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Allura 55

Every time I’m unsure, I look in the mirror and remind myself of the re-birth I’ve been allowed through this arrangement. My eyes scan the sheer baby blue fabric clinging to the soft lines of my body, when a pair of arms wrap themselves around my waist. He nuzzles his chin in the space where my neck connects to my shoulder. The beginnings of a smile tugs at my lips and I turn my head to connect our lips, running my fingers through his salt-and-pepper curls. He pulls me in closer and there’s a friction from our abdomens touching that elicits a moan from my mouth. I grab his elbow and gently guide him towards the king-sized bed that he purchased specifically for our activities--the contrast between his strong pale hands and the black satin sheets is striking. A few hours later, I slip out from under his arm and make my way to the bathroom, thankful for the silence that marble floors provide. I turn the carved glass knob inside the shower and stick my hand under the rushing water until the temperature becomes satisfactory. The steam obscures my surroundings and for a moment I don’t feel like a ghost haunting the vacant rib cage that is Antoine’s summer home--just a molecule in the condensation. I could slip out of the window and evaporate without having to face how deep of a hole I’ve dug myself into, but there’s no turning back at this point. The redness of my body from scrubbing on autopilot is a testament to that. This isn’t about me, it never was. It’s always been for Jamie. I can still hear the high-pitched shriek of his laughter, tears welling at the corners of his eyes as he clutches his stomach. The sound echoes off the bathroom walls and rings in my ears. The five-year anniversary of his passing is in a week, which means this chapter is finally coming to a close. Seven days before his body was found under Antoine’s front porch, curled up into a ball and drenched in blood--Jamie came to my doorstep in the pouring rain. His mascara had run down his face, streaky gray lines disappearing under the hem of his black t-shirt. I held him in my arms as he shook from the cold, using his chattering teeth as an excuse not to tell me what happened. “Is it that man you’ve been staying with? Did he do something to you?” I whispered into his neck, the taste of salt and rain mixing on my lips. “No,” he sniffled. “No, just me.” Jamie slept on my couch that night, curled up in the same way he was found--like an abandoned dog. That was the last time I saw him. His younger sister, Gretchen, gave me his phone after the funeral, she told me to keep it safe while the investigation transpired. Apparently, he’d given it to her “in case anything happened to him”, he didn’t want Antoine tied up in the aftermath. The guilt wore her features like an unsettled spirit, she couldn’t even meet my gaze during our conversation. I haven’t been able to contact her since, even though I see her around town when I visit home. She must have my number blocked. After reading every message between him and Antoine, I understood the shape of what had happened between them--what Jamie meant by “the aftermath”. It was clear that he was taken under the wing of this older wealthy gentleman under the guise of safety, a transactional relationship that benefited the both of them. My friend got to stay off the streets and live in a luxurious summer house for free, the only exchange being his body, time, and devotion. He would even pay Jamie for his services, or so he promised. Antoine is a twisted individual that preys on vulnerable younger men that he can strip of everything until they become emotionally, physically, and financially dependent on him. It was clear from their messages that he was being manipulated, bent backwards until he was seen as useless by his “lover”, then cast aside--a broken doll. It never became clear to me whether Jamie being found under Antoine’s home was meant to be a personal message or a sad coincidence. He could have come to me, but I understand it could have felt like too much to explain from his perspective. Either way, my next steps were clear. Although the older gentleman was never charged or arrested for the incident, it did put a target on his reputation. Whispers of his name and description were spread throughout the queer community in my home state, so it was almost too easy to sidle into his space. It had been exactly two years since Jamie’s death when I approached him. He was vulnerable, in desperate need of validation, for someone to make him feel in control again. “You look like you could use some company,” I sat down next to him in the red corner booth he’d been occupying, two drinks in my hands. Antoine looked up at me in surprise, wide eyes never breaking contact as his fingers curled around the cold glass. “Do I know you?” He narrowed his eyes, visibly shrinking into the leather cushion after noticing everyone’s eyes on us. “I’m new in town,” I grinned brightly. “I would have come sooner if I knew that I’d find a man like you.” I trailed a finger from his knee to the top of his thigh, earning a mischievous gleam in his eyes--cutting through his pupils like a sword. It didn’t take much after that to get into the backseat of his car, fogging up the tinted windows from the inside. Antoine didn’t bring me home for a few weeks after meeting. We’d go on dates at various high-end locations in the city and end the night at my apartment or in the back of his Bentley, on a sandy towel at the beach one time. As the sun began to rise over the horizon, casting dancing reflections of light on the water’s surface, he interlaced his fingers between mine. “None of my exes have ever taken me to watch the sunrise on the beach before.” I looked deeply into his eyes and gave my best attempt at a sincere smile, tugging at the thread that would unravel the walls he’d put up. “I guess you can say I’m a romantic,” he mirrored my expression and leaned in for a kiss. I planted my palm firmly in the middle of his chest and pulled away. “Not so quickly, tell me something about yourself. I feel like I barely know you,” I pouted, allowing my palm to slowly slide down to his lower stomach. Antoine closed his eyes, as if deliberating the right answer to my request--and when he opened them again, his eyes were half-lidded and gazing at something beyond me. He told me everything, some parts in excruciating detail and others glossed over almost completely. I didn’t prod or ask questions, trying to express the appropriate amount of curiosity, not like I’d been enduring the hours of his company just for this. It started off innocently enough, he told me that they met at a club and he could tell right off the bat that the younger man was enamored by him. Then, he proceeded to completely twist the events, snapping back each finger and dislocating the joints out of their sockets of Jamie’s metaphorical corpse until he was made out to be an obsessive stalker. An endless abyss opened up in my core and began to pull my organs into its center of gravity, a tornado ravaging my insides. I gasped at all the right beats and widened my eyes as his sentences suffocated the candlelight that held my friend’s spirit. By the time Antoine reached the end of the story, the sun was high in the sky and its rays were beating over our heads. I squinted up at the blinding light--the only witness to his false confession. “You can imagine how this would affect a man’s reputation,” he looked down at the space between us mournfully. “Why didn’t you just move away, then?” It came out of my mouth like a jagged edge, causing him to flinch at my tone. I quickly put a hand over his and apologized, blaming it on the intensity of the moment. Antoine shook his head in reassurance. “Because then it would look like I did it,” he answered. “I have nothing to hide.” When the cold water reverses the redness of my skin, I turn the water off and wrap a warm robe around the length of my body. The thing about this plan is that I’m not going to wait until the five year mark, because I don’t actually know the exact date of Jamie’s death. I tried asking his sister about what the pathologist concluded after the autopsy, but by then she was already out of reach. So, I decided it didn’t matter when I did it, only that it was in the time-frame of this week. Call it impulsive, but after the ways he touched my body today I decided that this would be the last time. Everything is already in place. I’ve used my assets and skills to earn a bold and italicized place in Antoine’s will, which we had written together after a particularly sudden health scare last year. I played the dutiful toy, falling apart at the thought of losing him and staying by his side every waking moment--with a healthy sprinkle of tears shed and holding hands while he was unconscious. The nurses would tell him about it when I left to use the bathroom or fetch him food, it would reinforce my loyalty. His life partner, he would never have another after me because he couldn’t with his ruined reputation, but he never said that part out loud. It helped that I was a perfect doll, broken in all the right ways that got him off, but not too broken that he had no choice but to toss me. I kept all his secrets and told him all of mine, or at least that’s what I promised him one night while I rocked on top of him. As far as anyone knows, I’ve been outside the country for the last month. I’ve hired someone that’s off the grid to stay at a hotel on the coast of Sydney with one of Antoine’s credit cards he’d given me, free to spend any amount he liked. In the meantime, I’ve been staying on the grounds of this summer home the entire time, careful as to not be spotted by anyone. The only witness is the man that I’m going to kill, then make look like it was a suicide. I gave my vacation double my old phone then got a burner before “leaving” from a friend for the time being, guiding him to orchestrate a text thread between Antoine and I on the old business phone he gave me a few months ago. When the investigators find this phone hidden under the mattress he’s found on top of, they’ll see an exchange of me “becoming wise” of his manipulation and fleeing to Australia to get away from him. They’ll see his pleading, begging, and manipulation tactics over the span of days, before a final threat of goodbye that he ends up following through with. Once dry, I begin the process of putting on a commissioned wig and doing a makeup routine that I haven’t re-visited in years. Looking in the mirror, it doesn’t look exact but it’s close enough. I slip into sweats with mud stains all over them, drenched in water to mimic the effects of standing in the rain. Hopefully, this will jog his memory quickly enough. Finally, I slip on each leather black leather glove and double-check the gun in my duffel bag, registered in his name, to make sure I only loaded it with two bullets. One would be enough, but two covers the potential margin of error. I’ve thought about this moment every day for the last three years, writing the script in my mind then on paper, lighting them with my cigarettes afterwards until they were nothing but ash. But in reality, it doesn’t really matter what I say. I just want to see the look on his face when Antoine connects the dots and the world begins to fray at its edges behind his eyes. I stand at the side of the bed for seconds that feel like hours, but he finally mumbles something in half-sleep and squints up at me. He widens his eyes, the memory clicking in his mind but not enough for him to put his finger on the exact coordinates. “Do you remember me, darling?” I try not to grin at the jarring image of my voice coming out of this face. “Where have we met before?” Antoine whispers, disappointment settling over my shoulders as I realize he must think this is a dream. “Across your lawn, the night they found Jamie. We locked eyes, remember?” He nods slowly, rubbing his fists into his eyes vigorously in a poor attempt at waking up. I plant my palm firmly against his chest, the new leather squeaking from being broken in. “Do you want me to help you wake up from this?” Antoine grips my wrist, nodding fervently now. “Can I ask you a question first?” He asks almost innocently, pupils flitting around the room wildly in search of proof that this is an unconscious moment. “Why do you sound like Emil?” I lean over and whisper in his ear, “I am Emil, I always have been.” This entire time I’ve been struggling to suppress a joyous smile from stretching over my lips, but I don’t hold back. He shakes his head, clearly not grasping the gravity of the situation. Antoine puts both of his hands around my head and pulls my face close to him, scrutinizing my features. This startles me, I pull the gun out of the holster around my thigh and put it in his hand. He looks down at it and gasps quietly, I watch the gun vibrate slightly as his hand begins to tremble. “I’ll wake up if I do this right?” I nod, forcing the last kind smile I can manage towards him. “Works like magic.” Antoine puts the gun into his mouth and points it at the roof and I already know this is going to traumatize me, but it’s the best possible outcome. I remind myself of what he’s done, dehumanize him and compartmentalize his existence in a box that will sit at the back of my mind. He looks up at me like he’s still unsure of what’s going on, debating the possibility of this being real--which is dangerous. “Don’t drag it out,” I caress his cheek with a gloved finger. “It’ll be over soon.” A determined gleam sets in his eyes, then he closes them to prepare for the impact. But, nothing will prepare him for what’s about to take place. He pulls the trigger and blood splatters everywhere, it gets on my face but I close my eyes to avoid the horrific scene. I turn around and exhale, the room suddenly tilting on its side, but I push forward and head back into the bathroom. My face is pale when I look into the mirror, eyes wildly dilated, and I clean the blood off my face with violent tremors in my hands. I don’t check to see if he finished the job, I walk right past his bedroom and run down the marble spiral staircase for the final time. It’s over now, the back door slams shut behind me and I walk straight into the woods, taking the trail that leads into a field just outside of town. There’s no longer anything behind me, Jamie would have never asked for this--but I did it for him anyway. It’s what he would have done for me, although more impulsively and violently. All I need to do now is catch my flight to Sydney. I travel in the wig and makeup, the final shedding of my past life’s skin.

“An’ Sunday night, mommy made hot chocolate and we drunk it by the fireplace!” Cassie held up a polaroid picture of herself seated on what appeared to be a fold out sofa bed covered with what looked like very old and very stained “My Little Pony” sheets. In one hand she held a mug that proclaimed “World’s Greatest Grandma” and in the other she held a death grip on a small brown teddy bear with big goofy eyes and a red bow tie. “And Beary had a beary good time!” she finished with a giggle. Cassie, like many of the kids in Mrs. Bloomer’s first grade class, was very fond of their class pet, a stuffed teddy bear Mrs. Bloomer introduced to them as “Beary Nice”. During the week, Beary sat in a little rocking chair by Mrs. Bloomer’s desk, and every weekend one of the children got to take Beary home and would later report on what they did together. Mrs. Bloomer forced a smile. “Very good Cassie, thank you”. The little girl sat down, a smile beaming from her dirt-smudged face. “Well, it looks like Beary Nice had a good weekend with you. Thank you for taking care of him Cassie. Well, lets see, whose turn is it to take him home this weekend...” Mrs. Bloomer turned to the chart on the wall, though she already knew who was next. She’d been dreading this day all year. Dakota’s turn. Dakota was already waving his hand wildly and making an “ooh” sound. Mrs. Bloomer gritted her teeth and turned to look at him. His long, filthy blond hair stood out starkly against the faded black AC/DC T-shirt he’d been wearing the last three days. Dakota was at least two years older than everyone else in the class and, given that he couldn’t even begin to read, he was likely going to be back in 1st grade again next year. He had, however, developed an even stronger attachment to Beary than most of the other children, to the point where he sometimes interrupted class to ask questions about the bear- “Does Beary have a daddy?” or “Does Beary cuss?” ”Yes...Dakota. I think its your turn.” Mrs. Bloomer said at last. “I know it is Miss Bloomer! I counted the days from the start of the year and this is the 84th.” He smiled back at her, his crooked yellow teeth taunting her. “Yes... Well, its almost time to go, so why don’t you go get Beary from his chair. Now remember you have to be nice to him.” “We’re gonna shoot my dad’s gun!” Dakota announced loudly as he seized the bear roughly from its chair. The rest of the class laughed. Mrs. Bloomer sighed and realized she would probably never see Beary Nice again. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* On Monday, Dakota didn’t bother coming to school. When Tuesday came, he actually showed up for school, and, as Mrs. Bloomer feared, Dakota failed to return the bear. “He’s okay, I left him home watchin’ cartoons with my mama” he said reassuringly. “I’ll bring him back tomorrow.” On Wednesday, once again, Dakota failed to produce the bear. Mrs. Bloomer decided to not make a scene during class, and instead asked Dakota to come see her before he went to recess. When he approached the desk, his face was already red and a look of consternation filled his normally impish face, so Mrs. Bloomer proceeded with caution. “Now Dakota...You made a promise to bring Beary back. Why haven’t you done it yet?” Dakota fidgeted and looked down at his feet. “Dakota, you have to bring Beary back. He is probably very lonely sitting at your house by himself.” “He aint there by his self. My mama’s there with him.” “Well be that as it may...” ”Miss Bloomer, Beary told me he don’t wanna come back here. He said he likes it at my house. Can I have him?” Dakota’s grubby face peered up at Mrs. Bloomer pleadingly. “Uh...No, Dakota, we can’t do that. He belongs to the whole class.” ”But I love him Miss Bloomer. He wants to stay with me. . Please Miss Bloomer.” Tears began to well up in Dakota’s eyes. “Dakota,” Mrs. Bloomer cleared her throat and looked away momentarily, “We ...You need to bring Beary Nice back.” Dakota’s eyes dropped and tears began to roll down his cheeks, leaving brown streaks of dirt as they fell to the floor. He nodded and walked out the door. After she was sure he was gone, Mrs. Bloomer quietly locked the door and dug through her purse for the tiny bottle of Crown Royal she kept hidden in the middle pocket. \*\*\*\*\*\*\* The bell rang to begin class on Friday morning. After missing school Thursday, Dakota was back, seated in his chair, making faces at the boy behind him and laughing. Mrs. Bloomer had already decided to not make a scene by asking for the bear in front of the other children. As she got up to call role, a little girl raised her hand. “Yes Rachel?” “Do I get to take Beary home this weekend?” Mrs. Bloomer gritted her teeth and swallowed. “We’ll talk about that later.” The little girl pressed the issue. “But Mrs. Bloomer, its *my* weekend. We were gonna take him to the zoo.” Mrs. Bloomer swallowed hard, gauging Dakota’s reaction. He was looking agitated, glaring at the little girl and wiggling around in his desk uncomfortably. “Rachel, I said we’ll talk about this later.” “No fair!” the little girl pouted. “Dakota was supposed to bring him back!” “No!” shouted Dakota, giggling. “Dakota! That’s very rude.” Mrs. Bloomer glared at the boy. “Dakota, see me at recess.” The boy stood up and grinned at her and shook his head. “Dakota, sit down. Do you want me to call Mr. George?” He shook his head again, then between giggles said, “You aint ever gettin' Beary back”. “Dakota-“ ”He’s dead. He’s in hell with my daddy.” “Dakota!” Children gasped around the room. Cassie started crying loudly. Mrs. Bloomer pressed the button to summon a principal to the classroom. “Dakota, sit down. You are in big trouble.” The little boy shook his head again, violently, his dirty hair flailing wildly around his head. “You want Beary?” Dakota said, laughing maniacally. “You can have him!” Dakota reached deep into his G.I. Joe backpack and triumphantly yanked out what appeared to be a big piece of steel wool. He flung it at Mrs. Bloomer, who narrowly avoided the projectile, causing it to bounce off the white board and land on the tile floor with a plastic clacking sound. The room fell deathly silent as a smell of smoke and ash filled everybody’s nostrils. Staring back at the class were a pair of big melted plastic eyes. “I burned him just like I burned my mawmaw’s cat!” The next few minutes would forever be a blur in Mrs. Bloomer's memory. Dakota fell to his knees laughing while the other children screamed in horror. Leaping with almost preternatural speed, he snatched a bucket of safety scissors from Mrs. Bloomer's desk, and flung it around his head, sending scissors flying in every direction, all the while laughing and laughing and laughing. The children in the front row dove behind their desks, while those in the back just wailed. Somewhere in the distance, Mrs. Bloomer thought she heard a dog barking. She remembered a knock at the door, then the sound of old hinges squealing as it was thrust open, then Principal George's booming voice. Dakota, still laughing, dove for the classroom window, but was too short to get over the windowsill, and crash landed on his back. Mr. George grabbed him by the collar and drug him away, the sound of his heels squeaking on the vinyl floors barely audible over his laughter. Mrs. Bloomer stared dumbly as he disappeared into the hallway, his eyes bloodshot, his cheeks wet with tears, and his mouth agape and curled with hysterics as he laughed and laughed and laughed. It was over. Mrs. Bloomer looked around the room. Children were still crying, but started to take their seats. They looked to her for guidance. She stood, meaning to say something, but the words just weren't there. Then she saw it, the charred remains of Beary Nice, blackened limbs akimbo on the floor where Dakota left him. She approached it, toeing at it first, then bent down and took it into her hands. Its melted eyes glared at her accusingly. "Alright, Rachel," she held it out, "You may have Beary this weekend.

It was a rainy and bleak May night in Pennsylvania, with the clock sharp on midnight. It was on a late-night train travelling from Allentown to Philadelphia that three friends, Justin, Bethany, and Sam were travelling back to college after spending time at home. As Justin stood up to stretch his legs, he banged his head on the luggage holder, his tall frame putting him in an awkward position. But Justin was by no means a lanky fellow, he was built, but slim, the ideal weight for a professional Badminton player, as his friends often teased. He smoothed back his hair, fussing about how he wished he wasn’t so tall, so he wouldn’t mess his hair when he constantly banged his head on things. “That wouldn’t happen if you weren’t so clumsy, dumbass.” Spoke up Sam “Yea and while we’re on the shitting on Justin parade, please wash that stupid cologne off! Where did you get it? A strip club?” jested Bethany “Hey c’mon guys, this meant to catch ALL the ladies, and it’s called *Love swash*” Justin rebutted sarcastically As Justin sat back down, he had to squeeze into his seat, hindered by Sam’s large gorilla like form. His square glasses were nearly knocked out of his wavy brown hair as Justin clumsily flailed his arms about trying to get in his seat. “C’mon Sam get your damn protein bar wrappers off my seat; I don’t want any leftover chocolate staining my jeans” “Yea fuck off, I need the fuel to keep this figure. You know all the girls like my muscles.” He said flexing Justin finally managed to get in his seat and the trio sat quietly for half an hour, with Bethany falling asleep while Justin and Sam talked quietly. Her bag full of precious textbooks and her laptop snuggled closely behind her legs. “Bethany, you awake?” Sam was nudging Bethany to try and wake her up, Bethany was awake the whole time, yet wanted to be left alone. She kept silent. “Bethany, come on, wake up.” Bethany opened her unrested eyes to be met with Sam and Justin getting out some cards to play poker, she rolled her eyes and tried to close them again, but Justin stopped her. “Come on, just one game? Sam and I are dying here Beth” “Yeah, we’re dying” Considering Bethany knew that Sam had no more brainpower than a muffin and Justin couldn’t ever hide the fact he had a good hand, she obliged, she often likes to flex her cognitive prowess. “Alright! Dibs shuffle!” Sam had the cards strewn all over the plastic table and was wiping them around in an attempt to randomise their order. Bethany and Justin gave each other a look. “Alright, shuffle done! Beth, can you grab a card that fell under the table on your side? I would, but I don’t think my tremendous forceps would fit under the table” Bethany gave out a chuckle, and then proceeded to look under the table while saying; “Forceps are a surgical instrument for grabbing things dumbass.” “Oh yeah, I knew that, I was just testing you.” Once Bethany picked up the fallen card and was sitting upright again, a slight scream could be heard from the front end of the train, it only took a split second later until sparks were flying from outside the window, the driver was slamming the breaks harder than what the train is designed for. Cards went flying, Justin covered his face with his hands, Sam was slammed into the table with a wet thud reminiscent of a slab of meat hitting a benchtop, and Bethany threw her hands over her bag full of precious items. It didn’t take long for the train to finally stop. All three said nothing. Suddenly, the intercom gurgled out a few static notes, and then came to life with the voice of the shaken and rattled conductor. “I... There... There was a body on the road. A human body, I don’t know how it got there, but it... Was... A... Human corpse.” Bethany, Justin, and Sam all looked at each other blankly. Though their mouths were shut, their eyes were conveying more emotion than any phrase ever could. Sam was clenching his stomach, the pain from the thud from earlier was only just starting to settle in. “A body, so we just travelled over a dead body.” Justin’s words were empty of air, like the words of a man with no lungs. Bethany tried to compose herself and spoke to the others. “Do you want me to go to the front of the train to see what people are doing?” Sam and Justin both nodded. “Can you guys take care of my pack?” “Sure Beth.” Bethany gave her backpack to Justin and wandered out of the cubicle. The back of the train was completely empty, so Bethany had to wander for a while to actually find someone. After checking cubicle after cubicle, Bethany finally found someone, a man, probably aged in his 50’s, travelling alone. His face was paralysed with fear and his eyes were tearing up. Bethany’s knock on the cubicle window made him jump. He looked at her with eyes deprived of sleep and life. Bethany could tell this man was mortified. “You alright?” Bethany said in a calming voice, the man gave her a miniscule nod, a lying nod, he was hiding the truth. He shakily spoke in reply; “I, I think I am, I don’t know.” Bethany noticed his hands shaking, she decided to console him. “So, what’s your name?” “Edgar.” Edgar gave Bethany a warm smile. Bethany smiled back at Edgar; she could tell that he hasn’t talked to anyone in a while, he seemed traumatised and lonely. Bethany proceeded up the train where a small meeting was forming. There were about six passengers and the conductor all congregating in one of the carriages. “Should we go out? I mean, we can’t just stand here” A middle-aged woman was asking the conductor to leave the train to investigate. She spoke again in a boasting voice. “I’m a doctor, I can check the body.” Bethany heard a familiar voice behind her. “What are you gonna do? CPR? Stitch his mangled parts together again?” It was Sam. He and Justin had joined Bethany and the congregation while carrying her backpack. Edgar remained in his seat, still traumatised. The conductor snapped at Sam; “Show some god damn respect who-ever-you-are” Sam rolled his eyes, if there was one thing he hated, it was being told what to do. Everybody stood silently, either because nobody had anything to say, or everybody silently mutually agreed to give the nameless body on the tracks a silent vigil. “I think we should go out, I mean, at least to check the body.” Bethany bravely broke the silence. About a half of the congregation nodded, it could easily be seen that all agreed, just many did not want to go out. “I’ll contact the police and the railway company.” The conductor shuffled back into the front of the train and began dialling numbers. “So, who wants to come out with me?” Bethany was met with no answer for the first few seconds, until Sam announced while nudging Justin; “We’ll go.” Justin’s face fell into a gloom-like state. “C’mon Justin, it’ll be fine, the more people that go out, the less scary it’ll be.” Sam seemed oddly sympathetic about Justin’s fear, perhaps it was the fact that he too was terrified. Bethany looked across the congregation to see if any others would come out to inspect the body. “Hey, what about you, the *doctor*” Sam hastily pointed at the woman who claimed to be a doctor. She looked back at him with snarling eyes. “Sure, I’ll go out, we need someone to actually know what they’re looking at, don’t we?” The group to go outside was decided, it was to be Bethany, Justin, Sam, and the doctor. The four of them began to walk up to the front of the train to ask the conductor to let them out, but he was engaged in a call. The four stood outside his door waiting. “Wait, Justin, can you give me my bag? I need to put it somewhere while we wait.” Justin handed Bethany her backpack and she began walking down the train to Edgar’s booth. “Hey mister? Can you hold my bag for a bit? Thank you so much.” Edgar’s eyebrows lifted for a split second; he was needed for something. Edgar couldn’t remember the last time that somebody needed him. “Sure, I can.” Bethany smile and made her way back to the front of the train, relieved that her bag will now be safe. She noticed that the conductor was off the call and that the first carriage’s door was open. She hesitantly stepped outside onto the soggy ground to meet up with the other three. “So, uh, the body should be about twenty feet down the train, give or take.” The doctor was pointing down the train when Sam interrupted. “Are you sure genius? I mean, wouldn’t there be *bits* of who-ever-it-was everywhere?” The doctor had just about had it with Sam, she lowered her hand and walked up right into Sam’s face. “Listen kid, would you leave me alone! I am trying to do my best here and the last thing I fucking need is for some brat to tell me I’m fucking doing it wrong!” She turned from Sam and marched slowly down the train searching for the mangled corpse, Sam wiped droplets of the doctor’s spit from his face. “Uh, Miss?” Justin called out; his voice devoid of life. “I think I see something...” The doctor and Bethany approached Justin; Sam looked on from a distance. Justin was avoiding looking at the thing that he had just found. “I think we found it.” Bethany called out to Sam, Sam responded in a thumbs up, but he remained away. “You guys have a look at that, I just can’t.” Justin stumbled away looking as pale as a fresh sheet of paper, he walked over to Sam where they both began heading into the train. The doctor and Bethany looked at the corpse from about five feet away. “I’m going to take a closer look.” The doctor got to about three feet away to examine the body, it was a male, at least it used to be. Its face was smothered in blood and the skin was a pale-yellow, but it was intact; the same could not be said about the rest of him. From the bottom of his breastbone was where the true damage lay, with that being the part that was caught by the train. His entire abdomen was ripped in half by the train, with his intestines leaking out onto the soggy, mushy, blood ridden ground. The doctor could not make out his legs, as they were severely mangled under the train. “That’s funny.” The doctor called out to Bethany. ‘It has a stab wound!” The doctor notice that there were multiple stab wounds on the corpse’s upper-left section of the chest. “This was a murder, and the train was the killer’s way to dispose of the body!” Bethany’s brain was racing, part of her wanted to have a close look at the body, but part of her wanted to throw up. “We need to get back in the train, kid.” Bethany nodded; she was mortified of what may have caused the corpse’s death.

It was in the final room of the final tower of the final kingdom that I was to lay eyes upon her once again. It had been months, but felt like years, day after day of sluggish and gruesome war. With the power gifted to me, a commoner of low stature, I had slaughtered villages, laid waste to cities and their armies, and forced every king and queen to bend knee before rending them to their rightful place beneath me. They would kiss my hands, beg, plead, offer their bodies and minds to me- entire armies of concubines and vast riches- but yet none offered reprieve for my people. The agony would not go unpunished. The first king that I had conquered, King Hermias, waited for me now before the door. He raised a blood soaked skeletal hand to a salute as I approached, hopping over armored bodies and still squirting heads as I did. The corroded, scratched, and beaten golden armor that he once wore proudly fit loosely on now decaying skin. He opened his mouth to say something, dead teeth clattering to the floor as the nub of his tongue wagged wildy. I held up my hand, “Understood, Hermy. Is this the last holdout?” I gestured towards the door. He put his hand down, flesh dripping from it in flakes, and nodded confirmation. “Good. Good .” I ran my hand along the ornate wooden door. It was etched with images of knights and godly women battling creatures of the night. It was a heroic tale of love and triumph. I laughed mockingly, “Can you believe this shit? They think they can win?! Even now?” I reached for the golden door handle, a searing pain blasting my hand back as I touched the cool metal. I pulled it to my chest, uttering words of healing, clearing the burns instantly, “A holy ward? Not unusual. I suppose I’d be disappointed if they hadn’t tried.” I waved my hand dismissively, not needing a verbal chant to dispel such a low level spell. The door glowed purple, a thin ethereum of magic bursting like glass. Dusting my hands, I addressed the hall, talking to myself and the bodies beneath me, “Suppose I should take her seriously. Arise, creatures, and do my bidding!” The knights, some headless, some without arms or legs, began to shudder and rise to crawling, standing, or rolling positions. They had fought valiantly in life, killing many of my undead horde, and I hoped for them to serve me well in death. The commander of the knights, known as Rhianaceus, took his place beside Hermy. I cupped his chin and stared into the pits of his eyes, a long gash had decimated his face, revealing pink clumps of brain matter still squirming from nervous shock. “I want you to lead the charge, Rhianaceus. Kill all who oppose me, but leave her alive.” The creature nodded, slowly and with great effort. I patted his shoulder, “Good boy.” Turning, I counted twenty new thralls in fighting condition and between fifteen and thirty operating on my magic alone. Far down the hall, the clattering of bone signified reinforcements were imminent. A loud crash shook me from my victorious stupor- something behind the door had fallen. I felt an involuntary smile, “No point in suspense, only results.” Taking a few steps back from the door, I instructed Rhianaceus, “Open the door and kill.” He grunted, or at least croaked, something similar. Pale, broken hands clasped cold metal, pulling the handle with supernatural strength and shattering the locking mechanism. The oaken door squealed as my thralls rushed in and halted. Beyond, as I observed over the shoulders of the undead, was a lone woman praying at an altar. She was clothed in white robes, clinging to unholy curves, kneeling on a stone step bathed in sunlight. She was alone. “Stand down and leave us.” I ordered, my minions shambled out, “Guard the corridor.” I instructed, my eyes not leaving her while I listened to the cacophony of clattering and moans as they took sentry. “Hmm. Privacy.” I mumbled to myself, turning and closing the doors. The lock was shattered, but at least unwanted eyes and ears weren’t privy to my conversation. I marched to the altar, bending knee and clasping my hands together in prayer beside the priestess. “Lord, I wish for strength to do as I must and courage to brave even the darkest corners of this world.” I glanced sideways, mid-prayer, to watch the priestess. Her lips moved silently, fervently, “And I thank you for the gift of power over life and death. Let me use it wisely and according to your will. Amen.” She sighed, “You done, Nkosi?” I smiled solemnly, “I am. Are you?” “Not quite.” She continued her prayer, silently. I waited for quite some time, growing bored as my legs began to shake and fall asleep. I sat on the step, watching her pray. “You know, I liked you more when we were little.” Her lips, soft and red, stopped moving, “And poor~” “Is that so?” I nodded, “Yes. It is. You were so much more- reasonable - back then.” She smiled, “And you weren’t quite so vicious as a child.” “Pfft.” I chuckled, “We were both kids.” Silence settled, she twiddled her thumbs. “Did your mother die? Is that what made you do this?” I set my frown in stone, “Justice. Justice is what made me do this.” “Justice doesn’t take the lives of many.” “Oh fuck off!” I shouted, emotion bubbling up like a river. I took a deep breath, “Sorry. I shouldn’t yell, but your church killed many in the name of justice long before I did. You just happen to be on the receiving end this time.” “You never answered my question.” “I don’t think I need to. You know the answer.” “I do. Was she killed?” “Yes. Same as father, by children of the church.” She frowned, I could see her closed eyes twitching, “I’m so sorry Nkosi. You didn’t deserve that.” “Neither did they.” I started pacing around the room. It was a huge, circular chamber with a skylight of brilliant yellow glass above. The sunlight cascaded over her like a waterfall, splashing out across the floor in soft hues of color. There were paintings lining the wall, an easel with a half finished painting of two children stood against the far side. I approached it, observing the strikes and swaths of expertly applied paint. “Did you paint this?” Suddenly, she was beside me, eyes still closed in prayer, “Yes. Yes I did. Do you recognize the children in the picture? Maybe the stream they play beside?” I stared closer, realization sparking, “I do. It’s us. By that little stream cutting through Farebrook where we lived.” My heart softened, painfully, “Yes- I remember. This was right in front of the shack where I lived, down from the monastery.” “It is. And I’d come visit you each day I could, often sneaking away from the Priests, remember Junyerd? The old man? Oh how he’d yell when he found out!” I laughed, “Oh yeah! He’d chase me out of the monastery kitchen with a broom for stealing bread!” She chuckled, a sound like broken glass and music, “Yeah! But I’d always sneak you and your mom a few loaves-” “Y-yeah.” She would. A full basket of food whenever she could. She’d leave them on the front steps of our shack, never taking credit when my mother asked, always claiming it was the gods’ will to provide for us. “I wonder what happened to old Junyerd. He wasn’t my favorite Priest- but he did raise me.” “I-I killed the bastard. When he burned my mother at the stake for witchcraft. He was the first of my thralls.” I remembered the face of her old master the day I murdered him. He never expected me. Never saw it coming until the knife was already plunged deep into his chest. It was the day after I died, resurrecting with new powers. I set his zombified corpse against the rest of the monastery, tearing the nuns and monks to pieces with the very same knife that I had used on him. She frowned, “I know what you did, Nkosi. I’ve seen it through my visions.” “Then you know he earned his fate.” “I-I cannot argue, but the magic that your mother- that you wield- it is not sanctified. It should not be practiced.” I furrowed my brow, my chest filling with rocks, “Does it please you to think of her cries as she burned? She resurrected a fucking kitten , Eleanor, a fucking kitten ! So they burned her? Would it make you happy if they had burned me as well?” I sneered, half spitting the words like poison. Eleanor took a long time to answer, standing there next to my huffing chest, “I-If I had known what you would do-” “You would have what?!” I cut her off, “You would have killed me like my mother? Burned me?” I reached for her, but she ducked away. “Nkosi....I’m so sorry for what you’ve become-” “But you’re not sorry for what the church did to me?” “-and what you’ve become is what we vanquished in all our bravest fantasies-” “You offer no apology for it? They killed me, Eleanor! They killed us !” “-I admit you do not deserve what befell you-” “They burned her in front of me! Throwing me into a pit in the wilderness to die!” “-but the world does not deserve what you befell it-” “And when I did finally die, do you know what I saw?” “-so many innocents, dead, by your hands-” “Power. Unrelenting. Unstoppable power over life and death.” “-by the hands that I held until the Priests took me away-” “And I claimed that power.” “-I wish that I had never let go. Perhaps then something would be different-” “I used that power.” “-Perhaps things would have been different with you, with your mom, with us -” “I took the world by storm. Killing and using each and every foul creature that dared take the breath of life from our creator!” “-perhaps I would have kept my eyes, hiding my visions and prophecies for only us to use-” “They kneel before me, even now, my loyal property!” “-I know what I need to do.” Tears were streaming down her face now, crystal blue and shimmering in the dancing sunlight. Clouds were gathering, casting swaying shadows across the drawing room, the chapel. “As do I, Eleanor .” “But I do not know if I have the strength to do it-” I took a few steps away from her, pulling air to me, “But I d0~” She whirled towards me, knocking the easel and painting to the ground with a mighty crash, and flames rose in circles across the floor. I jumped above a wall of fire, pushing wind beneath me even as the inferno sucked the oxygen from the air. Landing, I spun and tossed a ball of black light into the skylight. Shards of glass rained down on us, plunging into our shoulders and arms as we ducked away, the cool winter air fought the heat. “THERE WILL BE NO MIDNIGHT SOUL!” I howled. Creatures began climbing from the floor, bursting out as if from a grave. I knew the truth though, felt it as my energy drained, that the abominations of flesh and bone bubbling from below were not of this world, but from another plane of existence entirely. One that I had already extinguished. She danced beneath their blows, slamming their chests with holy fire while spinning with the elegance of a gypsy dancer between them. One spat a green glob of something at her- singeing and melting parts of her robes. She tore the tangled bits off, freeing her movement as she threw a bombardment of energy my way. I ducked behind one of my abominations, it disintegrated as her magic undid the bonds holding it together. “IT DOESN’T HAVE TO BE THIS WAY, NKOSI!” She shouted over the groaning of my still rising army. “IT DOES! IT ALREADY HAS!” I shouted back, draining the blood from a bulbous frog-like creature over the fire. As the blood coagulated onto the flames they turned blue, then purple, then extinguished altogether. It created a chain reaction, irreversible, crawling and smothering the fire, rushing towards its source, my dearest Eleanor, with the speed of a plague. I watched as it touched her, tearing into her skin and arms, turning them to bloodied, shredded stumps as she screamed in agony. Music- like broken glass and a mother’s cry - I thought. She fell to a heap on the floor, my creatures swarming around her, dousing her in acids and poisons. Her cries died to a whimper. “Enough!” I shouted, I felt my control of the beasts wavering, struggling to keep control, “Step back.” They did as I commanded, slowly, “Begone!” I waved my hand, feeling the steady drip of crimson from my nostrils. The energy used was energy wasted- never to return again. The creatures, one by one, began the monotonous march out of the tower. She lay there, broken, battered, a blue and red heap of cloth and once beautiful physique. I stooped down beside her, pulling her still rising chest, shuddering breaths, to me. I muttered words of healing, just enough to keep her alive, not enough to renew her fight. “Can you hear me, Eleanor?” She opened her eyes, but there was nothing there, just empty sockets and pooling tears, “I can, Nkosi.” I smiled, running my free hand through her hair and down her cheek, “I’m sorry things had to end this way. I truly am.” She smiled weakly, “I-I know, Nkosi. I know.” “If it's any consolation, I will not raise you as my thrall. You will rest atop the most peaceful mountains in the most beautiful meadows of wildflowers.” She took a shuddering breath, “No.” She let out a long exhale, I could feel it was one of her last, “Bury me by the stream. I want to go there- one more time.” I felt my chest well up with the impossibility of regret. I had done this before. I felt it. Died and returned with vengeful fire. She and I had fought in countless worlds, her winning sometimes, me others. I always thought myself lucky when she was the one holding my corpse. “Sure, Eleanor-” I cried through thick tears, melding and blending with the blood on my face, “Let’s go there now-” She coughed, giggling so weakly, “Is the big, scary necromancer crying over me? I never thought that-I-” she took one last, deep, guttural, wet breath, “-I-lo-” And she was gone. I pressed my lips to hers. “I love you too, Eleanor.” I ran my hands down her face, closing her empty eyes, “Until we meet again, my love.” I collapsed beside her. The war for control waning and dying within me. I could hear the creatures, free from their master's control, howling in pain as they dissolved in the hall. My mother was gone. Every kingdom between me and the church had fallen. Mine. Eleanor has been killed by my hand. I turned my head, eyes locked to her beautiful face. My eyelids, so heavy, fell.

I had been putting off my trip to the future for as long as I could remember. Not because I wasn’t excited to go, rather the opposite. I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted to step off of the platform into that courtyard to be momentous. Something to remember for the rest of my days, the swelling of pride, and my heart bursting out of my chest with excitement. My children and their children would see their mother, their grandmother after years of hard work pushing boundaries and forging a path in a world not made for the soft of heart. The time I spent away from them, building my fortune and my legacy, all worth it for that moment of glory. Most people make it a yearly event, though I’m not really sure why. It cheapens it, makes it commonplace and trivial. I seem to be the only one that holds a special reverence for the future. Growing up my parents told me of a time before when you couldn’t visit yourself, your children, or family in the coming years. It seemed surreal, in school you learn about your future, your successes, and failures. Everyone can easily search for a list of their important dates and accomplishments. To not know, to live your life completely unaware of what the future holds is insanity. How would you know what ideas were worth pursuing? What choices or places to avoid? I shudder to think of how your expectations could be so thoroughly and expertly dashed. You might think it’s silly I’ve never been to the future since I already know how my life, my career, my family will turn out. And yes, I do know all of that on paper. The nuts and bolts of it, but the feeling of seeing my family welcome me, with love and pride is a once in a lifetime feeling. I have worked my entire life towards succeeding in business, building a home, and life grand enough to make anyone jealous. The frosting on the cake will be the moment I finally see with my own eyes the gratitude of my family after a lifetime of dedication and sacrifice. My last morning in the present was like any other, I woke up at 4 am to hear my cup of coffee freshly brewed and dripping. The smell of it never failed to rally my spirits, even when the day seemed insurmountable. I left the house as I always did before anyone else stirred. I find it easiest to achieve success when you start your day before anyone else. There is clarity in the quiet cool mornings before even the sun greets the day. There was always one person I see, my secretary Alex. She was ready with my second cup of coffee and the day's agenda. As usual, it was packed full of meetings and briefings, statistics, and figures. The sight of them soothed me. They were predictable, even in their unpredictability. Fluctuations here made sense to me in a way little else did. “Today's the day! Nervous?” Alex asked me. “Excited, more like it. 60 years leading to this moment.” I liked Alex, but the time spent on pleasantries has never interested me. There are only so many hours in the day after all. I took a quick glance over my desk, noting the important things I needed to do before embarking on my trip to the future. Last-minute calls and decisions were all that stood between me and my destiny. And like a flash, I was done. Grabbing my bag and nodding a quick goodbye to Alex, I headed to the transporter. I had of course paid the extra fee to cut to the front of the line, sped through security, and found myself on the platform. For a brief moment, I felt uneasy. It’s not a feeling I’m used to, and it hit me like a sack of bricks as I heard the humming of the machines ramp up. For the first time in my life, I doubted. I doubted what I would see, hear, and smell. Sure, I knew the future, but actually being in it? This must be the uncertainty my parents had lived with. But in a flash, the feeling of dread and uncertainty left me. I don’t know exactly what I expected to see. My understanding is that your family knows your coming and is there to greet you on your arrival. I don’t know how people celebrate in the future, balloons filled pictures of my parents’ birthdays, graduations, and retirements. I had been to very few parties in my time I must confess. I assume they hadn’t changed in spirit. Smiling faces, claps on the back and whatnot. I certainly didn’t expect to see the nothing that filled the room. Must have been a mix up in platforms, bureaucracy’s inefficiency is perhaps one constant no doubt. My name, in giant black letters above the transporter, however, indicated otherwise. I was in the right place. Well, the time must have gotten miscommunicated somehow. Since I hadn’t been to the future I didn’t know the value placed on timeliness here. At this point, I would have taken any explanation for a mistakenly empty room. None appeared. I will admit now I was confused more than anything, and I left the room heading to the nearest uniformed person I could find. “My room is empty,” I said. Getting to the point was always one of my strengths, and I expected to have a quick and salient answer just as quickly. The future had to be even more expedient than my time. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Something in my expression must have given away my first-time status to the future, and a look I was not accustomed to seeing spread across his face. Pity. “Come this way, and we can find some answers.” We walked down a hallway, doors opening here and there. People entering and exiting chatting comfortably and casually. Faces smiled and laughed, an air of familiarity among everyone. We entered an office and I was seated at a desk opposite a woman with a warm (condescending? Or was that imagined) smile. At this point, I still felt confident we would sort all this out. It was a surprise party planned, designed to prolong this moment. That was it. Had to be it. “First time to the future?” the woman asked. I nodded in affirmation. Hearing her voice, my confidence in my dramatic surprise party dissipated. I worried my voice would suddenly crack or belie my growing apprehension. “Sometimes it’s hard to see the impact our actions have the first time, let’s see what I can pull up.” Now I was really rocked. My actions impact? I worked hard, I gave all my time and my life to building my empire! Why would it be hard to see that impact? It should be shouted from the rooftops. Anger swelled within me, I couldn’t help but speak now. “Excuse me? My actions? My actions are what made me a success. I was the first woman in my family to earn a master's in business analytics, own her own company, and a damn successful one. I built homes, sent my family on lavish vacations, my children to the best schools. Provided a secure future for generations. My actions are above reproach.” “I can see your successes on my screen,” she said with a calmness that silenced me as effectively as a slap across the face. It was said with kindness. But a kindness tinged with sympathy. “I can also see here no one has reserved a seat to your meeting here today. You have no current communications with your children or their children in our time registered with our message servers. It’s common for impending visitors to confirm meetings. We find relationships can be more strained than anticipated without this open line of communication.” “I had the visit planned, why would it need further communication? The date and time were clearly expressed in the travel plans.” She paused, looking down at her desk before returning my gaze. “Sometimes the things we think are important in our time, aren’t as important to the future.” She left it at that and sent me with a print out of my living descendants' contact numbers. I found myself sitting in the hall outside arrivals staring at the paper with my families’ numbers. I saw my oldest daughter’s name, my son. A list of their children. It occurred to me then I didn’t know a lot of the names under my children’s. Grandchildren? Who belonged to who? How old would my children be now? I had to perform a series of mental gymnastics to remember my daughter would be in her 60’s now, older than me. What was she like? Did she run a business like me? I had always assumed she did, but now I wasn’t so sure. The office administrator seemed to think her values would be different than mine. How could that be when I raised her? But that was what she meant, wasn’t it? I hadn’t raised her. I left before she woke up and got home after she went to bed. It seemed and still does, like the right thing to do to build a future for her. Would she not see it that way? Did she remember me less as a positive and strong role model or as an absent mother, someone who floated in and out missing major milestones? I sat and stared at the numbers, full of a doubt I had never felt before this day. I glanced at the bank of phones to the side of me, then back at the numbers. What if she didn’t answer? What if she did?

We always see somethings in life and think to ourselves what it's like? To go down that area explore those places, see what life could experience you if you dared. Could be something as crazy as climbing to the top of that one mountain or exploring that one room in the house. For me, it was a dark hallway in my grandmother's room. Ever since I was young it was always there beckoning me to enter and while I was always too scared to one day I worked up the courage to do so. I never understood why it took me so long to do it but I’ll be damned if I didn't. So I marched away into the unknown hallway only to find to my horror.... A locked door. Grandma always did have an element of theatricalises I suppose. Nevertheless, the search must go forward. This is merely just an obstacle in the way of greatness and just like all obstacles, it is necessary only to sway those who don't truly desire it and so like all great explorers I gave up. Yep, no great quest no X marks the spot. And to celebrate such a success I did what all great quitters do and reward myself with a freshly baked cookie. Grabbing the stool to reach the top cupboard to get the cookie jar wasn’t an easy task either, however it was a necessary one and with time and skill, I elegantly achieved my goal with grace. But just as luck would have the front door jiggled slightly as the current residential owner attempted to enter. I was able to analyze the situation quickly and knew my only chance to remain undetected was to make a perilous leap from where I stood. I did not know if I would survive the jump but the reward far outweighed. the risk so I did what any brave man would do. I jumped. The pain shot through my leg as I collapsed onto the ground but I had no time nor energy to remain where I was so I ran. The door busted open suddenly as I turned the corner into the dark hallway I started from. I was cornered. Like a rat in a sick maze. I made the disastrous mistake of being wrong. Something I shall not do again. "Hello?" The voice called out. She was close. Her fangs vile and crimson dripped with the blood of her last victim. It was then I realized that it was either me or her except I was clouded in the fog of war. While I knew what had to be done this was no easy task. The giant loomed over the hallway peeking her head around the corner staring into me. Stealth was not an option and I can tell whatever had my grandmother had to be destroyed before it infected anything else. "There you are sweety" the creature said turning on the hallway light. An oversight on me and a genius play on its part. I was blinded and she crept forward blocking the exit. If I didn't make a stand now I may not ever hold the chance. I readied myself and prepared my stance. My research and training by Power Rangers taught me everything I knew, not sponsored. And so with one quick blow I punched in the air having the wind blow the parasite out where I easily stomped it to death saving both my grandmother and the world. "WOAH!" said the child on the swing set. "Can you teach me how to do that?" "I could but I must warn you that you can **never** tell anyone about it AND you'll have to do the initiation" I replied. "Of course anything." replied the boy. A smile grew on my face as I watched the initiation ninja robots appeared.

Hey guys, a second installment of the story. Once again, please let me know if you have any thoughts! Cheers, Lordchimp Marks’ boots squelched through the mud as he trudged through the campsite. The rain had been unrelenting since the thunder began, they’d had to set their tents up in the downpour which had made Birmillius a very sour man indeed. He was bad enough in Marks eye’s, but now he become a nightmare. He snapped at anyone who came near, even if they came to help or lend a hand. He ordered the men to set up his tent, then shouted and hissed at them for doing it wrong. One man had given him a mug of hot tea, but he had taken one sip and thrown it away cursing that it was too bitter. There was no pleasing this wretch of a man. Mark’s strode his way over to his men, who had set their small tents up next to the main campfire, which lay crackling in the center of them all. They were all sullen and grumpy, but not because of the fact they were on the road. These men might not have been frontline infantry soldiers, but they had at least experienced travelling life before. No, there reason for being miserable was caused by their employer. At some point all of them had been on the wrong side of his furious, petty wrath and it had taken a lot of persuading from Marks to stop them from beating him to death. He sat down on one of the logs that the group had pulled next to the fire, the men making space for him as he approached. “Hey Marks, want a brew?” One of the younger lads asked, holding a mug up for him to take. He smiled fondly at him and took the mug graciously, taking a sip and savouring the warm liquid. “Lovely stuff Lance, tastes perfect lad.” “The boss still being a girl?” “Aye. Soft fool’s never been out of his house before.” Marks said, spitting to his side. He’d gotten along with Birmillius well enough before, but now he didn’t trust himself to stay near him. They all ate in silence for a while, enjoying and savouring the stew. “Hey boss,” One of the older men piped up. “What do you think of the new guy, you know, the siphon?” Revan had been a hot topic for the men, as they knew almost nothing about him, or what he could do. Marks glanced over to the very fringes of the camp, where Revan sat in the darkness. Alone. He’d been a strange one alright, not communicating with the men at all, just sat in the shadows prepping his equipment. It was the same every night, the same practiced routine. He started with his shortbow, unstringing the weapon and oiling the wood, testing the curve for it’s spring. Then, he unsheathed his blades, four in total and laid them at his feet on a scrap of rag. He oiled them as well, so delicately, so gently, it was like watching a man caress his lover. There was always a faint high pitched ring from him drawing the knives across his whetstone, stopping only when they were sharp enough to cut the hairs on the back of his hand. Finally, he checked all of the straps and buckles on his pack and on his horse’s saddle. Making sure everything was tight and secure, with no loose parts that could get tangled or caught on the undergrowth. *He’s a strange one alright.* “As long as he keeps his distance, I’ve got no problem with him... Seems to have a bit of an obsession with his knives though.” The men all ate and talked through the night, the way soldiers often do. He looked over his men with a sense of contentment. *These are good, honest men.* He was broken out of his contemplation by the sudden sound of angry, manic cursing. It was coming from Birmillius’ tent. He came out from the canvas literally frothing at the mouth with rage, stumbling around caught in the tent flaps. “By the bloody gates...” Marks said, rising to his feet to deal with the giant child. “My bedding! My bedding is damp and has mud over it! It was one of your men wasn’t it? Think it’s funny to play a joke on me!” Birmillius bellowed, stomping over to their fire. “My lord, I’m sure it’s just because it’s not been wrapped up enough, if you’ll-” “You dare? You think I’m a simpleton who can’t wrap his own equipment?!” He roared again. Before either of them could say anything else, Revan appeared seemingly from nowhere, a concerned, irritated look on his eyes. “You should both keep your voices down. There are other things than men in these woods.” Both of them looked at him in disbelief, lost for words for a moment. Then they both unleashed. “You dare?! You dare order me? A lord?!” Birmillius bellowed. “The bloody cheek of you! My men are perfectly capable-” “You must be quiet now.” He attempted to talk over the top of them both. Bad idea. “I’ll have you whipped for your disrespect for your betters! Whipped I say!” “We ought to leave you in the bastard woods!” A sound interrupted them again, this time, not from the mysterious ranger. It was a horrible piercing screech, that cut straight through the night into their hearts. It was like a dog’s lonely howl, crossed with a babies angry wail. “Stay by the fires. Now!” Revan ordered, moving quickly back to his deserted tent in a stealthy, crouched run. “What did he say? Stay by the fire? Is he serious?” Birmillius asked, attempting to be harsh and vicious, but the worry in his quaking voice betrayed him. “I assure you Lord, it’s probably nothing. There’s noises in these woods all the time. Still, stay close to the fire until he’s back.” “Yes yes...very good. I’m going to have him flogged when he’s back, thinking he can order me about like a mere peasant!” He said, venom dripping from his words as he travelled to the fire by the men. The shrieks continued, only increasing in volume. Sounding almost like whatever was making the noise was getting closer...The men were huddled round the crackling flames, standing as close as they could before the heat became too intense. Most of them were stood unarmed, there was only one young lad who had a spear readied. The noises went louder still, reaching very worryingly loud levels, it was almost as if the elusive source was on the edges of the camp. “Don’t worry lads, it’s just the noises of the woods. It’s loud I’ll give you that, but there’s nothing dangerous out there! Put that spear down lad, you won’t need that.” The young one looked around skittishly, before resting his spear on his shoulder, leaving the point in the air. The men all gave a good-natured chuckle, seeing a new boy so nervous. It was about mid way through the laugh when there was a sudden hissing noise and something shot out of the darkness and tore open the side of the boy's face, sending him tumbling to the ground screaming. It took Marks a second or two to comprehend what exactly he had seen. It looked like a branch of a tree had stretched and thrust through the air. Only it looked too dark to be a tree branch and it was covered in barbs... *Vineskins.

Me and my older brother have had an interesting relationship. We were best friends when we were kids, but ever since my parent's split and I moved in with him, we haven't spoken once. It's not like I didn't try, I used to strike up a conversation with him, but he would just sit in his lazy-boy chair and stare at me with his stupid eyes. I think he blames me for my parents divorce, which I understood. I got into some legal troubles when I was 16, I won't go into details but there was a long and stressful trial and I think it pushed them over the edge. My parents didn't want me living with either of them, so they left me with no choice, I had to live with my brother. My brother never verbally expressed his anger towards me about the incident. He knew it was something I deeply regretted but he still couldn't get past it. I've never brought any friends over to my brothers' apartment, the place is kind of a mess and my brother does virtually nothing to help clean up, he mostly just sits there in his lazy-boy and watches TV until it was time to go to bed. So one day I decided to clean the place up and invite my friend Austin over to hangout and have some drinks. Immediately when Austin walked in he complained about the smell. "I know it smells man I think there's some leaking in the walls and its turned into mold, I got a guy coming next week to take a look at it." I assure him. "It's all good man I know how that stuff gets, where's your brother? I thought you lived with him?" He asks me. "He's in his room doing something, probably sleeping honestly, he always gets up super early." I reply The night goes on as normal, We had some drinks, smoked a bowl and played some video games. My brother didn't make an appearance at all throughout the night, which i'm kinda glad, he's a buzzkill. "Has your other brother always been this way?" Austin asks me "Like a complete mess?" I ask him jokingly "Well I didn't want to say it like that, but yeah I guess" Austin laughs back. "He wasn't like this growing up, we would always hangout and do shit together, he was the talkative one in the family and he kind of kept us all together, well until my parents split up." "Oh shit, i'm sorry man." Austin offers his lifeless condolence to me "A lot of tough shit happened in our lives and it drove my parents apart, he felt like he failed this family and couldn't keep us together anymore. He blamed himself for it, but mostly I think he blames me for it." I confess to him. "Why would he blame you for it?" "I got into some trouble back in high school, It costed my parents a lot of money in legal fees and it caused so much stress between them that they just couldn't handle it anymore. I understand why he blames me for it, if it wasn't for me we'd still be a family." "What did you do that made all of that happen?" Austin's very curious at this point. "I really don't like to bring that part of my life back up, I've repressed it for so long and i'm just a totally different person than I was back then." "Well damn man, i'm sorry to hear all that, have you ever tried to talk to him about it?" He asks, as if i haven't tried. "I used to try all the time to get him to talk to me, I stopped trying because nothing I do will get him to talk to me. I understand he's angry with me but we're both adults now, If he doesn't want to talk to me then that's his decision." Austin can hear the anger in my voice. "I know it must be tough man, but there's gotta be a way to get him to come around, he's your only sibling and you don't want to burn that bridge yet. You have to appreciate them while you can." Austin says to me as if he has gone through something similar. His words resonate with me, even though my brother has refused to talk to me for all these years, I have to still try, for the sake of our family. Me and Austin have another beer until he heads out for the night. It's pretty late now and I doubt my brother's awake, but I figured I'd go see if I can talk to him for a bit. I open his bedroom door and he's laying in bed with the TV on, I can't tell if he's asleep or not but I decide to try to talk to him anyways. "Listen man, I don't want us to keep going on like this. I know i've done some shit in the past, but I think we just need to learn to get past it, we're all that's left of our family and I don't want to lose that." at this point i'm practically begging him to say something to me. He remained silent. "Just fucking talk to me." at this point i'm practically shouting so he must hear me. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen, It was an accident!" My brother's lifeless corpse lays silent on his bed. "I didn't mean to kill you.

The wretched creak of that fucking rope was gonna drive me insane. The wind had been pushing the ancient thing back and forth for the past fifteen minutes, it was the only thing to break the silence between me and the love of my life. It was a shame that our love was not meant to be, just like Romeo and Juliette, our relationship intertwined with the prickly vines of death. “Coralynn, you don’t have to cry sweetheart.” I soothed her. Grazing my thumb along her soft tearstained cheek, I drank in the rolling shades of shining blue that made up her eyes. Tears coursed down my girl’s rosy cheeks gliding into the tumultuous river below us. I tried to reassure her again, “We won’t be apart for very long my love.” That didn’t seem to calm her down though as a new bout of tears rose up. At that, I took her into my arms, soaking in her warmth for the last time. With a heavy sigh I consoled her, “Everything’s gonna be okay. This is just the way the cards fall hon.” Her shivering form leaned into my grasp. The luxurious Summer breeze pushed past me and I shifted my focus to the mass of water below us. The roar of the river was steady, no matter what happened the land around it obeyed and made way for the unending currents. Me and the waterway weren’t too different. People did what I say, they stayed out of my way because they knew what would happen if they didn’t. I gazed at the rope securely tied just behind Cora. “J-J-Jacob. P-Please,” she stammered, “you d-don’t have to do this.” Her words were marked by sharp inhales and whimpers. I looked back down at her, the sherbet colored sky reflected a golden glow off of her gorgeous, auburn hair. I took a final look at my sweet, sweet Coralynn, Taking in the the way the light accented her hips, her soft sunkissed skin, her fuchsia lips that concealed such an enchanting voice, and the silver shine portraying the wedding ring on her finger. I offered her a kind smile gazing into the perfect woman that I had loved for so many years. I took her left hand in mine and gently raised it into her view so she could see that monumental piece of steel and diamond that I desperately loathed, the tiny ornament that had sealed in her fate. “Yes, baby. I do.” I gazed into the azul oceans staring back at me. I watched the gears turn. I could see the scenarios playing out in her head, ‘What if I kicked out his knees?’ ‘What if I told him I still loved him?’. I could see the rope around her neck expanding at each frantic breath. I could see her hands trembling, as if they were trying to wave away her anxiety. And I could see the fear and panic swelling up behind the barrier of tears, tantamount to the intemperate waters just 10 meters below us. Her emotions threatened to consume her. It was clear that in this moment, all she knew was terror. I loved it.

Trigger warning - talk of murder and implied abuse. My lawyer advised - no, demanded, that I take a reprieve from the endless parade of reporters and journalists and well-intentioned acquaintances. That I allow myself some space to process what was about to come. A storm that had every intention to blow me over if I let it. I was overwhelmed. Weighed down by the burden of proof that lies somewhere within me. I cannot recall the horrors they need me to remember, though I’ve tried and tried. Dissociative amnesia, they’re calling it. A blockage of information associated with a traumatic event. My memory loss encompasses enormous gaps of my childhood. I can hardly recall any of the names of my grade school teachers. Concentrating, with my eyes closed, I try to picture the house we were living in when they said it happened. Can just piece together the color of the station wagon my dad used to drive, sitting in our weathered driveway. Gray. Like the color of the stray cat I found. Like the fabric of the collar I had made for him by hand, that I found in the trash along with the kitten, the day after my dad found out. It wasn’t that I had thought this normal, but I was content with letting the past close up behind me as I walked towards the future, letting it swallow all its agonizing secrets. As it turns out, I was only walking sideways. Had no idea that my own mind was protecting me from memories that would only serve to destroy my sense of self. It was my fault, he accused. I had taken the Ancestry DNA test in hopes of connecting with someone, anyone, from my mother’s side. She had died, he told me, in a rather tragic accident down the stairs when I was six. My dad had explained away that her family had disowned her, thrown her away. They weren’t even informed of the funeral. He said they had no right to her anymore. I think I remember a woman who may have been my grandmother try to visit me at my school. My dad found out, and I was transferred to a different district. I never questioned him when he was angry. I had assumed, when I submitted that test, that I wouldn’t find much. That if anyone cared enough to find me, they would have. Though, admittedly, I still dreamed about locating someone with a shared past that had been hidden from me without reason. When the barrage of messages from my Aunt, my own mother’s sister, choked up my inbox, I clicked open each message and read the contents with a voracity I didn’t know I possessed. My dad had changed our name after the death of my mother. I didn’t know that. I don’t remember life before her, even though I was 6, and by all accounts, precocious and bright. She had, she fervently insisted, been trying to find me ever since. Though fearful, I acquiesced to her wish to see me. She flew out to meet me in Seattle, and we cried over pictures that she had brought of my mother. When I insisted that I didn’t remember meeting her or any other family connected to my mother, her concerned brow was the first inclination I had that something wasn’t right within my own mind. She showed me memory after memory through pictures. I was there, seated beside my mother on a piano bench, green drink in her hand, juice box in mine. We were both smiling so hard that the corners of her eyes were lined with happy crinkles. Seeing us seated together, love evident on our faces, it was the first time I can ever remember crying. So, we sat there. And she let me, for the first time, mourn my mother’s death. It was my dad, she had sworn, that isolated my mother from her family. Stole her away, manipulated her into silence with the threat of taking me away from her. She loved me more than her own life, she had told me. And I cried anew. I had a whole loving family waiting to embrace me, she stressed. Though the joy in her face belied the sadness in her smile. So much unresolved family trauma. So much time lost. I told her I was ready to make space in my life for them, and I meant it. That was the plan, of course, until the FBI came knocking. You see, my dad had been careful. Until he wasn’t. And I’d almost feel bad for my father, if the muscle memory of his abuse wasn’t such an insult to my ever-present trauma. Months later, with my DNA that was ultimately linked to him, my dad was arrested on 5 counts of murder, including that of my own mother. His DNA was found on 4 bodies that had been recovered in the woods, miles from our old house. When they uncovered his connection, it wasn’t long until they reopened the strange case of my mother’s accident and ultimately declared it murder. These brutal slayings occurred at my house, with me in it. State’s Evidence would show that I was there. Had likely heard these murders. Seen something damning. Smelled the bleach he used to clean the bathroom and the kitchen tile. Had probably even been in the car when he went to dump the bodies. The problem? I could remember nothing. No amount of questioning could close the cavity of memory loss in my mind. The therapists labeled it dissociative amnesia. Privately, I felt it a blessing. So, following the sage advise from my lawyer, I made to leave town for a while. I know the prosecutors have hopes that my buried memories will somehow resurface, but I’ve warned them it’s unlikely. If anything, the stress of the last few months has worn me down so hard, that I scarcely remember to breathe, to eat, to sleep. Hardly able to mourn my own mother’s murder in solitude. So here I am. A renovated lighthouse in France. Just me and the sea. How ironic, that I would be staying in a place meant to act as a beacon of light to warn ships at sea, so the crews make it safely home. I couldn’t even help my own mother, or the others. I chose this location with intent. My Aunt had told me that my mother, before meeting my father, had visited France in her 20’s. Told me all about her quest to see the Carthusian Monks that produce her beloved Chartreuse. A terrible green liqueur she absolutely savored. Her family would tease her mercilessly for it, but she held fast, insisting on its excellence. Their monastery is just over the hills in Grenoble. When I find the will to move, I will go there and visit. Follow the flock of monks and honor my mother by tracing her footsteps. I imagine my bare feet walking the winding path up the mountain. Stepping on seedlings, feeling the light sprinkle of clean rain on my face, the universe doing its absolute best to absolve me of my sin of association. I don’t know whether I’ll ever get there. There will always be guilt until I can remember. I knew my father was a monster, but I did not know he was a killer. And honestly? I don’t think I want to remember.

I feel nothing. I don't believe there is anyone who is experiencing something who can accurately describe what that is as to give those who do not have it access to that thing. What does it mean to feel that which is objective, but cannot be accessed through the subjective? What are us who do not have this feeling to do with such inadequate instructions on how to obtain it. When people say they feel peace, they usually say they have a sense of relief, feel at ease, are detached from worries in the world, serene despite what is going on around them. Can a person who is committing some evil be peaceful? I am certain all agree with me on this; that you cannot have peace when committing evil. Whatever that person's sensation, we would call it something different, but not peace. But this makes my point. This vehemently makes my point. Choose any descriptors--which are subjective--to ascertain what you mean when you say you are at peace. Any of these descriptors can be used by the evil person, who is committing an evil act, who is most certainly not experiencing what you are experiencing. My point is not to say you are not at peace. You may very well be. What I am saying is that you have no way of actually telling me what this is. I can no longer turn to you. While in my yard the other day raking leaves I saw a worm. Grimy. Long. Juicy. Peaceful. How is it that you cannot tell me what peace is, but this worm can show me that I am at peace? It must be better to be shown. I will thus become one of you. Those who have it, but cannot explain it. For this reason I have decided to send those who search for peace out to the yard to rake. There it will be explained to you I say. I feel indignant for those who do not have the peace I have procured from this wise worm, just like you. I feel magnanimous with my new discovery. Yet it is wasted on those like me. Those who cannot obtain the peace I now have through this worm which I ensured them was the secret to peace are useless. I lose my peace. Yes, I lose it and must find the worm. These idiots do not understand something so simple. Rake the leaves. Find the worm. Have your peace. Show others. The formula is simple. But my peace is lost, again the more I see those unhelpful swards parading with their misery out and about through life. Take my counsel! Was I this frustrating to those who found their peace through speech? Surely I must have been. Oh, and how terrible it must be that they lost their peace because of me! How easy it is to lose that which is so sweet and wonderful. What use is it, that we all have arrived at this pillar, through different modalities, but no one can tell us what it is nor give us the guidance on how to obtain it. And why can I not stay peaceful? Why must it be the case that I lose my peace? There must be better peace! Certainly that is the answer! The worm! Oh that dreaded worm, I must find you once again! Give me all the leaves to rake. All the yards! Every worm which has scoured the earth without my sight, allow me to lay my eyes on you just for a moment. Let it be so. This, this will be of great use for humanity. Imagine my peace, expanded. If I was more peaceful! If my peace was never lost. How much I could touch the hearts of those who lack what has been bestowed upon me; understanding. This worm holds the secret to the innards of my heart. Worm. If you can help me know the peace which is mine, let us show others that which is theirs. Can I be more peaceful worm? I still lose it. Can I always be peaceful worm? Is this too much to ask for? If so, why? If my question is irritating, maybe you have lost your peace. For peace begets patience and patience begets peace. You must answer my question. If I know that I am not perfectly peaceful, then why can't I have it? Why can't I be shown how to be perfectly peaceful? What the hell is that thing looking at? What is that? Oh, the sun. Whatever this thing is, it has taken away my shade. Let me be. Let me be the worm. I am worm, son of worm, brother and sister of worm. I just want to rest. Let me be a worm. I do not know what you are, but you are not a worm. You are a non-worm! Oh, how splendid. A non-worm. Non-worm understand me clearly, you cannot be me. I am a worm and you are not. This is clear. Now go on, it is my desire that you no longer be near me, for I sense you want what you cannot have. You cannot have me, for I am not yours nor are you mine. Maybe it is not peace which I seek. I do not know what I seek. Though I do not know what it is, I want it and more than anything. What is a man to do if he wants something he cannot have, but it is his to have. Glimpses. I only get glimpses of this. I could describe this for you here, but you would not understand and altogether you would misunderstand what I am referring to. Let me be clear, that this worm does not have my peace, nor do I have it, but it is inside of me. I do not deserve it. I know this, because I lose it. I cannot lose what I deserve. If I deserve something, it will be mine. That is how it works. A child may desire a toy, but what he deserves is some schooling. He will get what he deserves. I have not found it, nor is it something I think I can find, but it is something that I deserve. We deserve it, yes, this thing which I cannot speak of. Go and rake your leaves, you will not find it, but it may be with you.

I saw the black cat walking, but I never crossed its path. I was born into fortune and gifted with a knack for creating problems for myself. Maybe it’s because I knew there’s nothing worse than living a life without struggle. If you have nothing to work toward, nothing to fix, then you have nothing to live for. Twenty-five years of my life had gone by before I met her. Twenty-five years of searching for a purpose, a reason to live, a reason to die. She was the provisional answer. “My name is ,” were the first, unprompted, words she said to me. Why would she think that I care? Sure she was pretty, but did she know what I was going through? Her confidence radiated throughout the room, “do you want to split a drink?” This request would define our relationship forever. Her beauty was indefinable. Her soft pale skin complimented her gaunt physique. If it weren’t for her alluring eyes and invigorating glare, it’d be hard to tell she had a pulse. She had me in her grips from the start, and her claws would only sink deeper. I was no stranger to substance abuse. I drank nearly everyday, but smoked like a recovering addict. That was enough for me, enough to get me through the day without questioning the mundane. It wasn’t until I met her that I would graduate to a different vice. The first time I used, we split the hit. The needle was still warm when it entered my body. Serenity. Only two months had passed and I struggled with defining my addiction. The idea of destroying myself with her by my side gave me purpose. The sedating warmth that filled my core gave me peace. Her attitude toward life was pure hypocrisy. Race to the end, and enjoy every second of it. Our use wasn’t categorized into self-loathing or hatred for existence. It was the opposite. We lived everyday like it was our last, and as far as we knew, it was. The silver serpent would slip in and out injecting its innocuous venom into our arms. All the while we embraced its effect. Incorporating intoxication into our work and family lives was a struggle at first. Once we quit our jobs and severed most ties, pure bliss. Everyday was a new experience. We satisfied our spiritual appetite to the fullest extent, only to balance our physical pleasure with various drugs. Every moment with her was pure ecstasy, even when we weren’t on it. We weren’t naïve enough to think this could last forever, but it did, forever is a relative term. It never mattered to us if we were alive or dead, as long as we had each other. Her head on my chest, my breathing gets softer. Serenity. Purpose.

A year from now, she’d be married. She’d be curled up in bed with a stranger and a glass of champagne and the title of the next year as a crown atop her head. A year from now she’d be smiling and happy and loved. She’d have a stable job, a house with two stories, a stranger and a glass of champagne. She told herself this, with a hand wrapped around a cold glass. Whiskey, not champagne, but at least she had the crowd of strangers around her, like curtains on a stage, and her at the bar in her costume of a woman alone on New Years Eve. He was a villain, a victor, a side character. He was the man on the subway calling his wife, the boy on the playground laughing with his friends, the skater in a New York ice rink. He was the voice on the other side of the call, the mysterious love interest in the bookstore. He was the angry man at the corner of the street, the bully in high school. He was all these things and more, because to him life was but a story with countless empty roles to be filled. Today he was playing a man at the end of the bar, and nothing more. A drink, a laugh, a kiss, and this play would be over and on to the next one tomorrow. A drink, a laugh, a kiss and the year would end. Her hand, dripping in her lap. Condensation in a warm, bubbling room, like the froth on a wave lapping at the cliffside, rocks and pebbles crashing through the water - water eroding the beach, water eroding the rocks, water eroding the woman’s life. Water in the form of glass and whiskey and hate and lips. Water in the form of friends and family and loss. She was a pebble in a river, a bump in the rapids, and the water simply poured over her, indifferent to her cries and calls for help. And a hand, like a warm ray of sunshine, dripping with the harsh waters of life, lifted out from those fiery rapids, reached up to the sky, and held the stars at the tip of her fingertips. A drink, a laugh, a kiss. The play was winding down, ten seconds to the curtain call, ten seconds til his role was done, a line or two, a step or three, a drink, a laugh, a kiss. A drink. A laugh. He slammed the glass down on the wood, slick with years of shots and spills and tears and characters whose job it was to rub down the bar for the play this year. A drink, a laugh, a kiss. A woman sat next to him. She had hair like wild grass in the always empty patch of land just off the freeway, a nose like a crooked mountain, cheeks red and patchy. She had a mole on the side of her neck and eyebrows as thin as twigs. Her eyelashes were long and curved, like antennae on butterflies and he remembered, when he was little, in a role long before his own, his mom would brush her eyelashes up against his, and call it a butterfly kiss. Does the laugh come before or after the kiss? He liked the way her fingers slid over the glass in front of her, drew words in the dark of the bar, poetry that disappeared in the heat of the night. When she left that night, she just wanted to escape the loneliness of her apartment, the droning of the television, the cheers from the streets down below. She wanted to drown in the happiness around her, so she went to the bar. She went to the place thick with the choking smell of laughter, the stench of happiness and love and excitement. She could go anywhere in the city and smell it like death, like the plague, only she seemed to be immune. So she went to the bar to drown in the happiness wafting off of everyone around her - the bartender, the couple in the middle of the room, the friends making jokes in the corner, the man at the end of the bar. She turned to look at him, eyes of hazel poppies in a field of raked dirt. An oasis of palm fronds and bright blues of resort pools. Hands in his lap like the branches of a tree, so long she almost expected the fingers to grow out and up and wrap around her like ropes. A face like gravel, with dips where feet had shaken the pebbles loose. A broken nose, like hers. Five seconds in the rest of her life. “Hi.” His last bit of dialogue in the play. “Hey.” She slouched over her empty glass, looked side-long at him, lifted, tilted her face. Years went by in the minutes they existed, and the whole time she was wondering what made strangers so different, blank slates, gaps in the progression of time, canvases to paint a lifetime on. A car passing by carries a family of love, hope, hate, and tragedy. A light in each window of a skyscraper is a poem, a song, a story. We exist in our separateness all the same, all knitted together. And the room around them bubbled like water to a peak, a heat so vividly bright, it threatened to explode before its cue. He was wondering when his role would expire, when his life would reveal its permanence. Because he was tired of always constantly being something. He was tired of having cues, lines, roles, costumes. A laugh, a kiss, a drink. He would study butterflies in Brazil, soil in Argentina, literature in Britain, food in Paris. He would carry people through burning buildings, coax a baby out of it’s cage, raise a wolf from a dog, and yet he would always remain the same stagnant character. And a drink, a laugh, a kiss would change nothing, but he could hope that he might find a final role next year. The room chanting, characters with a goal, separateness finally pulled together, strands of yarn pulled tight if only for a few more seconds, pulled tight for a kiss and then let go. And the synchronization of the night, she thought, is what makes a stranger so alluring. Her hands drifted up and along the man’s jaw, traveled to the back of his head. She smiled, he laughed. Breath smelling like alcohol and sadness and loss and loneliness. A laugh, a smile, a kiss. They pulled like magnets together, and connected at the last second of the year in a kiss like two currents twisting together for a moment before passing each other by. And piano riffs sounded from the orchestra bowl at the edge of the stage, and the audience erupted in applause. For a moment, they seemed to be synched. Eyes closed, breathing slow, together in the same story for a moment, just before finding their own peace.

