck. Amazingly, I kept my cool when I saw their father rise from his casket, pulling a small-caliber machine gun from beneath his suit jacket. I realized that all of them were hitmen. It didn’t take me long to annihilate Frankie’s three boys. I wore their blood on my face and dress. There was nothing like executing three young men in their prime who were all part vampire. My hardest moment came when I had to kill their fat ass father. He looked like a Mafia Godfather. He had slick back white hair that touched his shoulders. His suit was impeccable, and he had diamond rings on each finger. I stood my ground when he started shooting at me. Bullets kissed my face and my neck. They ripped through my breasts. I could feel their steel jacketed tips piercing through my liver and my other internal organs. I played dead after Frankie emptied his clip on me. He had no more bullets in his machine gun and I knew his ass was mine. I had the advantage because I was one hundred percent vampire while he was a half-breed. Half-breeds are much more vulnerable. I kept my eyes closed, remaining perfectly still while lying on the floor. Frankie lumbered over to me and he walked with a limp. He kneeled over me and had the nerve to put his hard, truck-size hands on my breasts. I let him grope my boobs for a minute and then I bolted up, sinking my teeth into his double chin. The blubber in his neck impeded my teeth a little, but I finally reached an artery after three, agonizingly long minutes. He tried to sling me around the room, but I didn't let go. He punched me a few times in my ribcage, but I still wouldn’t let go. I wrapped my legs around his fat body and I dug my high heel sandals into his lower back. I had my arms locked around his neck with my fangs buried in his throat. I forced him to carry me in his arms like a little girl as I drained every ounce of blood from his body. It seemed like it took forever to suck him dry. He finally fell to his knees. I had a 300-pound gangster lying on top of me. It took all my strength to push his body off my chest. I was in an abandoned funeral home, so there was no director. It was just Frankie and his three sons. Somebody paid them to assassinate me. My sixth sense told me it was an old German woman, and I was gonna kill this stupid bitch. While I was lying on the floor gathering my breath, I thought about how I resurrected a woman’s 3-year-old daughter. Thinking about this relaxed me. I thought about how adorable the woman’s baby was. The baby had on a wig because her chemotherapy treatments caused her hair to fall out. She looked so pretty in her little black floral dress. Her name was Keisha. Keisha's mom almost fainted when I came out of the room holding her daughter. The baby’s hair grew back after I resurrected her. She had beautiful, gold curly locks. I could tell she was half white and half African-American. I stood there watching the mother hold her daughter while crying and thanking God that she was alive again. She thanked me and kissed me. I was still lying on the floor beside a 300-pound dead body when my husband called me. I told him the plans I had for our son’s birthday party next week. I also told my husband what happened to me at the funeral home, and that it was time to move to a new neighborhood.

Silence is deadly. Asmund puffed his smoking pipe as he marched through the snowbound forest, his eyes darting to and fro as they scanned the pristine taiga around him. Several men had gone missing in these parts several days ago - a normal facet of life here in the monster-infested Northern Province, but because they were members of the Ecclesiarchy he was ‘volunteered’ to find the clergymen. Or what was left of them at least, as his friends at the tavern had jested. The chirping symphony of birds danced across the frigid winter air as Asmund trekked onwards, mulling over what manner of beast might have done the priests in. Perhaps a particularly large Snowsnapper, tunneling beneath the snow with its serpentine body and striking from below with a powerful pair of extending jaws? Or maybe an imposing Northpaw did them in? Those urcine wolverines were preparing for hibernation around this time of year, and a group of lost priests from out-of-town would have been quite the preparatory feast. Asmund stopped for a minute to stuff more dried smokeleaf into his pipe, taking note of the slowly lowering sun barely peeking out from between the trees. He’d have to set up camp soon, get a fire going. Smoke repelled all manner of awful night terrors, but even then he wouldn’t sleep easy. Not here. Small beasts don’t make carriages go missing, after all. After a solid half-hour of making sure the local area was devoid of tree-dwelling Pine Vipers, Asmund decided on a small clearing that offered him a solid twenty feet of open space in most directions. It was the best he had found so far, and he wasn’t going to find a better location before the creatures of the night began prowling about. The chirping of insects buzzed just beyond the treeline, a comforting ambience alongside the crackling of firewood. Asmund sat next to the fire, pouring a little water and scooping some snow into a small metal pot and hanging it over the flames. Fishing around amongst the many pockets adorning his winter coat, the hunter retrieved a rune-marked thermal stone and set it down beside him. Reaching down into his collar, Asmund pulled out a shimmering blue crystal connected to a chain necklace via metal wiring. Tapping the thermal stone with the glowing crystal, Asmund watched as magic flowed into the etched runes and filled the rock with purpose. Returning the crystal to its place around his neck, Asmund picked up the now-humming thermal stone and felt a wave of heat wash across his hands. Although his was rather rudimentary, the otherworldly energy of a glimmerkey was important for those who couldn’t manipulate mana by themselves. Like himself. Asmund watched the embers drift upwards, wafting above the looming pine trees and disappearing into the pristine night sky. This place had a haunting beauty to it, marvelous at a distance but teeming with death up close. A log split open, sending a host of embers flying out and renewing the crackles of the flame. Asmund jumped, caught off guard by the sudden noise. Shaking his head, the hunter grumbled to himself. It had been practically deafening in the silence of the night that had settled in. His hand hovered over the thermal stone he had dropped when the realization hit him. It was quiet. No insects chirping, no birds hooting. Nothing. Pure, unadulterated silence. And silence is deadly. Asmund gulped, his eyes shifting around the treeline to see what had caused the forest to fall so silent. His hands shifted as well, reaching to the rifle laying at his side with an expedient yet gentle grasp. It was a rugged implement, the furniture crafted from the same stern wood that surrounded him. But whereas a mage had a wand and a priest had a staff, he had this. It lacked the theatrical finesse of those more natural magical implements, breech-loading and then firing pre-packaged spells wrapped in enchanted paper as opposed to simply channeling raw mana, but it got the job done and packed quite a punch. Aethercasters like the one he was loading were notoriously expensive - Asmund only had his as a souvenir from his time in the military - but their effectiveness was what allowed him to hunt the otherworldly beasts like the one skulking around the edges of his camp. Asmund’s heart began to pick up its pace, and the hunter sprung up to a kneel as he looked about with an increasing unease. Flicking the lever around the rifle’s trigger forward, Asmund reached a hand into the hardleather pouch on his waist containing the spellfire charges and slid one of the paper packages into the open breech as a small cloud left his lips. The lever slid back and the breech closed, a satisfying metal click telling him it was ready to cast. Each thumping heartbeat, each bated breath, each snow-crunching step - all were deafening in the silence of the forest. Asmund turned around once more, and his figure froze as he finally saw what it was that had drawn so near to him. A great white stag was standing at the edge of the clearing, a pair of large and ornately-curling antlers hanging above its head. Asmund tightened his grip on the caster, an icy dread seizing the back of his neck. The animal stood several heads above him, larger than any other stag he’d seen. Its thick white fur was matted in places and stained in others, and a set of strong pillar-like legs supported its massive frame. But what made Asmund the most uneasy were its eyes. They were human. And they were staring back at him. The two stood there, flame-licked shadows dancing around them as they looked at one another. Asmund’s finger inched towards the trigger, his breaths slow and anxious. The beast watched, unblinking and unmoving save for the occassional snorting from its nostrils. If he pulled the trigger, in an instant the glimmercrystal in the rifle would slide forward and tap the spellfire cartridge, bringing it to life and sending a burst of arcane hatred flashing out of the barrel. But he only had one shot. And at this distance, it’d be his only shot. The stag’s gaze shifted ever so slightly, as if sizing up the hunter standing in the clearing. Asmund shouldered the rifle and leaned forward, preparing to raise the caster to bear if the beast decided to step out beyond the treeline. No words were exchanged between them, a tensely quiet conversation not breaking the tense silence of the night. A hoof raised somewhat, ploughing the snow-covered dirt beneath it. The campfire continued its crackling, unperturbed by the standoff occuring only several feet away. The snow was steaming now, slowly sinking into a rising tide of freshwater bubbling with excitement. With a loud and final huff, the stag turned its head and vanished back into the darkness of the trees. Asmund let out a huff as well, lowering his rifle and taking several deep breaths as the adrenaline stopped pumping through his veins. Looking around, Asmund kept the caster in one hand he wiped several beads of sweat from his forehead. Slowly, the sounds of life trickled back into the air as the night progressed, heralding the departure of his midnight visitor. Whatever it was. Asmund sat by the fire, gnawing on a jerky stick as he ruminesced about the encounter. He hadn’t seen such a creature before - was it responsible for the missing clergymen? Asmund shook his head. The carriage was a much larger target with several more people than just him on his lonesome - if the stag had killed them it could have easily killed him . But it didn’t. And those eyes ... Asmund felt a shiver run up his spine. Whatever that thing was, he hoped he wouldn’t have to see it again. He’d have to ask the guys about it back at the tavern - with such a uniquely dreadful description, he’d either get answers or volunteers for a hunting party. Maybe both. Nonetheless, though, he couldn’t return with nothing but chatter about strange beasts in a forest full of strange beasts. He had a reputation to uphold, and nothing less than concrete answers would do. When the morning came, he’d set out all the same and search for the missing clergymen until he had something to bring back. Reaching into his winter coat once more, Asmund procured a small pouch containing a handful of coffee beans and popped several into his mouth. He wasn’t going to be sleeping tonight. Not that he had been feeling particularly tired, anyways. Asmund had been dozing off when the sing-song symphony of morning birds roused him from his half-slumber. The fire had gone out some time ago, but Asmund spent little time worrying about how long he had been exposed as he covered the ashes and pocketed the thermal stone. Taking several gulps from the steaming water, Asmund spent several minutes packing up before resuming his journey. There was a large lake not too far away from where he was that had several rivers and streams feeding into it, with the lake itself flowing into a waterfall that continued downhill. That was where he was going. The crunching sound of boots on snow filled the air as Asmund strolled through the forest, one hand resting on the strap suspending his aethercaster from his shoulder. Puffing his smoke pipe, Asmund watched a pair of four-winged snowdoves twirl about overhead before flapping off deeper into the forest. Those birds were quite tasty when cooked, the hunter thought to himself. Especially when they were mixed in with some garlic, rosemary, thyme, a sprinkle of sage... His stomach rumbled loudly in protest, reminding Asmund of how long it’d been since he had had a proper home-cooked meal. He’d been out here for the better part of a week; and although the rations he’d brought with him weren’t bad, they weren’t good either. Most of the big game was gone too, so he hadn’t been able to bag any big helpings of meat like venison. The only large animal he’d encountered, Asmund thought to himself, had been the large stag last night. Other than that, the forest was oddly deserted wherever he went - not even a cursory glance at some unsuspecting wildlife. The rumbling quacks of rusty bluebills signaled that he was almost to the lake, and Asmund welcomed the idea of seeing a flock of the little feathered dragonfowl swimming about. Following the sounds, they grew louder and eventually became accompanied by the sounds of splashing water and flapping wings. But before he broke the treeline and made his way to the bank, a loud crash rung out as something