They say when you have a dream you go for it. Do everything you can to achieve and don’t let anyone stop you. Because if you are truly passionate about something you won’t let it go. Well, that’s what Connor Bethany Alex and I are doing. Achieving our dreams. My ma had always told me to never give up on my dreams. Never give up was our family motto, whenever she saw me struggling with something I was passionate about she told me to not give up until all the other possible solutions don’t work. And that was one of the best pieces of advice she could have given me because I always found out that the other solutions worked out in the end. And it was the best advice I shared with my group. The crew and I had lived on never giving up. Which explains why we managed to achieve most of our dreams and were satisfied with our lives. But today we were going to achieve our biggest dream and excited would be an understatement of how we felt. You see in our group we’re all bakers and cooks. We love to do it it’s just what we do and we wouldn’t choose to do anything else. All of our future dreams are to be one-day famous cooks and bakers and we are all one step closer each time our successes get recognised on our socials. No matter how many times we screw up the recipe we won’t give up on this one. We’ve tried for months and months and we’ve all decided that if we can get this right we can cook anything. A Guinness world record we’re going for and a Guinness world record we are going to get. We have the support of everyone around us, Our extended families, other kids from school, workers at our parents’ workplaces, our neighbours, and surprisingly the support of famous chef Gino D’Acampo and that gives us the massive motivation boost but also a little panic. But we’re doing it to impress Gino! A huge inspiration to us all. “Connor, get all the equipment and ingredients Beth give him a hand. Today is the day you lot, Today is the day we are going to impress everyone and achieve that world record that I know we can get if we all work accordingly” Alex motivated and praised us. Alex and I whipped up the recipe and measured everything out and Connor and Bethany drew out the plans and discussed them while we measured. We’ve mastered the talent of measuring things accurately while having a conversation and that surprised everyone at the start but now they admire it. “Okay here’s the plan” Bethany announced. We were going to make the biggest cookie you could ever imagine. Bigger than the biggest. We wanted to achieve the world record for the biggest cookie. When we all heard about the world record and a challenge to beat it our faces lit up and we planned a get together on a weekend. We’ve tried multiple times trying the same thing but it didn’t work so we had taken a break and tried again this weekend. Connor had come up with a new solution to try and make this recipe and we were all impressed and kicked ourselves for not thinking about it sooner. We decided to make five batches of ingredients separately rather than all in one because that’s where we were going wrong. We gathered all our ingredients and I loaded them in the car. We were going to use the outdoor oven that Gino invited us to. Once we had gotten the ‘Okay’ that we could make a public announcement about going to the outdoor oven we announced it on all our separate socials and our group account. When we arrived we weren’t expecting to see such a big crowd of people that had come to support us and our journey of achieving our long-term dream of achieving a world record and impressing our favourite chef. We had set everything up and went round to meet and greet everyone before we had to start. Everyone had fueled our determination and excitement and before we know it, it was time to begin baking the biggest cookie we’ve ever made. Time was ticking and there were several ‘take this’ ‘put this in there’ ‘mix this with that.’ We were cooperating well as a team as well as having fun under the pressure to remove it and that was what we needed. “Bethany where is the third batch of cookie dough?” I asked for the third time hoping she’d have heard me considering she was too busy getting comfortable with Connor. “Oh it’s over there by the whisk near Alex” She called back and I whisked it up and placed it in the bigger bowl ready to be put onto the big tray ready to be baked. We all had to take a separate side of the tray and pour the dough out as big as we can and surprisingly we managed to do it. We had everyone on edge while we were waiting for it to bake. We all stayed together crossing our fingers that it’d bake all the way through in the time given and beat the world record. The time passing felt like an eternity never leaving and I had already chewed down my nails to the skin Connor was beginning to sweat like a pig, Alex kept checking his watch and Bethany was fidgeting at her hair pulling at it. “Times up! Now we check the cookie” Gino announced and walked up to it with several other chefs we didn’t recognise. Probably just small chefs that work in a restaurant maybe? They all checked everything and gathered together and had a small conversation with each other. They turned to face us and I had forgotten how to breathe. “I would like to happily present this world record to Connor Alex Bethany and Emily for making the now world's biggest cookie successfully” Gino praised us as he walked towards us ignoring our group squeal and finished with a small chuckle. I can’t believe it. We actually did it! We accomplished our biggest dream and I was over the moon. My mother’s advice is something I would never forget and I will continue to pass it down to other people because it’s something everyone deserves to know. If you are passionate about something and you want to pursue it into a career then go for it, put your heart and soul into it. And most importantly NEVER GIVE UP! Because it could lead you to amazing opportunities like us, meeting our chef role model. Bite the bullet and take the chance. You have everyone’s support including ours!

Susy Clide I can't stop thinking about a girl named Sue, well Susy, Susy Clide. It doesn't matter what you call her she doesn't change. I think everyone around the world knows of her in some way, she's quite famous. Sometimes I'm able to forgot about her, but not for long, and when I remember her she infects my brain for quite some time. A couple people I know have actually gone out with Sue Clide. People really seem to change after having experiences with Sue, I guess you just really don't understand it unless you feel that intense desire for her and everything she does. I think a lot of people think about her but only a few are really able to commit. Sometimes it takes a leap, other times it's just hanging, but it is always the same. Sue doesn't stay with any one person at a time, she visits and flirts, but the visits never last longer than an instant, and that's all the time you'll need. She just has a way of getting inside your head, like her presence spreads through your mind like a virus and the only cure is a visit from her. I can't seem to get her out of my head tonight, I've heard rumors of ways to meet her or get rid of her, some kind of repelent, like a pesticide, it's called Su-i-cide. I think I'll give it a try, she's driving me mad.

A wave of energy pulsed and rippled through the darkened front room of the two-story home. It traveled thirty feet and dissipated. Electromagnetic signals grew red and also faded. From the doorway everything could be seen in a hazy x-ray, extending from the living room to the bedroom upstairs. The retrogress scanner was the only light, the condemned house fell quickly back into shadow. Harvester Asylus entered the home and touched the air to highlight the ancient signals, staring through a face shield. He closed the door to prevent his long coat from flapping in the wind. Primitive humans had been so obsessed with consumerism and the house was littered with random objects, the mechanical signals were all over the place. Pictures were lopsided on the walls of a life that was long forgotten. The people who had lived here were smiling but they had probably never known true happiness. In the kitchen he found rudimentary appliances and obsolete utensils. On the counter was a small rectangular device that had once been used as a personal computer, a method to view a distorted reality. Asylus picked it up and noted the strong aura coming from it. How sad that they depended on these small telephonic machines so heavily. Another trinket for his collection. He placed it in his jacket and moved to the area of the home known as the living room. There hadn’t been any real living here of course, not in modern terms. This is where the family would come to lay down and do nothing for hours on end. A faint aura was around the big box facing the couch. The rectangle in his pocket was the antecedent to making the big box superfluous. It was from these small devices that humanity banded together to criticize, uplift, demoralize, and comfort one another. Asylus remembered the history of these people. In secret they were lonely. It was the phones that connected them together, links in a chain, water pouring out in an endless digital river. The TV had been kicked in, plastic shards had decayed into mold and moss. He was glad for it. The phone device he would put on his wall to display the downfall of humanity. It had only led to their separation and division. Coddled and pampered, listening to their own ideals and beliefs being displayed back at them, society had cultivated a series of rules and unspoken, personal laws. Rights and wrongs were individualized. He looked at the family portraits and tore one off the wall, throwing it on the grass covered floor. Birthed from a glass tube and being raised in indoctrination center taught him the importance of being alone. But he couldn’t help but linger on the idea of a family. The past had stolen that sensation from him. The past had robbed all of civilization from something called humor, an expression of lightheartedness long forgotten because several individuals found it to be offensive. Laughter, with all its terrible derision, had become a foreign concept. Asylus supposed that the primitives never understood their own boasting and how important it was to the growth of the Transgressions. The sacred laws had to be upheld and he was proud of being part of its delivery. It was the Transgressions that made him a better person, drove him as a young child to push himself harder and focus more deeply. He activated the retrogress scanner again. The soft blue light echoed like sonar. There were no remains here but the Ultranet had pointed the Harvester to this area. That was when he looked up and saw the biological life essence, shimmering green on the second floor. The stairs were cracked and bent, the landing was nearly completely missing. Somehow a potted plant hung from the window. It had been overgrown but after a few hundred years Asylus didn’t want to disturb it. Pictures were here too, of an existence of clean water and breathable air. A peaceful world. A world of shopping malls, hair salons, fast food, and instant coffee. A world of accommodations, replacements, and comfort. They didn’t know what they had, and now it was his turn to reap, sow, and bring woe. He followed the green light to the master bedroom. A hole in the roof allowed rainwater and sewage seep through. Beams had collapsed onto the bed but that wasn’t where the body was. The skeleton was at his feet, arm outstretched. The man had been old, living alone and died from injuries to his torso. A scan of the man’s skull brought a virtual representation in front of Asylus, which grew with virtual neurons, recreated from the post-transgressor. Data ran across his interface and slowly filled in the personification that stood before him. The gaps were filled in with textures and visuals from ancient pictures. The recreated brain was ready to be activated. Asylus blinked hard to bring the simulation to life. The man, appearing in his seventies, blinked back and staggered, looking around his ruined bedroom. “Wha...what? Where am I?” Jerry Wilson, as his name tag indicated, was naturally shaken and tried to step out of bounds of the digitization but couldn’t. “Who are you?” Asylus put up his hand, “I am a Harvester. Your home, where you’ve been for seven hundred years. You’ve lived an extravagant life, Mr. Wilson.” “Extravagant?” He shouted, eyes darting. “I’ve lived a life I could afford and I think I’ve earned it. Is this the afterlife? What is this?” The simulation was as real as if he were alive and that excited Asylus. Of course, he was just a representation but there was still penance that needed to be paid. “This is not the afterlife, not yet. First you must face sentence. You are in violation of the Transgressions, our code and scripture. Even in death you cannot escape damnation. An eternity of virtual hellfire awaits you.” “Hellfire?! I was always a good Christian and law-abiding citizen. I did everything I could to be good to my neighbors.” “No.” Answered the Harvester. “We, the Surviving Union of the Ostrio Nation, judge you to be condemned. You have committed twelve violations against our culture and society.” “So I’ve been dead...for that long? Haven’t I been pardoned for such crimes? Why should I be accountable for my actions after my death.” Mr. Wilson looked down and seemed to ponder this last word. “You are guilty of such transgressions against your fellow man. You requested the cancelation of many shows and individuals on your social media accounts. This is forbidden. The other transgressions are much more severe. You were a consumer. Current law dictates that consumerism is forbidden. Usage of plants for anything other than photosynthesis is also forbidden. You’ve used 2 tons of toilet paper, 120 condoms, 4 tons of Styrofoam cups, and 4 tons of other paper and plastic products. Your gas emissions were well above the standards and your electrical output has been hazardous to the environment.” “This isn’t fair!” Mr. Wilson threw up his arms and gestured desperately. “You must all be held accountable to today’s standards, regardless of your deceased status. Prepare to be incarcerated into the digital realm of the infernal underworld.” With that Harvester Asylus opened his palm where an orb appeared in the virtual space. Jerry Wilson’s persona was sucked into its void and quickly disappeared, along with the orb itself. Another digital ghost detained. The world was a safer place. He breathed out deeply and smiled, knowing that the toxicity of the past would not taint the future. The relief quickly faded. His scanner chimed with another prehistoric life signal. Accountability was a never-ending job.

On a moonlit evening In a land beyond the horizon, There once was a forest. Within this forest there grew a tree who wanted nothing more than to hold the Sun. To grab it, so that it’s lifegiving rays could shine down on their forest forever, and the forest would never want for its warmth in the cold nights. And so, the tree decided that it must grow. It must grow tall enough to grasp the heavens. The tree’s roots stretched and reached; it would need much food and much water so it could grow tall enough to reach the sky, after all. As time passed, the tree grew tall and it’s height became remarkable as it now towered over it’s neighbors. But it could not yet reach the Sun. Even still, the tree did not relent. The tree spent years growing; it’s roots stretching further and further as the tree searched for more food and water. It had not yet grown enough to grasp the heavens. But far beneath the swaying peak, the other trees in the forest were withering away. The trees nearest the tall one had long since fallen as there was no food nor water left to be had. Those trees had fallen and become food for the tall one, as it continued to stretch towards the sky. Over many years, the area around the tall one became empty. The food and water having been taken by the tall one. The only life that lived near the tree now was the creatures that lived within it’s branches. But the tall one had yet to take it’s prize. Then the tree bore fruit. The sort that no woodland creature could resist. But the fruit was not given as a gift by the tree. The fruit was poison and was grown to kill the woodland creatures so that the tree could feast upon them. All so the tree could capture the sun. The forest had now grown small. There was only the tree and what few creatures that could stomach it’s poison fruit. There was no longer any food or water except for that which was had by the tree. Yet it still stretched out it’s roots further and further. It took all the food and all the water that lay before it as it continued it’s quest to snatch the Sun. Then, one day, the tall one found nothing at the ends of it’s roots. There was no food and no water; there was only sand. The tree had reached for miles and now found nothing but desert all around it. The tall one was now quite tall indeed, but still had not captured the Sun. There was now nothing left to sustain it. The water had been drunk long ago and there was nothing left to eat as far as the eye could see. And so the tree stood. Watching the heavens pass by day after day. Slowly drying out as the Sun beat down upon it. Until one day the tall one fell. It crumbled into dust there, at the heart of a barren desert of it’s own creation.

This was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives. A vacation before college, before they say goodbye. Nora and Alexa were twins. Very close twins, the kind of twins that wore the same clothes for way too long. Alexa was set to go to MIT. She was always the overachieving sister, Nora decided to start her own business and she was ready to move 1 block away in an apartment building near her local community college. Nora wanted to get out of the house, but she never held onto anything for long, her mother worried she would switch her majors so many times she would get kicked out of college. Alexa just said that Nora was too good to be tied down by any decisions. Small or large. Alexa and Nora had never spent time apart. 2 weeks before Alexa had to leave they decided to go on a trip. Alexa packed everything they needed, while Nora picked locations. Then Alexa got to pick where they actually went. “One week, we have one-week, maybe even less” Alexa started to laugh as she talked to Nora “And?” Nora questioned, letting a small smile curl from her right cheek. “We can’t make it to Egypt and back in one week” Alexa explained “Well then I guess we will just have to stay forever,” Nora responded. They decided to go camping. A 2-hour drive, and some light packing. Nora insisted they find something Egyptian. Alexa explained that there would be nothing Egyptian in northern Illinois. As they headed out onto the road Nora started to talk about her future. She was going to be a marine biologist who wrote poetry and taught kindergarten. Alexa laughed once more before her smile turned downward. “What do you really want to do?” she asked “I don’t know, no need to look that far into the future,” Nora responded “It’s 2 weeks away, what do you mean?” Alexa asked, with concern in her eyes “I’ve never made a decision that far in advance” Nora replied, she knew that wasn’t true, but she wasn’t ready for Alexa to know yet, she was never ready. 30 minutes into the car ride and they sat silent, then a song came on. Their favorite song since birth (or so they say). “Cat’s in the Cradle” blared from the car speakers, but their pitchy screams still sounded louder. 1 hour and 30 minutes into the car ride and they couldn’t stop laughing. Between the giggles and gasps for air, Nora began to speak “I love this” “I love it too” Alexa responded as her laughter died down. They finally arrived at the camping ground. Nora ran into the trees to find the perfect campfire wood, Alexa attempted to pitch a tent. For a soon to be MIT student she lost that fight badly. When Nora came back to the camping ground she found Alexa sitting on the ground, two metal camping rods in her hands. The look of defeat plastered on her face. Nora ran to her side and started to build a tent. “Huh,” Nora said as she put the tent together. “Engineer,” Nora said, “I’m gonna be an engineer!” Alexa smiled as she adjusted the tent once more. They sat at the campfire and talked about life. Nora seemed aloof. As if she never worried about the future. As Nora stared at the flickering embers she stood up. She took a large breath and then walked to the tent. Alexa put the fire out then followed Nora. When she walked into the tent she saw Nora searching through her back. Like a battle with her backpack, Nora violently shuffled through the bag until she found the object of her desire. A small stuffed animal. Alexa knew exactly what it was. Nora looked at Alexa. “Take it,” she said softly. “I can’t just take it” Alexa responded “You said nobody could even touch Buttons except for you.” “I know, I know” Nora responded “But listen, you are leaving and you need something to remember me,” Nora said as she pushed the stuffed animal closer and closer to Alexa. Finally, Alexa took the small stuffed animal and held it close. She could see the bittersweet relief in Nora’s eyes. They sat there for a while. Until they eventually went to sleep. When Alexa woke up in the morning, she began to pack. Nora didn’t know that she was leaving for college in a day, not 2 weeks. She was almost done packing by the time Nora was awake, only the tent was left. They finished packing up the car and left, Nora was confused about leaving early. Alexa was never one to explain when she knew it would make Nora so sad. As they drove back home, the misty air seemed to clog their throats. They didn’t speak. Alexa could see small drops of tears fall down Nora’s face, she didn’t want to talk about it. Alexa never wanted to admit it, but she never wanted to talk when Nora was crying. She never knew what to say, she never knew how to stop Nora from... They finally got home, Alexa took her pre-packed moving bags and was getting ready to leave. She looked at Nora, sleeping on the couch. Unaware that Alexa was leaving. Alexa shed a single tear as she closed the living room door. With a painful heart, she started the car engine and drove away. When Nora awoke she looked for Alexa. If she didn’t have Alexa, she didn’t have anyone. Halfway through the drive, Alexareceived a call. Singing along to T-Swift she answered the phone. She stopped, her body paralyzed she forgot how to drive. After 2 seconds, she collected her head enough to drive. She turned the car and sped home as fast as she possibly could. Turning her 30-minute drive into 20. She knew she couldn’t save Nora, but she had to. She had to get to Nora. She had to say goodbye before it was too late. When she finally got home she saw the ambulance parked outside her house. She ran up to the truck. “Please miss, take a seat, the best thing for you to do is let the EMT’s work,” The ambulance driver said to her. She sat outside on the porch, waiting for anyone to come walking out of the house. With all of the thoughts pounding through her head, one thought wouldn’t stop ringing inside her brain. Why was this the only decision Nora could ever make? She watched as the EMT ran out of the house with Nora on the stretcher, Is she breathing? The EMT paused, he stopped moving the stretcher, he felt her pulse, he looked away. No. Not Nora. Alexa couldn’t control her tears. The tarp came out. She didn’t want to accept that by then it was too late.

The Commander was at his work station. There was a lot to do. With a sigh, he absorbed the contents of the report he had requested: “From the Institute for Space Exploration To the Commander-in-Chief, Space Exploration. Honoured Sir, Planet 451.23 Our brief You have directed us to investigate this planet, its constituents and life forms, to determine whether it might be profitable for our people to visit it in the name of peace and commerce. Limitations on our investigation The subject planet is surrounded by a protective shield. Probes sent to discover more about the planet have simply burnt out on entry into its atmosphere. Larger vessels have been able to break through, but have then had negative results. On one unfortunate occasion, of which we believe you are aware, sir, our engineers mistakenly sent a vessel of such size that it extinguished all the life forms on the planet. It took many millennia for the planet to be restored to the level where it could support any life-form. Emissaries have initially reported success in finding a way round the shield, but have then vanished in circumstances which are still shrouded in mystery. On the other hand, whereas at one time we were able to access information about the planet only visually, we now have access to electronic communications emanating from the planet. These have increased our knowledge of the planet, but have only served to increase our incomprehension of the way of life of its principal life-forms. The physical characteristics of the planet The subject planet has a circumference of 49 million miles, and a surface area of 197 million square miles. 29% of the planet is land; the remainder is water. The climate is humid and clearly capable of supporting life, and the flora and fauna, all of which over the years have appeared in abundance. Lately, however, there has been a most regrettable deterioration in the conditions for supporting life, brought about almost entirely by the behaviour of the Custodians (see below), who alone have the ability to control the planet in a constructive way, but frequently behave as a de structive force. The life-forms There are no less than eleven life-forms on this planet. We propose to concentrate on the three most visibly numerous groups. 1. The Custodians These life-forms appear to play a disproportionately large part in the actions and preservation of the planet. The name we have given them derives from the key role they have taken upon themselves, although we do not consider that they fulfil that role with any degree of success. They have four protuberances from an oval body topped by a spherical object which appears to contain the sensory centre of the species. They typically stand on two of these protuberances save for the purposes of feeding, resting and procreating. They cannot live on or in water for an indefinite period of time, and have to remain at a steady temperature. Because of their activity, the temperature of the planet is rising each year, thus reducing the area of land on which they can live. Two of the protuberances appear to be for the purposes of self-propulsion, and two for other forms of activity, many of which appear directed to the destruction of other life-forms. Their population is currently 804 million, growing at a rate of 65 million each year. 2. Quadrupeds These life-forms are limited to living on land. In their natural environment, they dwell in areas different to the Custodians. They have four protuberances, and generally use all four both for self-propulsion, feeding and procreation, thus differing themselves from the Custodians. They and the Custodians appear not to be able to communicate effectively with each other. In those cases where communication appears to be possible, the Custodians appear to be surprised by this, and find it a cause for humour or entertainment. Some of the Quadrupeds are so small that it is impossible, from our limited observation platform, to detect the numbers, but we estimate that they number about 5.5 million. However, their population is decreasing by 68% each year, mainly because of the destructive tendencies of the Custodians, who kill them not only for food but for their own pleasure. 3. Aquatics These life-forms inhabit the water. They typically do not have any protuberances but are propelled by movements of their bodies, which assume a horizontal posture. Feeding is achieved by simply opening the aperture at one end of their bodies and allowing an inflow of water which apparently contains the nutrients that they need. Again, there appears to be no obvious means of communication between the Aquatics and the Custodians, who clearly believe that it is their right to use other life-forms for their own entertainment and for food, although not necessarily at the same time. Because of the depth of the water on the subject planet, we have been limited in our research, but believe that there are over 2 million Aquatics; however, their population is also decreasing by 68% each year, due to the destructive tendencies of the Custodians and the rise in the temperature of the planet which endangers not only their body structures but their natural habitats. Mineral Resources There are mineral resources on the planet which are capable of supporting all the life-forms that the planet contains. However, those resources are being consumed by the Custodians at a rate which, if maintained at its present level, will lead to the destruction of all life-systems. The prime instance is Carbon, an element which is capable of producing the heat that is needed in certain areas of the planet in order for Custodians to sustain the temperature that is required for their existence, for transportation, and, paradoxically, for maintaining the temperature of the planet as a whole. According to our investigators, if current rates of Carbon consumption are maintained, in eight years the temperature of the planet will start to increase to such an extent that the amount of the planet which is uninhabitable will start to increase beyond sustainable limits. The Custodians appear to be aware of what is happening, but seem incapable of any sort of agreement to resolve it. The Quadrupeds and Aquatics must clearly be conscious of the problem, because it is their way of life which is being most affected, but they cannot effectively communicate this to the Custodians, and are dependent on the Custodians to act on their behalf. All too frequently, this simply does not happen. The conduct of the life-forms 1. The Custodians The Custodians usually live in small groups, often led by an individual who is called the “King” or “President” and who usually appears to be an older member of the group. Different groups appear to have no consistent method of communication with each other. They emit noises which, in places only short distances from each other, are different and have different meanings, so that true communication is impossible. They are of different colours and markings, which result in the deepest possible suspicion of each other. Even Custodians in the same group find it impossible to co-exist peaceably. They claim to be in general agreement that the unjustified killing or harming of another Custodian is incorrect, but all too often find that “justification” in ways which defy understanding. It seems to make no difference whether they come from the same or different parts of the planet. Millions of Custodians are destroyed every year simply because they have different colours or Belief-Systems (see below). Unimaginable cruelty has been inflicted on each other by Custodians who live in close proximity to each other but harbour an irrational hatred for each other. Worse still, every year they devise more and more horrifying and violent methods to kill or harm each other. Times when one of a Custodian’s upper protuberances is banged against the other can signal a wide degree of accord, although equally, such is the nature of Custodians throughout the planet, it can be a prelude to violence. There appears to be no way of predicting which way they will choose to go. Even where large numbers of Custodians are gathered together in apparent peace, they can start to emit strange sounds and behave in incomprehensible ways in a way which we believe is supposed to be a pleasurable reaction to what is going on in front of them, but which rapidly turns to aggression. We have done our best to ascertain the basis for this behaviour, but have concluded that it defies all logic. 2. The Quadrupeds and Aquatics Quadrupeds have sophisticated hierarchies in which recognised leaders have precedence. Their position is often achieved by violence. Little is known of the society structures of the Aquatics. What is clear is that each life-form appears incapable of living in peace and harmony with other members of the same group. The Quadrupeds and Aquatics use each other for food, but that appears to be accepted by them as part of what they call the Food Chain, whereas the Custodians destroy Quadrupeds and Aquatics not simply for food but for pleasure. Belief-Systems Many Custodians across the planet have different Belief-Systems. Some revere invisible beings. Some revere objects. Some have no reverence for any being or object other than themselves. Each group within a Belief-System characteristically exhibits the greatest possible hatred towards Custodians who have a different Belief-System. There appears to be no logical basis for this, as every Belief-System claims to support the concept of peaceful co-existence with all Custodians. Where there is disagreement, this can result in extreme violence in which one group appears to be determined to force its own Belief-System on another. This results in no degree of contentment for either group, but simply an increase in that violence. Those who speak out against that conduct are villified or all too often subjected themselves to extreme violence. Each Belief-System has rules which its proponents are required to obey, but all too frequently, the leaders of each group are guilty of the most extreme disobedience to the rules they espouse, and are rarely held to account for this. The Custodians apparently see no obstacle in their Belief-Systems to the destruction of the Quadrupeds and Aquatics. So far as we are able to ascertain, there is no structured Belief-System among the Quadrupeds and Aquatics There is one unifying feature of all the conduct of the Custodians. Their motive of each is the acquisition of objects which denote a position of superiority to other Custodians. However, the more they have, the less pleasure they seem to exact from it, causing them to seek yet more pleasure and more wealth, in an ever-decreasing circle. In doing so, they pay no care or attention to the needs of other Custodians or, indeed, any other life-forms on the planet, and those who do are often derided as being of limited intelligence. Mitigating Factors We would not want you, Honoured Sir, to consider that this planet has no redeeming features whatever. Many of the life-forms are of great outward beauty. To their credit, the Custodians treasure them and gather them together either for their own protection or for the purposes of a mutual affection which is heartening to see. Custodians are also capable of some degree of concord, and demonstrate this in different ways. “Music” appears to be a unifying factor, although we have found that appreciation of this differs among Custodians across a wide spectrum. Only in one or two isolated instances has opinion been unified; one particular King (see above) has clearly been revered for his leadership. “Laughter” appears to be another sound of unity which crosses all boundaries, although the conception as to what causes that laughter differs in different parts of the planet. However, it is generally agreed that, where there is laughter, there cannot be hatred. Sadly, the effects of this behaviour are short-lasting, and in no way detract from the general feeling of ill-will that pervades this planet. The outcome of this investigation It is regrettable, Honoured Sir, that this investigation was not instigated many years ago. This planet had great beauty, and the life-forms could have been trained to co-exist peaceably. However the increasingly unpleasant and aggressive impulses of the Custodians make this now an impossible task, and counter-indicate any peaceful attempt at social interaction with any emissary from our planet. We have come to the conclusion that our resources should be expended in areas where success is more likely to be achieved. Your humble servant, Zob Oglic II” The Commander pulled in his tentacles to their fullest extent. He shut his eye. His elongated frame vibrated in frustration. Yet another failed attempt to find a planet outside their own which was worthy of his attention and that of the millions of Urkunastations over whom he ruled. He sighed at yet another disappointment. Some day, some day, perhaps, but not today. But as he put his body into sleep mode, he was at least comforted by the thought: “We are not alone”.

She is enthroned on my desk in a photograph where she stands, enthusiastically pointing at a large baobab tree. The center of the tree is hollow, the size of a small bedroom, and the branches spread, short and thin, above the swollen base. If I look closely, I can see the shadow I cast on the ground while I took the picture with a pink disposable camera. *** Neither of us were from Ethiopia, but that is where we met. Our fathers were childhood friends who had not seen one another in longer than either of us had been alive. I remember being unsure about what to expect, thinking naively that it would be hot and dusty, like the Sahara looks in movies. In reality, Lalibela reminded me a lot of home. It was beautiful. The reddish stone and soil of the mountains was spotted with guava and olive trees. I have never been anywhere so inherently joyful and vibrant; every moment, every detail felt consequential and imbued with life. Beth and her father had lived in Ethiopia for several years when we came to visit. They picked us up from the airport; her father greeted me warmly and introduced us. Our parents caught up on nearly fourteen years of history while we sat, silent strangers, in the backseat of the truck. She was thirteen then and I was only eleven. She wore her reddish-brown hair in a loose braid. Her sky-blue skirt brushed her ankles, embroidered at the hem with little pink flowers. A set of bracelets with rainbow-colored plastic beads adorned her wrist and clicked lightly every time she moved her arm. “Look at this,” she said, breaking the silence. She dug something round and reflective from her purse. I thought it was a mirror at first, but she opened it up to reveal a magnetic compass with a bright red needle. “That’s cool,” I said. “Dad gave it to me for my birthday. It always points north.” I nodded. “I have a little one at home for hiking.” She snapped the compass shut and returned it to her bag. We settled back into the safety of silence, a bit more comfortably than before. “This afternoon we can go see the churches,” her father said, smiling at me in the mirror. “They’re incredible, I can’t wait for you to see them.” *** We arrived at her house, which was small and hemmed in by avocado trees and a stone wall. Beth barely gave me time to grab my duffel bag from the bed of the truck before she dragged me inside to show me around. The main room was full of books and trinkets from around the world. “We move a lot,” Beth said. “I’ve been to tons of different countries.” “Cool,” I replied. She was growing more mythical in my mind, this girl who had lived in more places than I’d ever dreamed of visiting. She showed me some of her favorite artifacts: an eight-inch replica of a suit of armor that her father used as a bookend, an antique globe which she said was her grandfather’s, and a small, hand-painted jade egg from Thailand. After the tour, she took me to the room which my father and I were going to share for the duration of our stay. There was a small window, a twin sized bed, and a cot. My father’s suitcase already lay at the foot of the bed, so I dropped my bag onto the cot. Beth stood in the doorway, watching me. “So, Peter, what do you like to do?” I shrugged. “Nothing much. I like video games, hanging out with friends. I like to read sometimes, too.” “Cool,” she replied. “Wanna see my room?” “Sure,” I said, and followed her down the hall. Her room was painted lavender, her favorite color. She had some posters on the walls and an overflowing bookshelf beside her bed. There was a trombone on the dresser beside a small bottle of Victoria’s Secret perfume, which she said her grandmother sent her as a birthday gift. “Dad wants me to play the trombone like he did when he was my age. He’s trying to teach me, but he says my arms might not be long enough,” she explained. She stretched her arms out in front of her to demonstrate. I stared at them silently. They looked long enough to me. “My dad told me what happened with your parents,” Beth said. “Oh,” I replied. “Is it going to be weird, to have two houses and two Christmases and all that?” she asked. “I guess.” I didn’t really want to talk about it. As suddenly as she brought it up, she moved on to a new topic. “Do you want to see our garden?” *** That afternoon, we all piled into the truck to go see the churches. Beth’s mother decided to join us and sat between us in the backseat, smelling of berbere spice and jasmine perfume. She talked loudly over the radio, asking me about life back in the States. I answered her questions politely, wishing that I was sitting beside Beth instead. We arrived at the site of the churches and my father whistled appreciatively, drawing looks from the people nearby. My face flushed with embarrassment and I glanced at Beth, who luckily didn’t seem bothered by him. The scene was breathtaking. Before us, the earth fell away into a large pit. In the center of the hole, which was several stories deep, stood a cross-shaped piece of stone. As we got closer, I could make out windows and doors carved into the reddish monolith, which I realized was the church. I was so engrossed at the sight I didn’t notice Beth come up behind me. “They used hammers and chisels to carve down into the mountain,” she murmured. “And there are tunnels and trenches that connect the some of the churches.” I was shocked. “It must have taken like, a hundred years.” She giggled. “Yeah, something like that.” We traveled down into the trenches and tunnels, led by a guide. Beth and her mother covered their heads with scarves out of respect. The tunnels were short, and my father had to crouch down to fit. As we descended, the air grew cold and I found myself thinking about the weight of the rock that surrounded us. My heart began to pound and my breath came fast, but I did not want to seem afraid. Beth slowed to walk right in front of me. She whispered over her shoulder. “Do you wanna hear a joke?” “Sure,” I replied. “What does a nosy pepper do?” “I dunno, what?” “Gets jalapeño business.” I snorted. “That’s stupid.” “Yeah, but it’s funny,” Beth smirked. We got to the bottom of the tunnel and exited into the sunlight. The stone walls of the church rose up before us, towering towards the sunlight. Everything about the place felt weighted with a sanctity that I couldn’t fully understand. The guide led us inside, through the cold rooms of the church itself. The walls were painted with elaborate designs which were hard to make out in the light coming from the small keyhole-shaped windows. I was overwhelmed by the ancient beauty of it all. Beth walked beside me, pointing out little details in hushed tones. “The first time we came here, I was afraid that there was a trap door under the rugs on the floor. I thought I was going to fall through,” Beth whispered. I smiled at her strange imagination. We exited the church, squinting in the sunlight, and the spell of the building seemed to fade. Beth and I fell into step with one another as we finished the tour. “Have you ever tried injera?” she asked. *** The rest of the trip passed in a blur, and Beth and I quickly became inseparable. She showed me the marketplace and took me to see the baobab trees. She and her mother taught me how to make beef tibs and fatira and homemade croissants, a favorite from their time in France. When it was time for me to leave, Beth made me promise to talk to her every day. I sometimes like to read through our old emails. We talked about everything: politics, movies, school, music. She sent me pictures of her sons when they were born and helped me decide which dog to adopt. I told her about my fiancé and suggested that she paint her home office lavender. We don’t talk every day anymore, but we still try to check in at least once a month. She lives in Spain now, by the beach. In her last email, she made me promise to visit so her sons can meet their Uncle Peter, and to bring my fiancé along so she can approve of him. I bought our tickets yesterday. Beth and I haven’t seen each other in nearly thirty years, but I am confident I’ll recognize the girl under the baobab tree anywhere.

Constable Vic Clarke of the Vancouver Police Department (VPD) looked perplexed. As he filled out the incident report: ______________________________________________________ LOST PROPERTY REPORT The completion of this report will document the loss of Personal Property Vancouver Police Department REPORT NUMBER: 1982-06-011 Call 604 555-1212 and ask for a “Lost Property” report number. If this number is not filled in, your report will not be recorded by the Department. NAME: John Schwartz STREET: 1155 Beach St. Vancouver, BC SUITE/APT: Apt. #1201 CITY/Postal Code: Vancouver, BC V6E 1V2 TELEPHONE (604) 555-9999 Type of Location: Multi story Apartment Date Property Last Seen: 1982 06 10 Time: 08:00am Date Property Discovered Missing: 1982 06 10 Time: 05:10pm PROPERTY QTY: 1 DESCRIPTION - (Serial Numbers if Available) : Rolex - no serial number COST $300.00 EACH TOTAL $300.00 CASH (If any) $150.00 Additional Property Is To Be Entered On A Separate Sheet of Paper Total Loss >>>>> $450.00 NARRATIVE : (Briefly describe what happened.) Owner returned to his apartment at approx. 3:00pm. Noticed watch and cash missing when he was getting ready to go out for dinner. No sign of forced entry. No witnesses. Residents of other apartments on this floor were at work. Reporting Officer: Constable Vic Clarke ______________________________________________________ This was the second report he had filled out that week, there were three reports last week. They were all similar, the robberies happened during the day, the amount was under $500 and they were all in apartments above the tenth floor. In all cases, the neighbours were at work during the times of the robberies. ‘ Even if I caught him for this robbery, he would only get a light sentence for theft under $500. The courts wouldn’t count all the other robberies. He only takes cash and items that can be quickly pawned. Still it all adds up to over $1000 a week and no taxes - that’s more than what I make. . . . Breaking this case will look good next time I apply for detective ’ Constable Clarke went and talked to the building manager. The results were always the same. He hadn’t seen anybody other than a few deliver people that had been buzzed in by a resident. There was a video camera in the underground parking area. It covers the front door to the parking area and is monitored by the building manager. Clarke takes the tape even though he knows there probably wouldn’t be anything on it. Clarke goes back to his car and drives around to the back of the property. There is a small outdoor parking lot off Pacific Ave. A set of stairs at the back of the parking lot lead to a door that opens onto a corridor to the lobby. Another staircase, just to the left of the first, leads down to a door marked ‘Equipment Room’. There is a BC Tel repairman standing in front of the door. Clarke goes to talk to him. As he approaches the repairman starts to smile. As he gets nearer the man says: “Twice in one week?” Clarke looks confused. “I saw you last week just down the street. I was delivering a phone.” Clarke smiles in recognition, he had been investigating another breakin at the time. To his embarrassment, there had even been another robbery in that building that day. “In my fifteen years with the company I never ran into a VPD officer before - then twice in one week. It must be some kind of sign.” The repairman sticks out his hand. “Frank Fisher . . . What can I do for you?” Clarke glances at the ID card hanging from a lanyard around the man’s neck then shakes his hand. “Constable Vic Clarke. There have been a series of robberies in high rise apartments in the West End, just investigating one that happened here yesterday. . . . Have you seen anything unusual?” “Not really” smiling “Other than the increased number of patrol cars in the area.” Frank takes the building key from the lockbox to the left of the door. “Do all the repairmen have a key to the lockbox?” “No, just the ones assigned to working on apartment buildings.” Showing the key to Clarke - “The company started using these tubular tumbler locks. They are supposed to be harder to pick and there is no place that I know of to get one cut.” Clarke looks at it. He has seen similar keys used on vending machines. Frank opens the door. Using his foot to stop the door from closing he puts the key back in the lockbox. “The door will lock as soon as it closes. . . . Some guys like to take everything inside then put the lock back when they finish. I like to make sure everything is locked up before I start.” Frank holds the door open. “Could someone break into the lockbox to get the building key?” Clarke asks. Frank laughs. “I guess they could smash the box, I don’t think they could open it. . . . The most secure thing here is the lockbox. Any locksmith worth his salt could make a key for the door in the time it takes to cut the key.” “Once inside the equipment room can you get into the rest of the building?” “Sure. C’mon in - I’ll show you.” Pointing to his left Frank says “That’s the Hydro room. You don’t want to go in there.” Pointing to the back of the room. “That’s the door to the underground parking and the elevator.” Clarke goes over to check. ‘ That must be how he is getting in without anyone seeing him. ’ “Is that the way you get into the main part of the building?” “Only if I have to change the wire going to the client's apartment. If I am picking up or delivering a phone I use the main entrance. . . . I want to know the customer is home, so I get buzzed in. No sense in going up to the apartment if there is no one home.” “Don’t you have an appointment?” “Yeh. But sometimes I am late and sometimes the customer had to go out. . . . Best to be buzzed in.” Clarke smiles remembering the times he has waited for a service man that didn’t show. Frank was working while they were talking. He has clipped his orange test phone onto a line, then pulls a black module from a module strip and replaces it with another one from a small cabinet. Still connected to the line he was testing, Frank dials something on the test phone. Then: “Hello, this is the telephone repairman. Your line should be working now. Please call repair service if you have any more problems.” Unclipping his test phone, "Got the answering machine." He takes a red marking pen from his pouch and marks the first module with an ‘X’. “Don’t want it to get mixed up with the good ones. . . . I’m finished. . . Do you want a Cook’s Tour?” Clarke had always felt that you never know when a random bit of knowledge may come in useful. “Sure - I have a bit of time.” Pointing at a large black cable “This cable connects back to the central office down on Seymour St. There are two hundred and fifty pairs of wire in the cable - a little big for this building, but it is always nice to have extra in case something goes wrong..” Pointing at a strip of fifty rows of modules, five modules per row at the end of a small framework. The framework has five short shelves; there are wires running along the shelves. “Each cable pair connects to one side of one of a module which acts like a circuit breaker and high voltage protector. . . . The trouble I had today was with the high voltage protector. It blocks any high voltages, say from a lightning strike, from blowing your phone off the wall. They sometimes go bad - you can’t fix them. . . . You with me so far?” Clarke nods “What are those red modules for?” “Those are for alarm circuits - we never touch them.” Anticipating his next question - “That orange module means the line has been disconnected - probably an empty apartment. . . . . These pins on the right” - pointing to the right side of the strip of modules - “connect to the other side of the module.” “Do you solder the wire to the pin?” “No, we have a tool for wrapping the wire onto the pin. I was skeptical of it at first - but they work great” Going to the side of the frame Frank shows him a series of connector blocks. “Each block connects to a cable going to one of the floors.” Grabbing a wire from the shelf. “This wire running along the shelf connects the cable pair from the office to the cable going to the right floor.” Clarke asks “Why do some blocks have less wires than others?” “The lower floors have smaller apartments, more apartments per floor. From about the fifth floor up, the apartments start getting larger - fewer per floor.” ‘ Bingo ’ Clarke smiles to himself. ‘ That is why the robberies were all above the tenth floor - fewer neighbours. Less likely for there to be someone at home. ’ “You left a message on the answering machine. I didn’t think you could call yourself back like that.” “You noticed that, did you?” Forcing a laugh. “There is a code you can dial that will ring the phone on the line you are on. If I am going to have the line down for any length of time I call before I start, to see if anyone is home. This time I was only going to be a few seconds - so I just left a message once I was finished.” Clarke nods. Frank says “I have to get back to work. . . . So, now you know how this works, if you ever get tired of the VPD you can become a repairman.” Laughing Clarke replies. “I think I will stay where I am.” Both men walk back to their vehicles. After saying goodbye Constable Clarke gets in his cruiser and drives off, excited to report what he has found out about entering the building through the Equipment Room. ‘ I might even make detective out of this. ’ Frank sits in his van pretending to look through a stack of papers - waiting for Clarke to leave. ‘ What a schlemiel! I laid out the whole scam for him and he still didn’t figure out who I was. . . . Still when you have the right look and know the patter people accept you at face value. . . . Maybe it's time to move on. Check out the Calgary Stampede next month. ’ Glancing down at the toolbox behind the passenger seat. ‘ Best investment I ever made - getting a machine to cut keys for tubular locks. ’

I won’t be able to describe to you how painful it is to die. How agonizing a slow death is. One that passively marches toward you and you’re left to sit and watch. Your stomach rises into your throat in a burning fashion. The acid coats your esophagus. Flight or fight? No, you’ve frozen in your tracks as you stare ahead at a crumbling landscape. You were so terrified that you couldn't even shake in fear. You just stood there. The world is tearing itself apart in a menacing manner. The type you’ve seen in action-packed movies or read about in thrilling novels. You couldn’t move so the destruction made its way to your legs and ankles. So, unless you have died, I cannot describe the misery and degradation you feel. “It burns” and “it hurts” doesn’t cut it. Of course, I can tell you about all your teeth smashing together from one side of your face to the other. It is not just about the pain. It is the trauma of being torn apart. The snapping of every tooth from its home, crashing into its neighbor’s neighbor. They created a horrible song as they clashed with the pavement. They ripped up your gums in harmonious tremors. I can describe to you the agony of being cornered. How can you tolerate the immense pounding you feel as your brain throbs against your frontal lobe? It pulses within the pangs of discomfort. Your brain throbs like the mountains that are smashing into one other. There is a chill on your skin. Something wet. The wind causes your skin to erupt in goosebumps. They litter the back of your neck, forcing the hairs to stand up. They tickle you, along with the chill from the various liquids that drip down your face. The sweat- it is sweat! The sweat that drips from your forehead into your gaping mouth repulses you. You can still taste the salt even though your tongue has been ripped to shreds by your vicious teeth. The pain tastes like salt. You keep swallowing the iron and sweat. It is the only thing hydrating your arid tongue. You can really feel the copper now. Maybe it is nickels you taste instead. But the taste is bitter and unbearable. You cannot control your body anymore so the pennies and nickels just keep sliding down your throat. Your throat convulses and contorts in reaction to the blood that continues to slide into your stomach. You can really feel them, huh? Their round and rusted exteriors scrape your throat as they fill your belly. You’d shut your eyes if you could, but your caramel eyes dangle from their sockets. Rhythmically, they swing in iambic euphony. How did your eyes escape their sockets? Something must have hit you with a strong force. From the back! Yes, from the back you were hit with a flying rock that crushed your legs and knocked your eyes out. The bones are shattered now. How did you not notice that aching? You were too focused on the taste of blood in your mouth. Your drying eyes. You're ready to run now. “How did I get here?” You’ll wonder. You’ll ponder the day before when you weren’t doing anything. The lazy napping and binge eating feel remorseful, especially knowing you spent your last day of freedom doing absolutely nothing. The dedication you held to your job or academia squanders under the regime of death. Everything you connected yourself to meant absolutely nothing. Why do we do this to ourselves? Push and push. As the world crumbles around your aching body, the beauty of the sky lights up your eyes. That magnificent blue that has always been too intimidating to gaze at seems inviting now. The clouds have fled the sky, and there are no longer birds fluttering about. “What color will the sunset be tonight?” You’ll wonder. If only you could chase the sunset. Run to the west until the continent meets the sea. Those foamy waves that kiss the sandy shore over and over again. Rhythmically, like your eyes in the wind. What can you see now? Just the sky? What's happening to the right? To the left? It was all trivial. Life was a terrarium you looked at too closely. Will you last long enough to see it? I am rooting for you to see it. If you can't run to it, I hope it runs to you. Can life still be beautiful with the sound of gurgling blood, sweat, and saliva? What happened to the birds in the trees? Where have they gone to? Will you go too? The ground cries in agony as it shakes beneath you, changing once more. Our Earth must go through phases like our Moon. She enters her final chrysalis as the world ends in fire, ice, eruptions, and floods. Let her begin anew. “Will there still be a sunset tonight?” You wonder. Your hands are crushed by the boulder that was sent flying from dancing tectonic plates. They twirled and jumped in synchronized perfection! Sending rocks and gravel into the air like a splatter-painted piece of art. How much would you pay for something that beautiful? The trees uprooted themselves and fell on top of one another, like your teeth. The oceans are starting to swell and there’s a profuse burning smell off in the distance that’s making you nauseous. I am envious of your indomitable spirit. You rise like that far-off smoke into that daunting sky. I've read your story a hundred times. If only I could pacify you now. But we are worlds away and in different realms. You are a faraway fairy tale I’m reading to my daughter. And my mother read this story to me too. I, too, was caught up in the sunset. She begs me to describe the sunset you’re waiting to see. My lips are sealed tight and I smile hauntingly at her. Cheek to cheek, my fangs are revealed. I cannot describe what it feels like to die, but I can tell you this. Again and again.

An Ungrateful Disease Flowers sit atop the end table. The vase filled with water has a particularly reddish haze to it that attracts the eye. Yet the senses tingle more than what appears to the gander. Papers rustling, a loud elongated burp, the movement of hastened anxiety pulls the attention of the room. He crashes and turns, pushes, pulls, and tears. What does he seek? No that is not the reason to be heard, why does he seek it? It's the middle of the night and this man is running through the mental state of his mind as if there is marathon training to be had. He pulls paper out of the drawer, tearing more and more pieces with every movement. It doesn't matter though, they are all old, irrelevant to the reality of things. In his reality they symbolize structure, they speak for the ledge that he so dearly grabs for in the same way a falling acrobat looks for the saving hand of their companion before they crash in front of the eyes of their fans. And with the same excitement and anxiety of the acrobat he searches faster and faster. There is no rhyme or reason, only a search for the end. Finally he finds it, a receipt for the television he purchased. He can contact the manufacturer, the shop, the electrician, anyone to help with the warranty he so dearly clutches to. It was a two year warranty, certainly someone will take care of the problem. Day in and out, for weeks he has valued each moment of time in search of this proof so he can finally rectify the situation. No one will help him, not the son he so dearly raised, not the friend that he speaks to on the telephone, even the neighbor that passes by daily with a wave and a nod thought ill of his request. Finally he can take matters into his own hand. As he reaches for the phone, a slight chill caresses his cheek with the burst of wind from the open doorway. He struggles to get up from his bed, papers scattered about and boxes opened affray. With a close of the door he can let the warm air inside cuddle his diminishing figure, in cooperation with the robe and blanket combo that has become his daily wardrobe. He moves towards the door, and back on his seated makeshift office space of his bed the paper falls to the ground with the aftershock of wind. It trickles down, spinning as the leaves do in autumn renditions of nature. With a silent thud it rests where it may stay for months to come, the lettering fondly still legible after all this time. The date on the receipt reads February 16th of the year 1993, a mere 21 years past the warranty date, yet a second cousin to the time he remembers. The moment will be forgotten, the anxiety elongated for years to come, and the television unfortunately never repaired, at least not under warranty. Such is the life of the man, such is the life of many of the misunderstood. (This is my first post here, and i'm not even sure if this would be considered a short story, so be gentle haha. Criticism is greatly appreciated though, I have been writing since a young age and have recently found a new passion for it. The story above is loosely based on experience with my grandfather whom suffers from Alzheimer's. Criticism on punctuation and flow of the language would be great too! Regardless, thanks for the time you spent reading.

Work finally over, Molly scrambled her belongings together, aimed a fleeting goodbye in the direction of her colleagues, and left the office. She’d forgotten her girlfriend Grace’s birthday and though Grace hadn’t said anything that morning, Molly wanted to make it up to her with a special evening. Molly spiralled down the stairs, out of the building and practically tumbled into the street, pulling her tote bag over her right shoulder as she managed to get her left arm into her coat sleeve. She checked her watch, determined to get home before Grace. It was the first warm day of the year and people were pouring out of their places of work onto the bustling high street. Summer had been late in arriving and now everyone had a spring in their step, coats slung over their arms as they made their way home with smiles on their faces, enjoying the warm weather. Molly had things to buy before her bus arrived and she was glad it was Thursday when the shops stayed open later. Tied to a lamppost outside the butcher’s shop sat a small brown dog, panting slightly in the unusual warmth. Molly crouched down and patted the dog, “Well hello there Mr Dog, what are you doing?” The dog did not reply but a stout looking woman in a coat far too warm for the weather blustered her way out of the butcher’s, a hefty shopping bag swinging from her hand. “Come on Buddy, these sausages won’t cook themselves,” her bag thumped against Molly, almost knocking her to the pavement from her crouching position. “I was just talking to your lovely dog,” Molly righted herself with a wobble, brushed down her skirt and pulled her bag back onto her shoulder. The older woman shook her head, “Talking to the dog, would you believe it...” and with that she untied the lead from the lamppost and bustled away. As they headed down the street Buddy the dog turned and looked back at Molly as if to apologise on behalf of his owner. Molly smiled back and then remembered that she had things to do and headed into the butcher’s shop, the brass bell above the door clanging her arrival. The shop had a distinct smell, clean with the metallic tang of meat and a hint of herbs. The butcher smiled, a well built man with big hands and a big face. “I’d like some steak please,” Molly was suddenly unsure of what to ask for. The butcher nodded, “Fillet, ribeye, sirloin? I’ve got some lovely rump too if that would interest you.” “Rump if you think so, thank you, two pieces please.” Molly was glad of the butcher’s advice and watched as he took two large pieces of glistening red meat from the counter, wrapped them in paper and put them in a white plastic bag which he sealed with a piece of red tape. “Thank you,” Molly reached into her bag to find her purse which had made its way to the bottom, “it’s my girlfriend’s birthday, so I’m treating her!” “Isn’t she the lucky one," grinned the butcher, “have you got a good red wine to go with that?” “Oh, that’s what I need to get next, and then a cake, a red one!” Molly took the money from her purse and handed it to the butcher, taking care not to brush her hand against his meaty one. “You’ll think I’m silly, but she’s a huge United fan, the reds, you know, so I’m doing everything in red for her tonight... the meat, wine, cake... everything!” “Red is it? Well, have a lovely evening,” the butcher winked at her, wiping his hands on his bloodied apron, “just three minutes either side for those.” He passed her the steaks, and blushing slightly, Molly took the meat and dropped it into her bag. ‘I do hope it doesn’t leak,’ she thought to herself as she headed for the door, then thanked the butcher again and left, the bell above the door jangling a farewell. Molly chastised herself for her blushes. On her lunch hour, she’d popped to the town’s small department store and bought a bra and panties set from the lingerie department. Bright red to match her special theme for Grace, and she’d reddened then too as the shop assistant wrapped her purchase. When Molly got back to the office she’d quickly changed into the new negligee in the washroom and now her faded black bra and knickers were floating about somewhere in the bottom of her bag alongside the steaks. As a minor irritation to proceedings, the label in her new bra was causing a scratching sensation in the middle of Molly’s back and she stood outside the butcher’s for a moment squeezing her shoulders together, unsuccessfully trying to relieve the itch. Her next stop was the off-licence. Grace enjoyed a bottle of red wine now and again and the off-licence was just a couple of buildings along. Molly checked her watch as she hurried towards the shop where a man in a linen suit was just leaving. He held the door open for Molly and gave her a bemused smile as she rushed in. Molly nodded a thank you and immediately began to scan the shelves for a bottle that looked appealing with an acceptable price tag. She was no wine expert and chose a bottle of red wine with a picture of a castle on the label. Molly took the wine over to the counter where a woman reading a magazine was sitting on a tall buffet, shelves of tobacco and fancy chocolates behind her. The woman took a drag on her cigarette, balanced it on an ashtray at the side of the till, and punched in the price of the wine. Molly rummaged around in her bag amongst underwear, rump steaks and other paraphernalia to find her purse again. She flustered as the woman behind the counter tapped a red chipped fingernail on the top of the till, picking up her cigarette to take another drag. “Sorry,” muttered Molly, eventually locating her purse, “I’m in such a rush, I need to get back for my girlfriend’s birthday.” “Hope she appreciates it,” the woman rasped and coughed slightly, “special birthday is it?” “Oh, no, not really, just the first one she’s had since we moved in together, so I wanted to make it nice, you know.” Molly passed over a note and the woman slotted it into the till, handing over a couple of coins in change. “Well, don’t you let her get used to it!” The woman gave Molly a wry smile, tugged on her cigarette some more and returned to her magazine. Unsure of how to respond, Molly took the bottle and pushed it inside her bag, thanked the woman and hurried out of the door and back into the sunshine. People were still milling backwards and forwards. A young man weighed down with shopping bags was dragging a small, whining boy along the pavement. It was very warm and Molly felt a little damp under her arms. She couldn’t take her coat off because it wouldn’t fit in her bag, and Molly needed her hands free for the cake she was about to buy. There was a queue outside the small bakery and the young man and protesting boy joined the back of it. The boy was kicking his feet at the pavement and the man sighed in dismay at the boy’s scuffed shoes, moving his shopping bags from one hand to the other, craning his neck to see if the queue was moving. Molly felt like stamping her own feet, she really wanted to get back before Grace and the bus was due in ten minutes. The cake she wanted was in the window, a red velvet cake. Molly knew that she should have bought the cake at lunchtime but the lingerie shopping had taken longer than planned. As if to remind her, the label in her bra scratched some more and she wiggled her shoulders in an attempt to stop the itching. The queue moved forwards and eventually Molly was inside the shop. The boy in front of her pointed to a large cream bun with white icing and sprinkles on top and the young man nodded in defeat. Molly checked her watch, there was still enough time. An elderly man was now being served, though he didn’t seem to know what he wanted. He took off his hat and scratched his head, then put his hat back on again. “How about that lovely red velvet cake in the window?” said the woman behind the counter, “I’m sure your granddaughter would love that!” “Well, yes, if you think so,” the man smiled in relief that the decision had been made for him. “No! Oh no, no...” Molly hadn’t realised that she’d spoken aloud. Everyone in the shop turned and looked at her. Molly blushed deeply, “I wanted that cake, that’s all...” her voice trailed off. The small boy with scuffed shoes looked up at her blankly and feeling foolish, Molly turned and bumped her way out of the bakery, the queue impeding her need for a swift exit. Back outside, cheeks blazing, Molly wanted to cry. It was all going wrong. The red birthday surprise was a disaster. A birthday with no cake was unthinkable. The elderly man in the hat came out of the bakery carrying a cake box tied with red ribbon. ‘I bet he drops it,’ thought Molly crossly. Then she checked herself. ‘It’s my own fault for being so disorganised and this damn bra is really getting on my nerves!’ Molly decided there was nothing for it but to make the best of what she’d got and walked dejectedly to her bus stop. A sizeable queue had already formed and Molly took her place at the end. She noticed the overheated woman with sausages and Buddy the dog standing near the front of the queue and Buddy glanced over at Molly. Molly gave Buddy the dog a weak smile. She was far too warm and decided she just had to try and cool down. Molly carefully put her bag on the pavement and peeled off her coat, folded it over the top of her bag, and hitched the bag back onto her shoulder. Unsurprisingly, Molly had no money ready when the bus arrived. Exasperated and annoyed at her continued state of disorganisation, she put her bag down, moved her coat, lifted out the wine, put her coat over the crook of her arm and tried to find her purse. She could feel the bag of steak like a bleeding heart and her old bra half wrapped around it, but no purse. The queue moved on with a gap now growing between the man in front of her and Molly, who was crouched on the pavement, the bottle of wine beside her. The bag of meat, with accompanying bra swiftly joined the bottle of wine, along with her cosmetics purse, diary and hairbrush. The queue behind her, fed up with waiting, shuffled around Molly and it wasn’t until her purse fell out of her coat pocket that was hanging from her arm that she remembered putting it there in the off-licence. Molly stuffed the wine, meat, bra, cosmetics, diary and hairbrush back into her bag and climbed onto the bus as the driver closed the doors. There were no seats left on the sticky, hot bus and Molly wobbled with each bump and turn, not wanting to hold onto the hanging strap due to her damp armpits. She disembarked at her stop and hurried the short distance home. Her heart sank as she saw the lights on and Grace’s bicycle outside. Grace was in the kitchen, finishing off a plate of jam sandwiches. She was wearing her favourite United top. “Hello darling, you okay?” Grace looked up, licking her fingers. Molly put her bag and coat down and went to wash her hands at the sink. “Yes, fine... it’s just so warm...” “I got back early for the match,” Grace brought her plate over to the sink, “got to go in a minute, I said I’d meet Zac down the pub to watch the game.” “But, your birthday...” “Birthday? Not until next month Molly! July fifth! It was still June the last time I looked!” Grace picked up her keys and bag from the table. “July?” Molly slumped into a chair, “No, it’s today, June fifth... it has to be”. “Oh Molly, what are you like!” Grace kissed her on the forehead. “You feel warm, why don’t you take a shower and relax?” The label in Molly’s red bra scratched her again as if to suggest that a shower was a good idea, anything to stop the infernal itching. “Listen,” said Grace, taking Molly’s hands, “I’ve bought a nice bottle of red wine for you to have while I’m watching the football and a lovely piece of steak.” Molly blinked, then stared blankly as Grace continued. “Oh, and I almost forgot, there’s a red velvet cake in the fridge for you too!”

Ieder looked up at his mother, a massive 15-foot dragon that towered over him. As much as he hated it, she was leaving him behind. “Now remember what me and Baba taught you.” Ieder looked up and nodded silently. “Be nice to the others. It’s best not to grieve their mothers” Nod. “Don’t bare your claws or teeth, for danger it brings.” Nod. “Never swing your tail or open your wings.” Nod. “And finally, don’t...” Ieder sighed, “Point my horns at anyone.” “Very good.” Ieder’s mother smirked before taking a step back as she opened her wings and checked around her to ensure no one would get struck by her flaps. Then, she lifted off. Ieder, a child baby-blue dragon, was left alone. Along with other children. Some the same, some different. As he turned and looked behind him, he saw multitudes of children. Some dragon, like him, some human, some elf, some centaur. He wondered how he was going to fit in. \~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~\~ All the children were being gathered up, and Ieder thought- hoped they would be split into their species groups for classes. He always heard about the other species, and was taught to be nice and helpful. At the same time, he felt that since dragons grew to be the biggest-est. He sat on his haunches at a desk, told to do so by a teacher. Somehow, they were having a lot a lot of trouble with other teachers, and were all told to sit, be still, and make friends. Ieder only saw one other dragon in the room and she was sitting on the other side, already chatting up with a girl centaur. Ew, Ieder thought. He continued to look around at the walls, covered in bright paper. They all hadmarks on them that Ieder thought was writing that they would read. In front of him was a human child, blond hair pulled up into two trees on both sides of her head. A white shirt with rainbow striped on the sleeves sat on her shoulders. They were the only two sitting at a group of bright white desks with thick round legs. At the other desks though were also groups of two, three, or four kids. “What’s that on your head?” The human looked up, and saw Ieder staring straight at her. She didn’t seem scared. Her eyes seemed huge through the thick glass frames sitting on her nose. Ieder’s dad told him about theses. Sometimes, centaurs and humans had trouble seeing, so these magical tiny windows helped them see, but that never made sense to Ieder. “Um, my head?” Ieder, the proud dragon repeated. “Yes. What’s those two ‘horns’?” The human reached up and felt her hair sprouts. “Ponytails, I think.” “Huh,” a centaur child said from a nearby table. The human pointed to her hair sprouts again, “These are ponytails.” The centaur huffed, “You can’t say that; you’re not a pony!” The human kid blurted out, “Neither are you!” The centaur started, but then grew quiet, and continued talking with the other students. The human continued with what she was doing. In front of her were colored sticks, paper, and something Ieder hought looked like a pink water bottle. The dragon looked down and saw her leaving coloured marks on the paper. As he looked harder, all he saw was bright blue smudges. “So you’re a human.” The human looked at herself, then her arms, then back at Ieder, “No, I’m a kid.” Wow, she’s dumb, this is gonna be easy. Ieder looked at the teachers in the room, still talking with each other. He got up onto all fours, then walked over to the human’s side of the desks. “Can you fly? Like super high?” The girl replied, “No,” she continued making marks on the paper with the colored rods. “Can you?” Ieder didn’t want to say he wasn’t allowed to fly. Not yet. “Yea, I flew a million feet high once.” The kid only said, “I once flew on a place once. I got to be above the clouds too. But I got sick easy. It wasn’t fun.” Ieder realized flying wasn’t amazing her. “I have scales. If something hits me, I don’t get hurt.” The kid looked over, and said, “Doesn’t that make it hard for you to put on clothes?” Ieder sat on his haunches, “Why would I do that?” The human kid said, “I mean, what if you get cold? What happens?” Ieder remembered the time he was standing too close to a cold section at the meat market. His mom and dad had to breathe fire on him to let him move. He felt so scared being stuck, and unable to move. Normally, grown-up dragons can handle cold better, dragons his age weren’t able to, and it can get dangerous. Something about warm versus cold-blooded things. “I have horns. I can hurt anyone.” Ieder quickly quieted down as he saw an elf teacher look over, probably hearing what he said. Ieder smiled, and quickly played innocent. The teacher continued talking with the other teachers. The girl spoke again. “They don’t look sharp.” It was true. Ieder and his mother had to file down their horns and claws. Mother had to do it for work, and Ieder had to start getting used to it two months before school started. The first time hurt in a funny way, like hound spiders crawling up his back. Ieder was about to ask another question, when he saw the paper again. It looked familiar. Like... “Who’s that?” The human held up the paper, with the blue blob, the black strokes coming out the top, and the light brown dots near the top. “It’s you.” Ieder couldn’t talk. He saw how the human tried to draw his blue body, his black horns, and his brown eyes. He took a deep breath, then jumped when the girl swung the paper away. “Don’t burn it!” Ieder felt bad for trying to show the human up, “I wasn’t. I wanted to say... it looks cool.” The human girl got out another piece of paper, “Want to try? Here’s your crayons.” Ieder did want to try, but he looked at the humans hands. They looked like thin twigs on a rock, moving away from each other like swaying trees. He looked at his own hand, and saw what looked pudgy and short compared to the human’s. He tried to open them and close them, and spread them, but he could barely spread them. And he couldn’t control them one-by-one like the human could. They looked like bear paws. They were paws. Not hands. In front of him was a chair, and on the desk was some paper and colored rods, er. crayons. He moved the chair and got up on his haunches and placed his front paws on the desk. He saw a red colored crayon on the table and reached out his right hand to pick it up. No matter how much he pushed his hands into the desk, the crayon would rise up a bit, then fall. He tried both hands, using the dull, filed claws to pick it up. He got the crayon cradled in his claws, but when he moved one hand to grip it, it fell to the desk again. “Need help?” the human asked. “No.” Ieder was getting frustrated with the stick, until the human grabbed his hand. “Does it hurt if I do this?” She slid her fingers between his, and spread them slightly. “No.” he watched as she took the crayon and slid it between the spread fingers. She let the fingers on his paw slide shut around the crayon, then Ieder took over and tightened his grip. “I’m Heather.” With one hand with the crayon, and another on the paper, he began marking on the paper. “I’m Ieder,” he said One lines became two became four, which became a rough mess on the paper. Ieder dropped the crayon on the desk, “I can’t do this!” Heather looked over, gazing at his mess. “Oh, wow... that’s- a byootiful- thiiiiing.” It took some strength in him to not start to cry. Dragons don’t cry. Remember what Baba said. “Practice, practice, practice.” Huh? “Practice helped me get to the drawings I have.” Ieder looked at the drawing Heather already seemed to be wrapping up. Heather reached out to the pink water bottle sitting on her desk and put it in front of Ieder, past the paper. “Use the red crayon. Draw that.” Ieder got to work. He saw the rectangular shape of the bottle, and made an outline. Then with less care than he had for the outline, he drew in the shape of the bottle. Somehow, he was pressing down so hard, the crayon broke. Heather looked up again through her thick glasses. “Yea, I broke them too.” She was about to start again, then she gazed at the dragon. “What was your name again?” “Ieder.” “Nice to meet you, Ieder.

“Great!” the wife exclaimed, shaking her head with her hand to her forehead. “You missed the damn ramp!” “If you were better at giving me a heads up, this wouldn’t happen!” the husband threw his hand up at the windshield. “I’ll just take the road straight in, maybe the scenic route will help loosen you up.” “Oh, I’m uptight? Here we go again!” she attempted to quiet her voice halfway through. “I’m just saying, you are always stressing over every little thing,” he uttered with a low breath. “If I didn’t worry about everything nothing would get done,” she mumbled watching the trees pass. That’ll change tonight, she proudly thought. “There it is. You always make me feel like I’m useless,” his grip tightened on the steering wheel. “Well, then you need to start being more useful,” she glared back at him. “Everything I do is never good enough. I gave up trying because I was ‘damned if I do, damned if I don’t,’ so why waste my time?” his eyes jetted off the road to her for a moment, feeling the water build up in the corner of his eye. “Well, you could at least try. I’m tired of taking the lead and having to control everything. If I wasn’t around this family would fall apart,” her voice stretched and enveloped the entire car. That’s why this is happening. Not me, them, she thought. “Mommy, are you okay?” A tiny voice came from the backseat. “Yes, baby. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so loud,” she grinned reaching back to touch his leg. She turned to look behind her. Well at least the teenager is in her own world, she rolled her eyes facing forward again. “How much longer, Mommy?” the tiny voice let out a heavy breath. “I don’t know, baby. We went a different way,” her shoulders shrugged then a heavy sigh came with it. The way we needed to go at least, she smirked slightly. The husband glared over the steering wheel. “Of course, it’s my fault,” he placed an arm on the door window and rested his hand on his forehead. “Don’t start,” she snapped her head to face him again. “Hope there’s a gas station soon,” he expression stoic. “There is,” she stated, her voice taking on an unsettling tone. And I hope we get this over with quickly, she thought to herself, her body shivering at the thought. ---------------------------- Here they go again, the teen pulled her headphones tighter. Every trip it’s the same argument. I rather just stayed at home. She slumped further into the seat crossing her arms. Why did I get stuck with this family? Why did they even have kids if all they were going to do is fight? The perfect influence and example they are of why not to have kids. She rolled onto her shoulder, eyes staring into the forest as it passed by. Mesmerizing as it was she continued to lose focus on the outside world. Her eyes and ears were drawn back to the stimulation within the car. “Mommy, are you okay?” her brother called out. Great, now Mom’s attention is on us. She fixed her eyes on the outside world. A sensation tingled across her then disappeared. Great, she didn’t try to get my attention. Win for me. She glared through the window at the passing world. The leaves scattered across the ground fluttered in the wind. The darkness encroached on the road as they went further into the forest. She wrapped her arms around herself and pulled her knees up into her hoodie. She let out a deep breath, it condensed into a white fog as it drifted to the ceiling. “Mom, Dad? Can you turn on the heat?” she asked, rubbing her hands on her arms for warmth. “Why? It’s 90 degrees out,” the dad raised an eyebrow in the mirror. “It’s freezing in here,” her teeth chattered as the cold air inside the car nipped at her skin. “We’re looking for a place to stop for gas soon,” he gestured to the road. “I’ll cut off the AC until we get to a gas station.” She rolled her eyes and uncrossed her arms. “I guess that’s good enough,” she cracked the window. The warm breeze caught her hair, it whipped wildly catching her off guard. Her headphones slid back and down her hair. The seat cushion sent them flying forward as they bounced into the floor. She leaned down reaching into the dark floor. A rough scrape nudged her fingertips, she gritted her teeth at the feel. What is that? she thought. With a raised eyebrow, she pulled the object out from the dark. A thick, leather-bound notebook - it was scratched and dent all over, a sign of its frequent usage and age. She ran her fingers over the corner edge, pulling but the cover didn’t budge. She placed the notebook on her lap the spine down. Over the fore-edge was a four-digit combination lock. Why is this locked? She contemplated caressing the lock. This must be Mom’s journal, a smirk rose on her face. She began ticking the numbers with her finger. First, her mother’s birthday. Nothing. S he continued with her father’s and brother’s, then her parent’s anniversary. Nothing. There’s no way she used my birthday. I’m nowhere close to her favorite. Her fingers began to tumble the numbers, and a grin popped up as she tumbled the last number. Nothing. Of course. The grin faded quickly, her pride had built up only to be shut down in an instant. “Hey, Mom?” she smirked a little. “What’s your favorite day of the year? Not including all of our birthdays or your anniversary,” she added quickly. “Well, honestly birthdays are my least favorite anyway. It’s so much hassle,” the mom waved her hand to the side. “I guess May 9th.” “Why May 9th?” the dad chimed in. “It’s my grandmother’s birthday. Rest her soul,” the mom placed a hand on her chest. “No, it isn’t. We did a memorial for her birthday this year. It was May 12th,” the dad furrowed an eyebrow. “Whatever,” the mom gritted her teeth and turned to face the window. It’s okay I’ll try both, her fingers itched to get into the journal. She remembered her great-grandmother’s memorial and it was on the 12th, but nothing. She tumbled 0-5-0-9. Bingo! ------------------------------ The book opened its heavy, leather-bound cover. The inside was filled cover to cover with writings. Dates were scattered throughout with various lengths of writing following them. Yep, definitely her journal, the teen thought. August 2, 1999 "Finally on my own. Well close enough. I got all my stuff into my dorm room. My roommate doesn’t seem so bad. She’s very peppy, quite the contrast between us. I am so ready to get this chapter in my life started!" Wow, Mom has really been writing in this thing since college!, the teen smiled and nodded. Curiosity burning inside her, the teen turned to her mother. “Mom, can you tell me how you and Dad first met?” she asked, her gaze filled with interest. A smile tugged at the mother’s lips as she took her husband’s hand. “It was sophomore year,” she replied, nostalgia evident in her voice. “November 4th.” She continued to talk about it but the teen quickly tuned her out, flipping through the pages to find the entry. November 4, 2000 "It was an amazing day! I met a guy at the quad! He knows one of the people in our study group. He came over and introduced himself and we could not take our eyes off each other. I giggled so much I feel so embarrassed. He probably won’t even remember me. But WOW the feeling I got!" Eww. Enough to make me barf, the teen held a hand over her mouth. Definitely skipping on the Mom and Dad early years. She skimmed through the section until she got to important dates that she could recall herself. Dad proposing, their wedding day - skipped a large chunk until after the honeymoon, her birthday, her brother’s birth, job changes, moving days, and deaths in the family. My Mom’s really an emotional person , she thought to herself. Everything she does to just be strong for us. The teen was curious if Mom was still as emotional as the younger version. May 12, 2023 "The weight of the day’s events presses heavily on me. Grandmother’s memorial went well, but the emptiness in my heart persists. I wish Dylan could have been there to comfort me. He’s been my rock lately. Stephen, on the other hand, remains distant and emotionless. I fear he’s becoming aware of my feelings for Dylan, or maybe it’s just his normal mood swings. I can’t continue deceiving myself or my husband any longer. What happened the other day has left me torn, and I must make a decision before the stress consumes me entirely." Wait, what? Who is Dylan?! The teen felt her heart race, grabbing at her own chest, ‘The other day’? What day? She began to flip back and skim the passages of the last few entries. May 9, 2023 "My head is spinning. It actually happened. Me & Dylan! I don’t know what to do! Is this my fault? I mean I did come on to him. I mean how could I not, he was just so hot without his shirt. His chest, his abs. The way he picked me up and tossed me on the bed..." She quickly closed the cover before seeing another word on the page. What the hell, Mom!? She felt the heat in her cheeks. She cheated on Dad! Is she still cheating on Dad?! Her fingernails dug into her palms. She swiped open the book, eyes darting across the page, and skimming the entries for any mention of Dylan. May 27, 2023 "Lately, I find myself growing increasingly restless within the confines of my own life. The weight of responsibilities as a wife and mother feel suffocating. Stephen is always distant, and I yearn for the passion we once had. Perhaps it’s just a phase, but I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something missing. It makes Dylan come to mind." June 10, 2023 "The distance between Stephen and me continues to grow. I try to reach out, but he seems disinterested. The kids provide some comfort, but even they feel like a reminder of the life I’m trapped in. I crave excitement, something beyond this mundane routine. Dylan helps lift me up, I’ve been seeing more of him lately just to feel alive again." July 4, 2023 "The 4th of July celebrations were supposed to be joyful, but I felt hollow inside. The fireworks illuminated the sky, yet I couldn’t help but feel like my life lacks any spark. There’s a part of me that longs for adventure, for someone who can ignite a flame within me again. Stephen and I have become more like roommates than partners. The more I am around Dylan the more alive I feel, he really helps me escape all the stress." August 1, 2023 "My heart races as I write these words. Tomorrow, I take a step towards a new life. I’ve met someone who makes me feel alive again - Dylan. He’s shown me a world of possibilities beyond my current reality. He doesn’t want to be a father, and I no longer wish to be a mother burdened by responsibilities. Together, we can start afresh, free from the constraints of our past. Tomorrow, I will burn this journal, symbolizing the end of one life and the beginning of another with Dylan. My heart aches for the fate of my family, but I must follow my heart’s true desire. Farewell, dear journal, and farewell to the life that was once mine." “Dad!” The teen shrieked trying to keep her tone calm. Quickly shutting the book and placing it back on the floor. “Dad, Mom’s going to do something to us,” she began hysterically crying. “Honey, what are you talking about?” the dad tried to console her reaching back to put a hand on her knee. “Ask Mom about Dylan!” She demanded, “And their plan!” ----------------------------- A few more miles and we’re exactly where we need to be, the wife felt her chest beating as she held on to her necklace. “We really need to stop for gas soon” she motioned to the gas indicator on the dash lights for her husband. “I see it. I think the gas station is coming up soon,” he gestured out the windshield. “This road has nothing on it. Hard to believe there is an open gas station way out here.” “Well, a good thing since we missed the on-ramp.” Just like I hoped , she added thinking with a small smile. “I wanted to stop before that but you insisted we make it a little further first. And then we missed the ramp.” “Again. I shouldn’t have to baby you and tell you everything,” she poked and antagonized him. “You’re giving the directions. I assumed there was another ramp coming if you didn’t say ‘This is the ramp’,” he scowled hitting the steering wheel. “Well, sorry for not being able to do everything and be everything for you!” she gripped the door handle trying to control her outburst. “Oh, come one. This again!” he shook his head and leaned on the door rest. “Dad!” came a shriek from the backseat. “Dad, Mom’s going to do something to us,” the teen continued. What is this little brat doing? The wife felt sweat building up on her face. She watched him try to console the daughter, everything around her was muted and numb. Her chest was bursting open she swore. “Dad, what’s wrong?” a tiny voice cried from the backseat. “Nothing, son. Everything is okay,” he reached back behind himself trying to console their son. “Give him your headphones,” he stated to their daughter. “He doesn’t need to hear this.” Great. Now I’m about to get a thousand questions while stuck in this car. One more mile I’m sure of it. She felt a bit of hope build. “I know,” he spoke with a stoic voice and expression. “I’ve known for a while.” I knew he had suspicions. “Knew what honey?” she tried to be as sincere as she could but hate for them all was strong inside her. “Dylan, he’s just a coworker.” “Stop lying to me and yourself!” he raised his voice and hand to his wife. “Oh, you try it! Put a hand on me and it’ll be the last thing you do,” she sat firmly in her seat. No matter what it’s about to be the last thing you do anyway , she screamed in her mind. “Well, that’s the plan. Isn’t it?” he looked her firmly in the eye, emotionless. ----------------------------- The teen sat with her knees to her chest, her shirt was soaked from constantly flowing tears. Why can’t everything just go back to the way they were? S he placed her head down on her knees and looked out the window watching the darkness swallow the trees and roadside. It was hard to tune out the ongoing argument between her parents now that she was without her headphones. She gathered Dad knew some about what was happening with Mom and Dylan. Maybe she took the journal too literally thinking that Mom would consider harming any of them. Dad doesn’t seem that concerned or upset about it. She caught sight of the gas station sign. Great, I need to get out of this car, fast. “Dad, Mom. The gas station. Can I get out, please?” “No,” they said simultaneously. “Sorry, I asked.” She mumbled. They pulled into the gas station. “Full-service. Great, I don’t even have to get out,” Dad said sarcastically. “It looks abandoned,” Mom added. A few moments passed and no one came out. “There’s a car here. Someone must be in there.” “I guess I’ll go check since I don’t do anything,” he muttered to her. “Shut up and stay here. I need to get out of this car anyway. You start pumping the gas,” she replied swinging the door open. “Yes, ma’am. Anything you wish.” He stated slamming the door as he got out. He started to pump the gas until she was in the building. As he opened the driver's door he looked into both children. “Hey, you too.” He pilfered in the door while he spoke. “I love you both. You know I’d never let anything happen to you.” Why is he saying this now? Is it because of how freaked I was a moment ago? “I just want to get out of this car, Dad” she stated shakily. “It’s best you stay in here, okay.” He started to have a tear run down his face. “As I said, I’ll protect you from anyone.” He closed the door and started to walk toward the building. Where is he going? “Dad!” She called hurriedly. What is he doing? A few moments passed, What is taking them so long? When are we going to get out of here? This place is creepy. Thoughts continued to swirl adding the tension to her body. She looked over at the car sitting at the station alone. Its personalized license plate on the front was slightly covered by darkness. Squinting she started to make out the plate, D-Y-L-A-N. Panic set in and she leaned forward looking around to get her bearings. She looked down into the front seat. Did Dad leave his phone? She reached to grab the dark object in Dad’s seat. It was leather, oddly shaped. She sat back in her seat to examine it. Finally, in clear she recognized it - a pistol holster. She looked up and out the window. BANG! BANG!, was a short pause. BANG! Dad? She quickly rolled down the window. “ Dad! Dad!” she yelled frantically. Then she heard it one last time, BANG!

By the time I realized a storm was coming in, it was already too late to make it to the shelter. It had come on fast, faster than I had ever seen, and I had lived out here over ten years. I thought I knew the weather patterns but apparently I did not. An hour ago the sky was clear, with not a cloud in sight. Now the wind whipped my hair around my head and half the dome overhead was filled with the towering shape of a massive cumulonimbus, lightning jigging and jagging within it. Pieces of plants and trees flew in the wind that buffeted me as I ran toward home and my scalp prickled with fear as I sensed a tornado behind me. I ran faster, my feet barely touching the ground as I nearly flew over it, but it wasn’t fast enough. The twister picked me up as easily as if I weighed nothing at all, holding me in its grip and flinging me around in a crazy, uncontrollable spiral. I saw the pig coming, kicking and squealing and heading right for me in the chaos of the swirling vortex, but there was no time, let alone any means to avoid him. I squeezed my eyes shut and cringed right before the solid bulk of him slammed into me and the darkness rose up and snatched me away. I had been out in the orchard, picking apples. We only had a few trees and I cherished the job as my own, enjoying the solitude of the upper field. Lately the accusing eyes of my husband were too much for me to bear and I had to admit I’d been finding more reasons to stay away from the house. Buying this farm had been Gavin’s idea, but I was the one who was finding myself in this land. He had hurt himself more than a year ago and as limited as he was in his wheelchair, he couldn’t follow me to the upper field. Gavin had become a different person after his accident and now he wanted to sell the farm and move back to the city to be closer to his doctors. I wasn’t sure I wanted to leave. I loved this place, it was my home. I wasn’t so sure about Gavin anymore but the land, yeah, I was sure about that. It’s not a huge place, only twenty five acres, but it’s sweetly situated in the foothills of the Colorado Rocky Mountains, perfectly nestled in a valley between two minor ridges. Our fields are mostly wheat and alfalfa, but back behind the house and barn, a virgin tangle of tall pines mixed with Aspen and Cottonwood march along our border almost all the way across, cradling its cluster of structures like a jewel. The barn stands just behind the house with only a breezeway between them. Before his accident, Gavin had liked that he could get there quickly if he had to check out a downed fence, missing livestock, or anything else on their acreage that needed his attention. With the barn right there he could saddle a horse and be anywhere on their property in minutes. Now he rarely leaves the house, preferring to wait for me if he needs anything. He has refused my every suggestion to hire help of any kind and relies solely on me for everything. It’s getting old. I can't take care of him and the farm. There’s just too much to do. I woke up just in time to witness my landing. The tornado swung me by a tall cedar tree, sticking me into a nook between branches as gently as a mother setting down her newborn baby. It continued on down tornado alley without so much as a by-your-leave , leaving me staring down one hundred and fifty feet of trunk at the forest floor beneath me. My hair raising trip to the ground was a nightmare I will never forget, taking me the better part of an hour, and I blew a sigh of relief when my feet finally hit the ground. My adventure inside the whirlwind had stripped me of both my shoes and my socks, leaving me in only my shorts and tank top. It was almost dark and not knowing where I was, I decided to hunker down for the night. I would find my way home in the morning. After spending a sleepless night shivering, huddled beneath the branches of my cedar, I was stiff as I made my way up to higher ground to try and figure out where I was. I wrapped my arms around myself for warmth, my clothing damp with dew, as I stumbled over the uneven ground. Morning sunbeams began peeking between the trees I was walking through, and I lingered in the patches I came across, trying to warm up enough to stop the shivering. It was hurting my teeth and clenching my jaw was only making it sore. When I came to the clearing at the top of the ridge and the sun shone full in my face, bathing me with its rays, I stopped and closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation. When I opened them a few moments later, I knew exactly where I was. Directly in front of me on top of the next crest was a rock formation I recognized. I had been there before. The real estate agent had brought me and Gavin here before taking us to tour the ranch thirteen years ago. It was apparently some kind of historic spot where the Native American chiefs from the local tribes were said to have had some kind of confrontation with some of the pioneers in the early eighteen hundreds. Their agent had told them the story mysteriously, in hushed tones, like teenagers around a campfire. The story went that when white men initially came to this area, there were only a few of them at first. The local villages tried to incorporate the new families into their territory, tolerating them as long as they stayed to themselves and committed no major faux pas, even trading with them and treating them like guests. It was said that one brave fell in love with Rosemary Williams, the daughter of one of the settlers, carrying her away with him, as was their custom. The Williams men hunted them down and brought the couple up onto the highest ridge, calling out the chiefs of the tribe to come attend the impromptu trial. The matter could not be resolved and the two parties fell upon each other, resulting in the slaughter of all the natives and most of the colonists as well. They say Rose could not be consoled at the death of her brave and was overcome with grief. Evading her father, she flung herself from the pinnacle. When the surviving Williams’s went to retrieve her body, it could not be found. Afterwards, many people claimed to see a ghostly, hysterical woman throwing herself off of the precipice. At some point a monument had been erected naming it Weeping Maiden Rock. As such places often end up, it became a popular, if dangerous local teen hangout. The Rock was deserted at the moment but I was relieved to see it because it meant home was only a few hour's walk away. I started out, warm after standing in the sun, and picked my way down the hill carefully in my bare feet. By the time I got to the top of Maiden Rock, they were stinging and sore. Stopping to rest was not an option, though. I knew I had been gone long enough to make Gavin worry, and there were probably numerous police and helpful neighbors combing the hills looking for me, as well. Following a smooth vein of rock, I got too close to the edge, my weight causing it to crumble beneath me, and before I even had time to be afraid, I landed with a jolt in the scree at the bottom of the cliff. Looking up in surprise, I could barely see the top of the rock far above my head. I couldn’t understand what had just happened to me. I was completely unhurt! How was that possible? I was thinking I should be dead and wondered if I was for a few minutes before I got up and dusted myself off. I continued limping toward home, so focused on picking my way through the rocks and thorns, I only dimly noticed the impossibility of the landscape I was walking through. With the tenderness of my feet increasing, it was late afternoon before I topped the hill above my farm. As I descended the upper field, I began noticing changes. Little things at first, then as I rounded the corner of the barn what I saw stopped me dead in my tracks. The yard was completely different! The corrals we kept our horses in had vanished and the barn and house looked brand new, each with what looked like a fresh coat of paint. I experienced a fleeting surge of hope that Gavin had people rounding up our horses, but I had no idea where we would put them when they brought them back. When I stepped around to the front of the house I stopped again as I saw the lush new lawn and flower beds in front of the house. What had Gavin done and how had he done it so quickly? Setting my jaw, I resolutely stomped toward the house to have it out with him. If he thought he was going to sell this place out from under me, he had another thing coming. The house was cool and dim when I opened the door and I stopped just inside to let my eyes adjust and to listen for a clue to where Gavin was. He usually spent most of his days in the den, watching TV, but I didn't hear it on. I stepped into the hallway, feeling the cool wood soothe my poor battered feet as I padded into the kitchen, stopping as the sight of neat black and white décor met my eyes instead of the bright yellows and greens I had decorated with. I backed out the doorway, my eyes wide, and turned and sprinted to my bedroom. I stopped just inside the chamber, shock rendering me breathless. All my things were gone! All of Gavin's equipment and most of the furniture was gone as well. Around the mostly empty room, hanging on the walls at eye level, were several ornate frames but I couldn't tell what they contained from the doorway where I stood. Intrigued, I moved toward the one closest to me and stared at the words shouting at me from the page. It was a yellowing newspaper article, the headline catching my interest immediately. " Unusual Tornado Activity Reported in Red Lodge ." Boy, I’ll say. I was thinking that was an understatement while I stepped over to the next one which read, " The Search for Cassie Thatcher Extended, " making my heart leap in my chest, and next to that, " Missing Colorado Woman Feared Dead ." I went mechanically around the room to the other frames, standing before each one only a moment before moving on. The last one made my hair stand up. " Gavin Thatcher calls off search for missing wife ." My scalp was tingling and I couldn't see through the spots in front of my eyes as I fought not to lose consciousness. They couldn't be talking about me, could they? I’d been gone less than twenty-four hours! These articles spoke of a timeline that was measured in months, years even. A sound behind me had me spinning in place, and as I spun I saw someone standing in the doorway. It was some old guy. He was shrunken and wrinkled and his thinning hair was snow white. I squinted at him, thinking he looked familiar, when he spoke. "Cassie?!" His pinched mouth was drawn down in deep lines around a permanent frown. "How?" he asked, his eyes dominating his face. I wasn't listening. I was staring at him, my face drained of color. "Gavin?" My voice came out in a hoarse whisper. "What’s happened to you?" " Me ?! What happened to you ?!" He demanded, gesturing to the walls around me. But my blood was roaring in my ears and I couldn't hear him. I covered them with my hands and pushing past him, I ran, not noticing where I was going. I needed to think. My head was still spinning, making it hard for any firing neurons to land anywhere productive. I thought this probably had something to do with my tumble off Maiden Rock, earlier. That was decidedly strange and I was starting to feel like a character in a twilight zone episode. I skirted the house and barn and headed back the way I had come, my feet complaining every time they hit the ground, but I didn’t stop. I was afraid if I did, I would turn around to see Gavin encased in some kind of exoskeleton, jerking along back there trying to catch up. The idea took shape behind me, giving me the incentive I needed to put a comfortable distance between me and the one place on earth where I felt at home. I ran on while the day faded around me, ignoring my pain and fatigue and reached the escarpment just as the last of the sun’s light gave way to stars. I stood at the bottom and looked up. Was there a slight disturbance up there? I did see an area where my view of the stars was obscured, but from here and in the dark, I couldn’t tell how high up it was or any other details about it. It was there, though, I was sure of that and the knowledge comforted me. I would figure it out. But as shattered as I was, I still understood I would have to get help. If it was even possible, I knew getting back up through that thing wasn’t going to be easy. Exhausted, I eased myself down with my back against the warmth of the rock and examined my soles with cautious fingers. They were a mass of cuts, thankfully none were serious, but I must have pulled out a hundred stickers before my eyes closed of their own accord and my chin dropped to my chest as I fell headlong into the gaping maw of slumber, supported by the embrace of the outcropping I leaned against. I woke to someone stroking my forehead with a tender hand. Startled, I sat up quickly, my heart hammering away inside my chest. Gavin lowered his hand and watched me without speaking while I gathered my bearings. I was in an unfamiliar bed but I recognized our guest room. Gavin sat in a chair beside the bed, a book upside down in his lap. He smiled and standing up slowly, grabbed a cane from the back of the chair and made his way to the door. “I’ll have Rose make you something to eat if you want to get dressed and come to the kitchen.” He nodded his head at a neatly folded stack of clothing on a nearby bureau and went out, closing the door behind him. I hoped I hadn’t offended him but I couldn’t help staring at him. He had to be at least ninety years old. The implications were staggering. I pinched myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming. It would explain the changes in the property, though. I took my time getting dressed, noticing that someone had cleaned and dressed my feet while I was sleeping. I froze, seeing my shoes beneath the dresser the clothes had been sitting on and picked them up to get a closer look. Where had he found them? They really did look like I had taken them off yesterday. My hands were shaking so much I couldn’t tie them. After several tries, I gave up and tucked the laces in instead, then taking a deep breath, I opened the door. Gavin explained, while I wolfed a delicious omelet made for me by a melancholy young woman he called Rose, that he had come after me in his TF-X, whatever that was, and unable to wake me, had trapped me with his Bessel Beams, whatever those were, and brought me back here. I looked up from my plate to see him smiling his cat that caught the canary smile and narrowed my eyes at him. Same old Gavin. “Spill,” I told him. Instead he turned to Rose, who was washing dishes in the sink despite the very obvious space age machine next to her emblazoned with the words, Bosch DishMaster . “Rose, honey, will you tell Cassie what year you were born?” Without stopping or turning around, she answered in a clear voice. “1803.” Goosebumps began chasing each other up and down my spine. Then she did turn around to look at me, her hands dripping suds on the floor at her feet. Her face spoke volumes about how this had previously been received. I could almost feel the heat of the lightbulb over my head as it dawned on me who she was. Rose mary Williams. The Weeping Maiden of the Rock has just made me breakfast. I don’t think I’m going to get home.

The Snort After attending churches, synagogues, temples, prayer meetings, healing sessions, and gala gatherings at stadiums and in megachurches, Charlotte called it quits. What she meant by “it” was the search for God/gods/higher power/supreme being/true god from true god/the Trinity/Allah and so many other names she lost her common sense when she tried to remember them all. Quits had the same meaning for Charlotte as The End. She’d completed her search, there was nothing left to search for - End/curtainsclosed/donedeal/nomore/fini/over/collapsed/finished/kaput. Her epiphany occurred one Good Friday at 3 p.m. in an Episcopal church/aka Anglican church, in the South End of Boston. It was raining. The Cardinal had come, given the sign of the cross to the damp people gathered in pews as rain thump, thumped on the roof and trickled like a tear down a wall behind a twelve-foot-high crucifix. Women in plastic kerchiefs wept into Kleenex and paper towels. Men snuffed and wiped their noses with their fists. No children were present. They were in schools where they should have been. The place smelled like wet wool. Rather it smelled of wet wool, because everyone was wearing something woolen. Late March in Boston was full of puddles which ricocheted their contents onto unsuspecting winter jackets, scarfs and caps. The protocol was to not say a word, phrase, sentence, to not mutter and try not to cough or sneeze or clear your throat. It was three, as silent as possible, hours, in which to ponder on the crucifixion of a man named Jesus who lived 2000 (or so) years ago. The ah ha moment for Charlotte came at exactly 2:30 when, at first, she thought she could no longer stay stuck to the now sweating wood beneath her bottom, and then she involuntarily snorted like a hippopotamus emerging from a clear pond from which it had quenched its thirst and was having a moment of sheer relief. The woman in the plastic thing around her head in front of Charlotte turned, frowned and put an index finger to her lips. Charlotte nodded that she understood. She shrugged as if she wanted the woman to understand she had no idea where the snort came from, that it was completely beyond her control but that she thought it an innocent snort and should not be construed as being rude. Charlotte was wearing a cloche kind of a hat, white. She pulled at it because it had begun to itch her head. Whether it was that small gesture combined with the snort and the woman in plastic, she didn’t know. What she did know is that all the searching came tumbling down like Humpty Dumpty, but instead of falling, she felt she was uplifted in a spiritual kind of way. The searching hadn’t been in vain, but now it was done. She felt decades of guilt fall from her shoulders and the back of her neck. She pictured herself sliding down a waterfall, encompassed by water that rocked her and caressed her. It was the best, this waterfall, even if was only in her brain that was clearing itself of superstition, nonsense and belief in baloney. To further confirm her unbelief burden, she tiptoed from the church to see a slice of sun trying to make its way from the back of a coal-colored cloud. She stood on the sidewalk on Columbus Avenue while schoolchildren hopped and skipped around her. Gentrification was happening all around. Old, battered walk-ups were turning into trendy condos and apartments. The gutters no longer contained nip bottles and candy wrappers and beer cans. A florist on the corner displayed bunches of daffodils and tulips in green cellophane. No one sat on curbs with signs written on cardboard that said they were hungry and had lost their jobs and their children. Then church bells rang, slow and sad, then louder and gleeful. She knew this meant Jesus had completed his agony, had died and that he would be resurrected somehow and go up there somewhere and sit at the right hand of The Father. She wondered how she thought, when she was 21, that this made any sense at all. At 22, she’d moved on to Judaism which believed none of this but did think there was a Messiah but that it hadn’t come yet but would. By 23, she’d come to believe this wasn’t going to happen. Jewish people, she’d thought and still thought, could use a Messiah after all their ancestors had endured. She’d dabbled with Islam and read about Hinduism. More mystical stuff. Yet millions of souls on this earth believed what was taught by the men, and it seemed they were all men, of these two religions. Hadn’t they dabbled like she had? Why hadn’t they asked questions when some of the beliefs were contrary to reason? Maybe, they had, and they’d chosen belief over reason. Charlotte was glad for caffeine in the morning and wine in the evening. She was thankful to herself when she’d abandoned confessions and prayers to something unknown. She didn’t feel ashamed at lust and, on special occasions, gluttony. She didn’t covet anyone’s husband, nor did she steal or (knowingly) get led into temptation to do stupid things like skydiving, not at her age of 60. Recently she’d almost been led into the temptation of riding on the back of a motorcycle across the Zachem Bridge on a Sunday afternoon, the cyclist being a man who was not good for her mental health. Now she was glad to have worn boots even though this morning’s report hadn’t mentioned rain. But she never did trust those Doppler graphs. She bought a bouquet of daffodils for herself, ambled along to her office building and took the elevator to the twelfth floor where her cubicle was. “Were you into Good Friday,” Meredith in the next cubicle asked? I should have, but this report can’t wait. I’ll make up for it tomorrow somehow. Charlotte shook her hat, took off her coat and said she’d done Good Friday.

Link to part 1 in the comments! Promises made, promises kept! Enjoy part 2! More coming your way in the span of several days! You probably want to know how it started. Why do three Americans have to escape from a train filled with Russian soldiers headed to Houston? Alright, I’m gonna tell you the whole deal. It all started somewhere in the mid 2030s... A certain "space travel pioneer" company had spent a massive amount of resources in research and development of efficient means energy storage. Finally, they have reached a certain point where a personal exoskeleton could be efficiently powered by a battery weighing a measly 5 kilograms! That’s not the way down which the militaries of the world headed, though... Such concentrated power gave rise to a new class of weapons- the Megawatt laser. The idea of shooting down ICBMs with giant space guns dated back to the 1960s, but now the world had a way to power this idea. A new arms race began, and soon- the long range nuclear missiles became obsolete. The nations of the world bit into each other’s throats, forming not blocks like during the Cold War, but rather small regional coalitions. Everybody invaded everybody- it was a true clusterfuck. Some nations played it wiser, though, like the Russian federation. They saw that the world would grow weaker and weaker with every day of war, and that everything around them would be easier to take over if they preserved their current strength. So they doubled down on homeland security and started mass-producing weapons of war. And, when the time came - they struck. Amidst all this- the USA depleted most of its resources on waging war in oil-rich countries, making it an easy target to invade- homeland security crumbled in months. Years of propaganda turned a once great nation into an invader-filled cesspool! All of the world’s nations- for that matter... even the Russian invaders were struggling, with their bureaucratic lines now being stretched over twenty different time zones. In all of this, Johnathan Hall and his two humble comrades are what’s left of the American special forces group called “The Rattlesnakes”- a nickname given to them by the Russians during the battle of California, where the specialists used decoys and guerrilla tactics to demoralize and wear out the enemy, making them appear as though they were a larger force. There are now only three original Rattlesnakes left, and most people on their secret base in New Mexico are civilians, barely capable of producing enough food, let alone fight. So they scavenge for Russian equipment and desperately search for good fighters, that may one day drive away the invaders and restore America! *flash of headlights* The three motorcycles drove into the Aztec ruins on low beams, trying to make as little noise as possible. Burns got off the bike and ran towards a little ruined house in the outskirts of the site, while Hall and the Colonel waited. There- he pulled a little crank out of his pocket and inserted it into the ground a few inches away from the house’s walls. When he turned the crank, a sizable trapdoor opened on the floor, revealing an ancient crumbling tunnel, lit up by butane torches: “Welcome home, soldiers!”- the colonel pronounced, as they started towing the trophy bikes into the improvised driveway of the tunnel. Hall parked his Ural near the entrance to the catacombs and took his AK from the sling. He hadn’t been here for several weeks since his capture during a scavenging operation, and he was suspicious, since, by the worlds of the colonel, neither was he. A suspicion of some extent was needed, since the tunnel might have gotten captured by the Russians who were just waiting for the team to walk in without any caution. When Burns and Reeves parked their bikes- the group headed towards the entrance to the hideout. “Awfully quiet in here... don’t you think?”- said Burns. “It’s early morning, everyone short of the guards is probably asleep.”- Reeves replied. They walked up to the metal door with a Rattlesnake painted on it and, one by one, got in. “Stop right there!” A bright searchlight lit up the darkness of the catacombs, blinding the trio: “Code! What’s the bloody code?!”- a man spoke from behind the searchlight with a thick British accent. “Susie, fetch the straw hat!”- the colonel barked. The searchlight dimmed. A silhouette of a 12.7mm DSHK turret could be made out from behind the light. A man in a British paratrooper’s uniform jumped down from the pulpit of the gate that led to the underground base: “Colonel! We were waiting for you... I mean, Leo was. I’m new here, but I’ve been informed of your arrival. Things have changed for good down here, you’ll be surprised once you enter the base!” “What’s your rank, soldier?”- Reeves said, now calmly, while his two squad mates holstered their guns. “Sergeant first class of the national liberation front paratroopers brigade, sir!”- The man saluted the colonel. “Good god, all the way from Britain?!” “Derry, sir! Our base there got barbecued a week ago, I’m afraid. Russians... Russians everywhere! My humble group of 22 men are stationed here now. Thank god your recruiter talked us into this!” “We don’t have a rec- wait. Since when do we have a recruiter?” “A kid showed up just when you left. Started gathering men from the whole world via encrypted messages. That’s how we got word of this place.” “A kid? Oh boy, do I have some questions!”- the colonel murmured: “Alright, it’s getting chilly out here! Lead us inside, Sarge-“ “Wilson”- the paratrooper fired.

A millennium seems like an immense span of time, especially to someone who only experiences a small fraction of one. But in the wider scope of history, beyond our lifetimes, its only a small sliver of time and experience. Time keeps moving forward like a mighty river, with nothing, or none, of significance able to stop its immortal flow. Experiences and ideas accumulate and assemble like the rocks of a riverbed, before withering away as the endless rush of water erodes them into smitherines riding the current downstream. I have had the so-called 'gift' of learning this first-hand. Time isn't a component of reality, or some sort of mystical force that can't be understood. It is a machination of our perceptions. In order for reality to be perceived, it must be taken in through the stimulation of our senses in a continuous stream, and thus, it seems to move forward in a continuous line. This is a terrible part of reality. It speeds by, faster and faster, ignorantly racing past every cherished moment and experience. And I'm trapped by my perceptions in this damned immortal place. For eternity. Before I begin my story, I must acknowledge that my memory has become a bit hazy over the generations. But, I will do my best to try to recall as much as possible. A long time ago, a sceptre was growing over Europe. An Empire of incomparable size was engulfing everything in its path, growing stronger and stronger by each day. It seemed like nothing could stop the vastness and strength of this Empire. Horsemen from far-Eastern Steppes had grown from equestrians, to become what was called the 'scourge of God,' and the survivors of this scourge spread tales of death and destruction left in their wake. But, in the midsts of this paranoia and fear, the curiosity of many was piqued by the foreign nature of this Empire. Tales of incomparable wealth, marvelling treasures and rich wisdom abounded from those who had travelled to the Eastern lands that formed the core of this Empire. But, after many insurrections and battles, this Empire shattered. The great conduits of trade it had established throughout the continent sputtered and fell apart, disconnected and disorganized. The flow of supplies was no longer carried by merchants who trekked over the continent, and this only feuled the imaginations of those who did not have the opportunity to witness what truly lay inside that great Empire. I seemed stupid at the time to many, and to be quite frank, I was. But I had no livelihood, and the town was fluttering in stagnation and disease. I realized there was no life in the musty and mildewy fisheries that I came from, so I took a clue from an ancient book, and left - to never turn back. I spent what little wealth I had on gathering supplies and a horse for travel, and I set off from the village. I didn't leave anyone special behind, nor did I leave many memories. My life truly began at that moment, or so I thought. I set forth to find the lost city of 'Xanadu,' once the former capital of the Great Khanate, and the centre of the worlds richest riches. On the first part of the journey, I passed through the strange lands of what was once the farthest borderlands of the Great Khanate. Much like my homeland, it was ridden with disease, and destroyed by war. The people here were strange. They still looked European, they still sounded somewhat European, they still were professed followers of Christ, but they didn't seem so European. Many of the traditions and mannerisms they carried were radically different, and sometimes even nonsensical. I figured that it was probably the influences of the fabled Great Khanate and whatever culture this place used to have. I skirted down a river to avoid what was described to me as a Kingdom of bandits and barbarians, before passing through the great 'Bashkir' protecting Europe. This mountain pass unfortunately protected whatever lay on the other side from Europeans, too. As I passed through, I ran low on my rations. To make ends meet, I had to begin hunting the surrounding wildlife for meals with a bow. This worked for some time, but as the path became more jagged and barren, it became harder to scavenge for firewood. My horse became more weary and tired, and the journey slowed. I had heard stories of bandits preying on the weak and isolated in these mountains, and I made sure to keep a knife sheathed on my waist at all times. To ensure that I didn't fall victim to an attack, I tried moving through this mountain chain as fast as possible, only taking breaks for gathering food or sleep. But this didn't suffice. As I was guiding my horse around the chasm of a gorge, a whizzing arrow pierced my shoulder. Another struck the icy-rock behind me, pinging off and falling into the vast and deep gorge below. Warm blood rushed down my chest, soaking my clothes and dripping from my shoulder. If they weren't already near me, they would be able to follow my path thanks to this wound. I fastened the reigns of my horse, and clutched my blade as I waited for - whoever these people were - to approach me. I heard voices in the distance. Three men emerged from the cliffs shadow, clad in foreign silk, leather, and weaponry. At first I mistook their tongue for Turkish, but as they approached closer, I knew it was something distinct that I had never heard before. Is this all that was left from the once great Khanate? Or were these people of a different descent, who helped tear down the horde? This thought passed, because it didn't matter, they were approaching me now with weapons drawn. *"Keri bolıñız!"* I clenched my fist around my blade, and unsheathed it, revealing it to the men approaching me. They tried speaking to me, but I didn't understand. I took a few steps back, taking stance for a fight. "I-I'm just a traveller," I stammered out. "I bring no harm to you, please, just don't hurt me..." They furrowed their brows, confused by my language. Still, undeterred, they continued their approach. *"Artqa! Ustañız, al jaqında biz ketemiz."* They commanded as they apprehensively stepped closer. I stood back, not knowing what they were saying. But I could presume the routine of a bandit. Injure or kill the victim, take their belongings, and scatter away before any consequences could catch up with them. So, I stayed out of their way. They rummaged through the bags on my horse, looking for anything of value. They began taking food, clothes, whatever they could find. They then took the reigns of my horse, and left me, blood dripping out of my shoulder, on the cliff-side. I made no objections. I stood there in dead silence while they walked into the hazy distance. What would I say? 'Please stop?' I was stuck in these God-forbidden mountains with no food or means of travel. I was, for lack of a better word, fucked. My first instinct was to build a fire, before figuring out what to do next. I tore off a piece of clothing, and fastened it around my shoulder. Every move came with writhing and gruesome pain. I gnashed my teeth to try and ignore the pain, until my jaw became sore. I walked down the path with what little I had on my shoulders, still seeking the great city foretold in legends and prophecies. This was for more than just greed or fame, but for adventure, and discovery. This path was long, and winding, and seemed to never end. The sun was setting behind the great peaks in the distance, covering the gorge with a resoundingly dark shadow. Finally, after what seemed like hours, I emerged from the gorge to a valley, lush with vegetation and tree's. Pain shooting through my arm, I tore away brush and twigs, and began to collect fuel for a fire. The tree's of this land were thin and tall, sprouting narrow branches in every direction, flooding my nostrils with the scent of pine-cones and needles bristled with frost. As if God himself had granted me a miracle, this was exactly what I needed, with my shoulder disabled. I collected what I needed from the dense strip of tender's, and created a fire, at last. Finally, I could warm myself, sleep, and tend to my wound. I sat by the flickering fire, warming my body temperature, and preparing myself mentally. Gritting my teeth, I slowly pulled the arrow out of my flesh, gouging my wound with more blood. I let out a gasp of pain as it finally came out. I bandaged my wound, and lay back, exhaling a sigh of relief. Looking at the arrow, I became intrigued. It was strange. It had markings and patterns I had never seen before, with Greek and Turkish looking characters written on its metal edge. I tossed it aside, disinterested. I looked up to the sky and rested my eyelids, trying to get some rest, so I could heal my wounds. As I sat there alone staring at the night sky, full of stars and wonder, I thought about why I had even come this far for this. I thought about the mundane life at home, choked to death by greed and misfortune. My mind wandered to the legends I had been told by old travellers, to the stories that abounded old forsaken books... > 'To walk the sacred river Alph, to scale the great walls, to wander the infinite caves of Ice. A pleasure-dome, decreed by Kublah Khan, possessing the answers to the greatest wonders of human kind. A place of immortality, with prophecies of war foretold in the whispering distance.

Botany was a hobby that my mother had always pursued. In the spring, she’d spend her weekends tending to her vegetable garden for hours on end. My father would have to pry her from the soil just so that she would come and have dinner with us. In the winter, she would bring home armfuls of books from the local library devoted to flowers and trees. She’d read every last word before returning them the next week and checking out another stack. I guess she’s the reason I bought a hibiscus plant last year. I saw it on the windowsill of an almost unnoticeable flower shop which was squished between a Starbucks and a Barnes and Noble and I bought it without thinking. I told myself that I was buying the plant for me and not her but I was most definitely lying. Hibiscus had always been her favorite. As I was lugging the hefty pot of soil through the darkening streets of New York City and back to my studio apartment, I got a phone call. I set the plant down to my right, stretching my aching back, before answering, “Hello?” “Is this Magnolia Armstrong?” the woman's voice rang through the phone. “Yes,” I said hesitantly, “Who is this?” “Miss Armstrong,” the woman began softly, “I'm calling about your father. I’m so sorry, he-” I dropped the phone before I could hear another word. I knew what she wanted to tell me but I would not allow her to. I collected myself and picked the phone back up to listen to my new reality. My father was dead and I hadn't visited him once in the ten years I had been gone. I sprinted home as fast as I could with a twenty pound plant weighing me down. Frantically, I began to pack the things I needed without a concrete thought in my brain. The hibiscus somehow made it to the passenger seat of my car and I started driving. At first, I feared that I would have forgotten the way. Then I realized that I knew exactly where I was going. I pulled into the narrow driveway and noticed the things that were the same. The weeping willow still stood tall in the front yard and the house was still big and made from bricks. I had yet to shed a tear for the loss of my father with the unexpectedness of it all but my childhood home pushed me over the edge. I sobbed for what felt like hours before entering the house. Once inside, I noticed that the front door had been painted yellow. I put the hibiscus on the kitchen table as I breathed in the dead air that surrounded me. I knew that the life within this house died long before my father did. My thoughts were a mess when I first arrived. I had to think about my fathers funeral for a few days until it was over. Then I thought about the things left in the house for a few weeks until they were gone. Finally, I thought about the house itself, and why I was still in it. Maybe I was drawn to the familiar welcome carpet outside of the yellow front door. Maybe the weeping willow that we planted decades ago was holding me hostage. Maybe I was enjoying the constant memories of my adolescence flowing to my brain. I spent my days remembering my parents' laughter floating from the kitchen to my room as they made me pancakes. They would put together a special breakfast every Sunday up until I was nine. I guess I didn't notice when they stopped. I remembered my mother planting the great weeping willow as a young sapling in our front yard. I had asked her why it was so small and she told me that it would grow, “You’ll just have to wait.” I wished she could see how the mighty branches now stood taller than I did and how the emerald green leaves danced in the wind. Maybe she would still be here if she knew. I moved my stuff into my old bedroom. It looked nothing like it did years ago when I was obsessed with My Little Pony or when I went through my “I hate everything” phase. The walls were painted a hot pink when I was seven and a dark green when I was twelve. When I left, my dad painted my, and all of the walls in the house, white. He covered the years of height marks on the side of my door and the mural of water lilies that we’d spent hours painting together. At first, I was angry that he just erased the memories of my bedroom like they meant nothing. Then I realized how long I had been gone. I guess there’s no need for a daughter's room if there’s no daughter to live in it. I spent my nights staring at the ceiling. It held the only proof that a teenage girl had once lived in the room: a brown stain from who knows where. I racked my brain and tried to remember how I had made that stain, or if I had at all. I was unsuccessful. My days were consumed with exploring every square inch of the place I used to call home. I so desperately wanted to remember when it stopped feeling like a sanctuary and more so like a lion's den. The only conclusion I could come to was that it happened gradually. First, they stopped laughing and started yelling. I never understood how two people who loved each other so much could fall apart so fast. It was as if I blinked and they suddenly resented one another. Instead of “Special breakfast Sundays,” we had “Make your own food Fridays.” Perhaps it was the day she left that broke my bond with my house. I was positive that she would come back, she loved the house more than any of us. She couldnt possibly abandon the weeping willow and her stupid vegetable garden and her house and her plants and me. I was wrong. I was bitter for a long time after she drove away in her green honda and never returned. I blamed her for everything bad that had ever happened in my life. Though my dad conveyed the same emotions, he did it in a different way. First, he dug up the flower beds and the vegetable garden. Then he threw out the numerous house plants that crowded every room of the house. Any sign of my mother was destroyed or thrown away by my father. I guess that was his method of forgetting the bad memories. My idea of erasing a part of my life that I felt I could do without was much different. I decided that the one thing I hated my mother the most for was my best option. When I turned eighteen, I left the weeping willow and I left the blank walls. I left the painful memories and I left everything I had ever loved. I left my life behind and I left my father to get sicker and sicker until the end of his. Now I was back in the place I wished to never return to and I could not leave. I was trapped like a mouse between the colorless walls of my house and the hibiscus on my kitchen table. I decided that I would stay in that house until I had a daughter of my own to make pancakes on Sundays for and plant a vegetable garden with. I would never think of chopping down the weeping willow, we would plant another on the other side of the yard. We would laugh and cherish the time we did have with each other because everybody leaves, whether they mean to or not. We all find a reason to start a new life when it gets too difficult to live our own. I will not resent her when she leaves me to go to college or find a job. This is because I will always be in the big and beautiful house with a magnificent vegetable garden when she chooses to visit. I will live here and I will die here and be nothing like my mother. I will be better.

Prompt: Write about someone who has a superpower. it is 7am and we need to get up, we always get up at 7am. I make sure of that. Then we take a walk and when we come back, we eat breakfast, or I eat breakfast, she usually just drink something while I eat. After that, she will go to the bathroom and do her thing. I try to follow her, but she insists that I wait outside the door, so I do just that, every day since she took me home. I like to sit and wait for her because I know that she will be safe. When she is done in the bathroom, I take a quick look to make sure that everything is as it is supposed to be. After this, she will go back to bed. Not to sleep but to work, or that is what she says that she is doing but usually she just watches movies. I spend a lot of my time by her side when she is in bed and I can feel that she is tense, even though she tries to suppress it I can feel it. I guess that is my superpower, I can feel how other people feel even if they cannot or chooses not to. And that is why I am with her; I am here to make sure that everything is as it is supposed to be. It is my job and I take pride in that. Some days are worse than others and our morning walk will be shorter, but she makes sure that I get out and I make sure that we both get exercise. I can feel that she is better after a walk, even if she will not admit it, I can feel it and that is what is important. She will spend many hours in bed and seemingly do nothing, but I can feel her energy slowly charging up, and around midday, we take another walk. She uses this walk to pick up food for us, even though I am the one eating most of it. When we get back it is playtime. That is my favourite time of the day because I know that she is her happiest and that makes me happy. I have a lot of toys because she always brings me new toys so I can be happy. I never see her bring home toys for herself, so I try to share my toys with her. I can feel that that makes her happy, so I do it often. I even sometimes share my favourite toy with her. After playtime, she will make food for herself self and it always smells so good. I have learned not to beg for food, but she will share a little bit with me anyway, but not too much because I will “get fat”. That is what she tells me at least. When she is done eating, she will either go back to bed or lay on the couch and watch more movies and scratch me behind the ears. That is my favourite spot to be scratched and she knows that because she can feel it makes me happy. This will go on for hours, with the occasional bathroom break. I will go out into the small yard and she will use the bathroom. When it is 6pm she will prepare dinner for me and I will eat while she prepares dinner for herself. Dinner is great because she will give me the rest of her dinner as well. After dinner, we will go on the last walk of the day. This is her favourite time of the day. I can feel that because she is so calm on this walk and sometimes, she even smiles. When we get back from our last walk of the day, she will take off her clothes and go to bed, this is when I will push her to go to the bathroom because I know that she needs to do her evening routine, just like I need to do mine. It is important because it keeps us healthy, I can feel that. When we are done with our own routines we will go to bed and she will scratch me behind the ears, and she will talk to me about her thoughts. They are often dark and sad and sometimes they are just not there at all, and sometimes, but not often, she will tell me about a happy thought that she had that day. It makes her relax to talk to me and even though I cannot answer her, I can feel that it helps her that I am there to listen. And the good days she will talk to me for a short time and then go to sleep and on the bad days, she will talk to me for hours until she cannot stay awake anymore. When she is finally sleeping, I curl up to her and try to sleep as well but I know that it is my job to keep her safe, so I will always stay alert, even in the night. Almost every day is like this, but this day was different, it always is. I get to use that garden instead of the usual walk and she will stay in bed shaking and crying for most of the day. This is my job, my moment. This is why I am here. I am here to save her. I could feel it, as I curled up close to her, that she was thinking about it, she was ready to say goodbye. But she never did it. Year after year on this particular day, she would feel the worst and I knew because I could feel it too. But I also knew how to make it better because that is what I am here for, that is what I was trained to do, to help her. To make sure that she would wake up at 7am the next day so we could go on a walk and I knew that for every day that I was here, she felt a tiny bit better. I knew because I could feel it.

This is it, the end of America. It’s on all the radios and on all of the news stations... “Asteroid Amagadden due to reach earth in 1 day.” I hear on my radio as I sit under my sheets whimpering. Just when America had gotten itself back on track we have to deal with this shit... Does that asteroid even know how it’s gonna affect the economy? If that damned glorified rock hits the earth the American dollar probably won’t even be worth a 1/10th of its former glory. Even worse, there’s a group of communists chanting towards the sky all day and night. “Destroy capitalism!, Destroy America!” It’s starting to get on my nerves. Scientists on tv are saying things like “Seriously, the economy is the least of our concerns, if that asteroid hits we’ll all be de-” I turn off the tv, there’s no need for that white coat wearing asshole to tell me, I know that we’ll be in even more debt than before. On the bright side, more people have started going to church after they heard about the crisis and are spending more time with their families. This is what America truly is, a land where tough times pull people together. That there is the American way, and as long as we hold true to our ideals, we won’t have to go through a second great depression. I look at the clock on my alarm and it reads 6:30 A.M. It’s about time for me to head to work. I finish my morning routine by shit-talking some stranger online and when I walk outside the traffic is just terrible. Why do sheeple do these things? They’ll do anything the lizard people tell em to do. I get into my car and begin driving to work, damn it, I’m an hour late now. I finally make my way out of my car and into the office building only to find out that no one is there. See, this is exactly what I meant. People refusing to work, staying home with their families, and being lazy. This is the collapse of America, if this shit keeps up I’ll have to move to Canada, but if I do that I’ll look like a band-wagoner, so that isn’t even an option for me. I look into the sky outside my work building to see nothing but smoke, the honking of the cars can be still be heard as I sit outside of my building. I see a scraggly old man holding a cardboard sign with the reading “The end is not near!” He notices me and begins chanting out “The end is not near!” in an automatic tone. “Tell me about it, these people are acting like it’s the end of the world,” I say as a tire flies at my building and breaks the glass on the 4th floor. The man begins laughing maniacally, “Yes! Yes, that’s what I’ve been saying but no one will listen to me,” he says in desperation. “Then I guess we’re just two of a kind then huh?” I say as I rub my head. I begin to go home after waiting a few more hours to see if anyone would show up and I just sleep until the day ends. I wake up in the morning to check my stocks. "What a shitty day today is," I say as I hear a rumbling brewing in the background.

Within days of having gained his powers. Quake has begun wreaking havoc upon the inhabitants of Centurion city. Assaulting banks, science facilities, and police stations. He's killing anyone who get's in his way. Quake has been declared an enemy of the public. A military response is brewing alongside the fear of the public, and for good reason. Surge, the cities mysterious protector has been nowhere to be seen since the villainous Quake's appearance. Speaking softly over the off sync beeping of the heart and oxygen monitors shoved on top of the dresser next to him. Peter Mayfield leans forward nudging his friend saying. “Ed...hey, Ed? You finally with me buddy?” “What? Ugh. Where am I?” Edgar says lifting his upper body up with his arms. Still shaky. Ed lowers himself back down onto the white cot that reeks of disinfectant. Peter stands from the side of the cot where he had been sitting. Scratching his head nervously. He paces around to the other side where a metal stand rests with a full I.V. attached running a thin tube down into Edgar's arm. Peter rubs his hands together saying. “Okay. So. When we lost contact the second time. I sped off to find you, but you were in pretty bad shape. Whatever hit you, broke two ribs and cracked your skull like a melon.” “So that's why I feel like I got hit by a car.” “Did you?” Asks a tall woman dressed in scrubs striding through the doorway. Edgar flashes Peter a very disapproving glance saying. “What did you tell her?” Clearing her throat, she pushes her stylish glasses up the bridge of her nose. “She...is right here. And can answer for herself. Thank you very much. Oh, and I believe I'm the one who patched up that head of yours. So try to be a little nicer.” “So...that's Daisy.” Peter sheepishly says. Glancing angrily between the two of them, Edgar asks. “So, Daisy. What do you know?” “You don't remember me? Do you? You saved me from my apartment building three weeks ago. I was so sure I was going to die trapped by all that fire on the fifth floor. Then you pop up. Literally out of nowhere like some sort of comic book or movie. You swept me up and within a second I was standing outside with the firemen. I know how fast you can run, and how strong you can be. I know you're Surge.” Thinking twice about being so harsh to her. Edgar takes a deep calming breath, puts his hand out to her and smiles. “Well, Daisy. I guess the secrets out, so you might as well keep it for me.” Wincing behind his broken ribs he shakes her hand then asks. “Peter, what's happened while I've been out?” Twiddling his fingers together. Peter nervously looks at Daisy for approval but with a shrug of her shoulders he decides to clear his throat and mumble the answer. Frustrated Edgar asks. “Come on? I mean...how long was I out for?” “Okay a lot has happened. Just remember to take it easy. You're still healing.” Daisy blurts out while checking the bandage on the back of Edgar's head. Peter scratches his head and chuckles saying. “You've been out for five days.” “Five days...” Edgar mumbles to himself then says. “Tell me. Everything that's happened.” “So. That guy Marcus. Or Quake? Whatever his name choice is. His body was mutated by the same type of radiation emitted by that strange purple gas. You were plain old lucky the suit material I used somehow kept the mutation from occurring in you a second time. At least that's my current theory. You could have also gained an immunity to it...I suppose you could have an exposure limit and the mutation could be stimulated to occur twice?” Daisy slaps Peter on the back of the head. “What are you doing? What is that? That's not helpful. Fill him in.” Confused, Peter looks about laughing and says. “Sorry. So much has happened. So much to discover. Anyways. She's right. Sorry. So, that Quake guy. He's been nonstop assaulting the city. He's even managed to get the Red Lights gang on his side. I'm telling you Ed. Whoever this guy was before. Is gone. He's gone completely mad with power. He's killed so many police they've become afraid to respond to his attacks. The news says the military is supposed to be coming in any day now. We're about to deal with martial law.” Noticing a television in the far corner of the room tucked away inside a closet filled with boxes. Edgar blinks three times in quick succession. The television turns onto a static filled channel with the first blink. The second and third blinks flip through channels. Stopping on a live news reporter from a helicopter flying overhead the edge of Centurion city. Resting in the sky somewhere between a power facility and the local prison. The camera moves away from the reporter, down to the ground below. Taking a second to focus the lens shows Quake sticking strange metal rods around a crater in the ground. A few unmarked black sedans sit down the hill just a ways. Red lights shining over the crater, the gang members wait patiently toting their guns in protection of their newfound leader. With a heavy sigh, Edgar grunts pushing himself up out of the cot. He swings his legs to the side and stretches out saying. “Ugh. I can't just lay around knowing he's out there terrorizing everyone. It's my fault he's become this way.” Horrible piercing pains radiates from the two broken ribs on the right side of his body. Difficult to ignore it he takes a few beats to fully sit up. The throbbing crack in his skull shoots needles into his eyes. Standing up with a little stumble Edgar sits back down. Daisy places her hands onto Edgar's shoulders and rests him back into the bed saying. “Unfortunately for you. I don't think you'll be going out there just yet.” “Seriously. It's okay let the military handle this in a few days.” Peter says chiming in. Determination strikes Edgar's facial features. His eyes narrow like that of a hunting predator and says. “No. No. I can't just let him get away with acting like this, and whatever he's doing. I bet it has something to do with the gas.” Forcing himself back up against his bodies desire for rest. Edgar swings his legs from the cot and stands. Focusing his breathing, he sends surges of electrical energy from his chest outward throughout every limb. Clenching his hands in fists Edgar exhales deeply saying. “Where's my suit? I'm going.” Peter points outward down the hall and into the living room of his house. “It's in the bathroom across the hall. But, Ed?” Walking between both Daisy and Peter, Edgar looks back at his friend. Peter continues saying. “Be careful. I'll go boot the computers up.” Confused and concerned Daisy gives Peter a light shove. “You're just going to let him go fight in this condition? What's wrong with you?” Peter sighs watching Edgar stride down the hall into the bathroom and says. “He's going out there no matter how we feel about it. Least I can do is be ready to help.” Feeling hopeless. Daisy sits down on the cot as Peter leaves the room. Going downstairs, Peter starts the variety of computers and police scanners they managed to scrounge up together. Edgar really was a wiz when it came to electronics, and his powers just made things easier for him. Peter was always a little tech savvy, but Ed puts him to shame. This setup can calculate spikes in the electrical grids, tune in on police frequencies and more. Getting everything ready, Peter puts a virtual reality headset on. The custom program streamlined important data directly into the visors feed. Edgar dressed head to toe in his sleek green suit with yellow accents looks over his new helmet. The golden visor made of a thicker material to keep it from cracking and a reinforced metal plate wrapping around the skull note the major differences. Sliding it on, Edgar notices its a perfect fit. The cushions wrap around his ears sealing his head inside without diminishing his ability to hear. Peter definitely has a way of crafting armor that Edgar appreciates. Stepping out of the bathroom, Ed catches sight of the distraught Daisy on the cot. Snapping his fingers together Ed shoots a little bolt of static electricity her way. Zapping her fingers she pulls her hand back in shock and stares at him. With a big smile Edgar flashes her a thumbs up saying. “Hey. No need to worry. I'll be back in a jiffy.” Leaving the house. Edgar steps outside and takes a deep breath of the evening air. Charging himself up. Electricity flows up and down his body. Arcs spring off around to the ground around him in a circular pattern as he kneels down into himself in a runners stance at the start of a race. Tapping his helmet opens the communication system and Edgar asks. “Peter? Give me the fastest route to Marcus.” Static fills the line for a beat, then Peter replies. “Sending route now.” As the guidance system opens a small map with a detailed route in the corner of his visor. Edgar is already on the highway leaping onto a power line and grinding along the electricity arcing between his feet and it. Speeding along as a green blur, Edgar switches power lines to one heading out to the prison. Stopping short of the Red Lights gang and their cars at the bottom of the hill. Edgar zooms in with his visor, surveying the area before approaching. Quake pierces the ground with the sixth and final metal rod and each device actives. The tops shift open revealing mysterious purple lights emanating trace amounts of gas. Collecting the atomic structuring of random debris from sand, dirt, rocks, and gravel around himself. Quake levitates feet off the ground and floats into the center of the metal rods. Holding his hands out with a pulse of energy. A harmonic chorus of tones echo from each rod. After a few seconds, a wave of energy bursts forth disrupting all electronics within the area. The nearby power facility shuts down causing blackouts across the edge of Centurion city including the prison. Charging himself up, Edgar sends a full body surge of electricity into his suit. The root menu pops up on the side screen of his visor. Sifting through a series of boot menus the system restarts. Noticing the helicopter plummeting toward the ground as it's systems fail to restart. Edgar summons energy from the palms of his hands. Converting into an unsteady stream of lightning with a little focus the beams arc into the helicopter and it's blades. It dips and swings to the side as both turbines kick up and the helicopter regains control just a few hundred feet off the ground. This sends the news caster flying from the open door. Edgar zips over past the Red Lights thugs standing on the hill then leaps from one of their cars into the air. Catching the woman, Edgar spins around a few times to slow his descent and touches down in the field far away from the commotion. Setting her down, Edgar winces holding his right side for a moment then straightens up and pulls the ventilator from his belt saying. “Have a nice flight? Ma'am. I'm going to need you to head toward the prison. They have a landing pad where your crew can pick you up.” Clicking the mask in place against his visor and the sides of his helmet. Edgar gives her a thumbs up dashing off toward Quake as she mumbles. “Thank...you.” The communications system reboots, passing through a series of checks before giving the green light. Static fills Edgar's ear for a beat, then Peter says. “Are you there? Ed? Comms are back. Do you read?” Stopping a few bus lengths away from Quake floating in the center of the six strange devices. Edgar says. “Yeah. I'm here buddy. Whatever he's built, they released an e.m.p. Over.” “Ed. You've got to stop him. Whatever made that crater. Well. I think it might be the source of the gas. The monitors we placed all over the city are going nuts, specifically in your area.” Members of the Red Lights gang notice Edgar on top of the hill near Quake. Positioning themselves defensively behind open car doors and trunks they open fire. Focusing his breathing. Edgar surges electricity through his arms into the copper wire lining the inside of his gauntlets. Manifesting an electromagnetic field Edgar redirects the bullets around him into the ground at his feet. Holding his hands together powers a bolt of lightning straight into the engine block of one of the cars. Hitting it with enough force the gas tank explodes forcing the car onto it's side. Dodging the car and it's explosion. The Red Lights gang starts to disperse, most dropping their guns in the act of running away. Edgar stretches his hands outward with lightning flowing from each finger tip. The individual bolts flying off shift into a paper thin tendrils that gives a shock of incentive to the remaining gang members. Some pile into the remaining cars and peel out, others just run away. Shifting his attention back to Quake. Edgar notices him clapping. Staring right at him, Quake says. “Well. If it isn't the fairy. I thought that punch killed you.” Floating down from in between the metal rods he lands gently and releases his mental hold on the debris gravitating to him. Walking toward Edgar. Quake's lifeless gray eyes look to the sky then he glances to the crater behind him. Cracking his knuckles. “Guess. I'll just have to see how many hits it takes.” Stretching his hamstrings and loosening up. Edgar speaks through his ventilator, calmly breathing through every word. “You don't have to do this. We don't have to fight. We both want the same thing. Right? We both want to know where the gas comes from. Marcus, let me help you.” With a violent twitch, Quake screams. “Do not. Do not say that name!” Lunging forward in attempt to tackle him. Quake falls to the ground grabbing onto the afterimage of Edgar. Fully charged with electricity surging from his chest into every limb. Edgar puts Quake into a full nelson hold saying. “Calm down. Don't make me hurt you. Work with me here Marcus.” Tripping himself. Quake falls to the ground on top of Edgar elbowing him in the ribs on his right side. Gasping for breath Ed lets go. Grabbing at his side in pain Edgar rolls away as Quake does the same. Both men stand facing the other. Lifting his hands Quake summons a cloud of debris from all around and sends it flying at Edgar. Short on breath, Ed turns the valve on his oxygen up. With every breath the electrical stimulation sends shivers up and down his body. Placing his hands up defensively brings forth an energy shield redirecting the debris like the bullets through trace amounts of metal. Less effective then with bullets, Ed only protects himself from the largest chunks flying through the cloud. Quake leaps in the moment the cloud disperses swinging wildly at Edgar. Dodging easily at first. Edgar gets slower with every breath and movement. Even with the increased oxygen his years of neglecting a physical routine are coming back to haunt him. Dipping underneath one punch Edgar stops an incoming knee with his hands, he leans up and backwards away from another hook and steps back. Stepping to the side away from a lunging punch Ed trips up in the grass and slips right into an uppercut that sends him flying into the air. Chipping a few teeth as they clack together. Edgar shakes the incoming darkness away and does a back flip landing on the ground closer to the power facility. Lights flickering in the distance of the facility signals power returning to the grid as Quake flies through the air toward Edgar. Taking a martial stance that must have come from somewhere in his youth. Edgar grabs Quakes incoming fist and flips him through the air slamming him into the ground. Angrier then before. Quake screams closing his fist around some invisible object as a large chunk of earth tears itself from the ground. Waving his hand the boulder simultaneously flies toward Edgar. Barely dodging Ed speeds off to the side as Quake levitates from the ground. Dashing at each other. Quake sends rock after rock at Ed forcing him into one spot. Then with a final blast of dirt in front of his visor. Quake punches Edgar so hard in the ribs it sends a shockwave out kicking up dust all around the two. Within a beat Ed is sent flying from the impact hundreds of feet back into the power facility. Tearing through the steel fence, Ed skids against the road and bounces punching a hole in the concrete wall of the facility landing somewhere inside. Laughing Quake turns his attention back to the metal rods. Having completed their task of extracting a meteorite directly from the depths of the crater. Levitating in place among the six rods the meteorite sparkles with strange purple crystals. Small pours along the surface continuously release the purple gas into the air around it. With a devilish smile and grin, Quake runs his hands along its surface saying. “We're about to get very close. You and I.”

I was thirteen years old when I got sick, and after a year I still wasn't getting any better. I was allowed to go home for a day, then it would get worse again and I would be ushered back to the hospital. After a while, instead of getting slightly better every week I just got worse. I think we all knew I wasn't going to get better, but nobody would admit it. I, however, accepted my fate and decided to just die with no regrets. My parents sat beside me day and night, talking with the doctors about my condition, and frantically trying to eliminate the sickness. But it was useless. Day after day I got worse and worse until the day I died. It was in February, and I died alongside the cold. My parents sat beside me, trying not to weep at the doctor's words. My mother was pleading for them to cast their nets wider, but they had done everything they could, it got to the point where they gently broke the news to my parents. "She isn't going to make it, I'm very sorry. The most we can do for her now is keep her comfortable." I wasn't supposed to hear that, but it didn't bother me, I had known it for some time now. They called my family, and stayed strong for me. Everybody came as quickly as they could, and I died with my mother and father holding my hands, my mother's gentle touch stroking my hair and singing the lullaby she always used to sing. I told them, "Thank you for everything, I have no regrets, I will come back to you." I closed my eyes, and with that, Gray Merilind was gone. The moment I was gone my family broke down into sobs and tears. It's been five months since my daughter died, my beloved Gray. I raised her, and it was too soon for my baby to leave me. None of us can bring ourselves to enter her room, it brings back too many memories of the good days. We try to stay as upbeat as we can, but her siblings are taking it the hardest. We try to comfort them but it doesn't seem to do much. It's been a year now, and I'm going to go into her room. She wouldn't want me to linger on her death for as long as I have. I opened the door and forced a step, then another, until I was sitting on the bed. Her figurines and books lined the walls, her floor covered in laundry and her bed messy. Everything was covered in dust. Just more proof of how long it's been I suppose. We live in a big house out in the country, and have the entire road to ourselves. Our nearest neighbor is a kind old couple who had sent us a care package when Gray died. Oh Gray, she loved the stone bricks and the wood that made up the cottage, the layered shingles on the roof. She loved the soft grass in the yard and the river and the big birch tree. I decided at that moment that we should clean up her bedroom. Everything would stay, never to be moved until the day someone else lives here long after us. I brought the suggestion to my son and other daughter, Gray's siblings, and they received the idea better than I thought they would. George and Lucy came upstairs, and with the same difficulty I had, forced themselves to come inside. It makes me proud how strong my children are. My husband joined us soon after. Her father and I dusted the room and cleaned Gray's dirty clothes, tucking them folded into her dresser. We washed the blankets and neatly made her bed, vacuumed the carpet and swept the floor while George and Lucy caringly dusted her shelves and cleaned the figures of her favourite characters. Then, while we were throwing away the wrappers and removing the half filled cups of now stagnant water on her nightstand, we found a carefully enveloped letter sitting on her desk. What it said brought a fresh wave of pain and made us all begin to cry. It read, To mother, father, George and Lucy, Leon my dear dog, everybody who loved me, thank you. I know I don't have much time left here, but this is my final message to you. My life is over, but please don't wallow, be strong for me. Some people have entrusted me with their deepest secrets, and as promised, I have taken them to the grave. I have always had a wish, an impossible one, but one I have always longed for. I wished to fly, not on a plane, but with my own two wings, those of a bird. I won't leave you alone like this forever. I can't just let George and Lucy grow up without me now can I? But whether it is tomorrow, or on your own death bed to lead you to your place among the stars, I promise, no, I vow, on the name you gave me, Gray Merilind, I will come back to you. 18/2/2004 That voice, it was Gray to a T. It was my dear daughter's final message to us, one I will hold close to my heart until the day I die. I decided I would wait until the earth collapsed for her to return, and when she did, I would remember her no matter what. George and Lucy cried themselves to sleep that night, their father and I tried to comfort them, but they said that they wouldn't sleep, they wouldn't miss it when their beloved sister returned. I was only able to convince them to rest by telling them I was sure Gray would wake them if they were asleep when she came back. I’m not ashamed to say we all cried ourselves to sleep. It's been four months since I found Gray's letter, and I've decided to take everybody camping to her favorite place. A secluded area beside a lake. When we got there we immediately went to the site. We had booked the one beside the woods, closest to the lake and what we now called Gray's Rock. It's a large boulder overlooking the lake far into the woods beyond the campgrounds, and as far as I know, we’re the only people who know about it. You can see into the forest for miles from its peak. On one night, after a day at the beach, I went alone to Grays Rock. It was dark, but warm. I felt as though I was being watched the entire walk, but it was a forest, you feel that everywhere. I was cautious though and made it to Grays Rock safely. I sat at the peak and watched the lake, it sparkled in the moonlight. After a while I began remembering the days when I would be looking for Gray, only to find her without fail sitting peacefully on the rock, her short, straight, brown hair and green and brown clothes rustling in the wind while she hummed to herself and looked over the lake. She would sit up, turn her head and say " There you are! I've been waiting for forever! Come sit with me, the lake is beautiful today." We would sit and talk, and watch the lake. I was pulled from my thoughts by a soft humming coming from behind me, but when I turned to see who it was I saw nothing. At first. I looked closer and saw a figure blending in with the trees. It was a young woman. Her skin was made of silvery birch bark and her feet were big hoof-like stumps. Her neat, long, brown hair tumbled over her back and down her legs in waves while her shimmering green eyes watched me calmly with a soft smile on her white lips. Her voice reminded me of something I couldn’t quite place. She continued to hum to herself, but then she started swinging a long silver stick with a teardrop shaped lantern on the end and dancing playfully to the tune. She spun and stepped and swung while I watched in awe. The pace quickened until she spun and held out a hand to me. I carefully stood up and took her hand while I still stared, wide eyed. A knowing glint flashed across her features and together, we danced. We twirled slowly in circles and danced to her singing, a haunting, beautiful tune. All the while she never let go of my hand, she must have known I would be stumbling without her guidance. Then when the tune dwindled to a close she did something I didn’t expect. Her arms were suddenly around me pulling me into a tender, loving embrace. She was much taller than me, I realized. It lasted for at least a minute before she pulled away. It felt like part of my body went with her. She gave me a sad smile, and wiped away a tear I hadn’t even noticed was there. Not a word was said as she swung the lantern in front of her. It was the first good look I had gotten into the lantern, but instead of fire, there was a cluster of small blue flowers inside, a warm yellow light coming from them. She carefully plucked one from its place and tucked it behind my ear, her hand lingering on my cheek for a moment before she pressed her forehead to mine, and not a word was said as she walked away into the woods. I sat stunned for a while after she’d left, the dancing had filled me with energy and warmth and I had no clue what I had just seen. Then it dawned on me. Who the humming had reminded me of, who had tucked flowers she picked behind my ears, who had pressed her forehead against mine as a way of saying goodbye. Gray. I jumped up and ran into the woods, calling her name, each time I called for her I became more and more sure of who she was. “Gray! Gray!” No response. No silver figure who seemed to melt out of the trees appeared and offered to dance. No flower lantern caught my eye with its warm yellow glow. I saw no sign of her, but I was soon back at the campsite, collapsing into my husband's arms and falling asleep there, still crying. The flower Gray had given me didn’t wilt. It stayed perky as it was inside the flower lantern even after we had returned home. It didn’t glow like it had inside the lantern, but it still shone with an inexplicable light. It didn’t look right in a vase, so I took it outside and on a whim, planted it at the base of the bug birch tree. The next morning Lucy came running into my bedroom, shaking me until I was awake. “Mama, mama!” she yelled, shaking me as hard as her little hands could. “You have to see this! The yard is full of flowers!” I bolted upright, following Lucy downstairs and out the front door. What I saw took my breath away. The blue flowers blossomed in every patch of grass, on the riverbank and creeping up to the edges of the porch. The flowers come back every spring, all love them, and all of us have at least one story to tell about seeing a tree woman with a lantern and warm eyes. Sometimes we see her dancing in the yard, or smelling flowers out of the corner of our eyes, or sitting on the bank of the stream, dangling her feet into the water.

I remember things in my past like everyone else that's for sure. I dont believe it's possible to live life and not remember something from your past, whether good, bad, or some of each. The majority of us will leave small pieces of our lives at different milestones of significance throughout our lifetime. Then at different times in our lives, we allow ourselves to pause or stop for a period of time, and immediately nostalgia is set in motion. So depending on circumstances, for some this is comforting, but then for others it can bring them to oppression, even depression. Here's Ricky Glasston's storey; Young Ricky was barely old enough to grasp the basic concept of yes, or no, that he realized that certainly the "NO" presented a challenge for him. To him "NO" meant figure out how to make it a yes instead. As a young child, in his pretend play time. He was always someone older, like big brother or Dad, pretending to do grown up things. When he got to Grade school all the kids in his own grade were happy playing tag, or sitting with the teacher coloring with crayons during recess time. This became boring for him after a short period of time. He saw the older kids playing baseball, football, hockey, etc and he knew this is what he wanted to do instead. He was always looking a year or two ahead of himself and succesfilly managed to compete on those levels. Teachers tried to convince him to stay with his own age group, but to no avail. First chance he got he was back with the older kids again. After the school bus dropped him off at his driveway, first thing he checked was to see if his Dad was working in the fields with the tractor. If he was Ricky would run out onto the field and just stand there and wait for his Dad to stop and let him drive the tractor, or at least ride along. His Dad was a small farmer and worked with smaller, older farm equipment. The farm tractor was a sixty horse powered Cockshutt 560 tractor. So this one day Dad was cultivating in the field when Ricky came running. He stopped the tractor and allowed Ricky to climb into the driver seat. He showed him which hydraulic levers to pull to engage or disengage the cultivator. Sitting at the very edge of the seat Ricky managed to push the clutch pedal in far enough to place the transmition in gear, disengage the clutch and he was on his way. Dad stood on the side step of the tractor for a couple of rounds to make sure Ricky was managing and was comfortable. Then without warning he just jumped off the step and left Ricky to drive the tractor and cultivator on his own. Ricky was surprised at this and quickly looked behind him as he left his Dad behind. He was half expecting to see his Dad put up his hand and tell him to stop. But instead he saw a Dad with a proud look, a big smile, and a thumbs up sign. He couldn't believe the awesome feeling he had inside. He was actually working the equipment on his own. Life couldn't have been better for young Ricky Glasston! When he was in grade four he realized the 7th and 8th graders were playing flag football in the mornings befor school started. Well he showed up the next morning to play. Mr. Petkau, the 7th and 8th grade teacher/school principle, was overseeing the morning activities, saw the much smaller 4th grader mixing in with the older students. Not only was he over seeing the football activity, he played the quarterback position on one side. He had to quickly decide where to place Ricky. To keep him from getting run over he decided to put Ricky on his team. So the game started and they had their team huddle to hear the quarterbacks play strategy. So Mr.Petkau instructed a 2 cross pattern play. Then said to Ricky, " wait till you see the cross pattern then You go deep, make sure your a ways behind everyone. If my cross patterns are covered I'll throw the ball to you. Everyone then took their positions along the line. The quarterback, Mr. Petkau then called for the ball, the cross pattern ran out, and Ricky took off running as instructed. When he turned back towards the play, he saw Mr. Petkau point in his direction wind up and throw the ball. Ricky backed up a bit, stretched out his arms and caught the ball. The force of the throw almost knocked him off of his feet as he turned and ran for the touchdown before anyone even got near him to pull his flag. Ricky beaming with triumph, ran back to return the football to Mr. Petkau. Ricky was well rewarded with seeing a big smile on the Principles face, and hear him exclaim " Great catch Ricky"! This accomplishment had a huge impact on Ricky's confidence and self esteem. This immediately earned him a level of respect that some students never achieve. Had Ricky seen the seventh and eighth graders as giants, and had he been intimidated by them, he never could have accomplished what he did that morning. He needed to be where the action was, be part of the action, better yet create the action. When he got into his teens he got himself into some trouble like everyone does. But he was a forward thinking kid and a problem solver. Ricky learned early in his teen stage you don't solve to much looking back, but rather you solve and resolve by thinking and moving ahead. His parents and teachers were supportive of his ambitions. At this tender age his ambitious nature needed direction, discipline, love, and understanding. To find and maintain this balance was not an easy task for him. His nature was to progressively move ahead, but he had to learn that due diligence was an equally important factor. Ricky was a fortunate young man in that he had parents and teachers that encouraged his progress and recognized his potential. Inspite of his mistakes he was allowed to voice his oppinions and act on his ideas, and he had many! Looking back on Ricky's life, there were a lot of positive influencers and mentors that just seem to come into his life at the right time and be in his path as stepping stones. The most important ones were his Father, a couple of teachers, and when he became employed a number of co-workers and employers. His Dad was an avid chess player, and so were his brothers. So naturally this became an early game of strategy for Ricky. There was no distraction from technology, like on line chat circles and social media. Just a chess board and two people thinking up and employing their strategies to win the game. Music was another avenue where he could cultivate his imagination and be creative. He realized that in making and writing music he could define and express his thoughts and feelings in ways that he wasn't able to in personal conversations. Music was universal and allowed itself to be molded and reshaped into whatever style he chose. In his mind and heart, music never serves itself. But without prejudice its at the disposal of the inventor and to the benefit of the listener. Music to him was like an evolving door. It served as an avenue to let go of things, or to embrace things. Whether he created music or listened to music, it just seemed to have a way of uncomplicating things in his life. ***************** Today Ricky is pushing into his late 50's. While he has failed at some things and is victorious in others, it has matured him through the years and strengthened his proven strategy, which remains unchanged today. Today, he runs a couple of small companies where his business strategy still is, whatever it is that I decide to do today will present better, and more opportunities for tommorow. He was asked when he would start thinking about retirement. His reply to this was, " For me, retirement has no place in my lifetime. I know it's a general term and maybe even a legal term people use and that's OK. In my mind, to retire would mean to finally sit back and spend the rest of my days, weeks, months, or years, reflecting on how it used to be, you know the nostalgic years. While it's true that we can learn from the past, I will never chose to replace the opportunity of making decisions today. That will create better and more opportunities for tomorrow with the past, and how it use to be a better world. - Fictional - Written by - Peter Giesbrecht

Ivy awoke slowly and lay still for several minutes. Like other mornings, it wasn’t a fight to leave the pillows. There was no heaviness. There was a dream, soft and calm like this space between dawn and daylight. She lingered at the edge of awake, wanting to let the dream percolate. It felt real and important. Soft navy twilight. A harbor? Calm twinkling water. A solid man with broad shoulders covered in a cozy wool sweater the vibrant emerald shade of sitka spruce. She couldn’t see his face except for a hint of stubble. Tall, muscular, sturdy. A feeling of deep comfort and expanse, like the whole world was open wide, but cradling these two lovers. The profound stillness of a long-awaited embrace. It was a Taylor Swift song personalized for her. She tucked the dream away, filing it some place between urgent and wistful and rose with purpose, ready to fill her day with something other than heartache. Ivy’s grandmother had always told them growing up that love has to unfold. It stays bunched up at first, compact and tight. That feeling of wanting to burst. And when it expands, it has to unfold. Each fold presents differently. It can be beautiful like a crisp napkin stored in an antique pine chest. Or it can be an agonizing barefoot walk on splintered wood. Often, it is both. Sometimes it is getting a splinter from opening that pine chest to retrieve gingham napkins for a picnic. Like today. The fire in the hearth was glowing in its pool of white clay, sending flickers of light into the nook off the kitchen in her grandmother’s house. She loved being back here, within these walls that had always held the promise of evening lullabies and dreams that lingered. Ivy approached the round table with the heirloom chest of tableware finery. Her favorites were the dainty silver teaspoons and the crocheted tea cozy, neither of which she’d need for today. Singing along to Taylor Swift’s ‘ Death by A Thousand Cuts,’ Ivy reached for the gingham picnic napkins. She brushed the outside of her pinky finger against a snag on the pine chest. She immediately clutched her hand to her heart. The sensation took her out of her cocoon. Deep sadness drifted in. No meals would she enjoy with Connor in this kitchen. No more picnics under the willow tree. No family games or long conversations over hot chocolate. A memory came back to her in that moment. It was her first Christmas with ex-fiance. An unexpected snowstorm kept her from driving to Washington for the holidays her first year at university and Connor, a friend of a friend, insisted that she spend Christmas with his family. “It won’t be weird. The more the merrier, I promise,” he’d said. And it was merry. And not even a little bit weird. She was just one of five strays at the gathering. His parents lived in a classic Victorian gingerbread house, framed perfectly in shining icicles. Dainty flakes dusted the windows like powdered sugar. Tufts of soft snow draped the lawn in smooth swirls like marshmallow frosting. The snow was just the right texture for building snow forts and snow men. All the young kids were building a walk-in snow globe fort. Fine details were being hammered out by adults in lively conversation and the children were cheerfully bickering over how large to make the snow bricks. There was so much laughter and cheer. She noticed Connor’s nephew on the far side of the yard, a sullen demeanor cutting into his tiny frame. This sweet boy had drawn welcome pictures when she first arrived, complete with pink heels and a crown. He was worried Ivy and the others didn’t have enough presents under the tree so he wrapped up some of his stuffed animals. He was a sensitive kid and it was clear he was feeling left out. Connor arrived by his side first. When she made it over he said, “Me and Jake are going to make a really special snowman. Can we recruit you to help us?” It turned out to be a beautiful snowman. Looking back at that memory, she felt like the snowman they built looking into the snow-globe. She felt like she should belong, but it was someone else’s perfect life. Connor would be a great dad, but it felt removed from her. She wondered if it was because she hadn’t been conditioned to expect to find that or value it perhaps, or if it was because Connor wasn’t her golden future. Or because it felt too polished. She felt like she was tiptoeing towards a future with a family to cherish, but now that she wasn’t with him, the confusion circled around her in dizzying swirls. After all, she didn’t grow up thinking she was supposed to want to be a dedicated wife and mother, to homestead or iron her husband’s shirts and knit baby clothes or can peaches. She was supposed to want to build her profession and travel the world volunteering in her off-time. She was supposed to be self reliant and rational, a dedicated activist to all worthy causes. But meeting Connor started to unravel those binds. She had never felt this undone before. The smell of melting chocolate brought her back to her intentions, into the sunlight dancing with the hearth flames on the marble hutch. She was testing out picnic recipes. She’d need to hurry over to stir the brigadeiro, a Brazilian chocolate dessert that was a crowd favorite at Connor’s family gatherings. His mother had warned her to keep constant watch on it or it would burn. Ivy missed Connor’s vibrant family and the culture that took her in. She felt another tinge. Sweet Breath. In and out. She’d find another Taylor Swift song to sing along to because she would not let today be a death by a thousand cuts just because of a breakup. She’d had heartbreak before and went traveling the world after each time, but now she felt that insular need to grow a community. She needed to root and gather. There was joy to be had, family to love, beginnings to grow, and for now-- an early morning breakfast to fuel her for the new dreams that were marinating.