big broke the surface of the water, causing an uproar of quacks and flaps that eventually fell silent. Silence is deadly. Whipping the caster off of his shoulder, Asmund held the rifle at the ready as he stepped out into the open bank bordering the lake. It was a gradual, snowy slope ending in a conglomerate of weeds and reeds and other coastal plants that broke up the waves before they hit the soil. It was a beautiful sight, really - a lake several miles in circumference framed by picturesque evergreens and standing at the foot of distant snow-capped mountain ranges. But the only thing he heard was the gentle lapping of the waves and the gentle roar of the waterfall halfway across the water. Asmund scanned the treeline, wondering if some beast had jumped in after the bluebills, but saw nothing. He puffed his pipe, uneasy at the fact that it was so quiet. Lowering the caster, Asmund took a minute to pop some more coffee beans in his mouth before his gaze meandered back up towards the lakefront where a small modicum of commotion seized his attention. A bluebill was sitting among the reeds, bobbing up and down with the water, pecking intently at something. The creature’s uncaring disregard for what had caused the noise relaxed Asmund somewhat, and he walked over to the dragonfowl to see what it was pecking at. The sight of a severed forearm was not what he was expecting. The flesh was in some degree of decay, largely fought off by the sheer cold of the climate. Asmund puffed his pipe, the sense of calm retreating to the back of his mind. There was a torn and tattered sleeve around the forearm, whose elaborate trim and symbolic eye embroidery identified it as belonging to the robes of a clergyman. Or belonged to, actually. Asmund came to a stop at the edge of the water, watching the bluebill peck and tear at the arm. The limb’s hand, clad in black leather gloves, was holding a chained and ancient-looking medallion in a tight death-grip. He was tempted to reach for it, but he knew better than to get between a bluebill and its food. Fortunately, he had something in his packs that bluebills loved: blue-banana nut bread. The iconically-colored loaf was a provincial staple, made using the hardy and nutrient-dense Musa-Cenizo banana. Unwrapping what was left of the loaf he had brought, Asmund ripped off a chunk and tossed it several feet to the bluebill’s left. The dragonfowl took a moment to turn its blood-stained beak towards the disturbance before splashing over to the floating chunks with a surprising speed. Asmund took the moment to use the butt of his rifle and nudge the frostbitten limb within arm’s reach. Setting the loaf down beside him, Asmund pried open the frozen hand and hung the odd medallion around his neck. He had his evidence. Time to head back home. Asmund slung his caster over his shoulder and picked up the arm, wondering where he was going to store the limb as his eyes analyzed the damage. Near the end of the arm, where it would have connected to the elbow, the sleeve was pinned to the limb by a large white tooth. Pulling it out as the bluebill hopped up onto the bank and zipped towards the unguarded loaf, Asmund realized why it had gone so quiet. This was the tooth of an ursinus orca . A Black Pilgrim. Twenty-foot long, several-thousand-pound amphibious sea bears that lived in groups called congregations and made annual pilgrimages across the continent to terrorize new feeding grounds. Possessing a striking black and white coloration, four powerful, clawed limbs, a jutting spike of a dorsal fin, and a large tail, Black Pilgrims were a nigh-unstoppable natural disaster to everything they came across. Like the carriage. Asmund looked out towards the lake as the bluebill waddled up to him expectantly, a cold sweat running down the hunter’s back. A loud huff startled Asmund, causing him to drop the arm in surprise and frantically shoulder his rifle. The stag from last night stood at the treeline, staring at him with its unnerving gaze. Asmund pocketed the tooth, staring back at the stag. It blinked, huffing out another cloud of vapor and gesturing its head towards the lake before quickly turning around and galloping off. Asmund turned his head towards the lake. A tall, black fin was rising out of the water. And then another. And another. Heading straight for him. A shocked “ Oh, ” was all Asmund could muster before the bluebill’s expectant quacking snapped him out of his daze. Taking several hurried steps backwards as the fins gained speed, Asmund practically threw himself up the bank and broke into a desperate sprint through the forest. Behind him, the trumpet-call of blowholes sounded off accompanied by the noise of large beasts charging up from the depths. Their footfalls were fast and heavy, their jaws open and their breaths hungry. Asmund didn’t look back. A tree cried out as it was forced aside, and the shrill hunting calls of the Pilgrims haunted his ears as he ran, the monstrous creatures shouting to one another as they pursued their quarry. His head start was small at best, and the Pilgrims were much faster than he could ever hope to be. Asmund ran nonetheless, hoping to come up with some last-minute plan with the few extra seconds he had. And then he came into a clearing. Unslinging his rifle, Asmund got it to his shoulder just as the first Pilgrim ran into view, leaping out from the treeline like an instrument of divine judgement. Asmund pulled the trigger on his caster, sending the glimmercrystal in the rifle’s mechanism flying forth into the rune-laden paper wrapping of the spellfire cartridge. In an instant, bouts of arcane energy came crackling out of the barrel as an imposing fireball burst into existence. The flaming orb surged forth, colliding with the Pilgrim and causing it to come to a halt with a shrill shriek of pain. Hurriedly sliding in another cartridge, Asmund brought his rifle back up as a pair of Pilgrims came into view on either side of the burned one. The three beasts looked at Asmund with a hesitant hunger, primal gears turning in their head. The burned one stared at him, seared flesh marring the right half of its face. Several minutes passed before the Pilgrims called to one another, slowly taking several steps back. Asmund exhaled, taking a step back himself as a set of thundering footsteps to his left announced the presence of a fourth Pilgrim bounding up on his flank. Asmund barely had time to aim his rifle at the gaping maw of the predator before it was slammed to the side by the great white stag. Their attack routed, the Pilgrims retreated back into the forest with the rest of its congregation, leaving just the hunter and the stag alone in the clearing. Its eyes glanced down towards the medallion before looking back at him. The guys at the tavern weren’t going to believe this.