Jessica was holding the phone at an angle so I could see the message on her Facebook group chat. I immediately burst out laughing. "What the fuck?" "That's exactly what I said!" She scrolled with her thumb to reveal a reply. *"wtf LOOOOOOOOOL"* It was Jessica's message. I dropped my jaw and held my head like that Scream painting, then I gave her a stern look. "Jess you shouldn't have done that. You're finna gonna die now." I joked. "I know, right? I was awake all night thinking about it." I couldn't help but spray some Diet Coke from my nose as she finished the sentence. "What if he straight up literally does murder you, though? Like, instead of some magical spell he just comes to your house at night with a knife." "I straight up don't even know who he is. I just know that Milly sent me his phone number once." "Oh. My. God." "What? "We should call him!" I could barely contain my excitement at the prospect. "Seriously?" "YES!!" I screamed, incidentally throwing some of my Diet Coke overboard. "Fine, fine." Jessica thumbed through her messages from Milly until she found the 07 number. "But I don't want to talk to the weirdo." "OK, OK, fine." I said, putting my Coke down and snatching the phone. I dialled the number. "Hello?" A nerdy voice replied, "Who is this?" "I'm with someone from the Facebook group chat. They want to know why they're not dead yet." Jessica slapped my arm and threw me a look of embarrassment before kneeling down and holding her head in her hands. "Oh, that." He said, sniffling. "I'm actually in a pretty optimal mood today. I chose not to release the curse." "Oh..." I said, licking my lips. "Because, uh. We were talking about how magical you were, and we were wondering whether you could make Carl Donny love her." "Stop, please!" Jessica protested, now in the brace position with her head between her knees. "Listen, slut. I told you I'm in a good mood today, but you're beginning to jeopardise that. I suggest you cancel the call and go about your way." "NO, BITCH. I WANT MY FUCKEN SANDWHICH!" I screamed down the phone, hoping Jessica would laugh, but she was crying. "Jessica?" I said, lowering the phone for a second. I walked over and put my hand on her shoulder. "I was just joking around. You don't really think he can hurt you, do you?" From the brace position, she began rolling, like a rolly polly; her golden pigtails, flapping up and down as she moved from her knees to her back to her knees again. I began walking after her but she rolled so fast I could barely keep up. She rolled all the way into the front of a Peugeot 206 coming down the main road. Horrified, I did the only thing that made sense to me at the time: I moved the phone back to my ear. "Are ya happy, now?" The nerdy voice said in a disapproving tone.

The Story One day, a man saw the young crow flying around his backyard. He thought it was a little bird, so he picked it up and put it in his hand. The bird took off again, looking rather frightened. It had been hit by a car, and the crow had been left behind, so it wasn't strong enough to fly away. The crow looked up at the man with large frightened eyes, and it flew away, just crying. The man went home, but he didn't come back the following day, as the crow kept crying, and just hanging around the house. Then, a bit later, the crow was gone, and no one seemed to see it. That was when the crow began to wonder what had happened to it. The next day, the crow saw the crow flying around a field. The man couldn't find the crow, so he decided to try and catch it himself. He went to the crow and was about to take it into the yard, when suddenly the crow flapped its wings and fled. The man took a few steps around the crow, then started screaming at it in terror. Then, the crow started flying around him in a panic. Then, the man began screaming for the help of God, but no one came. He continued screaming until he heard a loud boom. Then, the man looked around and saw that the crow had landed in the neighbor's yard. It started to cry again, as the crow ran up to the neighbor's house, crying as it ran, crying. The neighbor then called the police. The Neighbor The neighbor was a very nice man, and he was very sad to see the crow in his yard. So, when he heard the police knocking on his door, he started crying again. The police came and talked to him, and they thought that he might have been upset because the crow had flown away. The police told him that if he didn't calm down he was going to have to give them the crow back. He calmed down soon after that, and they gave him the crow. The crow had a scar across its body, and it said, "My name is "The Big Black Bird," and I was taken by a man named "Ferguson" and brought to this earth. He told me to go to an old well and I would find a new person for him, and that he would give me two new wings to fly with. I flew up to the well and saw a new person, and in the man's hand he had two wings and told me to go to the other well, where I would find a man named "Hans" and get a new body." The man who used to make the crow told the police that he came to Earth to find out about the person who made the new person. He didn't come back, and he said he will come back on April 19th. The person who made the crow did not make the crow until the day before April 19th. The man who made the crow came back on April 18th, and when he saw the crow fly away, he cried out, and the police started running after it. The police told him, "Don't worry about the crow, it didn't do anything. You can have it if you can give us the crow." The man who made the crow said, "What have you got there? The crow's eyes are not in the right place and it has been put in a box, and it won't leave it. I'm going to take it out and put it in a new box. It has three holes in it, so I am going to put them all together to make a new cage. You will be a part of my family." The man said, "Okay, I'm in." The man made the crow and put it in his home. The next day the man came down to the police, and said, "Don't worry, you are my family too. I don't want the crow anymore. I'll give you a crow if you bring the Crow up from the ground and put it inside the home." The police said, "What are you talking about, he's my family too. I'm afraid you will kill the crow if you try to take it from us. You got to give it back, because the new person is going to be a part of my family too." The man said, "Okay. I will give you the crow now, and I'm not going to take it back, if you let me have that crow." The man came back to the police and said, "I'm a good person. I just want to help people, and I gave you the crow. I just want to be a part of your family." The man was afraid that the police would kill him if he was caught. So he said, "Just give me the crow." So they opened the door for him, and gave him the crow. The police went to take it back. They saw the crow in the crow-house. The man said, "Don't take it back, I put it there, I just need it there. The police did not want to be part of his family. So the man's family made it their own family, and they had him in a new cage, and they knew how to handle him, and they cared for him very much. This man is our family now. I've given them the crow.

James sat reading an old paperback on the train. The train was near full as it was almost Christmas. Kids shouting, people looking for seats and the noise of people’s shopping bags hitting off railings, seats and other people’s bags. At every stop more and more people got off until it was only James and a group of teenagers left in the train. James woke up with a jump, dropping the paperback on the ground. The ground was all crumbly and rusted. James looked all around him and saw everything, outside and inside the train, was decaying and rusted. Rubbish and graffiti invaded the train and outside debris covered the ground. James got up and looked around some more startled by the change in scenery. Multiple distant foghorns could be heard from somewhere. James got out of the train and walked gingerly about the station. Nothing but decay,moss, what looked like piss, broken glass, debris and dust populated the station. The foghorns continued in the distance. James found an office chair, which was really clean, and stuck in one of the wheels of the chair was earphones. He pried and pulled them out of the chairs wheel and went rummaging through his bag for his phone. When he put his bag back on his shoulders and looked back at the chair. It was slowly being invaded by rust. The rust crept up the legs of the chair before completely consuming the chair. He plugged the earphones into his phone and a loud static noise played. “Abandon....other....horn..siren....st (inaudible)... tingling....(static)....(inaudible).....numb.” The panicked mans voice struggled to speak through the static and connection. James, sweating and panicking, ran through the hallways. Left right left right left right, sometimes right right or left left, left right left right. Stopped. He was panting for air. Loud screeching noises filled the halls (a noise so deafening one could not wholly imagine or describe) then the foghorns came back. James walked and walked. But then doors were in sight. As James ran for the doors his full body was tingling and shaking violently. He collapsed and vomited. His full body went limp. The doors withered away to rust. And in place of the doors was a decaying tiled wall. The foghorns stopped and James sat in complete silence. The loud screeching noises came in three bursts at a time and terror filled James. He looked behind him and saw a hunchback, mole rat looking creature walking so slow towards him. It’s droopy eyes fixed on his. It’s skin was yellow and mossy and was drooped one side. James could not do anything, he sat their paralysed by the thing. It got so close it’s breath could be smelled and was not of a smell of any human or animal. It reached out and touched him. He looked up at it and it looked at him and screamed and laughed before a burning feeling spread over his body, he looked down and saw rust covering him-slowly crawling up him like the chair. He awoke to nothing but he knew he was alive but saw nothing not even darkness. He let out a scream but no noise was heard by his own ears. He put a finger in his ear and bits of rust came out. He then felt the rust spread through him and consume him. All he could do was listen to the distant foghorns. Feedback/crit is welcome thanks.

She is sick again. I feel her jolt from where she lay next to me and I grab what we affectionately call her, “chemo bucket” and bring it to her face. I rub her back and whisper between her vomit and sobs. I tell her things are gonna get better. I tell her she is strong. But I only believe one of those things. We lay back down and soon I feel the slow rise and fall of her breathing against my body. Absentmindedly, I go to run my fingers through her hair as I have done a thousand times before, but instead of the thick, black waves they are used to weaving through, my fingers catch the last few wisps of hair, my touch slicking them against the sheen of her sweat-drenched forehead. I slowly ease out of the bed, making sure that I don’t disturb what little sleep she is able to get. I won’t be sleeping tonight. I never sleep on chemo nights. They tell you what to expect and that everyone handles it differently, but their words do not prepare you for the reality of seeing your child filled with what they deem as “medication.” They don’t tell you about the hair that lines the tub and the brushes you try to hide because the bristles are tangled with strands of who she used to be: a normal little girl. They have no advice when your daughter asks if you can take down the hospital mirrors because she thinks she is ugly, and they certainly don’t tell you what to say when she asks you not to forget to take care of her pets because she won’t be able to when she is in heaven. I look around the room and see oceans of cards and flower arrangements. Drawings from her friends at school and get well soon cards written with the best of intentions. I reach for a card I have read over and over: Hey Sarah, I miss seeing you in class! You’re really lucky you’re not here, we do times tables every day. Hope you will be better after spring break. Get Well Soon! Those three words have never tasted so sour in my mouth, watching my child deteriorate before my eyes. I set the card down and look at the vases of flowers surrounding my daughter’s bed. Sarah has always loved flowers, as have I, but here they are cruel. Decapitated, half-dead beauties giving off a sweet yet simultaneously sickly smell. All their faces stare at her, almost in a sad acknowledgment, understanding their shared fate. I want to hide her from their judging eyes. I pace the tiny room and block their view of her. I am her guardian, her sentinel, and I refuse to let them taunt her with the imminence of their death. She stirs and I rush to her, but it was just a dream, not sickness that caused her to wake. “Momma?” “Yeah, baby,” I whisper. “Just making sure you’re still there.” “I’m not going anywhere.” I said, and I kissed her sweet, sweat-slicked forehead as she fell asleep again, and I stood watch, because I never sleep on chemo nights.

Year 2158 Salih checks the Oximeter level on his right arm. Red dot is blinking alarmingly. He tries to breathe normally. But, it's difficult. It's like trying to take a quick breath before being thrown into a deep water when you're still a child. The night fog thickens before him. Leaning back against a gravel, he measures the weight of his plasma gun in both hands. He wishes for a nice bed to rest. How long has it been? he thought. 14 hours? He has a narrow escape from one of the Nameks awhile back. His spacesuit has withstood the alien's lava-web. However, he remembers from space training that Namek's saliva can reach up to 200 degrees Celsius. Salih's breathing slows down as danger descends. He scans across the grim thickening fog and slides down against the gravel. He checks his boots. Mud caked its soles. He has ran across a muddy field to escape from the alien creature. The mud was caused by the weather. It has been raining in Planet Rafet for the past 7 cycles. "In planets beyond our milky way, days and years are not measured like the ones we have on earth," Professor Hamid from University of Brunei Darussalam said during Salih's first year in college. "There are thousand of moons and it is near impossible to differentiate day and night." "How do we measure day and night then, prof?" asked one of the engineering students. "You will know once you're there." Now that Salih is here, it is interesting to note that all of those theories and practical experiments he has done throughout college have come to full use only when he is placed in imminent danger. Salih tries the caller button. "Calling Space Y. Do you copy?" The sky above spreads out purplish hue that scientist claims to have been caused by the four moon-sized Suns that orbits the Crono System. Planet Rafet has at least 50 moons. The gravity pull on Planet Rafet is unpredictable. In certain cycle, there are times when the ground melts, which causes the surface to evaporate and solidifies the condensed air into new surfaces . Salih is resting on one of this newly formed surfaces up in mid-air, hoping that his stunt could hide him from the Nameks . "Mouse Travels. Do you copy?" No response. He can hear his breathing again. He read somewhere that human lungs shrink when they are in danger. He agrees with this theory. It is getting very difficult to breathe. Something suddenly snores underneath. Namek. Salih pushes his back against the gravel. The plasma gun weights like a 10kg dumbbell. Tightening his grip around it, he slowly spreads his legs open. Looking down, he observes through the surface. A creature the size of an Earth's elephant appears out of the night fog. From where Salih is hiding, he can see the alien's back pulsating red and green flashes rapidly. A professor had mentioned about this carnivorous creature during one of the lectures. "When you ever travel into space and encounter a Namek with surging red and green flashes on its back, you better get ready." "Ready for what?" The lecturer simply smiles because he is the type of lecturer who wants his students to become curious and do an independent research for the answer. Salih wishes he has done his homework that semester. Trapped on a condensed cloud that could melt anytime soon, Salih checks his oxygen level again. The red dot is blinking furiously now. Salih swallows a lump down his throat. It tastes like ambuyat (a tapioca starch dish that was once a favorite meal for families in Brunei Darussalam) . Salih studies the back of the Namek. The creature is right below him. He wishes that his radar detector is still working so that he can detect any Nameks roaming the area. He steadies his aim at the Namek below. All he need is just one hit. "How do you kill an alien the size of your house?" Salih's best friend, Abdul, asked one afternoon on Earth. "Shoot the face." "Namek has no face," Abdul said with a laugh. "The mid section?" "The stomach you mean?" Abdul guffawed. "Namek has no stomach. It's body is likened our reptilian creatures here." "How then?" "My friend. I have been a space marine for 5 years and I have learnt a lot." Abdul flaunted his right cyborg-arm. "This is the scar I earned from the war for humanity in 2131!" "You haven't answered my question yet." "What's your question again?" The Namek snores again. Salih's eyes widening. He is face-to-face with the creature. The only barrier between them is the think layer of solidified cloud surface. The ambuyat that slides down his throat now reaches his gut. Something retched is trying to reach out from his stomach. He wants to throw out. The creature widens its mouth. Thorns of teeth jut out like broken glasses in a jar. Salih foresees a dreadful death if he were the victim. "Just wait for an opportunity," Abdul finally answered after a gulp of Root Beer. "Opportunity?" Abdul yawned and gestured a gun to his face. "Oh? Just like that?" "Yes," Abdul said with his mouth still open. "That's the only way." Shoot. Now? The Namek yawns at him. Salih squeezes the trigger softly. What if there are more? Salih stops squeezing mid-way. But this is my only opportunity. The Namek shrieks all of a sudden. Oh no! It is calling his friends! Salih aims at its mouth. The surface of the solidified cloud breaks. The laser beam from the plasma gun pierces through it and cuts through the alien's face. Salih floats down along with the shattered cloud-surface like broken glasses. He lands knees first on the wet ground and rolls across to safety. The alien is dead. Salih wants to celebrate. But, something snores a few feet across in the night fog. I should have known. Salih checks his oxygen level. It is no longer blinking. Something moves ahead... *

My mother was dead to me. This realisation came to me in the early hours of the morning as I lay in her stuffy guest room listening to her rhythmic snores filter through the thin wall separating us. It wasn’t because she’d done anything super horrendous. There was no big climactic moment that caused my epiphany. It was more of a straw, fragile and brittle, placed gently on the camel’s back. But she’d forgotten about the anniversary. She forgot a lot of things when I was a child. Almost all my birthdays for a start. The years she did remember, she usually gave me a twenty and told me to buy myself something. This may be a little unfair. I do in fact recall her buying me gifts twice. Once for my fifth birthday she gave me sea monkeys. And a cake. The sea monkeys, not surprisingly, never made it. The cake, being an icecream one, also did not survive being left on the counter for the day. But still, it was the thought right? When I was eighteen, she gave me a bottle of peach schnapps. It was in a dusty cellophane bag tied with ribbon. The little card attached had a snowman on it. She hadn't written on it. She never came to my school events. To parent teacher meetings. Or sports days. She didn’t read to me, or tell me funny stories about her childhood. I very much doubt she had any to be honest. My mother was a single one. She came from a poor, uninterested family, and she got pregnant young. My father took off three months after I was born. My fault, according to mum. I was a terrible baby, colicky and loud. She lived off the benefit for a long time. Until I started school and she found part time work at a dental clinic. The one thing my mother did do was enforce the importance of dental hygiene, despite only lasting at that job for six months. She was fanatical with brushing and flossing and even on bad days, she always insisted on mouthwash before bed. My mother took her looks seriously too. She dieted and plucked and bleached and polished regularly. She put on ‘her face’ the minute she’d had her morning coffee, and took it off only after dinner and her nightly tv programmes. She dated, a lot. The men seemed to get younger and younger, along with the age she gave them. Eventually, if they asked - which wasn’t often - I was her little sister. But my mother wasn’t healthy. Mentally she was very ill. Voices spoke to her. She spent days in bed, lamenting her life, threatening to end it. Then she would be off, sometimes for days on end, on an adventure, or a wild goose chase of some sort, trying to ‘find herself’. She tried various jobs. Bar work, retail, telemarketing, cleaning. But nothing lasted longer than a few months. Like the men. I learnt to cook out of necessity. It was that or starve on those days where I woke to find her gone. I got myself to school, and I found myself jobs wherever I could. I learnt to drive a car without her. At school, I was known for having ‘Loopy Laura’ as a mother. I kept to myself a lot. I didn't have many friends. I met Ben when I was babysitting. He was older than me, had left school and been working at a mechanic for a few years. His boss, the dad to the kids I was watching, took his crew out for a Christmas shout. Ben had come home with him, somewhat drunk. “It was love at first sight,” he would tell everyone. “ I took one look at her and I was a goner.” I would just smile and agree, but the truth was it took me a little longer than him to feel it. But he wore me down, and we started to date. He proposed to me on my 21st birthday. I’d already moved in with him fairly quickly, eager to get out of my house and away from my mother. I left school and trained to be a nurse, which I both loved and excelled at. We got married at the registry office, something his mother still hates me for. But I couldn’t see the point of spending so much money for a single day. For a dress I’d never wear again. Flowers that would die, and fancy food we didn’t need. It all seemed such a waste. Now, I do wish I'd at least had more photos. Ben died two and a half years later. Car accident. I was working. I realised it was him when I saw the workshop logo on his overalls. He was already dead by then. I only had an hour left of my shift, so I stayed on and when I got home, I remember I made tuna melts, too many just for me, and then I cried until I was sick. Three weeks later, I realised I was pregnant. I was both thrilled and terrified. How would I know how to be a mother when I’d never had one myself? I hadn’t even managed to keep brine alive. But this child was a part of Ben, a piece of us, and I loved them already, sight unseen. I read every book I could, took birth classes, and painted a nursery. I ate spinach and salmon and took folic acid and did gentle yoga stretches. I did all the right things. My grief at losing Ben was eclipsed by my joy at becoming a mother. I told my mother about the baby because she served me at the supermarket. It took her several minutes of scanning items before she realised who I was. I hadn’t seen her, I realised, since the funeral. “I’m having a baby, ” I told her as she weighed my bananas. “Due in July”. “Oh fuck, thats a bugger,” she said sympathetically. “I’m actually really pleased,” I informed her quietly. “Oh, well then,” She paused to bag my oranges. “Good luck” I wasn't upset by her reaction. Or angry. Or anything really. I was a bit immune I suppose. But two days later, she came by with a badly wrapped box. Inside I found a grey crocheted teddy bear and a onesie with ‘nana’s angel’ printed on it. She was on meds at the time, and doing okay. She started them after I moved out I think. She had her supermarket job, and she joined a group, made a couple of friends. As the months went on, she and I developed something resembling a tentative relationship. She helped me paint, came with me to the birthing class, joined me some days to walk around the gardens. I softened towards her a little, accepted her olive branch and began to think I could forgive her lack of mothering. She seemed to want to make up for it as a grandmother. I went into labour early. Too early. When I got to the hospital, I rang and asked her to come. By the time she arrived, Bella was dead. Wrapped in a muslin shroud, her tiny face blank and waxy. Like mine. I didn't cope. I couldn't work. Couldn't be around death. Or birth. I stayed at home and didn't eat, didn't shower. Tried not to feel. Initially, my mother visited, then rang. She was, she told me, grieving as much as me. Then she started with ‘ probably for the best’, ‘you can have another’ type comments and moved to ‘ you need to move on, get over it etc etc’. I knew I was depressed. But grief is like a lake, inky and dragging. It pulls you in, promises oblivion in its depths. I wasn't interested in surfacing, in looking at the sky, the sun. I wanted to swim to the bottom, wind myself in the weeds, and cease. Months passed. Eventually, I went back to work, to life. Lived my life, except it wasn’t me living it. I was a clone. A functioning replica. At night I sat in my nursery and rocked. Time passed. The night of the anniversary of her death, I couldn't stand to go home, be alone. So I went to my mother’s who hadn’t remembered. She was in what she called a ‘fun mood’. She invited me to join her and her new man for dinner. We sat, ate spaghetti, and drank red wine. My mother was very animated, laughed a lot. They made plans to go to the beach. At one point the new man, Dave, asked me what I did. “I’m a nurse.” I told him. “And your husband? Are you married? Do you have a family?” he asked, his mouth full of overcooked pasta.. “Plenty of time for that,” my mother told him. “ no need to get tied down too young, I can tell you that for free.” She laughed, sloshing her merlot onto the off white tablecloth. And I realised. Like an anvil on the head. No. no I didn’t have a family. I never really did.

#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. Please be sure to read the entire post before submitting. &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #This week's theme is Surprise! As we continue into the larger theme of “hidden” for February, we’re going to explore “surprise” this week. Surprises come in all shapes and sizes. They can be positive or negative things. What will these unexpected revelations mean for your characters and the world around them? The theme should be present within the story, but its interpretation is completely up to you. / &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #Theme Schedule: We recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week we will be releasing the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. * February 21- Surprise (this week) * February 28- Misunderstandings * March 7- Courage &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. (Using the theme word is welcome but not necessary.) This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 7pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #The Rules: * All top-level comments must be a story. Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * Your story must be written for this post. You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but we encourage you to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post will not be allowed. * Your story should be 500-850 words. Use to check your word count. * While the name has changed to “Serial Sunday”, the deadline is still 7pm the following Saturday. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). You **must** use the same serial name for each installment of your serial. If not, our bot won’t recognize your serial installments. * Submissions are limited to one serial submission from each author per week. * Each author must leave a comment on at least 2 other stories during the course of the week. That comment should include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements. * While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely family friendly" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! &nbsp; *** &nbsp; #Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments, if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday/Sunday posts or to your own subreddit or profile. But an in-progress serial is not required to start. You may jump in at any time. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * You can nominate your favorite stories each week. Send me a message on discord, reddit, or through modmail and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfires to make nominations. * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules).

She stood in front of the mirror, trying to focus on the words and not her reflection. She wanted to get it right. Ending a marriage is no small task, and it was important that he hear and understand what she was hoping to convey. During their 11 years together, she had rarely felt heard or understood by her husband, so it was unlikely that this would be an exception. She knew it. She needed, however, for him to receive her comments with empathy and compassion despite the hurt that they may impart. This, of course, was an exercise in futility, considering that he neither respected nor cared one iota about her feelings. That was the problem. Eleven years of hoping that he would change had not come to fruition and she had finally accepted that the relationship was no good for her, for him, or for their children. She knew that she was far from perfect, with scars and unhealthy habits of her own. She felt, however, that she had to change herself on her own terms, away from his influence. If she had only known then that the next 14 years would bring one heart ache after another, together with financial instability and the pressures of parenting and maintaining a household alone. Would she have stayed if she’d had the ability to predict this? Perhaps. It might have been easier in some ways, particularly given the realities of a single income household. She may have been able to travel more, as he has, to live a more comfortable lifestyle, to retire earlier and stress less. At the same time, she knew that she would not be the person she is today if she hadn’t initiated such a drastic change. Growth can be painful but so can staying in a situation that isn’t working. She would remind herself of this innumerable times over her lifetime, reflecting on the journey she had taken through the years. The opportunities and experiences that had presented themselves were completely different from what she would likely have encountered within the confines of her marriage. Some of these were good, some were bad, most were ordinary. She was grateful to have had so much joy and comfort, while grieving the many losses and regrets. She counted her blessings and tried not to focus on the negative thoughts that lurked in the darkness. At 48 years of age, Julie found herself in a midlife crisis. All but one of her children had left home to start lives of their own, although they still needed her support and guidance at times. They visited often and she appreciated how these relationships had become the most important in her life. She wished she had spent more time enjoying her children and less focus on relationships with men, however old patterns die hard. She had learned at a very young age that male attention felt invigorating and validating, which was unfortunate as she hadn’t realized that the intimate relationships were simply reflecting how she wanted to feel about herself. The doubts and the self-sabotage were strong. Years of unhelpful thoughts and beliefs about herself and others, along with habits that felt soothing but had harmful effects (overeating, binging, eating a lot of processed food and not a lot of healthful food, not exercising, picking at hair/skin, biting nails, using “substances”, engaging in risky behaviour, avoidance, etc.) had taken their toll on her being. From the day her marital status had changed to “single”, Julie had set about redefining herself and building a life she and her children could be proud of. Only she didn’t really know how to do this. She had learned many painful lessons along the way, and survival was often the only goal. She could now be proud that she and her loved ones had survived. She had worked hard, studied hard, and invested in their future. She had fought for what they deserved, arranged multitudes of adventures and learning experiences, and nurtured them to the best of her ability. She wished that she had been more present, gentle, patient, and mentally healthy in her younger years to now, however she knew that she didn’t know then what she knows now. She wonders if things would have been easier for her daughters if she had stayed. Her gratitude list, which falls in the “avoidance” category because writing it consistently lifts her mood and helps refocus her thoughts, building and strengthening new pathways in her brain, includes: Family, friends, home, pets, nature, beauty, love, knowledge, music, work, resources, comfort, kindness, health, and so on. She knows she is privileged in so many ways, born white, middle class, able, relatively intelligent and attractive. Her parents had worked hard and provided many opportunities to Julie and her sister, Karen. They had lived within an hour or two of each other since immigrating to Canada from England on February 12, 1982. When she received the call from the hospital advising her that her mother was in intensive care, she’d immediately made the 5 minute drive, parked beside the school that her daughter had attended, and maintained her composure as she navigated the visitation protocols. The sight of her mother, face pale and wrinkled, hair disheveled, eyes sunken into deep dark sockets, so frail and unwell, brought back all of the emotions she had ever felt. The tears overwhelmed her. She waited for Karen to arrive so they could sit with the woman who birthed them by caesarian section 46 and 48 years earlier, while she passed into whatever came next or simply “expired”, as they say in medicine. They held hands, the three women, as they had done when crossing the street at age 2, 4, and 31. They didn’t speak but cried their love from sad eyes, grateful for the ability to be present for and with one another. Julie, Karen, and Gillian, a story of adventure, drama, comedy, romance, and even horror. Their lives forever intertwined, another chapter now ending.

P.O.V. of Tyler (Mostly) Sandra stared across at Tyler through the small fire. Her eyes seemed to glow with a strange menacing essence. The fire roared and flickered in her small green eyes. The tension between the two was clear. However, Tyler couldn’t read Sandra. She was as clear as solid wood. Tyler felt tense. They were surrounded by miles of forest, in the cold night. No one could hear anything except for him and Sandra, and there’s not much to hear when you’re dead. Suddenly; Sandra opened her mouth slowly, as if to say something. She closed it and glanced over at the tent, grinning. Somehow, outside of the fire’s glare, her eyes seemed to grow with a more malevolent light. She turned back to Tyler, this time right in the eyes. “I have a surprise for you, Ty.” She said, with a cheerful nickname as if they were old friends. Really, they were both escapees, only together for matters of survival. She turned before Tyler could read her expression. She stood and walked to the tent. Tyler heard some clinks and other miscellaneous sounds. Then, when it appeared she had found what she was looking for, she came back, holding something behind her back. She handed him a small box. It wasn’t anything special, just a dirty old Thai food rice container. “Happy birthday,” she whispered, leaning to the fire. “Blow out the candles..” then, she blew with all her might on the fire, sending flames rolling Tyler’s way as they dissipated, the fire extinguishing. He reached out to feel a box-like shape sitting in the ash pit. He picked it up and folded it open, fumbling his hand inside. The only thing on the inside besides a few grains of old sticky rice was what felt like a folded piece of paper, but no light to read. He realized he was alone in the light, with Sandra. Of whom he knew nothing about. Crazy, mysterious Sandra. He gripped the paper, his heart beating wildly out of his chest. He felt something tap his shoulder and he shut his eyes. “I’m so sorry Ty.. But one of us has to eat.” He heard a soft, recognizable voice whisper. Then, he felt a sharp pain in his back and made no attempt to wail, knowing it was hopeless- who would hear, and why would they care? Blood gargled out of his mouth as everything he knew started to vanish. People say your life flashes before your eyes before you die, but it doesn’t. It disappears, everything you know, to the point of insanity. You forget what’s happening and all that’s going through your head is; ‘I am about to die.’ Managing to struggle to words, he choked out through all the blood, “I’ll never forgive you for this.” Sandra smiles in the dark, and then something wet drips on Tyler’s head. Then he realized; she was crying. “You won’t have time to fret on the past in hell, Ty..” She whispered, as he closed his eyes, just to never open them again. Candy and Pepper strolled through the woods when a morbid smell wafted through Candy’s nose. “Gosh, what’s that awful smell?” Then, suddenly she realized as they approached it; a body, pieces of skin torn off, blood splattered everywhere, as if someone appeared to attempt to consume it. The person was obviously a man. Folded in his hand was a small piece of paper. Pepper leaned down and picked it up, unfolding it, softly reading it to himself. 'See you soon, I figure I can’t live off you forever. I’ll never forgive myself, either. In our short time together I grew attached, but my life came before you in my eyes, Ty. Love, S.

There was once a great statue of a powerful looking woman, with broad shoulders, muscular arms, and the calves to match. Her hooked nose was complimented by a strong jaw, and her gaze looked proudly upon whoever came by to pray. With crossed arms and a smirk set deep into the stone statue, it was said she brought courage and strength to those who showed respect to her. The village built and grew around this statue, the awe and amazement never dwindling. Legends were told from grandparents to grandchild, who eagerly wrote down stories of the Stone Temptress and the enemies she defeated in battle. As legends go, her truth was twisted year by year, generation by generation. Only the old texts, buried deep beneath her stone feet, told the true story of the Stone Temptress and the glory she held in the battlefield. It was said that whoever found these texts would be granted an eternal seat beside her soul, walking the lands after death and watching over the children of the families that had fought beside her all those years ago. As life tends to go, people started to forget just how important this Stone Temptress had been to them as they grew into adulthood. Sure, grandparents still told her stories to their young relatives with a faint gleam in their eye, a smile dancing at their lips as they retold the fights they had with wooden swords around her statue when they were small. The people of the village had built a mausoleum of sorts around her, which took many months, as she was as tall as she was wide. They had wanted to protect her from the world, or rather the world from her, as legends said the statue would start to move at apparent threat to the village. They wanted to pray to her in peace, without the outside world peering in and making its noise. Until, one day, an unholy earthquake shook the village, and the ground beneath the precious statue of their Stone Temptress collapsed. There was no hope of ever retrieving her. She was all alone, and the texts understand her strong stone boots now certainly destroyed. The Stone Temptress was all alone, and without their protector, the people could not stand to be in the village any longer. Their hope had been destroyed, as had their luck it seemed. She was all alone, until one day, a small buck fell and broke his leg in the hole that had been created all those years ago. Next to him lay the Stone Temptresses statue, and her texts revealing her true story. And the buck seemed at peace. His heartbeat slowed, and his head lowered in fatigue. He was not afraid anymore, and neither was the Stone Temptress. A faint glow had started to emit from the statue, and her soul reached out. With a fist grasped at her chest, the Stone Temptress laid a hand on the bucks antlers. He had succumbed to his fate, and they were not alone anymore. They had nothing to fear, the buck and the Stone Temptress. Not anymore.

-The Cutter’s Inn, 1844 Winter trees reach with long dark fingers into an unresponsive sky as the figure strikes the match, eagerly bringing the hungry flame to the paper’s edge. Clouds mask the moon as they did a year ago and no reflection from the inky waters mirrors the man’s face, shaggy brows knitted in fervid concentration. He is alone, only thoughts and fears for company. The canal carves its quiet way through the night, secrets flowing through each of the 105 locks, linking this backwater to the smog and skulduggery of London. The paper catches and the tongue of flame curls upwards, words scorched with a sigh from the page. Rain begins to fall, scoring the smooth water’s surface as if each drop is boring deep, searching the waters for something. Nothing to be found here, he thinks, tossing the burning paper, white ribboning to black, into the darkened waters below. Anything that can sink will, sucked down into the canal and that paper will drown in its drink quicker than one of the rotten-toothed revellers in the inn behind him. Every year he completes this odd convention, told to none, barely acknowledged by himself: the annual list of regrets, written, just to be consigned to ash in a watery grave. He turns his back; it is only rain upon his face as he passes the canal boats moored there. Hurrying to the welcoming light cast from the only building on the towpath: The Cutter Inn, a guard tower with windows for watchful eyes, he briefly acknowledges there’s an unusual number of barges for this time of year, trade normally ceases for the holidays. But there’s no time to stop and ponder the reason; the tavern’s door is flung open, a drunk staggers out and, as the man retches and curses, he can take the chance to slip in. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ All eyes in The Cutter’s Inn turn from their pints to look at the stranger, shaking himself like a wet dog on their threshold. With a determined tread, he paces to the roaring fire, hangs his dripping cloak on a peg as if he’s been there many a time before and this hook is his own. Standing, steaming slightly in the heat cast from the grate, he surveys the pub and its occupants. Years of spilt beer has stained the sawdust on the floor an unsavoury brown; oil lamps reeking of kerosene choke the air and, at the bar, the dark brows of the landlord knit above his surveying eyes, pulling a pint of ale, his large hands used to the slow rhythmic pull down and down again at the pump, his gaze never leaving the stranger’s face. This is a place that has seen better days. Haulage by waterway isn’t what it was: the new railway, like an uncoiled snake, rattles and hisses in its cloak of steam into the future, leaving the sauntering canal boats in its wake. And the Cutter Inn, serving the last of the canal traders- dogged souls bound to their canal, boats and horses with chains no upstart railway can sever- are the last to remain, raising a glass as the old year gasps its last. “A pint of your best,” the young man says, wiping the rain up from his brow through his hair in a way that might have spelled trouble had any women been present, “and a jar for each man here,” he adds, placing a fat leather purse on the counter to signal the means with which he will extend this hand of bounty. Loosened by free drink, tongues which might have snapped with opprobrium, scorn at the stranger’s decision to grace them with his presence tonight of all nights, are softened. Talk turns to the year: offerings- gladly received; kicks- deflected or at worst endured. Bert, skipper of the Kingfisher of Avon, is the first to wheeze his reflections through yellow teeth jutting from angry red gums. “I remember the pies: thick crust and thicker gravy; big chunks of steak and kidney, generous to the last was old Fran. Many a night, when the horse stopped and I needed to give him a lick about the haunches to get him and me on our way, it was only the thought of old Fran and her pies that kept me going.” The others murmur their assent and the landlord, still delivering the free ale to each table, slams the pint down in front of old Bert. Beer sloshes over the sides, running in rivulets before dripping into the sawdust below. If Bert was about to ask if anyone knows whatever happened to the Inn’s cook, the hovering figure is enough to halt his tongue and he chooses to take a hearty drink of the ale instead. “To your good health Colin, may your year be a prosperous one!” Another man, ten years younger than Bert but with no more teeth in his mouth, wishes the landlord. The exclamation which shoots from the dark-browed publican’s mouth could be interpreted in many ways; none of them suggest polite agreement. He makes his way back to the bar, wiping his large hands on the apron tied about his waist before thrusting the last ale at the stranger, still standing at the bar, waiting. If the others dare not freely state their minds, even on a night of supposed reckless celebration, the stranger knows no such restraint. He takes a long pull at his pint, wiping the froth on the back of his hand in a somewhat rakish manner; Colin scowls his disapproval. “So, there is little to celebrate in these parts?” The stranger enquires, surveying the down-on-its-luck establishment, where poverty rather than prosperity seems the only thing on tap. Bert, obviously the resident blather mouth, starts up again, giddy with freedom now that Colin the publican is back behind his bar. “Well, we’re like the last men standing.” He lets out a misplaced laugh, indicating with a weathered hand the rest of the Cutter’s motley crew, who nod in agreement. “And every year the railway takes more and more; first it were our best, now it just takes any. Many a young man has left these parts to feed the coal-guzzling monster.” The stranger must look blank, for Bert explains: “That’s what the likes of us call that new-fangled train.” The stranger sips his beer thoughtfully. “And why are they so keen to leave do you think?” “Fed up with trawling the canals at an old nag’s pace, no doubt!” Bert exclaims, sloshing his drink this time himself. “In all types of weather, you’ll find us out on the canal; the only comfort’s a pint in a place like the Cutter at the end of a hard n’ cold day of haulage.” “There certainly seems to be little other comfort on offer, that is for sure,” says the man, eyeing the room appraisingly. “Where are all the womenfolk; do none of you have wives if mistresses are not permitted?” He laughs confidently and if one or two men join him, they quickly fall silent as Colin wheels a finished barrel of beer to a hatch, before sending it crashing into the darkness below. All jump although the noise must be hardly new to any of them. He turns, red-faced and sweating from the exertion back to face the unwanted guest, and his torso and shoulders thrust in a T shape that would spell terror to many a man; the stranger, however, only takes another long expectant pull on his beer. “You’re not from around these parts.” It is not a question and the visitor neither concurs or disagrees. “If you were, you’d have heard about the events of a year ago, that which sent our womenfolk scattering like lambs.” An expectant hush fills the silence, broken only by the occasional snap of a breaking log in the hearth or the hiss of damp air expiring. “We never found the perpetrator, but this time last year there was a wolf in our midst in the shape of a young handsome man; stole a lamb as surely as I’m standing here: my daughter, Beth.” The stranger shifts his weight in his heavy boots for the first time in what might be discomfort. If he is discomposed, the publican is not. “We searched for hours in the canal out yonder. Searched, till the feeling had gone. Bodies plunging in those freezing waters, looking and looking, every limb turning to ice; but not the heart. It would take more than the canal to cool that. It beats even now, hot and fast. Do you know what for? Justice.” “You never found her then, your daughter?” The stranger asks, failing to offer commiserations of any sort. “What does it look like?” Spits the publican, waving at the men staring fixedly into the narrow circles of the glasses they are cradling. “Do you see her? See any womenfolk about here? No, because there aren’t any. Her death scared them off as surely as if they’d seen a wolf rip her throat out.” Old Bert starts a strange keening sort of a sound and the other man with the gummy mouth helps him up from the table. “Night one and all. Night Colin.” He says, tipping his flat cap at the publican. “Think this is one New Year’s Day I’ll be seeing in from my bed. ‘Till the next jar at the end of another hard day’s haulage.” He says, picking up his coat and Bert’s; they both shuffle to the door and leave. Others quickly follow in their wake, perhaps genuinely exhausted, perhaps hopeful of seeing in the New Year in a place with a modicum more of frivolity rather than death about it. Soon, the publican is alone with his unwanted guest, fifteen minutes before he customarily rings the last order bell to see in the New Year. The publican moves from table to table, ignoring the visitor, tipping the dregs of the drink into the sawdust, stacking the empty glasses one inside the other. He makes his rounds from table to table, ignoring the man, never offering him another drink. “I think I’ll wash these tomorrow and turn in myself for the night. Little point staying up; I’ve seen in enough New Years to know this one is going to come bringing only flaming misfortune in her hands: more trains on more tracks, no doubt, luring my customers away.” He begins to collect the lamps from each table, lowering the wicks until the flames gutter and die. Shadows mass and the only light is cast by embers and the one remaining lamp in the publican’s hand. “Leave it,” the stranger says, turning away from the fire, unfolding something in his hand. “We’ll be needing the light to read this.” He shakes out a piece of paper which he has taken from his coat. The bottom third is charred, and it looks like it has only recently dried from quite a soaking, but even in the flickering half-light it is possible to make out words, etched like tombstone memorials on the paper’s blackened side. “Where did you get that from?" Colin rasps, staring with obvious recognition at the tattered sheet like it were a ghost rising ragged but indomitable from its grave. The stranger sits at the table closest to the hearth and takes the oil lamp from the publican’s quivering hand. “To answer that, I will have to tell you why I’m here. And when my tale is told, I think it will shed more than a little light on your own.” Colin slumps into the chair opposite him, his face fixed into a mask of dread by the dying light of the fire. “Go on then,” he murmurs through gritted teeth. “Earlier today I made my way back to this place, The Cutter’s Inn. I’d spent the last twelve months vowing never to come here again. But these last weeks, I’ve heard her voice just as clearly as you have.” Colin shifts, a man at sea, in his chair. “Up through the waters it’s come. The locks can’t stop it, can’t hold back her beautiful voice. At the Thames it’s the loudest, but even far from the river I hear it still. And to answer Beth’s voice, I came.” “Why?” The question sounds like it’s squeezed past hands which strangle. “To throw myself in after her, why else?” The stranger looks to the publican with a blaze in his eyes; a desperate fire more than enough to tip a handsome and healthy man in the prime of his life into premature death. “Surely you know who I am Colin?” He doesn’t wait for a response, his tale careering forward with a full head of steam. “You knew of me, don’t pretend you didn’t: the railway man, posted to this backwater to recruit young men to the company. You heard Beth speak of the life she wanted to live in London, a life of finery: balls and gowns, on the arm of her dashing young entrepreneur- me. For yes, I won her heart surely as I won the admiration of the menfolk hereabout.” “No more,” it is a gasp which the momentum of his story rips straight through. “We planned our escape in secret of course; she knew you, and your moribund antique ways, would never permit her to go. We were to meet, this very night a year ago: to embark together on our new life; to take the canal boat one last time which I chartered just for this purpose. Slowly, stealthily but surely, it was to bear her away, from you to me.” “No- “but the young man is relentless, his tale now at full steam. “But, when I went to the stable to tack the horse which was to tow the boat to this Inn and smuggle her away, I found it lame. I cursed my failure to foresee this possibility; the horse was useless to me and I set out, on foot.” The only response is a groan. “As I neared the spot for our arranged meeting, I realised immediately I was too late. I heard two voices raised, hers and one I know now to be yours. I won’t trouble you with the words; you know your response to her pleas. There was a more awful sound than her cries: a blow, then a splash; the roar of my heart stopping for a second.” The publican’s head has dropped onto his neck, but his chin is forced up with a jerk; eyes spark at his. “You talk of the icy plunge, searching the canal; I saw only your retreating back. It was me, tearing into the water to save her. And yes, there is a chill to that water; and yes, the passion in a wronged heart never cools.” “ You wronged me ,” the publican thumps his chest before making a grab for the suitor who rams the table top into his ribs, pinning him fast. The publican’s breath comes in heaving gasps. “If she met her end that night, the hand that killed her was more yours than mine; the hand that lured her away from where she belonged: here, with me!” “I knew that was the tale you’d tell. And yes, I overheard your sob story the next day: how your darling daughter had slipped in a fit of passion from the towpath, half-deranged with love, following a foolish fancy all the way to London, only to miss her footing on the icy path. I listened, always knowing it would be your word against mine, and I knew no one would dare dispute yours: the grieving father pitted against the wolfish young man. But now I have this to add weight to my words. Fortune has favoured me at last, casting this into the water right before the canal boat window where I was waiting." He brandishes the paper in one hand, the lamp in the other, angling its light to illume the words in the gathering dark. New Year’s Resolutions, Colin Dredge- 1844 As a year of regret passes, I commit to flame only the recollection of a moment’s sin and 12 months of purgatory thereafter. That moment: New Year’s Eve 1843. Beth: I wished to stop you, to stay your flight. I didn’t mean for yours to be a watery grave, my hand the one that sent you there. Read this child and be at peace. Desist from wailing at my door, shaking your wet skirts on my hearth, staining my heart with guilt and shame. Be at rest child; for without your hauntings, I will toss and turn: damned on earth till I be damned in the ground, joining you as this does, ashes to ashes and dust to dust. “Weight to your words- never!” Cries the publican, desperately flinging back the table and lunging for the paper, but the young man is too quick for him. In three long strides he is at the bar, reaching up, ringing the bell for last orders. Back and forth, hand grasping the thread-worn rope cord, beating the iron ringer against the old brass bell, summoning the waiting police to the Cutter’s Inn. As Colin Dredge is handcuffed and led away, the sweetest bells echo across the midnight sky. They are ringing in a New Year; one stepping in skirts, waterlogged and heavy, but with a head held high, for justice has been summoned and served at last.

\*\*\* Wars. Throughout the thousands of years I've lived, it's wars that seem to bind mankind through the ages. It's where I'd first met Marcellus, after our army won the battle against Carthage. It's how I'd fatefully meet him again 2,000 years into the future. But first, let's go back to the beginning. During this fateful day in 241 BC, one of my commanders presented me a young man with a noose around his neck. This was Marcellus, a ranking officer of the Carthaginian army. Seeing that the war was already won, I ordered the general to stop tugging on the rope, and to set this man free. There was no need for more prisoners. "Thank you, lord," Marcellus said, in our mother tongue of Latin. "Please allow me to repay you in kind." He stepped forward and grasped at the sharp edge of my commander's gladius. Blood trickled down his fingers in crimson rivulets. "This is a blessing reserved only for the purest of hearts--" Before Marcellus could finish his sentence, my general had tightened his grip on the rope and wailed on the man before sending him face first into the dirt. Weirdly enough, the man did not seem to mind at all. I waved for my officer to stand down. Marcellus stood back up and took my hand, unperturbed by the swords drawn and thrust at his neck. "I am Marcellus," he said, "and today, I trade you the best gift in the world in exchange for sparing me imprisonment." My chest hummed the moment he spoke those words. I had no way of expressing it at the time, but by today's standards, it'd be like standing in front of a subwoofer. He then walked away without looking back. *Looking back*, now that's a term for the ages. Every time I look back to this day, I wish I had not shaken his hand. In fact, I wish I had locked him up and left him to rot. \*\*\* Maybe I should fast-forward a little, forgive my play on words. This is America, and it's the year 2020. I wasn't always a citizen of this country, as much as my name wasn't Eric until about 80 years ago. I was born Epictetus in 284 BC, a full 20 years before the Punic Wars. I know what you're thinking. *Is this guy for real?* And perhaps, after you're ready to humour me, you'd think, *I wonder what he thinks about modern plumbing or the iPhone.* Well, how do *you* feel about the iPhone? That's assuming you're old enough to have witnessed its before-and-after effects on mankind. Oh, don't get so uptight about my remark. Age is *very* relative when it comes to conversations with me. I'm guessing you've grown to take this piece of technology for granted. Well, so have I. Paper money, gunpowder, electricity--they've all came and went so slowly that they've lost their magic, even to someone like me. I'm just like you. Only I've lived longer. I came to America by chance, really. Once personal identification became a thing, it took considerably more effort to remain anonymous. I mean, it wasn't exactly the easiest thing to explain why my papers were always hundreds of years old. But I won't bore you with the details. I've stories that date back through the millennia, so pardon me if I occasionally digress. Now, where was I? Oh yes, America. \*\*\* Let's take one more step back to the 1940s. I had become a lone traveller by now, having known better than to make friends, with my condition and all. I'd loved and lost seven wives by then, all without children, due to my fear of passing down this disease. I was tempted to 'convert' my seventh wife, Lea, and I came clean to her on her deathbed. I'm immortal, I told her, and we could live together for as long as we can imagine. "Oh darling," Lea said, in German, "I have loved you my whole life, but give me eternity and I might well jump at your throat. Let me go. Let me remember you like this." I don't know if she had believed me, that she had really meant those words. But I knew I couldn't go through with it even if she wanted to. Everything changes when you have an eternity ahead of you--everything. Even the word 'meaning' becomes pointless after some time. I watched Lea die that night, and I vowed never to love anyone again.

Hello, first time posting here. I found this writing prompt and decided to attempt it while setting myself a 30 minute time limit. The prompt: You are a teenager with the ability to measure how "Dangerous" people are on a scale from 1 to 10 by looking at them. A normal child would be a 1 while a trained man with an assault rifle might be a 7. Today, you notice the unassuming new kid at school measures a 10. *Jesus what the hell is that?* I thought the second I spotted him. Steven was the new kid, only about 5’2” tall, a real shrimp with a bowl cut and scrawny arms. He didn’t seem dangerous, but I knew that he was a walking disaster. He sat down in the science room by himself looking at the desk as the teacher began to speak. “Okay students, today is your lucky day because we are dissecting frogs today.” The teacher had sets of trays all with a frog and dissecting tools for each student. “Everyone come up and get a tray and sit down until we are all ready to start.” As the kid grabbed his tray along with the others I couldn’t help by shudder seeing the scalpel by his hands as he sat down with his frog muttering to himself. He almost looked ready to cry. *Maybe I’m wrong for once*, *how could this be right?* “Okay, now using the diagram on the projector, everyone make your first incision. Let me know if you need any help.” After cutting into my frog, I turned to look at the new kid. **11**. The number above his head went up as he sliced through the frog, still muttering under his breath. I dropped my pencil to bend closer to him. “*Ha ha ha and hee hee hee, happy knife and happy me. The knife goes in the knife comes out, it makes me smile, it makes me shout.”* A cold sweat broke out across my face as I picked up my pencil and went back to my frog. Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder that made me jump. “Jason.” The teacher said. “You sure are jumpy, does the dissection make you nervous? Maybe you can ask Steven for help, he did a terrific job.” Turning to look at Jason, he gave me a friendly grin that froze my veins like ice. On his table the frog was neatly sliced open, the skin separated from the fat and muscle as if by a master surgeon. Turning to the teacher I managed to stutter out a denial for help. “I-I’m okay, just the smell is all.” I forced myself to cut into the frog without screaming, but every time I looked over at Steven, I could see my own death looming over me. My teeth began to chatter as I watched him cut out every organ and lay it on the table like a collection of knick-knacks. Whenever the class got quiet enough, I could hear snippets of his mutterings. “*So small, so delicate, not meaty enough. Need something bigger to satisfy.”* He was humming to himself, his fingers drumming on the table as soon as he ran out of frog to dissect. His pale face began to turn red as he looked around at all the other students still working. **12.** The finger drumming became frantic as he twirled the scalpel in his hand with unnerving ease. He raised his hand and left to use the restroom. When he came back the number above his head was back to ten. As he walked by me he smiled and slipped me a piece of paper. Scrawled on the note was a phone number and a message. “You know it’s been a while since I’ve met another ten. We should keep in contact.

The sheer darkness of the early November morning should have been enough to send shivers down my spine, but it did not. Paired with the crisp, cold air and lingering snow I should have been freezing, but I did not feel it. As we lumbered up a ravine left icy from sunny days and cold nights, I should have been nervous, even scared, but I felt nothing except contentment. Though I could not see him, the soft sound of his even breathing and the snow crunching lightly beneath his boots soothed me. We had been climbing upward for more than an hour and he was still not winded. Hiking up mountains is in his blood and it shown outwardly as I huffed and struggled to keep up with his pace. Being born and raised at sea-level, the high altitude and tedious climbing left my lungs and muscles on the brink of surrendering. I relished every second of it. Each time I thought about giving up on the difficult trek I caught a second wind and I had never felt more alive. Even the smallest of steps forward felt as if I had accomplished the biggest mountain in the world. It was empowering. Twilight began to cast shadows around 7 a.m. and physically I felt the two hours we had been at it, though mentally I did not. I had already asked to stop three times for water or to shove more peanut M & Ms into my camo pockets to fulfill my incessant need to snack. If my inability to keep up with him annoyed him, he didn’t show it. Instead he smiled at me and joked every time I slowed to a stop to catch my breath. When I asked how much further he would say “about 15 minutes” with a laugh because the dim light prevented him from knowing where the summit was. As the sun peeked over the mountaintops, I could see we were close to reaching our destination. The sky was clear and the variations of orange and yellow haphazardly strewn across the snow by Mother Nature was breathtaking. Until that moment, I did not know such colors existed and I was certain the reflection of the white powder was the only reason they existed at that point. I tightened my pack and shifted my rifle from one shoulder to the other as I prepared for us to make our ascent. It seemed the closer we were to the top, the longer it took to get there and my body ached. When we finally reached the summit he took the time to point out various mountains from his childhood and tell stories pertinent to each one. Stories such as “and on that mountain over there I shot a six by six bull elk. He rolled down a rocky hillside and it took three of us an entire day to pack him out” or “I lost my favorite hat to some high wind while looking over a cliff when I was in my early twenties”. I stood in amazement and marveled over how grand his childhood must have been. I was envious. We walked to the other side of the mountain to peer over the edge and search for elk. We saw only a small doe. Although it was an upgrade from the birds and squirrels we had seen earlier in our journey, she was not what we were after. She peered at us briefly and seemed to sense our thoughts through whatever natural channels animals use to recognize imminent danger. Satisfied that we were not going to harm her, she bent and nipped the tips off some tall grass that remained above the snow before trudging down the hillside. As we continued to follow the telltale signs of elk, I could not help but periodically stopping to stare at my surroundings. The green trees that lay in swaths on the mountainside created a stark contrast against the snow and kept my attention most of the time. A blizzard hammering a mountain to the Northeast stole my admiration of the landscape before me. Slightly concerned, I turned to ask him if he thought we would be caught in the same storm, but the words were lost when I saw him standing against the majestic backdrop that Montana provided. He looked like he belonged right there in the snow. Everything about him fit perfectly. His stance, his features, the way he tilted his head when a branch creaked or there was a random crunch in the snow. The well-worn hunting attire he donned along with his beard, gun, and pack made him look nothing short of a lumberjack. After a moment of me staring at him and him gazing back at me with an expression that said “what the hell are you looking at” , I finally asked if we should be worried about the storm. He was quick to reply “no”, mostly to quell my fears I imagine, but also made a point to remind me that you really never know where blizzards may hit. A half hour later we were hit by that very storm. The thought of the storm made me a bit anxious. Being from Mississippi I had never really dealt with much snow and had definitely never been in a blizzard. Although I had already lived in Montana for three years at this time, I still had managed to avoid it. Despite my initial fears I changed when we were encapsulated by the sideways snow. It stung any exposed skin like little angry frozen hornets furious that we were in their realm, but I remained calm. Fortunately, my only exposed skin was my face and, as long as I kept my head down, I could keep myself from the worst of it. I could hardly see my hands when I held them out in front of me much less where we were going so I followed his deep bootprints as we made our way to the distant treeline. While this made me feel somewhat childlike, and I’m sure looked childlike, it also left me with a zen sense of security. If I had felt powerful before, I now felt like a superstar. Something as strong as this storm we weather couldn’t stop me, so what could? Reaching the tree line only furthered my confidence. He sighed at what lay before us: a twisted maze of thick, unrelenting deadfall. I smiled at the obstacle course ahead of us. This was my element. I had grown up hunting in a thicket, always having to maneuver my way through vines, trees, and brush. With each fallen log we climbed over and every set of bushes we squeezed through, he apologized for taking me down the mountainside that way. We really didn’t have a choice considering the storm around us and I was enjoying every moment, but I appreciated the thought he put into my wellbeing. I was also reluctant to admit I was much more confident walking through the forest than I would have been shuffling down the icy, treacherous ravine. Being inside the forest was like being in an inverted snow globe, as if we were encased in glass while a mightier power than we shook the world around us. When the globe was tilted one way the snow flew east and when it shifted the other direction it flew west. The rounded bubble we were in shielded us well and the only sign of the storm was actually witnessing the large white flakes flurry outside our haven. Inside the globe the only noise we could hear was our own feet hitting the forest floor littered with branches and packed with evergreen needles. It was surreal. I have never felt more at one with Nature and I now crave that closeness. When we reached the service road, he leaned his pack against a snow bank, sat down, and rested against it. I followed suit and my knees thanked me for the release from the long, arduous trek. He smiled at the relief on my face and twisted around to dig something out of his pack: two Coldsmoke beers, my favorite. While we drank our well-earned beers and waited for his father to pick us up in his side by side, I came to a realization: I did not find an elk, but I did find a home. We can love our hometowns and culture, but that does not mean it is where we are meant to be. Sometimes we wander a seemingly endless journey searching for that place. The place our heart calls home. The place that naturally feels right and warm regardless of the actual temperature. A place where you exist effortlessly. In that moment I realized for me, it is a place with endless wilderness, looming peaks, and adventure. It is Montana.

This was inspired by a Star Trek episode called “remember me” A short story by Oliver Rich-Jackson Dr. Plato Capti began his day the same as any other. As he got dressed in his usual white coat, slacks, and button-up, he took note of his form. Capti was a slender man, standing at around six feet. His shoulders were slumped, and he had sunken eyes, weary from the hours of research he conducted day after day. He began walking through the narrow hallways to the lab. The small station was orbiting Earth's moon and there were only ten or so researchers onboard at any given time, unlike the immense citadels in the asteroid belt. Those stations housed hundreds of people, and still had plenty of room left over for recreational facilities, food courts, and more; but, those were for intergalactic launches, and his station was for deep space observation. Dr. Capti was snapped out of his musings when he entered the lab. “Mornin,” said Capti’s colleague Baxter “I saw you working late last night. You missed the get-together for Susan's birthday.” “I had work to do. I’m nearly done mapping the edge of the observable universe,” responded Capti. “Why don’t you take some time off? The universe will still be there when you get back, and you know the government doesn’t care when you finish.” “That may be so, but the scientific community cares. They’ve hung on my every word since I identified dark energy, and besides, I prefer not to associate with others.” “Suit yourself.” The following day Capti woke up to find a pair of shoes missing, which he found particularly odd since no one else was authorized to enter his room. He thought nothing of it and moved on. As he made his way to the lab, he noticed other things were missing, such as fire alarms and wall fixtures. When Capti eventually made it to his lab, he found Baxter and another researcher named Henleigh. “Have you noticed the missing objects in the halls?” He asked. “What do you mean?” replied Henleigh. “There are missing pipes, monitors, PA systems, and more missing.” “That’s not possible,” retorted Baxter “The station is pre-assembled. You couldn’t take anything like that down without dismantling the whole place.” “I know that! But I also know what I saw. I’ve been on this station longer than anyone else, and something’s not right.” That’s when he noticed that the computer had finished mapping the outer boundaries of the observable universe. “This was supposed to take another nineteen days. Computer, what is the reason for the accelerated progress?” “ Mapping was completed within the expected time frame. ” “That’s not possible,” exclaimed Capti. Henleigh chimed in, “What are you talking about? The map was expected today. Are you alright?” “I’m fine; though, perhaps I should lie down.” “If you're leaving, go by the med bay. Just to be sure, I’ll tell Dr. Naomi to expect you.” “What happened to Dr. Abiit?” “No one by that name has ever served on this station.” “Nonsense, Computer, pull up the file for Dr. Janis Abiit.” “ There are no records of a Dr. Janis Abiit. ” “Search Earths database.” “ No records exist for a Dr. Janis Abiit. ” “ ...I suppose I’ll meet with Dr. Naomi,” said Capti quietly. It had been several days since the strange conversation in the lab, and things had gotten worse. After visiting the med bay he was confined to quarters and tended to by the med staff. He was assumed temporarily insane after more ramblings about the missing objects. When several hours had passed since Capti had seen anyone he began wandering the station looking for others. “Hello? Is anyone there? You can’t keep me in bed if you won’t help me.” After searching for nearly half an hour, he shouted, “Computer, locate Dr. Baxter!” “ There is no one under the name Dr. Baxter on board the station. ” “Locate Dr. Henleigh then!” “ There is no one under the name Dr. Henleigh on board the station. ” “Locate the nearest human being to my location!” “ Information not available. ” “My god.” Capti started towards the lab to use the interplanetary communicator. “Computer, calibrate communicator to speak to earth!” “ Please state a valid target ” “Earth! Contact Earth!” “ There is no such place listed in my database. ” He then noticed the map of the observable universe and it displayed a bubble-like shape immediately surrounding the station. “Computer, describe the universe.” “ The universe is a two thousand by two thousand kilometer sphere.” In a barely audible voice, he spoke. “no... That can’t be rig-...” He heard a large crash and the sound of air whooshing, followed by a bulkhead door slamming into the foundation. “Computer, what was that?!” “ A vacuum was created because the station’s interior was exposed to space .” “Why was it exposed to space?” “ A fatal flaw in the design of the station. ” “Computer, describe the universe,” he exclaimed frantically. “ The universe is a five hundred by five hundred kilometer sphere. ” “Is there any way to escape the universe?” “ There is no known method of esca-...” The computer was destroyed by the universe collapsing in on itself, which annihilated Dr. Capti and the station with him.” There were two figures in the space. “It destabilized again . ” ... “It appears so.” ... “Reset it.” ... “Ok.” Dr. Plato Capti began his day the same as any other. As he got dressed in his usual white coat, slacks, and button-up, he took note of his form. Capti was a slender man, standing at around six feet. His shoulders were slumped, and he had sunken eyes, weary from the hours of research he conducted day after day. He began walking through the narrow hallways to the lab. The small station was orbiting Earth's moon and there were only ten or so researchers onboard at any given time, unlike the immense citadels in the asteroid belt. These housed hundreds of people, and still had plenty of room left over for recreational facilities, food courts, and more; but, those stations were for intergalactic launches, and his station was for deep space observation. Dr. Capti was snapped out of his musings when he entered the lab. “Mornin,” said Capti’s colleague Baxter “I saw you working late last night. You missed the get-together for Susan's birthday.” “I had work to do. I’m nearly done mapping the edge of the observable universe,” responded Capti. “Why don’t you take some time off? The universe will still be there when you get back, and you know the government doesn’t care when you finish.” “Perhaps you're right. Are you available for lunch?” The End

“We dreamed of the stars.” The old man sat, slumped slightly, on an uneven bench, hair strewn unneatly about his face. The transient light from the fire played over the hollows and crevices of his frame, giving him the illusion of great depth and impossible topography. He coughed once more, a deep, rich hacking from the bottom of his lungs, and began again. “We dreamed of the stars. Long ago, before the world got small again. “There were men among us who spent their lives on such dreaming. “Now the lights have gone out, it's hard to imagine a sky without a million million pinpricks set into it every night. But at the time, there was so much light in Boston that you were lucky to see any stars at night. Even in spite of that, we knew they were there, and in our minds there was a depth to the sky which replaced the hard impermeability we could see. We knew we only had to walk off into the night to find the stars, and we knew, in our hearts, that if we flew high enough and fast enough, we could eventually reach them.” The pages of the books around us moved, stirred by some imperceptible breeze coming in the third floor window of the library. We would have to block the draft when winter came. “Space was the word we used. The vast, empty space in which the earth hangs like a jewel. Black as night, empty of even the wind. “We visited it, long ago. Men flew out, and put their indelible mark on the disk...sphere...of the moon. Their task seemed almost impossible, and yet, when they accomplished it, we still dreamed of the stars. “They were far away. Impossibly far away. We knew that. We could travel as fast as we could, and still spend lifetimes reaching them. Whole generations, long-lived though they were, could ride through that emptiness, living and dying without seeing their origin or destination. It was foolish, really, but we couldn't help but dream. “We can't really see the stars from here. They look like pinpricks, or motes of dust. So we built machines to see for us. Huge, massive machines spaced out across the desert, all working together to see. You could fill this city with such machines, and still not imagine the scope of our work.” He straightened a little, swaying with rhetorical passion. As he stood, the firelight spun across the underside of his face. “And one day, even before I was born, a man said, 'Why not go there? Why not see the stars?' We had made rockets, and ridden aloft on plumes of fire like men and angels. Why should we not see the stars? “There was great excitement among those of us who dreamed. It was as if this man, in speaking, had opened up our secret desires to ourselves. Eagerly, we followed in his footsteps. We tried again and again to see space, and succeeded, but still we dreamed of the stars. It still seemed impossible, but the hope that had awoken in us would not be easily quelled. “Then, one day, a project was proposed. Project Orion, it was called. Terse and fanciful - the style of the time. Orion was a story, a legend of a man who died in a great and terrible hunt, and was placed by gods in the stars forever. Even the name held the ecstasy of our dream. And at long last, it seemed like that dream might be fulfilled. “You see, the rockets, those fiery arrows we had ridden into space before, couldn't get us to the stars. They wouldn't burn for long enough, not for the fifty or hundred years the shortest trip would take. But the answer came in an unlikely form: Nuclear weapons.” A motion. “Nuclear weapons. In those days everyone wanted to be rid of them, but no one knew how to begin. They were more powerful than anything else we had known. “Project Orion was an insane idea. The powerful blasts that destroyed anything within miles would push us to the stars. We would build a huge ship, a tower of metal larger than the building we're sitting in now. On the bottom of the tower, there would be a huge disk of metal. “Rockets would carry us up to space, and then, in the safety of emptiness, we would be free to fly. Behind the ship, we would detonate nuclear weapons, slowly, one at a time, for years. They would explode into balls of fire and force, and we would ride these behind the safety of our plate. It would take fifty years to reach the nearest star, and once there we could never come home. We would die at those foreign stars, our dream realized. “A great man once said that this would be the ideal use for our nuclear weapons. He was right, of course, but that mattered very little. “The project was never begun. It was planned, and thought through, and then abandoned. And not long after that, a war began. But...” He stopped. Shook his head. Sat down. “We dreamed of the stars. He choked, his voice broken with tears, “I dreamed of the stars. But things have happened. Maybe I'm the only one who still dreams. And I know now that I will never see them.” And he began to cry.

Click. Click. Click. The ancient grandfather clock on the wall stirs you from your thoughts. It makes every minute loom over your head; feeling as though you are stuck in the clock yourself--trapped amongst the Roman numerals. Minutes go by in a flash. Hours tick by. You ball up your fists in anticipation. In a moment of frustration, you look around you and time nearly stands still as you take in your surroundings. The smell of antique books fills the air; your love of literature has colored your childhood. You take a deep breath in. A whiff of the fresh apple pie in the oven hits your nose. Fragrant. Just the way you like it. People may mock you for your ‘old soul’ tendencies. But it’s your life. Books, baked goods, and a simple approach to life has kept drama and toxicity away from you. Click. Click. Click. The ticks from the clock distract you from your thoughts and you’re shaken back into reality. Of course she’s not coming. Why would she? She has been absent for most of the 25 years of your life. The “she” is your mom. You sigh and pick up your calendar lying across from you. June 26th, 2013. It’s only your birthday. No big deal. Only your 25th birthday. She had called to say she’d visit. You had cried and said you were going to show her your new apartment. And your fiance. He was new, too. He was going to be a surprise for your mother and you were going to talk about engagement plans all giddy like schoolgirls. You wipe fresh tears away and cross the date off on the calendar with a bright, red marker. The red slashes through the date like a knife. Well, happy birthday to you. You head to bed. * * * Bring! Bring! Your phone rings with a sense of urgency. You roll out of bed and pick it up. You answer with a groggy “..hello?” It’s her. Your mother. The one and only. She had been MIA most of your life. She had left you and your father when you were only 5 years old, claiming that she had to “find herself,” and she wasn’t really “cut out” to be a mother. She disappeared--just like that. Then, last month, she left a long voice message about how sorry she was and how she’d try to make it up to you by visiting you. But she hadn’t remembered how old you were. Nor when your birthday was. She said she’d check into a hotel nearby and you could catch up. Pitiful that you believed her. “How are you? I’m sorry I couldn’t come.” “I’m alright.” “Good.” “So when?” “When...?” “When will you come? Or are you even going to?” “About that...” “Bye.” You slam the phone down. The tears come again, but you push them back. 25 years of forgiving her and just accepting whatever excuse she threw. But not this time. Your anger nearly smokes out of your ears as you call her number back. “Hello?” “I’m DONE with it!” “What’s going on?” “I’m SICK of this, did you FIND YOURSELF or whatever?? I’m 25 years old and I’m NOT going to just TAKE whatever LOUSY excuses you throw at me. You’re my MOTHER. WHY CAN’T YOU ACT LIKE IT?” “...” “No comment huh?” “Well, what do you want me to say?” “I really don’t know. Just know, I WILL figure out WHAT you’re up to.” You slam the phone and take your face in your hands. Tears trickle down. In a mix of anger and sadness, you slam your face into your pillow. Shortly after your mom had disappeared, your father was left alone to raise you. It was a tough journey. Then, you had gone off to college and gotten a job. You’d gotten older. You’d “moved out of the nest.” But then, a sudden heart attack took him from your life, too. You had been left all alone. That hadn’t stopped you from gaining success with your career and saving up to secure your own apartment. You quickly snap out of the backstory. You get dressed and throw your wallet, phone, and some snacks into a tote bag. It was time for a little road trip. She sent out a letter when you were 14 years old. She made the mistake of including a return address. She had wanted to disappear, but that address was your key into discovering just what was going on. You throw on a jacket and head to the car. She lived a few states down, in South Carolina. Since you lived in Delaware, it would take nearly 10 hours. But you are ready. Since she decided to call at 4 in the morning, you had time to book a train. You put the pedal to the metal. * * * You park the car and step out of it. Since it’d take almost the entire day to reach her, you were prepared to park your car overnight. Bag in hand, you arrive at the station. You step onto the train. Out of your window, the first streaks of daylight bring light to the sky. You pull a book out of your bag and read as the train chugs along. Eventually, you fall into a deep sleep that lasts the duration of the quest. Truly, you had no idea what to expect. Besides the one letter you received from her 11 years ago, and the phone calls you’d exchanged with her starting from last month, you had no contact with her. She just didn’t want it. And you wanted nothing to do with her. SSSh. The train comes to a halt. It appears you’ve arrived. Bag in hand, you head to the station. You call a cab and hold your breath. It’s finally time to find out the truth. “Wait!” The taxi remains glued to the road. A mother and daughter appear to be in dire need of a ride. You groan at first, but then you take another look at them. They are almost identical. The girl of about 6 years has her mother’s eyes, nose, and smile. It was like looking into two sides of a mirror. You move aside and let them sit next to you, and smile tiredly over the mother’s several thank-you’s. The taxi departs the station. The mother and daughter got off an hour ago, their stop was to a beautiful brick house where a man welcomed them with happy arms. A family. Sounded foreign to you. But now, you were at the address. Her address. You squint at the house. It is run-down. It is almost abandoned. It is small, beat up-looking. You thank the taxi driver and tip him, then you brace yourself. You pound at the door. It opens to reveal a tiny hallway. Scattered around it are bottles of every color and brand imaginable. Shards of glass are at your feet. Carefully, you step over them. Ashtrays are gingerly placed on the windowsills. There are a few plants. But they are all dead and withered. Then, a woman steps up to you. You look at her. She has your hair, but it is dirty and thinning. She has your eyes, but life is sucked out of them. She has your facial structure, but hers looks worn out and much older. She starts to cry. You are startled. You realize, you are looking into a mirror. But the mirror is cracked.