With a loud clunk, the last light was extinguished and the room blackened. I waited for the clicking of the librarian’s heels to fade before I risked emerging from my hiding place in the rarely visited encyclopedia section of the library basement. The dust bunnies under the shelves were as large as my hand and also my only companions for the last two hours I had spent waiting for the library to close. The dank, musty smell was clinging to my clothes. My excitement matched my anxiety as I was never one to break the rules, and staying here after closing time was regrettably one of the most rebellious things I had ever done in my twenty-six years. My adventure was about to begin, and how challenging could it be? What, you might ask, would prompt me to be here in a cold, dark, dusty library instead of home in my own comfortable room full of my books, comfy pillows and my two orange tabbies, Watson and Holmes? As it turns out, I accepted a dare from a mischievous octogenarian named Abigail in a game of Truth or Dare. Scoring an apartment amidst the residents at the town’s senior living community had its ups and downs. Employed as the Activities Director, I spent many a night among the senior residents coordinating and participating in various games and projects, which could be equal parts entertaining and frustrating. Historically, I am much more of a Truth person in the Truth or Dare realm. I have very little to hide, being quite strait-laced all my life. My elderly neighbors have had many laughs at my expense, as they seemed to all have led pretty scandalous lives based upon their “truths”! They each now generally chose “Dare” in the game, as they had few secrets left from each other. Some of the dares, such as who can fling his dentures the furthest, held little appeal. Nonetheless, I had one wine cooler too many the night in question, and decided to throw caution to the wind. Abigail, my favorite at the senior center, had long been wanting to shake up my life, so jumped at the chance to assign my fate- “You will spend the night in the Eastbrook library basement!” she declared. Abigail, a retired guide for the Eastbrook ghost tour, always believed the library to be the most haunted site in the town. She maintained that her own decades-deceased Aunt Edna, the first librarian in Eastbrook, traveled its halls to this day looking for mis-shelved books and shushing loud patrons. Not being one to worry about ghosts, and having fantasized about being uninterrupted and surrounded with thousands of books at my disposal, I decided that this would be a good chance to prove to them that I wasn’t just a stick-in-the-mud. I also believed that I would enjoy a night when I didn’t have to wear headphones to drown out the Bingo caller. This felt like a win-win situation for me. Now however, being in the dark, quiet, and unnaturally chilly basement, I was rethinking my decision. Ghosts aren’t real, I was sure, and how bad could one night be? I had my handy flashlight and sleeping bag hidden in the back of the stacks, and I readied myself to hunker down for the night. As I spread out my quilt, I was startled by a noise that sliced through the silence. A loud thud followed by a barrage of clops and bangs came from upstairs. It sounded like a horse was galloping through the fiction section! My knack for keeping calm in a crisis kicked in as my brain sought to imagine a reasonable explanation for this development. After all, I had never been in the library at night. Maybe the furnace was really loud or maybe workers were cleaning (the absence of light did make this less likely). I was torn between cowering in my corner and investigating the unexpected sounds, when the noises ceased and a creepy silence once again overtook the building. A small shiver worried up my spine as I slowly crept up the creaky library stairs, the need to investigate winning out. The building was inky black, and my small flashlight did little to illuminate the large space. As I inched along the library wall, feeling cobwebs brushing against my cheek, my foot kicked something hard on the floor. A small book, Things that Go Bump in the Night lay at my feet. Admittedly a little nervous, and with my blood pounding in my ears, I shone my flashlight around me. All I could see from the fine beam was an empty hall and imposing book-lined shelves. I listened for sounds of life, but there were only stillness and my own rapid breaths. Did I imagine the noises? My senses were on high alert and I wanted to stay hidden until I could investigate further. From behind me, though, another thud made me jump, and another book landed near my feet. The offending noises were starting again now as books were leaping from the shelves onto the floor in front of me. I spun my flashlight, desperately trying to see what was causing this, but saw nothing but what appeared to be the books alone, launching themselves off the shelves. I was torn between the desire to run for my life and the overwhelming urge to reorganize the messy, unshelved titles strewn on the floor. The Shining grazing my forehead in its rapid descent hurried my decision and I spun around to escape the attack. In my haste, I dropped my flashlight and heard the battery fling across the floor as it crashed down. The room again was draped in black and now I was surrounded in the darkness by a cacophony of books sliding from the shelves and dive bombing the ground. I felt the hard covers scratching my ankles as I ran from the section. I dove under the nearest desk as more books launched themselves at my head. I heard screaming which I realized was coming from me and the thuds were joined by a loud whoosh as a strong breeze began to blow my hair. It sounded like “Shoooooooooosssshhhh” as it rang past my ears. I tried to make out where the door was so I could escape this nightmare but I was unsure of where I was in the darkness. The books continued to hit the desk, leaving what I imagined to be brick sized divots in the ancient wood. The thought of Aunt Edna seemed like less of a joke now and I scrambled to figure out what I might have done to prompt a ghost’s wrath? I had kept to myself while I waited for closing time, and I had passed time by thumbing through some encyclopedias. Had I accidentally left one open, or, worse, put it back in the wrong place? Convinced that this must be it, I resolved to brave the book attacks to try to right my wrong. I grabbed the desk blotter to use as a shield, and plunged myself back into the tornado of flying books. I made my way to the stairs again and threw myself down them, trying to get back to the encyclopedia section. I did hesitate when I imagined those tomes coming at me, but all still seemed quiet in the basement. It was harder to examine the area as I was without a light, but remembered my cellphone in my pocket. I shone the phone light where I had been hiding and discovered that the S volume was left open to Supernatural Events and was set away from its shelf mates. I quickly slammed the book closed and re shelved it properly, just as the surrounding volumes were beginning to tremble. I braced myself for the onslaught, but the hurricane stopped as quickly as it had started. I was afraid to open my eyes for a time and remained crouched in the corner in the fetal position for what seemed like hours. No more loud thuds were heard, and the whistling wind quieted. I thought I heard some quiet scraping from above, but the air was calm in the basement. The hours passed as I sat frozen in place, not daring to open my eyes or move, for fear of angering Aunt Edna any further. Had this been a bad dream? Was I going crazy? Did the ghost of Abigail’s aunt try to kill me for improperly reshelving an encyclopedia? I didn’t move until I was startled by the lights popping on. Not wanting to be found in this state, I unfolded myself from the floor and gathered my belongings. Inexplicably, my now intact flashlight was resting on my sleeping bag. I waited until I heard more activity from upstairs, expecting there to be shouts of horror at what the main floor of the library likely looked like. When these did not manifest, I crept upstairs, intending to mix in with the other patrons. I stopped dead in my tracks at the top of the stairs. The library was in pristine condition. All books appeared to be in proper order on their respective shelves. The desk where I sheltered from the book attack appeared unscathed. Not wanting to tempt fate any further, I quickly exited the building and hurried home. Met at the door by a group of curious senior citizens, I knew I could not escape to my room without filling them in on my night at the library. “How was it?” Abigail asked. “Did you see my aunt?” “It was fine, Abigail. I had a nice, quiet evening reading myself to sleep. It is amazing how relaxing it was,” I lied. Abigail and the others looked disappointed, but satisfied that I accomplished my dare. They exchanged money among the 5 of them, apparently having bet on me reneging on my side of the deal. Maybe now they would leave me alone when I chose Truth in the next game. As the hours ticked by at home, I started to believe that maybe it had all been a bad dream. I started to question my sanity and struggled to come up with a reasonable explanation for what I witnessed. Ghosts aren’t real, and books don’t dive bomb your head, I told myself. I got up and glanced at my reflection in the mirror. Surely the blossoming bruise on my forehead was from me running into something and not from some book ambush? A bit reluctant to turn off my lights and go to sleep, I lay awake that night. Just as I shut my eyes, my door shook in its frame as something struck it loudly. With an inward groan and a rush of adrenaline, I tiptoed to the door and peeked out. On the ground was a copy of Casper the Friendly Ghost. As I leapt over the book and took off down the hall with a shriek, I could barely make out the snickers of the seniors from around the corner and could almost swear out of the corner of my eye that they each held a book in their hands.