“New case, Noëlla.” Thump. A stack of files in a manilla folder lands on the desk in front of me, sending my papers flying. Great. Now my spotless office has papers everywhere. I huff and look up to glare at my boss’ departing back. “No case summary?” He turns back, talking a few strides into the office and closing the door behind him. That’s the good thing about being one of the top-ranking detectives in our firm, I get an office to myself, unlike others such as Otto and Schorlek who have to share one. It gives the privacy and thinking space one needs when uncovering confidential cases. “Young woman, aged in mid-twenties. Her name is Ennia Brown,” Ennia Brown? The Ennia Brown I rescued from a dark alley a year ago? I turn back to him, nodding in acknowledgement. “She’s reported claims of stalking and attempted murder.” Interesting. “Any reason why I was given the case instead of the others?” I might be a Detective Chief Superintendent in our firm, but there should be plenty of others qualified to take this case, especially those in his ‘Inner Circle’ who don’t have other things such as helping to run the faculty to do. “Celine’s in Egypt, Henrich’s in Germany, Jericho’s sick and Manuel, Maxim and Molino are... busy . I don’t want anybody else but the best detectives for this case, it’s pretty serious and there’s little evidence at this stage. Only the best could pull it off.” He pauses, “Oh, and the client specifically asked for you. Make the Anary Faralis Detective Agency proud Nöella.” Then he departs, leaving me to ponder the case. That still leaves Jane and Danni unaccounted for and I have no doubt he knew that. But what’s happened to Ennia since that night in the alley? I told her to contact me if anything was amiss and I’ve talked to her since then, but it’s been precisely thirteen months, two weeks and sixteen hours since I rescued her from the alley and the incidents date back at least two years. Why now? ~~~ It was eight-thirty in the evening and I’d stayed back at work a bit longer to finish up writing a case report. The weather was miserable, having rained just minutes before and the cobblestones were slick with water. A yellowed glow came from the rustic street lamps along the pavement, limning the edges of my briefcase with gold. Then I heard the scuffles, the thud and the scream. Alarmed, I raced towards the sound, approaching silently as to not raise any alarm. It came from the far reaches of an alleyway, that from experience I knew to be a dead end. The scream sounded female, the grunt that followed was male. I peered into the alleyway, to see an auburn-haired female struggling against a bulky, dark-haired male’s solid grip. She was pinned to the wall and the brute was touching her in awful places, pulling at her clothing and drawing a dagger as she fought back. She stilled at the sight of the knife and knowing her chances were slim I slipped silently down the alleyway. Within moments I had my arms around the brute’s neck and a foot hooked behind his ankle. He slashed with the knife and without a second thought, I’d kicked it from his grasp. With the brute pinned on the ground and his neck held in submission, I choked the air out of his lungs, enough to render him unconscious but no further. Quickly, I picked up my briefcase, glancing up to the young woman before me. She still hadn’t run. “Are you alright?” “I’m o-okay I suppose. Thank you.” She looked away down the alley. “Will he be okay?” “He’s just unconscious. He’ll wake up in a few minutes so we should head off. Do you need somewhere to stay?” She shook her head, but her eyes were distant. I shouldered off my coat, wrapping it around her shivering form. “C’mon girl, let’s get you somewhere safe. We’ll get you nice and warm.” Within five minutes I’d directed her to a nearby hotel, had her swaddled in blankets and a cup of hot cocoa before her. She was too shaken to ask her any questions, but I could only assume what had happened. I remained with her for as long as I could, heading off home before my flatmate would worry about me. As I stood to leave, I retrieved a business card from my briefcase. “If you need anything, hun, just give me a call. I’m happy to help any time you need it.” I slipped it onto the table in front of her and quietly let myself out. The card on the table before her read: DCS. Miss Noëlla Anderson ~Anary Feralis Detective Agency~ Ph: 0427 738 813 Email: noellaa@afda.org ~~~ Peeking my head into Schorlek Kühn and Otto Schuster’s office, it comes as no surprise that Otto is playing video games and Schorlek is sitting on the windowsill reading a book. “New case, fellas. Briefing in my office in ten.” An acknowledging grunt from Schorlek. “But I’m in the middle of the boss level Noëllaaa. If you make me go now I’ll lose ALL my progress.” Otto whines. “Suck it up, Otto. I’ve given you ten minutes, that’s enough. You shouldn’t be playing video games anyway, you know that.” He whines again and I leave them to their activities, returning to my office. Ten minutes later, Schorlek enters my office, dragging a sullen Otto behind him by the wrist. We discuss the case, examining the details given and the evidence provided both photographed and in hardcopy. Schorlek and I figure out a plan forward while Otto sulks; he’ll confirm the DNA sample while I trace emails and calls to Ennia, then we’ll interview neighbours and retrieve security footage, then assemble the evidence and incriminate the offender. ~~~ “What did you find?” I ask my coworkers. “DNA specimen confirmed,” Schorlek says curtly. “Insights, Mr Kühn?” “There were a few sets of DNA on the letter, including Ennia’s own, but I narrowed down the suspect list to two brothers; Avery and Scott Lancaster, and another man called Jeremiah Hayes, they’re the ones that fit Miss Brown’s description. Mr Hayes is suspected to be a friend of the two brothers, he could be involved with the case.” Schorlek Kühn sites back at his chair and glances at Otto Schuster, the other detective on my team for this case. “Anything new, Mr Schuster?” “Quit the formalities, please. Nothing new, but I have a question. Schorlek, were both brothers’ DNA on the letter?” “Indeterminate.” “Why?” “Unconfirmed.” “Well, I personally think the brothers are twins. Just saying.” “Any evidence Otto?” “No. Search the database though, I get the feeling they are.” I search the database, and sure enough, they’re twins, paternal twins at that. “Huh, look at that. Otto was right. They’re identical twins. Which explains why it’s determinate; they have the same DNA.” Schorlek nods and Otto grins smugly. “Well, fellas. Guess we have our list of suspects. I traced the anonymous threat emails and calls to Miss Brown to Avery Lancaster’s house and areas that he’s reportedly visited. Oh and it’s not listed in the case, but after she was cornered in the lane, the ID card was found on the unconscious man and it said ‘Avery P. Lancaster’, precisely the person all our other evidence has pointed to.” Other evidence such as him being one of Ennia’s ex-boyfriends and being one of Ennia’s suggestions of the suspect. “That Avery guy must be some sorta creep, considering the things on that file,” Otto commented. “I wonder what his middle name is. Peter?” “More like ‘p’ for ‘psychopath’,” I mumble under my breath. “Psychopath starts with ‘s’ idiot!” Otto says, turning to Schorlek. He puts his hands up, trying to tell Otto it wasn’t him but Otto gives him a sceptical look. “Dumbass, it starts with ‘p’.” Schorlek mumbles, glancing back at me. “Meeting over.” I get up to leave as they start to squabble. “Psychopath starts with ‘p’, Otto. You should’ve learnt that in high school,” I say, leaving Schorlek’s relieved face and Otto’s infuriated expression behind me. ~~~ Walking door to door in Avery Lancaster’s neighbourhood, Schorlek, Otto and I have found very little. The young family that lives across the road said that he’s a nice guy that tends to keep to himself but they’d only moved in recently so could not provide much detail. The lesbian couple and the old man living either side didn’t know anything of interest. Overall, there wasn’t too much evidence that they could provide, but they agreed to let us view their security feeds that had a view of his house. That only leaves interviewing Avery himself. Knock knock. The hollow sound reverberates through my fist as I knock on Avery Lacaster’s front door. “Good morning, is there anything I can do for you?” Avery’s puzzled face steps out from behind the door. “Yes sir. I am Detective Chief Superintendent Noëlla Anderson, and these are my colleagues Otto Schuster and Schorlek Kühn. We would like to talk to you for a minute if that’s okay with you?” “Uh, of course. Is anything wrong, Miss?” He looks genuinely oblivious and concerned, and I’m nearly convinced. He could be a great actor. “We’ll speak inside please.” “Was it my brother? I told him that rock adventure was a bad idea.” I raise a brow. “Your brother is fine. If we may?” He lets us in, leading us through impeccably neat rooms and into the dining room. It’s business time. “Do you know why we’re here Mr Lancaster?” “If it’s not my brother being a doofus, then no, I don’t. Should I know?” “Perhaps. We are here to ask you a few questions about Ennia Brown.” Brief pain flickers through his expression. “Is Ennia okay?” He says, barely a whisper. “Considering what’s been happening in her life lately, she is doing rather well. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about her recent activity, would you?” “No, I don’t. I haven’t spoken to her since we broke up and I haven’t seen her since.” “Hm, interesting. Did you know that she’s filed a case for stalking and attempted murder with the AFDA?” “She.. what?” “You are the prime suspect, and all the evidence leads to you, so if you could tell us the truth that would be greatly appreciated.” He nods. “Now tell me again, when did you last see her.” “About two years ago, we went out with a few friends but I didn’t really talk to her. It was still awkward from the breakup.” “Right. Was anything of notice said?” “Scott said she was hot. Ennia ignored me most of the evening, but no, nothing of notice.” “Now why did you and Ennia break up?” “She was going to study overseas and my grandmother had just died, so the timing wasn’t great for either of us. It pained us both greatly, but we knew it was the best for both of us. Neither of us have been in a relationship since, at least as far as I’m aware.” “Would you be jealous if another guy showed interest in her?” “No, I would respect Ennia’s decision to move on. She deserves to enjoy her life.” “Oh come on ,” Otto bursts out, “Quit the sappiness. If you haven’t seen her in two years then explain why one year ago, she was attacked in a dark alley by a man fitting your description wielding a knife. A man, I might add, that had an ID card with the name ‘Avery Lancaster’ on it.” “Or why your name was encoded into a death threat letter to Ennia?” Schorlek adds. “And why the threatening calls and emails were traced back to your very house?” Avery gets paler and paler with every question as if realising that he has no way out, realising that he didn’t hide his tracks well enough and he was caught. “I- I don’t understand what you mean.” “You hear what we said, Mr Lancaster. Your DNA was found on the letter, and there are all these other cases of evidence. Do you mind if we have a look around?” We show him our search warrant and he nods solemnly. Avery leads us around the house showing us through the different rooms of his house. There’s nothing much of notice in any of the places we search, this guy is pretty good at hiding his evidence. “And this is the guest bedroom. My brother keeps some of his stuff here sometimes.” We nod and have a poke around. We’re just about to finish up when I spot a discarded plastic bag in the wardrobe. “What’s that Mr Lancaster?” “I don’t know. Some of my brother’s stuff. He visits sometimes and keeps some stuff here. I don’t monitor his stuff, this room is the only place I allow him to put his stuff wherever he wants and I won’t clean it up.” “May we look inside?” “Of course.” We open the bag curiously, with our latex gloves on as not to disturb the possible specimens. The bag opens to reveal a pair of worn woollen fingerless gloves, a roll of sticky tape, an ID card bearing Avery’s details and a few folded pieces of paper. Schorlek pulls out one of the pieces of paper and reads it aloud “For my dearest Ennia. Really, I thought you’d have noticed by now. Our connection is true and I love you dearly. Must you always hide from me? Show me what you can do in bed. Can you do that? Otherwise, I will finish what I started that night in the alley, if I can’t have you, no one can. Terror upon you, shall you not oblige. Take what you want from me, but I will always prevail, do not fail me. Love from your dearest, I miss you.” “Dark much? But that sounds an awful lot like a jealous lover’s letter. Did you write this Mr Lancaster?” Avery shakes his head, and his face is deathly pale from fear. Fear for Ennia or fear for himself? “Well you have a lot of evidence against you sir, I would recommend you start telling the truth or you’ll be imprisoned for lying to authoritative figures. Understood?” “I only wish to tell you the truth, Ma’am. I did not know that letter was here, nor do I know who wrote it.” “May we take it for evidence?” “Of course Ma’am,” And with that, Otto, Schorlek and I take our leave, sealing the evidence in decontaminated specimen bags and leaving Avery’s ashen face behind. ~~~ “So. What do you think of our adventure today? Avery’s house sure was suspicious.” “Yeah, I think we have enough evidence now,” Otto adds. “I think Avery is innocent,” Schorlek murmurs under his breath. I cut my glare across the table to him. “ What? Did I hear that correctly?” Otto shrugs. “You do understand, Schorlek, that EVERY SINGLE piece of evidence we have points to Avery Lancaster.” “But maybe that’s what the criminal wants us to think. Everything points to Avery, but if he truly did it, there would be some degree of a cover-up. This is all in the open. It’s too easy. Mr Lancaster’s DNA is on every specimen, his ‘pining’ for a lost love threaded through threat letters, class and emails all traced to his house, a house his brother visits often. Think, Noëlla, think .” “Are you saying it was Avery’s brother, Scott, that is doing this? What would be his motive though? It makes no sense Schorlek. It’s obvious it was Avery.” “Check the cams for the night of the alley attack.” I pull up the feeds from various residents’ security cameras and go back to the date of the attack. We watch as a car pulls up in front of Avery’s house and Avery gets out, knocking on the front door- Must be Scott, I conclude, and sure enough, a second Avery greets him at the door. They go inside, and about an hour later, one of the Lancaster twins comes out holding a plastic bag and there’s a lump under his hoodie near his hip. The knife he pulled on Ennia. Turning up the audio we hear a voice yell from inside the house. “Can you get me milk while you’re at the supermarket? Thanks! See ya, Scott.” Scott comes outside and gets into one of the cars that’d been parked outside before he’d arrived, presumably Avery’s and drives off. Why didn’t he take his own? We skip ahead to the dates of the emails and calls from Avery’s house and Scott had visited on every single one of them. “Didn’t Avery mention something about Scott having the hots for Ennia? And he seemed pretty concerned for her,” Otto suggests but Schorlek and I’s attention is elsewhere. The letter. The realisation dawns on both of us and as I peer over his shoulder I notice something I hadn’t when he’d read it out. Each sentence is on a new line and the first letter of every sentence forms another message: FROM SCOTT L. My face slackens with the realisation. “Do you see it Schorlek?” He nods solemnly. It all makes sense. Their DNA is the same, being twins, Scott tried to avert the attention from him, turning it on his identical twin, but ultimately his diversions failed. He’s been found out. “Otto. It was Scott. The letters and the ID card prove it. It was Scott.” I murmur. “So it was actually Scott C Lancaster, the evil side to his angelic brother Avery,” Otto says in an exaggerated scheming voice. “Seems to me like his initial was a foretelling; ‘C’ for cri-mi-nal, ” He smirks, and we all burst out laughing, the relief enveloping me that Ennia would finally be safe and that we’d done it.

I gotta write this shit down man. Never been into journaling before but the worlds gone mad. Its been raining for over a week now, non stop. The weather channels can’t make anything of it, and they say that it’s raining EVERYWHERE. The fuck is this, God’s great flood? They’re telling us to stay off the roads, people are crashing all over the place. Can’t see 5 feet in front of you. Boss shut the office down until the weather clears. On the bright side, it’s paid, so I won’t have to worry about Lander being up my ass about rent. The Police said to keep your doors locked. Apparently people are losing their minds, looting houses and markets, breaking into homes and attacking people. This whole thing is like a mushroom trip gone terribly, terribly wrong. Mom says the same shit is happening in Pennsylvania, so the news is right. I can’t believe how easily some people give in to panic. Societies fucked man! Alex got a gun from his brother just in case, but I think we’ll be fine. The deadbolt on the front door is pretty serious. We’d hear anyone before they got in. The News said the military is on its way. The riots have gotten out of control. Dozens dead already here, and it’s happening everywhere. Some people broke into the News station and beat the shit out of the News Caster on live television. They cut the program and haven’t come back. I can’t believe this, am I dreaming? The phones don’t seem to be working properly. Alex said it’s probably the military messing with the systems to try and redirect power to essential infrastructure. It makes sense - I couldn’t call my Mom but I could call the number for the local safety broadcasts. The military is still telling everyone to stay inside and don’t go outside for ANYTHING. It’s weird though, I haven’t seen a single soldier or vehicle in days. But we can hear gunfire coming from downtown. We can’t know what’s going on anymore because the News still hasn’t started broadcasting again, all the television channels are down. I hate to say it, but I’m starting to get scared. Alex thought he saw someone outside our window earlier, like a silhouette. He swears by it. I didn’t hear anything or anyone, so I’m not sure what he’s talking about. I haven’t seen or heard anyone besides him for almost a week now. We barricaded the windows by ripping apart the firewood pallets just in case. Alex is usually right, so I’m going to trust him. We left just enough space so we can see out of it, but it’ll be damn hard to get in, that’s for sure. Alex is freaked the fuck out. I don’t know what he thinks he saw but it scared the piss out of him whatever it was. Some fucking lunatic broke into the house today. He was on bath salts or something, I don’t know. He didn’t even have a weapon, just busted the fucking door down and ran in screaming and started grabbing me. Alex had to shoot him. We called the police to report but the phone line was busy, and I thought I heard someone talking on the other end, but no one answered. Couldn’t drive over there to report it either. Nobody came over or said anything, they had to have heard the shot, the fuck is going on? I don’t think Alex is okay... I tried thanking him but he seems like he’s in shock. We don’t know what to do with the body. I’ll put it in the basement and try the cops again later. Phone lines won’t call anywhere, they’re all down. We heard voices coming through. At first I thought I was hearing things, but Alex heard them too. They spoke to us. Not sure what they were saying, but I know they were speaking to us. I felt it. Can’t really describe it. Not touching the phone again. We gotta try the radio. Police have to have the radios still up. That body is starting to smell. Power went out today. Thankfully we have a backup generator, but it doesn’t cover the whole house - have to conserve the power. Just the living room and the kitchen, Alex and I will sleep on the floor and the couch. I gave Alex the couch. Dudes been through enough. No way he’s sleeping on the floor after what he did for me. Everything is down. Radio won’t connect, tele broadcasts have stopped, phones won’t work. It’s just static. Went into the basement to bury the body. Couldn’t stand the smell anymore. It’s fucking GONE. I’m freaking out man. Where the fuck did it go? Did Alex move it? Maybe outside? Maybe he couldn’t stand the smell anymore... I’m afraid to ask him. I don’t want to bring it up, he still hasn’t gotten over it. He’ll barely speak to me, he’s always staring at the walls and listening to the radio, trying to get a signal out. He hasn’t been the same. Shadows. Shadows in the black. Doesn’t make sense but they’re there. Our flashlights can see them, you shine at the wall and the light can’t go through something. Something’s there. I can see them. Can they see me? Alex lost it. He’s just been staring at the radio, listening to static. He won’t move or respond. When I talk to him he just looks at me, but he doesn’t speak. I’m not even sure it’s him. He’s talking to the radio when he thinks I’m out of the room. I think I can hear someone speaking back. I Have to get out of here, but where? I can hear them. Everywhere, always. They’re in the noise. Can’t use the radio, that’s what they use. Same with the phones. They’re in it. They’re inside. The rain. The rain is hiding them. Out the window, I saw shapes where the water wasn’t hitting the ground. They weren’t human. They weren’t me - I’m me, they can’t be me. Alex locked himself in his room. Won’t let me in, won’t come out. He took the radio with him, all I can hear is static coming from under his door. I’m leaving tomorrow. Gotta tell him, get him to come with me. Something took Alex. All I heard was screaming, static, silence. Busted the door down. Blood everywhere, black everywhere, no sign of Alex. The radio is still on but there’s no power to it. I can hear them. They can hear me. They know I’m here, they want me here. They want all of us here, all of us in the darkness. Not me. Getting out of here. I can’t listen to them anymore. Won’t become like the others. Alex, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t save you like you did me.

I walked out the back door of the diner I was working at. I take out the earplugs that I wear for my hearing sensitivity. I sluggishly walked to my car as I checked my notifications and my favorite apps. I zone out in this short walk, and I'm not paying attention to anything around me. After I get to my car and come to reality, I look up and see this huge wolf-like creature is snarling at me. I'm horrified; too scared to move. This thing raises its arm. The massive claw comes down at me and I couldn't move fast enough. The claw slashes my torso deeply. Blood flies towards my car along with its claw digging into my door. I fall back to the ground, barely able to keep my head up. I try and mostly fail to scramble backwards. From above a similar monster flies at my attacker and they begin to fight. My mind phases in and out, but when I come back to my senses, the woman is kneeling above and I feel her hands on my torso. I don't hear any fighting. She speaks to me, "You're going to be ok. Can you hear me?" I don't seem to be able to respond, as much as I want to. My body starts to feel weird, and she then yells over her shoulder, "I need the Lycan serum!" A moment later she catches a syringe and removes the safety cover. She stabs me with it in my chest. My mind fades away. I wake up feeling incredibly groggy. I take a moment laying there gathering my senses; remembering what happened after I got off work. I start to look around and find myself in a cage, laying on a cot. The room that my cage was in was very plain, save some boxes. I remembered the attack and quickly check my chest. My clothes are what I was wearing, though they were incredibly torn. Looking at my mostly healed chest and stomach, I become confused and amazed at the same time. *Was all that real? That giant monster? My wounds. Why am I in this cage?* I hear footsteps come downstairs and from around some boxes appears an androgynous person in a casual suit. They carry a small object and folder in their hands. They look at me, "How are you feeling James?" "Wait, how do you know my name? Where am I? Who are you?" "My name is Dr Riley Schuster. I am the leader of this Lycan pack and this house." "Lycan? As in werewolf?" "Yes, now please listen. You are a Lycan and fall under my jurisdiction to keep under control. You must undergo your first transformation or risk going on a rampage." "What? I feel fine now. I'm a werewolf?" "Please don't interrupt. You have the choice to undergo the ritual and then you will be set free or we can kill you." "How do I know this is real?" They look annoyed and begins to strip naked. I cover my eyes and plead with them to stop stripping. When I hear grunting and a sound similar to what TV has portrayed as bones breaking I look at Riley again. They were in mid-transformation and I was shocked. When they reached what seems to be fully formed, they growled, then reverted to human form. Riley began to dress again, leaving me speechless. They leave after saying, "I'll leave you for an hour to think this over." I thought about it carefully and concluded that living is better than dying. I could at least ask questions and learn more about this later. I waited for Riley to return. I hear the stairs again and they return from behind the boxes. I tell them I consent to the transformation, they nod. As they reach into the cage to touch me with a small object they say, "this may hurt." The item glows and I start to feel pain throughout my entire body. My body twists and turns on its own. My mind rushes with images of blood and gore and the urge to kill. For a moment the pain subsides and I feel physically powerful like I could fight anyone. The pain returns full force with each feeling happening again, but in reverse. It doesn't take long before I feel fine again. I look at my clothes and are torn completely. The glow of the object dulls. They open the cage and point to some clothes on a box, "Welcome to the world of myth.

By the time I stepped outside of my house, the leaves were on fire. Literally. It was so, super hot. The whole reason I even had to step outside was to get a break from that stupid party of my sister’s. She got into Oxford. So what? It doesn’t mean that you should get a whole party! (Alright fine, maybe she does deserve it, but still!) Mark my words, I’m going to be even better than her. I’m going to be one of the first astronauts to get into The Skeld, the first spaceship to Mars. Humanity has been so careless of their surroundings. I remembered something my history teacher had taught me in class, about the ice caps. They melted thirty years ago, which made Earth so hot. I blame it all on my dad and grandfather. It’s their generations’ fault that this even happened! I ran into Candlewood Forest, thinking it would help me cool down. Weak twigs snapped with each step of mine, and the wind whistled in my ears. I reached a spot in the woods looking up to the night sky. I could see the moon playing hide-and-seek, hiding within the cottony clouds. A shooting star shot through the night, casting a long, fiery tail behind it as it entered the atmosphere. Wait for what. Shooting stars didn’t enter the atmosphere. This meant that thing was something else. It came closer and closer towards me, before crashing into a place a few hundred meters ahead of me. The first sounds I heard after that was the sound of trees creaking and breaking down. Then the extraterrestrial object crashed and bounced towards me. I heaved myself out of the way at the last second. The object stopped a few seconds later, leaving a flaming mess behind it. It looked like a futuristic shoe, with a black background and purple highlights. It was giving off smoke at the rear, where I thought the engines would be. My brain told me to go closer and explore it, while my instincts told me to hide. I chose my instincts. I ran, keeping about fifty feet between me and the ship, before hiding behind a tree. A hatch started to open at the top of the rocket. Out climbed a scary looking ... thing. An alien It had horns running from the forehead, curving and twisting until reaching an end at the top. Its mouth was bared, showing fangs as long as my hand. It ran on four legs like a monkey, mainly using its hind ones for pushing and front ones for support. Four more aliens trailed after it, one looking even more menacing than the first. They gathered around the hatch and “communicated” by which I mean they growled at each other for about five minutes. Suddenly, a figure stumbled through the woods and straight into the clearing the aliens were in. It was a man, from what the silhouette looked like. He took one glance at the creatures and shrieked. He turned around and ran through the forest, occasionally tripping over the roots of trees. One of the aliens tore through the woods, in search of the man who had intruded the scene. It came back nearly two minutes later, clutching the corpse of the man. He presented it to its friends and threw it on the ground. The biggest alien, the Alpha, as I call it, crawled towards it. It studied the body closely, and abruptly tore off the head. I’m glad it was night time, it would’ve been horrible to witness all this. The alien stared into those lifeless eyes and promptly gulped it down. A strange change happened inside the Alpha’s body. It seemed as if it was vibrating. A ripping sound came, and the alien split into two halves. Out came the body of the dead man. Or was it the dead man? The corpse was still lying upon the ground. The “man” must be something else. Maybe it was the alien itself! They’re shapeshifters! I stepped back, and in doing so, the aliens’ heads shot towards my direction. But before they could do anything, a loud “BEEP!” sounded, and the creatures ran pell-mell into the woods. Perhaps it just came from a car nearby. I waited for five whole minutes to make sure they were gone. Then I ran. Ran for my life, my future, and my dreams. 5 years later Finally. I’m aboard the Skeld. The spaceship of your dreams. Not really though, because ever since the alien threat, every mission has been dangerous. They could morph into humans and act as Skeld crewmates. That’s why the trips are so dangerous. No one knows who’s an impostor or a crewmate. Anyone can kill you. As Mad-Eye Moody says, we need, “CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” As for the ventilation system, it’s useless. Scientists have figured out that the alien, or Covens as we now call them, give off toxic chemicals from their body. Since there have been eyewitness accounts, we know the Covens have been in the vents. So it’s a no-go. Of course, other Covens can enter the vents, since the chemical isn’t lethal to them. I put on my helmet and walked into the docking ship. It would take us to the Skeld, which was too big to be launched from the ground. As I waited, others began to enter the ship. I don’t know their names, just their colors. I’m Cyan, by the way. In came Red, Black, White, Yellow, Pink, and Green. I didn’t talk to any of them, because I didn’t know who I could trust. We each had a task upon the Skeld, and we could only start the journey to Mars after each of us has completed it. Why? Because every time the Skeld comes back, it needs servicing. The hatch closed behind us and off we went. It took us ten minutes to reach, and once we were there, everyone left without a word. I checked my tablet to see what my tasks were. Okay, I have to go to Electrical and fix up the wiring. No big deal. Just the threat of death lurking over your life every time you see someone. I went there and saw Red and White doing their “tasks.” I stayed far from both of them, doing my job silently, It was simple, just attaching color-coded wires. Soon after, I decided to go to Admin to check the cameras. Unfortunately, they only show black and white, so I can’t differentiate between colors. I checked each and every one. No suspicious behavior. I turned them off and left the room, checking my tablet for my next task: Divert Power to O2. Sounds easy enough. But it is also dangerous. I decided to take a shortcut through the cafeteria, doing my other task which was to empty the garbage. Suddenly, as I was walking towards it, the cafeteria doors shut with a bang. I was startled out of my wits and looked around quickly and cautiously to see if there was anyone else with me. There was. Yellow. Standing right in front of me, banging on the door, was Yellow. He looked at me and backed away, his body shaking in fear. I didn’t go near him, just in case, he thought I was a Coven/Impostor. I just quietly waited for the doors to open. During the elapsed time I finished taking out the garbage AKA throwing it away into space. Once the gates finally opened, I was back on my way to Electrical. Once I reached, I saw Red coming out and going towards the right engine. He hadn’t seen me. Only that prepared me for the sight I was about to see inside. It was Yellow’s body, cut cleanly in half, only leaving a single bone in the middle. Blood oozed out in all directions. I gaped at her body for a long moment, before pulling out my tablet and hitting “Report Body.” A chat box popped into view. It was meant to discuss who the Coven was. There was also a voting window beneath it. I saw that particular window and skimmed it. None were dead but Yellow, who had a large, red “X” on top of her. I went back to the discussion: Red: Where? Me: In electrical. I saw you coming out of it. Red: I swear I did not do it! White: I was in the cafeteria. Green was there with me. Green: I was. Me: VOTE RED EVERYONE! HE KILLED YELLOW! Cyan has voted White has voted Red: I didn’t do it! Green has voted Pink has voted Black has voted I glanced back into the voting window. Yup. Red’s had the most votes. That means he gets ejected. The Skeld has special trap doors that open to space. They can detect the color that was voted out, and eject them. Well, hopefully, Red was an Impostor. And hopefully, we’ll all just be safe. I spent the rest of my time finishing off my tasks, and when I had nothing to do, I just checked the security cameras every now and then. I was walking around near O2, checking for any more suspicious activity when I saw White following me closely. I took one glance at her and ran for my life. Everything went past me in a blur, and I soon found myself face to face with a door. The door that led to the cafeteria. I turned my head around to see White standing in front of me. She walked closer, and I was leaning and pounding on the door. Suddenly, it opened, and I fell flat on my face, maybe even breaking my nose. I got up and sprinted over to the middle table. It had a red button on it, and I clicked it. That called for an emergency meeting. Green: What happened? Me: White was acting suspiciously. Kept on following me. White: I was just following you to see if you were acting sus! Me: It looked pretty shady to me though. I think she was ghosting me to kill me. She could be a Coven. Green: Yeah, you’re right. White: I am not a Coven! I think you’re an impostor Cyan. Me: She’s turning the tables on me! More proof! Vote White! Cyan has voted White has voted Black has voted Green has voted Pink has voted I looked at the voting window to see the results. White had four votes. I had one. White had voted for me, probably trying to frame me. So now White, Red, and Yellow are gone. There’s a big chance one of them was a Coven. Hopefully. I was scouting the remaining people, searching for suspicious activity, when the reactor had a meltdown. Everyone rushed to it to fix it, but one arrived late. Green. I regarded this as suspicious behavior and proceeded to stalk him. I followed him everywhere, into Admin, into Navigations, and even O2. He was trying hard to shake me off his tail, but I managed to stay on him. But when we entered Admin, he suddenly turned on his heel and ran off at top speed. I decided that publicly following Green was unwise, and I searched for him again. In about five to ten minutes, I found him back into Admin. I peered around the door and saw him standing on top of the vent. He looked around and pulled out the screws. He lifted the hatch and slid inside. He’s the Impostor among us! This fact made me happy, and sad at the same time. Happy, because I could finally save the survivors. Sad, because of the two innocent lives that were taken away by me. I gathered my wits and ran silently to the cafeteria. I pressed the red button once more. Before looking at the discussion page, I scanned the one which listed all the people on board. The system is connected with a special badge that is on everyone’s spacesuit. It read their vital signs and told the computer who’s dead and who’s not. Pink was dead. The only other crewmate left was Black. I quickly went back to the discussion. Black: Pink’s dead. Green: Yeah Me: You should know Green, after all, you killed him. Black: Really? Green: No! I think you or Black did it, Cyan. Me: I saw Green run into Admin and vent. I was following him and I saw him slither into it. Black: I’m not sure who to trust ... Green: Trust me. Cyan is framing me. Look how many innocent crewmates he voted off. He must be the Coven. Me: Black, ignore Green. Listen, this can be one of the most important moments of your whole life. If we let Green get into the Mars colony, a whole bunch of people will die. Trust me, please. Black: Green’s got a point Cyan, you did vote off a bunch of people. Me: I made mistakes. I was paranoid. People make mistakes all the time. But do you want those people to die in vain? Pink, Red, and White? Black: No ... Me: Then vote Green. Please trust me, just this once. Black: Okay. But if Green’s innocent, you’ll have me to answer to. Cyan has voted Green: Look, Black. You gotta trust me, ‘kay? I did not kill those people. Cyan did. Black: I trust Cyan. Die, you filthy Coven! Black has voted Green has voted Green was ejected Finally. The impostor was gone. All was well.

Any feedback is welcome and appreciated. Live Wire The noise was unbearable. The sounds of massive cogs clanking as they moved together as one was deafening but you could still hear the engine struggling, straining, and screaming as it used all it’s might to get this machine to move. The heat was exhausting, the engine was producing copious amounts of steam, which was a good sign but for ten people stood in essentially a metal chamber it made the heat almost intolerable. That metal chamber was the command room and inside the whole team of researchers were stood waiting, watching and some were praying. “Oh god please let this work” shouted one of the research assistants. I barely heard her shout it and I was standing right next to her. I looked at her and noticed that the heat had started to make her makeup run. I looked around and realized that the heat was affecting us all. Everyone was sweating profusely and people’s glasses had started to steam up. Someone else shouted something, I thought it may have been some other research assistant saying the same but I have no idea. Everyone in the command room was anxious but excited, they needed their machine to move. They had been told they only had one more chance before the entire project was scrapped. Everyone knew that scrapping the project would be a mistake but they also knew that the funding required was slowly draining away all of the available resources. A lot of us had come from nothing to become a part of something bigger than all of us, something we could say we made and that we were proud of. The sacrifices that had been made for us to get this far was too much for the project to get scrapped but that didn’t matter to the people above us. They only cared about results and how much it cost them. They weren’t the ones that watched their colleagues, their friends get dragged away because they were being a so called “detriment” to the project. I lost some good friends along the way, but when this works it’ll all be worth it. At least, that’s what I tell myself to get through it. If I stop to think about it, I’ll become a “detriment” and I haven’t worked here all my life just to get thrown out in our moment of greatness. This is everything I’ve worked for, everything we’ve worked for. I’m not about to let some armed thug ruin that for me. I had worked on the circuitry of the behemoth; I was responsible for making sure that when it turned on it could do anything it wanted or needed to. At that moment everything changed. We heard a noise that we hadn’t heard before. The first creak. The first sign of life. We did it, we had done it, we had created a behemoth of an Automaton and it was showing signs of life. We watched on in glee and watched as it used its massive hulking arms to hold itself steady while it took its first step with its colossal foot. It looked around almost as if it was trying to figure out where it was. And then it saw us. We were all still in awe that we had done it but as we watched on, it started to crouch down. The colossal body creaked as it moved closer to the ground and closer to us. The ground beneath us shook as its knee hit the ground. It was there now, just staring at us. It had no mouth so it couldn’t speak to us, but the light we had used for its eyes just burned a bright blue and it was mesmerizing. Everyone was just staring at it, it was amazing, it was the most gorgeous thing I had ever seen. It was my life’s work, our life’s work. And like that it was taken away from us. The door was kicked in so hard it nearly came off its hinges. Armed with rifles 5 guards aimed at us all but we just continued to stare straight into the light. Then the head of R&D walked in. He started to talk but I didn’t pay attention to him. I was to busy staring at the colossal automaton’s eyes. I probably should have listened to him because he said “ This is now my project now, all of your work belongs to me. Open fire, I want none of them left alive but save the research make sure its all transported to my office.” And that was the end of my life, as I lay there on the floor, staring up at the massive blue light looking in at the murder and chaos that had just ensued. I was bleeding out, my vision was growing darker and darker, until it finally went black.

“Going to be another hot one folks. Temperatures over one hundred degrees again today. No showers predicted for the next ten days. Prepare for extreme heat and rolling power outages. Take extra precautions if your area is under a red flag warning. Be mindful of the...” Kyle flicked off the radio. Great, another sweltering day. In the West, forest fires blazed leaving the air tainted with smoke for hundreds of miles. What had been three separate fires along the front range of Colorado recently merged into one gigantic mass of heat. The occasional fire-nado would whizz up and sound like a furnace running sideways. Most people in the area evacuated as per the official evacuation order. A couple die-hards held out to fight the fire on their own. Defending their property from an elemental force. They were going to fight fire. Maybe they were wizards. Kyle imagined them conjuring up spells and dousing flames with their wands. In a world of infinite possibilities....his thoughts trailed off. He was almost to his destination. He had mapped out a trail to get the best perspective of the massive fire. He just needed to turn off on an unmarked road, follow that due North up to the crest and make a sharp left. Easy-peasy. Smoke billowed above the mountains. The scene looked like one from an apocalyptic volcano movie. The air was thick and warm. A thin layer of ash and soot coated the landscape. It was difficult to see even a few yards ahead. He clumsily stumbled forward. Her silhouette slid into his line of sight. He stopped breathing momentarily. Magic reentered his thoughts. She cast a spell on him and he lost all of his natural ability to simply Inhale and exhale. Witchcraft, he thought and he passed out. Katrina grew up here. She knew these mountains better than most. Better than most, yes. Better than her father, no. She lost her dad a few years back and had managed the homestead and acreage quite well since. Katrina had a special connection to this place. Her father had always told her, this land was an extension of them and must be preserved and protected. It was their duty and honor. As the last of her line, it was a duty she took great pride in. Her connection to this land was deep. It was her birthright; a generational blessing. It was the last bit of their homeland and she intended to protect and preserve it. They had lived through fire and flood and made preparations and plans for each. Katrina knew what to do and when. She had courage from her sense of honor. Her confidence borne of her training- not to mention her sixth sense. Her guides spoke to her. Katrina was a force. She loved each of the trees and knew every rock. They were her comrades, her friends, her relatives. The rocks; the elders, her advisors. The river; her way between worlds. She was part of this place and this place was absolutely part of her. They existed in a symbiotic entanglement of harmony and understanding. She had asked for someone to share it all with so many times. Katrina was reveling in this very thought when she saw the stranger approaching. He hadn’t noticed her yet and she was still getting a read on him. He didn’t seem threatening and was actually kind of cute. He stumbled forward. She decided to catch his attention. She did more than that. She took his breath away . Quite literally. She stepped into sight and he fell directly to the ground. Thud. Katrina wasn’t expecting company. She certainly wasn’t expecting such a gorgeous man to damn near fall in her lap. She looked up to the expanse with questioning wonder. She rushed over to Kyle. He coughed and snorted as he came to. “Hi there. You ok?”, Katrina offered him water. Kyle sat up slowly and attempted to get his bearings. He took a sip of the cool water and coughed some more. The last thing he remembered was driving toward the fire to get some pics. He was a photo journalist. He covered climate change and natural disasters; usually with no problems. Apparently the turns he had taken planted him smack dab on Kat’s place. The road had ended with a decent view of the flames. He snapped some really good pics when suddenly the wind shifted and smoke obscured his way. Kyle couldn’t see his truck. Somehow he managed to find a trail and followed it out of the smoke. However, the smoke and altitude gain seemed to have gotten the better of him and he passed out right there in Kat’s driveway. Lucky for Kyle, Katrina kept supplies for such emergencies, in fact she was ready for most emergencies. She located the oxygen bottles and ordered Kyle to take a slow deep breath and inhale the good good. Nothing quite like pure oxygen in the lungs. He had no objections. This wasn’t his first rodeo so to speak, but never had he been caught so off guard. He was a safe distance from the flames. What he hadn’t considered was the effect of the smoke. The wind combined with the terrain created pockets of smoke and heat that churned and boiled. The wind shifted and created an obstacle Kyle hadn’t prepared for. He was lucky to have found his way out. He was even luckier to have found his way out to her. She was an absolute vision. Katrina was as up here mostly alone on the side of her mountain. Wildfires approaching and her attitude was that of utter serenity, everything will be fine. She knew what to do and when. Not her first rodeo either; and the universe had delivered her a cowboy. Things were certainly looking up. Who was this beautiful enchantress? How did he possibly find her? This year his job had sent him across the country on various assignments. Blizzard in New York. Hurricanes in Florida. Flooding in Minnesota. Wildfires in the West. The storms and disasters were more intense and lasting longer. He never had a chance to meet anyone. Well at least not anyone available for a date. The ones he did meet were usually in various stages of distress. Not Katrina. She was, um she was unique. And this was why he was a photo journalist. Words escaped him, but a picture, need he say more? Katrina was a vision. His vision in fact. He had seen her before. He dreamed her. At first he thought maybe it was jet lag or wishful thinking. The more he studied her face, the more real he knew she had been in his dream. The more real he now understood she was, and holy shit IS! Is now, currently present tense right beside him. Kyle took another sip of water. He managed a “Thank you, ma’am.” No chance he could hide his smile. Katrina smiled back. She knew just what to do.

“Are you sure,doctor?” “Yes... your son has ADHD,” A woman sat in a white room with her son sitting beside her and the doctor in front of her behind his desk, telling her what can be done to help her son's disability. “Doctor, is there any alternative to the medication? I just don’t think we can afford it,” the mother said in her worried voice, which was becoming her normal voice. “There are different methods of treating ADHD like physical activities, I’ll have Regina at the front desk print out a list of methods,” the doctor said sympathetically. “Thank you, doctor” the mother stood up, grabbed her son’s hand and walked out of the office. Calvin was an eight year old boy who was going into the third grade. He used to love school, but after kindergarten, people found out he had autism and was a natural born. The kids who remained his friends were told by their parents not to be around Calvin. Soon, Calvin was alone. Calvin climbed into his mother’s old car, that’s practically falling apart. It wasn’t actually his mothers, it was his grandfathers, his mother had to sell her car to be able to get groceries. Calvin had pale skin, like his skin had never been introduced to sunlight before. He was skinny, boney, he almost seemed malnourished. He was very tall for his age, taller than everyone else in his grade. His mother looked very similar to him, pale, skinny, tall, she had lines on her face and a few grey hairs which is shocking for her age. They got home, Calvin and his mother lived with his grandfather in his house that was older than Calvin himself. The house was small and seemed to lack furniture, it was clean but old stains made it look in a permanent state of filth which prevented Calvin’s mother from ever wanting guests. Calvin’s grandpa was watching the news. “Today, a law was passed in 37 states that allows parents to sterilize their children when they reach sexual maturity in order to prevent teen pregnancies,” said the news anchor in her loud, yet calm voice. “Christ, I remember when having a child was one of the most important moments in anyone’s life, watching your child being born, being the first to hold them, now these test tube babies want to prevent everyone from having their own children,” said Calvin’s grandpa is his raspy voice. “It’s still their own child if it’s a synthetic child dad,” Calvin’s mother replied. “Nah, it can’t be the same, a test tube can’t replace the feeling of seeing yer baby being born, ya can’t have the same connection with something from a test tube,” Calvin’s grandpa was flustered, he usually got this way when talking about this topic. “There’s no way I’d be this close with ya if ya were a test tube baby, sweetheart,” he said as he grabbed Calvin’s mother’s hand. Calvin’s mom said nothing, she only looked off into nothingness, as if she could see beyond the walls. She left her father's hand behind as she went into the cabinets to get Calvin some food. Calvin’s mother was interrupted by a knock at the front door. Calvin’s mother stopped what she was doing and walked toward the door. The knock was persistent and loud, it scared Calvin. Calvin’s mother looked through the peephole of the door, her eyes widened in shock, she almost seemed fearful. “Who is it, sweetheart,” Calvin’s grandpa asked, concerned from his chair. “Calvin, go to your room,” Calvin’s mother ordered her son in a shaky voice. Calvin looked at her blankly. “Now, Calvin.” Calvin complied and went through the hallway and into his room. One wouldn’t imagine Calvin’s room to be that of a child’s at first glance. His room was empty except for a small bed and a desk that had a few drawings on it, all of them left unfinished. Calvin could hear the front door being open and someone stepping inside and he could hear the discussion starting through the thin walls. “Jacob?” Calvin heard his mom ask in a shaky voice as if she were about to cry. “Hi, Emily,” Calvin heard a deep voice that he didn’t recognize say in response. “You... You are not welcome here!” Calvin heard his grandpa shout. He had never heard his grandpa shout before. “Dad, please go to your room. I can handle this on my own,” Calvin’s mother told his grandpa. Calvin could hear his grandpa rise from his chair, muttering profanity under his breath. Instead of following his daughter’s command, he instead went to Calvin’s room. He entered to find him sitting at his desk, looking down on his half finished art. “How ya doing, son?” Calvin’s grandpa asked with genuine concern. Calvin just shrugged his shoulders, not looking away from his desk. “Who is that man?” Calvin asked in a whisper so quiet, most would think it was the wind. But not his grandpa, most would describe him as the best damn listener they’ve had the pleasure of talking to, and he was quite proud of that. “That man is Jacob, he’s yer father, son.” Calvin’s mind raced, hopping from one thought to the next, never stopping for even half a second. His face didn’t show this though, it rarely showed emotion at all. Calvin didn’t like his face and how emotionless it was, just another part of him to be made fun of. “I thought he died when I was in ma’s belly.” Calvin responded, somehow even quieter. Yet his grandpa listened still. “Yeah, I’m sorry, both me and yer ma. We didn’t want to lie to ya, it was just easier that way.” He sighed loudly as he sat down onto Calvin’s bed. “He was a lyin’ coward who abandoned ya and yer ma. Left ya guys with nothing to turn to but me and this damn shack.” Calvin’s thoughts kept going and going and going, with no sign of stopping. He felt angry, sad, confused, hurt, all at the same time, and yet his face still remained without expression. Why did he leave? Why did they lie? His grandpa had tried to explain, but Calvin was even more confused. Why is he back? The volume of Calvin’s parents talking in the living room increased ever so slightly. Calvin tried to listen, but he wasn’t as good as his grandpa. Their volume kept increasing. “Things seem to be heatin’ up out there... maybe I ought-” He was interrupted by the sudden explosion of yelling coming from the living room. Calvin jumped, his eyes widened. Calvin’s grandpa shot up, an angry scowl on his face. He stormed swiftly to the door, Calvin had never seen him move so fast. He swung the door open, and looked back at Calvin, a concerned look replaced his exasperated expression. His eyes met Calvin’s, the first time he had ever since he was born. “Ya stay here, ya hear me?” Calvin said nothing, just looked back at his drawings. Calvin’s grandpa closed the door behind him. Calvin could hear his grandpa’s voice join the screaming competition. “Who the hell do ya think yer talking to like that, ya prick!” Calvin’s grandpa’s voice easily overpowered Calvin’s parents, he could hear the yelling so easily, as if he were in the same room. “Dad! I told you to stay out of this!” “I ain’t gonna sit back there and let this test tube baby speak to ya like that!” “Look, I am just trying to help, I know you guys need it!” It was the first time Calvin really focused on his father’s voice. It was unlike any voice he had heard before. It was deep, aggressive, commanding. The way he spoke, it seemed like he demanded attention, and he definitely had Calvin’s. “You know it wasn’t hard to find you guys, I might’ve asked five people at most!” Calvin got up from his desk, abandoning his drawings for another time. He walked in front of his door, staring at the white paint peeling off of it. “I just asked if they knew any people with a natural born son, and they all made the same face!” “Yeah and what face was that?” Calvin’s mother sounded as if she were on the verge of tears. “Their smile disappears, pity fills their eyes. They tell me the same sob story I bet you told them.” “Who exactly did ya ask, huh?” “Dad, stop!” “A gas station clerk, a cashier at a McDonalds. They told me how you begged for a job, how you had to quit your old one because they didn’t offer maternity leave anymore. How your boy is troubled!” “No! You do not get to talk about him like that, I’m the one who raised him!” “Raised him? In this shithole? No! He deserves better!” “You don’t think I know that? He is so special, so talented, his drawings are so amazing and he doesn’t even know it!” “I’ve turned my life around, I’m not the same man from all those years ago. I can get him out of here, both of you out of here, just say yes, please!” “Just more lies! Don’t believe him sweetheart, don’t!” “Why did you come back Jacob, why are you doing this to us?” Calvin’s mother could no longer hold back her tears. “I had to make things right, I know what I did was wrong, but I wasn’t ready, I needed to get my life straight.” Calvin noticed his father’s voice begin to fault, he wasn’t used to yelling this much. “What about her, huh? You think she had her life straight? She did, but ya popped into her life and destroyed everything!” Calvin’s mother just continued to cry. “Look I’m sorry, I was barely out of my parents' place, I was scared!” “You don’t think I was too?” “Well I’m here now! I can help now, just please let me.” “We don’t need yer help-” “Like hell you don’t old man!” “Don’t you dare talk to my dad like that!” “Look, you can’t keep living like this!” “Calvin is more than I will ever need!” “That is such bullshit and you know it!” Calvin could hear disgust in his father’s voice. “That boy has taken everything from you!” “Fuck you!” It was the first time Calvin had ever heard his mother curse. “You could’ve been so much more, built an actual career, that’s what you were actually doing! Then this kid came, don’t blame me for leaving, blame yourself for keeping him!” “Shut yer mouth, of course she kept him, she’s no murderer!” “Yeah, old man? She was definitely considering it. What? You didn’t tell him about our talks about the abortion?” “What’s he talking about, sweetheart?” Calvin’s mother stayed quiet, apart from some sniffling. “Yeah we had it all planned out didn’t we? Neither of us wanted that shit on us so we were just gonna get rid of him, would’ve made both our lives so much easier.” It became quiet. Calvin could hear his own heartbeat. “Tell me it’s not true, sweetheart.” “I love my boy, more than anything in this world.” Her voice was shaky, yet clear. “Keep telling yourself that. You resent that kid, he destroyed you.” Calvin understood. “I love my boy!” The screaming match resumed. Calvin opened the door, none of them noticed over the yelling. Calvin’s mind was clear as he entered his grandpa’s room across the hall. He turned the light on and looked around, the arguing continued right outside. Calvin looked under the bed and found what he was searching for. He picked it up and went back to his room. He sat at his desk, staring at his art, still unfinished. He remembered what his mom had said, “He’s so talented,” a tear rolled down his face, “I love my boy,” he smiled to himself. The yelling was quickly stopped by a sharp, loud bang that came and went in an instant. The room was quiet, more quiet than it has ever been, or ever will be.

I felt a nudge on my back. The voice, which I recognized as my grandma's, stated again in her thick Arkansas drawl, "Get up and go kill that ole blue goat." Rubbing sleep from my eye, I half-sat up, rolling to face my Grandma and raising myself on one elbow. She was dressed in a plain black dress, the same dress she'd been wearing since Grandpa died almost 6 months ago. My parents had sent me to stay with Grandma "on the farm" for the summer, to help her out while they went on a cruise. "The farm" as they called it was really just kind of hodge podge collection of animals my grandpa had put together since he retired from the phone company. He hadn't grown anything really- they didn't even really live in the country, they just had a really big yard and didn't have any neighbors nearby. But that didn't slow them down. They'd started with a couple of chickens Grandpa got from a friend and built from there- a couple of peacocks, a few rabbits that kept becoming a lot of rabbits, a miniature horse, a smattering of other animals that often didn't live very long, and finally, the goat. The goat never had a name. They just called him "the old blue goat". He wasn't blue of course, that'd be ridiculous. He was, however, a sort of deep gray with some darker spots. He sported a wispy beard that, combined with the subtle glint in his eyes, gave him an unsettling look of almost human intelligence. Over the years, the goat had become known for its bad attitude and general distaste for everybody and everything. All this ran through my mind as I struggled to grasp exactly why it was that Grandma wanted me to kill this animal. "Um....why?" I muttered, still half-asleep. My eyes still half-closed could make out the gun tucked under my grandma's arm, an old single barrel pump-action shotgun with my grandpa's name engraved in the stock. I knew the gun well, I'd seen grandpa use it snakes and raccoons many times as a child. Grandma didn't say anything, just shoved the shotgun into my hands and grunted. "It's loaded" she growled as she turned on her heel and left the room, her battered old house shoes flopping as she walked. **** Shading my eyes from the early morning sun, I found the goat standing by the barn, hovering near the feed trough, apparently waiting for me to feed the animals. It eyed me blankly, the gun weighing heavy on my shoulder. It was hot already that morning, and I could feel sweat beginning to bead up on my head as I approached. It continued to stare, absently chewing at something as I readied my gun. "Come on Goat. Don't look at me like that" I grumbled. The goat almost seemed to shrug in response, its eyes never leaving mine. I tried not to think about it, raising the butt of the gun to my shoulder. The sweat was pouring down my face now. I tried to block out the poor dumb goat, staring at me, with no idea what was going to happen to it. I shut my eyes tight, as I slowly squeezed the trigger. A metallic clink sounded as the hammer on the gun came down. There wasn't a shell in the chamber. I'd forgotten to pump it. My eyes flung open. The goat still stood there, stupid as ever, still absently chewing whatever was in its mouth. I dropped the gun. "Grandma can kill you her damn self" I muttered, turning on my heel and stalking back to the house. **** A few hours later, I was plopped on the couch in Grandma's living room, drinking lemonade and watching her ancient console TV. She didn't have cable, but I always enjoyed "The Price is Right". A fat woman from Wisconsin had just guessed $50 when asked the retail price of a can of coffee when my Grandma walked into the room with a shovel. "Need to go bury that goat" she growled. Grandma was a smoker, had been since she was 8 years old she claimed, and her voice showed it. "Put him in the wheelbarrow and carry him out in the field" she instructed. She thrust the shovel into my hand and turned to go when I stopped her. "Uh... Grandma...." She stopped in her tracks, but didn't turn. "What?" "I uh... when I tried to kill the goat, it uh... the gun didn't go off, and the goat ran away." Her head turned sharply, In her gnarled old profile I saw a look I'd never seen on my grandma, The corner of her mouth drooped. Her eyes were wide. Her nostrils flared. It was... fear. "The goat... lives?" "Yea... um... " I rubbed the back of my head. "I don't know. It just ran away. It probably won't come back. I mean, it looked really scared..." Grandma crossed the room in three preternaturally quick strides and lifted me from the couch by my shirt collar. "Did it see you?" she asked, her face contorted in a savage snarl. "Uh, I, Uh..." I stammered, trying to find my feet and keep my balance. "THE GUN!" she yelled, shaking me. "Did it see the gun?" "Yes!" I shouted, struggling to maintain balance. "Yes! It just stared at me and looked all stupid and harmless and I was scared and I didn't want to kill it and-" Grandma released me, and I crashed back to the couch, landing on my back. "Fool!" she shouted, going to the gun cabinet. "Grandma I'm sorry, I just..." I watched as she flung open the cabinet door. Remembering the abandoned shotgun, my heart sank. Now she was *really* gonna be mad. "Um, Grandma, I uh..." I edged for the door. "I think I left it on the porch, I'll-" "DON’T OPEN THAT DOOR!" Grandma whirled around, stretching one bony hand toward me. "No no, it's uh... I think I leaned it up against... uh... " startled, I reached behind me to place a hand on the door handle, but just as I turned to leave, I was startled to see, standing on the porch, staring back in at me, was the goat. And Grandma saw it too. "GET AWAY FROM THE DOOR!" she bellowed, dashing across the room. I was too surprised to move when she grabbed me by the shoulder and yanked me away from it, slamming the curtain closed and turning the deadbolt. She threw her back against the door, bracing herself. Dumbfounded, I stood, staring at her. "WHERE IS THE GUN?" she demanded, gritting her dentures together. "I uh... left it outside when I ... " "YOU LEFT IT OUTSIDE? JUMPIN’ JESUS SON ARE YOU TRYIN’ TO GET US KILLED??" I didn't know what to say. I stood, flat footed, as my grandma hurried around the room, shutting windows and peeping out of blinds. She grabbed an iron fireplace poker and held it in both hands, her eyes darting this way and that. "Grandma, I'm sorry, I'll go get the gun. I'm sure it's still there." I started toward the door when she cut me off, wielding the poker like a club. "Boy, think" she snarled. "Did the goat see that gun? Did he know you came to kill him?" I shrugged. "Grandma, he's a goat. I don't think it had any idea what was going on." She slapped me across the face. "Idiot! Don't you know why I asked you to kill that damn goat? Don't you know what happened to your Grandpa?" My eyes widened. "M-mom said he had an accident..." Grandma smirked. "Oh it was an accident alright. That goat accidentally gutted him like a damn fish with its horns." My stomach knotted up. My Grandma glared at me. "And when a goat starts killin... it can't stop" Just then, the world exploded. The sounds of breaking glass filled my ears as a dark gray shape lunged through the living room window, showering us with bits of broken glass. I reflexively threw my arms up and covered my face, but still felt the sting of bits of glass lodging in my my exposed skin. "GET UPSTAIRS!" my grandma screamed as she turned to face the goat, who had climbed onto the couch, a menacing look in its eyes. Grandma whirled around and swung the fireplace poker at it, but the goat dodged deftly and leaped at her, issuing a threatening bleat as it did. I turned and ran for the stairs, taking them 3 at a time. Thinking quick, I pulled on the cord that released the ladder that gave access to the attic and scrambled up as quick as I could, pulling the ladder up behind me when I did. Once in the attic, I slammed the hatch shut behind me and tried hard to catch my breath. After long moments, I was calm enough to listen. All was quiet. I strained to listen, holding my ear to the trap door, hoping for any sign that grandma had prevailed. Finally, after what felt like a long time, I heard footsteps slowly mount the staircase. They came closer, trudging up the steps. Whispering a silent prayer, I risked cracking open the hatch. Peeking through, I cast about, hoping for some sign that Grandma had won. Then, suddenly, a gray head came into view. But not Grandma's. I tried to stifle a sharp intake of breath, but leaned too hard on the hatch, causing it to squeak. The goat's head turned sharply, immediately locking eyes with me through the crack. Too horrified to move, I stared back until it let out a plaintive "Naaahhhhhh". I slammed the hatch shut and backed away. The goat leaped up, slamming the hatch with its horns over and over again. Desperate, I began throwing boxes over the hatch till the goat could no longer move it. I heard its hooves clomping around on the floor for a couple of minutes, then they faded away, going back down the stairs. I breathed a sigh of relief as it left. The summer heat in the attic was sweltering, and after a few minutes I was drenched in sweat. I began to wonder how long I could hold out, when there was a sudden scraping noise. I started and looked around. Had I imagined it? Soon, I heard it again- A steady scraping, scratching sound. I cupped a hand around my ear to listen, trying to figure out where it was coming from, when suddenly little bits of dust began to filter down in front of me. It was coming from the roof. I barely had time to think when the hole burst open in the roof, the horrible leering face of the goat glaring down at me in a mad fury. It let loose a furious "Nyahhhhh" as it scrambled to widen the hole with its front hooves. Mad with terror, I flung the boxes away from the exit hatch, and I had just barely finished and dove out of the attic when the goat crashed through the hole in the ceiling and lowered its head to charge me. I hit the floor below with a jarring thud and heard a sickening crack in my ankle. I drug myself to my feet, knowing I was hurt too badly to run. I made my way to the stairs, thinking I could get myself to my grandma's car, but the goat was following close behind. I heard it crash down from the attic, bellowing a challenge as I limped my way down the steps. I glanced over my shoulder when I was halfway down and saw the goat rounding the corner, slowly, craning its neck at an almost unnatural angle to find me. A demonic furor burned in its eyes as it began to follow me. I turned back around, moving as fast as I could down the stairs, barely keeping myself up right. As I came into view of the now destroyed den, it was obvious the goat had destroyed the place. Blood was everywhere, and I knew my grandma must be dead. The sound of the goat's hooves slowly negotiating the stairs followed me, almost like it was too confident in the kill to hurry. I finally reached the bottom of the stairs and made for the front door, half hopping and half walking on my broken ankle. The goat continued calmly behind me, the steady clomp clomp of its hooves descending the stairs. I flung open the door and tried to get out and slam it shut behind me, but at the last second I lost my grip on the door handle and crashed to the ground, landing flat on my stomach. A satisfied bleat behind me told me the goat was about to close in for the kill. I knew this was the end, when out of nowhere, right in front of me was a battered old pair of house shoes. I looked up at my grandma, bloody and bruised, but clutching the shotgun in her gnarled old hands. "Goat, you're like a damn hemmorhoid- a pain in my ass that keeps comin' back" she said as she pumped the gun. I rolled to my side to see the goat rear back on its hind legs in fear, but it was too late. A resounding boom rang out, and the goat's blood spattered everybody and everything. My grandma spit blood and a couple of teeth at her feet, threw the gun over her shoulder and walked into the house, leaving me and the dead goat lying in the doorway. "Almost as bad as that God damn rooster a few years ago" she muttered as she slipped into the kitchen.

I could hear the terrible ruckus from my linen closet. Pots and pans clattering about. My good dinner plates shattering on the floor. I cursed under my breath as I doubled my efforts to find those blasted extra-large towels. Both to dry my soaked person and to try and contain... Whatever that *thing* was. I rushed back into the chaos of my kitchen. The *beast* was in the same place where he had burst out of; except instead of in a pot, he was now curled up directly on top of the largest burner of my stove. His unintentional black incubator upside down, spilling its soup of broken eggshell and water all over the tile. Large shards of what was left of this creature's egg gleamed an iridescent greeting to me under the fluorescent lights as I returned. The remnants of what was supposed to be the rest of my dinner and the utensils I was using to make it scattered about on the counter. *Ostrich egg my ass,* I thought as I turned my attention to the scaly animal that had turned my relaxing night on its head. During the chaos that ensued in my absence from the kitchen, he must have accidentally flicked the burner controls to full, because my stovetop was now spewing flames. The... lizard? I suppose lizard would be most appropriate. The lizard sat unbothered amid the small inferno in my kitchen. Fire licking at his skin. It seemed almost as if he was drawing some sort of strength from the blaze. His pale scales drinking from the blue flames, turning iridescent for a bit just like the inside of his egg, before settling into a deep red. He must have sensed me staring because he lifted his head to stare back with piercing orange eyes. The gaze snapped me out of whatever trance watching his scales had put me in. Was this animal dangerous? Probably. But could I afford a huge gas bill this month? No, that was out of the question. "Up! Up, up, up!!! Get off of there you mongrel!" I shouted as I approached the stove, minding my broken plates, and banging a toe on one of the many pots on the floor. Using the towels I brought I, I grabbed the stove knobs one by one and shut off the fire. This did not please my unwanted guest at all, and he began to unfurl itself as he hissed in protest. Curled up he was maybe a meter across, but in his annoyance, I became frightfully aware of how large this creature was. Its body may have been only a meter, but the long powerful looking tail attached to him spilled onto the floor and easily doubled his size. As he rose, he stretched out a pair of leathery wings that were probably four meters from tip to pointed tip. A sharp tapping noise made me painfully aware of the nasty talons he had on all four feet. A snort returned my attention to his head which was adorned with horns and a mouth full of tiny daggers. He screeched. I yelped. And as he lunged at me, I slipped on the wet mess beneath me throwing up the towels I had brought. My fall probably saved me from a world of much worse pain as the lizard ran into the towels instead; tangling himself in them as his leap carried him across my kitchen island and into a wall. The impact shook more things loose, and my future self just got a much larger mess to clean up. Clawing my way back onto my feet, I turned to where the beast had landed. Thankfully, his frustration was no longer directed towards me as he now struggled with the towels that now ensnared him. He looked almost cute fighting with the garments like one of those cats walked into a plastic bag. My admiration of the fight was broken by a bowl that rolled across my island, spilling flour as it did. *If I don't stop him now, I'm going to spend the whole weekend renovating this place.* I thought. "Hey! Quit it!" I barked at the writhing mess of scale and towel. Much to my surprise, he appeared to listen and stopped his struggle. The lizard peered at me through a towel covering part of its snout, looking almost disappointed that I was angry with him. *If that was possible,* I thought. I made my way over to the creature, squatting down in front of him. He no longer appeared frustrated, and in an act that could have cost me my arm, I slowly reached towards his head. Luckily for me, all he did was watch as I removed the towel covering his snout. I met those piercing orange eyes again; their slits widened and shrank as the creature looked me over. "Well we can't have you on the floor, now can we?" I asked him. The lizard tilted its head almost as if it agreed with me. Carefully and slowly, I placed my hands around him in a manner that would grant me the proper leverage and began to rise. The creature was surprisingly light, and as I stood his arms hugged me back. Not wanting to risk trashing more of my abode, I set him on the already messy kitchen counter. Like a cat, he sat down on his haunches, tail curled politely over his feet. Once he left my embrace however he began to shiver. *Ah, you must be cold-blooded! Well, raising the temperature won't cost me anything this time of year." I thought as I turned to my thermostat and turned up the heat a little. The increased temperature didn't do much to quell the lizard's shivering though, and the clattering of his claws on the granite continued. "I'm sorry but turning my stove into a mini hellfire for you again is off the table," I told him. "However, we might be able to fix your problem another way," I said as I picked up one of the towels strewn about the room. After a few tense moments of faffing about with the lizard's tail and wings, I had managed to use what towels I had to wrap him up into a little burrito. "With how much you remind me of a cat, I'm tempted to call you a purrito," I informed him. And as if to confirm my comparisons the creature chuffed in response. "Well, you just stay put and out of trouble right here while I give the good Doctor a call and figure out this mess, ok?" I told the lizard. Instead of agreeing with me this time, the creature whined and started to struggle in his cocoon. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! I'm sorry but you've demonstrated that you're not ready to be set loose yet. This is just a temporary arrangement, ok? You'll get plenty of room in no time whenever you get sent to whatever reserve you belong at," I assured him. This, however, did not seem to satisfy the lizard, and his struggle continued. *I can't have him getting free and making a mess again. Ok, ok. Think. He’s a baby, right? He probably wants something. Um... lizards don't drink milk, do they? No, they don't. Ok, so maybe he's hungry! That must be it!* "Hold on one second, I'll get you something," I told him as I searched through the wreck of my kitchen for the venison that I intended to prepare tonight. I found my main course on the floor near the pot that once contained what I thought was an ostrich egg. Returning to the bundled-up lizard, I dangled the meat above his mouth. He stretched his neck and snapped up the cut whole, narrowly missing my fingers. I yelped again and inspected my hand for any damage. The lizard trilled happily as if he was laughing after a joke he had played on me. "Ahaha, very funny. You're a real joker, aren't you?" I gently scolded. "Well, try not to take off my hand while I feed you the rest, ok?" After tossing him all my former dinner, the creature nestled into his swaddle and fell asleep. Gently the purrito rising and falling gently as he breathed. I took the welcome much welcome calm to grab a sandwich from my fridge and make my way to my living room to collapse on my couch. After some much-needed nourishment, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet; searching through its contents until I found the card I was looking for. Punched in in purple and gold lettering was, "Doctor Anthony Burmak, Professional appraiser, exotic items vendor, and..." I read the business card aloud and trailed off as I noticed a descriptor that I was sure wasn't there when I received it. "Alchemist..." I finished. *Of course, this guy is some sort of kook and sold me a weird lizard egg when I went in. Ugh, I should have known better than to buy an "ostrich egg," to try out. He’s probably some endangered species. No doubt I'll be put on a list or something for having bought it. Ugh.* I turned the card over where a phone number was punched in the same color scheme as the front. Beneath the number was a message encouraging customers to call at any hour. I pulled out my phone and glanced at the clock. *11:54 P.M. Doubt he'll be up, but it's worth a shot.* I dialed the number and anxiously hoped that he would pick up. Just as the seventh ring finished and I started to think I wouldn't get through, the phone on the other end clicked. "Hello? Is this Anthony Burmak?" I asked. "Yes, this is **Doctor** Anthony Burmak speaking. Mister Kareem, I presume," a staticky voice responded. "Right, Doctor. My Apologies. Listen, I know it's late and you must be getting ready to close up shop so-" "Oh no, it's not too late at all! I always pride myself on my customer service. Is this about the ostrich egg? I told you you'd want to buy more than one. They are quite delectable after all!" the Doctor interrupted. "No, it's not about the ostrich egg. Well, actually it is. Look, I think-" "I'm sorry to say I used whatever eggs I had left for my supper, but I can assure you that I'll have a fresh shipment on Monday! I'll make sure you get first pick!" the Doctor continued. "**Look!** I don't mean to be rude Doctor, but I've had one hell of a night. I think you sold me the wrong type of egg. It's... It's some sort of..." I had been hesitant to use the word, but now it only seemed appropriate. "I think you sold me a *dragon* egg. Err... Ok. That may be a tad bit crazy but he’s some sort of liz-" "Did you say *dragon*?" "Yeah, that sounds crazy now that I've said it aloud. He’s probably some sort of exotic lizard, could you just get this bef-" "Daegan, that buffoon! Mister Kareem, are you ok? Has it hatched? Where is it?" I was starting to get tired of the interruptions. "Yes Doc, I'm fine. He hatched maybe an hour ago when I was making dinner. Right now he’s on my kitchen island, I've fed him and swaddled him in a couple of towels to keep him warm. Listen, I really would appre-" "Has anyone else seen it? Have you told anyone else about it???" "No, it's just you and me who know about him, we're not in trouble with any authorities yet. Look, I would appreciate it if you could stop cut-" "I'll be there within an hour! Don't leave! Don't let anyone else see it! And don't let it out of your home!!!" "Doctor, you don't even know where I- *click* - Hello? Doctor? Burmak??? Oh great." I grumbled to myself sinking into my couch. I tried calling the number back to no avail. *Great, now my only hope at help is going to be running around the city and I have no way to get in touch with him. I glanced at the time on my phone again. *Midnight. Well, might as well get a head start on cleaning that kitchen.* I ducked into the kitchen again to make sure the one responsible for the mess was still asleep. Thankfully, their bundle rose and fell with the same rhythm assuring me they were still tuckered out. I didn’t want to risk waking him up while cleaning, so I picked gently up the... *The dragon.* I gently picked up the dragon. he stirred a bit in his swaddle but calmed down as I quickly began shushing. Carrying the dragon to the living room I gently placed him on the couch. Now that any I could safely begin cleaning, I walked back over to my sink and opened the basin drawer to fish for that box of cleaning supplies I kept. Forty-five minutes probably passed before I heard I light knocking on my front door. *Oh great! Who is it at this hour? Well, at least they didn’t use the bell* I passed by my couch to check on the dragon before making my way to the door. I unlocked it and cracked it open. “Hey... Dr. Burmak!” I exclaimed. Sure enough, the short, eccentric man was standing on my porch. He was shrouded in a brown cloak, no doubt wearing that weird tan tunic underneath, and carrying a carpetbag. His tanned, square face was slightly wrinkled with smile lines and crow’s feet. *He certainly smiled a lot at his emporium when I was there.* I couldn’t tell how old he was, but his head was surprisingly thick with fading brown hair. If he wore a toupee, he did a damn good job hiding it. “Hello Mister Kareem, I’m glad to see you’re doing alright. May I come in?” “Hmmm, oh! Yeah, yeah! Please come in,” I unfastened my chain lock and opened the door all the way. “How did you know where I-” the Doctor brushed past me, placing his bag down to remove his cloak before picking it up again and placing his cloak on my coat rack, turning to me. “Please, where is the dragon?” The annoyance of being cut off paled in comparison to how stumped I was by the Doctor’s arrival. “Right, he’s sleeping on the couch,” I motioned for him to follow me to the living room. Just as I left it, the dragon still slept peacefully on my old couch. The Doctor sharply took in some air, “It’s magnificent!” “Yeah, he was quite the sight. Hey, um... Doctor what kind of ‘dragon’ is he. I’ve never seen a lizard like this before. I know there are those Komodo Dragons or whatever, are they related?” I inquired, slightly surprised I hadn’t been interrupted. Dr. Burmak waved his hand dismissively. “No, no. This isn’t any ordinary lizard. This is an actual dragon. The kind that you would have heard about in stories and folk tales,” he responded. “But Doc, that’s crazy. Dragons... dragons aren’t real” I nervously laughed. Dr. Burmak glanced wryly towards me. Lying before us was a bona fide dragon. I had seen him sit atop flames like it was nothing, I saw his wings. For goodness sake, I had my hands all over him while wrapping him up in my towels. But still, it was like I needed someone else to say what I had been thinking the past few hours for it to truly register as true. “Oh boy. Oh boy!” I grabbed my temples. I searched for one of those foldable chairs I kept around so I could sit down and take it all in. “’ Oh boy,’ Indeed Mister Kareem,” responded the Doctor, placing his bag down and opening it. “There hasn’t been a dragon sighted in this world for almost three and a half centuries now. And for some strange reason, none of the eggs left would hatch either. I had always assumed that it was in part due to the strange energy flow over the past century. But clearly, there was also some sort of mana factor that I-” “This world? Centuries? Planet-mana whatchamacallit? Doc, what are you talking about?” This time it was my turn to cut him off. The Doctor stopped talking to himself and rummaging through his bag to look at me, “Ah yes, this must be all very, very overwhelming for you.” “Ya think?” He chuckled, “Yes, my bad. Now tell me, Mister Kareem, ha-“ “’ Mister,’ makes me feel old Doc, please just call me Kareem.” “Alright then. Kareem, has anyone else become aware of the dragon in the time it took me to get here?” “No... no. It’s still just you and me.” “Excellent, I’ll leave you to your thoughts while I perform a quick check-up on our little friend here.” I quietly observed as the Doctor pulled out a leather-bound notebook and flipped over to some pre-marked page. He then pulled out a variety of tools from the bag and organized them on the couch next to the sleeping dragon. He took what appeared to be a thermometer and stuck it gently into the dragon’s slightly ajar maw. He recorded measurement and went to remove the tool, but despite his deliberate movements, the baby awoke. Seeing a strange man leering over it, the baby began to wriggle and whine again. I quickly stood up to comfort it. “Shhhh. Shhhhh. It’s ok. He’s a friend, it’s ok. He won’t hurt you.” I comforted the dragon, patting its swaddle. Thankfully, the baby calmed down, and instead took an interest in the new room it was in. “Hah, it’s almost like he can understand me, Doctor. I think you should be able to get back to work on him. He doesn’t seem very aggressive. Nothing like the dragons I read about in stories as a kid.” The Doctor picked up another tool, “Yes well, stories and legends do tend to get a bit out of hand. Also, **she,** can understand you. Well, to an extent. Communication will improve later down the line.” “Back up a second Doc, how do you know what gender he... err... she, is? Also, what do you mean ‘later down the line,’ aren’t you taking hi-*her,* with you?” Dr. Burmak continued to work as he explained, “A dragon’s gender is determined by the temperature the egg is incubated at.” “Like an alligator?” “Exactly! Now, I doubt your stove can produce high enough temperatures necessary to hatch a male dragon, so she must be female.” The dragon trilled as if to approve of the Doctor’s statements. “Now, as for my statements about the long run, this dragon has imprinted on you. You are, as far as she is concerned, her guardian. Now, I would have much more preferred it if she had hatched closer to my emporium among other things, but for now, she will have to remain in your house. It’s too risky to try and transport her at this time.” “Now, here is a short manual I compiled for you before I left, it should cover everything you might immediately need to know about caring for your new charge,” the Doctor took out a small notebook and pressed it into my hands. “It is of utmost importance that you do not let anyone else know this creature exists, as well as make sure it stays out of sight and in your house until I can find an appropriate housing solution.” Dr. Burmak then reached into his bag to pull out a sack, “These are some supplies that I think you’ll need. The manual will explain what each item is and is used for, you should have enough in here to last you the weekend,” he said handing me the heavy sack. “Now then,” He stood up. “While I would love to stay and help you get acclimated to your new responsibilities, I’m afraid I have to rush back. There are many things I must prepare for given recent events, as well as a ward I must scold for being careless with handling merchandise. Best of luck Kareem, I will be in touch with you soon.” Before I could ask any more questions, Dr. Burmak had packed his belongings, retrieved his cloak, and started on his way back to his emporium. I sat down, trying to process the sudden torrent of information and turn of events. The dragon looked at me, still swaddled in her towel burrito she began to purr. I returned her orange gaze. *Well, it's not like I had anything exciting planned this weekend anyways.* Getting up, I plopped down on the couch next to her. Her purring became more intense. I scratched her muzzle, “You sure you’re not related to cats somehow?” I asked her. She chuffed in response. I wasn’t exactly sure if it was a chuff of agreement this time. “Well, I’ve got some reading to do, mind keeping me company?” She trilled, and I knew exactly what she meant this time.

# Stueber Stueber - The Invisbility Cloak Experiment Kurzmann and Hanzel dragged the cloak over the rickety old car, although crumples could be perceived, the light was clearly being bent around the car as it vanished from sight. A few more adjustments and it was perfect. “Eureka! We did it! One hundred percent light masking,” said Kurzmann. Kurzmann was a strange amalgamation, he basically resembled Einstein in every way, however he was about thirty years too young to resemble the prime-time Einstein everyone thinks of, and his south west asian skin type further threw off his dreams of being basically Einstein. His colleagues would often tell him Einstein was revered for his work, but Kurzmann felt if he emulated the look, perhaps his work would soon reach similar heights. “If we can replicate this and upscale production, just think what we could achieve!” Hanzel nodded while checking off something or other on his clipboard. He was a rather plain man who exuded an aura of absolute, stoic focus. It was easy to tell that the cogs of his mind were turning rapidly, yet he was one of few words. “Next stage?” he postulated out loud. “You heard the man Stueber! Commence field testing!” The invisible car started up, the engine noise certainly wasn’t masked, that is something they would have to work on. The car moved but there was absolutely no sight of it from the outside, despite not being close fitting the cloak seemed to be doing miraculous work. All was going well until the first junction, a car turned the corner and collided with the invisible car, only instead of there being a monumental crash, this previously visible car disappeared! The two visible scientists’ jaws hit the floor and their eyes widened in unison. “That wasn’t supposed to happen!” Yelled Kurzmann. He ran over to where the collision occurred and called out for Stueber. The car’s engine was promptly turned off and the sheet shifted as Stueber opened the door and stepped out from under it. Stueber was a flamboyant looking man. Long black hair streaked with grey and a neat beard adorned his face. He looked like he would be perfectly at home at a photo shoot or hosting an interior design show on television. “Blimey that wasn’t what I expected,” said Stueber. Hanzel was already surveying the area. He poked all around at the sheet with his clipboard, mentally marking out the limits of it’s exterior. Despite a full circle of the car there appeared to be no signs of the missing collided car, he looked at Kurzmann with a shrug. “Stueber! This was your invention,” started Kurzmann, clearly trying to distance himself from a perceived failure.”It’s supposed to bend light, not reality!” “Calm your tits mate,” said Stueber. He himself poked at the point where the car had vanished. “Look, it’s not vanishing me when I touch it, it’s gotta be an effect that’s linked to relative velocities, right?” Hanzel finally interjected “Is anyone at all concerned that we may have in fact killed a person?” Stueber had already paced back quite a distance, he then proceeded to run at the car. “Stueber!” Kurzmann yelled in the background with a reprimanding tone as Stueber leapt towards the car at a full sprint. \*\*\* There was no collision, no crash, Stueber emerged alone, the car was gone, as were his colleagues. He looked up as he saw them emerging from the building. It was the car with the invisibility sheet all over again, only this time it was slightly visible. If it was only seen out of the corner of your eye you might miss it, but looking directly at it, it was clear \*something\* was there this time. Again, the car approached the turning, Stueber this time yelled out “Watch out for that car!” The collision still happened, but this time it was an actual crash, two cars colliding, albeit not at high speed. Stueber ran over, “You alright in there mates?” he said to both vehicles. By now Kurzmann and Hanzel had approached. “Wait, if you’re here, who is in the vehicle?” said Hanzel perplexedly. Out stepped Stueber from the vehicle. For clarity's sake, this one shall now be known as Car Stueber. “Alright mate,” said Stueber to Stueber in unison. Neither seemed particularly surprised at the fact they were staring at their dimensional duplicate, it was as if this was a regular day at the lab. Even Kurzmann was speechless this time, his and Hanzel’s eyes traced from one Stueber to the other for a good half a minute. Finally Hanzel broke the exchange and walked off to the second car, presumably to discuss insurance. Kurzmann finally spoke up: “What the hell have you two done?” Stueber explained how the first experiment had gone, and how he got here. Kurzmann nodded along at the tale, once done, he paced back and forth, postulating. “So.. it would seem that your cloak was more effective, and that must be why yours had this effect and not ours... but how can we possibly reverse the effect? Do we have to invert the light? Why did it even happen in the first place? This makes no sense.” Kurzmann stopped his pacing and looked towards the two Stuebers for their, even if limited, insights. Kurzman’s eyes widened and his brow furrowed “Would you two bloody well stop kissing!” A murmuring of agreement was heard, but they continued. “Stop kissing yourself god damnit!” Finally they stopped. Hanzel had returned just now. Neither Stueber showed any remorse at the matter, they looked quite pleased. Under Kurzmann’s incredulous glare Stueber finally felt pressured to say something: “Ah come on mate, don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it? Besides, I just wanted to know if I was a good kisser.” Stueber smirked and looked to Car Stueber with a knowing smirk “It turns out I am.” Car Stueber spoke up: “Did hear what ya said though, maybe we just fix the shield using this handsome man’s help and send him through again, if it’s a two-way mirror it might just send him back to where he was.” Hanzel spoke up dryly: “And if it doesn’t, some other reality will have two Stuebers and we will only have one.” “See! Perfect,” said Stueber. “If it doesn’t work then we try something new, I’m sure whatever reality I end up in will still have you fine gents in it to get the job done.” This gentle massaging of his ego was enough for Kurzmann to nod his approval of the plan. Modifications were in due course made, and Stueber commenced his run again. \*\*\* Another tumble, and Stueber found himself in similar surroundings to his last jump. He glanced to his side, and cursed out loud. Stueber glanced at Stueber, presumably himself from earlier. Stueber sighed out loud, and then yelled his warning again about the incoming car. Soon the three Stuebers would be reunited as before, and their colleagues would arrive. “Right, let’s get this up to speed. Firstly, I’m Stueber, you’re Car Stueber, you’re Past Stueber. Secondly, because I know you two lads are thinking about it, we already kissed when I was Past Stueber, and you are a fucking great kisser.” Both alternate Stuebers smiled, nodded their heads and said “Nice...” “So right, the sheet seems to be some kinda reality shifting, time travelling shizmabob. This reality aint mine or Past Stuebers, I know this because Car Stueber’s sheet is shite. Also this is clearly taking me back in time because I’m now here twice. But I’ve got a plan, oi, Hanzel, give me your clipboard and pen please mate. “ Hanzel pulled his clipboard closer to himself and looked at Stueber as if he had just asked for his kidney. He glanced between the Stuebers and finally concluded that this situation was absurd enough to momentarily give up his beloved clipboard. “‘I’ll want it back - and only use blank sheets please”. “Won’t matter mate, at least if all goes to plan.” Stueber set about writing a note, and crafting the A4 piece of paper into a paper aeroplane. Then he set about fixing the sheet. Once done, he had Car Stueber drive the car at high speed, before he threw the paper aeroplane at the sheet. Kurzmann, who had been quite the muted version of himself due to the absurdity of the whole thing and Stueber’s surprising assertiveness finally spoke up. “So what did you do?” “Well I figure these realities are linked - I also figure the faster something goes through, the earlier it’ll arrive. Figurin’ that because I went ever so slightly faster the second time and got here a couple o’ seconds earlier. If I stop Car Stueber from finishing the sheet, stop the link, we all fade away to not ever happening.” Car Stueber and Past Stueber spoke up “But.. then the Remaining Stueber will never know..” “Oh.. he’ll know.. He’ll know.” Said Stueber with a smirk. \*\*\* It was the night before, Past Car Stueber was doing the finishing touches to his cloak design, when a paper aeroplane nicked at his ear. He opened it and the message read: *Dear Past Car Stueber.* *Please do not complete the invisibility cloak, it opens a pan dimensional time rift and causes all sorta trouble.* *P.S got to meet another Stueber, can confirm you are a damn fine kisser.* *Keep on being awesome* *Yours Sincerely.* *Stueber.* \*\*\* “How do we know it worked?” Said redundant timeline Kurzmann, “do we just fade away?” Stueber shrugged. \*Poof\* It turned out that was the sound of a timeline vanishing, who would have known.

The Last Planet (1,095 Words) -AR Mirabal We’re nearing the end now, or is it the beginning? We’ve been floating in the dead of space for so long now, it feels like the universe’s already come to a close. Our biggest folly has always been arrogance, but it’s also the driving force that’s gotten us this far. Starting as single-celled organisms swimming in primordial goo, we ascended to the height of heights; no nebula too far, no sun unconquered. Our unrelenting will to fight-on, to surpass the legacies left by our ancestors, has evolved us past the physical plane into a collective consciousness of energy. We’ve weathered countless super novas, seen what lies through a black hole, even mastered the looms of time; we’ve outlived everything else, we’re the last planet. Just as we’ve predicted in our infancy however, the end comes with a whimper not a bang. The light’s dying. Only a couple stars remain in all the cosmos, and soon those will die too. Dueling supermassive black holes and lingering asteroids are all that’s left in the starless void. The last chapter for life in the universe, after all our strife and resilience, is a long and dry death; but we won’t go gently. Projections of our energy-forms flood the fabrics of space, collecting data and piecing it all together in every possible variable combination till we crack the last secret this universe holds; there has to be a way to save the light. Our planet is the last beacon of hope, the final bastion against the darkness. Warmed by three artificial suns, each siphoning the remaining latent energies that still scarcely linger, the planet floats in frigid isolation. Like our physical flesh, the planets soil is made of nanite-rich organic bionetics; a living, breathing commutative intelligence. Long ago now, when the sky still had stars, we infected the infant planet like a plague; hollowed it out and corrupted it, formed it in our image. Now left with only the blackness of the void, we defiantly stand in unison and plot our survival. The problem is, we’ve exhausted this universe to its limit; we’ve manipulated the curvature of time, peered into higher dimensions, but still there’s no answers in sight. It’s seeming that this problem may not have a solution, this may be where life has to end. There is, however, one bell that’s yet to be rung. A last ditch effort resulted in the creation of another artificial moon, the largest satellite to date; named Umbra. It’s purpose is to simulate endless universes simultaneously. Broken up into clusters, each cluster is separated by slightly varying parameters; the clusters contain countless universes and each universe is accompanied by an infinite alternate copies. Studying all those simulations, we hope to find the missing piece of the puzzle that’s eluded us in reality. I’m hopefully this will at the very least be an interesting experiment. v.0.1 The pilot experiment was deemed a failure; the parameters were set too delicately, it was too perfect. It didn’t resemble the chaos of our own enough to give us any type of value information. This will be noted and improved in the second iteration. v.0.2 The experiment was a great success but some unforeseen circumstances caused the data to be corrupted. While we got the parameters right and the data was reflective of our own universe, it appears that something in the program became sentient and started talking to one of the projections that was operating the simulation. v.0.3 This...will be the last iteration. The experiment, in respect to our original goal, was a success; but it brought us no solace. This third version fixed all the flaws of its predecessors and got us the data we thought we wanted. What we didn’t foresee was that the same equations we derived for the salvation of light for a simulated reality, worked for our reality too. It’s possible we’re in a simulation ourselves. Obsessively reviewing the data we received, we’re been able to pinpoint structural similarities between space-fabric anomalies and realize that this isn’t the first time this has happened. It seems life truly is resilient to a fault; we’ve dealt with this problem in the past, the dying of the light. When we didn’t find the answer before, we projected the last of our dying essences into a fixed point in the bleak void; a maelstrom of our bitter resolve. In it, a fully new universe bloomed, existing (then dying again) in the finals breaths of the original universe. Within the copy, scattered remnants of the previous life survived; it was a place for them to reset and experience all of evolution once more before the light died. Whats more alarming is that it’s impossible to pinpoint the origin. Mathematically speaking the first universe, a four-dimensional object, was copied; creating a three-dimensional ‘shadow’. From the perceptive of lesser evolved entities, it’s similar to how a two-dimensional shadow is created from light casting onto a three-dimensional object. These ‘shadows’, however, aren’t few; they’re many. I’m reflective of my original passage into this journal as I inscribe this now. “Our biggest folly has always been arrogance,” I didn’t know then just how true those words rang. It seems that these copies are endless; when the initial copy’s time was done, and it’s light too started to die, another copy was created in the final moments of the previous. The line seems to go on forever too, all on borrowed time; all too reluctant to except that it’s over. I’m the last of my race to remain here; the rest have pooled the last of their energies to create yet another shadow and are projecting themselves into it now. Watching them in bitter contemplation, I see the last bits of light stretch across the black canvas of space as disípese into a fading dot. I’m now the last thing living, on the last planet; it’d be an interesting title if it weren’t so meaningless at the moment. I’ve decided to inscribe a portion of my energies with this journal entry and send that into the projection instead. Perhaps something can at least find some entertainment out of this. The frigid tendrils of the void now wrap around me. The artificial suns orbiting us have died a flickering death and the bitter chill of solitude is beginning to strangle me. Soon, so shall I parish like the stars, a relatively noble passing. It’s been a long time coming and I refuse to face my end with fear; I’ll take it in stride instead. We’ve lived long enough.

Every Sunday morning I take a light jog around a park near my home. There’s a lake located in one corner of the park. Each time I jog by this lake, I see the same elderly woman sitting at the water’s edge with a small metal cage sitting beside her. This past Sunday my curiosity got the best of me, so I stopped jogging and walked over to her. As I got closer, I realized that the metal cage was in fact a small trap. There were three turtles, unharmed, slowly walking around the base of the trap. She had a fourth turtle in her lap that she was carefully scrubbing with a spongy brush. “Hello,” I said. “I see you here every Sunday morning. If you don’t mind my nosiness, I’d love to know what you’re doing with these turtles.” She smiled. “I’m cleaning off their shells,” she replied. “Anything on a turtle’s shell, like algae or scum, reduces the turtle’s ability to absorb heat and impedes its ability to swim. It can also corrode and weaken the shell over time.” “Wow! That’s really nice of you!” I exclaimed. She went on: “I spend a couple of hours each Sunday morning, relaxing by this lake and helping these little guys out. It’s my own strange way of making a difference.” “But don’t most freshwater turtles live their whole lives with algae and scum hanging from their shells?” I asked. “Yep, sadly, they do,” she replied. I scratched my head. “Well then, don’t you think your time could be better spent? I mean, I think your efforts are kind and all, but there are fresh water turtles living in lakes all around the world. And 99% of these turtles don’t have kind people like you to help them clean off their shells. So, no offense... but how exactly are your localized efforts here truly making a difference?” The woman giggled aloud. She then looked down at the turtle in her lap, scrubbed off the last piece of algae from its shell, and said, “Sweetie, if this little guy could talk, he’d tell you I just made all the difference in the world.” Once upon a time a psychology professor walked around on a stage while teaching stress management principles to an auditorium filled with students. As she raised a glass of water, everyone expected they’d be asked the typical “glass half empty or glass half full” question. Instead, with a smile on her face, the professor asked, “How heavy is this glass of water I’m holding?” Students shouted out answers ranging from eight ounces to a couple pounds. She replied, “From my perspective, the absolute weight of this glass doesn’t matter. It all depends on how long I hold it. If I hold it for a minute or two, it’s fairly light. If I hold it for an hour straight, its weight might make my arm ache a little. If I hold it for a day straight, my arm will likely cramp up and feel completely numb and paralyzed, forcing me to drop the glass to the floor. In each case, the weight of the glass doesn’t change, but the longer I hold it, the heavier it feels to me.” As the class shook their heads in agreement, she continued, “Your stresses and worries in life are very much like this glass of water. Think about them for a while and nothing happens. Think about them a bit longer and you begin to ache a little. Think about them all day long, and you will feel completely numb and paralyzed - incapable of doing anything else until you drop them.” The moral: It’s important to remember to let go of your stresses and worries. No matter what happens during the day, as early in the evening as you can, put all your burdens down. Don’t carry them through the night and into the next day with you. If you still feel the weight of yesterday’s stress, it’s a strong sign that it’s time to put the glass down. During a research experiment a marine biologist placed a shark into a large holding tank and then released several small bait fish into the tank. As you would expect, the shark quickly swam around the tank, attacked and ate the smaller fish. The marine biologist then inserted a strong piece of clear fiberglass into the tank, creating two separate partitions. She then put the shark on one side of the fiberglass and a new set of bait fish on the other. Again, the shark quickly attacked. This time, however, the shark slammed into the fiberglass divider and bounced off. Undeterred, the shark kept repeating this behavior every few minutes to no avail. Meanwhile, the bait fish swam around unharmed in the second partition. Eventually, about an hour into the experiment, the shark gave up. This experiment was repeated several dozen times over the next few weeks. Each time, the shark got less aggressive and made fewer attempts to attack the bait fish, until eventually the shark got tired of hitting the fiberglass divider and simply stopped attacking altogether. The marine biologist then removed the fiberglass divider, but the shark didn’t attack. The shark was trained to believe a barrier existed between it and the bait fish, so the bait fish swam wherever they wished, free from harm. The moral: Many of us, after experiencing setbacks and failures, emotionally give up and stop trying. Like the shark in the story, we believe that because we were unsuccessful in the past, we will always be unsuccessful. In other words, we continue to see a barrier in our heads, even when no ‘real’ barrier exists between where we are and where we want to go. After spending nearly every waking minute with Angel for eight straight days, I knew that I had to tell her just one thing. So late at night, just before she fell asleep, I whispered it in her ear. She smiled - the kind of smile that makes me smile back -and she said, “When I’m seventy-five and I think about my life and what it was like to be young, I hope that I can remember this very moment.” A few seconds later she closed her eyes and fell asleep. The room was peaceful - almost silent. All I could hear was the soft purr of her breathing. I stayed awake thinking about the time we’d spent together and all the choices in our lives that made this moment possible. And at some point, I realized that it didn’t matter what we’d done or where we’d gone. Nor did the future hold any significance. All that mattered was the serenity of the moment. Just being with her and breathing with her.

Elisya Shuzuki hoisted her backpack higher on her shoulders. She walked down the streets of her hometown, San Francisco. It was afternoon, and she had just gotten out of school. Elli stopped at the crosswalk and hurried across. She strolled into her favorite hangout, Bella’s Bistro. She walked over to her usual booth in the corner and sat her bag on the seat, plopping down beside it. She opened up her bag and rummaged through the mess, looking for her homework. A waitress walked over to Elli, opening up her notepad. “The usual?” “Yes, please. Thank you Olivia” Elli pulled out her homework folder and opened it. A groan came out of her when she saw the huge pile of papers. Better get to work. She thought. Olivia came over and set down her food. Elli thanked her and sipped her root beer float. Her eyes wandered out the window to the wall of the next building. She was surprised to find a strange mark there. “Olivia!” Elli called. The waitress made her way to the back. “What can I do for you?” The tall brunette asked. “When was that symbol put there? It wasn’t there yesterday.” “What symbol?” Olivia sounded confused. Elli pointed out the window to the building. “That mark right there.” “There’s nothing there sweetie.” “You don’t see it?” Olivia shook her head. “Oh. Sorry for bothering you.” “You feeling okay?” Elli nodded. “Okay then. Enjoy your food.” She walked away. Elli stared out the window, wondering what the image of a shattered star was doing on the building. While Elli walked back home, she paused to stare at an old abandoned apartment building in front of her. Drawn on the side of the building was the same image as earlier: the shattered star. And she was the only one who seemed to notice it. As she lay in bed that night, she thought about the strange sign she had seen in two different places today. Elli yawned. It had been a long day. As she continued to think, she drifted off to sleep. Elli looked around. She was in a beautiful city. The buildings were all clean. The streets looked freshly paved. The city was covered in shimmering gold and pristine white. Confused and amazed, she slowly walked down the street. It was impossible to believe that this place was real. It simply couldn’t be. It seemed...magical. Elli took a deep breath. Even the air seemed too clean. A rumble sounded in the distance. She turned around to see...darkness. There was no other word to describe it. It was the blackest black she’d ever seen, darker than a raven against the night sky. It was a void of nothing. It seemed to be moving forward, moving towards her. She turned to run, but she was stuck in place.The darkness came at her, moving faster and faster. “HELP! Somebody help me!” Nobody came. It was just her, alone, against the darkness. It swooped over the city, consuming the pristine buildings. It swallowed up everything in its path. It barreled towards her and Elli braced herself. She waited to be swallowed up, and then...nothing. She opened her eyes. There was a burning symbol in front of her, holding it back. She gasped. It was the shattered star. She turned to go when she heard a smash. The burning star had disappeared. She tried to when the darkness came over her, consuming her until she was nothing. Elli jerked upwards. She sat in her bed, gasping for air. “It was just a nightmare. Nothing important.” She told herself. Still, she couldn’t help wondering about the shattered star. Why did it keep appearing everywhere? What was her dream about? Most importantly: What did it all mean? Later that day, in school, Elli was walking through the hallway. Her head was down, as usual, not looking at anyone or anything. She turned a corner and ran straight into someone. Her books fell everywhere, same as theirs. She picked up all her books and started to pick the other person’s books up. She gathered a few then stood up to hand them over. She paused. The person she had run into was a tall boy, with black hair that flopped over his midnight blue eyes. “Hi, I’m Jack.” He said. “I’m Elisya, but I go by Elli.” “Well it’s nice to meet you, Elli. Where are you going?” Jack asked. “Algebra” Was her response. “I’m headed to Science. Not a huge fan. Unless we get to blow stuff up-that’s cool.” Jack smirked. Elli grinned. “I love blowing things up!” “You sound like a very intelligent person.” Jack looked at her book. “Sword of Crows? I love this book!” “You’ve read Sword of Crows? Who’s your favorite character?” Elli was astonished. Jack was the only person she had ever met who read that book. “Blaze is definitely my favorite. Alvara is really cool, too.” “Alvara is my favorite. She is such a strong character.” Elli agreed. The warning bell rang. “We better get to class.” Elli said, disappointed. “Yeah. It was great to meet you. We’ll have to get together some time. See you later, Elisya.” Jack headed down the hallway to his class. Elli did the same. She got to her desk just as the bell rang. “How nice of you to join us, Miss Suzuki,” Her teacher, Mrs. Peters said. “We will be on page 394 in our textbooks.” Elli obediently sat down and opened her book to the correct page. She stifled a gasp. On the page was a small scrap of paper. On it was the shattered star, with the words Beware. We will be watching. Avoid the nothingness. Elli clutched her backpack tighter. She had skipped going to Bella’s today. Right now, she just wanted to get home as fast as she could. The shattered star had been on her mind all day. She couldn’t figure out how she was the only one who could see it. And how it kept appearing everywhere. Or how it got in her Algebra textbook. The whole thing gave her a creepy and ominous feeling, like something bad was going to happen. Elli turned down a street and there, on the side of a building, was the shattered star. Under it was an arrow and the words Come. There is danger. written on it. Elli hesitated, but her curiosity got the better of her. She turned down the alley the arrow pointed to. She walked until there wasn’t much light left. She turned around, but she couldn’t see the way she had come in. Panic set in. How would she get out? What should she do? What was happening? Thoughts swarmed her brain, overwhelming her, when a bright light shoved them all away. There in front of her, was the burning image of the shattered star, hovering in midair. “Welcome.” A deep voice said. “We are glad you are here.” Elli looked for the source of the voice, but found nothing. “Yes.” A female voice this time. “Without you, we stand no chance.” “Who are you? Where are you? A chance against what?” Elli screamed. A flash of light. Then, in front of her, stood two cloaked figures. The male spoke again. “Why, a chance against the nothingness, of course.” “What?” Elli was confused. “Who are you?” The girl spoke again. “We are some of your only allies.” “Why would I need allies?” Elli asked. “Because,” spoke the man, “You are the only one who can defeat the nothingness.” “The only one who can save us all.” The girl said. “The only one who can save the world.” The man followed. “And the only one who can wield the shattered star, the one force that can stand against the nothingness.” The girl finished. “So come with us. Come, and save the world.” The man held out a hand, waiting for Elli to come. “It is the only way.” The girl said. “You must come, or the world will be destroyed.”

Armand Melton and Molly Bush work as servers at an Applebee's restaurant in Orlando, Florida. It's Saturday night/Sunday morning, and they've just finished a long shift. When Molly accidentally spills cleaner into the outlet where Armand is charging his phone. "Hey, watch it; I just got that phone," Armand says as he rushes over to check it. When he touches the phone, he receives an electric jolt and collapses to the ground. "Damn dude, are you all right?" Molly inquires as she hurries over. Armand awakens, winces, and brushes it off. "Can you hear what I'm saying?" "Are you all right?" Molly asks again, this time attempting to slap Armand across the face. "Yeah, I'm good, get off of me," Armand says as he stands up. Armand looks around, perplexed, and takes off his apron, tossing it onto the bar. "What in the world is this? Is this Earth?" Armand asks. "Oh my God, I turned you into a dementia patient," Molly says, concerned. "Are you sure you're all right; my cousin's a paramedic; should I call him?" "I'm fine, you idiot," Armand says, "but I can't believe they finally caught us." "What do you mean when you say "they" and "caught us"?" Molly asks. "Suflandafgh12#$%, do you remember anything about how we got here?" Armand asks. "First of all, I have no idea how you made those sounds with your mouth, second, we definitely came here together in your Toyota Avalon," Molly says. "You don't remember anything; we are galaxy famous jewel thieves, this is a prison, called Earth," Armand says. "I hear you, man," Molly replies, "for what we make at Applebee's, we might as well be making license plates." "You don't understand; when you go to Earth prison, they erase your memory and put your consciousness in this ungainly meat body," Armand explains. "You know I've been working out. Is it my fault that my left leg is longer than my right, making my body awkward?" Molly says. "It's all coming back to me now; on our last heist, you were supposed to meet me on the moon Leibnitz within the Alpha Centauri star system, but you got arrested for horn doodling," Armand recalls. "Horn doodling? Why don't you have a seat? I might call my cousin after all," Molly says as she tries to lead Armand into a booth. Armand knocks her hands away, closes his eyes, and vanishes. Molly takes a step back in awe. "Wait a minute, what the hell just happened?" Molly asks as Armand reappears behind her. "We're jewel thief aliens who happened to be locked up in a prison called Earth," Armand says. "Okay, I'm not high enough for this right now," Molly admits, "but I'm kind of believing you." "We've been imprisoned for 29 years, but that's all about to change; we're busting out," Armand says. "My next shift is on Wednesday," Molly says, "so I'm available for whatever you want to do." "Let's get out of here; we have planning to do," Armand says as he heads towards the door. "You're right; Janice can finish this up," Molly says as she walks out the door with Armand. "If you only knew; Janice is a serial killer from the Mira Star System, and I wouldn't mess with her," Armand says. They both enter Armand's studio apartment, and he instantly logs into his computer. He opens the SpaceX website and navigates to the Dragon Space Capsule. "That'll get us out of here!" Armand says. "So, we're just going to take the next flight out of here?" "Can I have an aisle seat?" Molly asks "No, we're going to steal the whole damn ship," Armand says. "All right, as long as you teach me all that invisible stuff," Molly says, "let's do it." "The next launch is Monday; the Backside Bandits are back again!" Armand says. "That was our name?" Molly asks. "I know, I hear it," Armand acknowledges. Armand and Molly take the Toyota Avalon and drive to Cape Canaveral on Monday morning. "Here's the plan," Armand says, "I'm going to make ourselves invisible, and we're going to slip into the cargo hold where they keep the food for the International Space Station." "Doesn't everything that goes into space get weighed?" Molly asks. "We'll throw out our estimated weight in food and hide in the compartment. When we get into orbit, we'll jump out of the compartment and hijack the capsule," Armand says. "With what?" Molly asks. "I'm experienced with Canopus ninjutsu; I'll be able to disable the pilots in seconds," Armand says. "All right, then what? Won't that ship only take us so far?" Molly asks. "I've got a getaway ship on the dark side of the Moon; we'll take that piece of trash Dragon Capsule there, and then it's off to finish the big score we never finished 29 years ago," Armand says. "And we're going to be back by Wednesday so I can go to my shift at Applebee's. I can't afford to lose that job," Molly asks as Armand sighs. "I know a black market scientist on a planet in the Beta Canis Majoris system; they'll transform you back into Suflandafgh12#$%," Armand says. When they arrive at Cape Canaveral, Armand makes Molly and him invisible, and they sneak inside the warehouse where the Dragon Capsule is kept. Armand begins to throw out food at random when Molly stops him. "Come on, man, don't throw out the desserts, throw out that meatloaf, it's disgusting. It's going to be a long flight; I'm going to need to eat something," Molly says. Once the weight is correct, they enter the compartment and wait for the Dragon Capsule to board and launch. "Good morning, America. SpaceX will launch the Dragon Capsule to the International Space Station today. There, they'll collect a month's worth of trash and return Lieutenant Warner to Earth, who has spent a whole year in space away from his family and loved ones. This is definitely a historic event," says the television announcer. "Three, two, one, liftoff of the Dragon Capsule to the International Space Station." Due to the G pressures, Molly and Armand push aggressively against the back of the compartment when the capsule is launched. "This ship needs new shocks; every turn in this thing makes you feel it," Armand says. The Dragon Capsule enters orbit and begins its route to the International Space Station. Armand and Molly exit the compartment, knock out the ship's pilots and seize control of the capsule. Lieutenant Warner and an astronaut peer through a window on the space station at the coming Dragon Capsule. "Lieutenant Warner, I'm sure you're overjoyed to be returning home," the astronaut says. "It's been a hard year; I miss my wife and children." Lieutenant Warner states, "I dedicated a year of my life to science; now it's time to devote the rest of my life to them." The Dragon capsule is getting closer. "There it is, your taxi home," the astronaut says, smiling at Lieutenant Warner. The Dragon Capsule then makes a left turn and heads out into space. "Where is it going?" the astronaut asks as Lieutenant Warner widens his eyes. "Oh my God, I'm never getting off this pneumatic tube! Forget you guys; I'm going to jump for it," Lieutenant Warner declares as he heads for the airlock chamber before being tackled and restrained. Lieutenant Warner grasps at the window as the Dragon capsule continues to move away from the space station, on its journey to the Moon. Two NASA scientists are seated in front of a simulation. Armand and Molly are fast asleep, drooling on themselves, wires and other monitoring devices attached to them. "You owe me $20; I told you they had a way out," one of the scientists says as the other pulls a $20 bill from his wallet. "What are the chances? At least we now know they had a concealed spaceship on the dark side of the Moon," the second scientist replies. "What do you want to do with these two idiots?" The scientist asks. "Put them in solitary, fire them from Applebee's, and give them jobs at Arby's," the other scientist advises. "That'll teach him not to hide spaceships on the Moon.

The air inside the bunker is stale and dry. I sit back against the wall and slowly sip my water, yearning to feel the warm breeze of summer blow through my hair, or the warmth of the sun on my skin. Instead, I shiver in my frosty bunker, huddled under my thermal blanket. The makeshift calendar across from me glows in the faint candlelight and I sit down my canteen, gripping the chalk in my stiff fingers. What I wouldn’t give for a space heater right about now. I won’t say I haven’t been lucky, because I have. I have a bunker filled with survival supplies, a built in fireplace, years worth of MRE’s, as unappetizing as they are, and a whole childhood of survival training under my belt. When my father was discharged from the military and came back a disgraced and changed man, the townspeople mocked him behind his back, and pitied my mother and I. After all, who wouldn’t pity the ten year old girl of a crazed man who screamed about secret experiments the government was conducting, who drove hundreds of miles, dragging me and my mother along, to break into a government funded testing facility. Hell, even I started to mock him, leaving home at the ripe age of eighteen to go to college back east, and wouldn’t have ever come back, if it wasn’t for my fathers dying wish. His nurse called me seven months ago, telling me my father begged for me everyday to come home, to see him one last time. I came home, expecting his usual spiel, but this time he was calm, collected. He told me it was coming, that he could smell it in the air, feel it in his bones. What ‘it’ was, he never said. He just gave me a key, and explicit instructions to follow when it happened. He gripped my hand tightly in his and told me he was sorry, he didn’t say what for, and I didn’t ask. I think we both secretly knew, but our hearts wouldn’t let us speak about it. The next morning, I got the call. My father passed in his sleep, and I was needed to come claim the body and his personal affects. The days following feel like one big blur, until the morning I woke up to the bone rattling rumble of the ground beneath his house. It shook everything around me, and I stumbled through the house, my heart near to bursting from my chest, when I hear the screams. I watch with wide eyes as the ground tears open and these, things, these creatures crawl out, some flapping their leathery wings and taking flight, clutching people in their claws and soaring away, blood and limbs scattered around me. I remember feeling the crinkle of paper in my pocket, my father’s instructions, still wadded up from where I stuck them the night before, after once again reading them until my eyes hurt. I briefly remember grabbing my car keys, and running to my car. When I close my eyes, I can still see them, the creatures, as they filled the streets. Their bodies were twisted, taut, and lean, as if they’d been starved. Their skin was as brown as the ground that they crawled from, skin with jagged edges and sunken chests. Their teeth glinted in the sunlight, sharp and curved, almost as if they were designed to tear through human flesh and bone. A sound I’ve never heard before, a strangled shriek, a sound so sharp, and yet...sad. I remember feeling as if I could almost hear a cry of agony being ripped from their mouths, as they ate the people around them. Their legs were jutted at the knees, as if they were walking on their kneecaps instead of leg bones. Leathery wings sprouted from their skeletal backs and I don’t think I’ll ever get the sound of their fluttering skin out of my mind. I think what I remember most vividly is their faces, terrifying disfigured faces, thin and horrific, with red beady eyes, that seemed to see right into my very soul, their expressions still holding a faint trace of something, something almost human....

An elderly woman woke one night to hear sounds of laughter coming from outside her bedroom. She couldn’t remember inviting anyone, so she quickly got out of bed and made her way down the stairs to see what the commotion was. The joyful chatter began to grow louder as she made her way towards the light at the end of the dark hallway. It lead into the living room, where no less than 10 people could be found with small paper plates of food and red solo cups filled to the brim with various beverages. Christmas music was playing softly in the background of all the chaotic murmuring, and presents were neatly placed around the tree. Oddly enough, she couldn’t remember it being Christmas. She could hear her husband calling her name from the other side of the room signaling for her to come over. As she made her way across the room, she saw people she hadn’t seen in years and some in decades. She saw Ruth, her best friend from college, her siblings, her parents, and even her in-laws. She was shocked to see their faces, but they seemed quite uninterested. They waved of course, but they didn’t get up from their seats to greet her. They acted as if it was only yesterday when they had last encountered one another. When she got to her husband, he expressed how glad he was to see her awake. “You’ve been unwell for far too long now,” he said to her with a smile. She felt a bit sick earlier in the evening, so she went to lay down to sleep away the pain. She probably would have stayed asleep if her husband wasn’t throwing a party without her consent. Nevertheless, she was grateful to have a husband who loved her and people she could provide with hospitality and a good time. After a short conversation, she told her husband her intentions to catch up with Ruth. While walking over to her old friend, a dreary gray picture of a couple walking through the rain caught her eye. She thought her husband threw out the picture years ago after countless arguments over its affects on the room’s ambiance. It left her infuriated to know he kept it after all these years. She knew, however, that the only reason he put it back up was to please his mother and father who gave the painting to them their first Christmas as a married couple. His mother said that it represented a sturdy relationship even through times of struggle. She wasn’t going to confront her husband at that moment to avoid unnecessary conflict, but the issue would be brought to his attention eventually. The woman sat down on the couch next to Ruth and began to speak about how long it had been since they last saw one another. Ruth wasn’t as engaged as the woman would’ve hoped for. She remained preoccupied with other people and seemed to be ignoring the woman at times. Though she enjoyed every second of the conversation, she couldn’t help but ponder over the possibility that she may have done something wrong all those years ago, but that was simply speculation. She wouldn’t let one interaction ruin the evening after all. The talk was cut short by her sister’s voice announcing that it was time to open presents. Gifts were passed out one by one as family members tore through the wrappings to find toys, appliances, and small trinkets. When it was the woman’s turn to open a gift from her parents, she placed it on her lap and ripped the wrap to shreds. She opened the box, and inside was a blanket with the words “Home is where the heart is” in an elaborate cursive font. The woman was perplexed. “Mom,” she said, “you got this for me 30 years ago to celebrate our first Christmas in this house.” Her mother looked confused as well and responded, “This is your first Christmas in this house.” The woman took a closer look at her mother’s face and realized that there were significantly less wrinkles than the last time she saw her. It suddenly occurred to the woman that her 91st birthday was approaching and her mother would have to be well into her 110’s. She made her way over to the recliner where her mother sat and held her arm out. “Hold my hand. Please.” Her mom, who looked slightly younger than her daughter, reached her arm out to hold the woman’s hand, but her hand fell through her daughter’s. A tear fell down the woman’s cheek as she watched both her mom and dad fade from existence. She reached her hand out once more to place it on her mother in-law’s shoulder only to watch her hand fall straight through once more. She saw as the image of her in-laws began to fade along with her brother, sister, and Ruth. The only one that remained was her husband. She stared at the drab painting across from where she sat and said “That picture is still ugly, but maybe your mom is right about what it represents. We made it all the way despite everything we’ve been through.” The woman got up from where she sat, and she made her way over to her husband who was significantly younger than she was. Knowing what would happen, she hugged him one last time. For a moment, she could feel his spirit surround her, and he said to her, “It’s time for you to come home.” Her arms collapsed in, and she said, “I love you.” He vanished just like the rest of them, and in that moment, she fell to the floor and wept. While staring teary eyed into the picture of the couple standing carelessly in the rain, she began to grow quite fond of it. She saw her and her husband in it standing together through the storms of life--never to be separated. She got up from the floor and turned out the lights of her living room. One last time, she made her way down the hallway. She climbed the stairs to her room, opened the door, and found a body lying in her bed. The monitor indicating the person’s vital signs displayed only a horizontal line. The woman made her way across the cold floor to the lifeless body and kissed it on the forehead. She knew that home was where the heart was, and her heart no longer resided in that wrinkled body. The pearl inside the casing was gone, and it was time for the woman to come home. She placed her hand on the person’s chest, and it fell through as she expected it to. The only difference is that the body in front of her remained, but as she looked down at her own hands, they began to dematerialize. Soon, her entire body began to fade. She said to the person in front of her, “Thank you,” and she vanished. Some might say she is everywhere. She lives on as a thought in the minds of hundreds she touched. Some might say she’s in heaven. Some might say she is nowhere to be found, but wherever she finds herself, she is home.

Scully blew out the last somber notes to a nostaljazz love song. Nostaljazz was the music of the day, a mixture of somber yet upbeat music that reminisced about the days long past, when the world was whole. Scully was good at performing it too, but he wasn’t sure how he did it. He had no lips, no lungs. All he was, was bone. Bone and green ligature. The audience applauded Scully and his bandmates, though most of the cheering was aimed at their singer Sophia. She was the “Skin” in Skin &amp; Bones, their band. She was a beautiful young woman, with red hair, and a red dress. Their drummer, as well as their everything else, was a boxy robot named Ampersand, he played everything except the saxophone. Scully was their sax player. The applause died down, and Sophia took a bow before handing the spotlight to Scully with a dramatic wave of her hands. “Thank you everyone! The world ended, but we’re still here, and will be every night after sunset! Thank you!” No one bat an eye at Scully, the skeleton in a three piece suit. He was a common sight around these parts. Which was a welcome reprieve from the usual frightened screaming he received in other places. Sophia, as always, was the first to leave the stage. She sashayed down the two steps off the stage, ignoring her admirers on her way upstairs to their apartment. Scully and Ampersand made for the bar to hang around, and maybe join in on a game of nuclear poker if any tables got going. “Not a fan of people, your singer,” said Buddy. Buddy was the owner of the bar, and its sole bartender. He was a mean looking S.O.B with a friendly demeanor. Scully liked him. “Some people prefer their own company,” said Scully. In response Ampersand let out a melancholy whirring, and sunk his head. “The robot seems to think different,” said Buddy. “Discretion Amp,” said Scully, shaking his head at the robot. Turning back to buddy he said, “She’s... not comfortable around men,” the words came out like they were walking on a tightrope, and buddy got the message. “Oh,” said Buddy, who flushed just a bit. “Yeah, ‘oh’,” said Scully. “Well, she seems fine around you and the robot.” “We’re hardly men though, are we Buddy?” “You’re dickless Skully, but you’re still a man. The robot identifies as one, far as I can tell.” Ampersand made his arms out like broad shoulders and “puffed” out his chest in agreement. “Hmm,” mumbled Scully, “What’s your point?” "My point is there’s two men she feels safe with, and that goes double for you. I have a way of reading folks, clocking them. She likes you, Skully.” “Hmm,” he mumbled again. Buddy let the subject drop, feeling as if maybe he’d pried too much to begin with, but Scully let the thought bounce around in his head. A game of nuclear poker later, and he’d decided to take a different kind of bet. He got up from the card table and went upstairs to the band’s apartment, leaving Ampersand, who was on a hot streak, behind. When he opened the door he found Sophia, still in her red dress, sitting on a leather chaise lounge, staring longingly at the full moon outside. “Hey,” said Scully. “Hey,” said Sophia, her wistful gaze turning to him. “Whadja up to?” “Reminiscing about the past.” “Nostaljazz” She nodded. Little diamonds formed around her eyes, and dropped down her red cheeks. This was only the second time he’d seen her cry. The first was in the alley where they met, when the walking skeleton had scared off some bad men. “Do you think it’ll ever go back to how it was before?” Scully took a seat on the matching ottoman near the chaise. He wasn’t sure they were talking about the state of the world just then. “It’ll never be as it was, but it’ll heal,” he said, willing his skull and empty sockets to appear consolatory. More diamonds. Scully had always been moved by Sophia’s singing. It was powerful. Now he understood exactly why. Nostaljazz was about looking back, wondering if it would ever be the same, just as she wondered about herself. “You really think so?” “I know so.” He wanted nothing more than to hold her in that moment, to tell her it was going to be okay. He didn’t though. If Buddy was wrong about how she felt, it could mean the death of their friendship. Worst possible outcome, she would never feel safe around him either. Maybe it was better to leave well enough alone. He got up, and made for the door. “Come down with me and Amp sometime, Sophia,” he said looking back. “Scully.” He stopped dead in his tracks. “Yeah?” he asked, not looking back. “Stay,” she said, then added, “please.” “Sure.” He went to sit back down on the ottoman, but she motioned him to sit beside her on the chaise. She wrapped an arm around his, and laid her head on his boney shoulder. She was warm. He couldn’t remember the last time he allowed himself to be intimate in any way. Sometime before, he thought, when he had muscles, and hair, when he had something to offer someone besides cold dry bones. “It‘s not the first time I’ve had to ask you to stay.” “Hmm.” “You almost left me back then too.” “You were frightened of me as much as the bastards that ran off.” “Maybe I was, at first.” She squeezed the long bone of his arm. “But I felt safer with you around. I didn’t know who you were, but you came running when you heard a screaming woman in a dangerous part of town.” “I did what anyone would do.” “No, not anyone would. Not alone, not like that.” He didn’t know what to say. He had just gone into that alley, not knowing what was happening. He just knew someone needed help, and he was close enough to answer the call. She tugged on his chin, and looked deep into his eyes. He didn’t move, he didn’t dare dream. Didn’t dare to presume. Anything else now would be taking advantage of a woman in distress., but Sophia didn’t slow. She kept staring longingly into his eyes. *Don’t* he thought, but she closed her eyes, and puckered her lips. Something told him it wasn’t right, that she was too good for him, that she was too vulnerable, but he didn’t move to stop her. Her lips had just grazed his boney grin when the door burst open, and Sophia jumped her head back in surprise, but still held onto his arm. It was Ampersand. He rolled into their apartment playing a brassy drumroll with a victory trumpet on his speakers. He had cleaned out the other people at the table and was carrying two bags full of lady luck gifted money. He waved the bags in the air, ecstatic, when he noticed the other two sharing the chaise lounge. Scully wasn’t sure if he'd seen the kiss, but Ampersand was frozen still while staring at them. Sophia was the first to break the ice. “Nice haul, Amp,” she said. Ampersand nodded his head, and made a happy whirring noise. The robot looked quizzically at the bags of money then. “He doesn’t know what to spend it on,” said Scully with a chuckle. “I could go for a drink,” said Sophia. “Feel like buying me a drink Amp?” The robot nodded enthusiastically and strolled back down the stairs. “You’re really coming down?” asked Scully. “Why not,” she said, smiling at him. The trio took spots back at the bar. Sophia was the only one of them that could actually drink, but Buddy joined them and drank along with her. She never let go of Scully’s arm.

Five stones stood beneath the peach tree. Fallen petals floated on the wind. &#x200B; In our valley beneath the sun, where the wind whispered and birdsong coloured the air, the ground was ever fruitful. Flowers bloomed in the spring, and scented the breeze with sweet jasmine. Uncle Benkei worked in the field as we played amongst the grass, and our infancy was filled with love. Our mother and father were taken by a sickness when I was too young to know them, so uncle Benkei brought me and my sister Sakura into his home and raised us as his own. For five years uncle Benkei taught us how to work the land, tending rice fields once nurtured by our grandfather, and his grandfather before him. &#x200B; On the eve of my seventh birthday, once the sun began to set behind the western ridge, and the fireflies spoke softly in the failing light, uncle Benkei upheld his promise to me, and began instructing me in the ways of combat. Although I was not as naturally gifted with a sword as others my age had been, he sensed the hunger in me. 'Be a rock.' he would say. 'No matter the wind. No matter the rain. No matter the opponent. A rock is unyielding.' I longed more than anything to make him proud. He was tough, uncompromising, and formidable. But he was all that I had, and I loved him dearly. &#x200B; For uncountable nights, we trained beneath the watchful stars of the moonlit sky. My fingers would bleed, and my feet would slip in the mud. But uncle Benkei never gave up on me. When at last I became seventeen, he bestowed upon me that which was always meant to be mine. The sword of my father. 'If you accept this blade, you make a promise.' he said. 'With it you will protect your family, your home, and your honour. Appear strong when you are weak. Appear weak when you are strong. Be kind to those who need it. Be merciful to the defeated. Choose wisdom over anger.' I made my promise. I was ready. &#x200B; Two winters passed, and as the trees began to wake, uncle Benkei fell gravely ill. The sickness that once stole my parents had returned to the valley. It was unmerciful, and many perished by its hand. Sakura cared for uncle as I worked the rice field. He was ever a rock as he had been in battle, and clung to life when all others around him succumbed. Though he eventually recovered, he was never again able to stand. That summer, they came. &#x200B; Beyond the mountains to the north, from the region of waring clans, death marched relentlessly towards us. Oda Nobunaga - a cruel daimyo who sought to unite the country under a fist of blood - sensed an opportunity with our grief stricken valley, and set upon us in the night with cruel intentions. Legions of soldiers, lead by Oda on a campaign of death, slaughtered dozens of innocents as they tended to their sick and dying. Against Oda's minions of cruelty the villagers never stood a chance. Without strength to move, uncle Benkei was unable to fight, and he was forced to take shelter with Sakura behind our house. I stood affirmed and ready, awaiting my destiny in the jasmine field. &#x200B; From the darkness of the trees, two shadows took form. Swords were drawn. I became a rock. We danced together among a flurry of slashes, and our blades sang in the moonlight. Uncle Benkei danced through me, and my opponents found rest among the jasmine. &#x200B; The valley was laid waste. Our farms were destroyed. There was no life for us here anymore. I returned to the house to search for Sakura and uncle Benkei. &#x200B; I found them. &#x200B; I surrendered my fathers sword to the flames. I had broken my promise. &#x200B; Seven stones stand beneath the peach tree. Fallen petals float on the wind.

We are somewhere behind them, our vantage point two hundred meters above and to their right. We are hiding within a small grove of fir trees with tired branches all droopy with their burdens of snow. The Instructor has his back to a sheer cliff face and is quietly talking to about five others, his arms gesturing this way and that, with around a thousand metres of bounce and screaming plummet below them. We had come up the mountain to check out reports of strange activity by a group of extreme sports enthusiasts and hadn’t expected to hit the jackpot such as we had. The Instructor was elusive and notorious and cloaked in an alluring mysticism. He was classically handsome, tall with dark hair and the kind of charisma which history has proven can either work miracles or create a shit-storm of imbalance and suffering. He had recently come back from India and Tibet where he had studied with several renowned masters for a decade or more. There was mention of wild, esoteric practices which culminated at death in ‘Rainbow Bodies’-a rare feat attesting to the practitioner's high, enlightened state. Second to this, but still indicative of a an advanced Yogi, was when the corpse shrunk to the size of a small child, or even to the extent only hair and teeth remained to testify to a once corporeal existence. Some sources invoked Milarepa, saying the instructor had been invited into the elite ranks of his current lineage. Milarepa was a tenth century Tibetan Mystic who, after renouncing a life as a Black Magician, achieved such a level of otherworldly enlightenment he was commonly seen by villagers flying around the snow capped mountains, sometimes in tandem with his beautiful and equally adept consort, ‘The Sky Dancer.’ When the instructor returned he opened a meditation centre and imparted a teaching he called ‘Falling Upwards.’ The gist of it from what I can tell, is that the only thing which stops us from ‘flying’ metaphorically and, in the advanced stages literally, is our erroneous beliefs regarding the nature of our ‘True Being.’ Who we really are-Eternal, Weightless, Omniscient Spirit-both composes the substance of matter whilst remaining ever free and independent from it. Falling upwards is the recognition of this and, according to The Instructor, a process of Deep Surrender which blesses every moment with Presence and a Yielding, Openness of Heart. I am a simple, easy going cop and one blessed with a beautiful wife and two great kids. I am old school which means I can eat five donuts at a time and drink you under the table and take orders without questions and, yeah, I’d willingly take a bullet for my chief, or any one of my brothers or sisters on the force. I know...a bit cliche'd, right? But true enough, anyway. I guess what I am saying is this guy impressed me. In almost twenty years as a cop I have seen more death and destruction than I care to remember; gruesome accidents and domestic shootings and stabbings and terrible fires and the like and most of it gets pushed deep down and covered over by regular card nights spent tipping the whisky...and to be honest I don’t need that excuse anymore and for sometime I am carrying a flask of vodka and lime juice around to keep things nice and jolly with the odd nip or two. So when this guy came along I took an interest-watching him on community t.v. speaking to halls packed with wide-eyed people and he lit me up with his words and the calm and gentle way about him. If that’s all he ever did and he hadn’t ventured into all this ‘falling upwards’ stuff with the weird spheres, I wouldn’t have been placed in this situation knowing I might have to arrest the guy-with due force if it came to that. And something inside me felt sick and repulsed by the idea. Like, who wants to shoot Jesus? But I am a career cop, first and foremost and The Instructor was breaking any number of health and safety regulations as he enticed his followers into these fleshy bubble contraptions and rolled them off steep inclines and precipices. He had attracted some attention from the law-including the F.B.I-but to date he remained free as a bird with no conclusive evidence to convict him of any serious crimes. At first it was novel and the only notoriety he received was from appearances on the local news slotted in after the weather and near the end where the cute animal stories usually appeared. Then, during its trial days, the sphere’s were intriguing and were filmed rolling gently down grassy slopes as well as the odd, beginners ski range. In the talks I heard him give he never mentioned the 'Falloons' or ‘Light Spheres’ as he called them. At first he only spoke about Love and Peace and the usual stuff these guys roll out as they herd up a congregation of suckers and poor, suffering fools. Later he spoke about the human nervous system and how to release traumatic contractions in the muscles and body in general. When a steady inward focus lit up areas of dark tension within the mind and body, energies trapped for eons came home into the light and were freed leaving a more refined physical and auric body. It was an alchemic process, he said, where presence contacts the dross of matter, transmuting it back into the pure, golden light of consciousness. There was always something enigmatic about The Instructor and rumours abounded of him disappearing from view and suddenly reappearing again within locked rooms; or levitating with a softly lit hum within full view of a room full of people. Although he was said to have an inner circle of elite students, he went to pains to instruct whoever felt drawn to him and was hiring increasingly larger halls to accomodate this need. He was gentle, peaceful, charming and yet so powerful if you looked too long into his eyes you felt like a big semi was rumbling towards you on a tight, dark road with the big, bright lights and waves of earth shaking energy. Or so I've been told! These were the things which, as we were about to run out into the open and possibly shoot the guy, crossed my mind in slow, frowning disapproval. I look across at my chief, his face a mask of relaxed concentration, deep in the zone like an athlete awaiting the gun’s sharp report. ‘Chief’ I whisper, ‘let’s go!’ ‘Wait’, murmurs the chief, wait...’ I look for that little tell the chief has when he is about to order us into action; the faintest trace of a smile comes across his face and his eyes flip up and out like a horse whipped into a lurching stride. He was older than me, in his late forties, and given to outbreaks of tubbiness. He hated this sort of field work and as I regarded him I couldn’t help smiling with a great, brotherly affection. ‘Goooo!!’ he yells and the two of us begin to run in cartoon slowness towards the instructor and his group; despite wearing snowshoes our feet and ankles disappear into the soft, heavy powder. We'd talked about this and the chief said if he or others got into a Falloon we were to shoot, but only at the instructor and wide to his right so as to avoid hitting him or those clumped to his left. The chief hoped this would spook them long enough so we could stumble forward and get to them in time. ‘Stop’ I yelled, ‘police.’ The instructor looked up at us and said something to the group. It came out later he said casually, ‘okay, there are four Falloons and six of us. One is mine and so may I suggest...’ at this point we could see him pointing at the group, ‘Brad, Linda and Kim perhaps?’ What we saw was, with one hundred metres to go, Brad, Linda and Kim getting into their Falloons as the remaining two ran away to the left where the mountain sloped gently down to a thicket of pine trees. The instructor, poised to enter the unusual craft, calmly watched us approaching like we were part of a children’s game of hide and seek or tag the rabbit. ‘Stop Police’, yelled the chief, ‘or we will fire!’ Three more laborious steps and the chief let a whizzing bullet go just to the left of The Instructor. ‘To the right, chief’ I yelled, ‘remember?’ ‘Shit’ muttered the chief as he puffed and heaved his way forward. We were now only fifty metres away from the instructor and his Falloon. The others were within theirs and adhered to their seats presumably awaiting The Instructor to do the same. The Instructor leant against his Falloon and casually gazed up with a beaming smile towards the blue sky as if in appreciative measure of its endless possibilities. We were close now and I could see the spheres in some detail; they throbbed and sweated and glowed in the sun like living things; they seemed to breath and tremble slightly with a hard to describe vibrancy. The crafts-if you could call them that-were designed to withstand the extreme violence of very high drops and descents. They literally bounced down mountains, ping-ponging off huge rock walls and cliff faces and flying high through the air as they bounced and rebounded this way and that. I have seen footage of The Instructor ride one down a steep, dry river bed from about fifteen hundred metres up. He was laughing and slapping his thigh like he were riding a huge bull in a rodeo. I watched amazed as the central 'cockpit' sphere remained suspended in a motionless freeze while the two outer balls rolled in a smooth ballet of synchronic, alternating rotations. We discovered later during an autopsy of a Falloon, that they were made of hi-tech, state of the art material which The Instructor designed and produced with the help of two of his friends-one a scientist specialising in nano-technology, and the other a famous engineer. The material was soft, skin like and yet virtually puncture proof when inflated. The Instructor outsourced the construction of the Falloons via tech savvy geniuses he found on the web. The Falloons were based on the concept of ‘Chinese dolls’ and consisted of three balls of descending size with the smallest in the centre housing a clear, see through chair which held the occupant firmly to it with three interlocking straps of the same material. The seat was seamlessly joined to the floor of the inner bubble which was designed to remain still while the outer two moved in opposite directions as the force of impact was absorbed and nullified. The sphere’s entrance was sealed from the inside by the press of the second remote button-imagine if a flap of translucent skin could be welded shut-but silently and minus all the heat and sparks, that’s what it looks like. The outer ball then lifted to its optimal expansion and gave a small, quivering jolt when the process was completed. We were close now-around thirty metres or so-when the instructor gave a small gesture of his hand and the three Falloons began to roll slowly forward towards the precipice. A wind had picked up and snow dust swirled around the spheres as, one by one, they sort of floated like hovercrafts buoyed by light towards the mountains edge. ‘Stop’ we yelled together, ‘or we WILL SHOOT!’ As the three spheres rolled casually down towards the plunging drop, I got a good look at the occupants and they were grinning like they were at the inching, clattering beginnings of a wild roller coaster ride. Then, as the spheres disappeared quietly over the edge, The Instructor gave his Falloon a slight nudge with the back of his heal, sending it into a slow, powdery spin in the same, terminal direction. He then performed a slick, backwards moon-dance before saluting, about facing and running towards the vast horizon of cold, blue sky into which he joyfully soared before dissapearing down, down into the stark abyss of emptiness and bright, snow reflected light. As he began to run the chief raised his gun but I put my hand across his arm and lowered it towards the ground. The chief gave me a look but I placed my hand on the middle of his back and just shook my head, my eyes damp with exertion and emotion. The strange thought occurred to me that all these guys were doing was just having a little fun. When He reappeared seconds later, hovering in full lotus and gifting us with a look of such Unconditional Love...the chief, never a man given to piety, collapsed to his knees in the wet snow and prayed like falling upwards was the most holy and blessed thing one could ever aspire to do.

Well, that was dramatic. Perhaps I should take you back to the buildup of the current situation. Precisely one hundred and twenty minutes ago when Tristan and Adley Griffin had their most contentious fight after being married only seventeen hours. You see... it all started on Wednesday afternoon, yes, these two married on a Tuesday but that is not the point. Tristan wanted to surprise Adley with some news, news that he was very excited about and thought she would be too but alas, she was not. Tristan walked in the door, holding a medium-sized cardboard box with Christmas wrapping paper... in June. Now, I’m not one to judge but I could see as soon as Adley approached the threshold from the kitchen she did not seem impressed. Tristan looked happy to see his very new wife, he kissed her cheek and handed her the box to which she started impassively. It was as if Adley was waiting on some kind of explanation, the suspense was killing me waiting to find out what the problem was. “Open it,” Tristan said eagerly. She let out a sigh, not the good kind though as she peeled off the very terrible wrapping. Inside was no better, nor was Adley’s face as she pulled out Christmas themed socks with her face all over them. Yes, it was bad, very bad. Bright red socks against Adley’s glorious blonde hair was not the gift she hoped from her husband. “Isn’t it cool?” He asked. No, Tristan, it was not cool. “You bought socks with my face on them?” Adley asked. “No, I brought the business that makes them!” He said. Oh boy. “I hope you’re kidding.” “No babe, this is legit. It’s a real business.” “Tristan goddam Griffin, you made me get married at Kentucky Fried Chicken for christ sake and yet you brought a business? You couldn’t even afford the potato and gravy! Who doesn’t have potato and gravy with their chicken?” “It’s four dollars a tub babe, stop being selfish.” At this point, I could literally see steam coming off of Adley. “We couldn’t afford a real wedding, but you can afford a business?” “No, well yes, but that isn’t the only reason we got married at KFC. I love chicken, and it was their cheap Tuesday how could I say no to that?” “We have eaten there every Tuesday for five years, we could have missed one week!” “No!” Tristan gasped. I think Adley had crossed some invisible line made of processed chicken. “I have had KFC, every single Tuesday since I could chew food. You know how important that is to me.” “If it’s so important to you then maybe you should have married the bloody chicken!” “Maybe I should have.” “I’m leaving!” Adley yelled. “Good!” As I was saying, things got a little... heated... and I’m not just talking about the chicken. Adley stormed off to the bedroom which was approximately eight long steps from the kitchen and began packing a bag while Tristan sat at the dining table staring at the socks with what appeared to be sadness. I personally had no idea what made Tristan so inclined to buy a business that plastered Adley’s face on socks but here the newlywed couple were exasperated, vexed and I was sure another hundred other synonyms could have been used but there weren’t enough hours in a year. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any weirder, they did indeed. Adley walked out with the bag I mentioned that she was packing, still storming through their home. She stood at the door, staring at Tristan with a look that could kill if they could kill. Tristan stood up and tried to reciprocate her glare but all he could manage was to look like an adorable puppy. “I’m going to stay at Bertha’s house,” Adley said. It seemed Tristan was a gasper since he let out yet another gasp but this time it was with horror rather than offence. “You’re choosing a Bertha over me? She’s a fucking vegan.” He said absolutely mortified “She wouldn’t have chosen chicken over me.” “She hugs trees, Adley! Like literally hugs them and thanks them for their service.” Okay, this is getting more bizarre by the second. “So?” “I’m losing my mind here babe. Bertha is weird and you’re mad over socks.” “I’m actually mad about the potato and gravy. Goodbye.” And so Adley got into her tiny little car and drove to Bertha’s house and for approximately fourteen minutes she stayed there. She drank her tea a little too quickly, staring at her phone, completely ignoring poor Bertha who was talking incessantly about trees. Perhaps Tristan wasn’t wrong about Bertha, but let’s not lose focus. After burning her mouth with the tea, two bathroom breaks and one hundred and eleven phone checks later--just kidding, she never put it down. Adley got back into her car and drove home to the man she loved. When Adley walked through the door, she found Tristan sitting at the table where she left him. Staring at his phone the way she was, he was even drinking tea just as she was. The romance of it all had her heart throbbing, she stared at this handsome man whom she married only yesterday and decided their marriage wasn’t worth ending over potato and gravy. “Tristan,” she whispered. He looked up and saw the love of his - odd - life standing there so beautifully and walked over to her. They didn’t speak, for a long moment, they just gazed into each other’s eyes and lusted for one another. Eventually, Tristan found the words he wanted to say. “Do you accept my socks?” “Yes, I accept your socks. I’m sorry, baby.” “I’m sorry too.” “You are the sexiest, wildest most incredible woman I have ever met Adley. I love you.” “And you, baby, are a spunk, a hunk the love in my junk.” “You’re so sexy when you rhyme.” And that my friends, is an apology... that I never wish to receive. Adley and Tristan then locked themselves in each other’s arms and ate, I mean kissed, each other. Deeply, passionately and a little scary if I am being honest. They - literally - ran the full eight steps which equated to three runs to the bedroom and had even weirder sex than I thought possible. Their passionate three-minute love-making session had come to an exhaustive end as the happy couple laid with a lot of sweat on their bodies for a hundred and twenty-second sex session. “That was... amazing, Tristan,” Adley said. Really? Because I feel like there is room for improvement. “You were an animal baby,” he said with a wink. Well, he was not wrong, she was very animal-like. I believe at around forty seconds in, she made the noise an elephant does. “I think that was your longest time yet. God, I’m so hungry after that workout.” Oh come on guys, you’re doing my job for me here. Really? This is terrible. “Want to get KFC? I’ll even get you your potato and gravy.” “Really? But it’s not Tuesday.” “You’re worth the extra six bucks, baby.” “How did I ever get so lucky? I love you so much, babe.” I wasn’t sure if luck had anything to do with it or if these two were born on a whole other planet far, far away from earth. They drove together to KFC and sure enough, Adley got her potato and gravy. I watched, holding back vomit as they licked the chicken grease off of each other’s fingers instead of using the wet wipes provided. According to their Tuesday history over the last five years, they made out in the parking lot before going home as they had every other time. They made love again too, I think Adley even invented a new animal noise somewhere in there too. Anyway, like I said... that, was dramatic. The End...

No matter how hard he tries, Madoc still couldn't manage to fit in with the Goya family. Despite his relationship with Wesley being in a good place, he hasn't managed to reach the same level of eccentricity it takes to fit into his family. They were loud, out-spoken, brazen, and weird. Every reason was part of why he loved them all so much. From an outside perspective, the Goya family was a regular Addams family, but to him, they were the family he always wished he had growing up. So when the biggest family event arrives, Madoc knows the best way to prove that he truly belongs in the family is to win the trophy. This was an annual tradition that dates back years, and no one in the family can agree on just who started it. "What has you in such a thoughtful mood?" Wesley asks. He had returned from his snack run to find Madoc gazing at the lawn musingly, which in certain places would make sense, but Wesley had specifically chosen a boring patch of grass to picnic on. "Just trying to figure out how I'm supposed to know which ball is mine." Searching for a croquet ball wasn't what he thought his boyfriend meant when he said they had to find their weapon of choice. "It's a bit like adopting a pet," Wesley explains, setting a little wicker basket down in front of Madoc before plopping down next to him. "Oh, they aren't sentient," he hurries to explain. Madoc's look of panic recedes to one Wesley interprets as interest. "They're animated and all, but they don't have feelings." "You hit animated objects around a field..." He barely makes it out of the way of an oncoming blur that whirls past him. "What was that?!" Madoc looks up to see a croquet ball lodged in a tree. "Please tell me that one isn't mine..." "Aw, you got chosen first!" Wesley plucks the croquet ball from the tree and wrestles it into the crook of his arm. "A competitive one, too!" "That one's really mine..?" He stares at the ball. The last thing he wanted was crazed sports equipment trying to behead him. He carefully takes it from Wesley. "This feels more like it will kill me..." The croquet ball goes still the moment it's in Madoc's hands. "See?" Wesley says. "It's yours!" "Yay..." Madoc stares at it. And just like that, he thought this would be the weirdest moment of his day. He was wrong. The field was a simple assortment of grass, grass, and more grass. The occasional tree would provide an obstacle for the croquet balls to shoot through - or into if they were like Madoc's ball. He watches as the ball once again looped around a tree before finally going through the appropriate wickets. To add to his frustration, he had to listen to Wesley's Uncle Wilder bragging about how it was his wife Trio that came up with the game, to begin with. "Uncle Wilder is a liar," Wesley's sister Meadow says mildly. "Everyone but him accepts that Aunt Trio is terrible at all things sports," Wesley agrees. "Though I don't really have a leg to stand on," he sighs, watching as his croquet ball ambles through the tall reedy grass on a mission only it knows. Madoc yelps when his croquet ball leaps back around and nearly beheads him ... again. "I don't see why that one has to be mine..." He sighs. "Then who did make up the came?" "I'm telling you," Wilder interjects, walking up with a croquet mallet over his shoulder. "Trio was the one that made it up. She was seventeen and - honey, tell them the story," he encourages, nudging his wife. "I was seventeen," Trio says grandly, her croquet bat nestled in her arms like an awkward baby. "It was summertime, and all my peers were bored..." Wesley shoots Madoc a pained look. "I was something of a leader then," Trio says, her tone confiding. "So, of course, it was only natural that I took charge. 'Family,' I said, 'it is a beautiful day, why don't we go out and explore the grounds?'" "And explore they did," Wilder said proudly, taking her hand and kissing it. "We were at this very spot when I suggested we come up with our very own game," Trio continues, beaming at her husband. "I insisted we use croquet balls, and here we are!" Madoc found the easiest way to deal with the Goya family was to agree with all of them. So he did. And then, when they finally go to the end of the field and finally got to let the evil little croquet ball go, he found that the next stage in the game was to swim across the lake. The lake that the family's pet alligator tended to lurk. An idea that didn't fill him with much confidence. But it was either continue with the game or listen to Clo talk about how she was the one who came up with the game. Not her sister Trio. "Swim away," Violet, Clo's youngest daughter, advises. "Mom won't shut up for at least an hour." He should have taken her advice. Clo's next comment was about how she made up the game after getting into a race with Strawberry - the family's pet alligator. "So you see, I took off swimming as fast as I could because I was still unsure about the relationship between us and was fairly sure that he was going to eat me." She laughs, a cross between a cackle and a snort. "And then I made it to the other side, found a croquet ball, and then that's when I thought, 'hey, this should be a game.' So you see how it was me." "How dare you!" Trio cries. "Strawberry would never chase anyone, and even if he did, you wouldn't have been able to outswim him!" By the time that argument ended, and the sisters were yelling at each other, Madoc decided it was a better idea to jump into the lake. By the time he made it to the other side without drowning - though a slight incident halfway through nearly gave Wesley a heart attack, and now Madoc has proof that his boyfriend will come to save him - he felt like a monster that came out of a swamp. "Whoever came up with this part should pay," Wesley says darkly, shaking himself off like a dog. Muck goes flying but not enough to make much difference. "Well, if they ever decide who actually did it..." Madoc grumbles. He was starting to think impressing Wesley's family was a dead end. "I honestly doubt it was anyone still alive," Wesley says, coming over to swipe at Madoc's clothes. "Most of our inventors don't live long." "Then why does everything think they made it up?" His question receives an answer from Wesley's great aunt Euphemia. "Because they all want credit for my idea," she insists. "I remember it from decades ago. We were playing this with our parents, and well, we didn't have a gator then, but our cousin would chase after us with a stick, so that was pretty close." "Now that I believe," Wesley says. "Too much sense," Meadow says, giving her great aunt a skeptical look. "How did you come up with the idea?" "Easy, we were whacking balls - tennis, I believe it was at the time - and then we started to race. Had a wild hair and took a leap into the lake." Euphemia was proud of her answer, so Madoc wanted to believe her. "I really want to believe you, great aunt Euphemia, but..." Violet glances at Wesley for help. "But it just seems so unlike you to be wild like that," Wesley says quickly. Thankfully they didn't get to hear the end as the bell rang for them to race through the obstacle course. In hindsight, Madoc should have predicted that it would be a series of strange and unusual activities. He also should have predicted that he was dead last when Ferry - Wesley's grandmother and matriarch of the family - started walking with him. But her encouragement was infectious. "What a fun game!" Ferry enthuses. "Thank you so much for running with me, dear." "Thanks... Though I lost..." And made a fool of himself in front of the entire family. "There will always be winners and losers," Ferry says. "What's important is, did you enjoy yourself?" "... Sure." Madoc rubs his arms. He felt like he was a walking swamp and felt humiliated, but he didn't see the point in telling her the whole ordeal. "Though I can't find Wesley." "Oh, didn't you hear? Wesley fell in a hole!" Ferry shakes her head. "These kids and their pitfalls." "What?" Madoc practically shouts. "What hole?!" "You know," Ferry says, gesturing over her shoulder. "One of those." Madoc groans. What was with the holes? "I don't understand how anyone could have thought up this game." "Oh, you can thank my dad's dad's dad for this," Ferry says helpfully. "My grandpa always used to say his grandpa was a prankster and a half!" "And so he made up this whole game?" Madoc asks, gesturing around him. "Believe it or not, this is simple compared to what he and his brothers did. A single game took three days to play!" Madoc didn't even want to think about three days of this. "Thanks for toning it down..." "You're welcome!" Ferry grins. "Now, maybe you should go find your man?"

Richard had ignored the signs. His had been a demise that crept upon him slowly, his self-worth stolen in the lonely work hours, validation kept from him at home. If it wasn’t the expectations of his career peeling back the last of his resolve, it was his high-strung wife with her exhaustive demands. She taxed him to the brink of collapse. His three children had pushed him to the edges of bankruptcy with their private schools, designer clothes, and rehab stints. He loved them, but they had drifted from his reach, caught in the rip current of daily activities. His life had faltered, picked up momentum, and now lay in utter ruins as he rifled through the paperwork the nurse handed him. “It will be okay, Mr. Darden,” she lingered with eye contact, forcing a faint smile. “I know. It has to be,” he muttered unintelligibly, “there must be a way to right things.” When he stepped outside, the sun’s glare, which normally accosted his sensibilities, held him in its warmth. The hospital grounds were steeped in green hues, awakening his senses, the air rife with smells, fragrant and sweet. For the first time in many days, no months, he felt a connection to the ordered flow of nature, on the cusp of an infinite understanding. Then he glanced downward, the paperwork stark in its finality. He bit his lip, tasting the metallic bitterness, the one tangible sign that he was still alive. “Pancreatic cancer,” he said the words aloud, as if putting them to sound might help make sense of it. The discouragement and despair funneled into a sudden anger. He grasped for a way back to that time before his death sentence. It had to be a misunderstanding; they confused the lab results with someone else. He was in his prime, a recent promotion to Director-level, the possibility of realigning his finances, and now it was being stripped from him, not slowly, but in a quick rage. His diagnosis was unfathomable. It wasn’t a solid wall he was pinned against. The denial was amorphous, wrapping its arms around him from all angles. “How could I have only two to three weeks left?” The question went unanswered. He knew he was asking a ghost. Richard teetered, his balance being swept up in the movement of passer-byers, the chirpings of the mockingbirds. He sat with a spinning heaviness on the vacant bench, feeling his inner reserves collapsing, surveying his options in his mind’s eye. It was too much to sustain, and he cradled his forehead in the palms of his tired hands. He could feel a tear, one at first, followed by many rolling down the inside of his cheek, skirting his nose and the corners of his lips. They raced a hurried path to the edges of his chin where he watched the saline drops fall into the Bermuda grass below. His body rocked to the rhythm of the release, a cathartic movement. In his concentrated focus, Richard hadn’t felt the presence of his bench companion, and he was jarred back into the present by her question, a soft utterance, “You’re trying to find the perfect thing to bargain, aren’t you?” He slipped his palms over his eyes, wiping away the errant tears. He was afraid to meet her gaze. “I am willing to trade anything, at this point,” he said, slowly turning to face this stranger with the gentleness in her voice. She stared straight ahead, her hand reaching to tame the hem of her white dress as it fluttered with the insolent breeze. She sighed, not from exasperation, but an empathetic exhale. “It’s natural to think you can buy your way out of this fix. There are all those sayings you grow up with like ‘where there’s a will, there’s a way.’ Or ‘never give up.’ ‘Perseverance pays off.’ I can go on and on,” her thoughts trailed into the silence. She tucked the dress under her knee, reigning in the difficulties, yanking away the flirtation of the breeze. Richard averted the truth, “I mean, you know it can happen. You hear about friends of friends who get cancer or MS or have that unexpected heart attack, but you never think it will be you. It can’t be me. I haven’t even started living yet,” he raised his eyebrows with the ponderance, “Meg and I were supposed to take all these grand trips once the kids were through college. I’ve been mired in work for decades with the thought that there would be a payoff in retirement, and maybe even an early one of that.” He sat up straight, a conviction flowing through him, “I will do anything, anything to change it. I’ll go to church. I’ll volunteer. I’ll make amends with my kids,” pausing he continued, “And Meg. I’ll make her happy. I’ll adopt a dog, or a child, yes, a child. I’ll take in a homeless person. I’ll do whatever it takes.” His steadfastness warped into a frantic anguish, his voice tilting into desperation, “I’ll admit to all my sins, the ones known and unknown. I’ll change. I’ll be a better person...I’ll never take anything or anyone for granted again. I won’t. I promise.” His voice receded into the blank nothingness; his pleas fading alongside his vision of himself. She let her hand rest on his knee. Her tone, caring and pure, she urged, “Live fully with no regrets. Enjoy the way ice cream tastes and how sweet the melody is in your favorite song. Laugh at the simple observations your kids make, and revel in the kindnesses that abound. Don’t waste any more time. There is no space for grieving yourself.” Richard shook his head with acknowledgment and closed his eyes, allowing the tenderness of her advice and touch to wash over him. For a moment, he felt whole. Once steadied in his thoughts, he said, “I needed someone to show me another way to accept my failings. I needed someone to listen.” Glancing to his right, the bench was empty, as if she had never been there. Richard swiveled to see behind him, raising to a half stand, his bent leg resting on the bench. He looked back and forth quickly and turned around, surmising he would see her disappearing in the distance, but she was gone. “Where did she go?” he whispered, struck by the seeming elusiveness. He could still smell the scent of her perfume. Lowering himself back on the bench, Richard reached into the inside pocket of his sports coat, and pulled out the scratch-off lottery ticket that he had purchased at the gas station on his morning drive. He half-chuckled at himself, toying with the possibility that lightning could strike twice in a single day. With a penny that felt gritty in between his fingers, he carefully rubbed away the grey coating. The small flecks stuck to the card and his hand, as he shook it away. For the second time in a span of hours, he sat motionless, shaking the card and looking at it again, bringing it close to his field of vision. “You unlucky bastard! There is no way!” he laughed a hearty laugh, scanning the grounds with the hope of seeing his disappearing friend. His focus fell on the cherry willow, weighted in white blossoms. It labored in the gust of wind, its wispy branches shifting then returning to their natural bent. He wished he could share his newfound windfall, but only misery loves company, and she was long departed. Instead, his gaze alighted on a young female, holding her newborn, as she was being pushed to a waiting vehicle. They looked serene in their passage to the life that awaited. Richard instinctively jumped up and ran toward them, his bargaining complete. “Please take this and do something good, something beautiful, something you’ll be proud of,” he implored. She struggled to understand the exchange and the ticket he had handed her. She clutched her infant closely to her chest and eyed the gift. Sprinting away, Richard turned back and playfully yelled, “Remember this moment, remember me!” His legs carried him across the open lawn toward the parking lot, chasing a realization, a shred of happiness still within grasp. He tore into his dark blue Lexus, and sped toward the main thoroughfare, intent to get home to share his profound news. His family mattered; they were the only thing that mattered. Weaving in and out of traffic, delicate maneuvers to spare time, he dialed the office. “Yes, Charlie’s line please,” he stammered to the annoying receptionist, the one who always clicked her teeth and twirled the ends of her hair. “Charlie! Hey - it’s me Rich. This request, well it’s not really a request, I won’t, well you see, I’m taking the next two weeks off from work. I know, I know, it’s last minute, but it’s got to be done, and you’ll understand. It will all make sense soon. No, it can’t wait. You’ll see - trust me. You’ve been great, swell, I’m not sure of the right word, but thank you,” and he let the call disconnect. The commute afforded him twenty minutes to mull over his approach, torn between telling them the truth about his illness, or offering them a two-week vacation to San Francisco. He had always wanted to visit northern California, to feel the chilled air walking along the pier, exploring the myriad neighborhoods on their slanted streets, the smells of sea and city-life combined. Would it be fair to keep his secret? They could persist in the experience of something new, together and without the confines of his prognosis. Pulling into the driveway, he shut off the engine, looking up at the façade of his Colonial-style house. His heart tugged at the innumerable times he failed to notice the enormity of what he had, and the larger scope of what he had to lose. A light in the upstairs bedroom was extinguished. The quiet of the evening beckoned, a solitude in knowing the inevitable loomed. Once inside, Richard shouted, “I'm home!” The gathered silence broke into distant murmurings and grumbles. “Hey, everyone come down here. It’s important. We need to talk as a family,” he let the words tumble out with a forced positivity, a weakening bravado. He sat down at the kitchen bar uncertain how he would tell them, if he could tell them, flipping the message in his mind, wondering how they would react to his mortality. Maura, his youngest and sole daughter, would be depleted yet resilient. She was daddy’s girl, the one he could count on in the worst of situations. Drake would be despondent, but it would blend with his normal angst. Dylan was the wild card, the eldest son who was dutiful in his support. Meg would be a quiet disaster, and he realized how much he loved her. “What’s up, Dad?” Maura bounced into the room with her resilience. Meg came from the laundry room with a folded basket of clothes, as Drake leaned in the entryway of the kitchen. “Dylan!” bellowed Richard. “Coming, Dad,” he shouted back, simultaneously appearing next to Drake. “This better be good,” said Meg, tiring of holding the basket. Richard took a deep breath and relaxed into a smile, a sad optimism in the words that followed, “I have something to tell you.”