I was working in my shop as a Chemist when a woman walked in with a gun and shot me. My bulletproof lab coat deflected the six.44 Magnum shots, but it still felt like getting pummeled. Bullets ricocheted, breaking beakers, vials, and other glassware. I winced, verified my body was not Swiss cheese with a glance, then gawked at my assailant. She was young, maybe in her twenties which meant she was born into the apocalypse. She wore a black tank top with black polymer pants and a clear visor with a digital display over her eyes. I heard the gun’s hammer striking the empty chamber with a click, click, click that seemed like punctuations to the woman’s screaming. Since I deal with these assassination attempts at least twice a week, I recognized her as a novice, not a Scientist like me. “Die, World-ender!” the woman shouted, then threw the empty gun at my head. “Hey!” I shouted and ducked as the handgun flew past me. She then ran at me with a knife. I guess I wouldn’t be making any sales today after all. I extended my hand, palm up, toward the woman and said, “ Aeris .” The oxygen and nitrogen gas molecules in the air were beckoned by my will to concentrate and expand in an instance. The shop's interior shook as a wind flowed from my hand with hurricane force. Vials and bottles rattled, a few more breaking on the concrete floor. Tables pushed to the sides of the room from the gale. The charging woman covered her face with her arm as debris and dust whirled in a vortex around her. The wind’s force stopped her charge by pelting her with billions and billions of molecules. She strained to push toward me, but her foot slipped and fell to the floor. She tumbled as the wind pushed her to the shop’s exit, but she held onto the door frame. “I’ll stop you from doing it! I’ll save the world!” she screamed as her grip slipped. I redirected the wind to the shop’s metal security door with a flick of my wrist. The wind caught the door and slammed it shut with a clang, and I replied, “Yeah, well, take a number.” My name is Dr. Henry Ion Fischer, and I destroyed the world. Well, not technically me. My future self will be the one to destroy everything, you know when I go back to the past to do it. What I mean is that I am destined to go back in time and destroy the world. Nothing can stop that. If something could stop me from going back in time and destroying the world, then the apocalyptic world I live in now wouldn’t exist. Confusing? See, this is the reason people keep trying to kill me. No matter how publicized it is, people still didn’t get it; they can’t kill me. It’s not like I’m immortal or something. I can die, just not yet. And why? Because you can’t bend time; time bends you. Let me start from the beginning, er, maybe present is a better descriptor. I have traveled from the pre-apocalyptic year of 2025 to the post-apocalyptic year of 2049. In this future, the population has been decimated, governments have been obliterated, survivors live in cities run by gangs, and it is perpetually night. Blocking the sun was what I did, er, will do, to destroy the world. It’s an odd feeling to know what you haven’t done yet. I didn’t know how I filled the sky with clouds so black that sunlight couldn’t break through them, but I assume it has to do with my abilities as a Chemist, a type of Scientist. Scientists live long lives and have extraordinary powers related to our discipline. We call the ability our nous , and sometimes the power feels like an actual noose more than a gift. I don’t know why I destroy the world. I’m not an evil Scientist. If anything, I am an apathetic Scientist, or maybe an aloof Scientist, but not an evil-doer bent on world destruction. When I first arrived from my jump in time to 2049, I had a bit of a freak-out month. I’ve since resigned myself to my fate as World-ender. How I came to be thrust into the future is a story for another time but suffice it to say that a Physicist specializing in time travel launched me into the future to materialize in the dark, dilapidated streets of future Boston. I was jumped by fanatic body augmenters, but a group calling themselves the Remnants rescued me. The Remnants escorted me back to their base at Fenway Park but didn’t tell me I destroyed the world. In 2025, I had a friend named Melody Kenzie, and we often worked together on her cases as a private detective, especially when she suspected a Scientist was involved. However, in the future, I found myself in now, Melody was the leader of the Remnants. It was Melody who told me I was the cause of the world being destroyed. She said I died when it happened, and I heard loss in her voice that implied we had something more than friendship when I returned to 2025. Melody said she never knew I went to the future and back until 2030, right before the apocalypse. I was relieved to know I would eventually make it back to my time, but as I saw the devastation of this future, I became fatalistic. I contemplated suicide in hasty thoughts meant to preserve the world I once knew instead of this futuristic hellscape. When I told Melody, she put a gun to my head and pulled the trigger. No shot was fired. She then turned the gun away from me and fired again. The deafening shot jolted me with the realization that I wouldn’t be able to stop the world from ending. I was the World-ender. That’s when she told me, “You can’t bend time; time bends you.” Melody’s demeanor differed from the hotheaded seeker of justice from the past. She was now much harder, militarily shouting commands and keeping what she knew about me close to her chest. While I remembered conversations Melody had with me just a few months ago, for her, our friendship had been buried under years of strife. Like I said, after that, it was a hard month. I drank a lot. I slept even more. I explored the expansive area in and around Fenway Park. People lived in hovels and slums, barely surviving on the resources gathered from scouting. My shop was one of several in the market district, and people traded necessities there. A few Scientists were in Fenway, and they used their abilities to help keep everyone’s head above water. In my time, Scientists were to remain hidden, but now they were society's leaders, caretakers, and soldiers. Within a few days of arriving, everyone knew who I was. Some Remnants started calling me World-ender when the assassination attempts began. Melody had to put up signs telling people how they couldn’t kill me and shouldn’t try. There was a banging on the door to my shop, and my reminiscence ceased. I shouted, “Go away. I’m closed for today due to excessive attempts on my life. Thanks, please come again.” I heard a key turn in the metal security door. There was only one person that had the key. Melody Kenzie walked through the door and closed it behind her. She saw the smashed vials on the floor, and her eyes met mine. “Typical day?” she asked. “For this dystopia, yeah, it’s about the average day I expected,” I replied. I grabbed a dustpan and broom from the back of the shop and swept the broken glass from the floor. Melody walked around the broken glass and said, “At least it wasn’t a Scientist this time.” “Yeah, I guess being shot at is better than having another Chemist hurl fireballs at me, or my mind attacked by a Psychologist trying to make me kill myself, or being thrown into a portal by a Physicist to who knows what place. Oh, and remember that Biologist who could turn into that werewolf-lizardman creature that almost clawed my face off? “Yeah, but I got there before he could,” Melody said. “And I’m thankful for that, of course,” I said, “and thankful for you helping me set up my apothecary shop. You pulled me out of a bad place when I first got here. Despite some Remnants trying to kill me, I enjoy synthesizing medicine for them. Makes me feel like I’m