I have Bipolar 1. There, I said it. It’s not something I usually talk about very much. I’m private about it because it’s something I really struggle with, and sometimes, I’m even embarrassed about it. Especially the times that I’m manic. But I’m not always manic- in fact, Bipolar has many different faces. For those of you who don’t know, there are three basic states you can be in when you have Bipolar 1: depressed, stable, or manic. Technically you can be hypomanic, too, which is a state of near-mania that is usually characterized by Bipolar 2, but the condition wears the same face as mania. Two of the states- mania and depression- are bad for different reasons. With mania comes irresponsible, life-changing decisions and high impulsivity. Mania is toxic to the brain and can cause someone to ruin their own life, but while you’re manic, you feel like you’re on top of the world. Depression brings with it suicidal ideations, feelings of hopelessness, and a deep despair that eats into the soul. It was the end of April. I had had a rough go of it recently due to my manic episode in September and my subsequent depression in the following months. I had been absolutely crippled by this depression largely because of my mania. I had done so many things I was ashamed of, made so many decisions I regretted, but at the time I had been so happy and carefree. The months after that were spent picking up the pieces of the destruction I had left in my wake. Now, though, it was almost summer. My summer classes would begin soon and I had work at the funeral home to keep me busy. I had more structure in my life, and things finally started to feel...better. I had recently moved, partly to get away from the ruin I’d left behind, partly for mortuary school. But mostly to get away. I was in a new place, on my own (except for my faithful pug), with a new career path and no friends or family in the area. I felt conflicted because part of me was lonely and nervous- this was the most “adult” I’d ever had to be- but the rest of me was so excited to begin a new life. This, coupled with a new therapist who finally got me on the right medication, helped me level out. I was actually able to experience joy again, this time without being destructive. I could finally put on my Stable Face. I probably should have mentioned this, but when I said that Bipolar has many faces, I meant that literally. At least, in my case. I have three faces I can wear, but they will only look natural if my mood matches the face. For example, if I’m depressed and I try to wear my Stable Face, the flesh will be askew and the skin won’t line up like an ordinary human face. Think of the cockroach alien flesh suit from ‘Men in Black.’ Yeah, not so pretty. But you know what? Bipolar isn’t pretty either. When I’m not using them, I keep my faces in a jar by the door. The little window lets in the perfect amount of sunlight for my faces to get their proper amount of vitamin D without having to actually set them outside. I’m sure the neighbors wouldn’t be pleased about that anyway. My Depressive and Manic Faces floated flaccidly in a mixture of formaldehyde and other preservatives that I managed to sneak home from work. Every year, I would change out the mixture and clean the jar. Tongs in hand, I dangled my Stable Face over the kitchen sink and began to rinse off the chemicals. I made sure to scrub inside and out, especially around the holes for my eyes and inside the nose, because formaldehyde always makes my eyes and nostrils burn. Then, I gently patted it dry with a clean towel and ran my fingers across the loose skin. The brow was not furrowed like the Depressive Face I’d been wearing for so long, and the eye holes weren’t wide and wild like my Manic Face. No, this face was relaxed and at peace. It also wore the slightest hint of a smile, its lips turned up at the edges. I brushed my hair back up into a bun and began to apply my Stable Face. For the first time in forever, it fit perfectly. I gently pasted down the edges to cover the exposed flesh and muscle tissue beneath the skin, then I looked in the mirror and flashed myself a smile. It actually looked genuine, and I could practically feel the endorphins rushing through my body. I added a little makeup, and voila! The perfect face. I looked at my reflection and felt confident and beautiful. I was still admiring myself when I heard a noise. I was in the bathroom, so I didn’t hear the initial click of the jimmied lock, but I did hear the slight creak of the un-oiled hinge on my front door. My ears pricked up, and I heard my pug begin to growl from the entryway. Suddenly, she yelped and bolted into the bathroom with me. I scooped her up and closed the bathroom door with my back against it, heart beginning to race. Someone was in my apartment. I held my breath and tried to keep my dog as quiet as possible. The intruder was rifling through my things, looking for valuables. I cursed myself as I remembered that I’d left my purse right out in the open. After a few minutes passed that seemed more like hours, I finally heard the door shut. I expelled my breath in a heaving sigh and placed my dog back on the ground. She had stopped whining, so that probably meant she couldn’t smell the intruder in the apartment anymore. I peeked around the edge of the bathroom door and into the front room. There was no one. I relaxed a little, stepping out of the bathroom and into the front room to check my purse. Oddly enough, nothing had been stolen out of my wallet. The whole purse was untouched. I furrowed my brow and then had to reposition my forehead to undo it. I went to the front door and, sure enough, the lock had been picked. Shaking my head, I looked down at the small table to my right. On top of it sat my bowl of keys, and on the shelf beneath sat my jar of faces. I mean...face. There was only one. Panicking, I picked up the glass jar and examined it from all sides. Still, there remained only one. My Depressive Face. Someone-the intruder- had stolen my Manic Face, the most dangerous of all my faces. With that face, some serious, serious damage can be done. Now, I’d never had anyone steal my faces before, so I wasn’t sure how this would all play out. Would my face fit on someone else? What would happen if they weren’t manic? How the hell was I going to get it back? I thought hard about who could have possibly wanted to do this to me? The only people in the world that knew about my faces were me and my parents. I racked my brain for any enemies I might have made recently, thinking that maybe someone had come for revenge and instead found something so bizarre they had to take it. But they didn’t take both- just the one. Why? And how did they find out? I was on the verge of frustrated tears. I’d had no visitors for weeks, maybe even months because of the depression I had just gotten out of. And I worried that with the extra fear I was now carrying I might need to slip my Depressive Face back on. I went to the mirror and adjusted my skin. It looked okay. Not perfect, but good enough to pass as a normal woman. I thought about calling the police about the break-in, but what would I tell them about what the intruder stole? I imagined a cop showing up at my house, leaning back with his hands in his pockets and examining my door. “Yup, that lock’s been picked alright. Ain’t much we can do about it since they didn’t steal anything, just get your locks changed,” said the imaginary policeman. I huffed and called a locksmith, then I took my pug and left the apartment to go to the park. I just needed to get out of there for a bit, every second I was in there I felt like I was being watched. I made sure I hid my extra face. Once we were at the park, I read and my dog played, and for a moment, everything was forgotten. That changed when I got back home. It was late in the evening by that time, and I was exhausted from the sun exposure and emotional trauma of the day. I’d just bid the locksmith goodbye as he finished up. I didn’t feel like cooking, so I ordered a pie from Papa’s Pizza for takeout rather than delivery. I’d gotten delivery from there the whole time I was depressed, and I was ready to get off my ass and out of the house, even if I wasn’t fully up to cooking my own food yet. What better way to relax than eating comfort food? I kissed my dog on her forehead the way I always do before I leave the house, even if it’s just for a short while. I triple-checked that the new lock was secured before leaving to pick up my food. Then, I hopped in my car and put on some Zeppelin. I lost myself in the music and drove to the restaurant under a cloudy, darkening sky. When I arrived, I sat in the parking lot so that the song I was listening to could finish, then I got out and slammed the door behind me. My feet crunched on the gravel as I swung open the glass door and entered the establishment. I strolled up to the bored-looking middle-aged man at the register and gave him my name. He looked up at me. “So you’re the special customer Katy was talking about. She loved your tips, man. Shame she was fired,” he said, and reached around to grab my pizza. Gears turned in my head. “Fifteen, even.” Katy. Katy...that was the name that always popped up on my delivery app. She was the girl who had been consistently delivering me pizzas for months now- the only person that could have peeked inside my apartment and seen my faces. It had to be her. “Wait, why was she fired?” I asked slowly, reaching into my purse to fish for my wallet. He shrugged. “Started acting fuckin’ crazy. Kept saying her face was falling off, or something.” I bit my lip and nodded, trying to keep a straight face, no pun intended. I handed him the cash. “Right, right. Did she say where she was going, by any chance?” He shrugged again. “Just home, I guess. Said she didn’t need a job anymore anyway because she just became a millionaire.” I sighed. Classic mania. It all hit too close to home. “Alright,” I said as he gave me change for the twenty, “Where is ‘home,’ then?” The man snorted. “How should I know? I don’t look at employee records.” “Well, could you show them to me?” He rolled his eyes. “Ma’am...” he started. “I’m gonna stop you right there. First of all, I am way too young to be a ‘ma’am.’ Second, you’re gonna show me that record,” I said, acting more confident than I actually felt. This time, he actually laughed. It was more like a hee-haw. “Or what?” I hesitated for a second, then I had an idea. Tearing at the delicate glue that I’d used to paste my face to my head, I ripped off my Stable Face and showed him the raw, pulsating, muscular, exposed, gruesome tissues beneath. Immediately, a wet spot started to form in his jeans. “Rah!” I screamed at him, lunging forward menacingly. Then, he passed out. I admit I had to stifle a giggle as I rearranged my face to the best of my ability. I’d never shown that to anyone except my parents. Focus, I told myself. I walked behind the counter and wandered into the back of the store. The office was the first door on my right down the hallway that led from the kitchen. I approached the file cabinet and opened the top drawer. ‘Financial Statements,’ it read. I closed it. In the second drawer, I found what I was looking for. ‘Employee Records.’ I found Katy’s resume in the ‘Shred’ folder. Her address was listed right at the top. Perfect, now I knew where I needed to go. I left the pizza parlor after repositioning the unconscious man so that he wouldn’t wake up with a kink in his neck. Then, I took my pizza and headed straight to Katy’s, eating in the car along the way. When I got there, there was only one car in the driveway. I hoped she lived alone. I knocked on the door, softly at first, but then louder after there was no answer to the first knock. A light flicked on in the doorway and I heard footsteps approach. Slowly, the door opened, but only just a crack. “What is it? What do you want?” said a gruff female voice. “Katy? It’s me, Isabelle, your best customer. I think you have something of mine?” I heard her gasp on the other side of the door. She paused to consider her next move, then sighed and opened the door fully. It was me. I mean, she was me. It was like looking in a mirror, except the body was different. She had my face, and it was a face I was oh, so familiar with. Wild-eyed and not quite lucid, but damn, it fit her perfectly. “You can come in. Sit over there on that old couch, I’m tossing it tomorrow and buying all new furniture for this place.” I didn’t sit. “Katy, I know you must have a lot going on, but I need my face back,” I said patiently. “Well yeah, this is the busiest I’ve ever been in my life, so I’ll make this quick. Look, it’s not like I wanted to steal your face. I actually never even noticed the jar on your shelf until my own face started to peel off one day. And then I robbed you, and everything changed! Oh, my life is just perfect now! I’m gonna sell the house and buy a big van, you know? Like, the old-fashioned Volkswagen buses? And I’m gonna travel across the country and live off of the land. I’ll be blogging and taking photos the whole time if you want to follow my adventures- after all, it will be your face that makes me famous. Tell you what, we can even split the profits!” She spoke with such genuine zeal and excitement, I couldn’t bear to be the one to tell her that she was just delusional, that it didn’t make sense to buy new furniture for a house she that was planning to sell, that her life didn’t change at all- she did. And now she was about to destroy herself without help. “Katy, listen to me,” I said, formulating a plan in my mind, “I’m gonna make you a promise, okay? If you give me back my face, your life is going to get so much better. And I can take you to a place full of people who will recognize all of your faces, and just how beautiful each of them are. But they have to be your own.” She blinked at me, skeptical. I continued. “Look, bring me your face, the one that fell off.” She shrugged and went to fetch it. When she brought it out and I looked at it, I felt a pang of sympathy. She was so beautiful, yet she couldn’t accept herself. Her flesh had rejected itself. I gently took the face in my hands. It had only been a day, so the fact that she hadn’t preserved it in formaldehyde wasn’t that big of a deal. I would have to tell her about that trick, though. “Now, can you do something for me? It’s not going to be easy, but I need you to trust me, because I’ve stood in your shoes before. I need you to give me back my face, and then you need to face yourself. We’re going to patch you up as best as we can, and then we’re going to go on the most important adventure of your life.” Katy nodded and bit her- my- lip. We went into the bathroom together and I helped her by getting my long fingernails under the edge of the skin to peel off the rest of the face. Once it was off, I sighed with relief, then I folded it up and slipped it into my purse. “Okay. This isn’t going to be perfect, but we’re gonna do our best,” I said. After a half hour of glue and two hours of makeup, she looked reasonable enough to pass as a slightly-deformed woman. By the time I got her to the hospital, I knew that she would be in capable hands and that her face would readjust alongside with her medications over time. The medical staff would probably be baffled. I think she realized what was happening on the car ride over, but she didn’t try to fight me. Deep down, she knew that something was wrong and that she needed all the help she could get. I let her eat the rest of my cold pizza. Once they were ready to take her back, we exchanged a hug and waved goodbye. I slipped her a small piece of paper with my phone number on it. “Sometimes it gets lonely in there, so... Just call anytime.” She smiled genuinely at me as a tear rolled down her own cheek. “Thanks, Isabelle. Things are going to change again, aren’t they?” Her voice cracked. “Yeah, they’re gonna change. But remember when I said that this is the most important adventure of your life. It might be grueling, and sometimes you might even hate it. But it’s a path you’ve gotta take.” Katy nodded. “The most important adventure of my life,” she echoed thoughtfully. I gave her hand one last squeeze before they took her away. I knew we would keep in touch. It’s been a year since Katy stole my face, but in that time, she’s managed to build faces of her own, and I’m proud to say that she’s been wearing her Stable Face consistently for 9 months now. I’ve still got mine on, too. We’ve still got a long way to go, but now, we get to be our best selves, and we’re doing it together. I can’t wait to see what face she’ll be wearing when I pull out the engagement ring tonight.

I slid my clothes off and cranked the shower knob, holding an orange in my palm, toes and fingertips heating up red. Brushing dirtspace from my wet knees. Crouching in the clatter, sinking my chin lower into my chest. Silverfish climb the curtains up to the cracked ceiling. Citrus smell joins the hot steam between careful bites, and I watch little hairs suck down the drain in a dark whirlpool. Glowing red capsules churn inside me. Ten, maybe twelve. Swallowing them pill-like makes me less nauseous than the syrupy version, but sometimes that’s all the store has. Tonight is a mix of both (and the fruit hides the taste of glue). Cut the water shivering. I lay out my towel and just sit until dry. Seeing double now, two towels. I put on loose boxers and a long shirt. Limbs lag through the holes at ten frames per second. Opening the bathroom door now. A dim night light blinks in the hallway, plugged low by The Old Woman. She’s in Hawaii this week (and I must remember to pay her when she gets back). There’s two doors in my room, but it’s really true, I’m not just seeing it that way. One to the hallway and one to the backyard. I squint at the clock by my bed and think. Lover Boy should be here soon. I hear taps at the backyard door. It’s the cat. She slinks between my legs and camps in the cubby of my nightstand (only it’s not a nightstand, it’s an apple crate turned upright to look like a nightstand). I look outside for a sign of Lover Boy. I see grapefruit trees, plastic flamingos and tarped furniture. A wheelbarrow, too. No Lover Boy. The dark sky is bright, shaded misty gray by the distant stadium lights. I hear the hush of leaves and skin. It’s him. He emerges from the gap in the fence like I told him to because The Old Woman has a camera at the front door. He calls me beautiful. He asks if my name is really Mango. Of course it is. Lover Boy jumps up onto my bed. I try to do the same but I can’t feel my legs, and I fall. You’re bleeding, he says. I tell my tongue to say something but no words come out. My head wobbles down, connected to my neck like a Slinky. He’s right. A red drop made it to the surface. I wipe the blood with my thumb and lick it clean, smiling at Lover Boy. Lover Boy studies the way my boxerfabric clings to my crotch. A coin flip for him, one outcome luckier than the other, wondering if I’m more boy or girl. His hand glides under my waistband. My eyes would be shut but I notice a dead bee caught in his hair. Lover Boy seems happy. I can’t feel what he’s doing, the red slush of cough medicine in my stomach turning me ghost. He’s like a mime then. The cat watched from the floor and I wished she would leave but then she jumped on Lover Boy’s head and ate the dead bee. I tried to laugh, paralyzed below Lover Boy and the cat. The noise part of the laugh came a few seconds late, brain and body lagging still. Don’t go, Lover Boy.

# The Snails Are on the Move Harry noticed them immediately. Groups of snails clustered in three or four moving across the slick, freshly rained-out pavement. Steam rose in twisting tendrils off the warm pavement, obscuring their paths in a fine mist. Harry weaved through the snails like a slalom course, trying not to step on any. *This can’t be normal, can it?* Every four to five feet in front of him, a new cluster of snails made their way through the world at a decidedly languid pace. CRUNCH. Harry looked down, already feeling guilt and shame. Lifting his boot, he saw the shattered shell and gooey carcass of not one, not two, but three snails. “Ooh, I’m so sorry.” Genuine anguish filled his words. “Why do you have to cluster together like that?” It wasn’t the snails’ fault but asking helped. Harry made his way toward the grassy surface of the neighborhood park, hoping that the snails would stick to the concrete. His mistake was immediately apparent when he took his first step into the dewy grass. SQUISH. CRUNCH. He let out a gasp of horror and jumped back. CRUNCH. “Why?!” The unforgiving gray sky, barely holding back a torrent of rain, didn’t answer. Harry carefully moved away from the site of the kill, finding an unoccupied piece of pavement and staring out at the park. He was in the process of plotting a snail-free route home, when he saw the tree. The neighborhood park didn’t have many of them. There were rows of low shrubs next to the sidewalk, and a few saplings that would one day shade the paths, but an old oak dominated the landscape. Its branches were gnarled and crooked, standing out against the elements with suicidal determination. The tree looked sick. There were green leaves as one would expect at the end of spring, but something about the bark felt wrong. Bulbous knots dotted the thick trunk-like sores waiting to burst. The tree groaned, giving the impression that it might collapse under its own weight at any minute. Harold approached it out of a sense of need more than want. A slick, clammy chill fell over him as he stared at the bark. Growing dread mounted in his chest with every step he took. CRUNCH. Somehow, he found himself able to ignore the sound and the implication. He was transfixed by the bark of the tree. It looked as though it had blown a thousand tiny bubbles, and they shifted ever so slightly in the evening breeze. Only, the wind was calm. There was no breeze. CRUNCH. Harold didn’t look underfoot. Yes, the bark was moving. As he approached, he saw them. Thousands, maybe even tens of thousands. Snails coated every inch of the tree, writhing their way toward the upper branches. The soft, squishing sound of their movement was like a whisper in silence. Dread, confusing and all-encompassing, filled him at that moment. Despite the growing sense that something was very wrong, Harry couldn’t look away. For an hour, or at least it seemed like an hour, Harry stared at the moving bark of the tree. Watching the snails make a seemingly endless march toward the sky. He didn’t feel the weight on his boots, or the slick sensation on his pant legs. Time passed at blinding speed and was at the same time placid. By the time the cold, creeping sensation had risen to his chest, there wasn’t much to be done about it. He couldn’t say why, but he knew the outcome was inevitable. His eyes darted down, just for a moment. Snails. Snails, covering his body from chest to foot. They were heavy, giving his clothes a sodden, soggy feeling. A numbing, slimy sensation ran up his neck. *The snails are on the move.* They were covering him, climbing, just like the tree. The inevitability of it was both comfort and dread. His lips parted, maybe on the verge of forming a scream, but no sound came out. A snail, surprisingly heavy, slithered between them. Its bubbly shell filled his mouth. *Why is this happening?* Harry tried to take a breath and found he couldn’t. Soft, mucous underbellies covered his nostrils. He tried to move, wondering if there was a way out of this. Back to the path, back the few blocks to home. Movement was impossible. His feet were fixed to the ground, weighed down by an endless wave of snails, measured and steady in their march. His lungs started to burn. A dark cloud came over the bottom corner of his left eye. He tried to blink, but couldn’t tell if his eyelid had moved. The world descended into darkness. *The snails are on the move.* He knew that much was true. It would be impossible not to feel their movement. Wherever they were going, they were determined. The burning in Harry’s chest changed to shooting pain and he knew he would need to breathe soon. Against his better judgment, he inhaled, the sensation thick and wrong. His throat bulged and yet his mouth filled again with more slick bodies waiting to take the first one’s place. *The snails are on the move.* \ Note from the author: Yeah, I'm not sure if this is anything, but for some reason I had to write it. I saw a bunch of snails on my walk yesterday and this is what came of it. I hope it was enjoyable or at least well-written nonsense.

It was a rainy, cold Friday. I was wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, not my usual attire but it was laundry day. I had walked the four blocks from my apartment to the old wash-o-matic laundromat, just like I did every few weeks. It had been longer than usual this time, so I had everything except for what I was wearing in the laundry bag thrown over my shoulder. By the time I arrived, I was sopping wet, and leaving a trail of drips behind me in the slightly too warm, loud room. The rain must have been keeping people at home, because I was the only one there. I had used the last of my quarters to tip the pizza delivery driver the night before, so I walked over to the change machine and inserted a handful of ones I had found in various places around my apartment. On the last dollar bill, the machine froze up and refused to drop the quarters with the usual clank into the metal tray. I hit the side of it with the palm of my hand, and three quarters fell out. I cursed at the machine, knowing that meant 5 minutes less of drying time. But what did it really matter... dry or not, by the time I brought everything home it would be wet again. Still mad, I walked over to the nearest washing machine and loaded my clothes. I inserted most of my quarters, leaving me with only the shorted change from my last dollar. After adding detergent, I pressed the start button and sat back to wait. The Wash-O-Matic’s washers look like they are older than me, and apparently at the time the washers were built, people were not in a hurry. I settled in, ready to wait for the forever cycle of the wash. Little did I know, it was exactly that. After nearly 45 minutes, I watched the clothes spin faster and faster through the glass window on the front. I sat up in my seat, knowing from experience that this was the final stage in the cycle, when it tries it's hardest to get as much water out of the clothes as possible. It usually did a very poor job. As I waited for the sad buzz that signified the end of the wash, the clothes continued to gain speed. Finally, I thought, maybe it will actually work for once. But the drum continued faster and faster, now producing a whirring sound, like a plane getting ready to take off. As the speed increased, the lights began to flicker and spark. When the turbine sound reached a roar, the lights popped, one by one across the entire room. But the machine kept gaining speed, any shakes that had started at lower speeds stabilizing to a barely detectable vibration. I ran out of the building with my hands over my ears, crouching as I tried to avoid the shattering glass above me. I stood outside in the rain, looking in on the row of machines through the large glass window. Maybe there was a power surge, I thought. But the speed of the drum had not slowed down. It was running at a stable speed, so fast the inside was a flickering blur of color from my clothes. I waited outside, not knowing what to do. That's when the vans showed up. Black vans with blacked out windows, carrying heavily armed men in black uniforms. They swarmed out of the van, and circled the building. Before I knew it, I was on the ground and in handcuffs. I guess I didn't look like much of a threat in my soggy sweats and hoodie, because they walked me away from the building and sat me down in the grass and left. I sat there handcuffed in the rain for almost an hour. While I sat there, helicopters started circling around, and men in hazmat suits started towards the building carrying boxes of expensive looking equipment. Finally, a man in a suit came and got me. He brought me into a hastily erected white tent, and questioned me for a while. I told him what had happened, and that all my clothes were stuck in there. After a quick laugh at me, he dismissed me out of the tent and back onto the street. He said I had just solved the world's greatest problem. My only reply to him was “but my clothes...” With another chuckle, he walked away behind the line of armed men. And that was the day the world changed in a pretty big way. That old machine with all of my clothes had somehow created an infinite supply of energy. That one rickety, aging washer with a load of old gym socks and tattered t-shirts had somehow transformed itself into an endless generator of power. That building became the power source for the entire world eventually, with lines running under seas and into other continents. Power plants were obsolete. Power was free for the whole world. A lot of things changed after that. For me though, the only real change was a lack of clothing, and three leftover quarters in my pocket. Not having to pay a power bill any more is nice, but really, I just want my clothes back.

As I walk along the pathway that lay beside the rusting playground where I grew up, a million memories swarm in my head... But what catches my attention isn’t the new statue they’d built, nor the rose beds but instead, a man who looked all too familiar. ... It’s wintertime 1989, I’m fourteen years old sitting on the swing next to Marco, the best-looking guy from my grade nine class. I wore the red and white checked dress stained with coke with a denim jacket despite my mother’s warning about the weather. It was freezing and the river that flowed nearby was almost frozen over. We sat side by side on our swings occasionally talking, sometimes looking at each other, and rarely laughing. ... It was the biggest dare yet this year. My grade had come up with some stupid dare system where if you did something that the whole class voted you do, then somehow, you’d become more popular. And that was my dream - popularity. I was just Santana, the brown-haired, brown skin, brown eyed girl that no one ever bothered to talk to. So the day I finally spoke up and said I wanted to take part in the immature dare game they called The Devils Dare, was the day most kids actually noticed me for the first time. I did have one friend, Angie, but she had just moved schools before The Devils Dare began... lucky her. So that left me alone and I was sick of living like that. At fourteen years old, I’d never even held hands with a guy! Vivian, my class’s most beautiful, most popular girl had done everything. She’d held hands with not only one, but many boys, even kissed a few too and who knows what else, and one day she came to school ‘drunk’ claiming she’d stolen alcohol from her parent’s liquor cabinet. But the day Vivian came to school and announced she had a boyfriend, three years older than her was the day I was sick of being lonely. So, I spoke up. “I’ll play,” everyone turned to look at me. I could feel my cheeks beginning to turn the colour of a tomato. No one spoke. They were all either completely in shock or didn’t know what to say. “What?” said Vivian. “I said, I want to play.” “ You want to play The Devils Dare?” “You heard me,” I replied, joining the circle. Vivian began to shake her head. She turned to look at the rest of the people in the group which was essentially my whole grade. But none of them argued against me and my offer to play. Flicking her perfect blonde locks back over her shoulder, she turned her attention back to me. “Fine, it’s Elliot’s turn to pick the dare so let’s hear what he has up his sleeve shall we?” Elliot, being Marco’s sidekick and even more irritating follower smirked and cleared his throat. “Santana, Santana, Santana...” I raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to give me my dare. For some reason, the silence in the air didn’t even make me anxious, somehow, I felt... ready. “I’m waiting Elliot ,” I said getting a little bit impatient. “And I’m thinking, Santana .” “ I have a dare,” snickered Vivian. “Mind if I steal this one from you Elliot?” He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Fine, go ahead.” Everyone gave into Vivian, it was like the boys were under some type of trance anytime she asked for a favour. To retrieving her a pencil or carrying her to the sickbay when she fell over in sport one time, the boys were willing to go miles and miles for her. Maybe one day they’d realise. “I dare Santana to go out with Marco. This weekend. At Pablo’s Diner, 6 pm sharp.” I instantly look up at Vivian, slowly my eyes are drawn to the other side of the circle where Marco sits glaring at me. “Vivian, are you kidding me? Santana ?” He rolled his eyes. “No way!” “I’m down,” I say. Murmurs start to arise and chatter replaces the silence. “I’ll be there, Saturday night at Pablo’s, 6 pm.” That was that so I got up and walked away, leaving my classmates behind. ... 5:55 pm, Saturday night I walk into Pablo’s Diner to find Marco. As I walk through the door, the bell rings and instantly I’m hit with the sounds and smell of Italian food. Marco’s nowhere to been seen so I take a seat on the empty booth right at the back of the diner by the window. The bell chimes and a boy with blond hair, hazel eyes, and adorable dimples walks in - it’s Marco. He sees me and begins to walk my way. He’s not smiling nor frowning so that’s a start I gather. “Hey,” I say as he sits across from me. “Hey,” he replies. Neither of us says anything for a while, I had a mental list of things to talk about in my mind but with a guy like him sitting across from me, all my brain cells had left well before I had a chance to use them. “F-food,” I stammer. He cocks his head to one side in confusion. “Do you want to order,” I rephrase myself. “Sure.” Marco clicks his fingers to get the attention of the closest waitress. The blonde-haired girl turns and starts towards our table. Out of all the waitresses in this town, the one to serve Marco and I is Vivian’s older and even more popular sister and not to mention the girl Marco claims to of kissed on multiple occasions. I immediately look down, busying myself with what’s on the menu. “April,” says Marco, I didn’t know you still worked here. She nodded, her bosoms bouncing up and down a bit too unnaturally. “I see you’re on a date with Santana here. How adorable!” her voice sounded just as fake as her personality. I looked up, trying my best to give her my most realistic smile. “We’re not... o-on a date exactly,” clarified Marco almost immediately. The smile that I had tried my best to plaster on rapidly faded. April looked at me just in time to see my smile fade. “Well, I think Santana here had a different idea. Is that right San?” “San tana ,” I corrected her, emphasis the rest of my name. “And frankly, no, this is not a date, instead, a dare set by your sister.” There was a pregnant pause before anyone spoke again. “Well, what can I fetch for you two?” “I’ll take a loaded cheese pizza and coke,” said Marco. “And I’ll take a creamy carbonara please, with a lemonade.” April wrote down our orders and walked off. Marco pulled a bottle from his jacket, it was only small but it had a golden-brown colour to it. Taking a swig of it, he winced when the liquid trickled down his throat. “Want some?” he pushed the bottle towards me. I shook my head. “No thanks. What is that stuff?” “Rum from my father’s office. He won’t even notice it’s gone.” “Marco!” I whispered although it came out louder than intended. “You shouldn’t be drinking. You’re only fifteen!” “Sixteen actually,” he said. There was a two-year age gap between us. Once I graduated grade three, the teachers were that impressed with my numeracy and literacy skills, fourth grade wasn’t even an option, it was straight to grade five for Santana. Our drinks came and Marco proceeded to top up his coke with his father’s rum while I listened to him talk. His speech was beginning to sound like spaces never existed between words. The alcohol was kicking into his system and fast. Once our food came, Marco dug into his pizza and I began with my pasta. I really thought that I was having a good night. I was beginning to actually enjoy myself when Marco tipped his glass over. It could’ve gone three ways... onto him, onto the sides of the table or, onto me. Just my luck, it tipped straight onto my lap, staining my red and white dress. I didn’t overact as most other girls would screaming hysterically, instead, I just looked up at his guilty face. No words escaped his lips so I stood, leaving a twenty on the table and walked out. I didn’t know where my legs were taking me. This was the first time I’d been out on the town at night. Most young girls my age would run home or run to their nearest friend’s house, but I didn’t. Before I knew it, my feet were crunching under the bark chips at the local park. Rain had fallen recently and I could hear the river gushing nearby but that wasn’t the only sound my ears picked up. I heard footsteps approaching me from behind. I was never one to think of the worst so I confidently spun around to face whatever or whoever was coming from behind. “Santana, I am so sorry, really I-I’m...” “Forget it, Marco,” I replied in a firm tone. “You’re drunk and you just need to go home. Really this is all my fault. I was the one who wanted to play this stupid game to start with. If I’d just kept quiet, we wouldn’t be here.” “Exactly.” “Exactly what?” I asked. “We wouldn’t be here,” he said taking three steps closer. Now an arm’s length away from each other’s body, I noticed Marco’s tear-stained face. “Marco, were you crying?” I asked although I knew the answer. It happened within two seconds. No words said just Marco wrapping his arms around my shoulders and releasing the build-up of tears. He stood in my arms sobbing. What was I to do? Push him away? Comfort him like he’d treated me like gold my whole life? I settled on just lightly wrapping my arms around his back. “Hey, it’s okay,” I whispered after he’d let go. His cheeks were shiny with the tears that dried on his skin. Then he did it. He kissed me. It wasn’t just a peck on the cheek or lips it was something more. Something that felt like it had meaning. “Marco...” “Santana, I don’t care anymore.” “About what?” “About who. About who sees this. About who hears about this.” “Oh please,” I replied earnestly rolling my eyes. “As if you mean that. You’re drunk and you are going to have no comprehension of this tomorrow morning so don’t say anything you’re going to regr-” “I love you.” I licked my lips and nodded, raising my eyebrows in doubt. “You do?” “Yes, I have for a while now.” “Okay buddy,” I said carefully selecting the tone and pitch of my voice. Let’s go to the swings, shall we? Just sit? Maybe talk?” Marco nodded. The only light in the park came from the twenty-year-old streetlamps which gave off just enough light to make out someone’s features if they were within two feet of your face. The swings creaked as we sat on them. “What time are your parents expecting you home?” I ask. “9:30 pm.” “You live on the corner of Rowling Street, right?” He nodded vaguely. “Yeah, it’s a bit of a hike from here.” “I’ll call for a taxi then.” I walk slowly toward the payphone on the corner of the playground block. Once I get to the phone, I glance back at the swing set to see nobody on the swing next to where I was. Instead, it swung back and forth as though someone had just gotten off it. “Marco?” I asked. “Marco!” This time raising my voice. No response. He was gone. ... I spent that weekend worried sick about Marco’s whereabouts. Although he’d acted like such a jerk and treated me as if I were a ghost majority of the time we’d known each other, I couldn’t help but wonder if he had meant what he’d said. He’d kissed me and told me he loved me. No one had ever said such things about me. I couldn’t even remember the last time my mother had told me she loved me. Monday morning rolled around and I walk through the school gates, peering around for Marco or at least his best friend, Elliot. Then, I see him. He has his back to me but I know it’s him. No one could miss Marco. I wander over to where he sat on the ground. Elliot must have said something about me coming because Marco turned his head and immediately jumped up. I stop walking and let him approach me. Without even saying hello I burst out with, “where the heck did you disappear to?” “I’m sorry,” “You’re sorry? God Marco, I was-” I stopped myself in my verbal tracks. No, I shouldn’t let him get the satisfaction of him knowing I was worried sick about him. “I was just about to call the taxi and then you were gone!” “So he got you, yeah?” Elliot had joined the conversation at some point although I couldn’t recall inviting him. “You knew about this?” I asked. Elliot nodded, obviously very satisfied with himself. “So how was his acting?” “Acting!?” I repeated. “But he was... Oh my God, you weren’t even drunk, were you?” I now faced Marco. “You pretended to act drunk just so you could see me make a fool of myself. I can’t believe I was even going to let myself hate you just a little less than before. Now I hate myself for even thinking about that.” I turn the other way, my long hair flicking over my shoulder as I storm off. “He’ll take that as a compliment,” yelled out Elliot on Marco’s behalf. The next thing I heard although I tried my best to zone out their irritating voices was, “this has gone too far.” It was Marco’s voice. I slowed my steps but didn’t stop. The next thing I knew, Marco had grabbed my arm and spun me around. I didn’t have time to think before he kissed me. Again. This time in front of the entire school. As our lips parted and our eyes opened there was just silence with the occasional mutter or murmur but then, someone yelled out. “Marco did it! He finally kissed Santana! The girl he’s wanted to kiss since grade five!” It wasn’t just anyone who yelled out those words, it was Marco’s older brother. Gradually cheering and clapping became the sound I heard. Marco stood in front of me, smiling. Unconsciously, a massive grin had made its way onto my face and I stood there looking as taken aback and happy as ever. “It’s true, what my brother said.” “Really?” “Sure is.” ... My heels crunch under the bark chips, this time, twenty-five years later. I no longer have the long dark hair trailing down my back no do I have the innocence I had twenty-five years earlier. I have life experience. I’m a mother to a ten-year-old boy back at my new home by the beach. “Is that Santana I see?” said the familiar voice. Nothing had changed about him, not even the blond hair or dimples in his cheeks. “Sure is,” I reply. I embrace Marco into a hug and take in his strong scent. “It’s been too long.” “But here we are. Our very own high school sweetheart reunion. Just for the two of us.” I shake my head and smile. I realised instantly that I’ve missed his presence in my life. “What do you say, want to go sit on the swing set? Maybe talk? Make sure this time you don’t disappear on me, okay?” “Never again,” said Marco. “I don’t know why I ever let you go...”

I was always taken away by the beauty of the woman I loved. Her sheer presence could make me smile, even on days where darkness overshadowed the light. The simplicity of her “Hey!” when she walked through the door of my house had me jumping in excitement like a young child opening presents on Christmas. She was the person I wanted to spend every second of every day with, taking cringeworthy pictures and putting them on Instagram, or recording me when I danced around the room as if I was Jamie Bell in Billy Elliot. Our love was simple - and equal. We first met in college in Sociology. It was the first day of the term and the universe already did us a favor by having the teacher make us sit next together. We were both slightly awkward and although we wanted to start a conversation, it was difficult for us to do so. I finally got the confidence to say the word, hello and in that same sweet way she always does, she looked at me and said “Hey.” It took us twenty minutes to start talking to each other, but after that, we couldn’t stop. It got to so much talking that we eventually started dating. But relationships aren’t easy. To keep a relationship vigorous is one of the hardest things to do as many factors can intercept the relationship and knock it off course: The stress of your job or schoolwork, financial issues, new people that come into our lives, they can all damage a once happy relationship ­- they can all dispossess you of the woman you love. I hadn’t spoken to her in weeks. She no longer gave me the long-detailed responses I used to get when I messaged her “How was your day?” It was now just: “fine” or “good”. I was inexperienced with relationships. I was naïve. I didn’t know how to tackle this issue because I didn’t know what the issue was. Was it me? Was I the issue? I went to her house to see if she was in, to see if we could speak about this and overcome it. I didn’t want to lose her, she was the first person that made me feel such warmth, such happiness. I didn’t want that to be stripped away from me. She opened the door and I froze. I hadn’t planned how I was going to come about the issue, I just knew that I wanted to. “What are you doing here?” It wasn’t the heartfelt greeting I wanted but with the way things have been going lately, I wasn’t surprised by the way she greeted me. “I need to talk to you, about us, things are different between us.” “I can’t, I’m busy.” She wasn’t busy - I knew that. I wanted to be wrong, but I knew that she was lying to me. She shut the door before I could reply, I stood there for minutes as I had frozen in time. The same night I decided to message her so that I could try and say what I wanted to. For hours I sat there listening to the same 1975 songs, waiting for a reply from her. I never got one. For the next couple of weeks, I tried to try and speak to her, but she never returned the favor. I went back to her house and knocked on the door like I did the previous weeks. She answered the door and started with excuses pulled from thin air. “Stop with the lies!” I couldn’t take the worrying or the hurt anymore and I told her exactly how I was feeling. I told her about the pain of not seeing her in weeks, the constant worry of upsetting her. It was all too much. For several minutes I poured my heart out to the girl I loved about how I couldn’t cope not seeing her and feeling as if I had hurt or upset her in some way. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and on her cheek and said the most painful sentence I’ve ever had to hear. “I think this is the end for us.” She was right. We no longer shared the same amount of excitement about our relationship and it was clear that we needed to move on, and after the longest and most soul-wrenching hug of my life, I walked out of her house and said goodbye to her for the last time.

The flipping imprint, three narrow circles intertwined, on the inside of his wrist glowed soft blue, and soon it would glow red, then yellow, then blue again, but with Black inside, not me. I walked away from the mirror, grabbed the flipper’s phone from the table, and called Mr. Black. “Everything’s all ready, when can we make the switch?” “Today, if you like. Can you come now?” I nodded, shouldered the phone as I gathered fitted pants and a black button down from the closet. “Yeah, yeah I can. I’ll be there in ten.” I hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed, put socks and polished shoes on, then took the Mercedes keys from the hook in the hallway and opened the front door of the apartment suite. Mr. Black’s house, though more like a mansion, was behind a black steel gate I had to be allowed through. I left the car parked a way’s away, something I’d like to keep after the switch, and walked the winding gravel path to the granite stairs that lead up into an entryway that could double as a ball room. A twinkling, glass chandelier hung overhead, and two sets of snaking massive stairs lead up to the second story of the house. A set of double doors off to the right opened and Mr. Black walked out, his forehead reminding me of melting wax, and his deep-seated beady eyes always seemed to be glaring. I shook his clammy hand. “You ready?” I asked. “Of course, of course,” he nodded, raised his hand towards another room near the stairs. “Right this way, to the study.” He shuffled ahead to the dark mahogany doors, then with a grunt, pushed them open. Beyond was a smaller room with shelving from floor to ceiling, spilling with thick books, and a golden trimmed oriental carpet covered the ground. When I stepped inside, he closed the door. There were two low, wing-backed chairs facing a large desk. A decanter with amber liquid, and a black phone sat atop. Behind was a large window overlooking Mr. Black’s sprawling backyard. “Would you like a drink?” he asked, walking around me. I shook my head. “Booze throws off the switch. “So, you ready?” “Yes, yes.” He opened a cabinet, pulled free a rubber-banded envelope, and handed it to me. “It’s all there, you can count if you want.” “Not needed,” I glanced at the shelves, the floor, the books, “I know you’re good for it, with a place like this.” “Okay, so how do we do it?” “First you give me your dominant hand. Left handed? Okay, don’t meet many of those. Place your wrist against mine -- the one with the imprint -- and close your eyes. I’ll do the same. There’s power in the ink, it just does the rest, like magic, really. Once it happens, you’ll be in here, and I’ll be back in my own, back home. You’ll be left to deal with your old body, but we already agreed to that. Okay... deep breathe in, deep breathe out... One, two, and three!” Nothing. Not a good damn thing. I didn’t feel the tug of being flipped, didn’t feel the pull of switching, of wrenching free of the flipper and thrown back to my body back home, didn’t hear the sound of the whirring, or feel the warmth radiating between us. “Did it work?” Black asked. “No, but this happens sometimes on the first go. Let’s try again. Breathe in, then out... One, two, three!” Again, nothing but clammy flesh on warm skin. I opened my eyes. Black’s were still closed, though he was frowning. “Is everything okay?” he asked through pursed lips. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. Let’s try this one more time.” Again, nada. *What the fuck!* I pulled my wrist away from his, he opened his eyes, and I handed him back his money. “Sorry ’bout this, something’s funky with this flipper, don’t know what.” I turned to leave, but he grabbed my hand and dug his feet into the carpet. “No, wait, I have to have this body... I can’t stay in this one anymore... The cancer, in my lungs, constant pain--” I wrenched my hand free from him. “I can’t do it, buddy. It won’t work. I just tried three damn times. Maybe in a month, if I can get it fixed, then we’ll talk but until then--” “I don’t have a damn month!” he screamed, shaking his fist. “I can’t live like this anymore! You-- you promised me that body and now you’re taking our deal back?” “Look Black, I gave you your money back. No harm, no foul. Deal’s off.” I turned and strode towards the door. *Have to get out, have to leave this place before-- ah, shit... door’s locked.* “Can you unlock this, Black?” I asked as I faced him and something overwhelming and sharp enveloped my body. My legs crumbled underneath me. I rapped my chin on the floor, felt the crack of my teeth, and something warm was pouring out from me. I groped the flipper’s body. *Not piss, not shit... Ah, blood, goddamn blood.* I tried to roll over, but my arms were too weak now. I breathed heavily into the carpet, heard footsteps come over and felt something on my arm. I rolled onto my back, blood pumping out from my chest. Mr. Black knelt down, eyes red-rimmed and teary. “Now maybe it’ll work,” he said, taking my imprinted wrist and placing it to his. He closed his eyes, breathed in, then out. Nothing. “To-- told you, buddy... Not, not gonna work... No-- now this flipper’s gonna die and I’ll be, I’ll be back in my body and you’ll be left with a corpse.” I grinned, tasted copper. The world went dark. It went cold. His wrist was on mine when I closed my eyes, and it was still there when I opened them, kneeling over the flipper’s body. *Oh fuck, oh fuck no!* I dropped the wrist like it was red hot, straightened slower than I was use to, heard my knees crack, and shuffled to the window behind the desk. I looked into the reflection. Touched Black’s face, his melting forehead, the sunken cheeks... *fuck, fuck, fuck.* I checked my wrists. No imprints. I lifted his shirt -- none -- unbuckled his pants -- nothing but shriveled gonads... There was no imprint, he wasn’t a flipper, he was me and I was him and I coughed into my palm and looked into my hand and saw blood-- the cancer... about a month to live. I walked around the desk, peered down at the corpse on the ground. Mr. Black was inside, or, maybe-- I ran to the phone on the desk, picked it up, dialed my home number. Ring. Ring. Ring. “Hello?” I said on the other end. “Hello? Who is this?” I asked, in the study. “Mr. Black, who’s this?” If you like what you read, you can view more of my work in my subreddit at .

Valentina Jack Bernard Rhodes The bedroom door creaked open, and I was once again overwhelmed by terror. I was about five years old when my sister, Valentina, would quietly walk into my room at bedtime. Sometimes I could fool her by pretending to be asleep. One night I remember her saying, “I know you’re awake, Marco. You just went to bed, and it’s time for your prayer. You’re so silly, and why do you act like you’re sleeping? Do I scare you? She asked with a giggle. “It’s just a simple bedtime prayer. Now, put your hands in mine.” It became a nightly routine that I dreaded. For me, it wasn’t just a simple prayer but a nightmare. Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep? Really? Is God going to take my soul? If I should die before I wake? Hearing those words left me too petrified to sleep, for I was certain that one night I would never awaken. A few of those nights, I would arouse and scream in utter horror, for in my dreams, I was dragged away by a giant hand. It wasn’t just the realism of those words that scared me. It was also the sound of Valentina’s voice. She was blessed with an exceptionally eloquent and persuasive speech. She was only nine but had a rare gift, that made her prayer seem so real. The following year our church was preparing for an annual event that allowed its teens to do an entire Sunday service. One of the boys was always chosen to conduct the spiritual message on Youth Day. Another would lead the choir and a group of four boys would collect the offering. Teenagers of both genders would make up the choir. Valentina had been anticipating the event since the year before when Matthew was its chosen teen pastor for that Sunday. He nervously stammered partially through a written sermon his mother prepared. He finally raised his head after reading only for a minute after stuttering and mispronouncing his words. He was overwhelmed with a wave of shock at the sight of over four hundred people sitting in the pews, staring back at him. He stood frozen, with his head down, until his mother hurried on the stage and grabbed his shirt collar to lead him back to their pew. “You want to be this year’s youth pastor? Are you kidding?” Esther, our mother asked Valentina, in astonishment. “Well, I heard they were going to let Matthew do it again! Abigail Spinster said he pee-peed his pants.” Valentina said with a laugh. “Don’t say such a thing! Matthew is Pastor Finnigan's son! That poor boy was just nervous. He’s such a sweet young man and he wants to be just like his daddy. It’s not biblical for girls to participate in a church sermon anyway, honey”. Our mother tried to reason with Valentina. “You're too young, anyway”! Valentina waited for our dad to arrive home from work. She was the epitome of a daddy’s girl and he loved her to the breaking point. He would pretty much do anything for her and he would not deny her the chance to be the youth pastor. For one so young, she expressed herself clearly and effectively in a way that was difficult for either of our parents to resist her charm. Pastor Franklin Finnigan, sat in his office and pondered how life could have been different if he’d not chosen to be a clergyman. He remembered, as a child, how he combed the area collecting arrowheads. He had an impressive number of them he’d kept all these years. It was really the only time he enjoyed true happiness. He decided to be an archaeologist and travel the world to study artifacts. However, his overbearing father, who was also a pastor, said it was a stupid idea. He persuaded Franklin to forget about such a silly dream, as he described it. “It’s always been my wish, son, that you follow in my footsteps,” his dad would say. Pastor Finnigan had received an unanticipated visit from Booker Victor, one of his most active and generous laymen. He had the audaciousness to ask that the church break with its tradition and allow his daughter, Valentina to deliver the sermon on Youth Day. Finnigan guessed her age to only be about ten. Not only would the deacons oppose a female child, but Eleanor, the pastor’s wife, decided that Matthew would do the service again. This was despite his disastrous performance the previous year. He took an antacid to relieve his indigestion that was coming and going in waves. Martha Higginbotham was known to speak her mind. It seemed she would scrutinize every word that Pastor Finnigan uttered, as he stood behind the podium. Often, on Sunday afternoons as he relaxed with family, she would call to take issue with his morning sermons. Finnigan had just arrived home after an exhausting day that finished with a meeting with his deacons. A number of topics were discussed including the request that the young Victor girl be the annual youth pastor. After a contentious debate that concluded with a prayer, a final decision still wasn’t made. Finnigan usually allowed the deacons to make decisions, upon a vote, although he had veto power. The phone rang and as he picked up to answer he was not surprised to hear the voice of Mrs. Higginbotham. Without even a greeting, she shouted, “you’re not going to allow that little girl to try and preach a sermon, are you?” He had no doubt that one of the deacons would leak this matter that should have been kept confidential until approved. He didn’t think it would be disclosed this soon after the meeting. Overcome by frustration of the day, his patience with Mrs. Higginbotham had run its course and he shouted back. “Yes Martha!” He had never used her first name. “Valentina Victor will be our youth pastor!” Egos were normally left at the door when the church members disagreed, even concerning earthly political differences. However, news that Valentina would be the youth pastor, even though it would be for just one Sunday service, caused many to threaten to find a church home, elsewhere. It was a hotly debated issue in the church of that time over the issue of females serving as pastors for it violated the articles of faith. Nonetheless, overcome with curiosities, the church was at its capacity on that day. Parents filled with anxiety, prayed their teens performed well. Others who usually skipped previous annual youth services, because they felt it was boring, attended as gawkers. For many it was viewed as an unbiblical and unforgivable practice. The atmosphere inside the packed auditorium seemed as if its attendees expected to witness an enigma. The buzz in the auditorium quieted as the organist played Beautiful Savior and performed surprisingly well for a thirteen-year-old . One-by-one the choir made their way to their seats. A young song leader wearing a suit, one sized too big, borrowed from his dad, stood before the patrons. After the end of three short hymns, Valentina walked confidently to the stage. Profuse Gasps could be heard as she stood behind the podium. Sitting on the front row was Herschel Berger, the director of Deacons, who glared in disdain. During the days leading up to that moment, Valentina was very careful that nobody could overhear her rehearsing her sermon. She repeatedly practiced in front of a mirror and did numerous recordings. Within the first five minutes of her message, the mood among the crowd became lively. Within minutes “amens” could be heard from all over the auditorium. Then someone sitting in the back row loudly uttered a word that had never been used in memory of the congregation when he shouted “hallelujah”! Then the word was loudly heard again and again. People rose to their feet in excitement and dozens walked to the alter to kneel. Many were praying out loud and Mrs. Higginbotham was dancing in the aisle. Deacon Berger looked up at the ceiling with his arms held out as if he was reaching for heaven. Cell phone videos, of the scene, were posted on various social media sights by that evening. Rumors had spread throughout the community and beyond the following day. Some believed the behavior that was out of character within that church was a bizarre form of mass hysteria of an unknown cause. Others said it was somehow drug induced possibly from spiked communion wine. Those in attendance said it was the Holy Spirit that made itself present and roused the church like never before. A televangelist that would one day captivate the nation and the world was born.

Swami rubbed at the glittery tattoo that marked the underside of her right wrist, the faintly shimmering celtic symbol iridescent in the pale morning pre-dawn light. She felt almost like a guilty teenager, yet instead of sneaking in late she was sneaking out early...the exact opposite. The irony of this was not lost on her and she found herself smirking as she silently dropped from the 2nd floor balcony, landing softly as she headed up the silent street towards the local Botanic gardens. The gardens were eerily majestic at this time of morning. The large towering trees and bushes flowering with an abundance of colourful blooms were simply dark silhouettes against the pale mauve sky. Pushing her right palm against a particularly old looking tree she allowed the rough skin of the bark to cut into her skin, the microscopic spikes piercing her as the ancient spell that was woven into the tree’s very essence recognised her. Despite having experienced it hundreds of times, her stomach still felt like it was jumping into her throat as the ground beneath her opened up and she free fell for a couple of meters before landing in the hidden room. Various colleagues muttered their greetings from large cups of still steaming coffee as Swami smiled and nodded back before heading over to a little table set up in the corner of the Earthy room to grab her own refreshment. Across the room from her a muscly, let lean woman who appeared to be in her mid twenties grinned mischievously at her. Rolling her eyes good naturedly in her direction Swami returned to her task of pouring coffee and filling up a plate with an assortment of various breakfast items. She knew Amber found it amusing the way her body reacted so intensely to such a small drop, it was a side effect of being a young and newly matured Fae. Despite looking like she was 25, her friend was much...much older. That was the thing with Fae, once you reached your maturity around 18 you aged so slowly that the ‘Fae are immortal’ rumour was born. Amber had developed the particular secret entranceway for changelings hundreds of years prior and took great delight in watching Swami adapt to being Fae...probably because it had been so long since she was a changeling. Yawning, Swami joined her colleagues around the intricately carved table in the centre of the room as they prepared to catch up on the last couple of month;s work. It had been less than 3 months since Swami had discovered that she was a changeling, a member of the Fae...a ‘mystical race’ as the humans called them. She, like many others were placed in the human world to report back to Elaria, the Fae’s world to ensure that humanity is kept in check and to ensure that Gaia was kept healthy. There were currently hundreds of changelings all over the world who were raised as humans to help them integrate into society. In fact, most changelings didn’t know they were Fae until around their 18th birthday when the Changeling society would intervene and help the changelings as they developed into mature fae. Several factors were a little hard to hide from everyday life such as the retractable wings, the super senses and the distinctive physical characteristics such as luminant eyes and unnaturally symmetrical features...to name but a few. The special abilities and talents were on a whole new level that Swami was secretly grateful she wasn’t at yet. While the 60 odd changelings gathered in the room were only the ones in the Sydney basin, in their group, Swami had seen people with power over the elements, telepathy, empath and psychic abilities, telekinesis, invisibility and many more. The whole experience was still a little surreal for her, more surreal than having her heart jump into her throat when she free fell...she had always hated heights anyway. The meeting was quickly called to order and soon enough Swami was called upon. It was embarrassing enough to be one of the newer members, let alone be called upon in front of other changelings who knew what she was and expected her to become a productive member of the Fae changelings, their whole life was a job. As she was asked the same standard questions she always was by the higher members of the council, she found herself zoning out...her mind drifting away until a sharp tap on her shoulder had her abruptly returning to reality. “ What?” She queried as she looked at Amber in question, the culprit to her hasty return to the present. “ It is time to test what abilities you have, or are developing in any case.” This statement alone had Swami swallowing awkwardly, her heartbeat speeding up slightly as her nerves set in. She hadn’t had any signs of any gifts...not even a glimpse. How on Earth, literally did they expect to test her gifts or even determine what her gifts were if she could barely function as a newly developed changeling...adding supernatural abilities wasn’t a good idea. You didn’t add petrol to a raging fire did you? You didn’t encourage a child to walk around with a knife? Sighing in defeat Swami allowed her eyes to close as she mentally prepared to drift into a meditative like state, a mindful state. A large part of her training had been to focus on mindfulness, on being one with the universe...on unity. It was there that her true nature came from, her true spirit and soul. It was from this place that her gifts would emerge from...eventually. Feeling her heartbeat slow and her grasp on reality slipping, Swami gave into the sensation and allowed herself to become fully immersified in the moment. It always felt a little like she was underwater when she slipped into a trance like state. While some part of her was somewhat aware of reality...for example she could still hear Amber guiding her through the meditation...yet the sound was muffled and distorted. Inhaling deeply Swami focused on her aura, on her energy. She always took advtange of these times to check up on her energy field, to try to detect any problems or disturbances. Fortunately, all 8 main chakras were happy and her aura was the clearest and strongest it had been for awhile. Yet something strange lingered within her. The normal bright white light was woven with multicoloured threads of green,red,lilac and blue. Following the threads she was surprised to feel a kind of tingling sensation in her arm to suddenly have the green thread light up in said arm like a pulse of light. The light drifted down her arm in tiny pulses, pushing towards her hand with a rushing sensation. As she felt the energy leave her body Swami snapped out of her meditative state immediately and opened her eyes widely as they adjusted to the room’s dim lighting. Before her, a tiny almost neon green bush sat on the table. It’s energy positive and vibrant as tiny lilac flowers blossomed before her eyes. Around the table, most of the changelings smiled proudly while a few mirrored Swami’s shocked expression. “ It appears you have power over the elements Swami, congratulations.” Amber stated with a genuine smile as she clapped the younger changeling on the back. As hard as it was to adjust to being a changeling...at least work meetings were never dull.

The tables were beautifully decorated. The smell of fresh flowers filled the air. Waiters walked around gracefully to each guest attending to their every need. This party was surely the event of the season. Ted and Marcy were known for their great parties. Everyone who was anyone was there. Rich classical sounds coming from the band made everyone want to dance. Champagne flowed like liquid gold. Kelly was thrilled to be apart of such an event as this. After all, it was Ted and Marcy’s fifteenth wedding anniversary. Kelly made her way around the room, speaking to everyone she knew and introducing herself to those she didn’t. She sat down at the table to sip her champagne, when she notices her hand was wet and red. It was blood. How? Whose? When? Kelly ran to the bathroom but found Ted and Marcy arguing the hallway. Ted’s hand was bleeding, and Marcy was holding a bloody knife. Kelly screamed. Everyone ran to see what was wrong. Ted and Marcy didn’t notice they had an audience. Susan, Marcy’s sister appeared in the background. She ran to Ted with a towel to wrap his hand. She snarled at Marcy as she flew past her. A thousand questions ran through Kelly’s mind. She didn’t know what happened, or why. She wanted to know why Marcy’s sister ran to Ted first without a word or concern for her sister. “Go ahead. Run to him like you always do.” Marcy yelled. Then Marcy turned to the crowd and explained. “My dear husband has been sleeping with my sister for years. They thought I wouldn’t find out.” The gasps from the crowd were electric. The guests did not know what to say, how to feel or what to do. You could feel remorse in the air. Kelly wanted to run to Marcy and give her a big hug. She wanted to comfort her. Just as Kelly begins to take a step towards Marcy, Susan turned to make an announcement of her own. “Yes, I’ve been sleeping with my sister’s husband. BUT little do you all know that my dear sister Marcy has been sleeping with my husband for over 10 years. As a matter of fact, my oldest nephew is also my stepchild. So, if anyone is the victim here, it’s Ted and me!” Once again, the crowd gasped. Kelly was so confused. She didn’t know who to feel bad for or who to comfort. At this point guests were starting to leave the party. Confusion on the face of all those in attendance. Kelly turned to leave as well when she heard Susan scream. Marcy had stabbed her in the back with the same knife that she cut Ted’s hand with. Kelly ran to Susan just in time to catch her as she fell to the floor. Marcy dropped the knife and ran towards the door. Ted followed her dripping blood along the way. Kelly pulled out her phone and called the police. Ted caught Marcy and threw her to the ground. He was trying to hold her there until the police arrived. Then a tall, muscular framed man appeared in the cool night air. It was Jason, Susan’s husband. He ran to Ted and Marcy, pulled out a gun and shot Marcy in the chest. “Why did you shoot her?” Ted asked. “I hated that B-. She’s been blackmailing me for child support for years. I would’ve taken care of my son had she told him that I was his father. Instead, she wanted him to believe that you were his dad.” Ted fell to his knees in tears. He couldn’t understand how things had gotten so far out of control. He wondered what his kids would do without a mother. What would he do without a wife? Ted had no idea that his son wasn’t his. All these years Marcy had led him to believe the child was his. As far as Ted was concerned, the child was his. He’d fed him, cared for him, and raised him as his own. He would continue to do so. Regardless of who his biological father was. The police arrived and tried to wrap their minds around the madness that lay before them. They were confused and unsure who to arrest for what crime. By this time, Jason had disappeared as fast as he arrived. The police searched for him in nearby areas and neighborhoods, but he was no where to be found. The ambulance arrived and took Susan to the hospital. Ted rode in the ambulance with her. They both needed medical attention. He also wanted to break the news to her about what Jason had done. They arrive at the hospital. Susan was taken to one room and Ted was taken to another. Susan was in too much pain to speak but she could nod her head in acknowledgment. They rushed Susan to surgery to repair the knife wound. After surgery Susan was resting with Ted by her side. His arm and hand were both bandaged, but he still managed to comfort Susan. He felt he needed a little break to wrap his mind around things. He whispered to Susan that he would be back shortly. Susan was in and out of consciousness, but she noticed someone else in her room. The tall man looked familiar, but she could not focus enough to see exactly who he was. Then the man leaned into to her and whispered in her ear. “You didn’t think I would kill Marcy and leave you alive, did you?” Susan’s eyes popped open. It was Jason. “Now honey, don’t you recognize your own husband? Ted was so quick to comfort you. The two of you made a fool of me. I will not stand for it. You will meet the same fate as Marcy. You both are horrible excuses for wives. Ted and I will be better off without either of you.” Susan tried to move around in the bed to make some kind of noise. She wanted to knock the IV pole over, but she couldn’t reach it. She tried to ring the nurse, but Jason moved the call button away from her. She prayed Ted came back to the room, but he hadn’t. Jason took a pillow and put it over Susan’s head. He held it there tightly until she stopped moving. He rushed out of the room and down the stairs before anybody noticed he was there. Jason hurried down six flights of stairs and ran out the door to find Ted waiting for him. “Is it done?” Ted asked. “Yes, it’s done.” Jason confirmed. Ted hugged Jason and whispered in his ear, “Now we can finally be together.”

PUZZLE PIECES Imagine living most of your life not knowing where your siblings were or what happened to them, living with a tiny hole in your heart and sadness you could never quite shake. Imagine the grief you never had words to explain, coming from a loss you never understood. I feel like it’s in vogue these days to say someone’s story is “theirs to tell,” but I believe that if their story intersects with my story on any level, it’s also my story to tell. Not that I would reveal their secrets or use their stories as weapons, but details are details and every detail is a piece of the puzzle that completes a life. My dad has always loved puzzles. My dad’s story began in 1938, almost 83 years ago in a small town in Arkansas. He was the third of five children born to a mother who died before she was 40. Her husband, my dad’s father, was in and out of their lives and only the first child, Nadene, and my dad, James, or Willie as he was called then, are full siblings, separated by seven years. The second daughter and two younger brothers had different fathers. It’s human inclination to judge a woman who has children by two or three different men, but times were hard and their “Mama” did what she had to do to survive and take care of them. If that meant bringing someone in for a while to lend a hand, obviously that’s what she did. It didn’t make her children love her any less. When she died, there wasn’t any father in the picture. Nadene was 14 or 15 and Willie was seven or eight. The details aren’t clear, but four of the children were in foster care or with family members for a few months before being placed in a Baptist Children’s Home. The two babies were adopted. Willie and his sister Jean lived in the orphanage for approximately the next 10 years. Nadene refused to go to the orphanage and “ran wild,” as my dad was told. For many years he didn’t talk much about that time, but as he’s aged, he shares more of his memories. It’s painfully apparent that his emotional growth was somewhat stunted, but he speaks well of the years he lived in the orphanage and he’s “risen above his raising” to make a success of his life. My parents have been married for over 60 years and there are kids, grandkids, and great grandkids adding to the puzzle. Throughout the years, bits and pieces of information have found their way to my dad and he’s been able to fill in some holes. He reconnected with his father and met him in 1978 or ‘79. I don’t know what went on between them, but I believe my dad made his peace with the man. Jean and my father stayed in contact throughout the years and lived only a few miles apart when she passed away. She had one child. My parents took him in as a young man and tried to help him find his footing, but once his mother passed away all contact between them also passed away. I know it’s a missing piece my dad grieves, though he pretends he doesn’t. He didn’t have any contact with his younger brothers since the early 60’s, but sometime in the 80’s he began communicating regularly with the youngest. From a random phone call approximately three years ago, Willie, or Jim as he’s now known, was able to connect with children of his oldest younger brother. He passed away several years ago, and his children said he was not a nice man, but his children are and came to Uncle Jim’s 80 th birthday party. He was thrilled beyond expectations to place a couple more pieces in his puzzle. Through all the births, deaths, promotions, moves, and the everyday minutiae of life, a tiny piece of Jim’s heart struggled with accepting that he would never know what happened to his beloved sister Nadene. But here’s where the story really gets interesting! All my life I knew my dad had siblings he never saw. I have three brothers and as I’ve gotten older, I can’t imagine my life without them. Even when we don’t get along, they are pieces in my life’s puzzle and there would be a hole if they were gone. My son is an only child and always wanted a sibling. He felt a loss even when he didn’t know any different. Thinking about all this, I decided to look for Nadene. At that time, she would have been 86 and I knew the chances of finding her were unlikely, much less finding her still living, but I thought maybe I could at least find where she was buried. This story wouldn’t have the same ending and I wouldn’t have known where to start without the Internet. I signed on to one of the ancestry websites and did a family search but struck out. I conducted random searches of Nadene’s name and birthdate and variations of both but struck out again. I searched for a couple months but came up empty every time. I was disappointed to have to tell my dad I couldn’t find her. I explained all the steps I went through and the names and dates I searched, the states, the websites. I really wanted this for him, but I had to admit defeat. And then he told me something that made all the difference. I was spelling her name incorrectly. I went back to the ancestry website and entered the correct spelling of her name and found a connection to an ex-husband in Tennessee. I spoke to the husband of the ex’s daughter and he confirmed that it was the same Nadene. Unfortunately, his father-in-law and Nadene had divorced many years prior and he didn’t have any idea where she was, but I was elated. I was on the right track! More digging led me to a woman in Texas who thought Nadene was her father’s last wife. The last she heard, Nadene had moved to Oklahoma but they never knew each other so they didn’t have any contact. I kept digging and found an address and phone number. My parents called the number and... disconnected. My dad suffers from a mysterious nervous system condition that causes his head to shake and makes it impossible for him to write legibly, so my mom wrote a letter and provided their phone number in case it really was Nadene. And it was! She is quite hard of hearing so a friend called for her and after 71 years she was reunited with her baby brother Willie. My niece graduated from law school in Tennessee almost four years ago and after attending graduation, my parents continued on to Oklahoma for the reunion no one ever expected. My dad is “Brother,” not Willie, not Jim, but “Brother,” and Nadene asked for permission to call my mom “Sister.” I think saying “Brother” instead of his name indicates just how important that familial connection is to her and she cried happy tears all weekend. My parents created a photo album for her with pictures of the places we’d lived and me and my brothers and our children. Seventy plus years were dumped on her all at once and she quickly went from having no family to being part of a big one. My dad discovered that the woman in his memories he thought was his mother was actually Nadene carrying him in the yard on her hip or pulling him through the cotton fields on a burlap sack. In pictures, the family connection is obvious, and she suffers from the same mysterious nervous system condition. Nadene is a tiny, feisty woman who’s willing to go to “fist city” with anyone who tries to tell her what to do. She gives us information about her life in bits and pieces, but enough for us to know she was twice divorced and gave birth when she was very young to a daughter who died as an infant. She lives in a small town where she is well-thought of and people look out for her. We tried to talk her into coming to the 80 th birthday party, but she was afraid to travel too far from home, and no amount of reassurance could change her mind. My oldest brother met Nadene a few months after my parents did and we have a picture of the two of them standing under an umbrella. She is smiling up at him adoringly, like she’s known him his whole life. I met her about a year and a half ago. I had to go to Oklahoma and see for myself that her living conditions and health and finances were being handled properly. I routinely send cards and letters and pictures to her so she doesn’t forget that she’s part of us. Nadene and my dad speak on the phone at least once a week. They’re both hard of hearing so the conversations aren’t long or deep, but it’s contact, and that’s really all they need. Nadene will turn 90 years old on August 2 nd and my dad, her baby brother, will be 83 on August 14 th . It still astonishes me that I was able to find her, that she’s still living, that my dad’s still living, and that we have all met. My dad is always working a puzzle and he’s passed the hobby on to his kids and grandkids. We’ve all worked puzzles where a particular piece looks like it should fit. We try and try to cram it into the space not made for it. We do the same with people in our lives, but sometimes the pieces don’t belong in our puzzles and won’t fit no matter how much we want them to or try to make it happen. I like to think that tiny hole in my dad’s heart has been patched, the large hole in Nadene’s life has become a bit smaller, and all of us have added another piece to our life’s puzzles, a piece that fits perfectly.

Kitty cat with a backpack followed by a bubble-blowing dragon, Anabelle loved watching the clouds roll by. Cool grass surrounded the child as she gazed up through the topiary maze. Spring neared its yearly slumber and the day’s heat attested to that fact, but Anabelle never missed an opportunity to seclude herself in the silence of her garden. She slipped there whenever she spied a glimmer of freedom. In her garden, she never wasted a moment’s thought on her problems. And her problems were plenty. “Miss Anabelle!” came the familiar call of Dorothea, “Miss Anabelle, you don’t want to be late.” She sprang to her feet, blew a stray red hair out of her face, and raced through the floral maze. Dorothea’s exasperated expression greeted her. Anabelle realized her hair must look a mess and grass likely stained her pants. She smiled sheepishly through freckled cheeks. Dorothea sighed. Whenever Anabelle’s eyes lit up, all she could do was smile back. She took the child’s hand. “Come one, we’ve got just enough time to tame that mop of yours and get you into a dress.” Anabelle groaned. Anabelle entered the stygian dining room. Forced to trade her comfy pants for a frilly dress the color of lemonade, she stood out as the brightest object in the room. She stood painfully still beside her chair at the lengthy, mahogany table. Her older brother, Oliver, stood opposite her dressed in earthy-toned “grown-up” clothes. Once upon a time, he would have made silly faces to raise a giggle from her. Ever since he began his apprenticeship though, he’d made every effort to be the model son their father expected him to be. Finally, their father entered the room and took his seat at the head of the table. The children then followed suit. Anabelle knew that behind her father’s graying, neatly trimmed beard and somber expression, hid a man who loved his children and only wanted the best for them. Even if that meant he worked too much. But he always shared every meal with them. Two women Anabelle barely knew served them lunch. The meal passed in depressing silence. That had become the new normal. After lunch, the caretaker allowed Anabelle exactly thirty minutes to visit her mother. Cold, grey light bathed her mother’s room. Time seemed to stand still there as if she was already dead. A slight breeze blew the lace curtains as Anabelle took her seat in front of the open window. Tiny fingers picked up the book on the nightstand and Anabelle read aloud. Anabelle acquired the reading skill during her previous year, so she spoke slowly, sounding out the difficult words. She knew it came out rough, but since her mother could no longer read to her, she read to her mother. The next day blessed Anabelle with another chance to observe the fluffy white clouds that offered her a fairy tale escape. Spires of green led her eyes to a brilliant blue sky. Sunlight peeked through cotton, warming her skin. At that moment, all that existed in her world was good. A tiara-wearing dinosaur of indeterminate species filled her vision as she closed her eyes. “Miss Anabelle,” a soft voice roused her from an impromptu nap. A haze foretelling rain replaced the sunshine. Anabelle rubbed the step from her eyes as she sat up. Dorothea crouched beside her, eyes red and puffy. “Miss Anabelle,” she repeated, “I have to tell you some bad news.” Anabelle ran as fast as her little legs could move. She burst into her mother’s room, her brother and father already there. White cloaked everything from the curtains to the bedsheets. She never understood why hospital rooms and patient rooms, doctors and nurses, all dressed in white. Maybe it was to prepare you for what Anabelle now saw. Her mother’s desaturated features blended in perfectly. Anabelle tried desperately to climb into the bed, but her father grabbed her away. Kicking and sobbing, he held her firmly in his arms, close to his heart. A single tear trailed down his face. Whether for his lost wife or his daughter’s suffering she never knew, but it was the one time she remembered seeing him show his emotions. That was the last day she remembered watching the clouds. Shortly thereafter, Anabelle packed her things and headed to boarding school. Over the years she saw her brother and father less frequently. Dorothea wrote her every week for a time, but eventually, those also stopped. She lived for a long time confined to dull rooms, arduous studies, and everything artificial. Life came for Anabelle on the breakneck current of a wild river. The flow never ceased but it did slow once Anabelle became the curator of a rare and unique books store. Morning after morning, the smell of old paper greeted her. She met intriguing people and acquired exceptional books. Happy didn’t describe her life, but she settled on content. One year, winter ravaged the small town containing the book store. Each day brought more snow and numbing winds. Business slowed and a cloud fell heavy and dark. Death visited the trees and flowers as surely as it visited more than a few people. Fireplaces worked around the clock, but the chill persisted. Just as Anabelle believed the depressing veil would never lift, signs of spring blossomed. Snow melted revealing soupy mud that eventually dried and grew green grass. Biting winds wound down leaving warm air in its absence. Slowly, life began to awaken on unsteady feet. On the first day that winter’s grey haze left the sky completely, Anabelle took a long and slow walk home. She stopped on the brick bridge, the allure of spring inviting her to stay outside longer. So she paused and rested her elbows on the wall relishing the long-forgotten sunshine. Head hung low, she watched the gentle stream below slip by. Clouds rolled into her view, reflected on the glass water, puffy and brilliant white. Little Anabelle, years older and worn down, gasped when amongst the cottony blobs she recognized a kitty cat with a backpack.

The counter assistant is busy today. The latest book of a popular author is selling well since it came out just last Monday. Today is Saturday. It's 2pm and he must have checked out at least 5 copies since he got back from his lunch break. He greets each customer cheerily and politely and they go away happy with their purchases or Christmas returns. He is aware of people around the aisles and knows that other assistants are ready to help if needed. 2. In the children's section, a girl in a pink velour tracksuit sits in an armchair with her legs curled up. She plays with her Rubik's cube. She has the red side and the white side done, but the other colours are mixed. She can see her little brother, in his jeans and T-shirt, looking at the selection of children's books. She thinks he is taking too long picking what he wants. He takes out book after book, looking then replacing before taking the next one. She carries on playing with the cube. 3. A man enters the store. He looks around at the shelf labels and sees the one he is looking for. On the way to the self-help section he passes a lady in a pale blue coat that just covers her knees. Her slender calves meet the top of her black ankle boots. She is eyeing the novels in the romance section. 4. The lady in the blue coat walks along the carpeted floor in her low-heeled black boots. The footsteps cannot be heard on the carpet. She finds the cookery and crafts section of the store and finds this more interesting than the romance novels. 5. The little boy in the Batman T-shirt finishes looking at the children's books. His face looks frustrated. He stands up, thinks, makes a decision, walks away from the children's section. 6. The counter assistant notices a little boy in jeans and a Batman shirt. The boy wanders past the counter and the assistant briefly wonders who is with him as he appears to be alone. A couple of girls come to the counter to pay for some teen magazines and he serves them. Behind them the queue is building again. He sells another of the new novels. 7. The man at the self-help section is looking at books that promise happiness if he will only follow what they tell him. He is puzzled at the apparent contradiction between the advice in some of the books. He wants them all to say the same thing so that he will know they are right. He likes what some of them say but not others. 8. The little boy in a Batman T-shirt wanders around the store. He feels a bit lost and is not sure what he is looking for. He sees a shelf labelled self-help. He thinks maybe he will find what he wants there. His feet in their trainers make no noise on the patterned carpet of the store as he walks up to the shelf. He sees the word happy on one of the titles and thinks that sounds good. He pulls the book from the shelf to inspect it. 9. The man looking at the self-help books is bemused as to why a child would be looking in those too, but he thinks that it is none of his business. He continues to look at the books on the shelf, occasionally pulling one from the shelf for a closer look before putting it back. He is wondering if he will ever find what he wants. 10. The girl curled in the armchair has now got the yellow and green sides of her cube done, but the red and white sides have got mixed up. She sighs. She stayed up too late last night reading Harry Potter and she is tired. Her eyes droop and close. 11. The counter assistant serves a lady in a blue coat. She has chosen a book about making flavoured liqueurs. He thinks it looks interesting and says so. The woman smiles and agrees, her glossy auburn curls bobbing by her face. She leaves the counter but does not leave the shop yet. She heads towards the children's section where she can see the pink headband that matches her daughter's tracksuit. She approaches her daughter but cannot see her son. Her daughter is asleep with a Rubik's cube at her side in the armchair. The woman shakes her daughter's shoulder to wake her. “Zanna, where is Vinnie?” she asks. 12. Zanna opens her eyes and glances across to the shelf of children's books. She does not see Vinnie. Tears well in her eyes as she looks back at her mother. 13. “Zanna, you know you were supposed to keep an eye on him. He was only 7 yesterday, for goodness sake! You should know... look we'll talk about this later. He can't have gone far. Stay here.” The woman flags down a passing store assistant to ask for help. The store assistant checks the security cameras and sees Vinnie. Vinnie is talking to a stranger at the self-help section. Mum and the store assistant head towards the self-help section. 14. Vinnie has got talking with the man in the self-help section. The man knows that it was Vinnie's birthday yesterday and that Vinnie has no money. He is amused by Vinnie's assumption that self-help means help yourself as in free. He means to be kind and buy him a birthday present. Vinnie and the man go to the children's section to choose just the right book. 15. Zanna sees the man coming towards her with Vinnie. She doesn't know who the man is but she is cross with Vinnie for getting her into trouble. 16. Mum and the store assistant get to the empty self-help section of the store. Mum looks stressed. The store assistant reassures her that another staff is watching the door so they know that Vinnie is still in here. She offers to take mum and Zanna to the staffroom while the staff track down Vinnie. They head back to Zanna and see Vinnie is there with her. Vinnie is excited that he will get a present from the man . Mum is relieved that Vinnie is found. Zanna hopes that mum will forget to be cross. The man realises some of what has happened and introduces himself. He says he is still happy to buy the book for Vinnie. Mum is surprised as Vinnie has a gift card. She asks Vinnie why he thought he could not pay for his book himself. Vinnie explains he has no money. Mum explains about gift cards. Finale. “Oh!” exclaims Vinnie. “Now I know why you said to bring my birthday card out to the shops!” He goes back to the children's books and picks out a volume of Mr. Men stories. On the cover is a picture of Mr. Happy with some of his friends. The counter assistant wishes Vinnie a happy birthday as Vinnie pays for his new book with his birthday card.

Boiled peanuts are the best. The best way to get good quality boiled peanuts is to go and drive down the highway in the armpit of Alabama and find a place that looks like it sells meth and has a plywood sign with the words "\[southern name (Buck, Rog, etc)\]'s Boiled Peanut". The sort of place that reeks with a cacophony of the harsh scent of pine trees, goat dung(and just dung in general), sulphur, chickens, gunpowder, and maybe just a smidge of meth and weed. The sort of place that is about 50 miles from nowhere and is just a barn with three walls, a rusty, beaten up 1950's camper with about half a coat of paint, yellow-brown curtians with flowers on them, and a small oak tree growing through the hood, A shopping cart with a lawnmower engine lashed onto the side with bungee cords for some godforsaken reason, and a old man about of about 50-60 years with a beard wearing stained overalls and no shirt sitting next to a potbellied rusty stove in the three-walled barn. That, my friend is where you will find some of the best boiled peanuts in the whole wide world and if the police show up with a K9 units and non-stanard bullet-proof vests, that is when you no you really got the good stuff. (Yes this happened to me and it was pretty funny). Me and my church youth group were heading to Florida (we are from Georgia so it was quite a bit of a ride) and after we had been on the road for about half an hour we hear a pop followed by a rythmic thud. we pulled over and found that a piece of a chain-link fence had cut through the rear tire of Fr. Roberts car. The Father didn't have a jack so we walked up the road trying to wave someone down. After about 15 minutes a white camper pulled over and the driver offered his assistance. After getting the tire off and putting on the donut tire we were back on the road. After about an hour of driving I had begun to think that you weren't supposed to drive on a donut tire for more than a few minutes, but I decided that I was just an 18 year old knuckle-head and Fr. Robert surely knew how they worked better than me and it was probably a higher quality donut or something. At this point, the donut managed to work itself halfway off the rim and go flat. At the time, we were driving through Alabama when we got the second flat tire. Fr. Tony pulled over at Buck-Peanut Roasted or Boil. (It wasn't an upclass establisment). After being stuck for about half an hour we learned that the tow truck wouldn't arrive for 2 hours. There were just three of us Me, Fred, and Liz in the car plus Fr. Robert. (Names changed of course) So we started calling churches in the area and the second church we called said that they were sending one of their deacons over right now. We were all very happy at the good news and once he arrived we took the wheel off of Fr. Robert's car and drove into town, got lunch and then came back. We pulled in right behind a police SUV with the words "K9 Unit" written on it and one of the police officers was holding what looked like a warrant. Father Robert explained that our car broke down and we were just about to leave. Father Robert was wearing his collar so they knew he was a minister (I am an Anglican) They said that they were just here to talk to Buck and waited for us to leave until they approached him. That is the tale of how I met my church crush (The girl named Liz). She seems pretty cool, and I plan to ask her out in about a month when we go on the same youth group trip again this summer.

"It doesn't count if you're already planning your defeat." Head Judge Foley spoke the words as Inmate A sat on the stool with his guitar, hopeless. He kept his head down, avoiding eye contact like a young Perseus afraid of facing Medusa. "If you want to live another day, I suggest you give this performance your all." The poetry of his song impressed me. Both inmates undeniably had talent, and that was all I knew. There were specific clauses in our contracts stipulating we could not look into their pasts under any circumstances to maintain complete impartiality, and U-Stream made sure we complied in every possible way: the service cut Internet access in my hotel room and confiscated most of my electronic devices the minute I arrived in Los Angeles. Besides, it seemed neither of them received much publicity at the time of their convictions. These men were no OJs, but their moment of fame had come. “ So blind I lost Sight of the future High was the cost Hard was the failure ” Inmate A concluded his heart-wrenching piece before dropping his acoustic guitar to the ground, so disenchanted that the welfare of the instrument barely mattered to him. The lyrics evoked a polymer of visceral pain and desperate regret - I had no doubt the words were his own. He stepped away from the stool and stood patiently by the side of the stage as Inmate B made his way up, a violin in hand. The three of us were seated on an elevated platform right in front of the stage in the prison courtyard, surrounded by a sea of correctional officers and prisoners. The environment felt very intimidating, certainly different from our usual studio settings back in the U.K. “Hello judges,” he said, approaching the microphone. “Today, I’ll be performing Paganini’s Caprice no. 24. I'm sure you'll find my life worth saving.” “Thank you for your positive attitude Inmate B,” replied Head Judge Foley without a hint of emotion. “Go ahead when you’re ready.” He launched into a breathtaking performance. The notes flowed at an unbelievable speed that defied my most optimistic expectations, without ever sacrificing intonation or melody. Other violin players had auditioned for Talent Hunters before; in that moment, I remembered them to be amateurs in the face of such a prodigious display of skill. I did not turn to look at my colleague’s faces yet imagined their reactions must have been the same. The decision seemed impossible to make, and I deeply regretted accepting the position in the first place. I enjoyed judging on the show when it dealt with regular people battling it out to win a Vegas show. Then the network cancelled us when ratings started to drop, so of course the producers went looking for something more sensational, something that would raise the stakes and attract new curious faces. A new deal was made in partnership with the streaming service and the U.S. Justice Department. Instead of welcoming regular people with a dream on the program, we went from judges to executioners: the talent show now focused on death row prisoners, trying to win a diluted sentence. Whoever the winner was, his life would be spared. The other would be executed on the spot in front of millions of people watching the live stream. Not by lethal injection, as was usually the case for executions: the producers chose beheading, for the sheer spectacle of it all. Such was the barbaric world of provocation we lived in. All it took was a sickening but novel concept to attract hordes of shock value aficionados. Inmate B reached the end of the piece, drawing applause from the ecstatic crowd. I could not tell whether they were in awe of the performance or simply thirsty for the blood that was about to be spilled. “What a sensational performance!” exclaimed Head Judge Foley. “Time to deliberate now. Inmate A, will you please come back to the center of the stage?” Inmate A walked towards the microphone accordingly. They both stood side by side, shaking violently as Death breathed down their necks. One would soon go under the scythe; it all came down to us three. For the first time, I had supreme power over someone’s life, and I hated it in every possible way. To my surprise, the other two appeared confident, perfectly composed in spite of the dreadful choice that weighed down on our shoulders. “Let me start,” said the Head Judge. “Inmate A, I was deeply touched by the eloquence of your lyrics. Thank you for writing such a powerful song imbued with heartfelt meaning, it will stay with me way beyond this competition.” She turned to Inmate B, whose body convulsions had worsened with every word of praise she showered on Inmate A. “As for you Inmate B, every note was played to perfection. It’s a very difficult decision, and I’m afraid it comes down to heart versus skill.” Their breaths stopped for a moment as she left them hanging. It was a long, unjustified dramatic pause that no doubt provided suspense for the viewers, but terror for the contestants. “I usually go with the heart. However, Inmate A's defeated attitude made me sway the other way. Inmate B, you're my choice.” The choice visibly bolstered Inmate B's confidence. He puffed his chest, ready to win. Judge Klaus spoke next. “As for me,” explained Klaus, “I agree with Judge Foley with regards to the heart versus skill dilemma.” My heart skipped a beat. If they both chose the same person, my vote wouldn’t be needed. Two out of three was enough to crown the winner and behead the loser. I prayed with every fiber of my being. Even though the prospect of remaining silent enticed me, a part of me felt profoundly ashamed: all I wanted was to avoid being accountable for the choice, not to save them from this torture. “I can’t side with her on the result though,” Klaus added. “This is a talent competition, not an assessment of confidence. Inmate A, you're my pick.” Hope vanished instantly. The votes were fifty/fifty. Both inmates looked at me with the imploring eyes of a dog headed for euthanasia. “Judge York,” said the Head Judge. “Will you please cast the tie-breaking vote?” I opened my mouth, but not a word came out. No matter how hard I tried to articulate, my jaw suffered from an acute case of paralysis. “Judge York?” she repeated. “Your decision please.” The fear radiating from the contestants was simply too much to bear. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t.” “What do you mean, you can’t?” “I can’t make this decision. It’s not up to us, none of this is human! Can’t you see that? Can’t you see how barbaric this whole thing is? Blood is on all of our hands for the mere act of thinking this was a good idea.” The Head Judge looked astounded. “This is your final word?” “Yes it is.” I expected her to side with me. For sure, she was about to realize the error of her ways and convince the producers to call off the contest. She took out her rulebook instead and flipped through its pages, still devoid of any emotion. “Very well. The rulebook states that in the absence of a deciding vote, the execution of any of the prisoners cannot proceed.” Relief surged over me. That’s it. I had averted this monstrous competition. “The belligerent judge will be executed instead.” Again, my jaw dropped, but not a word came out. The other two judges looked indifferently as bodyguards carried me up the stage. Now I knew for sure: they lusted for the blood, and so did the viewers of the livestream. “No, please! This must be a mistake, I beg you! I choose Inmate B, I do!” “I’m sorry,” said the Head Judge. “You confirmed it was your final word.” I found myself pressed against a wooden plank while the executioner approached. As for the two inmates, they remained still, staring at me with the empathy only someone who had come close to the plight I found myself in could feel. I did not know why they had been jailed, but I knew for sure they had more humanity left in them than many of the producers surrounding me. Inmate A picked up his guitar again, and sang me his song once more as the executioner’s blade grew closer to my neck: “ So blind I lost Sight of the future High was the cost Hard was the failure ”

“Scanning techniques: Identify target vein. Reevaluate to confirm anatomy and pathology. Draw a line of the vein on the skin. Some physicians want 5-10 cm intervals indicated to assist with anesthesia introduction. Keep the room warm to prevent vasospasm.” The professor mumbled. I am trying my hardest to stay present. I am trying my hardest to focus on the material and not the monotonicity, boring, slow, unenergetic, and just old-fashioned delivery of the instructor. There has to be a better way for us to learn this stuff. “Image guidance during procedure: Access. Placement of instrumentation. Perivenous anesthesia. Thermal treatment. Post treatment,” he tamely drummed on. Reading word for word from the PowerPoint. This is so painful. This is important information. Midterms are in two weeks and my goal is to do well, obviously, enough to have a comfortable cushion for the second half of the semester. But listening to him present the information is harder than memorizing it. I think it would be easier if the sound of his voice was anything else but sheep jumping over fences to my ears. The dullness is briefly interrupted by the clicking-on of the A/C system. Which is terrible news. It is 58 degrees outside. Hoodie weather. And we are not even allowed to wear hoodies inside due to the school dress codes. Here come the goosebumps. I feel them start at the lumbar. They quickly travel up my spine to my shoulders, causing me to do the shimmy. I swear they, the people in charge, want us to freeze to death. My attempt to focus on the information that is currently being excruciatingly provided to us is now replaced with focusing all my blood to move towards the important parts of my body, so I don’t die of hypothermia. Ugh. There go my fingers. C’mon blood. Do your thing. Luckily, I sit next to this giant window. An escape of sorts. A whole row of windows line the entire length of the exterior wall in the classroom. It is easy for me to get lost in the scenery of day-to-day life outside. A team of landscapers mow, edge, blow, and sweep their way through the courtyard. Something they do every Monday. Judging by the efficiency of their work, they know what they are doing. I hope they get paid enough. The parking lot is a little less full today than any normal Monday. I bet some students partied a little too hard this weekend. Lucky for them. Maybe some are sick. Unlucky for them. Either way, they are not here. The family of squirrels in the large cypress tree in the front garden seem to be quite active today. Looking around, I just realized that the front garden is filled with native trees. There are a couple of Mexican Buckeye and two Honey Mesquite. How did I not notice these pretty trees? “The needle is advanced from below the transducer into the field of view where access to the vein can be imaged.” He continued. Oh good, the A/C just shut off. I survived. I suppose it does not need to be on long to ensure an average indoor temperature of what I guarantee is set to freezing. Just across the street there is a large interstate highway. It is elevated by large concrete pillars and built-up grassy knolls. I can hear the traffic from here. A lot of people are in a hurry. I am curious to know where they are going. I am assuming most are headed to work. Maybe school. Some could be coming back from vacation. What I would give to be heading towards a warm beach right now. “Duplications: most are segmental; complete duplications are rare. To be duplicated, both saphenous veins must follow the same path and remain parallel within the fascia. Duplication demonstrates a beginning and end along the same path,” said Charlie Brown’s teacher. I think. My nostrils flare, picking up scent coming in from down the hall. The cafeteria is not that far from our door, but being able to smell food from that area is still an uncommon thing. It smells like another student just pulled lunch out of one of the microwaves. What is that? Is that.. Is that fish? Holy crap. It is fish. Who? Why? What have we done to deserve such blatant disrespect? That is a very violent smelling microwaved fishy aroma. My nostrils and olfactory sensory neurons are in a battle for their lives. I think they are losing. My eyes are watering. The fishy smelling air particles are now in my eyes. In a weird way, it makes me hungry. I have a snack-sized bag of Cheez-it calling my name from my lunch carrier. And just thinking about sinking my teeth into the BLT wrap that I have prepared is making my mouth water. I don’t do BLT’s the traditional way. I chop the bacon, the hickory smoked goodness of bacon, lettuce, and tomatoes. I throw them into a bowl. I combine mayonnaise, ranch, and sriracha in another bowl. I then mix the two bowls. After spreading on and rolling up tortillas, boom! Delicioso. I need a haircut. One of the girls in the class just got new hair put in. I am still not even sure what that means. But what happened to the poor horse? Is there a hairless horse walking around somewhere? Looks good, though. Even after her pointing it out, I still cannot tell what belongs to a different animal species and what is natural. I just grow my hair out the traditional way. Then cut it. Then I grow my hair out. Repeat. I just need to taper it back. Maybe, a low skin fade is in order. I have gotten away with growing my hair out for far too long. The tips are passed the collar of my shirt. I really should have taken the clothes out of the dryer last night. Now, when I get home, I am going to have to run them for at least 15 minutes to get the wrinkles out. 20 minutes makes them too hot. But it is just whites. Do I need to get the wrinkles out of the whites? It is just work out shirts and socks. Maybe I am good. I hate folding wrinkled shirts, though. I will play it by ear. “...trendelenburg position. Post treatment. Okay, take a break. Be back in 10 minutes.” Damn it! What did I miss?

Lyrica stopped for a moment to take in her surroundings before continuing to follow the guides. She was only there for a quick look at her living quarters for the upcoming competition, then she would go home to tie up loose ends. Sleek silver walls covered in vines is all she could see. There were no bright direct lights or fixtures, just a soft glow that lit their path as they continued walking. It was unusual and slightly unsettling but she tried to kept her mind carefully blank, knowing if she started doubting she would back out. And she needed the fame this project would bring. Finally her guides stopped in front of a metal door, blank as the walls surrounding it, though free of greenery. With a touch from the guide, the door swung open. She nodded her thanks then stepped inside. The door promptly shut behind her. She whirled around, a slight needle of fear forming but relaxed again once she saw there was a handle on the inside. This room was only a slight contrast to the hallways. Warm, cream walls rose up around her, while scalloped white lamps emitted a brighter but still soft light. There were no pictures or windows or other furniture however, just 3 beds covered in white pillows and sheets placed around the edges. She was surprised to see 2 women already there, lounging on a bed each, talking quietly. As she approached they stopped and turned their attention to her. "I'm just here for a quick look." Lyrica said smoothly to their questioning eyes. "I still need to pack and bring my things." The women nodded, then promptly turned back to their conversation. Though she was close, Lyrica could not hear what they were saying. They seemed content to ignore her so Lyrica turned, making her way to the other bed,where she carefully sat. Doubts once again started forming. This lock in challenge had come out of the blue. She had seen no advertisements or announcements that she could remember, her manager had simply come to her one day and told her she was chosen. Getting her career off the ground had been difficult to say the least. She had yet to play a single show or been offered the chance to record. This was it as far as Lyrica was concerned. If she didn't get any interest after this she'd need to move back home, to her grandmothers imposing Victorian era home and marry the old man who had been courting her for only weeks, yet had taken liberties and.... She shuddered and pushed the thoughts away, locking them deep. She would make it. She had no choice. Lyrica barely remembered standing and opening the door to leave but soon she was standing outside, blinking in the bright sun. How had she found her way out without the guides? She dwelt on the confusion for only a second, then shrugged it off. "That's what happens when you think too much!" She murmured aloud, then began striding away not looking back. Part 2 "This is your last chance." The ominous words hung in the air between the two men, seated and looking at each other intently from across a broad silver table. The one who spoke stared at the other man, unmoving, as though waiting on the answer to an unspoken question. The other sighed and ran his hand over a large 4 way jagged seam on his head. "But of course. I have control this time. There will be no accidents JJ." A small half smile briefly appeared, then faded. "I know the warning signs now. We have containment procedures. We will get the information we need." The other man still stared ahead, saying nothing. Finally after several minutes he stood, his eyes tracing the seam on the other mans head. "You know what will happen if you can't. No matter who you once were there will be only one option." He stood and turned, pressing on the silver wall behind him with two fingers. A door swung open but the man hesitated a minute more before stepping through. It closed quietly behind him. "No mistakes." The seamed man whispered to himself, before pressing on the opposite wall and exiting the room. Part 3 A slightly spicy smell wafted up to Lyrica as she filled her bike basket with her purchases. The store she stood in front of had just what she needed, though she'd had to ask for entrance to the back. Satay was mostly forbidden, though if you knew where to look it was easy to find. She had covered her shady purchase with several jars of pickled peppers, her grandmothers favorite. It was the only way to hide the smell and would perhaps earn her at least a lukewarm welcome back if the lockdown challenge didn't go as planned. She was due to check in in 1 hours but couldn't shake a feeling of unease, as though she was missing something. She still couldn't completely remember her exit earlier from the room to standing outside the facility. As though she had blinked and appeared. "Maybe it's the satay...no!" Lyrica shook her head then hopped on her bike, taking off quickly on the rough gravel of the parking lot. She'd never had any side effects before and it helped her write her songs. Being stuck in a room for a week was the perfect opportunity to put pen to paper and think of something new. As she pedaled her thoughts drifted again. She'd never seen a building like it before. Come to think of it, she couldn't recall ever even seeing it. The location was a place she'd passed a few dozen times, so if it had been there before there was no way to miss it. Then again she was usually focused on her destination, career, or pushing away other unpleasant thoughts. A misplaced building was the least of her concerns. Deciding the risk was worth the reward, she turned her mind towards home, hoping the peppers filling her basket wouldn't betray her lack of confidence to her grandmother. This was her last chance and she had to believe this would be the start of something wonderful. Part 4 When Lyrica arrived, she once again followed the guides, struggling to keep her mind blank. To occupy herself as she walked, she studied the floor, noting it was made of the same silver material as the walls, sprinkled through with green circles instead of vines. It wasn't enough however and she became aware of a feeling of being watched. Eyes turning upwards, she looked around for cameras but could find none. The guides backs were turned to her as they walked ahead, almost gliding. It suddenly occured to her that she'd never seen their faces. They were always turned away from her. She shook her head again, muttering to herself. The challenge hadn't even started yet and she was losing it. So what if she didn't know what they looked like? That's not why she was here. They soon came to the same wall as earlier and with another light touch from one of the guides, the wall sprang open. Lyrica squared her shoulders and walked past the guides into the room, turning to thank them but the door closed before she could even face them. She noticed the handle had been removed this time. Sighing, she made her way to the only open bed. There was nowhere to put her bag so she stood for a moment, looking around again. The two women from earlier were there, sitting straight up in their beds and looking at eachother, though not speaking. As she watched, they slowly slid down and seemed to fall asleep instantly. Suddenly, she felt drowsy too. The worry from earlier must've drained her. It's not like she had anything to do. A nap would be pleasant... The bag she was carrying slipped from her hand and she was asleep before her head hit the pillow. JJ watched as the last woman fell asleep. It was time. He beckoned to the seamed man who stepped beside him, turning his gaze on the unknowing women. "Are you in? Can you see?" JJ tried to keep his voice even. The slightest bit of emotion could mean disaster at this stage. He could not afford what would follow if the seamed man detected it. "Yes. The ones this time are particularly creative." A small smile filled his face then vanished. JJ suppressed a shudder at the smile. "I will seal the door and leave you to it then. Do not dissapoint us." He stepped away, intent on leaving when the seamed man spoke again. "Get some rest." The slightly cheerful tone made JJ shiver. He quickly walked through the door and closed it behind him. This had to work or it all meant nothing. The seamed man continued staring at the women, then began tracing his fingers down the lines of his head. Suddenly the women were writhing as though in pain though no sounds left their mouths and they continued sleeping. The seamed man began humming an old nursery rhyme to himself, a smile filling his face. "Merrily merrily life is but a dream. " Part 5 Lyrica awoke suddenly. Her dreams had been full of her home, the old man who had been courting her and the last disastrous visit before her manager had called her about the lockdown challenge, as usual. This time though therr had been a man with a seamed head she'd never seen before who terrified her. Her head and body throbbed painfully as though she'd been in a fight, just as it did everytime she woke up in this place. She had no idea how many days had passed. The lockdown was only for a week but it felt like a month already. Her roommates were never awake when she was. It was lonely but a small relief. If they were awake she'd be tempted to ask them if they too felt as though they were being watched, even in their dreams. If the seamed man had appeared to them as well. If every waking moment felt exhausting. She stood and stretched before reaching for her bag. It was the perfect opportunity to take some satay and write. Lately though it felt as if all her creativity had been slowly dissappearing, replaced with a blank void she couldn't seem to shake She popped a large wad in her mouth and let it dissolve on her tongue. The only way the dreams would fade and she would feel awake was with this. Feeling her fingers start to tingle and her mind race she settled down to try to write when a loud thud startled her. It sounded like it came from outside the door. But no one else was supposed to be here except the guides. Another loud thud had her scrambling from the bed. She looked over and noticed the other 2 women were awake now and looking at the door too. "Do you know what that is? Is it maybe time to go?" Lyrica asked the women. They didn't respond, only looked at her, then back at the door. Another thud, louder this time seemed to shake the whole room. Fear began filling her as a small dent began to appear on the handleless door. The guides always opened it with a touch of their fingers, so who would breaking in? A metallic scraping started accompanying the thudding and the dent grew bigger. Full of terror, Lyrica began yelling at the door, "Whose there?! Is this some kind of trick for thrills? I didn't agree to this!" She turned to the other women again, and was shocked to see they hadn't moved. She realized something was terribly wrong. They were acting as though they couldn't see or hear anything. Their eyes were open but glazed, their chest rising and falling at a slow, steady pace as if they were still asleep. Because they were asleep she realized. As soon as the thought formed the door burst open, revealing sleek metal figures with seamed faces. She instantly knew they were the guides and tried to scramble away but there was nowhere to go. A metallic hand wrapped around her wrist and vines appeared from nowhere, snaking up her arm. Despite her terror she began to feel drowsy. "You were supposed to be sleeping this whole time" The whispered words made her jerk her head up to stare at the seamed face of the guide who'd whispered it. "This would all have been much more pleasant without your satay." The last sentence sounded almost sorrowful. The last thing she saw before sleep took her were the faces of the 2 women still in bed. They were smiling. Final Part JJ ran, knowing he was out of time. He'd been foolish, thinking that he could trust the seamed man. That some remnant of his old friend and partner had remained after the change. His thirst for knowledge had led him to allow unspeakable things. He'd watched as the newest girl was taken away and knew that his friend had lost control. He skidded to a halt outside a piece of wall thickly covered in vines, staring in horror. He couldn't have made it here. Only he knew the location. The vines parted, revealing a room with a table in the middle, covered in broken straps. The seamed man gestured to the edge of the table, grinning widely. "Please, sit old friend." He still stood, working through his options. He had none. The fact the man was up and walking meant only one thing. "How long?" He asked. "Before you left the room last time." The seamed man replied with a broad smile. "I felt your fear and your curiosity. It was all I needed." JJ sighed. "The girls?" "They gave me all the energy I could need." The seamed man ran his fingers over his head. It slowly began to split, a hum filling the room. JJ fell to his knees. There was no one he could warn, no one who would come if he called. He realized he was asleep and had been for some time. The seamed man had tricked him, gotten into his mind and manipulated him like the test subjects. That meant everyone else in the facility was at risk. It was too late. The seamed mans face began to change until JJ was looking at himself. He began to feel drowsy as he watched his doppleganger stride past him towards the door. "Sleep now JJ. You are so very tired. I'll take it from here.

I am a witness. Yes. I was his only friend. The Prince of Helic, the firstborn. I was his sole companion in all the adventures. We did hunt. We explored the heart of the forest where no man could draw his footstep. We fought monsters, demons, and worse, men. The King, his highness granted me with the title, 'The Royal Companion". Those were days of glory and gold. I was there. Always by the side of my friend. And I was there when he fell. I celebrated and wept with him. He was a free spirit. He lived with his head in the clouds. Carefree, indomitable, invincible. His bright aura was so strong, I could actually see it. I could feel the pull. He was a magnetic art of the Creator, The Greatest Artist. A heart of gold that he had. And a soul made of love, full of love. He was wild when necessity demanded. He was meek as a lamb when he should be. He was a raging lion when he needed to be. I can still remember his golden locks. His fierce green eyes and his tall, graceful figure. We learned to hold swords against the enemies with the same coach. We learned to pull bows and shoot arrows in the hearts of the demons together. We ran through nights and swam the pool of dangerous waters. I was his brother and friend and the knower of all his secrets. "Lacun, A man can not ask for a better friend than you", he used to tell often. And drew a bright smile on his face. That smile could make me cost my very life in the blink of an eye. "It is but my privilege, Your Grace", I always told him in the most grateful voice. "You leave me too flattered, Lacun. Say no more", he would speak while his face would get a blush. Herald, the prince of Helic, the beloved and only child of His Majesty Aeshop and Her Majesty Aereol was the hero to the women of the country. He was good at everything. His charming speaking and movements would leave everyone spellbound and so it did until he turned twenty. One cheerful evening, when we were just done with the Archery, he sat by me in the garden and said, “Lacun, my brother”, he directly looked me in the eye and was silent for a moment and added, “I am not happy. I am not.” My heart skipped a beat and the drums started beating. Whenever there was grave danger, I could hear this drum beating in my heart. Herald’s face was covered with the colour of deep, unspeakable melancholy. I never saw this before. “Perhaps, it's just time for another ADVENTURE”, I tried to sound jolly. “No, Lacun. It's not that”, he stood up and slowly walked away without saying another word. I sat there, not knowing what to say, what to do. The next few days, I did not see Herald for once. I was his companion for all the years and it was the first time I was experiencing this. Her Majesty the Queen called for me. She implored me to talk to Herald and help him to come back to his normal life. I tried. He did not talk to me. For almost ten days I did not see him. His Majesty the King became deeply worried and called for masters. They prescribed herbs and medicines. But nothing seemed to work. The King asked me to talk to Herald and I tried again. This time, he agreed. I sat down beside him and asked him what was going on. He refused to give me a direct answer. His health was broken. His eyes lost the sparkles. He did not smile. I tried to make him speak but he did not talk properly. On the third day, Herald spoke to me. “Lacun. You are the best friend I have. And the only one. This life, this royalty, this palace, this luxury, this title...Vanity, Lacun! It is...”, he stopped. Suddenly I felt that Herald has become older. His eyes were different, his gaze was distant. “How do you mean Your Grace? If you so kindly elaborate, I would be so grateful.” “Being a prince today and a king tomorrow... is not the calling of my life. The rules and the customs, the vanity, and the glitter...So...I am going for sage ritual”, he looked into my eyes and uttered the words of doom. For the next few moments, I felt that the land beneath my feet was crumbling. My ears had a creepy ringing sound and my heart started to beat that drum again. Becoming a sage only meant that a man had to leave everything behind. His titles and creed, identity, and deeds. For the rest of his life, he would have to live in mountains, in the woods, and preach the words of sages if not become a Martyr Sage. To guide the disciples to the light of God. No man can ever come back after the ritual is done. The young sages must fight the deadliest demons and beasts that came from the hell down. Those wars between the demons and sages only ended with the life of a young sage, each year. With the death of a sage, a demon could be killed. “I will be a Martyr Sage, Lacun. That is my desire. This year, I will kill Kalaus. I will be the young sage who saves his people.” I found no word to speak. “I know it will be difficult to earn my parents’ permission. I am relying on you, my friend. Only you can speak to them.” “Your Grace, I...”, I found no word again. I had to speak with His and Her Majesties. The King furiously declared that he would never allow such an act. The Queen wept and asked me how I could utter such words of misfortune to her when she was relying on me for the goodness of her only child. Did she not consider me a child of her own? Did she not bless me with the sweet words of motherly love and affection? Did she not protected me with her shadow after my birth mother passed away? I had no answer. I was grateful to her for life. After another week, Herald called for me in a secret place. He told me that his own father was conspiring to poison him with the water from the River of Oblivion. If Herald was to be a sage, the throne would go to the people of Astroid who were rivals to Helic for generations. As Herald was the only child, there was no pureblood who could be the next king after Aeshop. So, he wanted to destroy Herald’s memory. Though all the cautionary steps were taken to keep it secret, Herald found it all out. He also came to know that his own mother was involved in it. To protect the purity of Royal blood, to protect the throne, the crown, the King and Queen decided that it was a good idea to make their only child a mad man. A king who would be a man without a mind. Just a shell of a man, empty inside. “Death is certainly better”, his remorse touched my very soul. He sighed. I sighed. I could offer my life to help my beloved friend. But only helplessness remained between him and me. I was silent. “There is but one way”, his voice was bold as thunder. “And I need your kind favour, Lacun. For the sake of our brotherhood, Lacun...”, Herald’s voice was clearly desperate. He took one of my hands and placed it on his chest and said, “You can help me and I am relying on you, my brother, my friend. Your loyalty is beyond words. You were my companion in all the troubles I ever encountered. In the seas and mounts and the deepest forests, you stood by my side and lent your hand. The love we share, I ask you in the name of that love...”. His voice became heavier and I found my words suddenly. “Your Grace, I will gladly lay my life down to help you. Name it”, I was unable to breathe. “Well, my friend, you give me your word...You will not say ‘no’’, he pleaded. “You have my word!”, I did not think twice to say the words. “A man cannot be king if he is blind. That is my only escape, Lacun. And I need your help.” “How do you mean, Your Grace?”, my hand on his chest started to tremble. I could sense that something deadly was about to happen. I could feel the racing heart in his chest. “I have to be blind to be free from this morbid affair. You need to make me blind. I need a herb. The Blue Flower from the Mamok Island. We fought there together against the cursed muses. Before my father makes me drink the water from the River of Oblivion, I need that herb...” “No!”, I cried. “NO! NO!! NO!!!” “You are the only man who can help me Lacun. You gave me your words...” “I can not...This is such cruel an act...” Herald placed his logic. If I did not make him a blind man, the king and his people would make him insane and make him sit upon the throne against his will. It was better to be blind by a trusted friend and escape the cruel destiny of being a lifeless and heartless king. He wanted to be a sage. For the first time, a Royal blood was becoming a sage in the history of eight hundred years of Helic Monarchy. “I choose the darkness of eyes instead of the darkness of the mind. I will not live as a heartless body, a tyrannous king like my fathers and their fathers. I will not let my people be the morsels of the demons.” “Your Grace...” “I am not my father, Lacun. My brother, my mate”, his voice was the calmest. “You have to take this responsibility. Once again, lend me your hand. Carry this burden on your shoulders”, he embraced me. “This death is but a death of glory. If I have a thousand lives, I will choose the death of gallantry. Are you not a man of courage too? Will you choose a meaningless life if you were me? Will you really live such an insignificant life? Just to eat, sleep, breed, and pathetic death of aging? Can you really tolerate this cowardice, Lacun?!”, he placed his hands on my shoulder and shook me. Like the awakening of my conscience depended on that. I had to give him words. For the sake of love. Friendship. Brotherhood. If I was to leave him in the hands of his king father and his men, he would be a man without a conscience. After the sip of that water, he would become a puppet. It was better to be a sage and lose his sight. I only had a month to find that herbal flower. Herald was prisoned in the palace and I had to start for the voyage. After a week of a stormy voyage on the ocean, I reached Mamok Island and the Muse Mera greeted me with a warm welcome. She was grateful for we did not kill her after invading her island. She stopped hunting on Merchants that crossed the ocean and cursing them and turning them into whales. She used their soul to preserve her youth. When I looked upon her, I saw an old lady with a kind face. I told her about the herb and reminded her about the promise she made to help us for we spared her life. Muses only could live a hundred years. But Mera and her kins lived more than five hundred years by snatching the soul force out of people from the ships. Now the ritual changed. They accepted natural death. Mera provided me the herb and some precious other gifts. I was in a rush to come back to Herald. Herald’s plotting was triumphant. The King and the Queen were devastated. He willed that it was me who should be the next king. Only a rightful successor of the throne could will the next king if something was to happen to him. After his blindness, his parents did not dare to oppose him. The people of Helic learned that for the first time in history, a prince was going for the sage ritual voluntarily and willed his friend to be the king. The war began between Herald and Kalaus. Herald’s brave sword pierced the monster’s heart. But his poisonous claw pierced Herald’s chest too. He laid down as a hero. But in my heart, he is bright as a star. Alive, Immortal. The truest prince. I will carry his legacy till my last day. The children before closing their eyes will hear his name. His story will live forever.

April 4, 2020 I finally made it to Aunt Sasha’s house. I’m so glad I made it off the cruise ship- it felt like we weren’t ever going to get out of there. It is so nice to see Evan again. He is doing well, cute as ever. He doesn’t like online schooling and I don’t blame him. He doesn’t seem as energetic as he was last time I visited. I think the isolation is really affecting him, which is crappy to say about a five year old. Aunt Sasha and Uncle Matias are doing okay, considering their situation. It’s really nice being back here. I love this family and I’m so grateful I can stay with them until I get settled and figure out a plan. I don’t know where I’d be if I wasn’t here right now. They are amazing. I’m staying in the basement/guest bedroom, of course. I’m writing from in bed right now. I still don’t like sleeping down here. No matter how much time passes, I still feel scared when I turn off the lights to go to bed. Jeez, I sound like Evan- scared of the dark like a five year old. Ha. Time to put on my big girl pants and go to bed. Good night! And cheers to the first night off the boat- phew! April 7, 2020 It’s been a crazy couple of days. Lots of adapting and adjusting. Uncle Matias is working double-time at the hospital; I rarely see him. Aunt Sasha is pretty stressed out, with working from home, taking care of Evan and trying to keep the house afloat. I’ve been doing my best to help out. I mostly watch Evan, which Aunt Sasha is grateful for. He loves me and we have a good time. He sticks by my side, except when I go down to the basement. He won’t go down there. His playroom is there, opposite of my room, but he refuses. He won’t go downstairs without Aunt Sasha. I haven’t been sleeping well. To be fair though, I’ve never slept well in this room. It has always given me the creeps, especially at night. It feels like somebody is watching me. Two nights ago I could have sworn I felt something watching me from the closet after I turned the lights out. I wanted to run and hide under the covers of the bed but I made myself walk. It’s not real and I have no reason to be scared. I just have an overactive imagination- everybody says so. Though I swear I had closed the closet door before I went to bed. I’m sure it’ll be fine. And I’ll check the hinges on the closet door tomorrow. Til later. April 10, 2020 Things are going okay. Uncle Matias is home for good, the hospital is finally giving him a break. Aunt Sasha is less stressed out- she is so happy to have him back and healthy and safe. Evan is doing fine. But yesterday he told me something hella creepy. He asked if I had seen the tall man downstairs. I had gone downstairs to grab my laptop, and he asked me when I came back up. I was startled, and told him no, I hadn’t seen a tall man downstairs. He dropped it and snuggled up next to me as we watched Finding Nemo . The thing is, I think I have seen somebody downstairs, at night. It’s that feeling of being watched, constantly. Sometimes I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and the closet door will be open, even though I fixed the hinges and closed the door. I see him watching me from the closet. A tall man, with a broad rimmed hat and an evil smile, barely visible in the dark, hovering and watching. I force myself to shine my phone light in the closet, which of course, shows that nobody is there, just darkness. But when I lay back down, it feels like he’s still there, watching me, waiting. It’s been hard for me to sleep. I slept with the light on last night. It’s hard to fall asleep with the light on but when it’s on I don’t imagine gaunt men with hats and evil smiles staring at me from the closet. Ugh. Overactive imagination. This is why I don’t watch horror films. Maybe I should cut the Stephen King books too. Good night- til later. April 13, 2020 Evan has gone a bit crazy. He seems to think I’m in danger and doesn’t like me sleeping downstairs. He tells me he doesn’t want me to go to sleep, and he wants me to sleep with him. I asked him why he is scared, what he thinks will happen. This kid. He said he was scared that Tall Man was going to take me away and he would never see me again. That Tall Man would steal me into the closet and hurt me. I stiffened immediately and he felt it. He looked at me and started crying. He knew I had seen Tall Man, and that he was right. Aunt Sasha rushed in. I gave him a hug and carried him to his mom. She came to find me after he settled down. She explained that the Tall Man comes from a night terror he had when he was younger. She had put him down for a nap in the guest room, where I am staying now. A few minutes later she heard him screaming and ran into the room. She found Evan crying inside the closet. He had bruises on his arms and a scratch on his face. Evan told her a tall, mean man tried to pull him into the closet. Aunt Sasha chalked it up to a night terror and Evan stopped playing in the basement. That’s the news of the day. I won’t lie. I’m freaked out. Hearing things like that does something to your brain, you know? Logically I know that there is no man that comes from the closet. But emotionally, I am terrified. I am writing this now and I can feel him staring at me. He is waiting for the light to turn off. When I turn off the light, the closet door will open and I’ll see the brim of his hat and his skeletal fingers on the doorknob. I’ll close my eyes thinking I’m imagining it but when I open them, instead of him being gone, he is standing at the foot of my bed, watching me. I’m sleeping with the light on tonight. April 15, 2020 I think I’m going crazy. I haven’t been sleeping and I’ve been too scared to try to sleep with the light off. Evan screams bloody murder if I go down to the basement while he is awake. If he catches me coming up from the basement, he cries. I feel that way too, kid. I don’t know what to do. The seeing things in the dark, this paralyzing fear- it is easy to say it is all in my head when it is the middle of the day, but at night, turning off the lights and walking with my back to that closet, feeling like somebody is reaching for me the whole time- I don’t have the courage for that. It is fucking terrifying. It just... it can’t be real. That’s all. It can’t. Evan had a nightmare, and I must have heard about it last year. And now my anxiety is expressing itself through creating this imaginary monster based on Evan’s dream. It’s just a terrible coping mechanism for my stress. That’s all. I got this. Just a stressed, royally screwed up imagination. I need to figure out something though. I can’t sleep with the lights on and I’m scared to sleep with the lights off. I’ll figure out something, but not tonight. Tonight the lights are staying on. April 17, 2020 I tried sleeping with the lights off last night. I prayed first. I don’t pray. But I hadn’t tried it yet, so I figured it might help. It might make me feel safer. I fell asleep for a while- before waking up to goose bumps on my skin and seeing him next to my bed, reaching for my leg. I stifled a scream and forced my eyes open to stare directly where he was. The longer I stared, the less I saw him and the more I saw the closet. Which was wide open. I definitely shut the door before turning off the lights. My heart wouldn’t calm down. I could feel the blood pumping through my chest and in my neck. I couldn’t fall back asleep for the rest of the night- and I turned the lights back on. April 18, 2020 I’m crazy. I just woke up to somebody whispering my name. But it is three in the morning and everybody is asleep. Except for me- because I swear somebody said my name. He was leaning over my bed, his face was so close, that smile- he faded when I turned my flashlight on. And the fucking lights are out. I went to bed with my lights on. What the hell is going on???? Is this a dream? I must have imagined it. It felt so real but it can’t be. Right? That half dream, half awake thing. I mean, I feel real crazy right now. What about the light? I bet the power went out. That happens a lot here. And the door is open again, all the way. Of course. Holy shit. What the hell. My heart is going to jump out of my chest. I can’t breathe. I can’t even write straight. I can’t- Okay. I need to get it together. Reality check. The power in the house went out. That is why my light isn’t on. The closet door is broken. It swings open because there is something wrong in the foundation or the structure or whatever. And I heard my name called in my dream. I’ve woken up from that before. It’s fine. And rational. I’m fine. See? Nothing by the closet. No man, no person leaning over me. I just see... dark space. It’s fine. Okay. I’m going to check out the closet. I’ve had enough of this bullshit. I will be fine. I have my phone flashlight. It’s enough. I can handle this. IT ISN’T REAL. And then I’ll come back and finish my entry by writing about all the beautiful 800 count Egyptian cotton sheets or whatever the fuck my Aunt keeps in her downstairs closet. Then I’ll go upstairs and sleep on the sofa for the rest of the night. I know that in every murder film ever made investigating the noise gets you killed, but I have to do it. I have to prove to myself this isn’t real, and that all I need is double prescription for Xanax and a sleeping pill. Breathe. I can do this. It isn’t real. Be right back.

The door closes on its own. Uma thinks nothing of it. Sometimes with the way the air flows in her house, the doors and curtains have a tendency to move about. It takes her a moment to jiggle with the doorknob- to get it to properly open again- but it’s a small annoyance. She probably just needs to check the lock, maybe the hinges. It’s a new house- well, a new house for her. She’s barely been moved in for just over a month now, and it was sold to her at an insanely cheap price. She figured there would be some issues (and had honestly been worried there’d been big matters she wasn’t told about), but so far, all she had found were slight irritations. The stairs creaking a little too much for her liking, the way the kitchen drawers all seemed on the verge of breaking- it was all just so... quiet. A small hinderance in a rotting structure. If a house could be dead, this might as well be it. The silence of it was almost deafening- a still skeleton that managed to function as its own grave. Nothing however, was quite as tiresome as that door. Uma liked to relax before bed; she’d make herself a small cup of tea, and watch an episode of some show she didn’t care for on her laptop, already curled up under her covers, halfway drifting off.... ...but then the door SLAMS and she’s startled upwards in an instant, spilling hot tea not only over herself, but her bed. “Fuck!” The word leaves her mouth before she’s really even aware of what’s happened. She looks around, trying to see what fell, what could’ve caused the noise- and when she comes up with nothing, she decides to look in the hallway. Except, her door is closed. A sigh. Irritant. Hinderance. Frustration. She jiggles the doorknob a couple of times, becoming increasingly upset when it wouldn’t open. She’s really got to get that lock checked. She’s about to take her mug to it (although she knows brute force and a broken mug won’t help), when she hears a soft click. The door slowly swings open, like someone had pulled it back with a string. How... unsettling. Uma slowly lowered her arm, but kept her grip on the mug firm- walking out of her room into the hallway. She looked around, seeing nothing. She figured that was the case. In fact, she knew by now, it was the door. The stairs creaked as she worked her way down them quickly, grabbing her old dining room chair. It was falling apart, just like the rest of the house- but for its new and temporary purpose, it’d do. She carries it back up with surprisingly minimal struggle, dragging the splintered wooden chair down the hall until she reached her bedroom again, wedging it under the doorknob. That didn’t stop Uma from collecting her things, though; she’d decided on spending the night on the couch as soon as she figured the door was a fire hazard. She grabbed a change of clothes, her pillow, her laptop, and a throw blanket that had narrowly avoided the tea spill. She’d clean it up in the morning. Uma was not a particularly religious or spiritual person. She wasn’t even one to be scared by small things easily- but the one incident had scared her off enough from sleeping in her own room- or really even entering it- until someone came to look at the lock of her door. “It’s fine,” The handyman had commented, “You said it was locking randomly?” “For minutes. I couldn’t get it to open,” Uma confirmed. She leaned against the hallway wall, opposite of the man crouching down in the middle of the doorway. She imagines the door closing on him. What would that look like? Would he sprain a finger? Can you sprain a finger? Would he get knocked on his ass? “That’s weird. Maybe it’s a hinge issue?” The man didn’t seem to believe himself, stupefied by the case of Uma’s irritating door. He turns in place, still crouching as he tests the door’s movement, swinging it back-and-forth slowly, watching. Listening - but there was nothing to hear. No squeaky hinge, no creak of the weight of the wood. It was a perfectly fine door. He’s about to tell her nothing’s wrong again , but before he can speak, Uma beats him to it; “Can you replace them all anyway?” She asks, “I’ll pay extra.” He looks up at her with an unreadable expression, but then shrugs, “Your money, man.” So the lock gets replaced. And the hinges. And the doorknob. One could say the door’s undergone a kind of makeover. It’s the nicest looking thing in the house. Uma’s been meaning to actually furnish the house, to make it feel lived in- but it just feels wrong, she can’t explain it. It would be like watering a carcass. The door closes again when she’s about to enter her bedroom coming home from work. She sleeps on the couch that night, still in her office clothes. At some point, Uma tries to move out of the room, but the door won’t let her. It closes every time she tries to move a big piece of furniture out, at one point closing so forcefully on her mattress that the mattress itself had torn. So, unfortunately, Uma is stuck in the stupid room, with the stupid, sentient door. She calls the handyman again. Asks him to take it down. He comes again and asks her why she won’t just do it herself- and Uma doesn’t want to tell him she’s using him as a human guinea pig. If it could tear a mattress, she wants to know what it can do to a man. The answer? Slam itself on his hand so badly that it breaks, and bone pokes through flabby flesh and thin viscera. The nearest hospital is twenty miles away, so Uma drives him there. No one believes her when she tells them a door slammed on his hand. Even when he tells them the same thing. If the door believes she’s moving too many things out, it’ll close on her. She speaks out-loud to it, like it’s a living thing , something one can talk to. Uma wonders briefly if she’s going insane. “I need to do laundry,” She tells the door, it having slammed closed way too close to Uma for her personal liking, “Are you going to stop me from cleaning my clothes? Is that what you’re doing now?” She’s arguing with a door , how nonsensical can this get? The door stays closed for another two hours, and for one of those hours, Uma stands firmly in front of it, tapping her finger against her laundry basket- like a mother would in front of a defiant child. She can’t send a door to bed, however, so she ultimately gave up the stand-off. If anything, it felt like she had been the one sent to bed- like the door had somehow asserted some authority over her she’d previously resisted, and the extra hour had just been a waiting game; the old wood making sure Uma had learned her lesson. She hadn’t learned the lesson the door had intended (if there was a lesson for a door to intend), but she had learned . Uma needed to be clever when it came to escaping her bedroom entrance. Her plan spanned over weeks. She’d stuff an extra shirt into her bag when she left for work. An extra book. She’d keep up with her daily routine, visit her in-house office, set them carefully on the desk or shelf. This door never randomly opened, never randomly closed. The room, in its dead silence, was oddly comforting. Most people were terrified of the dark. Uma had wondered if anyone had ever tried to escape their own house before? Really she should think about moving out. She’s already taken out a loan, though, and more than that, she’s stubborn. She’d rather take down that damn door with an ax. (She had tried by the way. It’d left some gashes, but impossibly, never even went fully through the wood. Now there’s ugly scratches on the front of her bedroom door.) Moving out or not, it doesn’t matter now... ...Because eventually, the door catches on. Uma’s in the middle of leaving for work, a pair of pants and a shirt in her purse, nonchalantly passing through the doorway- -then, she’s screaming , her arm lodged between the door and it’s corresponding frame. It had violently swung on her before she had time to react, capturing her arm in the process. It wasn’t hard enough to break her arm- not like the handyman, no- but enough to pierce skin with splintered wood, flesh twisting and turning uncomfortably as her body tried to accommodate the foreign object squeezing her limb from both sides. “Fuck, FUCK! ” Uma cried, breathing ragged as she tried to pull her arm out. It made it so much worse. The door only dug in deeper, the woman screeching even louder as she could feel the pressure against her bone now. How, she briefly wondered, was this even possible ? Hinges don’t possess that much power. It doesn’t matter, she has to stop pulling. She pushes instead, the door giving away all too easily as she falls forward on the very arm she was trying to avoid injuring further- Uma letting out a pained wail as she rolled over. Gasping as she tried to just catch her breath. The door slammed shut. “Let me out.” Anxious, disbelieving. “Let me out! ” Anger. Uma jiggled the doorknob like she had the first time the door closed on her. Of course it didn’t work. She pounded on the door with her good hand curled up in a fist, then tried to force her whole body weight against it. The damned thing had eventually retaliated, quickly slamming open, and then closing again- effectively ramming her into the wall. The woman stayed on the floor for what felt like hours. She didn’t dare move, not so close to the thing . That’s all it was now to her. A thing. That’s all it was supposed to be to her! Hell, what door is not just a thing! To even call it ‘damned’ gives it personality, and Uma refuses to give it anything more than an appliance’s description. It’s a door. It should open when pulled open, and close when pushed closed. It’s a goddamn door. Uma will spend all day convincing herself of this if she has to. Everything hurt . Her pain meds were downstairs. She could hear her phone ring. It was probably her work calling, asking her why she wasn’t there yet. “Answer it,” She told nothing, “You can move can’t you? Answer the goddamn phone.” That phone was her only hope of getting help, and it had fallen on the other side of the thing with her purse. “Answer it!” Uma’s angry again, scratching at the door with her nails, screaming. Then she tries to pull the door open by resting her feet on either side of the door frame and pulling on the knob with all of her body weight. Her arm has effectively stained her blouse, pants, and now, the floor- but she doesn’t care anymore. Eventually the phone stops ringing. She resorts to screaming at the thing, throwing anything she could at it- scratching into it with shards of glass from her broken lamp when throwing it didn’t work. Nothing works. Night finally falls, and Uma falls with it, having exhausted herself. She’s thrown every item, insult, and tactic she could think of at the door- the slab of wood now carved with her hatred and despise of it- but none of it mattered. It didn’t fucking matter. The door was as still as it had been when she first moved in. Taunting . Like she’d imagined it all. Uma’s not sure how many days she’s spent in her room. It’s not her room anymore- or at least, she doesn’t consider it so. The things in it may be hers, as broken and ripped apart as they may be, torn and scattered across the floor. She fashioned a bandage out of an old tank top. Busied herself with reading. Read all the books. Reread them. Thought about how hungry she was. Distracted herself from her hunger. It couldn’t have been longer than three days, she reasoned. A human can only go three days without water. ...but it had felt like so much longer . Uma turns in for the night, shoes still on as she collapses into her bed, because there’s too much broken glass for her to safely move around her room barefoot anymore. She’s bundled up in layers, to warm up and prevent making her injuries worse. Her stomach growls, but she’s learned to force herself to ignore it. She manages to finally fall asleep, arms crossed, and hunched over on her side- like she could spring up at any moment, just in case. While she’s sleeping, the house sleeps with her- although it’s never particularly been awake. Except of course, one of its components. A small, slow creaking can be heard- but Uma is too deep in sleep to hear it. The door opens on its own.

“I lerve you! I do!” “Say what?” Where can you be and still know that someone cares? Time stretches out, and everything is a joke. You think you know what everyone knows until you don’t. And it isn’t so hard. To know what I know... “Do you want that cigarette or not?” It’s all lerve, don’t you know? Sure, I’ll take that cigarette. And everything else I can. Because it doesn’t matter whether I smoke or not, I’ll smoke if you want me to. “Do you need a light?” I’m always in the light. It shines all over me. I hardly know anything different. People say different. But they don’t talk to me. They’re talking to themselves. “Pretty cold tonight, isn’t it?” It was cold when I was born. It's been cold all my life. But I’m not complaining. Used to it. A useful idiot, that’s what someone called me after he took everything that I had. Everything that mattered. My mom’s picture, my dad’s picture. My money, too. “We'll see ya!” And you wouldn’t want to be ya! If you only knew. # “911 Emergency! What is your emergency?” “There’s this guy. Slumped over on the sidewalk. It’s too cold for people to be sleeping outside. Can someone get over to....” “You’re breaking up. Where are you? This is 911 Emergency. Say again?” “...battery...” “He hung up!” the operator said to her supervisor. “Try calling him back.” “Already on it...It went to voicemail.” “Alright, CAD direct to police and follow up with a phone call. “Will do.” # It’s way too late, nearly one in the morning. I’m such a fool. I have to work tomorrow. So I exited the bar where I was at. And around the corner from the bar, I see him--the same guy from before. I tried to call 911, but my phone was dead. Now, what do I do? “C’mon man, get up!” My hands are freezing. And I’m not wearing a winter jacket. There’s no one around. Anyone out there would be rushing to their cars, which I don’t have. A car, that is. It's back home in the underground parking lot. “C’mon! Get up! You can’t stay here! It’s freezing!” Where are the police when you need them? Are there no doughnut shops handy? I go to the corner and just catch sight of another man coming out of the bar. “Hey, can you give me a hand?” I shout. There couldn’t be more than twenty feet between us. He shakes his head and rushes off. Not wearing a winter jacket either. Too bad he wasn’t coming out of a church! Maybe someone like that would give me a hand! What if I help this guy, and he dies on me? Then, I’ll be sued or be charged with a crime. I think to myself. Go back to the bar, idiot. Call from there. The door to the bar is locked. Bang on the door. I see the bartender behind the bar through the door window, shaking his head. I bang some more. He comes to the door. “We’re closed!” he shouts through the door. “There’s this guy, he needs help!” The bartender frowned and then opened the door. I can smell beer on him, and the bar is so warm. I want to go in to warm up myself! “This guy is around the corner! He’ll freeze to death!” I practically shout as the bartender steps out onto the sidewalk and looks around. “What guy? Just get home! Walk it off, will ya!” He slams the door. # This guy was yelling at me. But I play dead . Been practicing that a lot. Some day, I will die. But that’s cool. It sure is cold, though. Now, here he comes again. Why don’t he leave? I’m fine. “Get up! We gotta go!” he says. I’m cool with it. I get up and dance around a bit. He’s all surprised. Takes me by the arm. We’re walking down a street I never been before. Lived here all my life, never saw this place. Some swanky apartment he has! Like there should be a doorman or something. Up the elevator, 23 rd floor. My my, so high this boy. “I‘ll charge my phone. Then I’ll call 911 for you,” he says as we get into his apartment. I sure hope this dude isn’t some kind of weirdo. Try something on me--something he’ll regret. I’m ready. # At least he’s comfortable, sitting in my favorite chair--stupid charger. I should have gotten a high-powered one; at least 30 watts would be nice. So cool to have one that you just lay your phone down on. But it’s only 15 watts. How long do I wait before I call? Ten percent battery on the phone. Twenty? I sure don’t want to drop a call again. I go into the kitchen and open the fridge. At least he’s not throwing up or anything. Is he on drugs? I sure hope he’s no trouble. It's best to act casual and be cool, and he’ll be out of here in half an hour tops. Damn, it will be two in the morning before I get any shut-eye! Up at eight tomorrow! “Can I get you anything? Juice, water?” “Do you have Perrier?” he asks, laughing a little. “Actually, yes, I do! Blackberry or straight up?” I smile and bring him a can. He frowned, like I had insulted him. “What is blackberry, cracker? Some phone? Nothing fruity comes my way! Uh oh, Here we go . I put the Blackberry Perrier can on an end table and went and got him what he wanted. There’s a knife, where did I put it? There is a butcher knife somewhere. There it is. In the drawer by the sink. On the way back, I check my phone on the dresser in the bedroom--five percent. Call now. Call now! But I go back and sit on the sofa across from him. # This dude is too much. I sit here, and he thinks he’s in complete control. Sucker! Must have some fancy job to pay for all this. Even has expensive water in cans! I should just go nuts on him. It’s what he expects! What’s that? A cat? Coming over to see me? “Oh, that’s Fluffy,” he says, all nervous-like. “Harmless, stays up at night, just like us! He's just curious.” “I used to have a cat. Called him Mutt. Alley cat. Stayed out all night and brought mice home to eat.” “Isn’t Mutt a name you would give to a dog?” “Short for Mittens. You know, white paws...” I look around and take a swig from that can. Damn, I’m thirsty! “When was the last time you ate something?” he says. “Yesterday.” “Really?” “Yes, really!” I say. “You think being poor is a walk in the park?” # My phone rang, which jolted me. I was getting him something to eat. I had practically nothing in my fridge: sour milk, leftover mac and cheese. I throw a small frozen pizza in the microwave. Then it's off to answer the phone. The first thing I noticed was that my cell was at thirty percent. Where has the time gone? “This is a call back from 911 Emergency. Did someone call on or about 1:00 AM from this line this morning? “Yes.” “Are you that caller?” “Yes.” “What is the nature of your emergency?” “Homeless man, freezing outside. I called to get some help, but my phone died.” I gave the operator all my particulars, name, and address. A special crew that picks up homeless people at night in the winter will come by soon. I hang up. “Here you go,” I say as I give him the pizza on a plate with a fork and knife and another Perrier. “Thanks,” he says as he tears into his food. # They’re coming to get me. Now I’ll have to live by rules and shit until I can get out. “Can I get you anything else?” he asks. But I don’t want to be a pig, so I say no. I look around, hand the empty plate back, and finish my second Perrier. There’s another call on his cell. He buzzes them in, and not long after, there is a knock on the door. “Special Services here. A pickup?” a woman in a blue uniform asks, stepping into the apartment. She's looking around, and another man in the same blue uniform pokes his head in and says something to her, something about it being a "long night," and he hoped they'd get a break soon. I shrug my shoulders and turn away from them. Which dude will they pick up? Me or him? "Is someone leaving with us?" She's getting impatient, like it's not obvious who is supposed to go! I am dressed in a hoodie and sweats while he looks on, Mr. Perrier, all important looking and playing a game, like usual. I turn away. Get it over with already! Then he's at my side, putting his hand out. “I never got to know your name. Sorry. My name is Tom Bradshaw. What’s yours?” “Eli Wilks.” “Pleased to meet you, Eli. I’m going to take a day off work. Do you mind if I visit you tomorrow at the shelter?” “Can you bring the cat?” I say. “Certainly! And you can tell me all about Mutt.”

She turned the corner and there it was. ‘The white, weatherboard house at the end of the street’, was how her mother had always described it. But the street was in fact an avenue. An avenue of remembrance, lined with tall, sturdy, horse-chestnut trees. Their highest branches meeting to form a triumphal arch, that gave the avenue a church-like aspect. The trees had been planted with great ceremony and reverence, after the Great War, by those left behind, grieving and seeking solace in nature. A tree planted for every fallen soldier of the town, never to return home. And each spring, the trees would repay their planting, by bursting into jubilant displays of pink and white blossoms and then by shedding shiny-brown conkers in the autumn, to the delight of the local children. One of these ‘trees of remembrance’, was situated at a corner of their garden. And it was at this tree, that a young and troubled Florrie would often sit, finding consolation with the long-deceased soldier, who she had come to regard as her own special friend and confidante. That afternoon, was the first time Florrie had returned to her old family home in many years. And apart from a few clumsy pigeons, that crash-landed noisily onto the broad-leaves of the trees, there was only a slight breeze to disturb the quiet garden. She had been tempted to return many times before, but had never felt quite ready. So as she stood outside her childhood home, it occurred to her that all that remained, to tell her early childhood story, stood decaying before her. A black, and rusting, wrought-iron gate, formed of two inter-twined hearts, a house with peeling paintwork, slipped roof tiles, cracked windows and an overgrown garden, where rampant weeds ruled supreme. They ran riot through hedges, flowerbeds and shrubs, while rose bushes, once the stars of the show, and her mother’s pride and joy, cried out for rescue. Their thin stems, barely supporting overblown flowers, that nodded in sadness towards an unkempt lawn. She could just picture her mother, drifting around the garden, her wide-brimmed straw hat shielding her delicate ivory complexion, maxi-skirt skimming the neat grass, as she gathered only the best blooms. A younger Florrie trailing behind, desperate to help, but unsure how to please her remote and beautiful mother. And she recalled the day when she had been taken away. Watching out of the rear window as Alfie, and the perfect white weatherboard house, disappeared from view. An old biscuit tin, beside her on the back seat, where she had squirreled away bits of treasure. Amongst her finds were scraps of ribbons from under the sewing table, a broken brooch glittering with paste diamonds and faux emeralds, that had been discarded in the bin, her world-beating conker and a handful of acorns. But just at that moment, a patter of rain, signaling the arrival of a sudden downpour, interrupted Florrie’s thoughts causing her to run for cover. Instinctively, she ran to a nearby tree. From past experiences she knew that this particular leafy canopy would offer protection against any harsh elements, both natural and those of human design. She ducked under straggling branches, that reached out to her in welcome, and embraced her old friend with a wide, and honest, hug. Then, on her knees searched the ground for something she hoped could still be found. Alfred. G. Wright 1897-1917 He died for Freedom and Honour ‘Hello again Alfie.’ She said, pulling at weeds and garden debris that had buried the tarnished, pitted, brass plate. Then sat back, and considered with fondness her old friend, who seemed to have grown even taller, and broader, during her long absence. ‘Long time no see.’ * * * * * ‘Go outside and play.’ Florrie’s mother said firmly, as she sat at her sewing machine. ‘But I want to help mummy.’ ‘I won’t tell you again. Go outside. I’m busy.’ ‘But why can’t I stay with you?’ Florrie’s stubborn reply met with a warning glance, and she bit her lip, as her hated tears threatened to make an appearance. And mummy despised her tears. ‘No time for this Florence. Go out and play!’ ‘The day of the dress’, was how Florrie had always remembered that day. Her mother had been making her sister, Sylvia, a new summer dress. She had ached to caress the smooth, satin finish of the fabric and the scent of the flower-sprigged cotton, still lingered in her memory. She had known that it would come to her eventually. Just like the one she had been wearing that day, and the ones before that. But by the time she inherited this dress, it would be careworn and mended. She would be tugged and pulled into it, with only the faded hemline, and the awkward fit, to betray its pre-owned life. Because it was unfortunate for Florrie, that although five years younger than her older sister, she was a few inches taller, and wider too. In fact, the two sisters were unalike in every way that counted. Sylvia had waist-length, ironed-straight hair, the colour of harvested corn. By way of a contrast, Florrie’s unbrushed, shoulder-length, mouse-blonde hair, was forever tied back in an impossible, rubber-band tangle. And where Sylvia had inherited her mother’s cornflower-blue eyes, Florrie had inherited her paternal grandmother’s gold-flecked hazel eyes. Through which her troubled young soul frequently communicated, but behind which she could never hide. And that had been the real source of the problem. And it would only be in later years that Florrie came to understand why her appearance, and nature, so enraged her mother. As a child she had been too young to understand the subtleties of inter-family dynamics, or maternal psychiatric conditions. She had been named after her grandmother, her father’s mother and couldn't have realised that everything about her, from her name and paternal family similarities, to her personality and aching vulnerability, reminded her depressed mother of an intensely disliked relative. But the older Florrie had been counselled to understand these complex things, and been advised that in order to move on with her life, she would need to forgive and reconcile with her young past. But forgiving hadn’t meant forgetting. And the sharp slap she had received, on ‘the day of the dress’, always stood out as a watershed moment in her young life. It had stung so fiercely, that her well-guarded tears eventually betrayed her, rolling unchecked down her cheeks. ‘Don’t start crying now, for goodness sake!’ And Florrie knew she only had moments before a second, sharper slap, would sting her summer-bare legs. But on that day, and on the many others that followed, Florrie had chosen to withdraw. Because she knew, that Alfie would always be waiting for her in the garden. * * * * * The sudden cloudburst petered out as quickly as it had begun and Florrie ventured out from her safe haven. It seemed the house was magnetically drawing her towards it. And with a sense of anticipation, she followed the familiar path that led to the back of the house. Here tendrils of blossoming honeysuckle enjoyed unbridled freedom. They had seductively draped themselves over the roof of the old wooden veranda, a waterfall of flowers that scented the damp air with their bee-seeking, honeyed fragrance. And as she climbed the steps to the dining-room doors, it brought to mind happier times. Summer days when her mother would make jugs of freshly-made lemonade, that tinkled musically with ice. She would carry hers to a swinging bench in the garden and sip the sweet, lemony drink, as she rocked herself to-and-fro, make-believing she was in her own enchanted paradise. Florrie peered through the dusty windows into the familiar, but now sombre interior of her family home. Thinking that even now it still retained traces of twinkling candlelight, vases of fresh flowers, and her parents slow-dancing to their favourite music. She tried the handle. Locked of course. A flash of memory, led her to a loose brick in the wall. Florrie smiled in triumph. The spare key. * * * * * ‘Hello! Hello over there!’ Florrie turned. An elderly gentleman was struggling through the overgrowth and waving his hand at her. ‘Neighbourhood Watch. I live next door.’ ‘Hello,’ Florrie replied, slipping the key into her pocket, and extending her hand in greeting. ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m...’ ‘Is that your ‘ Florrie and Alfie ’ van parked on the drive?’ The neighbour interrupted, his punctuated speech reminding her of a retired colonel. ‘Yes it is I...’ ‘Well I hope you are here to finally clear up the garden? Bringing down the neighbourhood it is.’ He looked with distaste over a wilderness of plants. ‘Scrape it back I say. Turn it all to grass.’ He stopped to draw breath. ‘Strange name for a gardening company? Didn’t they win first prize at the Chelsea Flower Show this year?’ ‘Yes that’s right, I...’ ‘Got an award from the Queen for the palace gardens too, I heard. Sorry! Here’s me rambling on again...I didn’t quite catch your name...?’ ‘Florence...but everyone calls me Florrie. Pleased to meet you.’ He looked puzzled. ‘Now that is a coincidence! Fancy having the same name as the company. I’ve always wondered who Alfie was ...?’ Florrie giggled softly, before replying with an amused smile. ‘No...you misunderstand. I’m Florrie...the Florrie on the van and Alfie ...well Alfie lives just over there.’ Florrie gestured to a magnificent horse-chestnut tree, taking up a large portion of the front garden. The neighbour, who had never met a celebrity before, let alone one who had also met the Queen, didn’t quite know what to say to this charming woman, casually introducing him to a tree. Florrie felt she owed the elderly gentleman, a better explanation, so continued. ‘I grew up here you see. But I went to live with my aunt, my father’s sister, when I was quite young. When it came up for sale recently I had to buy it. So now here I am. Back home again.’ With an expert eye, she glanced over what remained of her once enchanted paradise, then quietly added, ‘and this is going to be Florrie and Alfie’s best project yet!’ * * * * *

SlowSurrender Jean.B. Healey 16/01/2021 No movement. No breath. Why was she so still? Only recently we were snuggling up together watching snowflakes drifting past the foggy windows, a proper fire with proper logs in a proper fireplace, crackling, smoking, glaring at us. I’d stared at the snowflakes on the window and asked her why I couldn’t see the magical crystal formations I had expected. I’d never been this close to snow before. She just shook her shaggy head and wriggled back down under the blanket. She had seen plenty of snow. She had been raised in snowy landscapes, trooping across knee-deep drifts carrying a gun or supplies on her back, always alert to her companions. Many times she had needed to rescue reckless children in sodden boots and clothes lost in drifts as they chased the snowflakes and attacked each other with snowballs. Her job was to oversee their safety, retrieve their toys, sleds and boots and ensure they returned safely to their parents. She never failed even when tired, exhausted by following the skiing families to their chalets. She was quite well treated but forever homesick for the warmer climes of her birthplace. She had been taken from her home early in life and remained a visitor in a foreign landscape for many years until her return. Not my life. Not my life at all. Raised in sunny Queensland, Australia beside a glistening ocean, surfing all year round, warm and sunny forever. She was always there watching, making sure I was safe, providing a warm greeting when I came ashore. This trip to the Snowy Mountains in Victoria, Australia was an impulse we could not resist. ‘How about going somewhere cold for our holidays?’ I’d suggested. Her response was enthusiastic and immediate. Packing everything warm available, buying socks that would never be worn again we set off in the jalopy driving thousands of kilometres away from our familiar stamping grounds south towards the cooler state in mid- winter. The airbandb offered a ‘genuine chalet experience’ with said log fire and snowy surrounds. Kitchen facilities, toboggan, snow shoes, warm and enormous bed big enough for two, everything a snow virgin required to enjoy a genuine chalet experience. Except for a few essentials. No TV. No internet. No mobile coverage. And no power except the power of fire. Certainly there was a large pot for making soup over the fire. An exotic idea to start with. My first two efforts ended up in the rubbish as I refused to allow her to suffer the indignity of eating my mushy offerings. The short walk to the resort nearby ensured we could actually enjoy some real food and a decent drink but we soon realised the incoming snowstorm would prevent too many excursions so I stocked up on chips, cheese, biscuits and sweets to see us through this new experience for me. She was happy enough to share my taste in nutrition, showing only a mild grimace at the plates full of non-food I placed before her. She really favoured a well grilled wedge of prime fillet steak without boring vegetables and with plenty of gravy. She suffered in silence and merely nibbled at her meals. In fact it seems now she was possibly off her food .... The first two days passed eventfully since we were booked in for skiing lessons. Well to be precise, I was booked in and she was observing with a typically derisive expression from the sidelines. Many falls later she was enthusiastic when I finally managed to stand up and navigate the slope upright for the first time. She had seen it all before. Novice skiers were not a novelty in her view. But that was two days ago. She had been slowly slowing down since then. I first noticed a warm nose, unexpected at this location, then silence and less communication than usual, more sleeping and some apparent sighing not in her usual repertoire. Her eyes were not as bright, her shaggy mane of now greying hair limp and no response to my gentle caresses over her back. And now this. Silence. Closed eyes. No obvious breath. No movement. She had lain still for over two hours and I began to worry properly. What should someone do in this situation? I did not know how to check for a pulse. Looking outside I realised there was no hope of trying to go for help. The snowstorm was billowing all around us and sheets of white flakes were building at the window sills. I should wait a short time until the storm abated, I decided, then make my way to the resort to see if someone, anyone could assist. And so I waited. I patted her. I wrapped the blanket around her as warmly as possible. I made hot tea but she could take none of it. I whispered in her now cold ear how much I had always loved her, how she had filled my life with treasured memories of playing and loving and just being together, how precious every moment with her had been as I grew up and she grew old. And then the knock on the chalet door. ‘Chalet Squad ma’am. Just checking you are all ok in here.’ Dragging myself away from the sofa, I lurched towards the solid wooden door. Tugging at the latch and dragging it across I grasped the carved wooden handle and heaved the chalet door open a few centimetres until the friendly fur-framed face of the Chalet Squad leader loomed smiling next to mine. ‘You all Ok?’ ‘No. Not really. Can you come in for a minute? I want you to check everything’s ok.’ A brutal shove sifted the door open wide enough to allow his snowy and booted bulk to get inside. His companion stayed out in the snow, unconcerned at the cold and apparently grateful that I was seemingly safe. The Squad man stamped his boots and frowning, approached the sofa. He gently pulled back the blanket and pressed is un-gloved fingers on the pulse point. He turned and his face was ashen, ‘I’m so sorry. I think your grandmother has died.’

-"Old men die, “Nat sighed, "they just die. They must." Nat stood with James, his lawyer, watching his mansion from a distance. Nat lived there alone. He always had. Not that this had been his first choice. But over the years it made him more and more uncomfortable and sad, that his family, and those who believed that they had a branch on his family tree, had but one thought in their head: When will he kick the bucket and how much would he leave me? Nat was a rare individual. Always had been. He was a scientist by trade and had earned a lot of money. All kinds of money. Today he had more money than God. He did not blame his family for just being interested in his money, or for thinking they were entitled to it. It was probably no different with other rich men. Nat was nicknamed Genius. He had been extremely versatile during his protracted career and was responsible for the metals that were not subject to temperature: so-called eternal metals. He was also the patron saint of the science to control mechanical things through thought wave radiation. What was the point? Well, that enabled people to propel large metal ships or other vehicles through the power of thought alone. There were other contributions to the advancement of mankind. But we are not going to list them all here. Now, however, Nat was faced with a mystery that no scientist, no matter how gifted, had yet been able to solve: mortality. Nat was building a door. Or rather: he had paid good money, for others to build it for him. He looked at the drills, rock cutters, and a giant crane lowering giant slabs of metal. The door itself that Nat wanted to build lay a little further. It had great hinges and some kind of lock. -"What's that going to be, Nat? Are you building a mausoleum?" asked James. Nat did not answer, and the young lawyer didn't push. That would make sense, he knew what the lonely man was like. -"You mean a final resting place for my bones?" chuckled Nat. "Who knows? Maybe." The two men walked back to the mansion together. Nat gave James a drink and an envelope. -"What is this?" the lawyer asked. "You should put that in your safe," Nat replied matter-of-factly. -"Okay, good. Can you tell me what it is?" James insisted. -"Well...something all old men should have: a will. My last will s in that envelope. When I've breathed my last breath, you may open it and read it." Nat replied. James sat looking at the envelope thoughtfully. -"You wonder how much I left you." Nat chuckled "Who knows? Maybe everything." -"You're enjoying this, aren't you, Nat?" James tried to sound as nonchalant as possible. Nat shrugged. "I think you're just as entitled to a chance as anyone else." James sat staring at Nat in surprise. -"I exclude none, and the winner will take it all. Whoever it may be, somewhere there is someone who dwelling on this earth, that ́s for sure." after a short pause he continued: "I'm just sorry and even sad that I won't be able to be there to see who wins the jackpot." James put the will in his briefcase, finished his glass and left: "See you next week, Nat!" When he returned a week later, the first thing Nat asked him was: -"And what did you think of it?" -"Think of what?" James asked. -My will." Nat replied. James stared at him indignantly: "You are not questioning my integrity, I hope." Nat handed him a drink. -"Your will is in a sealed envelope, in my safe, just as you instructed me." -"Calm down, don't worry. Finish your drink." Nat watched as James emptied his glass. -"Okay, now tell me what your thoughts are." James felt flushed. He knew Nat loved to play mind games and was not easily fooled. -"Don't even go through the motions!" Nat patronized him. -"I couldn't resist the temptation." James began shyly. -"No need to sit there cringing, “Nat said, "I've always known what a crook you are." James looked at Nat hopefully, "Would you be willing to give me a little hint, old friend?" Nat shook his head: "You get the same opportunities as everyone else." -"This will cause a lot of sensation." sighed James sighed. -"It is a pity that a man must die first, in order to set in motion, the most interesting in his life." Nat said with a sad look in his eyes. -"You're still in great shape." James tried to sound lighthearted, "You will bury us all." "Oh, shut up." Nat snorted. "You're just as impatiently waiting for them to put me under the ground." James wanted to say something else, but Nat stopped him: -"Shut up and have another glass!" Life can take strange turns: six months later, Nat dropped dead in his garden. His obituary caused quite a stir. The relatives, including those who pretended to be family and the press, gathered in and in front of the late Nat's mansion to attend the reading of the will. James went out of his way to hide his excitement. He stood in front of a microphone so that the people standing outside, because they no longer fit in the house, could hear him too. -"As the lawyer for our dearly beloved and deceased Nat, it is my duty to..." People grew impatient and began to mumble angrily before James could finish his first sentence. -"We don't want speeches; we don't have all day. Just read that will!" James asked for silence. “I, Nathaniel, have made a lot of money in my life. What will become of my fortune? I do not know the answer to that myself. The place where I hid it, or rather, put it in safekeeping... Another murmur rose from the crowd. -"Do we get a map?" someone asked. "Well, that's going to be an interesting hunt." James threw his hands in the air, "People, please! A little respect." After the silence returned, James continued: "I had a burglar-proof safe built on my property. There is only one way to open the safe: I have chosen a thought, to which the lock will respond. A thought! A clear thought, which will unlock the safe and open it. There is a bench in front of the safe. Whoever wants to can sit on it and direct his or her mind to the door of the safe. When someone thinks the right thought, the door opens, and that person comes into possession of all my earthly wealth. Everyone gets 30 seconds to try their luck. My fortune lies waiting for the happy thinker. Good luck to everyone in the world. And please, do not kill each other in a stampede. Nat" Reporters knocked each other down to spread the news around the world. Major commercial activities were set up to accommodate the hundreds of thousands who wanted to take their chance. Shady characters made millions selling Nat's thoughts to good and superstitious people. People even started selling their seats in the queue for a lot of money. Psychiatrists and sociologists held endless discussions about the nature of Nat's thoughts. They were convinced that the prize-thought would be scientific nature in nature. Professors and less educated brains spent many hours learning about Nat's life and trying to predict his achievements in the realm of thought. Every morning the gates of Nat's estate were opened, and a lengthy line moved towards the vault. The first man took a seat on the couch, a stopwatch clicked, a silence fell over the spectators and thirty seconds later the watch clicked again, and the person stood up: the safe had not opened. Weeks and months passed. Countless people had tried and failed their luck. Of course, each failure was accompanied by a sigh of relief that passed through the audience. Stalls rose from the ground like mushrooms after an autumn rain, selling sandwiches and coffee. A year passed. The safe remained locked and a rumor started circulating that the whole thing was just a hoax. One day a couple of farmers stood in line. They had brought their ten-year-old daughter Suzy with them. Suzy passed the time telling stories to the doll she held tightly against her. When it was finally her mother's and father's turn to sit on the bench, she held on to the doll a little tighter and told her that they would soon be home again. Suzy's father's thoughts raced as he sat in front of the vault, and he returned with slumped shoulders. Her mother too was told to leave the bench after trying to focus her mind on the door. -"Now it's your turn." the guard said to Suzy. The child replied that she just wanted to go home. -"You're holding the line." the guard snapped, who couldn't understand what was happening. The people started to complain and grumble. -"Come on then, away with you." The guard roared. -"No! Wait!" the girl suggested, and she jumped on the bench. The guard gave the girl a stern look and pulled the stopwatch. Suzy moved her lips: "Dear angels, please make Mr. Nat happy in heaven." She jumped up and back to her parents when she heard the sound of grinding metal: the door swung open.