alleviating the pain I’ve caused or will cause. At least it gives me something to do besides drink myself to death, er, well, you know what I mean.” Melody said, “Henry, you know you don’t have to stay here.” “It’s not like it’s safer anywhere else,” I said. “The only place left with a shred of normalcy is the society you have made here. It’s bleak, but I can still see hope when I look for it. Because of you, there are businesses, children can play, people still fall in love, and--” I stopped myself short of saying more. I loved Melody once, in the past. Maybe I still did love her. I locked eyes with her and felt my heart skip as I saw her push a strand of red hair over her shoulder, and she adjusted her form-fitting body armor. Melody was a Scientist, a Chaotician who could see through the chaos and use her nous to predict a few minutes into the future with incredible detail and accuracy. I shook my head and broke my gaze into her eyes. If I still loved her, it was the Melody I remembered from the past, not this one. How could I love anyone without loving myself? “Why are you here?” I asked. “There’s a mission--” She paused there, already anticipating my interruption. “Let me stop you right there,” I said. “I don’t go on away missions. I tried my hand as a scout before you helped me establish my shop and most of the away missions were like I was some Red Shirt in Star Trek. There was always one crazed Remnant that lost their shit and tried to fight me, kill me, or just make the whole journey a pain in my ass.” “It’s not like they can kill you,” she replied. “Uh, yeah, but it still hurts,” I said. “Sure, I can’t die, but I can be maimed, beaten, and put in a coma. So basically, as long as I’m still capable of destroying the world, anything can happen to me.” “It’s just pain,” Melody said under her breath. I didn’t reply, and we stood silent except for the broom's swish and glass clinking in the dustpan. I glanced at Melody to see her back was to me, and she was standing tall and straight. Then, after a while, she said, “What if I said this was ‘ the’ mission.” I jerked my head toward Melody, but her back was still turned. I gathered myself, anxious about what she meant, but calmly placed the dustpan on a table. I said, “Do you mean--” “Yes,” she said, interrupting me. Stupid nous always telling Melody what I would say. She turned to me, her hands behind her back, and stood to attention. “We all have our part to play in this future. As the leader of the Remnants, I command you to join this mission. We depart tomorrow morning.” The broom dropped from my hands and clattered to the floor. I wasn’t sure if I was glad or terrified to be going back to my time, but for the first time in a while, I felt excited. “I accept,” I said, suddenly surprising myself. She looked at me and shook her head. “You don’t have to accept. You don’t have a choice. Time bends you.” Melody turned on her heel and exited the shop before I could say another word. The following day, I heard a knock on the shop door. I rose from the cot in the back room of the shop where I slept and said, “Hello?” “Officer McCreedy here to escort you to the launchpad, Dr. Fisher,” said a scruffy voice from the other side of the door. I cautiously opened the door. I recognized McCreedy as one of Melody’s lieutenants, but I didn’t know much about him. “Are you ready?” he asked. I nodded. McCreedy then escorted me to the launchpad atop a platform on Fenway. Word must have spread because everyone came out of their homes as I walked the streets to watch me. A few people heckled me, and a group of kids threw garbage at me, but fortunately, no one tried to kill me. When we reached the launchpad, I saw Melody in the cockpit of an airlift, a vehicle like a helicopter but with no rotors and flies using magnetic levitation. “Hey, so now that we are all here, does someone feel like telling me what we are doing?” I asked Melody and the four officers on the launchpad. No one said anything, but then Melody spoke from the cockpit, “Remnant scouts found an anomaly outside the city. We’ve been analyzing it for a couple weeks and determined the origin to be from the past. 2025 to be exact.” “What is it?” I asked. “You’ll see,” she said, and then, “Ready for takeoff?” Her team gave the affirmative then we were in the air. Seeing the destruction of Boston from above was like swallowing a stone. A city I loved was in ruin. I thought of the other cities around the world that shared the same fate because what I did, er, will do. When the airlift landed, the officers jumped out and scouted the area with their rifles held at the ready. I stayed in the cockpit with Melody until we heard the all-clear. “The anomaly is this way,” Melody said, walking into the forest, the officers following her. We walked a while before reaching a glowing two-dimensional, circular portal. I froze. The portal’s center was black, and the edges ringed with blue. It looked exactly like the portal the Physicist forced me into last year. “At least I won’t have to worry about my tensing anymore,” I murmured. Then louder, I asked, “So what do I do now?” The officers shuffled their feet. They seemed anxious too. “There’s nothing you can do,” Melody said, drifting off as she spoke. “Well, how about I just don’t go into it!” I said. “If I don’t go into it, the world doesn’t end.” “And then you wouldn’t be here to say that,” Melody explained warily. “Just like you can’t die until you destroy the world, you can’t stop yourself from going through this portal.” “Then tie me to a tree or something. Nope, not going to do this. Living in this hellish future is one thing, but there’s no way I’m going into the portal to willingly destroy Earth.” “Then we’ll make you,” Melody said and eyed me. She was serious. With a nod, two officers grabbed me by the arms while the other two put their rifles to my head. “Whoa! Back-off!” I shouted as they pushed me closer to the portal. “I’m warning you,” I said. “Throw him in!” Melody shouted, and the officers forced me forward. Most of the last year was spent wishing I was in the past again. Now, with it so close, I couldn’t do it. Not if it meant things would end like this. I reached for my nous, and black clouds stirred above me, sucking down to ground level until no light could be seen. My nous flared, and molecules consisting of the air pushed a spherical wave of pressure around me, knocking back the officers holding my arms and clearing the blackness. One of the rifles went off, and the bullet sliced my cheek as it went by me. All four officers were on the ground around me, and I said, “Now, how about we just talk calmly about this?” “Officer down!” McCreedy shouted, and I spun to see that the stray bullet had caught Melody between the eyes. Blood oozed from the bullet hole in her forehead. “No!” I shouted. Even though Melody was going to force me through the portal, I still felt our friendship of the past. The love I had for her back then and now. “Why didn’t she move?” an officer asked. “She knew that would happen, right? Her nous lets her see a few minutes in the future.” Then it hit me. The world's weight crushed me, and I felt myself take a step forward. Then I took another step. And another. Melody did know. She hadn’t told me much about how the apocalypse happened. It made sense now, though. She would have gone back to the past with me if she could, even if it was just to look up at a blue sky together. Maybe she hadn’t told me about when I returned from the future because those were happier times for us. Perhaps she was trying to give me what she had already experienced. But at what cost? The world? No, it was because we can’t bend time; time bends you. So, we might as well make the best of it. I stepped forward into the portal and returned to 2025 to become the fated World-ender.

I call her, the phone rings, and rings, and then suddenly, voicemail. "Weird." I mutter to myself. I check her location and once again the technology of Apple has failed me. Why does this thing always seem to glitch out when I get worried? I tend not to bother her with multiple calls at a time, but this time I am just really worried. I know that she doesn't like it when I blow up her phone, but I need to know she's okay. If anything, at least maybe she will appreciate how much I care about her. I call her again. The phone rings, and rings, and then suddenly, voicemail. "Damnit..." I say to myself again. Now I am genuinely growing worried. It is 11:30 P.M., and I know she has been off work for an hour now. Why is her location off? Why isn't she answering? Maybe she got into an accident on her way home. Maybe she got carjacked and they tossed her phone into an ocean or something. Maybe she got picked up off the street and God forbid anything happened to her. Or maybe... I call again. The phone rings, and rings, and then suddenly, voicemail. I don't say anything this time. Instead, a feeling of fear begins to wash over me. The last time we spoke on the phone, she answered so frantically and hung up in such a rush. I can tell she is going through a lot right now. We haven't seen each other in about three weeks. She told me she has been going through a lot with her job and her mother and her living situation and that she just needs some time to sort everything out. Still, as far as I know, everything is good between us. I have afforded her some space for the time being, but tonight something has just come over me. I can't deal with the thought of her stressing, worrying about everything too much like I do. Seeking comfort in unusual places. I only hope that it all didn't become too much for her. Maybe she adopted some bad habits to cope with the stress. Maybe she is strung out in some drug house right now, in danger around those animals. Maybe she had a mental break and hurt herself or worse. Tears begin to well in my eyes as once again I call her. The phone rings, and rings, and then suddenly, voicemail. "Please" I plead with myself, or whoever may be listening. At this point I just miss her so much, I really just want to hear her voice, to know that everything is okay. She has gotten so distantly lately, she seems strained anytime I talk to her. Her stress has mounted to a point where I am lucky to get an "I love you too." I just feel so bad for her. I wish she was here so I could hold her in my arms and tell her everything is going to be okay. I want to relieve her stress in every which way and let her know that as long as we have each other, everything is going to work out. I call again, the phone rings, and rings, and then suddenly, voicemail. I know she has been spending a lot of time at her friend's house, staying there to unwind and get away from her mom. I'm not sure what exactly it is her and her mom are arguing about, she hasn't bothered to tell me. I only hope she is safe in the company of friends. The thoughts start to creep in, but I know my beloved, and that she would never betray my trust. The bond we share is far too strong, true love doesn't come often, but when it does, you can just feel it. I love her with all of my heart, and nothing could ever change that. When she answers the phone, be it today or tomorrow or whenever that time comes, I am just going to spill my entire heart to her because I want her to know what she means to me. She is my everything. I call again. The phone rings, and rings, and suddenly, voicemail. "Fuck" I blurt out through tears. They now stream down my cheek uncontrollably as my mind churns in a whirlwind of doubt and discomfort. I am hardly thinking straight at this point. I call fifteen more times, and fifteen more times, the phone rings, and rings, and suddenly, voicemail. I have no thought in my mind other than to keep calling, and keep calling, and to not give up until I hear her voice. I am close to calling the police just in case she is in danger or dead somewhere. So many intrusive thoughts race through my mind, each more disgusting and vivid than the last. I call again, the phone rings, and rings, and suddenly, a voice answers! Momentarily I am relieved, but quickly I realize, this is not her voice. "Hello?" I say. "Who is this?" A man's voice responds. "This is Katherine's boyfriend" I respond, it's strange, she never mentioned her friend was a boy. He lets out a soft chuckle, he pauses for a moment and says "I'm sorry dude, she's asleep, and I don't think she considers you that..." "What?" I respond. My heart falls to the floor. Surely he misspoke, or perhaps I misheard him. "She's been here for a week bro, and this ain't the only place she has been. I don't got time for this shit, I'll let her explain." He says as he hangs up the phone. A tremendous feeling of grief washes over me. For a moment, I am absolutely floored by these comments. Quickly, I come to my senses. This must just be one of her friends fucking with me. Maybe the friend she was staying with has a boyfriend and they just thought it would be funny to play a trick on me. Maybe she was just off to the side, finding a quick laugh in my discomfort. It's the least I could do for her in her time of need. I'd like to say she would never embarrass me like that, but it wouldn't be the first time. Whatever the case may be, everything is going to be okay when I get her explanation tomorrow. Hopefully I wake up to it, I love the sweet messages she used to leave me every morning before all of this stress was put on her.

# The Writer **How far would you go to tell the perfect story?** *Written by Gregory Patrick Travers* My therapist, Dr. Raymond, has cleverly deduced that I suffer from mild paranoia. But what the simple doctor does not understand is that I am not paranoid, I am prepared. You see, it is all a matter of perception. Dr. Raymond’s reality was a linear one; he saw things in the first person, subjectively, in a straight line. I, on the other hand, saw reality in the third person, objectively, as the narrator, with a birds-eye view, scanning the entirety of reality’s infinite depth and possibilities. And that being the case, along with the knowledge of the sins in my past, my fear of being tracked down and plotted against was not one of paranoia, but of sound logic. Much of that fear drives from guilt, I am sure. It is the little bit of human feeling left in me that clings to man’s etiquette, believing I should answer for the crime I committed. I saw a priest who told me that feelings of paranoia are signs of the guilty soul screaming for confession. But God has seen what I have done and on my day of judgment if He cannot see the reasoning to my actions, well, then He is just as short-sighted as Dr. Raymond. Until that day I remain, Grant Hull-New York Times Bestseller. The author of “Held Up”, critically praised as, and I quote, “The most realistic depiction of the life of a bank robber in our time.” My book has given me literary recognition, public praise and wealth beyond my wildest expectations. Does this not prove even as we punish and imprison the thieves, rapists, and murderers that society secretly has a passionate yearning to swim in the dark thoughts of society’s most evil creations? The publishing industry knows this and year after year they publish weak attempts to capture the life of society’s darkest. The books are penned by authors who pull their research from dramatic fiction or Hollywood movies. But when these “authors”, if that is what they choose to call themselves, draw upon inauthentic sources like Hollywood they produce an inauthentic story. Then, the game of broken telephone begins and author after author draws upon the inauthentic stories before him, creating an even more far-fetched attempt to capture the essence of the bank robber, the rapist, the murderer. But those books will come and go, making a small profit but quickly forgotten in the collective consciousness of society. I wished not to be just another waste of paper but one of the great writers of our time-Of *all time*. If you look at the great authors of the past, such as Charles Dickens with *Oliver Twist*, or George Orwell with *Down and Out in Paris and London;* two undeniably honest commentaries on economic, social and moral abuses of the ruling class-these works only achieved such high levels of authenticity from the authors actually *taking* to the slums and *living* with the down and out characters they would eventually reflect in their books. To write great literature it is imperative that you know your characters *intimately*. When I first created my protagonist, he was so far from my country boy persona I couldn’t relate to the character. Jimmy, my bank robber, was a down and out kid from the Bronx who could no longer stand his bottom-of-the-list place in society, and so, turns to a life of crime. I didn’t know a thing about city life or desperation-so I researched. I read every book on bank robberies I could find, I watched every heist movie there ever was, I listened to every gangster rap album I could get my hands on. I learned much about the topic and it helped me to create much more depth and authenticity to Jimmy and the characters around him. For example, I had originally intended Jimmy to burst into the bank guns blazing, wearing a gorilla mask and telling everyone to, “Get the fuck on the floor!” while shooting off a couple rounds into the ceiling. In the movies, this seemed pretty standard, but in real life Hollywood’s portrayal of the bank robbery is heavily flawed and out of date. Bank security has come a long way over the years. Maybe in the 1920s John Dillinger and his gang could burst into a bank with guns drawn and stick around long enough to shoot it out with police, but not today. In today’s banks each teller has a panic button under the desk, so it was imperative that at all times throughout the robbery the only person who knew the bank was being robbed was the single teller, and only when Jimmy was close enough to her to monitor her hand and knee movements. The best way to achieve that would be with a simple note handed to the teller once he was called from the line. Do you see how much research helps create authenticity? But these were things any and every author would do in preparation for their story. I didn’t want to be just *any* author. I knew I needed a more aggressive approach if I was to be remembered with the likes of an Orwell or a Dickens. Over a scotch in a hotel lobby, I came to terms that the only way to capture the raw energy of a bank robbery was to actually rob a bank. I chose a Royal Bank across town as the target. At first, I just stood in the lobby and watched. I watched the customers, I watched the tellers, I watched the cameras-I even watched the half-dead security guard habitually putter about back and forth before he eventually found peace in a plastic seat next to the front entrance. Nowadays, banks don’t carry much cash in the drawers and I did not have the equipment or the manpower to try and successfully take the vault. But again, from my research on bank security measures, I knew that most tellers kept a “robbery bag” around that they were to give to the robber if ever faced with the situation. That’s what I wanted to leave with. I knew the bills were marked but I didn’t care, I wasn’t going to spend any of it. It wasn’t for the money; it was for character research. I needed to witness the look of fear in the teller’s eyes when I handed her the note threatening to kill her if she did not co-operate. I had to document the doubts and second-thoughts that would race through my head just before handing her the note. I needed to experience the pounding heartbeat and surge of adrenaline I would feel as I walked out the front door with that heavy bag of bills. And so, on a chilly day in September, I walked into that Royal Bank on Main St. and stood in line. I wore a hat, sunglasses, and a fake mustache to disguise myself from the recording cameras. One by one, I watched the person in front of me break from line and approach the teller until, all too quickly, it was my turn to step forward. I kept my hand steady while handing her the note that warned her I was armed and would shoot if she made any signals or reached for the panic alarm. It instructed her to give me the robbery bag and everyone would be safe. The moments from when I handed her the letter to when she gave me the bag under her desk were the most intense. The fifteen or so seconds it took seemed like an eternity. I thought my heart was going to beat right through my chest and land in her lap. It was not so much the *teller* that had me so on edge, she was scared and I knew they were trained to co-operate. It was the customers behind me. I was sure one of them had seen me hand over the note and would attack me from behind, but I couldn’t look behind me without arousing suspicion from security and I couldn’t risk taking my eyes off the teller’s hands. Finally, she reached over the kiosk and handed me the unmarked bag, holding in her tears to the best of her ability. I turned and, bursting with elation and disbelief, quickly walked through the front door, passing the senior security guard who may or may not have been taking a quick midday nap. I couldn’t say for sure, all I could see was the street outside-complete tunnel vision. Once outside, I walked around to the back of the building where the taxi I had arrived in waited for me on a back street, completely unaware of what had just happened. He dropped me off at a McDonald's a few blocks down where I disposed of my disguise in the bathroom garbage before hopping on a bus back to my neighborhood to count the score. Now that I had experienced the rush of criminality I was ready to translate my recent enlightenment to paper and bring Jimmy from the Bronx to life. I understood him now. As I wrote the novel I was constantly expecting the police to come to my work, or come to my home, and take me off to jail...but they never came. Three months after the book’s completion, with a little luck and a great agent, “Held Up” became a New York Times Best Seller and I had hit the big time. I did not need to spend the cash from the robbery; I was selling millions of books. Why? Because readers recognize authenticity. They really do. I had trouble during the book tour though. I was forced to grab a pushy fan by the throat to remind him of who he was disrespecting. I don’t deal well when dealing with the *readers*. The ones who read my story, living my experiences vicariously, never having enough guts to go out and do what I did. They used my experiences to escape their dreary, safe, and pointless lives. How I loathe them. But it was this incident, during a book signing in Los Angeles, that my publishers came together and decided I needed to see a therapist, throwing Dr. Raymond, uninvited, into my life, to accuse me of this paranoia. Things are better now that the book tour has ended and I am back in the comfort of my writing studio. Just the other day I received a call from my agent letting me know the publishers green-lit my next novel proposal. With the recent popularity of the murder mystery genre, I have decided to create a story from the point of view of the killer. Genius, is it not? I am happy to say, I have already begun my research.